LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
AT  URBANA-CHAMPAICN 


8P0.3 
C35c 
1859 
V .2 


M f itr*>  « 


u. 


p*KioTe 


GOULD 


AND  LINCOLN  - 


PUBLISHERS 


AND  BOOKSELLERS, 


59  Washington  Street,  Boston. 


CHARLES  D.  GOULD.  JOSHUA  LINCOLN. 


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lHod3ni  Atheism ; Under  its  forms  of  Pantheism,  ^Fa- 
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CTCLOPiE  DI  A 


ENGLISH  LITERATUIIE: 


A SELECTION  OP 


THE  CHOICEST  PRODUCTIONS  OF  ENGLISH  AUTHORS, 


FEOM  THE  EARLIEST  TO  THE  TRESENT  TIME, 


CONNECTED  BY  A 


CRITICAL  AND  BIOGRAPIHCAL  HISTORY. 


ELEGANTLY  ILLUSTRATED. 


EDITED  BY 

ROBERT  CHAIMBERS, 

EDITOR  OP  THE  “ EDINBCROH  JOURNAL,”  “ INFORMATION  FOR  THE  PEOPI.E,”  CTO.  ETC. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES.  VOL.  II. 


TWENTIETH  THOUSAND. 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED  BY  GOULD  AND  LINCOLN. 

NEW  YORK;  SHELDON  AND  COMPANY. 
CINCINNATI:  GEOROE  S.  BLANCHARD. 

1 859. 


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C'V 

CONTENTS  OF  SECOND  VOLUME. 


FROM  1727  TO  1780. 
POETS. 


Richard  Savage,  • • • • 

1 

From  the  Wanderer,  • ■ 

3 

Robert  Blair,  • • • • 

3 

Passages  from  the  Grave,  • • 

3 

Dr  Watts,  • • • • • 

S 

The  Rose,  . • « • 

6 

The  Hebrew  Bard,  • • • 

6 

A Summer  Evening,  • • • 

6 

Edward  Young,  . • • • 

6 

On  Life.  Death,  and  Immortality,  . 

8 

Thoughts  on  Time,  • • 

9 

The  Man  whose  Thoughts  are  not  of  this  World, 

10 

Procrastination,  • • • • 

11 

From  the  Love  of  Fame,  • • 

11 

The  Emptiness  of  Riches,  • • 

11 

James  Thomson,  • • « 

12 

Showers  in  Spring,  • • • 

15 

Birds  Pairing  in  Spring,  • • 

15 

A Summer  Morning,  • . • 

15 

Summer  Evening,  • • 

15 

Autumn  Evening  Scene,  • • • 

16 

Episode  of  Lavinia,  • , • 

16 

A Winter  Landscape,  • « • 

17 

Benevolent  Reflections,  from  Winter, 

IS 

XIjTnn  on  the  Seasons,  • • • 

18 

The  Caravan  of  Mecca,  • • 

19 

The  Siberian  Exile,  • • • 

19 

Postilence  at  Carthagena,  # • 

19 

From  the  Castle  of  Indolence,  • • 

19 

Rule  Britannia,  • • 

22 

John  Dyrr,  • • • • • 

22 

Grongar  Hill,  . • • • 

22 

William  Hamilton,  • • • 

24 

The  Braes  of  Yarrow,  , . 

24 

Song — {Ye  shepherds  of  this  pleasant  vale), 

25 

Song — (Ah,  the  poor  shepherd's  mournful  fate), 

25 

Dr  Samuel  Johnson, 

26 

From  the  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  . 

28 

Prologue  spoken  by  Mr  Garrick — 1747, 

30 

On  the  Death  of  Dr  Robert  Levett — 1782, 

30 

William  Collins, 

30 

Eclogue  II.— Ilassan  ; or  tho  Camel  Driver, 

31 

Ode  Written  in  the  Year  1746, 

32 

Ode  to  Evening,  • . • • 

32 

Ode  on  the  Passions,  • • • 

32 

Ode  to  Liberty,  • • * « 

33 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline,  • • • 

34 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Mr  Thomson,  « 

34 

William  Shenstonb,  , • • 

35 

The  Schoolmistress,  • • • 

36 

A Pastoral  Ballad,  in  Four  Parts— 1743, 

38 

Song — Jemmy  Dawson,  • • 

39 

Written  at  an  Inn  at  Uenley,  « 

40 

David  Mallet,  • • • • 

40 

William  and  Margaret,  • • 

41 

Edwin  and  Emma,  • » • 

43 

The  Birkfi  of  Invermay^  • • 

43 

Mark  AKBNsrpB,  • • • 

Aspirations  after  the  Infinite,  • 

Intellectual  Beauty— Patriotism,  . • . 

Operations  of  the  Mind  in  the  Production  of  Work 
Imagination,  • • • • 

Taste, 

On  a Sermon  against  Glory — 1747* 

Inscription  for  a Monument  to  Shakspeare,  • 
Inscription  for  a Statue  of  Chaucer,  at  Woodstock, 
Lord  Lyttrlton,  • • • • • 

From  the  Monody,  • • • • 

Advice  to  a Lady,  • • • • • 

Prologue  to  the  Tragedy  of  Coriolanus— Spoken  by 
Quin,  • • • • 

Thomas  Gray,  • • • • • 

Hymn  to  Adversity,  . . • • 

Ode  on  a Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College,  • 
The  Hard — a Pindaric  Ode,  . • • 

Eleijy  Written  in  a Country  Churchyard,  • 

The  Alliance  between  Government  and  Education 
Fragment,  • • • • • 

William  Mason,  • • • • • 

From  Caractacus,  . • • . 

Epitaph  on  Mrs  Mason,  in  the  Cathedral  of  Bristol, 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  • • • • 

Italians  and  Swiss  Contrasted,  • • 

France  Contrasted  with  Holland,  * . 

Description  of  Auburn  — The  Village  Preacher, 
Schoolmaster,  and  Alehouse — Reflections, 

Ed\\in  and  Angelina,  • • • • 

Extracts  from  Retaliation,  « • • 

Tobias  G RORGE  Smollett,  • • • 

Ode  to  Independence,  • • 

Ode  to  Leven  Water,  • • 

The  Tears  of  Scotland,  • • 

John  Armstrong,  . • • 

Wrecks  and  Mutations  of  Time,  • 
Recommendation  0^  Angling, 

Pestilence  of  the  Fifteenth  Century,  . 

VVilltam  Julius  Mickle,  • • 

Cumnor  Hall,  . • • 

The  Mariner’s  Wife,  • 

The  Spirit  of  the  Cape,  • * 

Dr  John  Lanohorne, 

Appeal  to  Country  Justices  in  Behalf  of  the  1 
An  Advice  to  the  Married,  • • 

The  Dead,  . • • - 

Eternal  Providence,  • • • 

A Farewell  Hymn  to  the  Valley  of  Irwan, 

Sir  William  Blackstonb,  . . 

The  Lawyer’s  Farewell  to  his  Muse,  • 

Dr  Thomas  Percy,  , 

O,  Nanny,  wilt  Thou  Gang  wi*  Me,  • 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  • • 

James  Macpuerson,  • • • 

Ossian's  Address  to  the  Sun,  • • 

Fingal’s  Airy  Hall,  • • • 

Address  to  the  Moon,  • • 

Desolation  of  Balclutha,  • « 

A Description  of  Female  Beauty,  • 

The  Songs  of  Selma,  . • • 

The  Cave,  • 


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V 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 

KNGLISII  LITERATURK 

1 

Pago 

Page 

Thomas  Chattertow,  .... 

81 

MrsThralk,  ...... 

124 

Hribtow  Tragedy,  or  the  Death  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin, 

84 

The  Three  Waminge,  • • • • 

124 

Tlio  Minstrers  Song  in  Ella,  • • . 

87 

Thomas  Moss,  ...... 

125 

RpHignation,  . • • • • 

87 

The  lleggar,  ..... 

1S5 

William  Falconer,  • • • • 

87 

From  the  Shipwreck,  • • • « 

88 

SCOTTISH  POETa 

Rorkkt  Lloyd,  • • • • 

91 

Alexander  Ross,  . . . , , 

125 

The  Miseries  of  a Poet's  Life,  • • • 

92 

Woo’d,  and  Married,  and  a',  . • . • 

VJf, 

Wretchedness  of  a School'Usher,  • « 

92 

JoH.N  Lowe,  ....  * 

126 

Charles  Churchill,  • • • • 

92 

Mary’s  Dream,  ..... 

126 

Michael  Bruck,  • • • • 

94 

Ladv  Anne  Barnard,  .... 

126 

A Rural  Picture,  • • • • • 

95 

Auld  Robin  Gray,  ..... 

127 

Virtue  and  Happiness  in  the  Country,  • 

9G 

Miss  .Iane  Klliot  and  Mbs  Cockburit,  • 

127 

Elegy — Written  in  Spring,  • • • 

9<; 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  .... 

127 

John  Logan,  • • • • • 

97 

John  Skinner,  ...... 

128 

To  the  Cuckoo,  . . • . • 

97 

Tullochgoruin,  ..... 

Written  in  a Visit  to  the  Country  In  Autumn, 

98 

Robert  Crawford,  . • • • . 

128 

Complaint  of  Nature,  • • • * 

98 

The  Bu.sh  aboon  Traqualr,  • • • 

128 

Thomas  Warton,  .... 

99 

Tweedside,  ...... 

129 

Written  after  seeing  Windsor  Castle, 

99 

Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  • • . • 

129 

Written  in  a Blank  Leaf  of  Dugdale's  Monasticon, 

100 

Amynta, 

129 

On  Revisiting  the  River  Loddon,  . 

100 

Robert  Fkrgusson,  .... 

129 

On  Sir  Joshua  Reynold’s  Painted  Window  at  Oxford, 

100 

Braid  Claith,  ..... 

13U 

The  Hamlet — an  Odo,  . . 

101 

To  the  Tron-Kirk  Bell,  .... 

130 

Joseph  Warton,  ..... 

101 

Scottish  Scenery  and  Music,  . • • 

131 

To  Fancy,  ..... 

101 

Cauler  Water,  ..... 

131 

Thomas  Blacklock,  • • • • 

102 

A Sunday  in  Edinburgh,  • • , 

132 

Terrors  of  a Guilty  Conscience,  . . 

103 

Miscellaneous  Poems  of  the  Period  1727—1780, 

132 

Ode  to  Aurora  on  Melissa’s  Birthday,  . . 

103 

Ad  Amicos,  ...... 

132 

The  Portrait,  ..... 

103 

Elegy,  ...... 

133 

James  Beattie,  ...  . . 

103 

Careless  Content,  ...  . 

1.34 

Opening  of  the  Minstrel,  ... 

105 

A Pastoral.  ..... 

134 

Description  of  Edwin,  • . , 

lOfi 

Ode  to  a Tobacco  Pipe,  .... 

135 

Morning  Landscape,  . « • • 

107 

Song — (Away  ! let  nought  to  love  displeasing),  . 

135 

Life  and  Immortality,  • • . • 

107 

TRAGIC  DRAJIATIST8. 

Retirement — 1758,  • , • . 

107 

The  Hermit,  . » • « • 

108 

Edward  Moorr,  .... 

136 

Christopher  Smart,  .... 

108 

The  Gamester’s  Last  Stake,  . . . 

1.36 

Song  to  David,  . • • • 

109 

John  Home,  ..... 

138 

Richard  Glover,  ..... 

112 

Discovery  of  her  Son  by  Lady  Randolph,  . 

1.30 

Address  of  Leonidas,  • • . • 

113 

James  Thomson,  .... 

1.39 

The  Armies  at  Salamis,  • • • . 

113 

Against  the  Crusades,  . • • • 

1.39 

Admiral  Hosier’s  Ghost,  • . . 

114 

Love,  ••.••• 

14(1 

Robert  Dodslby,  .... 

114 

Miscalculations  of  Old  Men,  . • 

140 

Song— The  Parting  Kiss,  • . 

115 

William  Mason,  ..... 

i;)8 

Samuel  Bishop,  ..... 

115 

Awfulness  of  a Scene  of  Pagan  Rites,  • • 

140 

To  Mrs  Bishop  on  the  Anniversary  of  her  Wedding 

day. 

Against  Homicide,  ..... 

140 

which  was  also  her  Birth-day,  wth  a Ring,  . 

115 

Richard  Glover,  .... 

140 

Sir  Wii  LIAM  Jones,  .... 

115 

Solitude  on  a Battle  Field,  • • • • 

140 

An  Ode,  in  Imitation  of  AIcsus,  • • 

117 

Forgiveness,  • . • • • 

140 

A Persian  Song  of  Hafiz,  . . . 

117 

David  Mallet,  • • • • • 

139 

The  Concluding  Sentence  of  Berkeley’s  Siris  Imitated, 

117 

Fortitude,  • . • • . 

140 

Tetrastic — From  the  Persian,  • . 

118 

Francis  Fawkes,  .... 

118 

COMIC  DRAMATISTS. 

The  Brown  Jug,  • • • . 

118 

George  Colman,  • . • . • 

William  Whitehead,  • • • . 

118 

Arthur  Murphy,  ..... 

U1 

Variety,  • • • . • 

118 

Hugh  Kelly,  . . • • • 

141 

Dr  James  Grainger,  • . • . 

119 

Richard  Cumberland,  .... 

141 

Ode  to  Solitude,  • « . • 

119 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  • • • . . 

141 

Jambs  Merrick,  • • . . • 

120 

A Deception,  . • ♦ . . 

141 

The  Chameleon,  «... 

120 

An  ival  at  the  Supposed  Inn, 

142 

John  Scott,  ..... 

121 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan, 

143 

Ode  on  Hearing  the  Drum,  • • • 

121 

A Sensitive  Author,  .... 

144 

William  Oldys,  . • • • . 

121 

The  Anatomy  of  Character  performed  by  Uncharitable- 

Song,  made  Extempore  by  a Gentleman,  occasioned 

by  a 

ne&s,  ...... 

J46 

Fly  Drinking  out  of  his  Cup  of  Ale,  • 

121 

Mrs  Cowley,  . . • . . 

148 

John  Cunningham,  • . • • 

121 

David  Garrick,  • • • • . 

118 

gong — May-Eve,  or  Kate  of  Aberdeen,  • 

121 

Macklin, 

118 

Content,  a Pastoral,  • • • • 

122 

Rev.  Mr  Toivnley,  ..... 

148 

Nathaniel  Cotton,  • « • • 

122 

Scene  from  High  Life  Below  Stairs,  • • 

148 

The  Fireside,  . • • • • 

122 

Samuel  Foote,  . • • • • 

150 

Christopher  Anstey  . • • • 

123 

Tuft  Hunting,  ..... 

i.ifl 

The  Public  Breakfast,  • « « » 

123 

C.  CoFFSir, 

151 

▼1 

CONTENTS  OF  SECOND  VOLUME. 

Pa«e 

Pago 

Isaac  Rickicrstapp^  • . . . 

m 

Ap{>carance  and  Character  of  Mahomet,  . 

197 

Charlks  DtnniN,  . . • . 

• 

U2 

Term  of  the  Conquest  of  Tiniour,  or  Tamerlane;  his 

Triumph  at  Samtlrcand ; his  Death  on  the  road  to 

PKRIODICAL  ESSAYISTS. 

China  (a.d.  1405) ; Character  and  Merits  of  Tiinour, 

193 

Dr  Samdrl  Johnson,  .... 

152 

Invention  and  Use  of  Gunpowder, 

200 

Tale  of  Anningait  and  Ajut, 

153 

Letter  of  Gibbon  to  Mrs  Porten — Account  of  his  Mode 

John  Hawkkswori  H, 

155 

of  Life  at  Lausanne,  .... 

200 

Dr  Moork,  • • . . . 

155 

Remarks  on  Reading,  .... 

201 

IIk.VRV  MACKKNCrS,  «... 

156 

iStory  of  La  Uocbe,  • . . . • 

156 

MKTAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 

Dr  Francis  Hutcheson,  .... 

202 

NnvF.l.i.sT.S. 

David  Hume,  ..... 

202 

SaMTKL  UfCHARnfiON,  .... 

160 

On  Delicacy  of  Taste,  .... 

202 

H KNRY  Tl  KI.DINO,  .... 

161 

On  Simplicity  and  Refinement,  . . . 

20.1 

i'artridce  at  the  Playhouse,  . • 

164 

Estimate  of  the  Effects  of  Luxury,  . . . 

20;i 

ToBtAs  Georob  Smollktt, 

165 

Of  the  Middle  Station  of  Life,  . 

205 

Scene  at  Lanark,  ..... 

167 

Dr  David  Hartley,  . . . . 

2o4 

Feast  in  the  Manner  of  the  Ancieuts,  . 

168 

Dr  Adam  Smith,  ..... 

207 

Laurkncr  Stern K,  .... 

171 

The  Results  of  Misdirected  and  Guilty  Ambition,  . 

207 

The  Story  of  Le  Fevre, 

171 

Dr  Reid,  . .... 

208 

The  Starling — Captivity,  .... 

174 

Lord  Kambs,  .... 

208 

A Frencli  Peasant’s  Supper, 

175 

Pleasures  of  the  Eye  and  the  Ear,  . , , 

209 

Dr  Samuel  .loMNsoN,  • . . , 

175 

Dr  Beattie,  . ... 

210 

Charles  Johnstons,  .... 

176 

On  the  Love  of  Nature,  . • • . 

210 

Horace  Walpole,  • . . . 

176 

On  Scottish  Music,  . , • * 

211 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  • • • • 

176 

Dr  Richard  I*ricb,  ..... 

213 

Henry  Brooke,  . • . . • 

177 

Abraham  Tucker,  .... 

213 

Henry  Mackbnzib,  • • • . 

177 

Dr  Joseph  Priestley,  • • • • 

213 

Harley  Sets  Out  on  his  Journey — The  Beggar  and 

bis 

Dog,  ...... 

178 

WRITERS  IN  DIVINITY. 

The  Death  of  Harley,  .... 

179 

Dr  Joseph  Butler,  ..... 

2U 

Miss  Clara  Reeve,  .... 

180 

Bishop  Warburtov,  .... 

214 

The  Grecian  Mythology — The  Various  Lights  in  which 

- HISTORIAN'S. 

it  was  regarded,  ..... 

215 

Thomas  Carte,  .... 

181 

Dr  Robert  Lowth,  .... 

21t 

Hooke,  ...... 

181 

Dr  C.  Middleton,  ..... 

216 

Dr  Conyers  Middleton,  • 

181 

Rev.  W.  Law,  ..... 

216 

David  Hume,  ..... 

182 

Dr  Isa  AC  Watts,  .... 

216 

State  of  Parties  at  the  Reformation  in  England, 

188 

Dr  Richard  Hu.id,  . . . • 

216 

The  Middle  Ages— Progress  of  Freedom,  . 

184 

Dr  G.  Horne,  ...... 

216 

Death  and  Character  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  « 

184 

Dr  John  Jortin,  . . , • 

216 

Or  William  Robertson,  • 

185 

George  Whitefield,  .... 

216 

Character  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  • 

187 

John  Wesley,  .... 

216 

Martin  Luther,  • • • . . 

187 

Nathaniel  Lardnbr,  .... 

217 

Discovery  of  America,  . . • 

188 

Hugh  Farmer,  . • • • • 

217 

Chivalry,  ...... 

190 

Dr  James  Foster,  ..... 

217 

Characters  of  Francis  L and  the  Emperor  Charles  V, 

191 

John  Leland,  ..... 

217 

Dr  Smollett,  . .... 

191 

Dr  Hugh  Blair,  ..... 

217 

William  Tytler,  • . , , 

I9I 

On  the  Cultivation  of  Taste,  . . 

217 

Archibald  Bower,  .... 

191 

Difference  between  Taste  and  Geniue, 

218 

Dr  John  Campbell,  .... 

191 

On  Sublimity,  ..... 

219 

William  Guthrie,  .... 

192 

Dr  George  Campbell,  .... 

220 

George  Sale.  ..... 

192 

George  Psalmanazab,  .... 

192 

MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  .... 

192 

Dr  Samuel  Johnson,  .... 

221 

Lord  Lyttelton,  ..... 

192 

From  the  Preface  to  the  Dictionary, 

22i 

Dr  Thomas  Birch,  .... 

192 

Reflections  on  Landing  at  Iona, 

22'^ 

Dr  Robert  Henry,  .... 

192 

Parallel  between  Pope  and  Dryden,  . 

222 

Dr  Gilbert  Stuart,  . . . 

192 

Picture  of  the  Miseries  of  War, 

223 

Dr  Warner,  ..... 

192 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  ..... 

223 

Dr  Lbland,  ..... 

192 

Scenery  of  the  Alps,  .... 

223 

John  Whittaker,  .... 

192 

A Sketch  of  the  Universe, 

224 

Gaangkr,  . , . . . 

192 

Scenery  of  the  Sea-coasts,  . . 

225 

Ormb,  ...... 

192 

On  the  Increased  Love  of  Life  with  Age, 

225 

Macpherson,  ..... 

192 

A City  Night-Piece,  .... 

226 

Lord  Hailes,  ..... 

192 

Edmund  Burke,  ..... 

327 

Robert  Watson,  • . . , 

192 

From  the  Speech  on  Conciliation  with  America,  1775, 

229 

Dr  William  Russell,  . . . • 

192 

Mr  Burke’s  Account  of  his  Son,  . 

930 

Edward  Gibbon,  .... 

192 

The  British  Monarchy,  .... 

231 

Opinion  of  the  Ancient  Philosophers  on  the  Immortality 

Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France, 

231 

of  the  Soul,  ..... 

• 

195 

The  Order  of  Nobility,  .... 

231 

The  City  of  Bagdad— Magnificence  of  the  Caliphs, 

196 

Dependence  of  English  on  American  Freedom, 

231 

Conquest  of  Jerusalem  by  the  Crusaders,  a.d.  1099, 

197 

Destruction  of  the  Carnatic, 

232 

vii 

CYCLOPAEDIA  OK 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

I'agc 

Page 

The  D^iTcTcnce  between  Mr  Burkoand  the  Duke  of  Bc4> 

Flora’s  Horologe,  .... 

27-1 

f'»d, 

233 

Sonnets,  ..... 

274 

Chai-ucter  of  Howard  the  Philanthropist, 

2:i4 

Recollections  of  English  Sf  enery, 

27.5 

Jl»NtU», 

2.34 

Miss  BLAMirta,  ..... 

275 

Jimiiih’H  Celebrated  Letter  to  the  King, 

2.38 

The  Nabob,  , . . , 

27'* 

DkLulmk,  . • • . . 

241 

What  Ails  this  Heart  0’  Mine, 

278 

Or  Adam  Smith,  . • . • . 

242 

Auld  Ili'bin  Forbes,  .... 

276 

Or  Ok.VJAMIN  FRANKtllf,  .... 

243 

Mrs  Bakhauld,  .... 

276 

Willi  AM  M KI.MO -‘H,  • . . . 

243 

Ode  t«.  Spring,  ..... 

277 

On  Tliinking,  « . . . . 

244 

To  a Lady,  with  some  Painted  Flowers, 

277 

On  Convernation,  • . • . 

244 

Hymn  to  Content,  .... 

277 

WiLi.iAM  Harris,  ..... 

245 

Washing  Day, 

278 

Jamkh  IIakrih,  . • • « • 

245 

Miss  Anna  Seward, 

278 

William  Stokklry,  ..... 

24.5 

The  Anniversary,  . ... 

279 

Rdw'ard  Kino,  ..... 

245 

Mrs  John  Hunter, 

278 

Sir  William  Blackstomb,  .... 

24.5 

Song — (The  season  comes  when  first  we  met), 

280 

On  the  Uight  of  Projierty,  . . . 

248 

Song — (0  tuneful  voice  ! I sfill  doplorei,  . 

280 

Earl  UP  Chkstkrpiklo,  .... 

248 

The  Death  Song,  Written  for,  and  Adapted  to. 

an 

Definition  of  Good  B'ceding,  . . 

248 

Original  Indian  Air,  .... 

28U 

SoamkJknyns,  ..... 

24.9 

To  my  Daughter,  on  being  .Separated  from  her  on 

her 

Dr  Adam  Frrqiison,  .... 

249 

Dlarriagc, 

280 

Lord  Monroddo,  . 

249 

The  Lot  of  Thounands, 

280 

Horace  Waltolm,  .... 

249 

Mrs  Amelia  Opik, 

278 

Politics  and  Evening  Parties,  .... 

250 

The  Orphan  Buy’s  Tale, 

280 

The  Scottish  Rebellion,  .... 

251 

Song — (Go,  youth  beloved,  in  distant  gladesj,  , 

281 

London  EarthqiiakcH  and  London  Gossip,  . • 

251 

Mrs  Anne  Grant,  .... 

278 

The  Earl  OP  Chatham,  .... 

252 

On  a Sprig  of  Heath,  .... 

281 

Speech  of  Chatham  on  being  taunted  on  account  of 

The  Highland  Poor,  ... 

281 

youth,  ...... 

253 

Mrs  Mary  Tighb,  .... 

278 

Speech  of  Chatham  against  the  employment  of  Indians 

From  Mrs  Tighe’s  ‘ Psyche,* 

281 

in  the  War  with  America, 

253 

The  Lily, 

283 

Rokbrt  Bloompikld,  . . • 

283 

ENCYCLOP.EDIAS  AND  MAGAZINES. 

Turnip-Sowing — Wheat  Ripening— Sparrows — Insects— 

Ephraim  Chambers,  ..... 

255 

The  Sky-Lark— Reaping,  &c.— Harvest  Field, 

284 

Dr  Abraham  Rees,  .... 

255 

Rosy  Hannah,  ..... 

286 

Dr  John  Campbell,  ..... 

25.5 

Lines  Addressed  to  my  Children, 

286 

Robert  Dodslry,  .... 

255 

Description  of  a Blind  Youth, 

286 

Mr  Edward  Cave,  ..... 

255 

Banquet  of  an  English  Squire, 

287 

The  Soldier’s  Home,  .... 

287 

— 

To  his  Wife,  ..... 

288 

John  Leyden,  ..... 

288 

^ebenti)  |3crtob. 

Sonnet  on  Sabbath  Mom,  . . • 

289 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin, 

2'<i9 

FROM  1780  TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME 

The  Mermaid,  .... 

290 

William  Gifford,  . * . .. 

292 

The  Grave  of  Anna,  .... 

294 

William  Cowpbr,  ..... 

257 

Greenwich  Hill,  ..... 

£94 

The  Greenland  Missionaries,  • . 

259 

To  a Tuft  of  Early  Violets, 

295 

Rural  Sounds,  ..... 

2(i(l 

George  Canning,  .... 

295 

The  Diversified  Character  of  Creation,  . 

260 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-Grinder, 

295 

From  ‘ Conversation,*  .... 

26(» 

Song  by  Rogero  in  ‘ The  Rovers,’  . 

296 

On  the  Receipt  of  his  Mother’s  Picture, 

261 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  his  Eldest  Son, 

296 

Voltaire  and  the  Lace-Worker,  . 

262 

Thomas  James  Mathias,  . 

2JW 

To  Mary  (Mrs  Unwin),  .... 

262 

Dr  John  WoLroT,  . . • • 

297 

Winter  Evening  in  the  Country,  • 

262 

Advice  to  Landscape  Painters,  • 

im 

Love  of  Nature,  ..... 

265 

The  Pilgrims  and  the  Peas,  . . 

298 

English  Liberty,  ..... 

265 

The  Apple  Dumplings  and  a King, 

293 

A Winter  Walk 

266 

Whitbread’s  Brewery  Visited  by  their  Majesties, 

299 

The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin, 

267 

Lord  Gregory,  ..... 

300 

William  Hayley,  .... 

269 

May  Day, 

300 

Tribute  to  a Mother,  on  her  Death, 

269 

Epigram  on  Sleep,  .... 

301 

Inscription  on  the  Tomb  of  Cow^)er, 

269 

To  my  Candle,  ..... 

301 

On  the  Tomb  of  Mrs  Unwin,  .... 

2711 

Hknrv  Kirkb  White, 

.3*1  ■ 

Dr  Erasmus  Darwin,  .... 

270 

To  an  Early  Primrose, 

302 

Invocation  to  the  Goddess  of  Botany, 

271 

Sonnet — (What  art  thou,  Mighty  One!) 

302 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib’s  Army  by  a Pestilen- 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem,  .... 

302 

tial  Wind,  ...... 

272 

A Hymn  for  Family  Worship, 

303 

The  Belgian  Lovers  and  the  Plague,  . . 

272 

The  Christiad,  . . . • . 

303 

Death  of  Eliza  at  the  Battle  of  Minden, 

272 

The  Shipwrecked  Solitary's  Song.— To  the  Night, 

3f»3 

Philanthropy — Mr  Howard,  • 

273 

James  Grahame,  .... 

303 

Song  to  May,  ...... 

273 

From  the  Sabbath,  . • • • 

304 

Song  to  Echo,  ..... 

273 

A Spring  Sabbath  Walk, 

306 

Mrs  Charlotte  Smith, 

273 

A Summer  Sabbath  Walk, 

306 

Vlll 

CONTENTS  OF  SECOND  VOLUME. 

Page 

Page 

An  Autumn  SAbbath  Walk,  . 

307 

William  Sotiibby,  .... 

36t 

A \Vin‘cr  Sabbath  Walk, 

307 

Staffa,  ..... 

361 

A Scottish  Country  Wedding, 

307 

Approach  of  Saul  and  his  Guards  against  the  Philistines 

m 

The  Impressed  Sailor  Boy,  • . 

308 

Song  of  the  Virgins  Celebrating  the  Victory, 

3B1 

To  niy  Son,  • • • . . 

308 

The  Winter’s  Morn,  .... 

362 

The  Thanksgiving  off  Capo  Trafalgar, 

308 

Edward  Loro  Thurlow, 

362 

Ororor  Crarak,  . • • . 

30.0 

Song  to  May,  ..... 

The  Parish  Workhouse  and  Apothecary, 

311 

The  Sun-Flower,  . . • . 

362 

Isaac  Ashford,  a Noble  Peasant,  • * 

312 

Sonnets,  .... 

363 

Phoebe  Dawson,  • • • . . 

312 

Thomas  Moore,  ..... 

ri63 

Dream  of  the  Condemned  Felon,  . 

313 

Opening  Epistle  to  Lord  Strangford,  • 

304 

Story  of  a Betrothed  Pair  in  Humble  Life, 

313 

Literary  Advertisement,  . • 

364 

An  English  Fen— Gipsies,  • • 

314 

Song — {When  he  who  adores  Thee,  6co.) 

365 

Gradual  Approaches  of  Age, 

315 

Song — (I  saw  from  the  Beach,  Aic.) 

365 

Song  of  the  Crazed  Maiden, 

315 

John  Hookham  Frerk,  . . . 

366 

Sketches  of  Autumn,  .... 

315 

Pas.sages  from  * Prospectus  and  Specimen  of  an  Intended 

S\MUKL  Rookrs,  . « . . 

31ti 

National  Work  by  William  and  Robert  Whistlecraft,* 

From  the  Pleasures  of  Memory,  • 

316 

6iC.  ..•••. 

366— 368 

From  Human  Life,  • 

318 

From  the  Romance  of  the  Cid,  • 

368 

From  the  Voyage  of  Columbus,  . 

319 

Thomas  Campbell,  • . . • 

369 

Ginevra,  • . • . . 

320 

Picture  of  Domestic  Love,  • . . 

371 

Ad  Italian  Song,  ..... 

320 

Battle  of  Wyoming,  and  Death  of  Gertrude, 

372 

To  the  Butterfly,  .... 

320 

Ye  Mariners  of  England, 

373 

Written  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland — 1812, 

320 

Hohenlinden,  ..... 

373 

Paestum,  ..... 

321 

From  the  Last  Man,  .... 

374 

To 

321 

Matthew  Gregory  Lewis, 

374 

A Wish, 

322 

Durandarte  and  Belcrma,  ... 

3V6 

On  a Tear,  ..... 

322 

Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  Fair  Imogine, 

377 

WfLLiA.M  Wordsworth, 

322 

The  Helmsman,  .... 

373 

Sonnets — {London,  1802,  &c.l,  • . 

325 

The  Hours,  ..... 

378 

Lints — (My  heart  leaps  up  when  I behold), 

326 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  .... 

378 

Lucy,  •••••« 

326 

On  the  Setting  Sun,  .... 

378 

A Portrait,  ..... 

326 

Description  of  Melrose  Abbey, 

382 

Lines  Composed  a few  miles  above  Tintcm  Abbey 

, on 

Love  of  Country,  ..... 

382 

Revisiting  the  Banks  of  the  Wye, 

327 

Battle  of  Flodden,  .... 

3ii?. 

Picture  of  Christmas  Eve,  . 

328 

Death  of  Mnrmion,  .... 

383 

Ruth, 

329 

Young  Lochinvar,  .... 

384 

To  a Highland  Girl,  .... 

331 

Coronach,  ..... 

385 

Laodamia,  ..... 

331 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu,  .... 

3JJ5 

Samuel  Taylor  CoLBRiDOB,  . 

333 

Time,  ..... 

385 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner, 

337 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid, 

335 

Ode  to  the  Departing  Year  [1795],  . 

342 

Song  from  the  Pirate, 

386 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni. 

343 

Lord  Byron,  ..... 

336 

Love,  ...... 

344 

Picture  of  Modem  Greece, 

389 

Picture  of  a Dungeon, 

344 

Image  of  War,  . ... 

390 

From  ‘ Frost  at  Midnight,*  . 

344 

A ncien- Greece,  .... 

3!m 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience  in  Education, 

345 

Temple  of  Clitumnus,  • 

391 

Youth  and  Age,  ..... 

345 

The  Gladiator,  .... 

3!»I 

Kkv.  William  Lisle  Bowles, 

345 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean, 

391 

Sonnets — (To  Timo— Winter  Evening  at  Home— Hope), 

346 

An  Italian  Evening  on  the  Banks  of  the  Breota, 

392 

South  American  Scenery, 

346 

Midnight  Scene  in  Rome — the  Coliseum, 

392 

Sun-Dialin  a Churchyard, 

346 

Tlie  Ship^^Teck,  . 

392 

The  Greenwich  Pensioners, 

346 

Description  of  Haidce,  .... 

393 

Robert  Southey,  ..... 

347 

Haidee  Visits  the  Shipwrecked  Don  Juan, 

3.93 

The  Departed  Spirits  of  Warriors, 

348 

Haidee  and  Juan  at  the  Feast, 

3.9.3 

The  Widowed  Mother,  .... 

348 

The  Death  of  Haidee, 

394 

Travellers  Entering  Padalon,  or  the  Indian  Hades, 

349 

Percy  Bvsshk  Shelley,  .... 

395 

Scenes  from  Roderick,  or  the  Last  of  the  Goths,  . 

349 

Opening  of  Queen  Mab, 

398 

Walter  Savage  Landor, 

350 

The  Cloud,  .... 

398 

The  Maid’s  Lament,  .... 

351 

To  a Skylark,  ..... 

399 

Sixteen,  ..... 

351 

From  ‘ The  Sensitive  Plant,* 

400 

Conversation  between  Lords  Chatham  and  Chesterfield, 

351 

Forest  Scenery,  .... 

4(K) 

Edwin  Athkrstonb, 

352 

Stanzas  Written  in  Dejection,  near  Naples, 

402 

Splendour  of  Sardanapalus’s  State, 

353 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air, 

402 

The  Bower  of  Nehushta, 

353 

To 

402 

Dr  W.  Beattie,  ..... 

354 

John  Keats,  ..... 

402 

Description  of  Pompeii,  . 

354 

Saturn  and  Thea,  .... 

401 

Charles  Lamb,  ..... 

354 

The  Lady  Madeline  at  her  Devotions, 

405 

To  Hester,  ..... 

356 

Hymn  to  Pan,  ..... 

40fl 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces,  .... 

356 

Ode  to  a Nightingale,  . 

40f 

A Farewell  to  Tobacco,  • 

356 

To  Autumn, 

406 

Dream-Children— A Reverie,  • . 

a57 

Sonnets, 

4.« 

Poor  Relations,  • 

358 

Lines — ( There  is  a charm  in  footing  slowi , . 

408 

ix 

CYC\A)VJE\)\\  or  KX<;US[1  utkraturr 


I'uKe 

Dm  I<KOtVAI.D  UKHKfl,  ....  4(1? 

I'jissauc  of  the  Ked  Soa»  . • . , 4(W 

Hymn — Fifteenth  Sunday  after  Trinity,  . • 40!) 

Mihsirmary  Hymn,  ....  4o>) 

From  Dishoji  I lebcr’8  Journal,  . . • 4<  y 

An  Fv(*nin>f  Walk  in  Bengal,  . . . 410 

ClJAMI.KS  Wol.KK,  .....  410 

The  lltirial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  . . . 410 

6t)ng—|Oh  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold),  , . 411 

Song — (If  I had  tliought  thou  eouldst  have  died),  411 

llKaiiKHT  Kvovv'i.ks,  .....  411 

Lir»cs  written  in  the  Churchyard  of  Richmond,  York- 
shire, .•••..  411 

Uonnur  Poi.lok,  » . . . , 412 

Love,  ......  413 

Morning,  ......  413 

Friendship,  . . . . 413 

Happiness,  ......  414 

I'icturc  of  a Miser,  ....  415 

Jamks  Movtoomeuy,  .....  415 

Greenland,  . . . . . 416 

Night, 417 

Picture  of  a Poetical  Enthusiast,  • . 417 

The  I’elican  Island,  .....  418 

The  Recluse,  .....  418 

The  Grave,  418 

The  Field  of  the  World 419 

Aspirations  of  Youth,  .....  419 

The  Common  Lot,  ....  420 

Prayer, 420 

Home,  ......  420 

Thk  Hov.  Wtm.iam  Rorkrt  Fpevckr,  . . 420 

Reth  Gelert,  or  the  Grave  of  the  Greyhound,  . 421 

M'ife,  Children,  and  Friends,  , . . 421 

To , ......  422 

Epitaph  upon  the  Year  1806,  ....  422 

Stan/.Jis—<Too  late  I strayed— forgive  the  crime),  . 422 

LKtttH  Hunt,  .....  422 

May  Morning  at  Ravenna,  . . • • 423 

Funeral  of  the  Lovers  in  ‘ Rimini,*  . 424 

To  T-  L.  II.,  Six  Years  Old,  During  a Sickness,  • 424 

Dirge,  ......  424 

To  tlie  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket,  . . 424 

The  Celebrated  Canzone  of  Petrarch— Chiare,  fresclie, 
e dolce  acque,  .....  425 

John  Clark,  ......  425 

What  is  Life?  .....  427 

Summer  Morning,  .....  427 

Sonnets — (The  Primrose — The  Tlirush’s  Nest),  427 

First-Love’s  Recollections,  . . . 427 

Dawnings  of  Genius,  .....  428 

Scenes  and  M usings  of  the  Peasant  Poet,  . 428 

Jamks  AND  IIORACK  Smith,  ....  429 

The  Theatre. — By  the  Rev.  G.  C.  [Crabbe],  . 431 

The  liaby’s  Debut. — By  W,  W.  [Wordsworth],  . 431 

A Tale  of  Drury  Lane. — By  W.  S.  [Scott],  . 432 

The  Upas  in  Marybone  Lane,  . . . 43;i 

Address  to  the  ISIummy  in  Belzoni’s  Exhibition,  433 

John  Wilson,  ......  434 

A Home  among  the  Mountains,  . . . 434 

A Sleeping  Child,  .....  435 

Address  to  a Wild  Deer,  ....  435 

Lines  Written  in  a Lonely  Burial  Ground  in  the  Iligh- 
lands,  ......  435 

The  ShipnTeck,  .....  4.'](J 

Mks  Hkmans,  ....*.  437 

The  Voice  of  Spring,  . . . 4.'J8 

The  Homes  of  England,  . . . 4:18 

The  Graves  of  a Household,  . • . 439 

The  Treasures  of  the  Deep,  ....  4.39 

Hernard  Barton,  . . . 439 

To  the  Evening  Primrose,  . . 440 

Stanzas  on  the  Sea,  . 440 


Pagi 

Power  and  GentlencbS,  or  the  Cataract  and  the  Strc.am* 

It-'t,  .......  440 

The  Solitary  Tomb,  ....  44« 

Bmvan  Walter  Procter,  . , , .441 

Address  to  the  Ocean,  ....  441 

Marcella,  441 

......  442 

The  Sleeping  Figure  of  Modena,  . . . 442 

An  Invocation  to  Birds,  . , , , 442 

Amelia  Wentworth,  .....  442 

Hknrv  Hart  Mil.man,  ....  44b 

Jerusalem  before  the  Siege,  ....  446 

Hymn  of  the  Captive  Jews,  , , , 445 

Summons  of  the  Destroying  Angel  to  the  City  of  Baby- 
lon, .......  44C 

The  Fair  Recluse,  . . , 447 

The  Day  of  Judgment,  ....  447 

Rev.  Georob  Croly,  ....  448 

Pericles  and  A spasia,  .....  448 

The  p-rench  Army  in  Russia,  • • . 448 

To  the  Memory  of  a Lady,  , , , 449 

Lbtitia  Elizabeth  Landon,  . . . 449 

Change,  ......  449 

Crcscentius,  .....  450 

Tlie  Grasp  of  the  Dead,  ....  4.'»0 

From  the  Improvisatrice,  . , • 450 

Last  Verses  of  L.  E.  L.,  . . . . 451 

Joanna  Baillib,  . . , • . 451 

The  Kitten,  ......  451 

Address  to  Miss  Agnes  Batllie  on  her  Birthday,  452 

William  Knox,  .....  453 

Opening  of  the  Songs  of  Israel,  • . . 453 

Conclusion  of  the  Songs  of  Israel,  . . , 454 

Dirge  of  Rachel,  .....  4'>4 

A Virtuous  Woman,  ....  454 

Thomas  Pringle,  . . • . , 454 

Afar  in  the  Desert,  • . • . , 454 

Robert  Montgomery,  ....  455 

Description  of  a Maniac,  . . . • 455 

The  Starry  Heavens,  • • . • 455 

Picture  of  War,  ....  456 

Lost  Feelings,  . . , « . 556 

William  Herbert,  ....  * 456 

Description  of  a Northern  Spring,  . . 456 

M usings  on  Eternity,  .....  456 

Ebknezkr  Elliott,  • • . . 457 

To  the  Bramble  Flower,  ....  457 

The  Excursion,  .....  457 

Pictures  of  Native  Genius,  ....  458 

Apostrophe  to  Futurity,  • . • . 459 

A Poet’s  Prayer,  .....  459 

Mrs  Norton,  .....  459 

To  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland,  . . . 459 

Lines  from  ‘ The  Winter’s  Walk,*  • . 460 

Picture  of  Twilight,  • • , . , 400 

The  Mother’s  Heart,  ....  460 

Mrs  Soothey,  ......  460 

The  Pauper’s  Deathbed,  . • • 461 

Mariner’s  HjTnn,  • . • • . 461 

Elizabeth  B.  Barrett,  ....  4i>l 

Couq>er’s  Grave,  .....  461 

Mary  Howitt,  .....  462 

Studies  Pursued  by  a Married  Pair,  • . . 462 

Mountain  Children,  . . 462 

The  Fairies  of  the  Caldon-Low — A Midsummer  Legend,  463 
The  Monkey,  ......  463 

Thomas  Hood,  ...  464 

From  * Lament  for  the  Decline  of  Chivalry,*  . 464 

From  ‘ Ode  to  the  Moon,*  . . . 465 

A Parental  Ode  to  my  Son,  aged  Three  Years  nnd  Five 
Months,  ...  . * . 465 

Alfred  Tennyson,  • • 405 

From  ‘ The  Dying  Swan,*  • 4(»6 


CONTENTS  OF  SECOND  VOLUME. 


Page 

Paj?9 

From  * New-Ycar's  Eve,* 

Ton  Mountain  Daisy,  , 

, 

4K4 

From  ‘ hcj^eml  of  the  Lady  Godiva/ 

, 

, 

4t>6 

On  ('apcain  Matthew  Henderson, 

. 

485 

From  * The  Talking  Oak/ 

4fi(; 

Songs — Maepliertson’s  Farewell, 

485 

From  Poem  of  * Saint  Simeon  Stylites,* 

487 

Menie,  . . , 

4Bff 

From  the  * Lotos  Eaters/ 

468 

Ac  Fond  Kiss,  . 

488 

Thomas  HAniN<jTOM  Macaulay 

• 

• 

4GB 

My  Bonnie  Mary,  . 

488 

The  Desolation  of  the  Cities 

whose 

Warriors  have 

Mary  Morrison, 

4m 

marelieu  against  RomOi 

4fiB 

Bruce’s  Address,  . • 

48(i 

The  \N’ar  of  the  League,  • 

4/1) 

Alexander  M’ilson, 

486 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly, 

471 

Account  of  the  Bald  Eagle, 

487 

Verses  Addressed  to  his  Wife, 

471 

Trait  of  Simjdlcity  and  Nature, 

487 

Think  not  of  the  Future,  . 

471 

A Village  Scold  Surprising  her  Husband 

in 

an 

Ale 

Uaiiti.ky  Colkkidob,  • • 

471 

house,  . . , , 

, 

487 

Sonnet—  (What  was’t  awakened 

first 

the 

untried 

A Pedlar’s  Story, 

488 

ear),  . . • 

• 

471 

II  ECTOR  MaCNEILL,  • • 

488 

Sonnet  on  Shakspeare, 

472 

E,\  tracts  from  * Scotland’s  Skaitb^* 

488 

Sonnets  to  a Friend,  • 

• 

472 

Mary  of  Castle-Cary, 

490 

To  <X*rtain  Golden  Fishes,  • 

472 

Robert  Tannahill,  . • 

490 

John  Stkhlinu,  . 

472 

The  Filial  \'ow,  , , • 

490 

Joan  of  Arc,  . • 

473 

Tlie  Braes  0’  Balquhither, 

. 

49) 

W.  MtJNCKTON  MtLNBS,  • 

472 

The  Braes  0’  GlenifFer,  • 

491 

The  Men  of  Old,  . . 

, 

473 

The  Flower  0’  Dumblane,  . 

, 

491 

The  Long-Ago,  • • 

473 

Gloomy  Winter’s  now  Awti,  . 

, 

492 

Charles  Mai  kay,  • . 

472 

Richard  Gall, 

492 

The  Autumn  Leaf,  • 

• 

474 

My  only  Jo  and  Dearie  0, 

• 

492 

The  Parting  (»f  Lovers,  • 

474 

Farewell  to  Ayrshire,  • . 

, 

492 

N.  T.  CaKHI  NOTON,  , 

• 

473 

John  Maynk,  . . • 

492 

The  Fix  es  of  Devon,  • . 

, 

474 

Logan  Braes,  . • 

493 

D.  M.  Moir, 

. 

473 

Helen  of  Kirkconnel, 

493 

Lungsyne,  . . . 

47.4 

To  the  River  Nith,  , , 

. 

493 

Casa  Wappy,  . • 

47.4 

Mustering  of  the  Trades  to  Shoot  for 

the  Siller 

jun 

493 

Major  Calokr  Campp'?! 

473 

Sir  Alexander  Boswell, 

494 

Alaric  a.  Watts,  » 

• 

473 

Jenny  Dang  the  Weaver, 

4.94 

Ten  Years  Ago,  • . 

47G 

Jenny’s  Bawbee, 

• 

495 

William  Kennedy,  • 

473 

Good  Night,  and  Joy  be  wi’  ye  a*, 

, 

49.5 

Thomas  Aird,  . . 

, 

473 

The  High  Street  of  Edinburgh, 

495 

My  Mother’s  Grave, 

477 

James  Hugo,  . • • 

498 

Charles  Swain,  * . 

473 

Bonny  Kilmony,  . , 

• 

497 

The  Death  of  the  Waj  rior  King, 

477 

To  the  Comet  of  1811,  • 

493 

T.  K.  IlKKVBY, 

. 

473 

When  the  Kye  comes  Hame,  . 

493 

The  Convict  Ship, 

478 

The  Skylark, 

499 

John  MAi.coL>h,  • . 

473 

Allan  Cunningham, 

4.99 

Eliza  Cook,  . . 

473 

The  Young  Maxwell, 

500 

Ladv  Emmelinb  TVortley, 

473 

Ilame,  Haine,  Ilame,  . 

500 

Mrs  Henry  C''leridge,  • 

, 

473 

Fragment,  . • , 

500 

Mrs  Hrookk,  . 

473 

She’s  Gane  to  Dwall  in  Heaven, 

500 

W.  Bki'kkord,  • . 

478 

A Wet  Sheet  and  a Flowing  Sea, 

501 

Prayer,  . • 

478 

My  Nanie  O,  . . 

501 

Walter  Paterson, 

478 

Tlie  Poet's  Bridal-Day  Song, 

501 

Sonnet  Written  on  the  Burial-ground  of  his  Ances- 

William  Tennant,  • 

501 

tors,  . , , 

. 

478 

Selections  from  ‘ Anster  Fair,*  • 

502 

John  Wilson  Croker,  • 

479 

William  M«)ther\vell,  • 

503 

Ode  on  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 

1814 

479 

Jeanie  Morrison,  . • • 

503 

Henry  Luttrel, 

479 

The  Midniglit  Wind, 

504 

The  November  Fog  of  London, 

479 

Sword  Chant  of  Thorstein  Raudi, 

5If4 

Rev.  H.  F.  Cary, 

479 

Robert  Nicoll, 

54)5 

William  Sothkby, 

479 

We  are  Brethren  a’, 

505 

Mr  Mitchell,  . . 

479 

Thoughts  of  Heaven,  . . 

. 

505 

Lord  Stranokord, 

479 

Death,  .... 

• 

506 

Dr  John  Bowrino,  . 

479 

Mr  Rodger,  « 

. 

506 

J.  H.  WlKKEN,  . • 

479 

Mr  Ballantynb,  • • • 

• 

606 

Stewart  Rose, 

479 

MrVkduer,  • 

. 

606 

Lord  Francis  Egkrtow, 

479 

Mr  Gray,  .... 

. 

506 

Mr  Blackik, 

479 

Robert  Gilktllan,  . • 

• 

506 

J.  G.  Lockhart, 

479 

The  Exile’s  Song,  . . • 

• 

605 

In  the  Days  0’  Langsyne,  « 

• 

506 

Thomas  CuNNiNiJHAM, 

5«)6 

SCOTTISH 

POETS. 

The  Hills  0’  Gallowa’, 

• 

506 

William  Laidlaw,  . . 

507 

Horrrt  Burns, 

. 

, 

479 

Lucy’s  Flutin’,  . 

50: 

Coda’s  Address, 

. 

482 

William  Nicholson,  , , 

• 

5*Y, 

Letter  to  Mrs  Dunlop, 

483 

The  Brownie  of  Blednoch,  • 

50/ 

From  Burns’s  Epistles,  • 

484 

Joseph  Train, 

• 

5T)8 

XI 


CYCLOPiEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

rage 

Pag« 

8on^ — drums  and  pipes  the  clochan  rang], 

£()H 

Mrs  Inchralo,  • . . , . 

653 

James  IltsLOi’,  . • • 

. 

6011 

Charlotte  Smith,  ..... 

5.54 

Tiic  Cumcrutiian’s  Dream, 

m 

Ann  Radclifkk,  . . . , 

5.54 

English  Travellers  Visit  a Neapolitan  Church,  . 

5.55 

Description  of  the  Castle  of  Cdolpho,  . • 

557 

Rorkrt Jkpmson,  • • . 

m 

Hardwick,  in  Derbyshire,  .... 

657 

Matthku'  (iukoorv  Lbwis,  • 

611 

An  Italian  Landscape,  .... 

558 

Toanva  Hah.lir,  . • 

611 

Matth B\v  Gukoorv  Lewis,  .... 

658 

?ccnc  from  l)c*  Montfort, 

611 

Scene  of  Conjuration  by  the  Wandering  Jew,  • 

658 

Vemale  IMcture  of  a Country  Life, 

6IJ 

Mrs  Amelia  Opib,  ..... 

600 

Fears  of  imagination,  . • 

613 

William  Godwin,  .... 

660 

Speech  of  1‘rince  Kdward  in  his  Dungeon, 

613 

Concluding  Socne  of  Caleb  Williams, 

m 

Debcriptioii  of  Jane  de  Montfort, 

613 

St  Leon's  Escaiie  from  the  Auto  do  Fe,  . « 

m 

U’n.i.fAM  Godu'in,  • 

614 

Anna  Maria  Porter,  ..... 

668 

WlM.IAAl  SoTHKBV,  . 

614 

Miss  Jane  Porter,  .... 

568 

6.  T.  COLBMI  DOR,  • 

614 

Miss  Edoeivorth,  ..... 

668 

Scene  from  * Remorse,*  • 

614 

Miss  Austen,  ..... 

671 

RbV.  ChaHLKH  ItORKHT  MATURIN, 

6IG 

MrsBhunton,  ...... 

672 

Scene  from  ‘ liertram,*  • 

61G 

Final  Escape  of  Laura,  . . • . 

672 

PlfTHAKD  LaLOR  ShKIL, 

517 

Mrs  Hamilton,  ..... 

676 

Description  of  Female  Beauty, 

517 

Picture  of  Glenbumie,  and  View  of  a Scotch  Cottage  In 

John  IIiiward  Favnk, 

517 

the  Last  Century,  .... 

575 

P.  VV*.  Frix’tbr,  • 

517 

Hannah  More,  ..... 

678 

I*assage  from  * Mirandola,*  • 

517 

First  interview  with  Dr  Johnson,  . . 

578 

Ja.mk.s  Havnrm,  . • 

517 

Death  of  Garrick,  ..... 

679 

Passage  from  * Conscience,  or  the  Bridal  Night,* 

517 

Lady  Morgan,  • . . . • 

680 

James  Sheridan  Knocvles, 

61B 

Mrs  Shelley,  ...... 

681 

Scene  from  * Virginiiis,* 

618 

Extracts  from  ‘ Frankenstein,*  . 

682 

P'rom  * The  Wife,  a Tale  of  Mantua,* 

620 

Love,  •.....• 

584 

Thomas  Lovell  Bkddoks, 

621 

Rev.  Charles  Robert  Maturin,  . . 

684 

Passages  from  ‘ The  Bride’s  Tragedy,* 

521 

A Lady’s  Chamber  in  the  Thirteenth  Century, 

685 

Miss  Mitkord,  «... 

621 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  .... 

585 

Sir  Edward  Lvtton  Bulwbr,  . 

521 

JoH N Galt,  ...... 

689 

Thomas  Noon  Talfourd, 

521 

Placing  of  Mr  Balwhidder  as  Minister  of  Dalmailing, 

691 

Delineation  of  the  Character  of  Ion, 

522 

Thomas  Hope,  ..... 

592 

Extracts  from  ‘ Ion,’  . 

622 

Death  of  Alexis,  from  ‘ Anastasius,*  . . 

693 

ITknrv  Taylor,  • • 

524 

Washington  Irving,  .... 

694 

J.  Hrownino,  • • . . 

524 

Manners  in  New  York  in  the  Dutch  Times,  . 

695 

Leioh  Hunt,  • 

524 

A Rainy  Sunday  in  an  Inn,  . . , 

596 

Wii.LiA.M  Smith,  • 

524 

John  Gibson  Lockhart,  .... 

697 

Passage  from  ‘ Athelwold,’ 

624 

Athanasia  in  Prison,  from  ‘ Valerius,* 

698 

George  Coi.MAv,  , . 

524 

Description  of  an  Ancient  English  Mansion,  from  * Re- 

Scene  from  the  * Ileir  at  Law,* 

62:) 

ginald  Dalton,*  ..... 

599 

From  * The  Poor  Gentleman,’ 

627 

Prokk.ssor  Wilson,  . , . . 

600 

The  Newcastle  Apothecary, 

53fi 

Removal  of  the  Lyndsays,  .... 

600 

Lodgings  for  Single  Gentlemen, 

630 

Mrs  JOHNSTO.NE,  ..... 

6o: 

Mrs  Elizabeth  Inchbald, 

531 

Sir  Thomas  Dick  Lauder,  .... 

601 

Thomas  lioLcrROFT,  • . 

• 

631 

Thomas  Hamilton,  .... 

601 

John  Ti>rin,  . . 

532 

Mr  Moir,  ...... 

601 

Passage  from  the  * Honeymoon,* 

532 

Dr  James  Hook,  ..... 

mi 

JoHK  o’Kkkkb, 

532 

Andrew  Picken,  ..... 

coi 

Fre.'krick  Reynolds,  • 

632 

MissFkrrier,  ..... 

602 

Tho.vas  Morton,  . • 

633 

Mrs  Violet  Maeshake  visited  by  her  grand-nephew, 

Mr  Douglas,  ..... 

603 

NOVELISTS. 

James  Morikr,  ..... 

604 

Frances  Burney  {Madame  D’Arblay), 

535 

Jam Ks  Bailie  Fraser,  .... 

60fi 

A Game  of  Highway  Robbery, 

536 

Meeting  of  Two  Warriors  in  the  Desert, 

606 

Miss  Burney  explains  to  King  George  III.  the  circum- 

The  Kuzzilbash’s  Return  to  his  Native  Village, 

6»7 

stances  attending  the  composition  of  * 

Evelina,' 

538 

Theodore  Edward  Hook, 

607 

Sarah  Harriet  Burney, 

639 

Thomas  Colley  Grattan,  .... 

608 

William  Bkckpord,  , 

539 

T.  H.  Lister,  ..... 

609 

Description  of  the  Caliph  Vathek  and  his  Magnificent 

London  at  Sunrise,  ..... 

609 

Palaces,  . . • . 

541 

Marquis  OF  Normanby,  .... 

609 

The  Hall  of  Rblis, 

642 

Lady  Caroline  Lamb,  ..... 

609 

Richard  Cu.MBKRLAND, 

545 

Lady  Dacre,  ..... 

609 

Thomas  Hoi.rhoFT,  • 

646 

Countess  of  Morlby,  ..... 

610 

Gaffer  Gray,  • 

646 

Lady  Charlotte  Bury,  .... 

6IU 

Rorkrt  Bade,  .... 

646 

R.  Plumer  Ward,  ..... 

610 

Sophia  and  Harriet  Lee, 

647 

Conversation  between  Wentworth  (Canning),  Sir  George 

Introduction  to  the  Canterbury  Tales, 

547 

Deloraine,  and  Dr  Herbert,  from  * De  Vere,*  . 

61C 

Or  John  Moore, 

549 

Benjamin  DTsraeli,  .... 

611 

Dispute  and  Duel  between  the  Two  Scotch  Servan* 

s in 

Mrs  Trollope,  ..... 

611 

Italy, 

661 

John  Banim,  • ... 

611 

xii 

CONTENTS  OF  SECOND  VOLUME. 

Piige 

Pag. 

Dcucrijition  of  tlic  Burning  of  a Croppy's  House, 

t>13 

Mr  Godwin,  • • • 

• 

M2 

T.  CnOKTON  CkoK  KRg  • • • . 

C1.3 

Sir  Francis  PALORATI,  « 

642 

Tlie  Lsist  of  tho  Irish  Serpents, 

€14 

Mr  Conybkark,  • • « 

. 

643 

MrCkoxvk,  • • « , . . 

€14 

Mr  Ingram,  • • • 

641 

RkV.  C.l-^HAR  OTXX’AV,  ■ • . • 

€14 

Rkv.  Mb  Bosworth,  . • 

• 

f>42 

OkRALD  CiUtt'KIN,  • • • . . 

cu 

Thomas  Wright,  . • 

&12 

Verses— {Seven  dreary  winters  gone  and  past). 

€15 

Mr  Southky,  . . . 

. 

642 

William  Cari.kton^  . • • • 

€15 

John  Dunlop,  . . 

042 

Picture  of  an  Irish  Village  and  School-house, 

61€ 

James  Mill, 

. 

642 

Miss  Mary  Husski.i.  Mitkoro,  • • 

€18 

Charles  Mills, 

642 

CoUNTKSS  OF  lll.KSSINliTON,  . • 

CIH 

Henry  IIallam,  . • 

642 

MrsS.  C.  Hall,  . . • , . 

€19 

Effects  of  the  Feudal  S^'steni, 

642 

Depending  Upon  Others, 

€20 

Patrick  Fraser  Tvtlbr,  • 

643 

Sir  Kuward  Lytton  Bui.xvkr, 

€20 

Colonel  W.  F.  P.  Napier, 

643 

Lines  from  ‘ O'Neill,  or  the  Rebel/ 

€20 

Lieutenant-Colonel  Gurwood, 

643 

•Talent  and  Genius,  • • . . 

€22 

A.  Alison,  • 

643 

<Jahiain  Frkukrick  Marrvat, 

€22 

Lord  Mahon,  . 

643 

A Prudent  Sea  Captain— Abuse  of  Ship  Stores,  • 

623 

Rev.  Charles  Gittzlaff, 

643 

Captain  Glasscock,  • • . • 

623 

James  St  John, 

644 

Mr  Howard,  ..... 

623 

Rev.  II.  II.  Milman, 

644 

Captain  Chamirr,  .... 

623 

IIoN.  Mountstuart  Rlphinstonb, 

644 

Michakl  Scott,  ..... 

623 

James  Emerson,  . . 

644 

Mrs  Gorr,  ..... 

€23 

W.  11.  Prkscot,  . . , 

644 

Character  of  a Prudent  Worldly  Lady,  • 

624 

Dr  E.  Burton, 

644 

Miss  '.a noon,  . • • • . 

€25 

Miss  Kllkn  Pickering,  .... 

625 

B 1 O O K A P n E H & 

John  Poolr,  ..... 

625 

James  Bosxvrll, 

644 

Tho.mas  Inooldsry,  «... 

625 

Lord  Sheffield, 

&44 

DoI'OLAS  .1  KKROLD,  «... 

625 

Dh  .Tames  CiTRRtR, 

645 

W.  M.  Thackeray,  . • • . 

625 

1..0RD  Holland,  . . . 

645 

Miss  IIaraikt  Martinkau,  • • . 

€25 

Robert SouTHKYi  ♦ 

645 

Effects  of  Love  and  Happiness  on  the  Mind,  , 

625 

Dr  Thomas  M’Cris,  . • 

645 

Thoma.s  Millkr,  .... 

626 

Mr  Moure,  • . . 

646 

The  Happy  Valley,  • • , . 

626 

Mr  Campbell,  • . . 

646 

J.  L.  Peacock,  .... 

627 

.James  Prior,  • . . 

646 

Freebooter  Life  in  the  Forest,  from  ‘ Maid  Marian, 

627 

Sir  John  Malcolm,  . . 

646 

XloRACK  Smith,  .... 

627 

T.  n.  Lister,  , . 

646 

Groror  P.  R.  .James,  «... 

62U 

I*ATBICK  I'BASER  TyTLER, 

646 

Rbv.  G.  R.  Glkio,  .... 

62H 

Lord  John  Russell,  • .* 

646 

W.  IT.  Maxwell,  • • . . . 

628 

I>oRu  Nugent,  . • 

646 

C.  Lkvkr,  . , , , 

62H 

Rev.  J.  Smith, 

646 

Samuel  Lovrr,  .... 

628 

John  Gibson  Lockhart,  . 

647 

John  Fknimorr  Cooper, 

629 

Mr  IIaliburton,  .... 

629 

METAPHYSICAL 

WRITERS. 

W.  Harrison  Ainsworth, 

62!» 

Samuel  Warren,  .... 

629 

Professor  Duoald  Stewart, 

• 

647 

648 

Mrs  Bra  v,  . . . . . 

629 

ALRBRT  S.MITH,  ..... 

629 

Desire  of  the  Happiness  of  Others, 

648 

novoi  HAHi.K  C.  A.  Murray, 

629 

Sir  James  Mackintosh,  . 

649 

Charles  Dickens,  .... 

&10 

Ja.mks  Mill,  • • • 

• 

649 

Death  and  Funeral  of  a Pauper,  . , 

6.30 

Mr  Bayi.ey,  . • . 

649 

Sketch  of  an  Oruiinal,  .... 

6.32 

Rkv.  Archibald  Alison,  • 

649 

The  Happy  Mother,  .... 

633 

George  Combe, 

• 

650 

Distinction  between  Power  and  Activity, 

• 

• 

6S0 

HISTORIANS. 

VVlLLlA.M  MiTFORD,  .... 

634 

WKITEBS  IN  DIVINITY. 

Condemnation  and  Death  of  Socrates,  . 

634 

Dr  W|  LLIAM  Paley,  . • 

. 

651 

T)r  John  Gillies,  .... 

636 

Of  Property,  . . 

. 

652 

5haiu)n  Turner,  . ... 

r:i6 

The  World  was  Made  with  a Benevolent  Design, 

653 

VVlLLIAM  CoxB,  ..... 

6.36 

Dr  Richard  Watson, 

, 

654 

Grorgk  Chalmers,  .... 

636 

Dr  Beilby  Portkous,  • 

654 

William  Roscob,  .... 

637 

Dr  Samuel  Horsley, 

6>I 

Malcolm  Laino,  .... 

637 

Gilbert  Wakefield,  • . 

65.1 

John  Pinkerton,  ..... 

6.38 

Mr  WlLBERFOBCB,  . . 

65.1 

Charles  Jamks  Fox,  .... 

638 

On  the  Effects  of  Religion,  . 

655 

Sir  James  Mackintosh,  .... 

638 

Mrs  Hannah  More,  • 

65.4 

Chivalry  and  Modern  Manners,  • . 

639 

Dr  Sa.muel  Parr,  . • . 

, 

655 

Extract  from  Speech  in  Defence  of  Mr  Peltier,  for  a Libel 

Dr  Edward  Maltby,  • 

6.55 

on  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  February  18U3,  , 

640 

Rev.  Sidney  Smith,  , . 

, 

656 

Dr  John  Li NGARD,  .... 

640 

Difficulty  of  Governing  a Nation, 

656 

An  Account  of  Cromwell's  Expulsion  of  the  Parliament 

Means  of  Acquiring  Distinction,  • 

. 

6.46 

in  I'JM,  ...... 

&(i 

The  l.ove  of  our  Country,  • 

• 

. 

&56 

OSOKGB  BRoDIB,  .... 

642 

Dr  Herbert  Marsh,  • 

• 

* 

656 

xiii 

CYCLOP-^]DIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


PaffO 

Dri  Kuu'ard  liouvcRtK  Pussy,  . . . (>5<> 

Mti  Gi.AnsTOMC,  .....  G57 

Mh  CliRI»TMAS,  . . ... 

Ujcv.  UoBKitT  Hall,  ....  0.07 

On  Wisdom,  • . • • • C57 

Fro!u  the  Funeral  Sermon  for  the  Princess  Charlotte  of 
Walcn,  C.'Ifl 

Ukv.  John  Fostkr,  . • • • . 658 

On  a Cliangeable  Character,  from  ‘Essay  on  a Man’s 
Writiii((  Memoirs  of  Himself,*  • . 658 

Dr  Adam  Clarkk,  .....  660 

P Kv.  Archibald  Al!80M,  . . . 660 

From  the  Sermon  on  Autumn,  . . 660 

Dr  A VDRKW  Thomson,  ....  661 

Dr  Thomas  Chalmers,  ....  661 

Inofficaoy  of  mere  Moral  Preaching,  • . 662 

Picture  of  the  Chase — Cruelty  to  Animals,  . • 668 

Insignificance  of  this  Earth,  . • • 664 


TRAVELLERS. 

James  Britcb,  • • • . . 

Henry  Salt,  ... 

Nathanif»  Pearce,  .... 
Mungo  Park,  .... 

African  Hospitality,  .... 
Influence  of  a Small  Moss  m Fructification 
Desert,  ..... 
Captain  Tuckky,  . . • 

Mr  Ritchie,  • . 

Lieutenant  Lyon,  . 

Major  Denham,  .... 
Captain  Clapperton,  . 

Anecdote  Respecting  the  Sultan  Bello,  • 

Dn  Oudney,  .... 

R icHARD  Lander,  .... 
MrBovvdich,  .... 

Mr  Campbell,  • • 

Mr  Burchrll,  .... 

John  Ludwig  Burckhardt; 

John  Baptist  Belzoni,  • 

The  Ruins  at  Thebes,  . . 

Opening  a Tomb  at  Thebes, 

J.  G.  Wilkinson,  .... 
Edward  W.  Lane, 

Rev.  Dr  Edward  Daniel  Clarke, 

De'.cription  of  the  Pyramids,  . 

Sir  John  Cam  Hubhouse, 

Dr  Holland,  .... 
Edward  Dodwfll,  . 

Sir  William  Cell,  • • 

H.  W.  Williams,  .... 

Description  of  Pompeii,  . 

Edward  Gikfard, 

Dr  Christopher  Wordsworth, 

William  Mure,  .... 

Joseph  Forsyth, 

The  Coliseum,  .... 

John  Chetwode  Eustace,  • 

W.  Stewart  Rose,  • 

Hon.  R.  Kehpel  Craven, 

Henry  Mathews,  .... 
Funeral  Ceremony  at  Rome,  . . 

Statue  of  the  Medicean  Venus  at  Florence, 
MissWaldie, 

Lady  Morgan,  .... 

John  Bell,  • ... 

Dr  Burton,  .... 

W.  Brockkdon, 

Mr  Beckford,  .... 

A Morning  in  Venice,  . . • 

Captain  John  Ross,  « 

Sir  Edward  Parry,  . • 

Description  of  the  Esquimaux,  . 


CG.'i 
666 
666 
6f)6 
666 

m the 

666,  067 
6f)7 
6()7 
667 
(Ki7 
Gf)7 
667 

667 

668 
668 
668 
668 
668 
668 
669 

669 

670 

670 
670 
67l> 

671 
671 
671 
671 
671 
674 
671 
671 
671 

671 

672 

672 
672 
672 
672 
672 

673 
672 
672 
672 
672 

672 
672 

673 

674 

674 

675 


Captain  John  Franklin,  ....  67o’ 

Captain  Lyon,  .....  676 

Captain  Beech  by,  .....  676 

Thomas  Simpson,  .....  676 

William  Scoresry,  • . , , . 676 

William  Rae  Wilson,  ....  677 

Claudius  James  Rich,  ....  677 

Hon.  George  Kkppbl,  ....  677 

J.  8.  Buckingham,  .....  677 

Dr  It.  K.  Madden,  ....  677 

•John  Carne,  . .....  677 

Dr  Robert  Richardson,  . , . 677 

Mr  Waddington,  .....  677 

Mr  Hanbury,  .....  677 

Sir  John  Malcolm,  .....  677 

Mr  Morier,  .....  67^ 

Sir  William  OusELY,  .....  677 

Sir  Robert  Ker  Porter,  . . . 677 

View  of  Society  in  Bagdad,  ....  677 

Rev.  Horatio  Southgate,  . , . 678 

Religiou.s  Status  of  Women  in  the  Mohammedan  System,  678 
Thoma.s  Campbell,  ....  678 

Mrs  Broughton,  .....  673 

Sir  James  Alexander,  ....  678 

Charles  Fellows,  ....  678 

Lieutenant  J.  R.  Well.sted,  678 

Lord  Lindsay,  .....  678 

Scene  of  the  Encampment  of  the  Israelites  after  Crossing 
the  Red  Sea,  .....  678 

J.  L.  Stephens,  .....  679 

Sir  John  Malcolm,  .....  679 

W.  Moorcroft,  .....  079 

George  Trebeck,  .....  679 

Ja.mes  Bailie  Fraser,  ....  679 

Sketch  of  a Persian  Town,  . . • . 679 

Lieutenant-Colonel  Ja.mks  Tod,  . . 679 

Sir  Alexander  Burnes,  ....  679 

Lieutenant  Arthur  CoNOLLV,  • . . 679 

Miss  Emma  Roberts,  . • • . . 679 

Mrs  Postans,  . • » . . 679 

Sacrifice  of  a Hindoo  Widow,  • . . 679 

Lieutenant  Tho.mas  Bacon,  . . . 680 

Hon.  Mountstuart  Elphinstonb,  . . 680 

Charles  Masson,  . • • . . 600 

C.  U.  Baynes,  ......  680 

Remark  by  an  Arab  Chief,  . . . 680 

Legend  of  the  Mosque  of  the  Bloody  Baptism  at  Cairo,  680 
C.  Nash,  .......  680 

II.  G.  Fane,  ......  680 

R.  II.  Kennedy,  .....  680 

W.  Taylor,  .....  680 

Colonel  Dennie,  .....  680 

Captain  T.  Postans,  ....  680 

Lieutenant  Vincent  Eyrb,  ....  680 

Lady  Sale,  . . . . . 680 

Sir  George  Staunton,  . , . 680 

Sir  John  Barrow,  . . . CBi* 

Henry  Ellis,  ......  680 

Scene  at  Pekin,  .....  681 

Dr  Abel,  ......  680 

John  Francis  Davis,  ....  (581 

Mr  Gutzlaff,  ......  681 

Lord  Jocelyn,  .....  682 

Commander  J.  Elliot  Bingham,  . . 682 

Chinese  Ladies*  Feet,  ....  682 

Dr  D.  Macphebson,  .....  682 

Lieutenant  Alexander  Murray,  . . 6S2 

Captain  G.  G.  Loch,  .....  682 

Mr  Maclbod,  .....  6H3 

Captain  Basil  Hall,  .....  683 

Henry  David  Inglis,  ....  683 

Sir  Francis  Head,  • • • , . 683 

Debcription  of  the  Pampas,  • • 683 

xiv 


CONTEND  S OF  SEc;ONl)  VOLUME. 


riipe 

M.  Si.MONn,  ......  (Jy4 

Kw  iso  Mountain  and  Avalanche,  . • 684 

M.^iujris  OK  LondondkkkYj  ....  684 

John  Hakkou’,  . • • • • 684 

Kkv.  Mh  Vknablks,  • • • • • 684 

Uussian  Peasants'  Houses,  . • • 685 

Kmployments  of  the  People,  • • • • 685 

UoitKRT  Brkmnkr,  • . • • 685 

Samuki.  Laino,  .....  685 

Extract  from  * Residence  in  Norway,*  . • 685 

Extract  from  ‘ Tour  in  Sweden,*  , . . 686 

Mr  Si’KNCER,  • • • • • 68(5 

J,  S Bkli.,  ......  686 

Joseph  and  John  Bullar,  . . . 686 

The  Culthation  of  the  Orange,  and  Gathering  the  Fruit,  CHfi 
Rrnkst  Dibffknbach,  ....  687 

Macvamb  Calderon  dr  la  Bauca,  . . . 687 

J.  P.  and  W,  P.  Robertson,  . , . 687 

Captain  Kino,  « . ...  687 

Captain  Fitzroy,  • . . 6H7 

C.  Darwin,  ......  687 

Gp.oroe  Combe,  .....  687 

Romantic  Story,  from  ‘ Notes  on  the  United  States,*  687 
J.  S.  Buckingham,  .....  688 

Gror(;e  Borrow,  .....  688 

Major  W.  Cornwallis  Harris,  • • . 688 


Mr  Duncan, 
Charles  Mackay,  • 
Robert  Mudiic,  • 
Sir  Henry  Ellis,  • 
William  Honk,  . 
Jehkmy  Bentham, . 
Isaac  Taylor,  • 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 

Isaac  DTsraelt,  . • • 

Sir  Eoerton  Brydoss, 

Joseph  Ritson,  • 

Fhancis  Douce,  , • 

Rev.  T.  D.  Fosbrooke,  . • 

Thomas  Pennant,  . • 

Rev.  Gilbert  White, 

Evening  Six>rts  of  the  Rooks,  . 

Rev.  William  Gilpin, 

Sunrise  and  Sunset  in  the  Woods, 

Sir  Uvkdale  Price,  , 

William  Corbett, 

Early  Scenes  and  Recollections,  , 

On  Field  Sj>orts,  . . 

Robert  Southey,  . 

Thomas  DE  Quinckv, 

Dreams  of  the  Opium  Eater,  . 

William  Hazmtt. 

The  Character  of  Falstaff, 

The  Character  of  Hamlet,  • 

Thomas  Carlyle,  . 

The  Succession  of  Races  of  Men, 

Attack  upon  the  Bastille,  . 

Rev.  Sidney  Smith,  .... 

Account  of  his  Connexion  with  the  Edinburgh  Review 

Lord  Jeffrey,  ..... 

The  Universality  of  the  Genius  of  Shakspeare,  . 
Genius  not  a Source  of  Unhappiness  to  its  Possessor 
Thomas  Barington  Macaulay, 

Mr  and  Mrs  Howitt,  .... 

John  Claudius  Loudon, 

Charles  Watkrton,  .... 

Edward  Jesse,  . • • • 

Mr  Rhind,  ,.•••• 

Mr  MM)iahmid,  • • • • 

Mu  Kili-ep.,  •••••• 


GP8 

688 

688 

688 

688 

688 

683 

689 

689 

689 

689 

C90 

691 

691 

691 

692 
69-2 
e.93 

693 

693 

694 

694 

695 
695 

Ac.  696 

()‘»6 

697 

698 

698 
6.98 

699 
699 

699 

700 
TOO 
TOO 


POLITICAL  ECONOMISTa 

Rev.  T.  R.  Malthus,  .... 

David  Ricardo,  .... 

James  Mill,  . . • • • 

Archbishop  Whately,  . . • 

Mrs  Marckt,  . . • • • 

Rev.  Dr  Chalmers,  • • . • 

James  R.  M'Culloch,  . . • • 

Mr  Godwin,  . . • • • 

Michael  Thomas  Sadler,  . • • 

Rev.  Richard  Jones,  .... 
Nassau  William  Senior,  • • 

REVIEWS  AND  MAGAZINES. 

Edinburgh  Review,  .... 
Quarterly  Review,  .... 

Blackwood’s  Edinburgh  Magazine,  Ac. 

POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 

Constable's  Miscellany,  , • , 

Family  Library,  ..... 
Sacred  Classics,  .... 
Edinburgh  Cabinet  Library,  Ac. 

Cha.mbkrs’s  Edi.nburgh  Journal,  . • 

The  Penny  Magazine,  Ac.  . • . 

Encyclopaedias,  .... 

WRITERS  ON  SCIENCR 

Sir  John  Herschbl,  • . . . 

Sir  David  Brewster, 

Charles  Babbage, 

Dr  Buckland,  • 

Mr  Murchison, 

Charles  Lycll,  • 

Sir  Henry  Deladechb, 

Dr  Mantell, 

Rev.  Willia.m  Whbwbll, 

Dr  John  Macculloch, 

Dr  Pritchard,  • 

Professor  Nichol, 

Dr  Neil  Arnott,  • 

Dr  Bostock,  • 

Mr  Lawrence,  . 

Mr  .Mayo,  • 

Dr  lil.L-OTSON,  . 

Dr  Fi.ktch  er, 

Dr  IlOGKT,  . . 

1)R  Carpenter, 

Dr  Comrr,  . . 

Dr  Milj. ingen. 

Sir  James  Clark,  • 

Sir  Henry  Halford, 

Dr  Southw'ood  6b£1T3» 

Dr  Copeland, 


Page 

700 

700 

700 

700 

Too 

701 


701 

701 

701 

701 

701 

701 

701 

70] 

701 

701 

701 


702 

702 

702 


. 702 

71  >2 
. 702 

702 
. 70.1 

703 
703,  704 


703 

703 

705 

703 

703 

703 

703 

7i»3 

703 

703 

703 

703 

7<J3 

703 

703 

703 

7tf3 

703 

703 

7<*3 

70.3 

703 

703 

703 

703 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Pago 


niiiminttion  — Thomson  Reading  in 
the  Country,  . . • • 

Autograph  of  Richard  Savage, 
Portrait  of  Dr  Watts,  . • 

View  of  Abney  Mouse,  • • 

Portrait  of  I'hhvard  Young,  • 
Portrait  of  James  Thomson,  • 
View  of  Thoni!>on’s  (’ottage,  • • 

Portrait  of  Dr  Samuel  Johnson,  . 
Street-Scene  in  hichfiehl,  including 
the  llirtliplace  of  Dr  Jolmson, 
View  of  Dr  Jt»hn&oii*«  Room  in  Pem- 
broke College,  .... 
Monument  of  Collins,  in  Chichester 

Cathedral 

View  of  the  Leasowes,  Shenstone's 

Mouse, 

View  of  the  Cottage  of  Shenstone’s 
Schoolmistress,  Shropshire,  . 
View  of  the  IJirthplace  of  Akenside, 
View  of  Maglcy,  the  seat  of  Lord 

Lyttelton, 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Gray,  • 
Autograph  of  Gray,  • . 

View  of  Gray’s  Window,  St  Peter’s 
College,  Cambridge, 

View  of  Stoke  Pogeis  Church,  and 
Tomb  of  Gray,  . . . . 

View  of  the  Ruins  of  the  Mouse  at 
Lissoy,  where  Goldsmith  spent  his 

youth,  

View  of  the  Birthplace  of  Smollett, 
View  of  the  Deanery,  Carlisle, 
Portrait  of  James  Maepherson,  . 
Portrait  of  Thomas  Chatterton,  . 
Monument  of  Bruce,  in  Portmoak 
Churchyard,  .... 
Portrait  of  Dr  James  Beattie,  . 

View  of  Dod;ley’s  Mouse  and  Shop  in 

Pall  Mall 

Portrait  of  Sir  William  Jones,  • 
View  of  Scott’s  Grotto,  Amwcll, 
View  of  Balcarres  Mouse,  Fifeshire, 
where  *Auld  Robin  Gray*  .vas 
composed,  .... 
View  of  Fergusson’s  Tomb,  . . 

Portrait  of  George  Colman,  . 
Portrait  of  David  Garrick, 

View  of  Garrick’s  Villa,  near 
Hampton,  .... 
Portrait  of  Samuel  Foote,  • 
Monument  of  Mawkesworth,  Brom- 
ley,   

View  of  Richardson’s  House,  Par- 
son’s Green,  .... 
Portrait  of  Henry  Fielding,  • 
Portrait  of  T»)bias  George  Smollett, 
View  of  Smollett’s  Mouse,  Chelsea, 


Page 

Autograpli  of  Horace  ^Val|)ole,  . 176 
View  of  Strawberry  Mill,  near 
Twickenham,  the  Ucsidenco  of 
Horace  Walpnle,  ...  170 

Portrait  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  • 177 
Portrait  of  David  Hume,  . . 182 

Portrait  of  Dr  William  Robertson,  180 
Portrait  of  Fdward  Gibbon,  . • 193 

View  of  Gibbon’s  Residence  at  Lau- 
sanne,   194 

Portrait  of  Or  Adam  Smith,  . . 207 

View  of  llie  Ihmse  of  Lord  Karnes, 
Canongate,  Kdinburgli,  . , 208 

Portrait  of  Hisljop  Warburton,  • 214 
Portrait  of  ICdmund  Burke,  • 227 

View  of  Beaconsfield,  . , . 228 

P(»rtrait  i)f  Dr  Benjamin  Franklin,  243 
Illumination— Scott  Meditating  near 
a Ruined  Castle,  . , . 2.*>6 

Portrait  of  William  Cowper,  . . 2."»7 

View  of  Olney  Church,  • . 257 

Monument  of  C«jwper,  , , , 258 

View  of  Austin’s  Farm,  the  early 
residence  of  Bloomfield,  . 284 

View  of  the  Birthplace  of  ILK.  White,  3ol 
Portrait  of  George  Crabbe,  . 309 

Autograpli  of  Crabbe,  . . . 309 

View  of  the  Birthplace  of  Crabbe,  309 
Autograph  of  Samuel  Rogers,  , 316 
View  of  the  Mouse  of  Mr  Rogers,  St 
James’s  Place,  . . . 316  | 

Portrait  of  William  Wordsworth,  322  | 

Autograph  of  Wordsworth,  . . 322 

View  of  Rydal  Lake  and  Words- 
worth’s Mouse,  ....  32.3 
View  of  Tintern  Abbey,  . . .327 

Portrait  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  33.3 
View  of  Mr  Gillman’s  Mouse,  High- 
gate,  the  last  residence  of  Cole- 
ridge,   33.5 

View  of  Bremhill  Rectory,  Wiltshire,  345 
Portrait  of  Robert  Southey,  • 347 

Autograph  of  Southey,  • • • 347 

View  of  Southey’s  Mouse,  • . 349 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Moore,  • • 3(»3 

Autograph  of  Moore,  . , . 363 

View  of  Moore’s  Cottage,  near  De- 
vizes  366 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Campbell,  • 3t59 

Autograph  of  Campbell,  , . 36.9 

View  of  Alison  Square,  Edinburgh,  370 
Portrait  of  Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  374 
View  of  Abbotsford,  • . , .*180 

Portrait  of  Byron,  . • • 386 

Autograph  of  Byron,  • . . 386 

View  of  Newstead  Abbey,  . • 387 

Tomb  of  Lord  Byron,  . • 389 

View  of  Shelley’s  House,  . • 396 


Pa«e 

Portrait  of  John  Keats,  . , 403 

View  of  Heber’s  Parish  Church,  . 408 
View  of  Mid  Miiirhouse,  llio  Resi- 
dence of  Pollok  in  Boyhood,  . 413 
Portrait  of  Leigh  Hunt,  . • 427 

Portrait  of  Janies  Smith,  . . 439 

Bust  of  Professor  Wilson,  • • 4.14 

Portrait  of  Mrs  Ilemans,  • , 4.9/ 

A iitograph  <»f  Mrs  Memans,  . 43’/ 

V'iew  of  Rhyllon,  the  residence  of 
Mrs  Ilemans  in  Wales,  • • *3"/ 

Portrait  of  Miss  Lundon,  . . 449 

Autograph  of  Miss  Landon,  . . 44.9 

View  of  the  Birthplace  of  Miss  Lan- 
don,   449 

Autograpli  of  Joanna  Baillie,  • 451 
View  of  Miss  Baillie’s  House,  Hamp- 
stead,   451 

Portrait  of  Ebenezer  Elliott,  . , 457 

Portrait  of  Robert  Burns,  . 480 

View  of  Burns's  House,  Dumfries,  481 

Portrait  of  Robert  Tannahill,  . 490 

Portrait  of  Allan  Cunningham,  . 499 

Autograph  of  Cunningham,  , 499 

Autograph  of  Maturin,  . . . 6.‘6 

Portrait  of  James  Sheridan  Knowles,  51d 
Autograph  of  Knowles,  . . 518 

Portrait  of  George  Colman,  the 

Younger, 524 

Portrait  of  Frances  Burney,  , 535 

Portrait  of  .Mrs  Inchbald,  , 5.53 

Portrait  of  William  Godwin,  . 5(i0 

Autograph  of  Godwin,  . . . 560 

View  of  Miss  Edgeworth's  House,  571 

Portrait  of  Hannah  More,  . , 578 

Autograph  of  Hannah  More,  . • 578 

Autograph  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  . 586 

Portrait  of  Washington  Irving,  . 594 

View  of  Washington  Irving’s  Cot- 
tage,   595 

Portrait  of  James  Morier,  • • 604 

Autograph  of  Morier,  . • 604 

Portrait  of  Theodore  Hook,  . , 607 

Autograph  of  Mof>k,  . • . C(t7 

Portrait  of  Mrs  Trollope,  • . 611 

Portrait  of  Mrs  S.  C.  Mall,  . 61.9 

Autograpli  of  .Mrs  Hall,  . . 619 

View  of  Mrs  Mall’s  residence, 
Brompton,  ....  619 

Portrait  of  Mr  G.  P.  R.  James,  . 628 
Portrait  of  John  Fenimore  Cooper,  629 

Portrait  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  6.38 

Portrait  of  James  Boswell,  . 644 

Tomb  of  Bishop  Porteous,  • • 654 

Portrait  of  Dr  Thomas  Clialmcrs,  C6I 

View  of  Staircase  at  Kiiinaird  Mouse, 
the  scene  of  Bruce’s  fatal  accident,  C65 
Portrait  of  Lord  Brougham,  • 70S 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


FROM  1727  TO  1780. 


poBxa 

HE  fifty-three 
years  between 
1727  and  1780, 
comprehend- 
ing the  reign 
of  George  II., 
and  a portion 
of  that  of 
George  III., 
produced  more 
men  of  letters, 
as  well  as  more 
men  of  science,  than  any 
epoch  of  similar  extent  in 
the  literary  history  of  Eng- 
land. It  was  also  a time 
during  which  greater  pro- 
gress was  made  in  diffusing 
literature  among  the  people 
at  large,  than  had  been  made, 
— perhaps,  throughout  all  the 
ages  that  went  before  it.  Yet  while  letters,  and 
the  cultivators  of  letters,  were  thus  abundant,  it 
niust  be  allowed  that,  if  we  keep  out  of  view  the 
rise  of  the  species  of  fiction  called  the  novel  (includ- 
ing the  delineation  of  character,  and  not  merely  in- 
cidents), the  age  was  not  by  any  means  marked  by 
such  striking  features  of  originality  or  vigour  as 
some  of  the  preceding  eras. 

For  about  a third  of  this  period  Pope  lived,  and  his 
name  continued  to  be  the  greatest  in  English  poetry. 
The  most  distinguished  of  his  contemporaries,  how- 
ever, adopted  styles  of  their  own,  or  at  least  deptarted 
widely  from  that  of  their  illustrious  master.  Thom- 
son (who  survived  Pope  only  four  years)  made  no 
attempt  to  enter  the  school  of  polished  satire  and 
pungent  wit.  His  enthusiastic  descriptions  of  nature, 
and  his  warm  poetical  feeling,  seemed  to  revive  the 
spirit  of  the  elder  muse,  and  to  assert  the  dignity  of 
genuine  inspiration.  Young  in  his  best  performances 
— his  startling  denunciations  of  death  and  judgment, 
his  solemn  appeals,  his  piety,  and  his  epigram — was 
equally  an  originaL  Gray  and  Collins  aimed  at  the 
dazzling  imagery  and  magnificence  of  lyrical  poetry 
— the  direct  antipodes  of  Pope.  Akenside  descanted 
on  the  operations  of  the  mind,  and  the  associated 
charms  of  taste  and  genius,  in  a strain  of  melodious 
and  original  blank  verse.  Goldsmith  blended  mora- 
43 


lity  and  philosophy  with  a beautiful  simplicity  of 
expression  and  numbers,  pathetic  imagery,  and 
natural  description.  Beattie  portrayed  the  roman- 
tic hopes  and  aspirations  of  youthful  genius  in  a 
style  formed  from  imitation  of  Spenser  and  Thom- 
son. And  the  best  of  the  secondary  poets,  as  Shen- 
stone.  Dyer,  and  Mason,  had  each  a distinct  and  in- 
dependent poetical  character.  Johnson  alone,  of  all 
the  eminent  authors  of  this  period,  seems  to  have 
directly  copied  the  style  of  Pope  and  Dryden.  The 
publication  of  Percy’s  Reliques,  and  Warton’s  History 
of  Poetry,  may  be  here  adverted  to,  as  directing  public 
attention  to  the  early  writers,  and  to  the  powerful 
effects  which  could  be  produced  by  simple  narrative 
and  natural  emotion  in  verse.  It  is  true  that  few 
or  none  of  the  poets  we  have  named  had  much  im- 
mediate influence  on  literature  : Gray  was  ridiculed, 
and  Collins  was  neglected,  because  both  public  taste 
and  criticism  had  been  vitiated  and  reduced  to  a 
low  ebb.  The  spirit  of  true  poetry,  however,  was 
not  broken  ■,  the  seed  was  sown,  and  in  the  next 
generation,  Cowper  completed  what  Thomson  had 
begun.  The  conventional  style  was  destined  to  fall, 
leaving  only  that  taste  for  correct  language  and  ver- 
siflcation  which  was  established  by  the  example  of 
Pope,  and  found  to  be  quite  corupatible  with  the 
utmost  fx'cjedom  and  originality  if  conception  and 
expression. 

In  describing  the  poets  of  this  period,  it  will  not 
be  necessiiry  to  include  all  the  names  that  have 
descended  to  us  dignified  with  this  title.  But  we 
shall  omit  none  whose  literary  history  is  important, 
singular,  or  instructive. 

RICHARD  SAVAGE. 

Richard  Savage  is  better  known  for  his  misfor 
tunes,  as  related  by  Johnson,  than  for  any  peculiar 


7l'  A 


* 


novelty  or  merit  in  his  poetry.  The  latter  rarely 
rises  above  the  level  of  tame  mediocrity ; the  former 
were  a romance  of  real  life,  stranger  than  fiction. 
Savage  was  born  in  London  in  1698,  the  issue  of  an 
adulterous  connexion  between  the  Countess  of  Mac- 

1 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOI’^:i)IA  OK 


TO  17 bO 


but  Rtoiipiiij'  at  Hristol,  was  tnaitcil  with  Rreat  kind- 


clesfielil and  Lord  llivers.  The  lady  ojK'nly  avowed 
her  i)roflif'aey,  in  order  tc  obtain  a divorce  from  her 
husband,  with  whom  she  lived  on  unhapi)y  terms, 
and  the  illegitimate  child  was  born  after  tbeir  8ei>a- 
ration.  He  was  jilaced  under  the  charge  of  a ])oor 
woman,  and  brought  up  as  her  son.  The  boy,  how- 
ever, obtained  a superior  education  through  the  care 
and  generosity  of  bis  maternal  grandmother.  Lady 
Mason,  who  placed  him  at  a gram  mar-school  in  St 
Albans.  Whilst  he  was  there  I>ord  Uivers  died, 
and  in  his  last  illness,  it  is  said  the  countess  had  the 
inhumanity  and  falsehood  to  state  that  Savage  was 
dead,  by  whieb  be  was  deprived  of  a i>rovision  in- 
tended for  him  by  bis  father.  Such  unnatural  and 
unprincipled  conduct  almost  exceeds  belief.  The  boy 
was  now  withdrawn  from  school,  and  placed  apiiren- 
tice  to  a shoemaker  ; but  an  accident  soon  revealed 
his  birth  and  the  cause  of  its  concealment.  His 
nurse  and  supposeil  mother  died,  and  among-  her 
effects  Savage  found  .some  letters  whiidi  disc  losed 
the  eireumstanees  of  his  paternity.  The  discovery 
must  have  seemed  like  the  oiiening  of  a new  world 
to  his  hopes  and  ambition.  He  was  already  distin- 
guished for  quickness  and  proficiency,  and  for  a 
sanguine  enthusiastic  temperament.  A bright  pro- 
8]>ect  had  dawned  on  him  ; be  was  allied  to  rank 
and  opulence ; and  though  his  birth  was  accompanied 
by  humiliating  circumstances,  it  was  not  probable 
that  he  felt  these  deeiily,  in  the  immediate  view  of 
emancipation  from  the  low  station  and  ignoble  em- 
ployment to  which  he  had  been  harshly  condemned. 
We  know  also  that  Savage  was  agitated  by  those 
tenderer  feelings  which  link  the  child  to  the  p.arent, 
and  which  must  have  burst  upon  him  wdth  peculiar 
force  after  so  unexpected  and  wonderful  a discovery. 
The  mother  of  the  youth,  however,  was  an  exception 
to  ordinary  humanity — an  anomaly  in  the  history  of 
the  female  heart.  She  had  determined  to  disown 
him,  and  repulsed  every  effort  at  acknowledgment 
and  recognition — 

Alone  from  strangers  every  comfort  flowed. 

His  remarkable  history  became  known,  and  friends 
sprang  up  to  shield  the  hapless  youth  from  poverty. 
Unfortunately,  the  vices  and  frailties  of  his  own 
character  began  soon  to  be  displayed.  Savage  w'as 
not  destitute  of  a love  of  virtue  and  principles  of 
piety,  but  his  habits  were  low  and  sensual.  His 
temper  was  irritable  and  capricious ; and  whatever 
money  he  received,  was  instantly  spent  in  the  obscure 
haunts  of  dissipation.  In  a tavern  brawd  he  had  the 
misfortune  to  kill  a Mr  James  Sinclair,  for  which 
he  was  tried  and  condemned  to  death.  Ilis  relent- 
less mother,  it  is  said,  endeavoured  to  intercept  the 
royal  mercy  ; but  Savage  was  pardoned  by  Queen 
Caroline,  and  set  at  liberty.  He  published  various 
poetical  pieces  as  a means  of  support ; and  having 
addressed  a birth-day  ode  to  the  queen,  calling  him- 
self the  ‘ Volunteer  Laureate’  ^to  the  annoyance,  it  is 
said,  of  Colley  Cibber,  the  legitimate  inheritor  of  the 
laurel),  her  majesty  sent  him  £50,  and  continued 
the  same  sum  to  him  every  year.  His  threats  and 
menaces  induced  Lord  Tyrconnel,  a friend  of  his 
mother,  to  take  him  into  his  family,  where  he  lived 
on  equal  terms,  and  was  allowed  a sum  of  £200  per 
annum.  This,  as  Johnson  remarks,  was  the  ‘golden 
period’  of  Savage’s  life.  As  might  have  been  fore- 
seen, however,  the  habits  of  the  poet  differed  very 
widely  from  those  of  the  peer ; they  soon  quarrelled, 
and  the  former  was  again  set  adrift  on  the  world. 
The  death  of  the  queen  also  stopped  his  pension  ; but 
his  friends  made  up  an  annuity  fo  him  of  equal 
amount,  to  which  Pope  generously  contributed  £20. 
Savage  agreed  to  withdraw  to  the  country  to  avoid 
the  temptations  of  London.  He  selected  Swansea, 


ness  by  the  oimlent  merchants  and  other  inhiibitants, 
whom  he  afterwards  libelled  in  a sarcastic  poem. 

In  Swansea  he  resided  about  a year;  but  on  revisit- 
ing Hristol,  he  was  arrested  for  :i  snnill  debt,  and 
being  unable  to  find  bail,  was  thrown  into  ))ri,son. 
His  folly,  extravagance,  and  pride,  though  it  was 
‘ pride  that  licks  the  dust,’  had  left  him  almost  with-  I 
out  a frienil.  He  made  no  vigorous  effort  to  extri-  ! 
cate  or  maintain  him.self.  Pope  continued  his 
allowance ; but  being  provoked  by  some  jiart  of  his 
conduct,  he  wrote  to  him,  stating  that  he  was  ‘ de- 
termined to  keep  out  of  his  suspicion  by  not  being 
officious  any  longer,  or  obtruding  into  any  of  bis 
concern.s.’  Savage  felt  the  force  of  this  rebuke  from 
the  steadiest  and  most  illustrious  of  his  friends.  He 
w'as  soon  afterwards  taken  ill,  and  his  condition  not 
enabling  him  to  iirocnre  medical  assistance,  he  was 
found  dead  in  his  bed  on  the  morning  of  the  1st  of 
August  174.1.  The  keeper  of  the  prison,  who  had 
treated  him  with  great  kindness,  buried  the  unfor- 
tunate poet  at  his  own  expense. 

Savage  wots  the  author  of  two  jilays,  and  a volume 
of  miscellaneous  poems.  Of  the  latter,  the  [irincipal 
piece  is  The  Wamlercr,  written  with  greater  care 
than  most  of  his  other  iirodiictions,  as  it  was  the 
offspring  of  that  hajqiy  jieriod  of  his  life  when  he 
lived  with  Lord  Tyrconnel.  Amid.st  much  jiuerile 
and  tawdry  description,  ‘The  Wanderer’ contains 
some  impressive  passages.  The  versification  is  ea.sy  ! 
and  correct.  The  Bastard  is,  however,  a superior  [ 
poem,  and  bears  the  impress  of  true  and  energetic  j 
feeling.  One  couplet  is  worthy  of  Pope.  Of  the  | 
bastard  he  says,  | 

He  lives  to  build,  not  boast  a generous  race : [ 

No  tenth  transmitter  of  a foolish  face. 

The  concluding  passage,  in  which  he  mourns  ovei 
the  fatal  act  by  which  he  deprived  a fellow  mortal 
of  life,  and  over  his  own  distressing  condition,  pos- 
sesses a genuine  and  manly  pathos : — 

Is  chance  a guilt,  that  my  disastrous  heart. 

For  mischief  never  meant,  must  ever  smart? 

Can  self-defence  be  sin  ? Ah,  plead  no  more! 

What  though  no  purpo.sed  malice  stained  thee  o’er! 

Had  heaven  befriended  thy  unhappy  side. 

Thou  had.st  not  been  provoked — or  thou  had.st  died.  I 

Far  be  the  guilt  of  homeshed  blood  from  ali 
On  whom,  unsought,  embroiling  dangers  fall ! 

Still  the  pale  dead  revives,  and  lives  to  me. 

To  me!  through  Pity’s  eye  condemned  to  see. 
Remembrance  veils  his  rage,  but  swells  his  fate ; 

Grieved  I forgive,  and  am  grown  cool  too  late. 

Young  and  unthoughtful  then  ; who  knows,  one  day. 
What  ripening  virtues  might  have  made  their  way ! 

He  might  have  lived  till  folly  died  in  shame. 

Till  kindling  wisdom  felt  a thirst  for  fame.  j 

He  might  perhaps  his  country’s  friend  have  proved  ; 

Both  happy,  generous,  candid,  and  beloved  ; 

He  might  have  saved  some  worth,  now  doomed  to  fall 
And  1,  perchance,  in  him,  have  murdered  all. 

O fate  of  late  repentance  ! always  vain  : 

Thy  remedies  but  lull  undying  pain. 

Where  shall  my  hope  find  rest  ? No  mother’s  care 
Shielded  my  infant  innocence  with  prayer : 

No  father’s  guardian  hand  my  youth  maintained, 

Called  forth  my  virtues,  or  from  vice  restrained ; 

Is  it  not  thine  to  snatch  some  powerful  arm. 

First  to  advance,  then  screen  from  future  harm  ? 

Am  I returned  from  death  to  live  in  pain ! 

Or  would  imperial  pity  save  in  rain  ? 

Distrust  it  not.  What  blame  can  mercy  find. 

Which  gives  at  once  a life,  and  rears  a mind  f 

Mother,  miscalled,  farewell — of  soul  severe, 

This  sad  reflection  yet  may  force  one  tear : 

2 


fOKTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  BLAia. 


^ I All  I was  ^TTCtchcd  by  to  you  I owed  ; 

' I Alone  from  str.angers  every  comfort  flowed  ! 

I Lost  to  the  life  you  gave,  your  son  no  more. 

And  now  adopted,  who  was  doomed  before, 

i New  born,  I may  n nobler  mother  claim. 

Hut  dare  not  whisper  her  immortal  name ; 

' Supremely  lovely,  and  serenely  great. 

Majestic  mother  of  a kneeling  state  ; 

Queen  of  a people’s  heart,  who  ne’er  before 
Agreed — yet  now  with  one  consent  adore ! 

One  contest  yet  remains  in  this  desire. 

Who  most  shall  give  applause  where  all  admire. 

[EroOT  The  Wandercr.'\ 

I Yon  mansion,  made  by  beaming  tapers  gay, 
i Dromis  the  dim  night,  and  counterfeits  the  day ; 

I From  lumined  windows  glancing  on  the  eye, 
i 1 Around,  athwart,  the  frisking  shadows  fly. 

■ There  midnight  riot  spreads  illusive  joys, 

I I And  fortune,  health,  and  dearer  time  destroys. 

] j Soon  death’s  dark  agent  to  luxuriant  ease 

! I Shall  wake  sharp  warnings  in  some  fierce  disease. 

1 1 0 man  ! thy  fabric ’s  like  a well-formed  state ; 
j j Thy  thoughts,  first  ranked,  were  sure  designed  the 
1 1 great ; 

I Passions  plebeians  are,  which  faction  raise  ; 

Wine,  like  poured  oil,  excites  the  raging  blaze  ; 

Then  giddy  anarchy’s  rude  triumphs  rise : 

Then  sovereign  Reason  from  her  empire  flies : 

That  ruler  once  deposed,  wisdom  and  wit, 
j To  noise  and  folly  place  and  power  submit ; 

Like  a frail  bark  thy  weakened  mind  is  tost. 
Unsteered,  unbalanced,  till  its  wealth  is  lost. 

The  miser-spirit  eyes  the  spendthrift  heir. 

And  mourns,  too  late,  eflects  of  sordid  care. 

I Ilis  treasures  fly  to  cloy  each  fawning  slave. 

Yet  grudge  a stone  to  dignify  his  grave. 

For  this,  low-thoughted  craft  his  life  employed  ; 

For  this,  though  wealthy,  he  no  wealth  enjoyed; 

For  this,  he  griped  the  poor,  and  alms  denied. 
Unfriended  lived,  and  unlamented  died. 

Yet  smile,  grie\ed  shade!  when  that  unprosperous 
store 

Fast  lessens,  when  gay  hours  return  no  more  ; 

Smile  at  thy  heir,  beholding,  in  his  fall. 

Men  once  obliged,  like  him,  ungrateful  all ! 

Then  thought-inspiring  wo  his  heart  shall  mend. 

And  prove  his  only  wise,  unflattering  friend. 

Folly  exhibits  thus  unmanly  sport. 

While  plotting  mischief  keeps  reserved  her  court, 
j Lo  ! from  that  mount,  in  blasting  sulphur»broke. 
Stream  flames  voluminous,  enwrapped  with  smoke ! 

I In  chariot-shape  they  whirl  up  yonder  tower, 
j Lean  on  its  brow,  and  like  destruction  lower  1 
! From  the  black  depth  a fiery  legion  springs ; 

I Each  bold  bad  spectre  claps  her  sounding  wings : 

And  straight  beneath  a summoned,  traitorous  band. 
On  horror  bent,  in  dark  convention  stand  : 
j From  each  fiend’s  mouth  a ruddy  vapour  flows. 

Glides  through  the  roof,  and  o’er  the  council  glows ; 
The  villains,  close  beneath  the  infection  pent. 

Feel,  all  possessed,  their  rising  galls  ferment ; 

And  burn  with  faction,  hate,  and  vengeful  ire. 

For  rapine,  blood,  and  devastation  dire! 

But  justice  marks  their  ways  : she  waves  in  air 
The  sword,  high-threatening,  like  a comet’s  glare. 

I While  here  dark  villany  herself  deceives, 

I There  studious  honesty  our  view  relieves. 

■ A feeble  taper  from  yon  lonesome  room, 

I Scattering  thin  rays,  just  glimmers  through  the 
I gloom. 

{ There  sits  the  sapient  bard  in  museful  mood. 

And  glows  impassioned  for  his  country’s  good ! 

All  the  bright  spirits  of  the  just  combined. 

Inform,  refine,  and  prompt  his  towering  mind ! 


ROBERT  BLAIR. 

hir  Southey  has  incautiously  ventured  a state- 
ment in  his  ‘ Life  of  Cowper,’  that  Blair’s  Grave  is 
the  only  poem  he  could  call  to  mind  which  has  been 
composed  in  imitation  of  the  ‘ Night  Thoughts.’ 

‘ The  Grave’  was  written  prior  to  the  publication  of 
the  ‘ Night  Thoughts,’  and  has  no  other  resemblance 
to  the  work  of  Young,  than  that  it  is  of  a serious 
devout  cast,  and  is  in  blank  verse.  The  author  was 
an  accomplished  and  exemplary  Scottish  clergyman, 
who  enjoyed  some  private  fortune,  independent  of 
his  profession,  and  was  thus  enabled  to  live  in  a 
superior  style,  and  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  the 
neighbouring  gentry.  As  a poet  of  pleasing  and 
elegant  manners,  a botanist  and  florist,  as  well  as  a 
man  of  scientific  and  general  knowledge,  his  society 
was  much  courted,  and  he  enjoyed  the  correspond- 
ence of  Dr  Isaac  Watts  and  Dr  Doddridge.  Blair 
was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1699,  his  father  being 
minister  of  the  Old  Church  there.  In  1731  he  was 
appointed  to  the  living  of  Athelstaneford,  a parish 
in  East  Lothian.  Previous  to  his  ordination,  he  had 
written  ‘ The  Grave,’  and  submitted  the  n.anu- 
script  to  Watts  and  Doddridge.  It  was  published 
in  1743.  Blair  died  at  the  age  of  forty-seven,  in 
February  1746.  By  his  marriage  with  a daughter 
of  Mr  Law,  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the 
University  of  Edinburgh  (to  whose  memory  he 
dedicated  a poem),  he  left  a numerous  family ; and 
his  fourth  son,  a distinguished  lawyer,  rose  to  be 
Lord  President  of  the  Court  of  Session. 

‘ The  Grave’  is  a complete  and  powerful  poem,  of 
limited  design,  but  masterly  execution.  The  sub- 
ject precluded  much  originality  of  conception,  but, 
at  the  same  time,  is  recommended  by  its  awTu^  im- 
portance and  its  universal  application.  The  style 
seems  to  be  formed  upon  that  of  the  old  sacred  and 
puritanical  poets,  elevated  by  the  author’s  admira- 
tion of  Milton  and  Shakspeare.  There  is  a Scottish 
presbyterian  character  about  the  whole,  relieved  by 
occasional  flashes  and  outbreaks  of  true  genius. 
These  coruscations  sometimes  subside  into  low  and 
vulgar  ideas,  as  towards  the  close  of  the  following 
noble  passage : — 

Where  are  the  mighty  thunderbolts  of  war  ? 

The  Roman  Caesars  and  the  Grecian  chiefs. 

The  boast  of  story?  Where  the  hot-brained  youth 

IFho  the  tiara  at  his  pleasure  tore 

From  kings  of  all  the  then  discovered  globe  ; 

And  cried,  forsooth,  because  his  arm  was  hampei  ^rt. 
And  had  not  room  enough  to  do  its  work  ? 

Alas,  how  slim — dishonourably  slim  I 

And  crammed  into  a space  we  biush  to  name  ! 

Proud  royalty  ! How  altered  in  thy  looks  ! 

How  blank  thy  features,  and  how  wan  thy  hue ' 

Son  of  the  morning  ! whither  art  thou  gone? 

Where  hast  thou  hid  thy  many-spangled  head 
And  the  majestic  menace  of  thine  eyes 
Felt  from  afar?  Pliant  and  powerless  now  : 

Like  new-born  infant  w'ound  up  in  his  swathe... 

Or  victim  tumbled  flat  upon  his  back. 

That  throbs  beneath  his  sacrificer’s  knife  ; 

Mute  must  thou  bear  the  strife  of  little  tongues, 

And  coward  insults  of  the  base-bom  crowd, 

That  grudge  a privilege  thou  never  hadst. 

But  only  hoped  for  in  the  peaceful  grave — 

Of  being  unmole.sted  and  alone! 

Arabia’s  gums  and  odoriferous  drugs. 

And  honours  by  the  heralds  duly  paid 
In  mode  and  form,  e’en  to  a very  scruple ; 

(Oh  cruel  irony!)  these  come  too  late. 

And  only  mock  whom  they  wei  e meant  to  honour  f 

3 


I'll' Ml  I "27 


CYCLOP^;i)IA  OF 


TO  1780 


riu'  iluatli  of  tlie  strong  man  is  forcibly  depicted — 

Strcngtli.  too  ! thou  surly  and  less  gentle  boast 
( )f  tliose  that  laugh  loud  at  the  village  ring  ! 

A lit  of  coninion  sickness  pulls  thee  down 

With  greater  ease  than  e’er  thou  didst  the  stripling 

That  rashly  dared  thee  to  the  unequal  fight. 

M'hat  groan  was  that  1 heard?  Decqi  groan,  indeed, 
With  anguish  heavy  lailen  ! let  me  trace  it: 

Kroni  yonder  bed  it  comes,  where  the  strong  man, 

I!y  stronger  arm  belaboured,  gas[is  for  breath 
Like  a hard-hunted  beast.  How  his  great  heart 
Heats  thick  ! his  roomy  chest  by  far  too  scant 
To  give  the  lungs  full  play  ! What  now  avail 
The  strong-built  sinewy  limbs  and  well -spread 
shoulders  ? 

See,  how  he  tugs  for  life,  and  lays  about  him, 

Mad  with  his  pain  1 Kager  he  catches  hold 
Of  what  comes  ne.xt  to  hand,  and  grasps  it  hard, 

.lust  like  a creature  drowning.  Hideous  sight ! 

Oh  liow  his  eyes  stand  out,  and  stare  full  ghastly  ! 
While  the  distemper’s  rank  and  deadly  venom 
Shoots  like  a burning  arrow  ’cross  his  bowels. 

And  drinks  his  marrow  up.  Heard  you  that  groan  ? 
It  was  his  last.  See  how  the  great  Goliah, 

.Just  like  a child  that  brawled  itself  to  rest, 

Lies  still.  What  mean’st  thou  then,  0 mighty  boaster. 
To  vaunt  of  nerves  of  thine  ? What  means  the  bull, 
Unconscious  of  his  strength,  to  play  the  coward, 

And  flee  before  a feeble  thing  like  man  ; 

That,  knowing  well  the  slackness  of  his  arm, 

Trusts  only  in  the  well-invented  knife? 

In  our  extracts  from  Congreve,  we  have  quoted  a 
passage,  much  admired  by  .lulinson,  descriptive  of 
the  awe  and  fear  inspired  by  a cathedral  scene  at 
midnight,  ‘ where  all  is  hushed  and  still  as  death.’ 
Blair  has  ventured  on  a similar  description,  and  has 
imparted  to  it  a territde  and  gloomy  power- 

See  yonder  hallowed  fane  ! the  pious  work 
f)f  names  once  famed,  now  dubious  or  forgot. 

And  buried  midst  the  wreck  of  things  which  were  : 
There  lie  interred  the  more  illustrious  dead. 

The  wind  is  up  : hark  ! how  it  howls  ! methinks 
Till  now  I never  heard  a sound  so  dreary ! 

Doors  creak,  and  windows  clap,  and  night’s  foul  b'nl, 
Rocked  in  the  spire,  screams  loud  : the  gloomy  aisles, 
Black  - plastered,  and  hung  round  with  shreds  of 
’.“cutcheons. 

And  tattered  coats  of  arms,  send  back  the  sound. 
Laden  with  heavier  airs,  from  the  low  vaults. 

The  mansions  of  the  dead.  Roused  from  their  slumbers. 
In  grim  array  the  grisly  spectres  rise, 

Grill  horrible,  and,  obstinately  sullen, 

Pass  and  repass,  hushed  as  the  foot  of  night. 

Again  the  screech-owl  shrieks — ungracious  sound  ! 

I’ll  hear  no  more  ; it  makes  one’s  blood  run  chill. 

With  tenderness  equal  to  his  strength,  Blair  la- 
ments the  loss  of  death-divided  friendships— 
Invidious  Grave  ! how  dost  thou  rend  in  sunder 
Whom  love  has  knit,  and  sympathy  made  one ! 

A tie  more  stubborn  far  than  nature’s  band. 
Friendship  ! mysterious  cement  of  the  soul ! 

Sweetener  of  life  ! and  solder  of  society  ! 

I owe  thee  much.  Thou  hast  deserved  from  me 
Far,  far  beyond  what  I can  ever  pay. 

Oft  have  I proved  the  labours  of  thy  love, 

And  the  warm  efforts  of  thy  gentle  heart. 

Anxious  to  please.  Oh  ! when  my  friend  and  I 
In  some  thick  wood  have  wandered  heedless  on, 

Hid  from  the  vulgar  eye,  and  sat  us  down 
Lipon  the  sloping  cowslip-covered  bank. 

Where  the  pure  limpid  stream  has  slid  along 
In  grateful  errors  through  the  underwood, 

Sweet  murmuring,  methought  the  shrill  - tongued 
thrush 


Mended  his  song  of  love ; the  sc'.  ty  blackbird 
.Mellowed  his  pipe,  and  softened  every  note: 

The  eglantine  smelled  sweeter,  and  the  rose 
Assumed  a dye  more  deep  ; whilst  every  flower 
Vied  with  its  fellow-jdant  in  luxury 
Of  dress  ! Oh  ! then  the  longest  summer’s  day 
Iseemed  too,  too  much  in  haste:  still,  the  full  heart 
Hail  not  imparted  half : ’twas  happiness 
Too  exquisite  to  last.  Of  joys  departed 
Not  to  return,  how  painful  the  remembrance ! 

Some  of  his  images  are  characterised  by  a Shak- 
spearian  force  and  picturesque  fancy  : of  suicidei 
he  says — 

The  common  damned  shun  their  society. 

And  look  upon  themselves  as  fiends  less  foul. 

Men  see  their  friends 

Drop  off  like  leaves  in  autumn  ; yet  launch  out 
Into  fantastic  schemes,  which  the  Inn;/  lirers 
In  the  world’s  hale  and  under/enerate  days 
Would  scarce  have  leisure  for. 

The  divisions  of  churchmen  are  for  ever  closed — 
The  lawn-robed  prelate  and  plain  ]iresbyter, 
Erewhile  that  stood  aloof,  as  shy  to  meet. 

Familiar  mingle  here,  Uhe  sister- streams 
That  some  r%ide  intei-posin;/  rock  has  split. 

Alan,  sick  of  bliss,  trV'd  evil ; and,  as  a result — 

The  good  he  scorned 

Stalked  off  reluctant,  like  an  ill-used  ghost. 

Not  to  return  ; or,  if  it  did,  in  visits. 

Like  those  of  angels,  short  and  far  between. 

The  latter  simile  has  been  appropriated  by  Mi 
Cani])bell,  in  his  ‘ Pleasures  of  Hope.’  with  one 
slight  verbal  alteration,  which  can  scarcely  be  called 
an  improvement — 

What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have  Iieen, 
Like  angel  visits,  few  and  far  between. 

The  original  comparison  seems  to  belong  to  an 
obscure  religious  poet,  Norris  of  Bemerton,  who, 
prior  to  Blair,  w'rote  a poem,  ‘ The  Parting,’  wliich 
contains  the  following  verse  : — 

How  fading  are  the  joys  we  dote  upon  ; 

Like  apparitions  seen  and  gone  ; 

Hut  those  who  soonest  take  their  flight, 

-Are  the  most  exquisite  and  strong. 

Like  anr/els’  visits  short  and  hrir/ht ; 
Mortality’s  too  weak  to  bear  them  long. 

The  conclusion  of  ‘ The  Grave’  has  been  pronounced 
to  be  inferior  to  the  earlier  portions  of  (he  poem; 
yet  the  following  passage  has  a dignity,  pathos,  and 
devotional  rapture,  equal  to  the  higher  lliglits  ol 
Young 

Thrice  tvelcomc.  Death  ! 

That,  after  many  a painful  bleeding  step. 

Conducts  us  to  our  home,  and  lands  us  safe 
On  th.e  long-wishcd-for  shore.  Prodigious  change! 

Our  bane  turned  to  a blessing!  Death,  disarmed. 
Loses  his  fellness  quite  ; all  thanks  to  Him 
Will)  scourged  the  venom  out.  Sure  the  hast  end 
t)f  the  good  man  is  peace  ! How  calm  his  exit! 
Night-dews  fall  not  more  gently  to  the  ground. 

Nor  weary  worn-out  winds  expire  so  soft. 

Behold  him  ! in  the  evening  tide  of  life, 

A life  well  spent,  whose  early  care  it  was 
His  riper  years  should  not  upbraid  his  green  : 

By  uiq  erceived  degrees  he  wears  away  ; 

Yet,  iiae  the  sun,  seems  larger  at  his  setting  ! 

High  in  his  faith  and  hopes,  loidt  how  he  reaches 
-After  the  jirize  in  view  ! and,  like  a bird 
That’s  hampered,  struggles  hard  to  get  away  I 
Wliilst  tlie  glad  gates  of  sight  are  wide  expanded 
To  let  new  glories  in,  the  first  fair  fruits 
( If  the  fast-coming  harvest.  Then,  oh  then, 


4 


Abney  House. 


in  1712  into  the  house  of  a benevolent  gentleman  of 
his  neigh.hourhood.  Sir  Thomas  Abney  of  Abney 
bark,  vhere  he  spent  all  the  remainder  of  his  life. 


There  is  no  circumstance  in  English  literary  biogra- 
p’ny  parallel  to  the  residence  of  this  sacred  bard  in 
the  house  of  a friend  for  the  long  period  of  thirty- 


EN  G L IS  1 1 L rr  E U A'l'  U U E. 


' liach  cartli-born  joy  grows  vile,  or  disappears, 

Shrunk  to  a thing  of  nouglit ! Uh,  how  he  longs 
I'o  have  his  passport  signed,  and  bo  dismissed ! 

;l  ’ I'is  done — and  now  he’s  liapiiy ! The  glad  soul 
1 Has  not  a wish  uncrowned.  K’en  the  lag  flesh 
j Kests,  too,  in  hope  of  meeting  onee  again 
Its  better  half,  never  to  sunder  more. 

; Nor  sliall  it  hope  in  vain  : the  time  draws  on 

I j When  not  a single  spot  of  burial  earth, 

j Whether  on  land,  or  in  the  spacious  sea, 

, i But  must  give  back  its  long-committed  dust 
' Inviolate  ; and  faithfully  shall  these 
! Make  up  the  full  account ; not  the  least  atom 
. Kmbczzled  or  mislaid  of  the  whole  tale. 

I I Each  soul  shall  have  a body  read}'  furnished ; 

! • And  eacli  shall  have  his  own.  Hence,  ye  profane  ! 

; I Ask  not  how  this  can  bel  Sure  the  same  power 
' I Tliat  reared  the  piece  at  first,  and  took  it  down, 

. Can  re-assemble  the  loose  scattered  parts. 

And  put  them  as  they  were.  Almighty  God 
: j Hath  done  much  more:  nor  is  his  arm  impaired 
I Through  length  of  days  ; and  what  he  can,  he  will ; 

I ' His  faithfulness  stands  bound  to  see  it  done. 

; , Wlien  the  dread  trumpet  sounds,  the  slumbering  dust, 
J ! Not  unattentive  to  the  call,  shall  wake ; 

I I And  every  joint  possess  its  proper  place, 

: I With  a new  elegance  of  form,  unknown 
I To  its  first  state.  Nor  shall  the  conscious  soul 
Mistake  its  partner,  but  amidst  the  crowd, 

I Singling  its  other  half,  into  its  arms 
j Shall  rush,  with  all  the  impatience  of  a man 
That’s  new  come  home,  and,  having  long  been  absent, 
With  haste  runs  over  every  difierent  room. 

In  pain  to  see  the  whole.  Thrice-happy  meeting ! 
Nor  time,  nor  death,  shall  ever  part  them  more. 

’Tis  but  a night,  a long  and  moonless  night  ; 

We  make  the  grave  our  bed,  and  then  are  gone ! 

Thus,  at  tlie  shut  of  even,  the  weary  bird 
Leaves  the  wide  air,  and  in  some  lonely  brake 
Cowers  down,  and  dozes  till  the  dawn  of  day. 

Then  claps  his  well-fledged  wings,  and  bears  away. 

DR  WATTS. 

Isaac  Watts — a name  never  to  be  pronounced 
without  reverence  by  any  lover  of  pure  Christianity, 


or  by  any  well-wisher  of  mankind — was  Ijorn  at 
Soutliamptoii,  July  17,  KiTt.  His  parents  «crc 
remarkable  for  piety.  Means  would  liavc  been  pro- 


Dr  Watts. 

vided  for  placing  him  at  the  university,  but  be 
early  inclined  to  the  Dissenters,  and  he  was  edn 
cated  at  one  of  their  establishments,  taught  by  the 
Kev.  Thomas  Rowe.  He  was  afterwards  four  years 
in  the  family  of  Sir  John  llartopp,  at  Stoke  Newing- 
ton. Here  he  was  eliosen  ( 1 698)  assistant  minister  by 
an  Independent  congregation,  of  which  four  years 
after  he  succeeded  to  the  full  charge;  bntliad  healtli 
soon  rendered  liiin  unfit  for  the  performance  of  th  ■ 
heavy  labours  thus  imposed  upon  him,  and  in  his 
turn  he  required  tlie  assistance  of  a joint  pastor. 
Ilis  health  continuing  to  decline.  Watts  was  received 


I 


I 

i 

I 

J 

i 

I 


i 


FROM  1727 


six  years.  Abney  House  was  a bandsoine  mansion, 
surrounded  by  beautiful  pleasure-ftrounds.  He  bad 
apartments  assigned  to  bini,  of  wbieb  he  enjoyed  the 
use  as  freely  as  if  bo  bad  been  the  master  of  the 
house.  Dr  Gilibons  says,  ‘ Here,  without  any  care 
of  his  own,  he  h:ul  everything  which  could  contri- 
\)ute  to  the  enjoyment  of  life,  and  favour  the  pursuit 
of  his  studies.  Here  he  dwelt  in  a family  which,  for 
piety,  order,  harmony,  and  every  virtue,  was  a house 
of  God.  Here  he  had  the  [irivilege  of  a country 
recess,  the  fragrant  bower,  the  s[)reading  lawn,  the 
flowery  garden,  and  other  advantages  to  soothe  his 
mind  ami  aid  his  restoration  to  health  ; to  yield  him, 
whenever  he  chose  them,  most  grateful  intervals 
from  his  laborious  studies,  and  enable  him  to  return 
to  them  with  redoubled  vigour  and  delight’  The 
death  of  Sir  Thomas  Abney,  eight  years  after  he 
went  to  reside  with  him,  imade  no  change  in  these 
agreeable  arrangements,  as  the  same  benevolent 
patronage  was  extended  to  him  by  the  widow,  who 
outlived  him  a year.  While  in  this  retirement  he 
preached  occasionally,  but  gave  the  most  of  his  time 
to  study,  and  to  the  composition  of  those  works 
which  hiive  given  him  a name  in  the  annals  of 
literature.  Ilis  treatises  on  Loijic  and  on  the  Im- 
provement of  the  Mind  are  still  highly  prized  for  their 
cogency  of  argument  and  felicity  of  illustration. 
Watts  also  wrote  several  theological  works  and 
I volumes  of  sermons.  Ilis  poetry  consists  almost 
I wholly  of  devotional  hymn.s,  which,  by  their  sim- 
plicity, their  unaffected  ardour,  and  their  imagery, 
powerfully  arrest  the  attention  of  children,  and  are 
never  forgotten  in  mature  life.  In  infancy  we  learn 
the  hymns  of  Watts,  as  part  of  maternal  instruction, 
and  in  youth  his  moral  and  logical  treatises  impart 
the  germs  of  correct  reasoning  and  virtuous  self- 
government.  The  life  of  this  good  and  useful  man 
terminated  on  the  25th  of  November  1748,  having 
been  prolonged  to  the  advanced  age  of  seventy-five. 

\The  Hose.'] 

How  fair  is  the  rose  ! what  a beautiful  flower. 

The  glory  of  April  and  May  1 
But  the  leaves  are  beginning  to  fade  in  an  hour, 

And  they  wither  and  die  in  a day. 

Yet  the  rose  has  one  powerful  virtue  to  boast. 

Above  all  the  flowers  of  the  field  ; 

When  its  leaves  are  all  dead,  and  its  fine  colours  lost. 
Still  how  sweet  a perfume  it  will  yield ! 

So  frail  is  the  youth  and  the  beauty  of  men. 

Though  they  bloom  and  look  gay  like  the  rose ; 

But  iill  our  fond  care  to  preserve  them  is  vain. 

Time  kills  them  as  fast  as  he  goes. 

Then  I’ll  not  be  proud  of  my  youth  nor  my  beau'v. 
Since  both  of  them  wither  and  fade  ; 

But  gain  a good  name  by  well-doing  my  duty ; 

This  will  scent  like  a rose  when  I’m  dea  1. 

[The  Heh'cw  Bard.] 

* * * 

Softly  the  tuneful  shepherd  leads 
The  Hebrew  flocks  to  flowery  meads  : 

He  marks  their  path  with  notes  divine. 

While  fountains  spring  with  oil  and  wine. 

Rivers  of  peace  attend  his  song. 

And  ilr.aw  their  milky  train  along. 

He  jars  ; and,  lo  1 the  flints  are  broke. 

But  hoiiey  issues  from  the  rock. 

I When,  kindling  with  victorious  fire, 

I He  .shakes  his  lance  across  the  lyre, 

I The  lyre  resounds  unknown  alarms, 

Ynd  sets  the  Thunderer  in  arms. 


TO  178«.  j 

Bcholil  the  God  ! the  Almighty  King 
Hides  on  a tempest’s  glorious  wing; 

His  ensigns  lighten  round  the  sky. 

And  moving  legions  sound  on  high. 

Ten  thousand  cherubs  wait  his  course. 

Chariots  of  fire  and  flaming  horse  : 

Karth  trembles ; and  her  mountains  flow. 

At  his  approach,  like  melting  snow. 

But  who  those  frowns  of  wrath  can  draw,  I 

That  strike  heaven,  earth,  and  hell,  with  awe  1 
Red  lightning  from  his  eyelids  broke  ; 

His  voice  was  thunder,  hail,  and  smoke. 

He  spake  ; the  cleaving  waters  fled. 

And  stars  beheld  the  ocean’s  bed ; 

While  the  great  Master  strikes  his  lyre. 

You  see  the  frighted  floods  retire  : 

In  heaps  the  frighted  billows  stand, 

Waiting  the  changes  of  his  hand  : 

He  leads  his  Israel  through  the  .sea, 

And  watery  mountains  guard  their  way. 

Tuniing  his  hand  with  sovereign  sweep,  , 

He  drowns  all  Kgypt  in  the  deep : 1 

Then  guides  the  tribes,  a glorious  band,  | 

Through  deserts  to  the  promised  land. 

Here  camps,  with  wide-embattled  force. 

Here  gates  and  bulwarks  stop  their  course 
He  storms  the  mounds,  the  bulwark  falls. 

The  harp  lies  strewed  with  ruined  walls. 

Sec  his  broad  sword  flies  o’er  the  strings. 

And  mows  down  nations  with  their  kings: 

From  every  cRord  his  bolts  are  hurled. 

And  vengeance  sraiteS  the  rebel  world. 

Lo  1 the  great  poet  shifts  the  scene. 

And  shows  the  face  of  God  serene. 

Truth,  meekness,  peace,  salvation,  ride, 

With  guards  of  justice  at  his  side. 

* ♦ ♦ 

[A  Summer  Evening.] 

How  fine  has  the  day  been,  how  bright  was  the  sun, 

How  lovely  and  joyful  the  course  that  he  run, 

Though  he  rose  in  a mist  when  his  race  he  begun. 

And  there  followed  some  droppings  of  rain  ! | 

But  now  the  fair  traveller’s  come  to  the  west. 

His  rays  are  all  gold,  and  his  beauties  ,are  best ; 

He  paints  the  sky  gay  as  he  sinks  to  his  rest. 

And  foretells  a bright  rising  again. 

.lust  such  is  the  Christian  ; his  course  he  begins. 

Like  the  sun  in  a mist,  when  he  mourns  for  his  sins. 

And  melts  into  tears ; then  he  breaks  out  and  shines, 
And  travels  his  heavenly  way  : 

But  when  he  comes  nearer  to  finish  his  r.ace. 

Like  a fine  setting  sun,  he  looks  richer  in  grace,  j 

And  gives  a sure  hope  at  the  end  of  his  days. 

Of  rising  in  brighter  array. 

EDWARD  YOUNG.  I ' 

Edward  Young,  author  of  the  Night  Thoughta,  I ^ 
w.as  born  in  1681  at  Upham,  in  Hami)shire,  where  I 
his  father  (afterw.ards  dean  of  Salisbury)  was  i 
rector.  He  was  educated  at  Winchester  school,  I j 
and  subsequently  at  All  Souls’  college,  Oxford.  In  j 
1 7 12  he  commenced  public  life  as  a courtier  and  poet, 
and  he  continued  both  characters  till  be  was  jiast  I 
eighty.  One  of  his  patrons  was  the  notorious  Duke  , 
of  Wharton,  ‘ the  scorn  and  wonder  of  bis  days,’  ; 
whom  Young  accompanied  to  Ireland  in  1717.  He  | 
was  next  tutor  to  Lord  Burleigh,  and  was  induced  j 
to  give  up  this  situation  by  Wharton,  who  promised 
to  provide  for  him  in  a more  suitable  and  ample 

6 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


rtM'.Tn. 


KNdUSIl  MTKUATUUR 


KDWAIID  VOUNO. 


miiiiiuT.  'I'lio  duke  also  prevailed  o.  Young,  as  a 
])olitieal  supporter,  to  eonie  forward  as  a candidate 
for  the  representation  of  the  borough  of  Cirencester 
in  parliament,  and  he  gave  him  a bond  for  £600  to 
defray  the  expenses.  Young  was  defeated,  Whar- 


Edward  Young. 

ton  died,  and  the  court  of  chancery  decided  against 
the  validity  of  the  bond.  The  poet,  being  now  quali- 
fied by  experience,  published  a satire  on  the  Uni- 
•ersal  Passion — the  Love  of  Fame,  which  is  at  once 
teen  and  powerful,  and  the  nearest  approach  we 
have  to  the  polished  satire  of  Pope.  When  upwards 
of  fifty.  Young  entered  the  church,  wrote  a pane- 
gyric on  the  king,  and  was  made  one  of  his  majesty’s 
chaplains.  Swift  has  said  that  the  poet  was  com- 
pelled to 

• torture  his  invention 

To  flatter  knaves,  or  lo.se  his  pension. 

But  it  does  not  appear  that  there  was  any  other 
reward  than  the  appointment  as  chaplain.  In  1730, 
Young  obtained  from  his  college  the  living  of  Wel- 
wyn, in  Hertfordshire,  where  he  was  destined  to 
close  his  days.  He  was  eager  to  obtain  further  pre- 
ferment, but  having  in  his  poetry  professed  a strong 
love  of  retirement,  the  miin.-itry  seized  upon  this  as 
a pretext  for  keeping  him  out  of  a bishopric.  The 
poet  made  a noble  alliance  with  the  daughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Lichfield,  widow  of  Colonel  Lee,  which 
lasted  ten  years,  and  proved  a happier  union  than 
the  titled  marriages  of  Dryden  and  Addison.  The 
lady  had  two  cliildren  by  her  first  marriage,  to 
whom  Young  was  warmly  attached.  Both  died^ 
ind  when  the  mother  also  followed,  Yo\ing  com- 
posed his  ‘ Night  Thoughts.’  Sixty  years  had 
strengthened  and  enriched  his  genius,  and  aug- 
mented even  the  brilliancy  of  his  fancy.  In  1761 
the  poet  was  made  clerk  of  the  closet  to  the 
Princess  Dowager  of  Wales,  and  died  four  years 
afterwards,  in  April  1765,  at  the  advanced  age  of 
eighty-four. 

A life  of  so  much  action  and  worldly  anxiety  has 
rarely  been  united  to  so  much  literary  industry  and 
genius.  In  his  youth.  Young  was  gay  and  dissi- 
pated, and  all  his  life  he  was  an  indefatigable  cour- 
tier. In  his  poetry  he  is  a severe  moralist  and 
ascetic  divine.  That  he  felt  the  emotions  he  de-  I 


scribes,  must  be  true  ; hut  they  did  not  permanently 
influence  his  conduct.  He  was  not  weaned  from  the 
world  till  age  had  incajiacitated  him  for  its  jiur- 
Buits  ; and  the  ei)igrammatic  point  and  wit  of  his 
‘Night  Thoughts,’  with  the  gloomy  views  it  ))re- 
sents  of  life  and  religion,  show  the  poetical  artist 
fully  as  much  as  the  humble  and  penitent  Christian. 
His  works  arc  numerous;  hut  the  best  are  the 
‘ Night  Thoughts,’  the  ‘ Universal  Passion,’  and 
the  tragedy  of  Revenge.  The  foundation  of  his 
great  poem  was  family  misfortune,  coloured  and 
exaggerated  for  poetical  effect — 

Insatiate  archer ! could  not  one  suffice  ? 

Thy  shafts  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  .slain ; 
And  thrice,  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  filled  her  horn. 

This  rapid  succession  of  bereavements  was  a poeti- 
cal license;  for  in  one  of  the  cases  there  was  an 
interval  of  four  years,  and  in  another  of  seven 
months.  The  profligate  character  of  Lorenzo  has 
been  supposed  to  indicate  Young’s  own  son.  It 
seems  to  us  a mere  fancy  skcteli.  Like  the  charac- 
ter of  Childe  Harold,  in  the  hands  of  Byron,  it 
afforded  the  poet  scope  for  dark  and  powerful  paint- 
ing, and  was  made  the  veliicle  for  bursts  of  indig- 
nant virtue,  sorrow,  regret,  and  admonition.  This 
artificial  character  pervades  the  whole  poem,  and  is 
essentially  a part  of  its  structure.  But  it  still  leaves 
to  our  admiration  many  noble  and  sublime  passages, 
where  the  poet  speaks  as  from  inspiration^ — with  the 
voice  of  one  cr}'ing  in  the  wilderness — of  life,  death, 
and  immortality.  The  truths  of  religion  are  en- 
forced with  a commanding  energy  and  persuasion. 
Epigram  and  repartee  are  then  forgotten  by  the 
poet;  fancy  yields  to  feeling;  and  where  imagery  is 
employed,  it  is  select,  nervous,  and  suitable.  In 
this  sustained  and  impressive  style  Young  seldom 
remains  long  at  a time  ; his  desire  to  say  witty  and 
smart  things,  to  load  his  pic>  ire  with  supernume- 
rary horrors,  and  conduct  his  personages  to  their 
‘ sulphureous  or  ambrosial  seats,’  soon  converts  the 
great  poet  into  the  painter  and  epigrammatist.  The 
ingenuity  of  his  second  style  is  in  some  respects  as 
wonderful  as  the  first,  but  it  is  of  a v;istly  inferior 
order  of  poetry.  Mr  Southey  thinks,  that  when 
Johnson  said  (in  his  ‘ Life  of  Milton’)  that  ‘ the 
good  and  evil  of  eternity  were  too  ponderous  for  the 
wings  of  wit,’  he  forgot  Young.  The  moral  critic 
could  not,  however,  but  have  condemned  even  witty 
thoughts  and  sparkling  metaphors,  which  are  so  in- 
congruous and  misplaced.  The ‘Night  Thoughts,’ 
like  ‘ Hudibras,’  is  too  pointed,  and  too  full  of  com- 
pressed reflection  and  illustration,  to  be  read  con- 
tinuously with  pleasure.  Nothing  can  atone  for  the 
want  of  simplicity  and  connection  in  a long  poem. 
In  Young  there  is  no  plot  or  progressive  interest. 
Each  of  the  nine  books  is  independent  of  the  other. 
'I'he  general  reader,  therefore,  seeks  out  favourite 
passages  for  perusal,  or  contents  himself  with  a 
single  excursion  into  his  wide  and  variegated  field. 
But  the  more  carefully  it  is  studied,  the  more  ex- 
traordinary and  magnificent  will  the  entire  poem 
appear.  The  fertility  of  his  fancy,  the  pregnancy 
of  his  wit  and  knowledge,  the  striking  and  felicitous 
combinations  everywhere  presented,  are  indeed  re- 
markable. Sound  sense  is  united  to  poetical  ima- 
gery ; maxims  of  the  highest  practical  value,  and 
passages  of  great  force,  tenderness,  and  everlasting 
truth,  are  constantly  rising,  like  sunshine,  over  the 
quaint  and  gloomy  recesses  of  the  poet’s  .inagina- 
tion — • 

The  glorious  fragments  of  a fire  immortal, 

UTth  rubbish  mixed,  and  glittering  in  the  du.st. 

After  all  his  bustling  toils  and  ambition,  how  finely 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPi1i;r>IA  OF 


TO  1780. 


dots  Young  advert  to  tlie  quiet  retirement  of  his 
eouiitry  life  — 

lilest  be  that  hand  divine,  which  gently  laid 
My  heart  at  rest  beneath  tliis  humble  shade  1 
The  world’s  a stately  bark,  on  dangerous  seas, 

With  pleasure  seen,  but  boarded  at  our  peril ; 

Here,  on  a single  plank,  thrown  safe  ashore, 

I hear  the  tumult  of  the  distant  throng. 

As  that  of  seas  remote,  or  dying  storms  ; 

And  meditate  on  scenes  more  silent  still ; 

Pursue  my  theme,  and  fight  the  fear  of  death. 

Here  like  a shei)herd,  gazing  from  his  hut, 

'J'ouehing  his  reed,  or  leaning  on  his  staff^ 

Kager  ambition’s  fiery  chase  1 see  ; 

I see  the  circling  hunt  of  noisy  men 

Hurst  law’s  enclosure,  leaj)  the  mounds  of  right. 

Pursuing  and  pursued,  each  other’s  prey  ; 

As  wolves  for  rapine  ; as  tlie  fox  for  wiles  ; 

Till  death,  that  mighty  hunter,  earths  them  all. 

Why  all  this  toil  for  triumphs  of  an  hour  1 
What  though  we  wade  in  wealth,  or  soar  in  fame. 
Earth’s  highest  statioi>  ends  in  ‘here  he  lies,’ 

And  ‘ dust  to  dust’  concludes  her  noblest  song. 

And  when  he  argues  in  favour  of  the  immortality  of 
man  from  the  analogies  of  nature,  with  what  ex- 
quisite taste  and  melody  does  he  characterise  the 
changes  and  varied  apiiearances  of  creation — 

Look  nature  through,  ’tis  revolution  all ; 

All  change,  no  death  ; day  follows  night,  and  night 
The  dying  day  ; stars  rise  and  sec,  and  set  and  rise ; 
Earth  takes  the  example.  See,  the  Summer  gay. 

With  her  green  chaplet  and  ambrosial  flowers. 

Droops  into  pallid  Autumn  : Winter  gray. 

Horrid  with  frost  and  turbulent  with  .storm. 

Blows  Autumn  and  his  golden  fruits  away. 

Then  melts  into  the  Spring : soft  Spring,  with  breath 
Favonian,  from  warm  chambers  of  the  south. 

Recalls  the  first.  All,  to  reHourish,  fades  : 

As  in  a wheel,  all  sinks  to  reascend: 

Emblems  of  man,  who  passes,  not  expires. 

He  thus  moralises  on  huimui  life — 

Life  speeds  away 

From  point  to  point,  though  seeming  to  stand  still. 

The  cunning  fugitive  is  swift  by  stealth. 

Too  subtle  is  the  movement  to  be  seen  ; 

Yet  soon  man’s  hour  is  up,  and  we  are  gone. 

Warnings  point  out  our  danger  ; gnomons,  time ; 

As  these  are  useless  when  the  sun  is  set. 

So  those,  but  when  more  glorious  reason  shines. 

Reason  should  judge  in  all  ; in  reason’s  eye 
That  sedentary  shadow  travels  hard. 

But  such  our  gravitation  to  the  wrong. 

So  prone  our  hearts  to  whisper  that  w'e  wish, 

’’fis  later  with  the  wise  than  he’s  aivare: 

A Wilmington*  goes  slower  th.an  the  sun  : 

And  all  mankind  mistake  their  time  of  day; 

Even  age  itself.  Fresh  hopes  are  hourly  sown 
In  furrowed  brows.  To  gentle  life’s  descent 
We  shut  our  eyes,  and  think  it  is  a plain. 

We  take  fair  days  in  ivinter  for  the  spring. 

And  turn  our  blessings  into  bane.  Since  oft 
Man  must  compute  that  age  he  cannot  feel. 

He  scarce  believes  he’s  older  for  his  years. 

Thus,  at  life’s  latest  eve,  we  keep  in  store 
One  disappointment  sure,  to  crown  the  rest — 

The  disappointment  of  a promised  hour. 

And  again  in  a still  nobler  strain,  where  he  com- 
varcs  human  life  to  the  sea — 

Helf-flattered,  unexperienced,  high  in  hope. 

When  young,  with  sanguine  cheer  and  streamers  gay. 
We  cut  our  cable,  launch  into  the  world, 

* Lt>rd  Wilmington. 


And  fondly  dream  each  wind  and  star  our  friend; 

All  in  some  darling  enter]>rise  embarked  ; j 

But  where  is  he  can  fathom  its  event  ? 

Amid  a multitude  of  artless  hands. 

Ruin’s  sure  jierquisite,  her  lawful  prize  ! 

Some  steer  aright,  but  the  black  blast  blows  hard. 

And  puffs  them  wide  of  hope : with  hearts  of  proof 
Full  against  wind  and  tide,  some  win  their  way. 

And  when  strong  effort  has  deserved  the  port. 

And  tugged  it  into  view,  ’tis  won  ! ’tis  lost  1 
Though  strong  their  oar,  still  stronger  is  their  fate  : 

They  strike  1 and  while  they  triumph  they  expire 
In  stress  of  weather  most,  some  sink  outright ; 

O’er  them,  and  o’er  their  names  the  billows  close ; 
To-morrow  knows  not  they  were  ever  bora. 

Others  a short  memorial  leave  behind. 

Like  a flag  floating  when  the  bark’s  ingulfed; 

It  floats  a moment,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

One  Caesar  lives ; a thousand  are  forgot. 

How  few  beneath  auspicious  planets  born 
(Darlings  of  Providence  ! fond  Fate’s  elect  !) 

With  swelling  sails  make  gocsl  the  promised  port,  [ 

M ith  all  their  wi,shes  freiglited  ! yet  even  these,  1 1 

freighted  with  all  their  wishes,  soon  complain; 

Free  from  misfortune,  not  from  nature  free, 

'Ihey  still  are  men,  and  when  is  man  secure* 

As  fatal  time,  as  storm  ! the  rush  of  years 
Beats  down  their  strength,  their  numberless  escapes 
In  ruin  end.  And  now  their  proud  success  ! 

But  plants  new  terrors  on  the  victor’s  brow ; 

\\  hat  pain  to  quit  the  world,  just  made  their  own. 

Their  nest  so  deeply  downed,  and  built  so  high  ! 

Too  low  they  build,  who  build  beneath  the  stars. 

With  such  a throng  of  poetical  imagery,  bursts  of 
sentiment,  and  rays  of  fancy,  does  the  poet-divine 
clothe  the  trite  and  simiile  truths,  that  aU  is  vanity, 
and  that  man  is  born  to  die ! 

These  thoughts,  0 Night  ! are  thine  ; 

From  thee  they  came  like  lovers’  secret  sighs, 

AYhile  others  slept.  So  Cynthia,  poets  feign. 

In  shadows  veiled,  soft,  sliding  from  her  .sphere. 

Her  shepherd  cheered  ; of  her  enamoured  iess 
Than  I of  thee.  .\nd  art  thou  still  unsung. 

Beneath  whose  brow,  and  hv  whose  aid,  1 sing  ? 

Immortal  silence  ! where  shall  1 begin? 

AV  here  end  ? or  how  steal  music  from  the  spheres 
To  soothe  their  goddess  { 

0 majestic  Night  ! 

Nature’s  great  aiicostor  ! Day’s  elder  born  ! 

And  fated  to  survive  the  transient  sun  ! 

By  mortals  and  immortals  seen  with  awe  ! 

A starry  crown  tliy  raven  brow  adorns. 

An  azure  zone  thy  waist ; clouds,  in  heaven’s  loom 
Wrought  through  varieties  of  shape  and  shade. 

In  ample  folds  of  drapery  divine, 

Ihy  flowing  mantle  form,  and,  heaven  throughout. 
Voluminously  [>our  thy  poniiams  train  : 

Ihy  gloomy  grandeurs — Nature’s  most  august. 

Inspiring  aspect  ! — claim  a grateful  vei'se  ; 

And,  like  a sable  curtain  starred  with  gold. 

Drawn  o’er  my  labours  past,  shall  clotlie  tlie  scene. 

Tills  magnificent  apostrophe  has  scarcely  been 
equalled  in  our  poetry  since  the  epic  strains  of 
hlilton. 

On  Life,  Ikat?),  and  Immortality. 

Tired  Nature’s  sweet  restorer,  halmv  Sleep  ! j 

He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 

Where  Fortune  smiles  ; the  wretclied  he  forsakes: 

Swift  on  his  downy  pinion  flies  from  wo. 

And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a tear. 

From  short  (a.s  usual)  ami  disturbed  repose 
I wake  : how  happy  tliey  who  wake  no  more  1 | 

Yet  that  were  vain,  if  dreams  iiife.st  the  grave.  ( 

s ! 


I 

I «)ETS.  EN(jLISll  LITKUATUUE.  edwauo  vouno. 


1 wukc,  ciiii’igin^  from  iv  sea  of  dreams 
Tumultuous;  where  my  wrecked  desponding  thought 
I'rom  w ave  to  wave  of  fancied  misery 
At  -andum  drove,  her  helm  of  reason  lost. 

Though  now  restored,  ’tis  only  change  of  pain 
(A  bitter  change  !),  severer  for  severe: 

The  day  too  short  for  my  distress  ; and  night, 

E’en  in  the  zenith  of  her  dark  domain, 

Is  sunshine  to  the  colour  of  my  fate. 

Night,  sable  goddess ! from  her  ebon  throne. 

In  rayless  majesty,  now  stretches  forth 
Her  leaden  sceptre  o’er  a .slumbering  world. 

Silence  how  dead  ! and  d.irkness  how  profound  1 
Nor  eye  nor  listening  car  an  object  finds  ; 

Creation  sleeps.  ’Tis  is  the  general  pulse 
Of  life  stood  .still,  a,.d  Nature  made  a pause  ; 

An  awful  pause  ! prophetic  of  her  end. 

And  let  her  prophecy  be  soon  fulfilled  : 

Fate  ! drop  the  curtain  ; I can  lose  no  more. 

Silence  and  Darkness  1 solemn  sisters  ! twins 
From  ancient  Night,  who  nurse  the  tender  thought 
To  reason,  and  on  reason  build  resolve 
(That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man), 

Assist  me : I will  thank  j'ou  in  the  grave ; 

The  grave  your  kingdom  : there  this  frame  shall  fall 
A victim  sacred  to  your  dreary  shrine. 

But  what  are  ye  1 

Thou,  who  didst  put  to  flight 
Primeval  Silence,  when  the  morning  stars. 

Exulting,  shouted  o’er  the  rising  ball ; 

Oh  Thou  ! whose  word  from  solid  darkness  struck 
That  spark,  the  sun,  strike  wisdom  from  ray  soul ; 
My  soul,  which  flies  to  thee,  her  trust,  her  treasure, 
As  misers  to  their  gold,  while  others  rest. 

Through  this  opaque  of  nature  and  of  soul. 

This  double  night,  transmit  one  pitying  ray. 

To  lighten  and  to  cheer.  Oh  lead  my  mind 
(A  mind  that  fain  would  wander  from  its  wo), 

Lead  it  through  various  scenes  of  life  and  death, 

And  from  each  scene  the  noblest  truths  inspire. 

Nor  le.ss  inspire  my  conduct  than  my  song  ; 

Teach  my  best  reason,  reason  ; my  best  will 
Teach  rectitude ; and  fix  my  firm  resolve 
Wisdom  to  wed,  and  pay  her  long  arrear  : 

Nor  let  the  phial  of  thy  vengeance,  poured 
On  this  devoted  head,  be  poured  in  vain.  * ’’’ 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august. 

How  complicate,  how  wonderful  is  man  ! 

How  passing  wonder  He  who  madf  him  such  ! 

Who  centered  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes, 
From  ditferent  natures  marvellously  mixed. 
Connexion  exquisite  of  distant  worlds  ! 

Distingushed  link  in  being’s  endless  chain  ! 

Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity  ! 

A beam  ethereal,  sullied  and  absorpt ! 

Though  sullied  and  dishonoured,  still  divine  1 
Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute ! 

An  heir  of  glory  1 a frail  child  of  dust  t 
Helpless  immortal  1 insect  infinite  1 
A worm  ! a god  ! I tremble  at  myself. 

And  in  myself  am  lost.  At  home,  a stranger, 
Thought  wandei-s  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast. 
And  wondering  at  her  own.  How  reason  reels  ! 

Oh  what  a miracle  to  man  is  man ! 

Triumphantly  distressed  ! what  joy  ! what  dread  1 
Alternately  transported  and  alarmed  ! 

\\‘hat  can  preserve  my  life  ! or  what  destroy  ! 

An  angel’s  arm  can’t  snatch  me  from  the  grave ; 
Legions  of  angels  can’t  confine  me  there. 

’Tis  past  conjecture  ; all  things  rise  in  proof : 
While  o’er  my  limbs  sleep’s  soft  dominion  spread, 
\t'hat  though  my  soul  fantastic  measures  ti-od 
O’er  fairy  fields  ; or  mourned  along  the  gloom 
Of  silent  woods  ; or,  down  the  craggy  steep 
Hurled  headlong,  swam  with  pain  the  mantled  pool ; 
Or  Bcab“d  the  cliff;  or  danced  on  hollow  winds. 


With  antic  shapes,  wild  natives  of  the  brain  ? 

Her  ceaseless  flight,  though  devious,  sjieaks  her  nature 
Of  subtler  essence  than  the  common  clod  : * 

Even  silent  night  proclaims  my  soul  immortal  ! * * 
Why,  then,  their  loss  deplore  that  are  not  lost  ? * 
is  the  desert,  this  the  solitude  : 

How  populous,  how  vital  is  the  grave! 

This  is  creation’s  melancholy  vault. 

The  vale  funereal,  the  sad  cyjiress  gloom ; 

The  land  of  apparitions,  empty  shades! 

All,  all  on  earth,  is  shadow,  all  beyond 
Is  substance;  the  rev'erse  is  folly’s  creed; 

How  solid  all,  where  change  shall  bo  no  more! 

This  is  the  bud  of  being,  the  dim  dawn. 

The  twilight  of  our  day,  the  vestibule  ; 

Life’s  theatre  as  yet  is  shut,  and  death. 

Strong  death  alone  can  heave  the  massy  bar, 

This  gross  imped'  nent  of  clay  remove. 

And  make  us  emb  vos  of  existence  free 
From  real  life;  but  little  more  remote 
Is  he,  not  yet  a candidate  for  light, 

The  future  embryo,  slumbering  in  his  sire. 

Embryos  we  must  be  till  we  burst  the  shell. 

Yon  ambient  azure  shell,  and  spring  to  life, 

The  life  of  gods,  oh  transport ! and  of  man. 

Y et  man,  fool  man ! here  buries  all  his  thoughts ; 
Inters  celestial  hopes  without  one  sigh. 

Prisoner  of  earth,  and  pent  beneath  the  moon, 

Here  pinions  all  his  wishes  ; winged  by  heaven 
To  fly  at  infinite  : and  reach  it  there 
Where  seraphs  gather  immortality. 

On  life’s  fair  tree,  fast  by  the  throne  of  God. 

What  golden  joys  ambrosial  clustering  glow 
In  his  full  bearii,  and  ripen  for  the  just. 

Where  momentary  ages  are  no  more ! 

Where  time,  and  pain,  and  chance,  and  death  expire! 
And  is  it  in  the  flight  of  threescore  years 
To  push  eternity  from  human  thought. 

And  smother  souls  immortal  in  the  duscl 
A soul  immortal,  spending  all  her  fires. 

Wasting  her  strength  in  strenuous  idleness. 

Thrown  into  tumult,  raptured  or  alarmed. 

At  aught  this  scene  can  threaten  or  indulge, 
Resembles  ocean  into  tempest  wrought. 

To  waft  a feather,  or  to  drown  a fly. 

[Thoughts  on  Time.] 

The  bell  strikes  one.  We  take  no  note  of  -ime 
But  from  its  loss : to  give  it  then  a tongue 
Is  wise  in  man.  As  if  an  angel  spoke, 

I feel  the  solemn  sound.  If  heard  aright, 

It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours. 

Where  are  they?  With  the  years  beyond  the  fi,.od. 

It  is  the  signal  that  demands  despatch : 

How  much  is  to  be  done?  My  hopes  and  fears 
Start  up  alarmed,  and  o’er  life’s  narrow  verge 
Look  down — on  what  ? A fathomless  abyss. 

A dread  eternity  ! how  surely  mine ! 

And  can  eternity  belong  to  me, 

Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  a.i  hour? 

0 time  1 than  gold  more  sacred  ; more  a load 
Than  lead  to  fools,  and  fools  reputed  wise. 

What  moment  granted  man  without  account  ? 

What  years  are  squandered,  wisdom’s  debt  unpaid  ! 
Our  wealth  in  days  all  due  to  that  discharge. 

Haste,  haste,  he  lies  in  wait,  he’s  at  the  door , 
Insidious  Death  ; should  his  strong  hand  arrest. 

No  composition  sets  the  prisoner  free. 

Eternity’s  inexorable  chain 

Fast  binds,  and  vengeance  claims  the  full  arreai 

Youth  is  not  rich  in  time ; it  may  be  poor; 

Part  with  it  as  with  money,  sparing ; pay 
No  moment,  but  in  purchase  of  its  worth  ; 

Ajid  what  it’s  worth,  ask  death-beds ; they  can  ter' 

a 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPiEDIA  OF 


I’art  with  it  as  with  life,  reluctant ; big 
\\'ith  holy  hoi>e  of  nobler  time  to  come  ; 

Time  higher  aimed,  still  nearer  the  great  mark 
Of  men  and  angels,  virtue  more  divine. 

On  all  important  time,  through  every  age. 

Though  much,  and  warm,  the  wise  have  urged,  the  man 
Is  yet  unborn  who  duly  weighs  an  hour. 

‘ I’ve  lost  a day  ’ — the  prince  who  nobly  cried, 

Had  been  an  emperor  without  his  crown. 

Of  Rome  1 say,  rather,  lord  of  human  race : 

He  spoke  as  if  deputed  by  mankind. 

So  should  all  speak  ; so  reason  speaks  in  all : 

From  the  soft  whispers  of  that  God  in  man, 

Why  liy  to  folly,  why  to  frenzy  fly. 

For  rescue  from  the  blessings  we  possess  ? 

Time,  the  supreme  ! — Time  is  eternity  ; 

Pregnant  with  all  that  makes  archangels  smile. 

Who  murders  Time,  he  crushes  in  the  birth 
A power  ethereal,  only  not  adored. 

Ah  1 how  unjust  to  nature  and  himself 
Is  thoughtless,  thankless,  inconsistent  man  ! 

Like  children  babbling  nonsense  in  their  sports, 

W e censure  Nature  for  a span  too  short ; 

That  span  too  short  we  tax  as  tedious  too ; 

Torture  invention,  all  expedients  tire. 

To  lash  the  lingering  moments  into  speed. 

And  whirl  us  (happy  riddance)  from  ourselves. 

Time,  in  advance,  behind  him  hides  his  wings, 

And  seems  to  creep,  decrepit  with  his  age. 

Behold  him  when  passed  by  ; what  then  is  seen 
But  his  broad  pinions  swifter  than  the  winds  ? 

And  all  mankind,  in  contradiction  strong. 

Rueful,  aghast,  cry  out  on  his  career. 

We  waste,  not  use  our  time  ; we  breathe,  not  live ; 
Time  wasted  is  existence  ; used,  is  life  : 

And  bare  existence  man,  to  live  ordained, 

'Wrings  and  oppresses  with  enormous  weight. 

And  why  ? since  time  was  given  for  use,  not  waste. 
Enjoined  to  fly,  with  tempest,  tide,  and  stars. 

To  keep  his  speed,  nor  ever  wait  for  man. 

Time’s  use  was  doomed  a pleasure,  waste  a pain. 

That  man  might  feel  his  error  if  unseen, 

And,  feeling,  fly  to  labour  for  his  cure  ; 

Not  blundering,  sj)lit  on  idleness  for  ease. 

We  push  time  from  us,  and  we  wish  him  back  ; 

Life  we  think  long  and  short  ; death  seek  and  shun. 
Oh  the  dark  d.ays  of  vanity  ! while 
Here,  how  tasteless!  and  how  terrible  when  gone  1 
Gone  ? they  ne’er  go  ; when  past,  they  haunt  us 
still : 

The  spirit  walks  of  every  day  deceased, 

And  smiles  an  angel,  or  a fury  frowns. 

Nor  death  nor  life  delight  us.  If  time  past. 

And  time  possessed,  both  pain  us,  what  can  please  ? 
That  which  the  Deity  to  please  ordained. 

Time  used.  The  man  who  consecrates  his  hours 
By  vigorous  effort,  and  an  honest  aim. 

At  once  he  draws  the  sting  of  life  and  death  : 

He  walks  with  nature,  and  her  paths  are  jieace. 

’Tis  greatly  wise  to  talk  with  our  past  hours. 

And  ask  them  what  report  they  bore  to  heaven. 

And  how  they  might  have  borne  more  welcome  news. 
Their  answers  form  what  men  experience  call  ; 

If  wisdom’s  friend  her  best,  if  not,  worst  foe. 

All-sensual  man,  because  untouched,  unseen. 

He  looks  on  time  as  nothing.  Nothing  else 
Is  truly  man’s  ; ’tis  fortune’s.  Time’s  a god. 

Hast  thou  ne’er  heard  of  Time’s  omnipotence  ? 

For,  or  against,  what  wonders  can  he  do  1 
And  will : to  stand  blank  neuter  he  disdains. 

Not  on  those  terms  was  time  (heaven’s  stranger!)  sent 
i>Q  his  important  embassy  to  man. 


TO  1780.  I 


Lorenzo ! no  : on  the  long  destined  hour,  ^ 

P’roin  everlasting  ages  growing  ripe, 

'I'hat  memorable  hour  of  wondrous  birth, 

When  the  Dread  Sire,  on  emanation  bent, 

And  big  with  nature,  rising  in  his  might. 

Called  forth  creation  (for  then  time  was  bom)  1 

By  Godhead  streaming  through  a thousand  worlds  ; 

Not  on  those  terms,  from  the  great  days  of  heaven. 

From  old  eternity’s  mysterious  orb  i 

Was  time  cut  off,  and  cast  beneath  the  skies  ; 

The  skies,  which  watch  him  in  his  new  abode. 

Measuring  his  motions  by  revolving  spheres. 

That  horologe  machinery  divine. 

Hours,  days,  and  months,  and  years,  his  children  play,  | 
Like  numerous  wings,  around  him,  as  ho  flies  ; 

Or  rather,  as  unequal  plumes,  they  shape  I 

His  ample  pinions,  swift  as  darted  flame,  I 

To  gain  his  goal,  to  reach  his  ancient  rest,  ■ 

And  join  anew  eternity,  his  sire  : 

In  his  immutability  to  nest. 

When  worlds  that  count  his  circles  now,  unhinged, 

(Fate  the  loud  signal  .sounding)  headlong  rush 
To  timeless  night  and  chaos,  whence  they  rose 

But  why  on  time  so  lavish  is  my  song : ! 

On  this  great  theme  kind  Nature  keeps  a school  i 

To  teach  her  sons  herself.  Each  night  we  die— 

Each  morn  are  born  anew ; each  day  a life  ; ' 

And  shall  we  kill  each  day?  If  trifling  kills. 

Sure  vice  must  butcher.  0 what  heaps  of  slain 
Cry  out  for  vengeance  on  us  ! time  destroyed 
Is  suicide,  where  more  than  blood  is  spilt. 

Throw  years  away  ? 

Throw  empires,  and  be  blameless : moments  seize ; 
Heaven’s  on  their  wing:  a moment  we  may  wi.sh. 

When  worlds  want  wealth  to  buy.  Bid  day  stand  still, 

Bid  him  drive  back  his  car  and  re-impart 
The  period  past,  re-give  the  given  hour. 

Lorenzo  ! more  than  miracles  we  want. 

Lorenzo  ! 0 for  yesterdays  to  come  ! 

[77t€  Man  whose  Thoughts  are  not  of  this  World.'] 

Some  angel  guide  my  pencil,  while  I draw. 

What  nothing  less  tluan  angel  can  exceed, 

A man  on  earth  devoted  to  the  skies ; 

Like  ships  in  seas,  while  in,  above  the  world. 

With  aspect  mild,  and  elevated  eye. 

Behold  him  seated  on  a mount  serene. 

Above  the  fogs  of  sense,  and  passion’s  storm ; 

All  the  black  cares  and  tumults  of  this  life. 

Like  harmless  thunders,  breaking  at  his  feet. 

Excite  his  pity,  not  impair  his  peace. 

Earth’s  genuine  sons,  the  sceptred  and  the  slave, 

A mingled  mob  ! a wandering  herd  ! he  sees,  j 

Bewildered  in  the  vale;  in  all  unlike! 

His  full  reverse  in  all  ! what  higher  praise  1 
What  stronger  demonstration  of  the  right? 

The  present  .ill  their  care,  the  future  his. 

When  public  welfare  calls,  or  private  want. 

They  give  to  Fame  ; his  bounty  he  conceals. 

Their  virtues  varnish  Nature,  his  exalt. 

Mankind’s  e.steem  they  court,  and  he  his  own. 

Theirs  the  wild  chase  of  fiilse  felicities  ; 

His  the  composed  possession  of  the  true. 

Alike  throughout  is  his  consistent  peace. 

All  of  one  colour,  and  an  even  thread  ; 

While  party-coloured  shreds  of  happiness. 

With  hideous  gaps  between,  patch  up  for  them 
A madman’s  robe  ; each  puff  of  Fortune  blows 
The  tatters  by,  and  shows  their  nakedness. 

He  sees  with  other  eyes  than  theirs : where  they  i 
Behold  a sun,  he  spies  a Deity. 

W'hat  makes  them  only  smile,  makes  him  adore. 

Where  they  see  mountains,  h"  but  atoms  sees. 

An  empire  in  his  balance  weigus  a grain. 

10 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDWARD  ropjta. 


lei's. 


Vliev  tliiiij;s  terrestrial  worship  as  divine ; 

I)  is  hopes,  immortal,  blow  them  by  ns  dust 
Tliat  dims  Ids  sight,  niul  shortens  his  survey, 

\\  hich  longs,  in  infinite,  to  lose  all  bound. 

Titles  and  honours  (if  they  prove  his  fate) 

He  lays  aside  to  find  his  dignity  ; 

No  dignity  they  find  in  aught  besides. 

They  triumph  in  externals  (which  conceal 
Man’s  real  glory),  proud  of  an  eclipse  : 

Himself  too  much  he  prizes  to  be  piroud, 

.\nd  nothing  thinks  so  great  in  man  as  man. 

Too  dear  he  holds  his  interest  to  neglect 
Another’s  welfare,  or  his  right  invade : 

Their  interest,  like  a lion,  lives  on  prey. 

They  kindle  at  the  shadow  of  a wrong  ; 

Wrong  he  sustains  with  temper,  looks  on  heaven, 

Nor  stoops  to  think  his  injurer  his  foe. 

Nought  but  what  wounds  his  virtue  wounds  his  peace. 
A covered  heart  their  character  defends ; 

A covered  heart  denies  him  half  his  praise. 

With  nakedness  his  innocence  agrees, 

Wh  lie  their  broad  foliage  testifies  their  fall. 

Their  no-joys  end  where  his  full  feast  begins ; 

His  joys  create,  theirs  murder  future  bliss. 

To  triumph  in  existence  his  alone ; 

And  his  alone  triumphantly  to  think 
His  true  existence  is  not  yet  begun. 

His  glorious  course  was  yesterday  complete  ; 

Des ‘U  then  was  welcome,  yet  life  still  is  sweet. 

[P;  •oerastination.'\ 

Be  wise  to-day ; ’tis  madness  to  defer : 

Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  plead  ; 

Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  pushed  out  of  life. 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time  ; 

Year  after  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled. 

And  to  the  mercies  of  a moment  leaves 
The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 

If  not  so  frequent,  would  not  this  be  strange  ? 

That  ’tis  so  frequent,  this  is  stranger  still. 

Of  man’s  miraculous  mistakes,  this  bears 
The  palm,  ‘ That  all  men  are  about  to  live,’ 

For  ever  on  the  brink  of  being  bom  : 

All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think 
They  one  day  shall  not  drivel,  and  their  pride 
On  this  reversion  takes  up  ready  praise  ; 

At  least  their  own  ; their  future  selves  applaud ; 

How  excellent  that  life  they  ne’er  will  lead  ! 

Time  lodged  in  their  own  hands  is  Folly’s  vails ; 

That  lodged  in  ’^ate’s  to  wisdom  they  consign ; 

The  thing  they  can’t  but  purpose,  they  postpone. 

’Tis  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a fool. 

And  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 

All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man. 

And  that  through  every  stage.  When  young,  indeed. 
In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 

Unanxious  for  ourselves,  and  only  wish. 

As  duteous  sons,  our  fathers  were  more  wise. 

At  thirty  man  suspects  himself  a fool  ; 

Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan ; 

At  fifty  chides  his  infamous  delay. 

Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve ; 

In  all  the  magnanimity  of  thought 
Resolves,  and  re-resolves  ; then  dies  the  same. 

And  why  ? because  he  thinks  himself  immortal. 

All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves; 
Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  fate 
Strikes  through  their  wounded  hearts  the  sudden  dread: 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air. 

Soon  close ; where  past  the  shaft  no  trace  is  found. 

As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains. 

The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel. 

So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death  : 

E’en  with  the  tender  tear  which  nature  sheds 
O’er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave. 


\_From  the  Love  of  Fame.'] 

Not  all  on  books  their  criticism  waste; 

The  genius  of  a dish  some  justly  taste. 

And  eat  their  way  to  fame  1 with  anxious  thought 
The  salmon  is  refused,  the  turbot  bought. 

Impatient  Art  rebukes  the  sun’s  delay. 

And  bids  December  yield  the  fruits  of  May. 

Their  various  cares  in  one  great  point  combine 
The  business  of  their  lives,  that  is,  to  dine  ; 

Half  of  their  precious  day  they  give  the  feast, 

And  to  a kind  digestion  spare  the  rest. 

Apicius  here,  the  taster  of  the  town. 

Feeds  twice  a-week,  to  settle  their  renown. 

These  worthies  of  the  palate  guard  with  care 
The  sacred  annals  of  their  bills  of  fare ; 

In  those  choice  books  their  panegyrics  read. 

And  scorn  the  creatures  that  for  hunger  feed ; 

If  man,  by  feeding  well,  commences  great. 

Much  more  the  worm,  to  whom  that  man  is  meat. 

Belus  with  solid  glory  will  be  crowned ; 

He  buys  no  phantom,  no  vain  empty  sound. 

But  builds  himself  a name ; and  to  be  great. 

Sinks  in  a quarry  an  immense  estate ; 

In  cost  and  grandeur  Chandos  he’ll  outdo ; 

And,  Burlington,  thy  taste  is  not  so  true ; 

The  pile  is  finished,  every  toil  is  past. 

And  full  perfection  is  arrived  at  last ; 

When  lo  ! my  lord  to  some  small  corner  runs. 

And  leaves  state-rooms  to  strangers  and  to  duns. 

The  man  who  builds,  and  wants  wherewith  to  paf 
Provides  a home,  from  which  to  run  away. 

In  Britain  what  is  many  a lordly  seat. 

But  a discharge  in  full  for  an  estate  ? 

Some  for  renown  on  scraps  of  learning  dote. 

And  think  they  grow  immortal  as  they  quote. 

To  patch-work  learned  quotations  are  allied  ; 

Both  strive  tc  make  our  poverty  our  pride. 

Let  high  birth  triumph  ! what  can  be  more  great  ? 
Nothing — but  merit  in  a low  estate. 

To  Virtue’s  humblest  son  let  none  prefer 
Vice,  though  descended  from  the  Conqueror. 

Shall  men,  like  figures,  pass  for  high  or  base. 

Slight  or  important  only  by  their  place  2 
Titles  are  marks  of  honest  men,  and  wise  ; 

The  fool  or  knave  that  wears  a title,  lies. 

They  that  on  glorious  ancestors  enlarge. 

Produce  their  debt  instead  of  their  discharge. 

[The  Fmptmese  of  Riches.'] 

Can  gold  calm  passion,  or  make  reason  shine! 

Can  we  dig  peace  or  wisdom  from  the  mine  ? 
Wisdom  to  gold  prefer,  for  ’tis  much  less 
To  m.ake  our  fortune  than  our  happiness : 

That  happiness  which  great  ones  often  see. 

With  rage  and  wonder,  in  a low  degree. 

Themselves  unblessed.  The  poor  are  only  po<u 
But  what  are  they  who  droop  amid  their  store  2 
Nothing  is  meaner  than  a wretch  of  state. 

The  happy  only  are  the  truly  great. 

Peasants  enjoy  like  appetites  with  kings. 

And  those  best  satisfied  with  cheapest  things. 

Could  both  our  Indies  buy  but  one  new  sense. 

Our  envy  would  be  due  to  large  expense;  ' 

Since  not,  those  pomps  which  to  the  great  belong, 
Are  but  poor  arts  to  mark  them  from  the  throng, 

See  how  they  beg  an  alms  of  Flattery : 

They  languish!  oh,  support  them  with  a lie! 

A decent  ompeteiue  we  fully  taste  ; 

It  strikes  jur  sense,  ’".nd  gives  a constant  feast; 


FROM  17-7 


cyclop/h:i)ia  of 


•lo  1780. 


More  wo  jiLMCcivc  by  dint  of  tlioiiglit  alone; 

Tlie  rich  must  labour  to  po.s.scMS  tlicir  own, 

To  fool  tboir  groat  abundance,  and  requeat 
'i'bcir  liuiiible  friends  to  bel]>  them  to  be  blest; 

’J  o see  their  treasure,  hear  their  glory  told, 

And  aid  the  wretched  impotence  of  gold. 

Jiut  some,  great  souls  1 and  touched  with  warmth 
divine, 

(live  gold  a jirice,  and  teach  its  beams  to  sbine ; 

All  hoarded  treasures  they  rc])ute  a load. 

Nor  think  their  wealth  their  own,  till  well  bestowed, 
(irand  reservoirs  of  public  happiness, 

'I'hrough  secret  streams  diffusively  they  bless, 

And,  while  their  bounties  glide,  concealed  from  view, 
Relieve  our  wants,  and  spare  our  blushes  too. 


JA5IES  THOMSON. 

The  publication  of  the  Seasons  was  an  important 
era  in  the  history  of  lOnglish  poetry’.  So  true  and 
beautiful  are  the  descriptions  in  the  pocTii,  and  so 
entirely  do  they  harmonise  with  those  fresh  feelings 
and  glowing  impulses  w-hich  all  would  wish  to 
cherish,  that  a love  of  nature  seems  to  be  synony- 
mous with  a love  of  Thomson.  It  is  difficult  to  con- 
ceive a person  of  education  in  this  country,  imbued 


with  an  admiration  of  rural  or  woodland  scenery, 
not  entertaining  a strong  affection  and  regard  for 
that  delightful  poet,  who  has  painted  their  charms 
with  so  much  fidelity  and  enthusiasm.  The  .same 
features  of  blandness  and  benevolence,  of  simplicity 
of  design  and  beauty  of  form  and  colour,  which  we 
recognise  as  distinguishing  traits  of  the  natural 
landscape,  are  seen  in  the  pages  of  Thomson,  con- 
veyed by  his  artless  mind  as  faithfully  as  the 
lights  and  shades  on  the  face  of  creation.  No  criti- 
cism or  change  of  style  has,  therefore,  affected  his 
popularity.  We  may  smile  at  sometimes  meeting 
with  a heavy  monotonous  period,  a false  ornament, 
or  tnmid  expression,  the  result  of  an  indolent  mind 
working  itself  up  to  a great  effort,  and  we  may  wish 
the  subjects  of  his  description  were  sometimes  more 
select  and  dignified  ; but  this  drawback  does  not 
affect  our  permanent  regard  or  general  feeling  ; our 
first  love  remains  unaltered  ; and  Thomson  is  still 
the  poet  with  whom  some  of  our  best  and  purest 
associations  are  indissolubly  joined.  In  the  Seasons 


we  have  a poetical  subject  poetically  treated — filled 
to  overliowing  with  tlie  riitliest  materials  of  pcetry, 
and  the  emanations  of  benevolemie.  In  the  Casfle 
of  IniJotence  we  have  the  concentration  or  essence 
of  those  materials  applied  to  a subject  less  poetical, 
but  still  affording  room  for  luxuriant  fancy’,  the 
most  exquisite  art,  and  still  gi  eater  melody  of  ■ 
numbers. 

.James  Thomson  was  born  at  Ednam,  near  Kelso, 
county  of  Roxburgh,  on  the  1 1th  of  September,  1700.  | 
Ills  father,  who  was  then  minister  of  the  parish  of 
Ednam,  removed  a few  years  afterwards  to  that  of 
Southde.an  in  the  same  county,  a iirimitive  ami  j 
retired  district  situated  among  the  lower  slopes  of  ^ 
the  Cheviots.  Here  the  young  poet  sjient  his  boyish  i 
years.  The  gift  of  poesy  came  early,  and  some  j 
lines  written  by  him  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  show  ' | 
how  soon  his  manner  was  formed  : — I j 

Now  I .surveyed  iny  native  faculties. 

And  traced  my  actions  to  their  teeming  source : 

Now  I explored  the  universal  frame, 

(lazed  nature  through,  and  with  interior  light  ! 

Conversed  with  angels  and  unbodied  saints 
That  tread  the  courts  of  the  Kternal  King  I 
(iladly  I would  declare  in  lofty  strains 
The  power  of  Godhead  to  the  sons  of  men,  | 

Rut  thought  is  lost  in  its  immensity : j 

Imagination  wastes  its  strength  in  vain,  j 

And  fancy  tires  and  turns  within  itself,  i 

Struck  with  the  amazing  dejiths  of  Deity  ! 

Ah  ! my  Lord  God  ! in  vain  a tender  youth. 

Unskilled  in  arts  of  deep  philosophy. 

Attempts  to  search  the  bulky  ma.ss  of  matter. 

To  trace  the  rules  of  motion,  and  pursue 
The  phantom  Time,  too  subtle  for  his  grasp: 

Yet  may  I from  thy  most  apparent  works 
Form  some  idea  of  their  wondrous  Author.l 

In  bis  eighteenth  year,  Thomson  was  sent  to  Edin- 
burgh college.  His  father  died,  and  the  poet  pro-  I 
ceeded  to  London  to  pinsh  his  fortune.  His  college  j 
friend  Mallet  procured  him  the  situation  of  tutor  to  I 
the  sou  of  Lord  Binning,  and  being  shown  some  of 
his  descriptions  of  ‘ Winter,’  advised  him  to  connect  , 
them  into  one  regular  poem.  This  was  done,  and 
‘Winter’  w’as  published  in  March  1726,  the  pwet 
having  received  only  three  guineas  for  the  copy- 
right. A second  and  a third  edition  apiieared  the 
same  year.  ‘Summer’ appeared  in  1727.  In  1728  he 
issued  proposals  for  publishing,  by  subscription,  the 
‘Four  Seasons;’  the  number  of  subscribers,  at  a 
guinea  each  copy,  was  .387  ; but  many  took  more 
than  one,  and  Pope  (to  whom  Thomson  had  been  j 
introduced  by  Mallet)  took  three  copies.  The  i 
tragedy  of  Sophonisba  was  ne.xt  produced;  and  in  j 
1731  tile  ])oet  accompanied  the  son  of  Sir  Charles  j 
Talbot,  afterwards  lord  chancellor,  in  the  capacity  . 
of  tutor  or  travelling  companion,  to  the  continent. 
'They’  visited  France.  Switzerland,  and  Italy,  and  it 
is  easy  to  conceive  with  what  pleasure  Thomson  | 
must  have  passeil  or  sojourned  among  scenes  which 
he  had  often  viewed  in  imagination.  In  Noveml'cr  I 
of  the  same  year  the  poet  was  at  Rome,  and  no  j 
doubt  indulged  the  wish  expressed  in  one  of  his  j 
letters,  ‘ to  see  the  fields  where  Virgil  gathered  his  , 
immortal  honey’,  and  tread  the  same  ground  where  ! 
men  have  thought  and  acted  so  greatly’.’  On  his  n - 
turn  ne.xt  year  he  published  his  poem  of  Li/terti/,  and  i 
obtained  the  sinecure  situation  of  Secretary  of  Briefs  l 
in  the  Court  of  Chancery,  which  he  held  till  the  i 
death  of  Lord  'Talbot,  the  cliancellor.  The  succeeil- 

' This  curious  fragment  was  first  published  in  1841,  in  a lile 
of  Thomson  by  Mr  Allan  Cunningham,  prefixed  to  an  illua- 
tratej  edition  of  the  ‘ Seasons.’ 


12 


POETS, 


ENGLISH  LITERATUKE. 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


inp  v-hancellor  bostowed  the  situation  on  anotlier, 
'I'liomson  not  liaving,  it  is  said,  from  chnractorisfic 
iiKlolenco,  solicited  a continuance  of  the  ofiice.  lie 
again  tried  the  stage,  and  produced  Agamemnon, 
M-hich  M-as  coldly  received.  Edward  and  Eleonora 
followc'-i,  and  tlie  poet’s  circumstances  were  bright- 
ened l y a pension  of  L 100  a-y ear,  which  he  ob- 
tained through  Lyttelton  from  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
lie  further  received  the  appointment  of  Surveyor 
Ocnciad  of  the  Leeward  Islands,  the  duties  of  which 
he  wa.s  allowed  to  perform  by  deputy,  and  which 
brought  him  L.300  ]>er  annum.  lie  was  now  in 
comparative  opulence,  and  his  residence  at  Kew- 
lane,  near  Richmond,  was  the  scene  of  social  enjoy- 
ment and  lettered  ease.  Retirement  and  nature 
becaifie,  he  said,  more  and  more  his  passion  every 
day.  ‘I  have  enlarged  my  rural  domain,’  he 
writes  to  a friend  : ‘the  two  fields  next  to  me,  from 
the  first  of  which  I have  walled — no,  no — paled  in, 
.about  as  much  .as  my  garden  consisted  of  before,  so 
that  the  walk  inns  round  the  hedge,  where  you 
may  figure  me  w.alking  any  time  of  the  day,  and 
sometimes  at  night.’  His  house  appears  to  have 


Thomson’s  Cottage. 

been  elegantly  furnished ; the  sale  cat.alogue  of  his 
effects,  which  enumerates  the  contents  of  every 
room,  prepared  after  his  death,  fills  eight  pages  of 
print,  and  his  cellar  was  stocked  with  wines  and 
Scotch  ale.  In  this  snug  suburban  retreat  Thomson 
now  applied  himself  to  finish  the  ‘ Castle  of  Indo- 
lence,’ on  which  he  had  been  long  engaged,  and  a 
tragedy  on  the  subject  of  Coriolanus.  The  poem 
was  published  in  lilay  1748.  In  August  following, 
he  took  a boat  at  Hammersmith  to  convey  him  to 
Kew,  after  having  walked  from  London.  He  caught 
cold,  was  thrown  into  a fever,  and,  after  a short  ill- 
ness, died  (27th  of  August  1748).  No  poet  was  ever 
more  deeply  lamented  or  more  sincerely  mourned. 

Though  born  a poet,  Thomson  seems  to  have 
advanced  but  .slowly,  and  by  reiterated  efforts,  to 


refinement  of  taste.  The  n.atural  fervour  tf  the 
man  overpowered  the  rules  of  the  scholar.  The 
first  edition  of  the  ‘ Seasons’  dilfers  materially  from 
the  second,  and  the  second  still  more  from  the  third. 
Every  alteration  was  .an  improvement  in  delicacy  of 
thought  and  language,  of  which  we  may  mention 
one  instance.  In  the  scene  betwixt  Hamon  and 
Musidor.a — ‘the  solemnly-ridiculous  bathing,’  as 
Campbell  has  justly  termed  it— the  poet  had  origi- 
nally introduced  three  damsels!  Of  propriety  of 
language  consequent  on  these  corrections,  we  may 
cite  an  example  in  a line  from  the  episode  of  La- 
vinia— 

And  as  he  viewed  her  ardent  o’er  and  o’er, 
stood  originally 

And  as  he  run  her  ardent  o’er  and  o’er. 

One  of  the  finest  and  most  picturesque  similes  in 
the  work  was  supplied  by  Pope,  to  whom  Thomson 
had  given  an  interleaved  copy  of  the  edition  of  1736. 
The  quotation  will  not  be  out  of  place  here,  as  it  is 
honourable  to  the  friendship  of  the  brother  poets, 
and  tends  to  show  the  importance  of  careful  revision, 
without  which  no  excellence  can  be  attained  in 
literature  or  the  arts.  How  deeply  must  it  be  re- 
gretted that  Pope  did  not  oftener  write  in  blank 
verse  1 In  autumn,  describing  Lavinia,  the  lines  of 
Thomson  were — 

Thoughtless  of  beauty,  she  was  Beauty’s  self, 

Recluse  among  the  wood.s  ; if  city  dames 

Will  deign  their  faith  : .and  thus  she  went,  compelled 

By  strong  necessity,  with  as  serene 

And  pleased  a look  as  Patience  e’er  put  on, 

To  glean  Palemon’s  fields. 

Pope  drew  his  pen  through  this  description,  and 
supplied  the  following  lines,  which  Thomson  must 
have  been  too  much  gratified  with  not  to  adopt 
with  pride  and  pleasure — and  so  they  stand  in  all 
the  subsequent  editions 

Thoughtless  of  bi.uity,  she  was  Beauty’s  self. 
Recluse  .among  the  close-embowering  woods. 

As  in  the  hollow  breast  of  Apennine, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  encircling  hills 
A myrtle  rises,  far  from  human  eyes. 

And  breathes  its  balmy  fragrance  o’er  the  wild  ; 

So  flourished  blooming,  and  unseen  by  all, 

The  sweet  Lavima  ; till  at  length  compelled 
By  strong  Necessity’s  supreme  command. 

With  smiling  patience  in  her  looks,  she  went 
To  glean  Palemon’s  fields.* 

That  the  genius  of  Thom.son  wuis  purifying  and 
w’orking  off  its  alloys  up  to  the  termination  of  his 
existence,  may  be  seen  from  the  superiority  in  style 
and  diction  of  the  ‘Castle  of  Indolence.’  ‘ Between 
the  period  of  his  composing  the  Seasons  and  the 
C.astie  cf  Indolence,’  says  Mr  C<ampbell,  ‘he  wrote 
several  works  which  seem  hardly  to  accord  with  the 
improvement  and  maturity  of  his  taste  exhibited  in 
the  latter  production.  To  the  Castle  of  Indolence 
he  brought  not  oidy  the  full  nature,  but  the  perfect 
art  of  a poet.  The  materials  of  that  exquisite  poem 
are  derived  originally  from  Tasso ; but  he  was  more 
immediately  indebted  for  them  to  the  Faery  Qu-on  ; 
and  in  meeting  with  the  paternal  spirit  of  Spen.-er, 
he  seems  as  if  he  were  admitted  more  intimately 
to  the  home  of  inspiration.’  If  the  critic  had  gone 

* The  interleaved  copy  with  Pope’s  and  Thomson’s  altera- 
tions is  in  the  possession  of  the  Rev.  J.  Mitford.  See  that 
gentleman's  edition  of  Gray’s  works,  voi.  ii.  p.  8,  where  othei 
instances  are  given.  All  Pope’s  corrections  were  adopted  hi 
Thomson. 


13 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TO  1780 


over  the  alterations  in  the  ‘Seasons,’  which  Thomson 
had  been  more  or  less  engaged  upon  for  about  six- 
teen years,  he  would  have  seen  the  gradual  improve- 
ment of  his  taste,  as  well  as  imagination.  So  far  as 
the  art  of  the  poet  is  concerned,  the  last  corrected 
edition  is  a new  work.  The  power  of  Thomson, 
however,  lay  not  in  liis  art,  but  in  the  exuberance  of 
his  genius,  which  sometimes  required  to  be  dis- 
ciplined and  controlled.  Tlie  poetic  glow  is  spread 
over  all.  He  never  slackens  in  his  enthusiasm,  nor 
tires  of  pointing  out  the  iihenomenaof  nature  which, 
indolent  as  he  was,  he  had  surveyed  under  every 
aspect,  till  he  liad  hecome  familiar  with  all.  Among 
the  mountains,  vales,  and  forests,  he  seems  to  realise 
his  own  words — 

Man  superior  walks 

Amid  the  glad  creation,  musing  praise, 

And  looking  lively  gratitude. 

But  he  looks  also,  as  Johnson  has  finely  observed, 
‘with  the  eye  which  nature  bestows  only  on  a poet 
— the  eye  that  distinguishes,  in  everything  presented 
to  its  view,  whatever  there  is  on  w'hich  imagination 
can  delight  to  be  detained,  and  with  a mind  that  at 
once  comprehends  tlie  vast,  and  attends  to  the 
minute.’  lie  looks  also  with  a heart  that  feels  for 
all  mankind.  Ilis  sympathies  are  universal.  Ilis 
touching  allusions  to  the  condition  of  the  poor  and 
suffering,  to  the  hapless  state  of  bird  and  beast  in 
winter;  the  description  of  the  peasant  perishing  in 
the  snow,  the  Siberian  exile,  or  the  Arab  pilgrims, 
all  are  marked  with  that  humanity  and  true  feeling 
which  shows  that  the  poet’s  virtues  ‘ formed  the 
magic  of  his  song.’  The  genuine  impulses  under 
wliich  lie  wrote  he  has  expressed  in  one  noble  stanza 
of  the  ‘ Castle  of  Indolence  :’ — 

I care  not.  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny ; 

You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature’s  grace, 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky. 

Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face; 

You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 

The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  stream,  at  eve  ; 

Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace. 

And  I their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave ; 

Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  nought  can  me  bereave. 

‘ The  love  of  nature,’  says  Coleridge,  ‘ seems  to  have 
led  Thomson  to  a cheerful  religion  ; and  a gloomy 
religion  to  have  led  Cowper  to  a love  of  nature.  The 
me  would  carry  his  fellow-men  along  with  him  into 
nature ; the  other  flies  to  nature  from  his  fellow- 
men.  In  chastity  of  diction,  however,  and  the  har- 
mony of  blank  verse,  Cowper  leaves  Thomson  im- 
measurably below  him  ; yet,  I still  feel  the  latter  to 
have  been  the  born  poet.’  The  ardour  and  fulness 
of  Thomson’s  descriptions  distinguish  them  from 
those  of  Cowper,  who  was  naturally  less  enthusias- 
tic, and  who  was  restricted  by  his  religious  tenets, 
and  by  his  critical  and  classically  formed  taste.  The 
diction  of  the  Seasons  is  at  times  pure  and  musical ; 
it  is  too  elevated  and  ambitious,  however,  for  ordi- 
nary themes,  and  where  the  poet  descends  to  minute 
description,  or  to  humorous  or  satirical  scenes  (as 
in  the  .account  of  the  chase  and  foxhunters’  din- 
ner in  Autumn),  the  effect  is  grotesque  and  absurd. 
Mr  Campbell  has  happily  said,  that  ‘as  long  as 
Thomson  dwells  in  the  pure  contemplation  of  nature, 
and  appeals  to  the  universal  poetry  of  the  human 
breast,  his  redundant  style  comes  to  us  as  something 
venial  and  adventitious — it  is  the  flowing  vesture  of 
the  Druid;  and  perhaps  to  the  general  experience, 
is  rather  imposing  ; but  when  he  returns  to  the 
familiar  narrations  or  courtesies  of  life,  the  same 
liction  ceases  to  seem  the  mantle  of  inspiration,  and 


only  strikes  us  by  its  unwieldy  difference  from  the 
common  costume  of  expression.’  Cowper  avoided 
this  oyy/ec/«ng  between  his  style  and  his  sub- 
jects, adaiiting  one  to  the  other  with  inimitable  ease, 
grace,  and  variety ; yet  oidy  rising  in  one  or  two 
instances  to  the  higher  flights  of  Thomson. 

In  184.1,  a Poem  to  the  Memory  of  Mr  Congreve,, 
Inscribed  to  her  Grace  Henrietta,  jjuchess  of  Marl- 
borough, was  reprinted  for  the  Percy  Society  (under 
the  care  of  Mr  Peter  Cunningham)  as  a genuine 
though  unacknowledged  production  of  Thomson, 
first  published  in  1729.  We  have  no  doubt  of  the 
genuineness  of  this  poem  as  the  work  of  Thomson. 
It  possesses  all  the  characteristics  of  his  style— its 
exaggeration,  enthusiasm,  and  the  peculiar  rhythm 
of  his  blank  verse.  The  poet’s  praise  of  Congreve 
is  excessive,  and  must  have  been  designed  rather  to 
gratify  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough  than  to  record 
Thomson’s  own  deliberate  convictions.  Jeremy 
Collier  would  have  started  with  amazement  from 
such  a tribute  as  the  following : — 

What  art  thou.  Death  ! by  mankind  poorly  feared, 
Yet  period  of  their  ills.  On  thy  near  shore 
Trembling  they  stand,  and  see  through  dreaded  mists 
The  eternal  port,  irresolute  to  leave 
This  various  misery,  these  air-fed  dreams 
Which  men  call  life  and  fame.  Mistaken  minds  1 
’Tis  reason’s  prime  aspiring,  greatly  just ; 

’Tis  happiness  supreme,  to  venture  forth 
In  quest  of  nobler  worlds  ; to  try  the  deeps 
Of  dark  futurity,  with  heaven  our  guide. 

The  unerring  Hand  that  led  us  safe  through  time. 
That  planted  in  the  soul  this  powerful  hope. 

This  infinite  ambition  of  new  life. 

And  endless  joys,  still  rising,  ever  new. 

These  Congreve  tastes,  safe  on  the  ethereal  coast, 
Joined  to  the  numberless  immortal  quire 
Of  spirits  blest.  High-seated  among  these. 

He  sees  the  public  fathers  of  mankind. 

The  greatly  good,  those  universal  minds. 

Who  drew  the  sword  or  planned  the  holy  scheme. 

For  liberty  and  right  ; to  check  the  rage 
Of  blood-stained  tyranny,  and  save  a world. 

Such,  high-bom  Marlbro’,  be  thy  sire  divine 
With  wonder  named  ; fair  freedom’s  champion  he, 

P>y  heaven  approved,  a conqueror  without  guilt  ; 

And  such  on  earth  his  friend,  and  joined  on  high 
By  deathless  love,  Godolphin’s  patriot  worth. 

Just  to  his  country’s  fame,  y'et  of  her  W'ealth 
With  honour  frugal ; above  interest  great. 

Hail  men  immortal!  social  virtues  hail! 

First  heirs  of  praise!  But  I,  with  weak  essay. 

Wrong  the  suj)erior  theme  ; while  heavenly  choirs. 

In  strains  high  warbled  to  celestial  harps. 

Resound  your  names  ; and  Congreve’s  added  voice 
In  heaven  exalts  what  he  admired  below. 

M'ith  these  he  mixes,  now  no  more  to  swerve 
From  reason’s  purest  law ; no  more  to  please. 

Borne  by  the  torrent  down  a sensual  age. 

Pardon,  loved  shade,  that  I with  friendly  blame. 

Slight  note  thy  error  ; not  to  wrong  thy  worth. 

Or  shade  thy  memory  (far  from  my  soul 
Be  that  base  aim),  but  haply  to  deter. 

From  flattering  the  gross  vulgar,  future  pens 
Powerful  like  thine  in  every  grace,  and  skilled 
To  win  the  listening  soul  with  virtuous  charms. 

The  gentle  and  benevolent  nattire  of  Thomson  Is 
seen  in  this  slight  shade  of  censure.  He,  too,  flat- 
tered the  ‘ gross  vulgar,’  but  it  was  with  adulation, 
not  licentiousness. 

We  subjoin  a few  of  the  detached  pictures  and 
descriptions  in  the  ‘ Seasons,’  and  part  of  the 
‘ Castle  of  Indolence.’ 


U 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


fOETS. 


[^Sfioicers  tn  Sjirhtg.] 

The  north-cast  spends  his  rage  ; he  now,  shut  up 
Within  his  iron  cave,  the  effusive  south 
\\’anns  the  wide  air,  and  o’er  the  void  of  heaven 
Brea  tiles  the  big  clouds  with  vernal  showers  distent. 
At  first,  a dusky  wreath  they  sccni  to  rise. 

Scarce  staining  either,  but  by  swift  degrees, 

111  heaps  on  heaps  the  doubled  vapour  sails 
Along  the  loaded  sky,  and,  mingling  deep. 

Sits  on  the  horizon  round,  a settled  gloom  ; 

I Not  such  as  wintry  storms  on  mortals  shed, 
Oppre.ssing  life  ; but  lovely,  gentle,  kind. 

And  full  of  every  hope,  of  every  joy. 

The  wish  of  nature.  Gradual  sinks  the  breeze 
Into  a perfect  calm,  that  not  a breath 
Is  heard  to  quiver  through  the  closing  woods. 

Or  rustling  turn  the  many-twinkling  leaves 
Of  aspen  tall.  The  uncurling  floods,  diffused 
In  glassy  breadth,  seem,  through  delusive  lapse. 
Forgetful  of  their  course.  ’Tis  silence  all. 

And  pleasing  expectation.  Herds  and  flocks 
Drop  the  dry  sprig,  and,  mute-imploring,  eye 
The  falling  verdure.  Hushed  in  short  suspense. 

The  plumy  people  streak  their  wings  with  oil. 

To  throw  the  lucid  moisture  trickling  off. 

And  wait  the  approaching  sign,  to  strike  at  once 
Into  the  general  choir.  Even  mountains,  vales, 
And  forests,  seem  impatient  to  demand 
The  promised  sweetness.  Man  superior  walks 
Amid  the  glad  creation,  musing  praise, 

And  looking  lively  gratitude.  At  last. 

The  clouds  consign  their  treasures  to  the  fields, 

And,  softly  shaking  on  the  dimpled  pool 
Prelusive  drops,  let  all  their  moisture  flow 
In  large  effusion  o’er  the  freshened  world. 

The  stealing  shower  is  scarce  to  patter  heard 
By  such  as  wander  through  the  forest-walks. 

Beneath  the  umbrageous  multitude  of  leaves. 

[StVefs  Pairing  in  Spring.'] 

To  the  deep  woods 

They  haste  away,  all  as  their  fancy  leads. 

Pleasure,  or  food,  or  secret  safety,  prompts  ; 

That  nature’s  great  command  may  be  obeyed : 

Nor  all  the  sweet  sensations  they  perceive 
Indulged  in  vain.  Some  to  the  holly  hedge 
Nestling  repair,  and  to  the  thicket  some  ; 

Some  to  the  rude  protection  of  the  thorn 
Commit  their  feeble  offspring  ; the  cleft  tree 
Offers  its  kind  concealment  to  a few. 

Their  food  its  insects,  and  its  moss  their  nests  : 
Others  apart,  far  in  the  grassy  dale 
Or  roughening  waste  their  humble  texture  weave; 
But  most  in  woodland  solitudes  delight. 

In  unfrequented  glooms  or  shaggy  banks, 

Steep,  and  divided  by  a babbling  brook. 

Whose  murmurs  soothe  them  all  the  live-long 
day. 

When  by  kind  duty  fixed.  Among  the  roots 
Of  hazel  pendent  o’er  the  plaintive  stream. 

They  frame  the  first  foundation  of  their  domes. 

Dry  sprigs  of  trees,  in  artful  fabric  laid. 

And  bound  with  clay  together.  Now  ’tis  nought 
But  restless  hurry  through  the  busy  air. 

Beat  by  unnumbered  wings.  The  swallow  sweeps 
The  slimy  pool,  to  build  his  hanging  house 
Intent : and  often  from  the  careless  back 
Of  herds  and  flocks  a thousand  tugging  bills 
Steal  hair  and  wool ; and  oft,  when  unobserved. 
Pluck  from  the  bam  a straw  ; till  soft  and  warm. 
Clean  and  complete,  their  habitation  grows. 

As  thus  the  patient  dam  assiduous  sits. 

Not  to  be  tempted  from  her  tender  task 
Or  by  sharp  hunger  or  by  smooth  delight. 


Thovigh  the  whole  loosened  spring  around  her 
blows. 

Her  sympathi.sing  lover  takes  his  stand 
High  on  the  opponent  bank,  and  ceaseless  sings 
The  tedious  time  away  ; or  else  supplies 
Her  place  a moment,  while  she  sudden  flits 
To  pick  the  scanty  meal.  The  appointed  time 
With  pious  toil  fulfilled,  the  callow  young. 

Warmed  and  expanded  into  perfect  life. 

Their  brittle  bondage  break,  and  come  to  light ; 

A helple.ss  family!  demanding  food 

With  constant  clamour : 0 what  passions  then. 

What  melting  sentiments  of  kindly  care, 

On  the  new  parent  seize ! away  they  fly 
Affectionate,  and,  undesiring,  bear 
The  mosit  delicious  morsel  to  their  young. 

Which,  equally  distributed,  again 
The  search  begins.  Even  so  a gentle  pair. 

By  fortune  sunk,  but  formed  of  generous  mould. 

And  charmed  with  cares  beyond  the  vulgar  breast. 

In  some  lone  cot  amid  the  distant  woods. 

Sustained  alone  by  providential  heaven. 

Oft  as  they,  weeping,  eye  their  infant  train. 

Check  their  own  appetites,  and  give  them  all. 

Nor  toil  alone  they  scorn  ; exalting  love. 

By  the  great  Father  of  the  spring  inspired. 

Gives  instant  courage  to  the  fearful  race. 

And  to  the  simple  art.  AVith  stealthy  wing. 

Should  some  rude  foot  their  woody  haunts  molest. 
Amid  the  neighbouring  bush  they  si.  "'nt  drop. 

And  whirring  thence,  as  if  alarmed,  deseive 
The  unfeeling  schoolboy.  Hence  around  the  head 
Of  wandering  swain  the  white-winged  plover  wheels 
Her  sounding  flight,  and  then  directly  on. 

In  long  excursion,  skims  the  level  lawm 
To  tempt  him  from  her  nest.  The  wild-duck 
hence 

O’er  the  rough  moss,  and  o’er  the  trackless  waste 
The  heath-hen  flutters  : pious  fraud ! to  lead 
The  hot-pursuing  spaniel  far  astray. 

[A  Summer  3Io)~ning.'] 

With  quickened  step 

Brown  night  retires : young  day  pours  in  apace. 

And  opens  all  the  laivny  pro.spect  wide. 

The  dripping  rock,  the  mountain’s  misty  top 
Swell  on  the  sight,  and  brighten  with  the  dawn. 

Blue,  through  the  dusk,  the  smoking  currents  shine  ; 
And  frofn  the  bladed  field  the  fearful  hare 
Limps  awkward  ; while  along  the  forest  glade 
The  wild-deer  trip,  and  often  turning  gaze 
At  early  passenger.  Music  awakes 
The  native  voice  of  undisserabled  joy  ; 

And  thick  around  the  woodland  hymns  arise. 

Roused  by  the  cock,  the  soon-clad  shepherd  leaves 
His  mossy  cottage,  where  with  peace  he  dwells  ; 

And  from  the  crowded  fold,  in  order,  drives 
His  flock,  to  taste  the  verdure  of  the  mom. 

[Summer  Evening.'] 

Low  walks  the  sun,  and  broadens  by  degrees. 

Just  o’er  the  verge  of  day.  The  shifting  clouds 
Assembled  gay,  a richly  gorgeous  train. 

In  all  their  pomp  attend  his  setting  throne. 

Air,  earth,  and  ocean  smile  immense.  And  now. 

As  if  his  weary  chariot  sought  the  bowers 
Of  Amphitrite,  and  her  tending  nymphs, 

(So  Grecian  fable  sung)  he  dips  his  orb  ; 

Now  half  immersed  ; and  now  a golden  curve 
Gives  one  bright  glance,  then  total  disappears.  * * 

Confessed  from  yonder  slow-extinguished  clouds, 
All  ether  softening,  sober  evening  takes 
Her  wonted  station  in  the  middle  air  ; 

A thousand  shadows  at  her  beck.  First  this 

15 


FROM  1727  CYCLOP^iniA  OF  to  17bo, 


She  Rends  on  earth  ; tlicn  that  of  deeper  dye 
Steals  soft  behind  ; and  then  a deeper  still, 

In  circle  following  circle,  gathers  round. 

To  close  tlie  face  of  things.  A fresher  gale 
Begins  to  wave  the  wood,  and  stir  the  stream. 
Sweeping  with  shadowy  gust  the  fields  of  corn  : 
While  the  quail  clamours  for  his  running  mate. 
Wide  o’er  the  thistly  lawn,  as  swells  the  lireeze, 

A whitening  shower  of  vegetable  down 
Amusive  floats.  The  kind  impartial  care 
Of  nature  nought  disdains:  thoughtful  to  feed 
Her  lowest  sons,  and  clothe  the  coming  year, 
from  field  to  field  the  feathered  seeds  she  wings. 

His  folded  flock  secure,  the  shepherd  home 
Hies  merry-hearted  ; and  by  turns  relieves 
The  ruddy  milkmai<l  of  her  brimming  pail ; 

The  beauty  whom  perhaps  his  witless  heart — 
Fnknowing  what  the  joy-mixed  anguish  means — 
Sincerely  loves,  by  that  best  language  shorvn 
Of  cordial  glances,  and  obliging  deeds. 

Onward  they  pass  o'er  many  a panting  height. 

And  valley  sunk,  and  unfrequented  ; where 
At  fall  of  eve  the  fairy  people  throng. 

In  various  game  and  revelry,  to  pass 
The  summer  night,  as  village  stories  tell. 

But  far  about  they  wander  from  the  grave 
Of  him  whom  his  ungentle  fortune  urged 
Against  his  own  sad  breast  to  lift  the  hand 
Of  impious  violence.  The  lonely  tower 
Is  also  shunned  ; whose  mournful  chambers  hold — 
So  night-struck  fancy  dreams — the  yelling  ghost. 

Among  the  crooked  lanes,  on  every  hedge. 

The  glowworm  lights  his  gem ; and  through  the  dark 
A moving  radiance  twinkles.  Evening  yields 
The  world  to  night ; not  in  her  winter  robe 
Of  massy  Stygian  woof,  but  loose  arrayed 
In  mantle  dun.  A faint  erroneous  ray, 

(ilanced  from  the  imperfect  surfaces  of  things. 

Flings  half  an  image  on  the  straining  eye; 

While  wavering  woods,  and  villages,  and  streams. 
And  rocks,  and  mountain-tops,  that  long  retained 
The  ascending  gleam,  are  all  one  swimming  scene. 
Uncertain  if  beheld.  Sudden  to  heaven 
Thence  weary  vision  turns  ; where,  leading  soft 
The  silent  hours  of  love,  with  purest  ray 
Sweet  Venus  shines  ; and  from  her  genial  rise. 

When  daylight  sickens  till  it  springs  afresh. 
Unrivalled  reigns,  the  fairest  lamp  of  night. 

[Autumn  Evening  Scene.'] 

But  see  the  fading  many-coloured  woods. 

Shade  deepening  over  shade,  the  country  round 
Imbrown  ; a crowded  umbrage  dusk  and  dun. 

Of  every  hue,  from  wan  declining  green 
To  sooty  dark.  These  now  the  lonesome  muse. 

Low  whispering,  lead  into  their  leaf-strown  walks. 
And  give  the  season  in  its  latest  view. 

IMeantime,  light  sh.adowing  all,  a sober  calm 
P'leeces  unbounded  ether  : whose  least  wave 
Stands  tremulous,  uncertain  where  to  turn 
The  gentle  current : while  illumined  wide. 

The  dewy-skirted  clouds  imbibe  the  sun, 

.\nd  through  their  lucid  veil  his  softened  force 
Shed  o’er  the  peaceful  world.  Then  is  the  time. 

For  those  whom  virtue  and  whom  nature  charm. 

To  steal  themselves  from  the  degenerate  crowd. 

And  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things  : 

To  tread  low-thoughted  vice  beneath  their  feet ; 

To  .soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace  ; 

,\nd  woo  lone  Quiet  in  her  silent  walks. 

Thus  solitary,  and  in  pensive  guise. 

Oft  let  me  wander  o’er  the  russet  mead. 

And  through  the  saddened  grove,  where  scarce  is 
heard 

•''ne  dying  strain,  to  cheer  the  woodman’s  toil. 


Haply  some  widowed  songster  pours  his  plaint. 

Ear,  in  faint  warblings,  through  the  tawny  copse; 
Wliile  congregated  thrushes,  linnets,  larks, 

.^nd  each  wild  throat,  whose  artless  strains  so  late 
Swelled  all  the  music  of  the  swarming  shades. 
Robbed  of  their  tuneful  souls,  now  shivering  sit 
On  the  dead  tree,  a dull  despondent  flock: 

With  not  a brightness  waving  o’er  their  plumes. 
And  nought  save  chattering  discord  in  their  note, 
f)  let  not,  aimed  from  some  inhuman  eye. 

The  gun  the  music  of  the  coming  year 
Destroy  ; and  harmless,  unsuspecting  harm. 

Lay  the  weak  tribes  a miserable  prey 
In  mingled  murder,  fluttering  on  the  ground  ! 

The  ])ale  descending  year,  yet  pleasing  still, 

A gentler  mood  inspires  ; for  now  the  leaf 
Incessant  rustles  from  the  mournful  grove; 

Oft  startling  such  as  studious  walk  below. 

And  slowly  circles  through  the  waving  air. 

But  should  a quicker  breeze  amid  the  boughs 
Sob,  o’er  the  sky  the  leafy  deluge  streams ; 

Till  choked,  and  matted  with  the  dreary  shower. 
The  forest  walks,  at  every  rising  gale. 

Roll  wide  the  withered  waste,  and  whistle  bleak. 
Fled  is  the  blasted  verdure  of  the  fields ; 

And,  shrunk  into  their  beds,  the  flowery  race 
Their  sunny  robes  resign.  E’en  what  remained 
Of  stronger  fruits  falls  from  the  naked  tree  ; 

And  woods,  fields,  gardens,  orchards  all  around. 

The  desolated  prospect  thrills  the  soul.  ^ * 

The  western  sun  withdraws  the  shortened  day. 
And  humid  evening,  gliding  o’er  the  sky. 

In  her  chill  progress,  to  the  ground  condensed 
The  vapour  throws.  Where  creeping  waters  ooze, 
W'here  marshes  stagnate,  and  where  rivers  wind. 
Cluster  the  rolling  fogs,  anil  swim  along 
The  dusky-mantled  lawn.  Meanwhile  the  moon, 
Full-orbed,  and  bi'eaking  through  the  scattered 
clouds. 

Show's  her  broad  visage  in  the  crimsoned  cast. 
Turned  to  the  sun  direct  her  .spotted  disk, 

\\  here  mountains  rise,  umbrageous  dales  descend. 
And  caverns  deep  as  optic  tube  descries, 

A smaller  earth,  gives  us  his  blaze  again, 

T'oid  of  its  flame,  and  sheds  a softer  day. 

Now  through  the  passing  clouds  .she  seems  to 
stoop. 

Now  up  the  pure  cerulean  rides  sublime. 

Wide  the  pale  deluge  floats,  and  .streaming  mild 
O’er  the  skied  mountain  to  the  shadowy  vale, 

While  rocks  and  floods  reflect  the  quivering  gleam  ; 
The  whole  air  W'hitens  with  a boundless  tide 
Of  silver  radiance  trembling  round  the  world.  * * 

The  lengthened  night  elapsed,  the  morning  shines 
Serene,  in  all  her  dewy  beauty  bright. 

Unfolding  fair  the  last  autumnal  day. 

And  now  the  mounting  sun  di.spels  the  fog ; , 

The  rigid  hoar-frost  melts  before  his  beam ; 

And  hung  on  every  spray,  on  every  blade 
Of  grass,  the  myriad  dew-drops  twinkle  round. 

[Episode  of  Lavinia.] 

The  lovely  young  Lavinia  once  had  friends  ; 

And  Fortune  .smiled,  deceitful,  on  her  birth  ; 

For,  in  her  helpless  years  deprived  of  all. 

Of  every  stay,  .save  innocence  and  heaven. 

She,  with  her  widowed  mother,  feeble,  old. 

And  poor,  lived  in  a cottage,  far  retired 
.Umong  the  windings  of  a woody  vale  ; 

By  solitude  and  deep  surrounding  shades. 

But  more  by  bashful  modesty,  concealed. 

Together  thus  they  shunned  the  cruel  scorn 
Which  virtue,  sunk  to  poverty,  would  meet 
From  giddy  passion  and  low-minded  pride; 

Almost  on  Nature’s  common  bounty  fed  ; 

1<I 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  TFIOMSOIV. 


|~  POKTH. 

I 

Like  tlie  gay  birds  that  sung  them  to  repose, 
Content,  and  careless  of  to-morrow’s  fare. 

}Ier  form  was  fresher  than  the  morning  rose 
When  the  dew  wets  its  leaves ; unstained  and  pure, 
As  is  the  lily,  or  the  mountain  snow. 

The  modest  virtues  mingled  in  her  eyes, 

Still  on  the  ground  dejected,  darting  all 
Their  humid  beams  into  the  blooming  flowers: 

Or  when  the  mournful  tale  her  mother  told, 

Of  what  her  faithless  fortune  promised  once. 
Thrilled  in  her  thought,  they,  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  evening,  shone  in  tears.  A native  grace 
Sivt  fair-proportioned  on  her  polished  limbs. 

Veiled  ip  a simple  robe,  their  best  attire. 

Beyond  the  pomp  of  dress  ; for  loveliness 
Needs  not  theToreign  aid  of  ornament, 

But  is,  when  unadorned,  adorned  the  most. 
Thoughtless  of  beauty,  she  was  beauty’s  self. 

Recluse  amid  the  close-embowering  woods. 

As  in  the  hollow  breast  of  Apennine, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  encircling  hills, 

A myrtle  rises,  far  from  human  eye. 

And  breathes  its  balmy  fragrance  o’er  the  wild ; 

So  flourished  blooming,  and  unseen  by  all. 

The  sweet  Lavinia  ; till,  at  length,  compelled 
By  strong  Necessity’s  supreme  command, 

With  smiling  patience  in  her  looks,  she  went 
To  glean  Palemon’s  fields.  The  pride  of  swains 
Palemcn  was,  the  generous,  and  the  rich ; 

Who  led  the  rural  life  in  all  its  joy 
And  elegance,  such  as  Arcadian  song 
Transmit  i from  ancient  uncorrupted  times  ; 

M'hen  tyrant  custom  had  not  shackled  man. 

But  free  to  follow  nature  was  the  mode. 

He  then,  his  fancy  with  autumnal  scenes 
Amusing,  chanced  beside  his  reaper-train 
To  walk,  when  poor  Lavinia  drew  his  eye ; 
Unconscious  of  her  power,  and  turning  quick 
With  unaffected  blushes  from  his  gaze : 

He  saw  her  charming,  but  he  saw  not  half 
I The  chai’ins  her  domicast  modesty  concealed. 

That  very  moment  love  and  chaste  desire 
Sprung  in  his  bosom,  to  himself  unknown  ; 

For  still  the  world  prevailed,  and  its  dread  laugh. 
Which  scarce  the  firm  philosopher  can  scorn. 

Should  his  heart  own  a gleaner  in  the  field : 

And  thus  in  secret  to  his  soul  he  sighed : 

‘ What  pity  ! that  so  delicate  a form, 

By  beauty  kindled,  where  enlivening  sense 
And  more  than  vulgar  goodness  seem  to  dwell. 
Should  be  devoted  to  the  rude  embrace 
Of  some  indecent  clown  ! She  looks,  methinks. 

Of  old  Acasto’s  line  ; and  to  my  mind 
Recalls  that  patron  of  my  happy  life, 

From  whom  my  liberal  fortune  took  its  rise ; 

Now  to  the  dust  gone  down  ; his  houses,  lands. 

And  once  fair-spreading  family,  dissolved. 

’Tis  said  that  in  some  lone  obscure  retreat, 

Urged  by  remembrance  sad,  and  decent  pride, 

Far  from  those  scenes  w'hich  knew  their  better  days. 
His  aged  widow  and  his  daughter  live, 

VV’hom  yet  my  fruitless  search  could  never  find. 
Romantic  wish  ! would  this  the  daughter  were  !’ 
When,  strict  inquiring,  from  herself  he  found 
She  was  the  same,  the  daughter  of  his  friend. 

Of  bountiful  Acasto,  who  can  speak 

The  mingled  passions  that  surprised  his  heart. 

And  through  his  nerves  in  shivering  transport  ran  ? 
Then  blazed  his  smothered  flame,  avowed,  and  bold ; 
And  as  he  viewed  her,  ardent,  o’er  and  o’er. 

Love,  gratitude,  and  pity,  wept  at  once. 

Confused  and  frightened  at  his  sudden  tears. 

Her  rising  beauties  flushed  a higher  bloom. 

As  thus  Paleinon,  passionate  and  just. 

Poured  out  the  pious  rapture  of  his  soul. 

‘ And  art  thou,  then,  Acasto’s  dear  remains ! 

44 


She,  whom  my  restless  gratitude  has  sought. 

So  long  in  vain  ? Oh  heavens  1 the  very  same, 

The  softened  image  of  my  noble  friend, 

Alive  his  every  look,  his  every  feature. 

More  elegantly  touclied.  Sweeter  than  Spring! 

Thou  sole  surviving  blossom  from  the  root 
That  nourished  up  my  fortune!  Say,  ah  where, 

In  what  sequestered  desert  hast  thou  drawn 
The  kindest  aspect  of  delighted  Heaven  2 
Into  such  beauty  spread,  and  blown  so  fair; 

Though  poverty’s  cold  wind,  and  crushing  rain. 

Beat  keen  and  heavy  on  thy  tender  years  2 

Oh  let  me  now  into  a richer  soil 

Transplant  thee  safe  ! where  vernal  suns  and  showers 

Diffuse  their  warmest,  largest  influence  ; 

And  of  my  garden  be  the  pride  and  joy ! 

Ill  it  befits  thee,  oh,  it  ill  befits 
Acasto’s  daughter,  his  whose  open  stores. 

Though  vast,  were  little  to  his  ample  heart. 

The  father  of  a country,  thus  to  pick 
The  very  refuse  of  those  harvest-fields. 

Which  from  his  bounteous  friendship  I enjoy. 

Then  throw  that  shameful  pittance  from  thy  hand. 
But  ill  applied  to  such  a rugged  task  ; 

The  fields,  the  master,  all,  my  fair,  are  thine ; 

If  to  the  various  blessings  which  tby  house 
Has  on  me  lavished,  thou  wilt  add  that  bliss, 

That  dearest  bliss,  the  power  of  blessing  thee  !’ 

Here  ceased  the  youth : yet  still  his  speaking  eye 
Expressed  the  sacred  triumph  of  his  soul. 

With  conscious  virtue,  gratitude,  and  love. 

Above  the  vulgar  joy  divinely  raised. 

Nor  wanted  he  reply.  Won  by  the  charm 

Of  goodness  irresistible,  and  all 

In  sweet  disortler  lost,  she  blushed  consent. 

The  news  immediate  to  her  mother  brought. 

While,  pierced  with  anxious  thought,  she  pined  away 
The  lonely  moments  for  Lavinia’s  fate  ; 

Amazed,  and  scarce  believing  what  she  heai  1, 

Joy  seized  her  withered  veins,  and  one  bright  gleam 
Of  setting  life  shone  on  her  evening  hours: 

Not  less  enraptured  than  the  happy  pair; 

Who  flourished  long  in  tender  bliss,  and  reared 
A numerous  offspring,  lovely  like  themselves. 

And  good,  the  grace  of  all  the  country  round. 

[4  Winter  Landscape."] 

Through  the  hushed  air  the  whitening  shower  descenas, 
At  first  thin-wavering,  till  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the  day 
With  a continual  flow.  The  cherished  fields 
Put  on  their  winter  robe  of  purest  white  : 

’Tis  brightness  all,  save  where  the  new  snow  melts 
Along  the  mazy  current.  Low  the  woods 
Bow  their  hoar  head  ; and  ere  the  languid  sun 
Faint  from  the  west,  emits  his  evening  ray  ; 

Earth’s  universal  face,  deep  hid,  and  chill. 

Is  one  w’ide  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  man.  Drooping,  the  labourer-ox 
Stands  covered  o’er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.  The  fowls  of  heaven. 

Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.  One  alone. 

The  red-breast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods. 

Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky. 

In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets,  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.  Half-afraid,  he  first 
Against  the  window  beats  ; then,  brisk,  alights 
On  the  warm  hearth  ; then  hopping  o’er  the  floor, 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance. 

And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is : 

Till  more  familiar  grown,  the  table  crumbs 
Attract  his  slender  feet.  The  foodless  wilds 


17 


FIIOM  I7-J7  {’V(;K()l‘yii;i)IA  OK  to  )78t, 


Pour  forth  their  brown  iiiliabitants.  Tlie  hare, 

Tlioufili  timorous  of  lieart,  and  liard  beset 

I!y  deatli  in  various  forms,  dark  snares  and  dogs. 

And  more  unj>itying  men,  the  garden  seeks. 

Urged  on  by  fearless  want.  Tlie  bleating  kme 
Kye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next,  the  glistening  earth. 
With  looks  of  dumb  des])air  ; then,  sad  dispersed. 

Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through  heaps  of  snow.  * * 

As  thus  the  snows  arise,  and  foul  and  fierce 
All  winter  drives  along  the  darkened  air. 

In  his  own  loose  revolving  fields  the  swain 
Disastered  stands  ; sees  other  hills  aseend. 

Of  unknown  joyless  brow,  and  other  scenes. 

Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  trackless  plain  ; 

Nor  finds  the  river  nor  the  forest,  hid 
Beneath  the  formless  wild  ; but  wamlers  on 
From  hill  to  dale,  still  more  and  more  astray. 
Impatient  flouncing  through  the  drifted  heaps. 

Stung  with  the  thoughts  of  home  ; the  thoughts  of 
home 

Rush  on  his  nerves,  and  call  their  vigour  forth 
In  many  a vain  attempt.  How  sinks  his  soul  1 
What  black  despair,  what  horror,  fills  his  heart  1 
When  for  the  dusky  spot  which  fancy  feigned. 

His  tufted  cottage  rising  through  the  snow. 

He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  middle  waste. 

Far  from  the  track  and  blessed  abode  of  man  ; 

While  round  him  night  resistless  closes  fast. 

And  every  tempest  howling  o’er  his  head. 

Renders  the  savage  wilderne.ss  more  wild. 

Then  throng  the  busy  .shapes  into  his  mind. 

Of  covered  pits,  unfathomably  deep, 

A dire  descent ! beyond  the  power  of  frost ; 

Of  faithless  bogs  ; of  precipices  huge 

Smoothed  up  with  snow ; and  what  is  land  unknoivn. 

What  water  of  the  still  unfrozen  spring. 

In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake. 

Where  the  fresh  fountain  from  the  bottom  boils. 
These  check  his  fearful  steps,  and  down  he  sinks 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drift. 

Thinking  o’er  all  the  bitterne.ss  of  death. 

Mixed  with  the  tender  anguLsh  nature  shoots 
Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying  man. 

His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends,,  unseen. 

In  vain  for  him  the  officious  wife  prepares 
The  fire  fair  blazing,  and  the  vestment  warm  ; 

In  vain  his  little  children,  peeping  out 
Into  the  mingling  storm,  demand  their  sire 
With  tears  of  artless  innocence.  Alas  1 
Nor  wife  nor  children  more  shall  he  behold. 

Nor  friends,  nor  sacred  home.  On  every  nerve 
The  deadly  winter  seizes,  shuts  up  sense. 

And  o’er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping  cold. 

Lays  him  along  the  snows  a stiffened  corse. 

Stretched  out,  and  bleaching  on  the  northern  blast. 

[Benevolent  Reflections,  from  ‘ Winter. 

Ah  little  think  the  gay  licentious  proud. 

Whom  pleasure,  power,  and  affluence  surround ; 

They,  who  their  thoughtless  hours  in  giddy  mirth. 
And  wanton,  often  cruel,  riot  waste ; 

Ah  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along. 

How  many  feel,  this  very  na«*s>  *nt,  death 
And  all  the  sad  variets  i* 

How  many  sink  in  tho  dev-,  ing  flood. 

Or  more  devouring  flame.  How  many  bleed, 

By  shameful  variance  betwixt  man  and  man. 

How  many  pine  in  want  and  dungeon  glooms ; 

Shut  from  the  common  air,  and  common  use 
Of  their  own  limbs.  How  many  drink  the  cup 
Of  baleful  grief,  or  eat  the  bitter  bread 
Of  misery.  Sore  pierced  by  wintry  winds. 

How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty.  How  many  shake 
With  all  the  fiercer  tortures  of  the  mind. 


Unbounileil  passion,  madness,  guilt,  remorse; 
Whence  tumbled  headlong  from  the  height  of  life. 
They  furnish  matter  for  the  tragic  muse. 

Kveu  in  the  vale,  where  wisdom  loves  to  dwell. 

With  friendship,  peace,  and  contemplation  joined. 
How  many,  racked  with  lionest  ])assions,  droop 
In  deep  retired  distress.  How  many  stand 
Around  the  deathbed  of  their  dearest  friends, 

.And  iioint  the  jiarting  anguish.  Thought  fond  mao 
Of  these,  and  all  the  thousand  nameless  ills. 

That  one  ince.ssant  struggle  render  life. 

One  scene  of  toil,  of  suffering,  and  of  fate. 

Vice  in  his  high  career  would  stand  appalled, 

And  heedless  rambling  impulse  learn  to  think ; 

The  consious  heart  of  charity  wouhl  warm. 

And  her  wide  wish  benevolence  dilate ; 

The  social  tear  would  rise,  the  social  sigh ; 

And  into  clear  ])erfeetion,  gradual  bliss. 

Refining  still,  the  social  passions  work. 

Jlymn  on  the  Seasons. 

These,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  (iod.  The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  thee.  Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 

Wide  flush  the  fields ; the  .softening  air  is  balm; 
Echo  the  mountains  round  ; the  forest  smiles ; 

And  every  sense  anil  every  heart  is  joy. 

Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  Summer  months. 

With  light  and  heat  refulgent.  Then  thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year: 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks. 

And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 

By  brooks  and  groves  in  hollow-whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  Autumn  unconfined. 

And  spreads  a common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 

In  Winter  awful  thou  1 with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  thee  thrown,  tempest  o’er  tempest  rolled, 
Majestic  darkness  ! On  the  whirlwind’s  wing 
Riding  sublime,  thou  bidst  the  world  adore. 

And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 

Mysterious  round  ! what  skill,  what  force  divine. 
Deep-felt,  in  these  appear  1 a simple  train 
Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind  art. 

Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ; 

Shade  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade ; 

And  all  .so  forming  a harmonious  whole. 

That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 

But  wandering  oft,  with  rude  unconscious  gaze, 

Man  marks  not  thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  hand 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres ; 

Works  in  the  secret  deep  ; shoots  steaming  thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o’erspreads  the  spring; 

Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day ; 

Feeds  every  creature  ; hurls  the  tempest  forth. 

And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves. 

With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature,  attend!  join,  every  living  soul 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky. 

In  adoration  join  ; and  ardent  raise 
One  general  song!  To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales. 

Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  freshness  breathes. 
Oh  talk  of  Him  in  solitary  glooms. 

Where  o’er  the  rock  the  scarcely  waving  pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a religious  awe. 

And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 

AVho  shake  the  astonished  world,  lift  high  to  heaven 
The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you  rage. 
His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I muse  along. 

Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid  and  profound  ; 

Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 
Along  the  vale ; and  thou  majestic  main, 

A secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 

Sound  His  stupendous  praise,  whose  greater  voice 

13 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


POSTS. 


Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roaring  fall. 

So  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits,  and  flowers. 

In  mingled  clouds  to  Him,  whose  sun  exalts. 

Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil  paints, 
i Ye  forests  bend,  ye  harvests  wave  to  Him ; 

Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper’s  heart, 

As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 

V e that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth  asleep 
Unconscious  lies,  effuse  your  mildest  beams  ; 

Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 

Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 

Great  source  of  day!  blest  image  here  below 
01  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide. 

From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 

On  nature  write  with  everj'beam  His  praise. 

The  thunder  rolls : be  hushed  the  prostrate  world. 
While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 

Bleat  out  afresh  ye  hills  ; ye  mossy  rocks 
Retain  the  sound  ; the  broad  responsive  low. 

Ye  valleys,  raise  ; for  the  Great  Shepherd  reigns. 

And  his  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 

Ye  woodlands,  all  awake;  a boundless  song 
I Burst  from  the  groves  ; and  when  the  restless  day, 

I Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep, 

I Sweetest  of  birds ! sweet  Philomela,  charm 

The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night  His  praise. 
Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles  ; 

At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  the  tongue  of  all, 

Crown  the  great  hymn  ! in  swarming  cities  vast. 

Assembled  men  to  the  deep  organ  join 

The  long  res  Minding  voice,  oft  breaking  clear. 

At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  base  ; 

And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases  each. 

In  one  united  ardour  rise  to  heaven. 

Or  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade. 

And  find  a fane  in  every  sacred  grove. 

There  let  the  shepherd’s  lute,  the  virgin’s  lay. 

The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet’s  lyre. 

Still  sing  the  God  of  seasons  as  they  roll. 

For  me,  when  I forget  the  darling  theme. 

Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  Summer  ray 
Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  Autumn  gleams. 

Or  Winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east — 

Be  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no  more. 

And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  h^rt  to  beat. 

Should  fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes. 
Rivers  unknown  to  song ; where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles,  ’tis  nought  to  me  ; 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt. 

In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ; 

And  where  He  vital  breathes,  there  must  be  joy. 
When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come. 

And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 

I cheerful  w'ill  obey ; there  with  new  powers. 

Will  rising  wonders  sing.  I cannot  go 
Where  universal  love  not  smiles  around. 

Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns ; 

From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good. 

And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still. 

In  infinite  progression.  But  I lose 
Myself  in  Him,  in  light  ineffable  ! 

Come,  then,  expressive  silence,  muse  His  praise. 

[The  Caravan  of  Mecca.'] 

Breathed  hot 

From  all  the  boundless  furnace  of  the  sky, 

I And  the  wide  glittering  waste  of  burning  sand, 

I A suflbeating  wind  the  pilgrim  smites 

With  instant  death.  Patient  of  thirst  and  toil, 

I Son  of  the  desert  ! e’en  the  camel  feels, 
i Shot  through  his  withered  heart,  the  fiery  blast. 

! Or  from  the  black -red  ether,  bursting  broad, 

Sallies  the  sudden  whirlwind.  Straight  the  sands 


Comraoved  around,  in  gathering  eddies  play; 

Nearer  and  nearer  still  they  darkening  come. 

Till  with  the  general  all-involving  storm 
Swept  up,  the  whole  continuous  wilds  arise  ; 

And  by  their  noon-day  fount  dejected  thrown. 

Or  sunk  at  night  in  sad  disastrous  sleep. 

Beneath  descending  hills,  the  caravan 
Is  buried  deep.  In  Cairo’s  .crowded  streets 
The  impatient  merchant,  wondering,  waits  in  vain, 
And  Mecca  saddens  at  the  long  delay. 

[The  Siba-ian  Exile.] 

Our  infant  winter  sinks 
Divested  of  his  grandeur,  should  our  eye 
Astonished  shoot  into  the  frigid  zone  ; 

Where  for  relentless  months  continual  night 
Holds  o’er  the  glittering  waste  her  starry  reign. 

There,  through  the  prison  of  unbounded  wilds. 

Barred  by  the  hand  of  nature  from  escape. 

Wide  roams  the  Russian  exile.  Nought  around 
Strikes  his  sad  eye,  bat  deserts  lost  in  snow ; 

And  heavy-loaded  groves  ; and  solid  floods 
That  stretch  athwart  the  solitary  waste 
Their  icy  horrors  to  the  frozen  main  ; 

And  cheerless  towns  far  distant,  never  blessed 
Save  when  its  annual  course  the  caravan 
Bends  to  the  golden  coast  of  rich  Cathay. 

[Pestilence  at  Carthagena.] 

Wasteful,  forth 

Walks  the  dire  power  of  pestilent  disease. 

A thousand  hideous  fiends  her  course  attend. 

Sick  nature  blasting,  and  to  heartless  wo 

And  feeble  desolation  casting  down 

The  towering  hopes  and  all  the  pride  of  man. 

Such  as  of  late  at  Carthagena  quenched 
The  British  fire.  You,  gallant  Vernon,  saw 
The  miserable  scene ; you,  pitying,  saw 
To  infant  weakness  sunk  the  warrior’s  arm  ; 

Saw  the  deep  racking  pang,  the  ghastly  form. 

The  lip  pale  quivering,  and  the  beamless  eye 
No  more  with  ardour  bright ; you  heard  the  groans 
Of  agonising  ships,  from  shore  to  shore  ; 

Heard,  nightly  plunged  amid  the  sullen  waves. 

The  frequent  corse  ; while  on  each  other  fixed 
In  sad  presage,  the  blank  assistants  seemed 
Silent  to  ask  whom  Fate  would  next  demand. 

[From  the  ‘ Castle  of  Indolence.’’] 

0 mortal  man,  who  livest  here  by  toil. 

Do  not  complain  of  this  thy  hard  estate ; 

That  like  an  emmet  thou  must  ever  moil. 

Is  a sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date ; 

And,  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great ; 

For,  though  sometimes  it  makes  thee  weep  and  waii, 
And  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drudge  and  late, 
Withouten  that  would  come  a heavier  bale. 

Loose  life,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  pale. 

In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a river’s  side. 

With  woody  hill  o’er  hill  encompassed  round, 

A most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide. 

Than  whom  a fiend  more  fell  is  nowhere  found. 

It  was,  I ween,  a lovely  spot  of  ground  : 

And  there  a season  atween  June  and  May, 

Half  pranked  with  spring,  with  summer  half  im- 
browned, 

A listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth  to  say. 

No  living  wight  could  work,  ne  cared  even  for  play. 

Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest : 
Sleep-soothing  groves,  and  quiet  lawns  between  ; 
And  flowery  beds  that  slumberous  influence  kest. 
From  poppies  breathed ; and  beds  of  pleasant  green, 

19 


I 

PROM  1727  CYCLOP7KDIA  OF  to  178o. 


Where  never  ^et  wa»  creeping  :reature  seen. 
Meantime  unnumbered  glitteringstreamlets  played, 
And  hurled  cverywliere  tlieir  waters  sheen  ; 

That,  as  they  bickered  through  the  sunny  giaQe, 
Though  restless  still  themselves,  a lulling  murmur 
made. 

.Joined  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills. 

Were  heard  the  lowinff  herds  along  the  vale. 

And  flocks  loud  bleating  from  the  distant  hills, 
And  vacant  shei)herds  jiiping  in  the  dale : 

And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would  wail. 

Or  stock -doves  ’plain  amid  the  forest  deep. 

That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale ; 

And  still  a coil  the  grasshopper  diil  keep  ; 

Yet  all  these  sounds  yblent  inclined  all  to  sleep. 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale  above, 

A sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood. 

Where  nought  but  shadowy  forms  was  seen  to  move. 
As  Idlesse  fancied  in  her  dreaming  mood: 

And  up  the  hills,  on  either  s-de,  a wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  aye  w.s  ving  to  and  fro. 

Sent  forth  a sleepy  horror  through  the  blood  ; 

And  where  this  valley  winded  out  below. 

The  murmuring  main  was  heard,  and  scarcely  heard, 
to  flow. 

A pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was. 

Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye  : 

And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass. 

For  ever  flushing  round  a summer  sky  : 

There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 
Instil  a wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast. 

And  the  calm  pleasures,  always  hovered  nigh ; 

But  whate’er  smacked  of  noyance  or  unrest, 

W’as  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  delicious  nest. 

The  landskip  such,  inspiring  perfect  ease. 

Where  Indolence  (for  so  the  wizard  hight) 

Close  hid  his  castle  mid  embowering  trees. 

That  half  shut  out  the  beams  of  Phoebus  bright. 
And  made  a kind  of  checkered  day  and  night. 
Meanwhile,  unceasing  at  the  massy  gate. 

Beneath  a spacious  palm,  the  wicked  wight 
Was  placed ; and  to  his  lute,  of  cruel  fate. 

And  labour  harsh,  complained,  lamenting  man’s 
estate. 

Thither  continual  pilgrims  crowded  still. 

From  all  the  roads  of  earth  that  pass  there  by  ; 

For,  as  they  chanced  to  breathe  on  neighbouring  hill. 
The  freshness  of  this  valley  smote  their  eye. 

And  drew  them  ever  and  anon  more  nigh  ; 

Till  clustering  round  the  enchanter  false  they  hung, 
Y molten  with  his  syren  melody  ; 

While  o’er  the  enfeebling  lute  his  hand  he  flung. 
And  to  the  trembling  chords  these  tempting  verses 
sung : 

‘ Behold ! ye  pilgrims  of  this  earth,  behold  ! 

See  all  but  man  with  unearned  pleasure  gay  : 

See  her  bright  robes  the  butterfly  unfold. 

Broke  from  her  wintry  tomb  in  prime  of  Jlay ! 
W’hat  youthful  bride  can  equal  her  array  ? 

Who  can  with  her  for  easy  pleasure  vie  ? 

From  mead  to  mead  with  gentle  wing  to  stray. 
From  flower  to  flower  on  balmy  gales  to  fly. 

Is  all  she  has  to  do  beneath  the  radiant  sky. 

Behold  the  merry  minstrels  of  the  mom. 

The  swarming  songsters  of  the  careless  grove. 

Ten  thousand  throats  ! that  from  the  flowering  thorn. 
Hymn  their  good  God,  and  carol  sweet  of  love. 

Such  grateful  kindly  raptures  them  emove : 

They  neither  plough,  nor  sow ; ne,  fit  for  flail. 

E’er  to  the  barn  the  nodding  sheaves  they  drove ; 
Yet  theirs  each  harvest  dancing  in  the  gale, 
Whatever  crowns  the  hill,  or  smiles  along  the  vale. 


Outcast  of  nature,  man!  the  wretched  thrall 
Of  bitter  dropping  sweat,  of  sweltry  pain. 

Of  cares  that  eat  away  thy  heart  with  gall. 

And  of  the  vices,  an  inhuman  train. 

That  all  proceed  from  savage  thirst  of  gain : 

For  when  hard-hearted  Interest  first  began 
To  poison  earth,  Astroea  left  the  plain  ; 

Guile,  violence,  and  murder,  seized  on  man. 

And,  for  soft  milky  streams,  with  blood  the  rivers  ran  ! 

Come,  ye  who  still  the  cumbrous  load  of  life 
Push  hard  up  hill ; but  as  the  farthest  steep 
You  trust  to  gain,  and  put  an  end  to  strife, 

Down  thunders  back  the  stone  with  mighty  sw  -ep. 
And  hurls  your  labours  to  the  valleys  deep, 

For  ever  vain  ; come,  and,  withouten  fee, 

I in  oblivion  will  your  sorrows  steep. 

Your  cares,  your  toils,  will  steep  you  in  a sea 
Of  full  delight : oh  come,  ye  weary  wights,  to  mel 

With  me,  you  need  not  rise  at  early  dawn. 

To  pass  the  joyless  day  in  various  stounds  ; 

Or,  looting  low,  on  upstart  fortune  fawn. 

And  sell  fair  honour  for  some  paltry  pounds ; 

Or  through  the  city  take  your  dirty  rounds. 

To  cheat,  and  dun,  and  lie,  and  visit  pay. 

Now  flattering  base,  nojv  giving  secret  wounds : 

Or  prowl  in  human  courts  of  law  for  human  prey. 
In  venal  senate  thieve,  or  rob  on  broad  highway. 

No  cocks,  with  me,  to  rustic  labour  call. 

From  village  on  to  village  sounding  clear : 

To  tardy  swain  no  shrill-voiced  matrons  squall ; 

No  dogs,  no  babes,  no  wives,  to  stun  your  ear ; 

No  hammers  thump  ; no  horrid  blacksmith  fear; 
No  noisy  tradesmen  your  sweet  slumbers  start. 
With  soun.ds  that  are  a misery  to  hear: 

But  all  is  calm,  as  would  delight  the  heart 
Of  Sybarite  of  old,  all  nature,  and  all  art. 

Here  nought  but  candour  reigns,  indulgent  ease. 
Good-natured  lounging,  sauntering  up  and  down  : 
They  who  are  pleased  themselves  must  always  please; 
On  others’  ways  they  never  squint  a frown. 

Nor  heed  what  haps  in  hamlet  or  in  town : 

Thus,  from  the  source  of  tender  indolence. 

With  milky  blood  the  heart  is  overflown, 

Is  soothed  and  sweetened  by  the  social  sense , 

For  interest,  envy,  pride,  and  strife,  are  banished  hence 

What,  what  is  virtue,  but  re])ose  of  mind, 

A pure  ethereal  ealm,  that  knows  no  storm ; 

Above  the  reach  of  wild  ambition’s  wind. 

Above  the  passions  that  this  world  deform. 

And  torture  man,  a proud  malignant  worm  ? 

But  here,  instead,  soft  gales  of  passion  play. 

And  gently  stir  the  heart,  thereby  to  form 
A quicker  sense  of  joy  ; as  breezes  stray 
Across  the  enlivened  skies,  and  make  them  still  more 
gay- 

The  best  of  men  have  ever  loved  repose  : 

They  hate  to  mingle  in  the  filthy  fray ; 

Where  the  soul  sours,  and  gradual  rancour  grows, 
Imbittered  more  from  peevish  day  to  day. 

Even  those  whom  Fame  has  lent  her  fairest  I'ay, 
The  most  renowned  of  wortliy  wights  of  yore. 

From  a base  world  at  last  have  stolen  away : 

So  Scipio,  to  the  soft  Cumajan  shore 
Retiring,  tasted  joy  he  never  knew  before. 

But  if  a little  exercise  you  choose. 

Some  zest  for  ease,  ’tis  not  forbidden  here. 

Amid  the  groves  you  may  indulge  tlie  muse, 

Or  tend  the  blooms,  and  deck  the  venial  year ; 

Or  softly  stealing,  with  your  watery  gear. 

Along  the  brook,  the  crimson-spotted  fry 
You  may  delude ; the  whilst,  amused,  you  hear 
Now  the  hoarse  stream,  and  now  the  zephyr’s  sigh, 
Attuned  to  the  birds,  and  woodland  melody. 

20 


ENGLI8II  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


Oh,  grievous  folly  ! to  heap  up  estate, 

Losing  the  clays  you  see  beneath  the  sun  ; 

When,  sudden,  comes  blind  unrelenting  fate. 

And  gives  the  entasted  portion  you  have  won. 

With  ruthless  i.'il,  and  many  a wretch  undone, 

To  those  who  mock  you  gone  to  Pluto’s  reign. 

There  with  sad  ghosts  to  pine,  and  shadows  dun  : 
l!ut  sure  it  is  of  vanities  most  vain. 

To  toil  for  what  you  here  untoiling  may  obtain.’ 

He  ceased.  But  still  their  trembling  ears  retained 
1 he  deep  vibrations  of  his  ’witching  song ; 

That,  by  a kind  of  magic  power,  constrained 
To  enter  in,  pell-mell,  the  listening  throng. 

Heaps  poured  on  heaps,  and  yet  they  slipped  along, 
In  silent  ease  ; as  when  beneath  the  beam 
Of  summer-moons,  the  distant  woods  among. 

Or  by  some  flood  all  silvered  with  the  gleam, 

The  soft-embodied  fays  through  airy  portal  stream. 

* * * 

Waked  by  the  crowd,  slow  from  his  bench  arose 
A comely  full-spread  porter,  swollen  with  sleep ; 

His  calm,  broad,  thoughtless  aspect  breathed  repose ; 
And  in  sweet  torpor  he  was  plunged  deep, 

Ne  could  himself  from  ceaseless  yawning  keep; 
While  o’er  his  eyes  the  drowsy  liquor  ran. 

Through  which  his  half-tvaked  soul  would  faintly 
peep. 

Then  taking  his  black  staff,  he  called  his  man. 

And  roused  himself  as  much  as  rouse  himself  he  can. 

The  lad  leaped  lightly  at  his  master’s  call. 

He  was,  to  weet,  a little  roguish  page. 

Save  sleep  and  play  who  minded  nought  at  all. 
Like  most  the  untaught  striplings  of  his  age. 

This  boy  he  kept  each  band  to  disengage. 

Garters  and  buckles,  task  for  him  unfit. 

But  ill-becoming  his  grave  personage, 

And  which  his  portly  paunch  would  not  permit. 

So  this  same  limber  page  to  all  performed  it. 

Meantime  the  master-porter  wide  displayed 
Great  store  of  caps,  of  slippers,  and  of  gowns ; 
Wherewith  he  those  that  entered  in,  arrayed 
Loose,  as  the  breeze  that  plays  along  the  downs. 
And  waves  the  summer-woods  when  evening  fro\vns. 
Oh  fair  undress,  best  dress  ! it  checks  no  vein. 

But  every  flowing  limb  in  pleasure  drowns. 

And  heightens  ease  with  grace.  This  done,  right  fain 
Sir  porter  sat  him  down,  and  turned  to  sleep  again. 

# ♦ * 

Strait  of  these  endless  numbers,  swarming  round. 
As  thick  as  idle  motes  in  sunny  ray. 

Not  one  eftsoons  in  view  was  to  be  found. 

But  every  man  strolled  off  his  own  glad  way. 

Wide  o’er  this  ample  court’s  blank  area. 

With  all  the  lodges  that  thereto  pertained  ; 

No  living  creature  could  be  seen  to  stray  ; 

While  solitude  and  perfect  silence  reigned ; 

So  that  to  think  you  dreamt  you  almost  was  constrained. 

As  when  a shepherd  of  the  Hebrid  isles. 

Placed  far  amid  the  melancholy  main 
(Whether  it  be  lone  fancy  him  beguiles. 

Or  that  aerial  beings  sometimes  deign 
To  stand  embodied  to  our  senses  plain), 

Sees  on  the  naked  hill,  or  valley  low. 

The  whilst  in  ocean  Phoebus  dips  his  wain, 

A vast  assembly  moving  to  and  fro  ; 

Then  all  at  once  in  air  dissolves  the  wondrous  show. 

* « • 

The  doors,  that  knew  no  shrill  alarming  bell, 

Ne  cursed  knocker  plied  by  villain’s  hand. 
Self-opened  into  halls,  where,  who  can  tell 
What  elegance  and  grandeur  wide  expand. 


JAMES  THOMSON 


The  pride  of  Turkey  and  of  Persia  land  1 
Soft  quilts  on  quilts,  on  carpets  carpets  spread. 

And  coiiches  stretched  around  in  seemly  band  ; 

And  endless  pillows  rise  to  prop  the  head  ; 

So  that  each  spacious  room  was  one  full-swelling  bed. 

And  everywhere  huge  covered  tables  stood, 

With  wines  high  flavoured  and  rich  viands  ctowned  ; 
Whatever  sprightly  juice  or  tasteful  food 
On  the  green  bosom  of  this  earth  are  found. 

And  all  old  ocean  genders  in  his  round  , 

Some  hand  unseen  these  silently  displayed. 

Even  undemanded  by  a sign  or  sound  ; 

You  need  but  wish,  and,  instantly  obeyed. 

Fair  ranged  the  dishes  rose,  and  thick  the  glasses 
played. 

The  rooms  with  costly  tapestry  were  hung. 

Where  was  inwoven  many  a gentle  tale; 

Such  as  of  old  the  rural  poets  sung. 

Or  of  Arcadian  or  Sicilian  vale: 

Reclining  lovers,  in  the  lonely  dale. 

Poured  forth  at  large  the  sweetly-tortured  heart ; 
Or,  sighing  tender  passion,  swelled  the  gale, 

And  taught  charmed  echo  to  resound  their  smart ; 
While  flocks,  woods,  streams,  around,  repose  and  peace 
impart. 

Those  pleased  the  most,  where,  by  a cunu.ng  hand, 
Depainted  was  the  patriarchal  age ; 

^Vhat  time  Dan  Abraham  left  the  Chaldee  land. 
And  pastured  on  from  verdant  stage  to  stage, 
Where  fields  and  fountains  fresh  could  best  engage. 
Toil  was  not  then.  Of  nothing  took  they  heed. 

But  with  wild  beasts  the  sylvan  war  to  wage. 

And  o’er  vast  plains  their  herds  and  flocks  to  feed  ; 
Blest  sons  of  nature  they!  true  golden  age  indeed ! 

Sometimes  the  pencil,  in  cool  airy  halls. 

Bade  the  gay  bloom  of  vernal  landscapes  rise. 

Or  autumn’s  varied  shades  imbrown  the  walls ; 

Now  the  black  tempest  strikes  the  astonished  eyes. 
Now  down  the  steep  the  flashing  torrent  flies ; 

The  trembling  sun  now  plays  o’er  ocean  blue. 

And  now  rude  mountains  frown  amid  the  skies  ; 
Whate’er  Lorraine  light-touched  with  softening  hue. 
Or  savage  Rosa  dashed,  or  learned  Poussin  drew. 

A certain  music,  never  known  before. 

Here  lulled  the  pensive  melancholy  mind. 

Full  easily  obtained.  Behoves  no  more. 

But  sidelong,  to  the  gently-waving  wind. 

To  lay  the  well-tuned  instrument  reclined  ; 

From  which  with  airy  flying  fingers  light. 

Beyond  each  mortal  touch  the  most  refined. 

The  god  of  winds  drew  sounds  of  deep  delight , 
Whence,  with  just  cause,  the  harp  of  jEoIus  it 
hight. 

Ah  me  ! what  hand  can  touch  the  string  so  fine  ? 

Who  up  the  lofty  diapason  roll 

Such  sweet,  such  sad,  such  solemn  airs  divine. 

Then  let  them  down  again  into  the  soul  1 
Now  rising  love  they  fanned  ; now'  pleasing  dole 
They  breathed,  in  tender  musings,  through  the  heart ; 
And  now  a graver  sacred  strain  they  stole. 

As  w'hen  seraphic  hands  a hymn  impart : 

Wild  warbling  nature  all,  above  the  reach  of  art! 

Such  the  gay  splendour,  the  luxurious  state 
Of  Caliphs  old,  who  on  the  Tigris’  shore. 

In  mighty  Bagdad,  populous  and  great. 

Held  their  bright  court,  where  was  of  ladies  stoic , 
And  verse,  love,  music,  still  the  garland  wore  ; 
When  sleep  was  coy,  the  bard  in  waiting  there 
Cheered  the  lone  midnight  with  the  muse’s  lore- 
Composing  music  bade  his  dreams  be  fair. 

And  music  lent  new  gladness  to  the  morning  air. 

21 


FROM  17‘27  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  wdu. 


Near  the  jMivilionH  where  we  Hlept,  Btill  ran 
Soft  tinklinj'  streams,  and  dashing  waters  fell, 

And  sobbing  breezes  sighed,  and  oft  began 
(So  worked  the  wizard)  wintry  storms  to  swell. 

As  heaven  and  earth  they  would  together  inell ; 

At  doors  and  windows  threatening  seemed  to  call 
The  demons  of  the  tempest,  growling  fell. 

Yet  the  least  entrance  found  they  none  at  all ; 
Whenee  sweeter  grew  our  sleep,  seeure  in  massy  hall. 

And  hither  Morpheus  sent  his  kindest  dreams. 
Raising  a world  of  gayer  tinct  and  graee ; 

O’er  whicli  wore  shadowy  cast  Elysian  gleams, 

That  j)layed  in  waving  lights,  from  place  to  place. 
And  shed  a roseate  smile  on  nature’s  face. 

Not  Titian’s  pencil  e’er  could  so  array. 

So  fierce  with  clouds,  the  ()ure  etliereal  space ; 

Ne  could  it  e’er  such  melting  forms  display, 

As  loose  on  flowery  beds  all  languishingly  lay. 

No,  fair  illusions!  artful  phantoms,  no! 

My  muse  will  not  attempt  your  fairy  land  ; 

She  has  no  colonrs  that  like  you  can  glow; 

To  catch  your  vivid  scenes  too  gross  her  hand. 

But  sure  it  is,  was  ne’er  a subtler  band 
Than  these  same  guileful  angel-seeming  sprights. 
Who  thus  in  dreams  voluptuous,  soft,  and  bland. 
Poured  all  the  Arabian  heaven  upon  our  nights. 
And  blessed  them  oft  besides  with  more  refined  delights. 

They  were,  in  sooth,  a most  enchanting  train. 

Even  feigning  virtue;  skilful  to  unite 
With  evil  good,  and  strew  with  pleasure  pain. 

But  for  those  fiends  whom  blood  and  broils  delight. 
Who  hurl  the  wretch,  as  if  to  hell  outright, 

Down,  down  black  gulfs,  where  sullen  waters  sleep  ; 
Or  hold  him  clambering  all  the  fearful  night 
On  beetling  cliffs,  or  pent  in  ruins  deep  ; 

They,  till  due  time  should  serve,  were  bid  far  hence 
Vff  to  keep. 

Ye  guardian  spirits,  to  whom  man  is  dear. 

From  these  foul  demons  shield  the  midnight  gloom  ; 
Angels  of  fancy  and  of  love  be  near. 

And  o’er  the  blank  of  sleep  diffuse  a bloom  ; 

Evoke  the  sacred  shades  of  Greece  and  Rome, 

And  let  them  virtue  with  a look  impart : 

But  chief,  awhile,  oh  lend  us  from  the  tomb 
Those  long-lost  friends  for  whom  in  love  we  smart. 
And  fill  with  pious  awe  and  joy-mixt  wo  the  heart. 

Ride  Britannia. 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven’s  command, 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main. 

This  was  the  charter  of  the  land. 

And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain  : 

Rule  Britannia,  Brit.annia  rules  the  waves ! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee. 

Must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall. 

Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free. 

The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 

Rule  Britannia,  &c. 

• Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

^lore  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke ; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies. 

Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

Rule  Britannia,  &c. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne’er  shall  tame 
All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame. 

And  work  their  wo  and  thy  renovm. 

Rule  Brita  inia,  &c. 


To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine; 

All  shall  be  subject  to  the  main. 

And  every  shore  it  circles  thine. 

Rule  Britannia,  &c.  | 

The  muses,  still  with  freedom  found. 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  rej)air ; 

Blest  isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crowned. 

And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair. 

Rule  Britannia,  Ac. 

JOHN  DYER. 

John  Dver,  a picturesque  and  moral  poet,  was  a 
native  of  Wales,  being  born  at  Aberglasslyn,  Car-  , 
marthenshire,  in  1700.  His  father  was  a solicitor, 
and  intended  his  son  for  the  same  profession.  The 
latter,  however,  had  a taste  for  the  fine  arts,  and 
rambled  over  his  native  country,  filling  his  mind 
with  a love  of  nature,  and  his  portfolio  with  sketches 
of  her  most  beautiful  and  striking  objects.  The 
sister  art  of  poetry  also  claimed  his  reg.ard,  and 
during  his  excursions  he  wrote  Grongar  Hill,  the  | 
production  on  which  his  fame  rests,  and  where  it  j 

rests  securely.  Dyer  next  made  a tour  to  Italy,  to  | 

study  painting.  He  does  not  seem  to  have  excelled  | 
as  an  artist,  though  he  was  an  able  sketcher.  On 
his  return  in  1740,  he  published  another  poem.  The  , 
Ruins  of  Rome,  in  blank  verse.  One  short  passage,  ■ 
often  quoted,  is  conceived,  as  Johnson  remarks,  j 
‘ with  the  mind  of  a poet :’ — ■ 

The  pilgrim  oft 

At  dead  of  night,  ’mid  his  orison,  hears. 

Aghast,  the  voice  of  time,  disparting  towers. 

Tumbling  all  precipitate  down  dashed. 

Rattling  around,  loud  thundering  to  the  moon. 

Seeing,  probably,  that  he  had  little  chance  of  sue-  1 
ceeding  as  an  artist.  Dyer  entered  the  church,  and 
obtained  successively  the  livings  of  Calthrop,  in  Lei-  j 
cestershire,  of  Conningsby,  in  Huntingdonshire,  and  , 
of  Belchford  and  Kirkby,  in  Lincolnsliire.  He  pub-  i 
lished  in  1757  his  longest  poetical  work.  The  Fleece,  j 
devoted  to 

The  care  of  sheep,  the  labours  of  the  loom.  j 

The  subject  was  not  a happy  one.  How  can  a man  | 

write  poetically,  as  was  remarked  by  Johnson,  of  i 

serges  and  druggets?  One  critic  asked  Dodsley  i 
how  old  the  author  of  ‘ The  Fleece’  was  ; and  learn-  I 
ing  that  he  was  in  advanced  life,  ‘ He  '•ill,’  said  the  I 

critic,  ‘ be  buried  in  woollen.’  The  yoet  did  not  | 

long  survive  the  publication,  for  he  died  next  year, 
on  the  24th  of  July  1758.  The  poetical  j)icturcs  of  j 
Dyer  are  happy  miniatures  of  nature,  correctly  | j 
drawn,  beautifully  coloured,  and  grouped  with  the  i i 
taste  of  an  artist.  His  moral  reflections  arise  na-  1 1 

tnrally  out  of  his  subject,  and  are  never  intrusiva  i ; 

All  bear  evidence  of  a kind  and  gentle  heart,  and  a [ ] 
true  poetical  fancy.  | , 

Grongar  IlilL 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye. 

Who,  the  purple  evening,  lie 
On  the  mountain’s  lonely  van. 

Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man  ; 

Painting  fair  the  form  of  things. 

While  the  yellow  linnet  sings  ; 

Or  the  tuneful  nightingale  | 

Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale ; ' 

Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues. 

Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse  ; 

Now,  while  Phoebus,  riding  high. 

Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky! 

23 


fOETO.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  joiin  dter. 

Gron^ar  Hill  invites  my  song. 

A little  rule,  a little  sway. 

Draw  the  tamlscui)e  bright  and  strong ; 

A sunbeam  in  a winter’s  day. 

Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells, 

la  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 

Sweetly  musing,  Quiet  dwells ; 

Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade, 

And  see  the  rivers,  how  they  run 

Koi  the  modest  Muses  made; 

Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and 

SUllf 

So  oft  1 have,  the  evening  still. 

Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow. 

At  the  fountain  of  a rill. 

Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 

SaLupou  a flowery  bed. 

A various  journey  to  the  deep. 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head  ; 

Like  human  life,  to  endless  sleep  1 

While  strayed  my  eves  o’er  Towy’s  flood, 

Thus  is  nature’s  vesture  wrought. 

Over  mead,  and  over  wood, 

To  instruct  our  wandering  thought ; 

From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill. 

Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay. 

Till  contemplation  had  her  till. 

To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

About  his  chequered  sides  I wind. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new. 

And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind. 

When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view  1 

And  groves,  and  grottos  where  1 lay. 

The  fountain’s  fall,  the  river’s  flow. 

And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day  : 

The  woody  valleys,  w-arm  and  low ; 

Wide  and  wider  spreads  tin?  vale. 

The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high. 

As  eiroles  on  a smooth  canal : 

Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky  ! 

Th  • mountains  round,  unhappy  fate. 

The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruined  tower. 

Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height. 

The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower ; 

Withdraw  their  summits- from  the  skies, 

The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm, 

And  lessen  as  the  others  rise  : 

Each  give  each  a ilouble  charm. 

Still  the  prosiieet  wider  spreads. 

As  pearls  upon  an  jUthiop’s  arm. 

Adds  a thousand  woods  and  meads ; 

See,  on  the  mountain’s  southern  side. 

Still  it  widens,  widens  still. 

Where  the  prospect  opens  wide. 

And  sinks  the  newly-risen  hill. 

Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide. 

Now  I gain  the  mountain’s  brow. 

How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie  ! 

What  a landscape  lies  below  ! 

What  streaks  of  meadows  cross  the  eye  1 

No  clouds,  no  vapours  intervene. 

A step,  methinks,  may  pass  the  stream. 

But  the  gay,  the  open  scene. 

So  little  distant  dangei-s  seem  ; 

Does  the  face  of  nature  show. 

So  we  mistake  the  future’s  face. 

In  all  the  hues  of  heaven’s  bow  ; 

Eyed  through  hope’s  deluding  glass ; 

And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light. 

As  yon  summits  soft  and  fair. 

Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Clad  ill  colours  of  the  air. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise. 

Which  to  those  who  journey  near. 

Proudly  towering  in  the  skies  ! 

Bai-ren,  Irown,  and  rough  appear; 

Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 

Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way. 

Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires  ! 

The  present’s  still  a cloudy  day* 

Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 

0 may  I with  myself  agree. 

On  the  yellow  mountain  heads ! 

And  never  covet  what  I see ! 

Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks. 

Content  me  with  a humble  shade. 

And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks ! 

My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid ; 

Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise, 

For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll. 

Beautiful  in  various  dyes : 

We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul : 

The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue. 

’Tis  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air. 

The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew. 

And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

The  slender  fir,  that  taper  grows. 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

The  sturdy  oak,  with  broad-spread  boughs. 

As  on  the  mountain  turf  I lie ; 

And  beyond  the  purple  grove. 

While  the  wanton  zephyr  sings. 

Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love ! 

And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings ; 

Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn. 

While  the  waters  murmur  deep. 

Lies  a long  and  level  la/''n. 

While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep. 

On  which  a dark  hill,  steep  and  high. 

While  the  birds  unbounded  fly. 

Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye  ! 

And  with  music  fills  the  sky. 

Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy’s  flood. 

Now,  even  now%  my  joys  run  high. 

His  sides  are  clothed  with  waving  wood, 

* Be  full,  ye  courts  ; be  great  who  will 

And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow. 

Search  for  peace  with  all  your  skill; 

That  cast  an  awful  look  below ; 

Open  wide  the  lofty  door; 

W'hose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps. 

Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor : 

.And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps : 

In  vain  you  search,  she  is  not  there; 

So  both  a safety  from  the  wind 

In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  care ! 

On  mutual  dependence  find. 

Tis  now  the  raven’s  bleak  abode ; 

Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads. 

On  the  meads  and  mountain  heads. 

'Tis  now  the  apartment  of  the  toad  ; 

Along  with  Pleasure  close  allied. 

And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds. 

Ever  by  each  other’s  side : 

And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds. 

And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill. 

Concealed  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds  ; 

Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still. 

While,  ever  and  anon,  there  falls 
Huge  heaps  of  hoary  mouldered  walls. 
Yet  time  has  seen,  that  lifts  the  low, 

Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 

♦ Byron  thought  the  lines  here  printed  in  Italics  the  original 

And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow. 

of  Campbell’s  far-famed  lines  at  the  opening  of  ‘ 

The  riea* 

Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete. 

gures  of  Hope — 

Big  with  the  vanity  of  state ; 

But  transient  is  tne  smile  of  fate ! 

* *Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view 

And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hofr’ 

2S 

FROM  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1/80, 

■WILLIAM  HAMILTON. 

W iLLiAM  Hamilton  of  Bangonr,  a Scottish  gentle- 
man of  education,  rank,  and  accomplisliments,  was 
horn  of  an  ancient  family  in  Ayrsliire  in  1704.  He 
was  the  delight  of  the  fashionahle  circles  of  his 
native  country,  and  became  early  distinguished  for 
his  poetical  talents.  In  174.1,  struck,  we  ni.ay  sup- 
pose, with  the  romance  of  tlie  enterprise,  Hamilton 
joined  the  standard  of  Prince  Charles,  and  became 
the  ‘volunteer  laureate’  of  the  Jacobites,  by  cele- 
brating the  battle  of  Gladsmuir.  On  the  discomfi- 
ture of  the  party,  Hamilton  succeedetl  in  effecting 
his  escape  to  France;  but  having  many  friends  and 
admirers  among  the  royalists  at  home,  a pardon 
was  procured  for  the  rebellions  poet,  and  he  was 
soon  restored  to  his  native  country  and  his  p.aternal 
estate.  He  did  not,  however,  live  long  to  enjoy  his 
good  fortune.  His  health  had  always  been  delicate, 
and  a pulmonary  complaint  forced  him  to  seek  the 
warmer  climate  of  the  continent.  He  gradually 
declined,  and  died  at  Lyons  in  1754. 

Hamilton’s  first  and  best  strains  were  dedicated 
to  lyrical  poetry.  Before  he  was  twenty,  he  had 
assisted  Allan  llamsay  in  his  ‘ Tea-Table  Miscellany.’ 
In  1748,  some  person,  unknown  to  him,  collected 
and  published  his  poems  in  Glasgow ; bat  the  first 
genuine  and  correct  coi>y  did  not  appear  till  after 
the  author’s  death,  in  1760,  when  a collection  was 
made  from  his  own  manuscripts.  The  most  attrac- 
tive feature  in  his  works  is  his  pure  English  style, 
and  a somewhat  ornate  poetical  diction.  He  had 
more  fancy  than  feeling,  and  in  this  respect  his 
amatory  songs  resemble  those  of  the  courtier  poets 
of  Charles  H.’s  court.  Nor  was  he  more  sincere,  if 
we  may  credit  an  anecdote  related  of  him  by  Alex- 
ander Tytler  in  his  life  of  Henry  Home,  Lord  Kanies. 
One  of  the  ladies  whom  Hamilton  annoyed  by  his 
perpetual  compliments  and  solicitations,  consulted 
Home  how  she  should  get  rid  of  the  poet,  who  she 
was  convinced  had  no  serious  object  in  view.  The 
philosopher  advised  her  to  dance  with  him,  and  show 
him  every  mark  of  her  kindness,  as  if  she  had  re- 
solved to  favour  his  suit.  The  lady  adopted  the 
counsel,  and  the  success  of  the  experiment  was  com- 
plete. Hamilton  wrote  a serious  poem,  entitled  Con- 
templation, and  a national  one  on  the  Thistle,  which 
is  in  blank  verse : — 

How  oft  beneath 

Its  martial  influence  have  Scotia’s  sons, 

Through  every  age,  with  dauntless  valour  fought 
On  every  hostile  ground  ! While  o’er  their  breast, 
Companion  to  the  silver  star,  blest  type 
Of  fame,  unsullied  and  superior  deed. 

Distinguished  ornament  ! this  native  plant 
Surrounds  the  sainted  cross,  with  costly  row 
Of  gems  emblazed,  and  flame  of  radiant  gold, 

\ sacred  mark,  their  glory  and  their  pride ! 

Professor  Richardson  of  Glasgow  (who  wrote  a 
critique  on  Hamilton  in  the  ‘ Lounger’)  quotes  the 
following  as  a favourable  specimen  of  his  poetical 
powers : — 

In  everlasting  blushes  seen. 

Such  Pringle  shines,  of  sprightly  mien  ; 

To  her  the  power  of  love  imparts. 

Rich  gift ! the  soft  successful  arts. 

That  best  the  lover’s  fire  provoke. 

The  lively  step,  the  mirthful  joke. 

The  speaking  glance,  the  amorous  wile. 

The  sportful  laugh,  the  winning  smile. 

Her  aottl  awakening  erery  grace. 

Is  all  abroad  vrpon  her  face  ; 

In  bloom  of  youth  still  to  survive, 

Ml  charms  are  there,  and  all  alive. 

Others  of  his  am.atory  strains  are  full  of  quaint 
conceits  and  exaggerated  expressions,  without  any 
trace  of  real  passion.  His  ballad  of  77/e  Braes  of 
Yarrow  is  by  far  the  finest  of  his  effusions  ; it  has 
real  nature,  tenderness,  and  pastoral  simplicity. 

As  the  cause  of  the  composition  of  Wordsworth’s 
three  Ireautiful  poems,  ‘ Yarrow  Unvisited,’  ‘ Yarrow 
Visited,’  and  ‘ Yarrow  Revisited,’  it  has,  moreover, 
some  external  importance  in  the  records  of  British 
literature.  The  i>oet  of  the  lakes  has  copied  some 
of  its  lines  and  images. 

The  Brats  of  Yarrow. 

A.  Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny  bonny  bride, 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow  1 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny  bonny  bride. 

And  think  nae  mair  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

B.  Where  gat  ye  that  bonny  bonny  bride  ? 

Wliere  gat  ye  that  winsome  marrow  ? 

A.  I gat  her  where  I darena  weil  be  seen, 

Pouing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Y arruw. 

Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  bonny  bonny  bride. 

Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  winsome  marrow! 

Nor  let  thy  heart  lament  to  leave 

Pouing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

B.  Why  does  she  weep,  thy  bonny  bonny  bride? 

Why  does  she  weep,  thy  winsome  marrow  ? 

And  why  dare  ye  nae  mair  weil  be  seen, 

Pouing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Y arrow  ? 

A.  Lang  maun  she  weep,  lang  maun  she,  maun  sb« 
weep, 

Lang  maun  she  weep  with  dule  and  sorrow. 

And  lang  maun  I nae  mair  weil  be  seen 
Pouing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

For  she  has  tint  her  lover  lover  dear. 

Her  lover  dear,  the  cause  of  sorrow. 

And  I hae  slain  the  comeliest  swain 

That  e’er  poued  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Why  runs  thy  stream,  0 Yarrow,  Yarrow,  red  ? 

\l’hy  on  thy  braes  heard  the  voice  of  sorrow  ? 

And  why  yon  melancholious  weeds 
Hung  on  the  bonny  birks  of  Yarrow  ! 

What’s  yonder  floats  on  the  rueful  rueful  flude? 

What’s  yonder  floats  ? 0 dule  and  sorrow  ! 

’Tis  he,  the  comely  swain  I slew 
Upon  the  duleful  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Wash,  oh  wash  his  wounds  his  wounds  in  tears. 

His  wounds  in  tears  with  dule  and  sorrow. 

And  wrap  his  limbs  in  mourning  weeds. 

And  lay  him  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Then  build,  then  build,  ye  sisters  sisters  sad. 

Ye  sisters  sad,  his  tomb  with  sorrow. 

And  weep  around  in  waeful  wise. 

His  helpless  fate  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Curse  ye,  curse  ye,  his  useless  useless  shield. 

My  arm  that  wrought  the  deed  of  sorrow, 

The  fatal  spear  that  i/ierced  his  breast. 

His  comely  breast,  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Did  I not  warn  thee  not  to  lue. 

And  warn  from  fight,  but  to  my  sorrow  ; 

O’er  rashly  bauld  a stronger  arm 

Thou  met’st,  ami  fell  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Sweet  smells  the  birk,  green  grows,  green  grows  u.r  [ 
grass,  \ 

Y ellow  on  Y arrow  bank  the  gowan,  '■ 

Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock. 

Sweet  the  wave  of  YaiTow  flowan. 

124 

roKTS.  ENGLISH  LITl'NiATUHE.  william  Hi.MILro^. 


riowa  Yarrow  sweet!  as  sweet,  as  sweet  flows  Tweed, 
As  green  its  grass,  its  gowan  as  yellow, 

As  sweet  smells  on  its  braes  the  birk, 

The  apple  frae  the  rock  aa  mellow. 

Fair  was  thy  love,  fair  fair  indeed  thy  love, 

In  flowery  bands  thou  him  didst  fetter; 

Tliougli  he  was  fair  and  rveil  beloved  again, 

Than  me  he  never  lued  thee  better. 

Busk  ye,  then  busk,  my  bonny  bonny  bride. 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  ray  winsome  marrow. 

Busk  ye,  and  lue  me  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 

And  think  nae  mair  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

C.  How  can  I busk  a bonny  bonny  bride, 

How  can  I busk  a winsome  marrow. 

How  lue  him  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 

That  slew  my  love  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

0 Y arrow  fields  ! may  never  never  rain. 

Nor  dew  thy  tender  blossoms  cover, 

For  there  was  basely  slain  my  love. 

My  love,  as  he  had  not  been  a lover. 

The  boy  put  on  his  robes,  his  robes  of  green. 

His  purple  vest,  ’twas  my  ain  sewing. 

Ah!  wretched  me!  I little  little  kenned 
He  was  in  these  to  meet  his  ruin. 

The  bey  took  out  his  milk-white  milk-white  steed. 
Unheedful  of  my  dule  and  sorrow. 

But  e’er  the  to-fall  of  the  night 

He  lay  a corpse  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Much  I rejoiced  that  waeful  waeful  day ; 

I sang,  my  voice  the  woods  returning, 

But  lang  ere  night  the  spear  was  flown 
That  slew  my  love,  and  left  me  mourning. 

What  can  my  barbarous  barbarous  father  do. 

But  with  his  cruel  rage  pursue  me? 

My  lover’s  blood  is  on  thy  spear. 

How  canst  thou,  barbarous  man,  then  woo  me ! 

My  happy  sisters  may  be  may  be  proud  ; 

With  cruel  and  ungentle  scofEn, 

May  bid  me  seek  on  Yarrow  Braes 
My  lover  nailed  in  his  coffin. 

My  brother  Douglas  may  upbraid,  upbraid, 

And  strive  with  threatening  words  to  move  me. 
My  lover’s  blood  is  on  thy  spear. 

How  canst  thou  ever  bid  me  love  thee  ? 

Y'es,  yes,  prepare  the  bed,  the  bed  of  love. 

With  bridal  sheets  ray  body  cover. 

Unbar,  ye  bridal  maids,  the  door. 

Let  in  the  expected  husband  lover. 

But  who  the  expected  husband  husband  is  1 
His  hands,  methinks,  are  bathed  in  slaughter. 

Ah  me ! what  ghastly  spectre’s  yon. 

Comes,  in  his  pale  shroud,  bleeding  after  ? 

Pale  as  he  is,  here  lay  him  lay  him  doivn, 

0 lay  his  cold  head  on  my  pillow ; 

Take  aff  take  aff  these  bridal  weeds. 

And  crown  my  careful  head  with  willow. 

Pale  though  thou  art,  yet  best  yet  best  beloved, 

0 could  my  warmth  to  life  restore  thee  1 
Ye’d  lie  all  night  between  my  breasts, 

No  youth  lay  ever  there  before  thee. 

Pale  pale,  indeed,  0 lovely  lovely  youth. 

Forgive,  forgive  so  foul  a slaughter, 

And  lie  all  night  between  my  breasts. 

No  youth  shall  ever  lie  there  after. 

A.  Return,  return,  0 mournful  mournful  bride, 
Return  and  dry  thy  useless  sorrow : 

Thy  lover  heeds  nought  of  thy  sighs. 

He  lies  a corpse  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow, 


Song, 

Y’e  shepherds  of  this  pleasant  vale. 

Where  Yarrow  streams  along. 

Forsake  your  rural  toils,  and  join 
In  my  triumphant  song. 

She  grants,  she  yields  ; one  heavenly  smile 
Atones  her  long  delays. 

One  happy  minute  crowns  the  pains 
Of  many  suffering  days. 

Raise,  raise  the  victor  notes  of  joy. 

These  suffering  days  are  o’er ; 

Love  satiates  now  his  boundless  wish 
From  beauty’s  boundless  store: 

No  doubtful  hopes,  no  anxious  fears. 

This  rising  calm  destroy  ; 

Now  every  prospect  smiles  around. 

All  opening  into  joy. 

The  sun  with  double  lustre  shone 
That  dear  consenting  hour. 

Brightened  each  hill,  and  o’er  each  vale 
New  coloured  every  flower: 

The  gales  their  gentle  sighs  withheld, 

No  leaf  was  seen  to  move. 

The  hovering  songsters  round  were  mute^ 

And  w'onder  hushed  the  grove. 

The  hills  and  dales  no  more  resound 
The  lambkin’s  tender  cry  ; 

Without  one  murmur  Yarrow  stole 
In  dimpling  silence  by : 

All  nature  seemed  in  still  repose 
Her  voice  alone  to  hear. 

That  gently  rolled  the  tuneful  wave. 

She  spoke  and  blessed  my  ear. 

Take,  take  whate’er  of  bliss  or  jo> 

Y ou  fondly  fancy  mine ; 

Whate’er  of  joy  or  bliss  I boast. 

Love  renders  wholly  thine : 

The  woods  struck  up  to  the  soft  gaie, 

The  leaves  were  seen  to  move. 

The  feathered  choir  resumed  thel  vo:-«, 

And  wonder  filled  the  grove ; 

The  hills  and  dales  again  resound 
The  lambkins’  tender  cry. 

With  all  his  murmurs  Y arrow  trilled 
The  song  of  triumph  by ; 

Above,  beneath,  around,  all  on 
Was  verdure,  beauty,  song ; 

I snatched  her  to  my  trembling  breast. 

All  nature  joyed  along. 

Song. 

Ah,  the  poor  shepherd’s  mournful  fate. 

When  doomed  to  love  and  doomed  to  languish, 
To  bear  the  scornful  fair  one’s  hate. 

Nor  dare  disclose  his  anguish  I 
Yet  eager  looks  and  dying  sighs 
My  secret  soul  discover, 

While  rapture,  trembling  through  mine  eyes. 
Reveals  how  much  I love  her. 

The  tender  glance,  the  reddening  cheek, 
O’erspread  with  rising  blushes, 

A thousand  various  ways  they  speak 
A thousand  various  wishes. 

For,  oh  ! that  form  so  heavenly  fair. 

Those  languid  eyes  so  sweetly  smiling. 

That  artless  blush  and  modest  air. 

So  fatally  beguiling ; 


r FROM  1727  CYCLOPiEDIA  OF  «>  1/<J0 


Thy  every  look,  and  every  grace. 

So  charm,  whene’er  I view  thee. 

Till  death  o’ertake  me  in  the  chase, 

Still  will  my  hopes  pursue  thee. 

Then,  when  my  tedious  hours  arc  past, 

He  this  last  blessing  given. 

Low  at  thy  feet  to  breathe  my  last. 

And  die  in  sight  of  heaven. 

DR  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

In  massive  force  of  understanding,  multifarious 
knowledge,  sagacity,  and  moral  intrepidity,  no  writer 


Dr  Samuel  Johnson. 

of  the  eighteenth  century  surpassed  Dr  Samuel 
Johnson.  Ilis  various  works,  with  their  senten- 
tious morality  and  high-sounding  sonorous  periods 
— his  manly  character  and  appearance — his  great 
virtues  and  strong  prejudices — his  early  and  severe 
struggles,  illustrating  his  own  noble  verse — 

Slow  rises  worth  by  poverty  depressed — 


his  love  of  argument  and  society,  into  which  he 
poured  the  treasures  of  a rich  and  full  mind — his 
wit,  repartee,  and  brow-beating — his  rough  manners 
and  kind  heart — his  curious  household,  in  which 
were  congregated  the  lame,  blind,  and  despised — his 
very  looks,  gesticulation,  and  dress — have  all  been 
brought  so  vividly  before  us  oy  his  biographer,  15os 
well,  that  to  readers  of  every  class  Johnson  is  as 
well  known  as  a member  of  their  own  family.  Ilis 
heavy  form  seems  still  to  haunt  Fleet  Street  and  the 
Strand,  and  he  has  stamped  his  memory  on  the  re- 
mote islands  of  the  Hebrides.  In  literature  his 
influence  has  been  scarcely  less  extensive.  No  prose 
writer  of  that  day  escaped  the  contagion  of  his  pe- 
culiar style.  He  banished  for  a long  period  the 
naked  simplicity  of  Swift  and  the  idiomatic  graces 
of  Addison;  he  depressed  the  literature  and  poetry 
of  imagination,  while  he  elevated  that  of  the  under- 
standing ; he  based  criticism  on  strong  sense  and 
solid  judgment,  not  on  scholastic  subtleties  and  re- 
finement ; and  though  some  of  the  higher  qualities 
and  attributes  of  genius  eluded  his  grasp  and  obser- 
vation, tlie  withering  scorn  and  invective  with  which 
he  assailed  all  atl'ected  sentimentalism,  immorality, 
and  licentiousness,  introduced  a pure  and  healthful 
and  invigorating  atmosphere  into  the  crowded  walks 
of  literature.  These  are  solid  and  substantial  bene- 
fits w hich  should  weigh  down  errors  of  taste  or  the 
caprices  of  a temperament  constitutionally  prone  to 
melancholy  and  ill  health,  and  which  was  little 
sweetened  by  prosperity  or  applause  at  that  period 
of  life  when  the  habits  are  formed  and  the  manner." 
become  permanent.  As  a man,  Johnson  was  an 
admirable  representative  of  the  Englishman — as  an 
author,  his  course  was  singularly  pure,  high-minded, 
and  independent.  He  could  boast  with  more  truth 
than  Burke,  that  ‘ he  had  no  arts  but  manly  arts.’ 
At  every  step  in  his  ]>rogress  his  passport  was  talent 
and  virtue ; and  when  the  royal  countenance  and 
favour  were  at  length  extended  to  him,  it  was  but  a 
ratification  by  the  sovereign  of  the  wishes  and  opi- 
nions entertained  by  the  best  and  wisest  of  the 
nation. 

Johnson  was  born  at  Lichfield,  September  18 
1709.  His  father  was  a bookseller,  and  in  circum- 
stances th.at  enabled  him  to  give  his  son  a good  edu- 
cation. In  his  nineteenth  year  he  was  placed  at  Pem- 


fitiwit  Scene  in  Lichfield,  lachuling  the  hirfhplace  of  Johnson  'bcinj;  the  under  p.irt  of  the  lighted  side 

on  the  right  hand  side  of  the  picture.  1 


the  large  houw 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


FORTS. 


nroke  coUeffe,  Oxford.  ^lisfortunes  in  trade  liappened 
to  tlie  elder  Johnson,  and  Samuel  was  compelled 
t'  leave  the  university  without  a degree,  lie  was 


Dr  Johnson’s  Room  in  Pembroke  College, 
a short  time  usher  in  a school  at  Market  Bosworth ; 
but  marrying  a widow,  Mrs  Porter  (whose  age  was 
double  his  own),  he  set  up  a private  academy  near 
his  native  city.  He  had  only  three  pupils,  one  of 
whom  was  David  Garrick.  After  an  unsuccess- 
ful career  of  a year  and  a-half,  Johnson  went  to 
London,  accompanied  by  Garrick,  lie  now  com- 
menced author  by  profession,  contributing  essays, 
reviews,  &c.,  to  the  Gentleman’s  Magazine.  In 
1738  appeared  his  London,  a satire-,  in  1744  his 
■ Life  of  Savage;  in  1749  The  Vanitij  of  Human 
Wishes,  an  imitation  of  Juvenal’s  tenth  Satire,  and 
the  tragedy  of  Irene;  in  1750-52  the  Rambler,  pub- 
lished in  numbers;  in  1755  his  Dictionary  of  the 
English  Language,  which  had  engaged  him  above 
seven  years  ; in  1758-60  the  Idler,  another  series  of 
essays;  in  1759  Rasselas;  in  1775  the  Journey  to 
the  Western  Islands  of  Scotland;  and  in  1781  the 
Lives  of  the  Poets.  Tlie  high  chnrch  and  Tory  pre- 
dilections of  Johnson  led  him  to  embark  on  the 
troubled  sea  of  party  politics,  and  he  wrote  some 
vigorous  pamphlets  in  defence  of  the  ministry  and 
against  the  claims  of  the  Americans.  His  degree 
of  LL.D.  was  conferred  upon  him  first  by  Trinity 
college,  Dublin,  and  afterwards  by  the  university 
of  Oxford.  His  majesty,  in  1762,  settled  upon  him 
an  annuity  of  £300  per  annum.  Johnson  died  on 
the  13th  of  December  1784. 

As  an  illustration  of  Johnson’s  character,  and  in- 
cidentally of  his  prose  style,  -we  subjoin  his  cele- 
I brated  letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield.  The  courtly 
nobleman  had  made  great  professions  to  the  retired 
scholar,  but  afterwards  neglected  him  for  some  years. 
When  his  ‘Dictionary’  was  on  the  eve  of  publica- 

I tion,  Chesterfield  (hoping  the  work  might  be  dedi- 
cated to  him)  attempted  to  concilia’e  the  aiitlior  by 

I I writing  two  papers  in  the  periodical  called  ‘ The 
j World,’  in  recommendation  of  the  work.  Johnson 

thought  all  was  ‘ false  and  hollow,’  and  penned  his 
indignant  letter.  He  did  Chesterfield  injustice  in 
the  affair,  as  from  a collation  of  the  facts  and  cir- 
cumstances is  now  apparent ; but  as  a keen  and 
dignified  expression  of  wounded  pride  and  surly 
Independence,  the  composition  is  inimitable  : — 


DR  SAMUKL  JOHNSON. 


rcbi'uary  7,  I7M. 

My  Lord — I have  been  lately  informed  by  tli'e 
proprietor  of  the  ‘World,’  that  two  papers,  in  which 
iny  ‘ Dictionary’  is  recommended  to  the  public,  were 
written  by  your  lordship.  To  be  so  distinguished  is 
an  honour,  which,  being  very  little  accustomed  to 
favours  from  the  great,  I know  not  well  how  to  receive, 
or  in  what  terms  to  acknowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I first 
visited  your  lordship,  I was  overpowered,  like  the  rest 
of  mankind,  by  the  enchantment  of  your  a<ldress,  and 
could  not  forbear  to  wish  that  I might  boast  myself 
le  vainqueur  du  vainqueur  de  la  ten-e; — that  I might 
obtain  that  regard  for  which  I saw  the  world  contend- 
ing ; but  I found  my  attendance  so  little  encouraged, 
that  neither  pride  nor  modesty  would  suffer  me  to 
continue  it.  When  I had  once  addressed  your  lord- 
ship  in  public,  I had  exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleas- 
ing which  a retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can  possess. 
I had  done  all  that  I could  ; and  no  man  is  well 
pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected,  be  it  ever  so  little. 

Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  passed  since  I 
waited  in  your  outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from 
your  door  ; during  which  time  I have  been  pushing 
on  my  work  through  difficulties,  of  which  it  is  useless 
to  complain,  and  have  brought  it  at  last  to  the  verge 
of  publication,  without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word 
of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favour.  Such  treat- 
ment I did  not  expect,  for  I never  had  a patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with 
Love,  and  found  him  a native  of  the  rocks. 

Is  not  a patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  un- 
concern on  a man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and, 
when  he  has  reached  ground,  encumbers  him  with 
help  ? The  notice  which  you  have  been  pleased  to 
take  of  my  labours,  had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind  ; 
but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I am  indifferent,  and  can- 
not enjoy  it ; till  I am  solitary,  and  cannot  impart  it ; 
till  I am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I hope  it  is  no 
very  cynical  asperity  not  to  confess  obligations  where 
no  benefit  has  been  received,  or  to  be  unwilling  that 
the  public  should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a 
patron  which  providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for 
myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  .so  little 
obligation  to  any  favourer  of  learning,  I shall  not  be 
disappointed  though  I sliould  conclude  it,  if  less  be 
possible,  with  less  ; for  I have  been  long  wakened  from 
that  dream  of  hope,  in  which  I once  boasted  myself 
with  so  much  exultation,  my  lord — Your  lordship’s 
mo.st  humble,  most  obedient  servani— Sam.  Johnson. 

The  poetry  of  Johnson  forms  but  a small  portion 
of  the  history  of  his  mind  or  of  his  works.  His 
imitations  of  Juvenal  are,  however,  among  the  best 
imitations  of  a classic  author  which  w-e  possess  ; and 
Gray  has  pronounced  an  opinion,  that  ‘London  (the 
first  in  time,  and  by  far  the  inferior  of  the  two)  has 
all  the  ease  and  all  the  spirit  of  an  original.’  Pope 
also  admired  the  composition.  In  The  Vanity  of 
Human  Wishes,  Johnson  departs  more  from  his  ori- 
ginal, and  takes  wider  views  of  human  nature,  so- 
ciety, and  manners.  His  pictures  of  Wolsey  and 
Charles  of  Sweden  have  a strength  and  magnificence 
that  would  do  honour  to  Dryden,  while  the  histori- 
cal and  philosophic  paintings  are  contrasted  by  re- 
flections on  the  cares,  vicissitudes,  and  sorrows  of 
life,  so  profound,  so  true,  and  touching,  that  they 
may  justly  be  denominated  ‘ mottoes  of  the  heart.’ 
Sir  Walter  Scott  has  termed  this  poem  ‘ a satire,  the 
deep  and  pathetic  morality  of  which  has  often  ex- 
tracted tears  from  those  wliose  eyes  wander  dry  over 
pages  professedly  sentimental.’  Johnson  was  too 
prone  to  indulge  in  dark  and  melancholy  views  of 
human  life;  yet  those  who  have  experienced  its  dis- 
appointments and  afflictions,  must  subscribe  to  th* 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOI’yEDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


sovcro  morality  and  pathos  with  which  the  contem- 
f)lative  poet 

Kxpatiatcs  free  o’er  all  this  scene  of  man. 

The  peculiarity  of  Juvenal,  according  to  Johnson’s 
own  definition,  ‘is  a mixture  of  gaiety  and  stateli- 
ness, of  pointed  sentences  and  declamatory  grandeur.’ 
He  had  less  reflection  and  less  moral  dignity  than 
his  F.nglish  imitator. 

The  other  jioetical  pieces  of  Johnson  are  short  and 
occasional ; but  his  beautiful  Prologue  on  the  open- 
ing of  Drury  Lane,  and  his  lines  on  the  death  of 
Levett,  are  in  his  best  manner. 


[From  the  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes^] 

Let  observation,  with  extensive  view, 

Survey  mankind,  from  China  to  Peru  ; 

Remark  each  anxious  toil,  each  eager  strife, 

And  watch  the  busy  scenes  of  crowded  life  ; 

Then  say  how  hope  and  fear,  desire  and  hate, 
O’erspread  with  snares  the  clouded  maze  of  fate, 
IVhore  wavering  man,  betrayed  by  venturous  pride. 
To  tread  the  dreary  paths  without  a guide ; 

As  treacherous  phantoms  in  the  mist  delude. 

Shuns  fancied  ills,  or  chases  airy  good. 

How  rarely  reason  guides  the  stubborn  choice. 

Rules  the  bold  hand,  or  prompts  the  suppliant  voice. 
How  nations  sink,  by  darling  schemes  oppressed. 
When  vengeance  listens  to  the  fool’s  request. 

Fate  wings  with  every  wish  the  afflictive  dart. 

Each  gift  of  nature,  and  each  grace  of  art. 

With  fatal  heat  impetuous  courage  glows. 

With  fatal  sweetness  elocution  flows. 

Impeachment  stops  the  speaker’s  powerful  breath. 
And  restless  fire  precipitates  on  death. 

But  scarce  observed,  the  knowing  and  the  bold. 
Fall  in  the  general  massacre  of  gold  ; 

Wide-wasting  pest ! that  rages  unconfined. 

And  crowds  with  crimes  the  records  of  mankind  ; 

For  gold  his  sword  the  hireling  ruffian  draws. 

For  gold  the  hireling  judge  distorts  the  laws  ; 

AV'ealth  heaped  cn  wealth,  nor  truth  nor  safety  buys. 
The  dangers  gather  as  the  treasures  rise. 

Let  history  tell  where  rival  kings  command. 

And  dubious  title  shakes  the  maddened  land ; 

When  statutes  glean  the  refuse  of  the  sword. 

How  much  more  safe  the  vassal  than  the  lord ; 

Low  skulks  the  hind  beneath  the  rage  of  power. 

And  leaves  the  wealthy  traitor  in  the  Tower, 
Untouched  his  cottage,  and  his  slumbers  sound. 
Though  confiscation’s  vultures  hover  round.  * * 

Unnumbered  suppliants  crowd  preferment’s  gate. 
Athirst  for  wealth,  and  burning  to  be  great ; 

Delusive  fortune  hears  the  incessant  call. 

They  mount,  they  shine,  evaporate,  and  fall. 

On  every  stage,  the  foes  of  peace  attend. 

Hate  dogs  their  flight,  and  insult  mocks  their  end. 
Love  ends  with  hope,  the  sinking  statesman’s  door 
Pours  in  the  morning  worshipper  no  more ; 

For  growing  names  the  weekly  scribbler  lies, 

To  growing  wealth  the  dedicator  flies ; 

From  every  room  descends  the  painted  face. 

That  hung  the  bright  palladium  of  the  place. 

And  smoked  in  kitchens,  or  in  auctions  sold. 

To  better  features  yields  the  frame  of  gold  ; 

For  now  no  more  we  trace  in  every  line 
Heroic  worth,  benevolence  divine ; 

The  form  distorted  justifies  the  fall. 

And  detestation  rids  the  indignant  wall. 

But  will  not  Britain  hear  the  last  appeal. 

Sign  her  foes’  doom,  or  guard  her  favourites’  zeal ! 
Through  freedom’s  sons  no  more  remonstrance  rings, 
liograding  nobles  and  controlling  kings  j 


t)ur  sujiple  tribes  repress  their  patriot  throats. 

And  ask  no  questions  but  tlie  price  of  votes; 

With  weekly  libels  and  septennial  ale. 

Their  wish  is  full  to  riot  and  to  rail. 

In  full-blown  dignity,  see  Wolsey  stand. 

Law  in  his  voice,  and  fortune  in  his  hand : 

To  him  the  church,  the  realm,  their  powers  consign ; 
Through  him  the  rays  of  regal  bounty  shine ; 

Turned  by  his  nod  the  stream  of  honour  flows. 

His  smile  alone  security  bestows  : 

Still  to  new  heights  his  restless  wishes  tower; 

Claim  leads  to  claim,  and  power  advances  power; 
Till  conquest  unresisted  ceased  to  please. 

And  rights  submitted,  left  him  none  to  seize. 

At  length  his  sovereign  frowns — the  train  of  state 
Mark  the  keen  glance,  and  watch  the  sign  to  hate: 
Where’er  he  turns  he  meets  a stranger’s  eye. 

His  suppliants  scon'  him,  and  his  followers  fly; 

Now  drops  at  once  ihe  pride  of  awful  state. 

The  golden  canopy,  the  glittering  ])late. 

The  regal  palace,  the  luxurious  board. 

The  liveried  armj',  and  the  menial  lord. 

With  age,  with  cares,  with  maladies  ojipressed. 

He  seeks  the  refuge  of  monastic  rest. 

Grief  aids  disease,  remembered  folly  stings. 

And  his  last  sighs  reproach  the  faith  of  kings. 

Speak  thou,  whose  thoughts  at  humble  peace  repine^ 
Shall  Wolsey’s  wealth,  with  Wolsey’s  end  be  thine? 
Or  liv’st  thou  now,  with  safer  pride  content. 

The  wisest  Justice  on  the  banks  of  Trent? 

For  why  did  Wolsey  near  the  steeps  of  fate. 

On  weak  foundations  raise  the  enormous  weight? 
Why,  but  to  sink  beneath  misfortune’s  blow. 

With  louder  ruin  to  the  gulfs  below. 

What  gave  great  Villiers  to  the  assassin’s  knife. 
And  fixed  disease  on  Harley’s  closing  life? 

What  murdered  Wentworth,  and  what  exiled  Hyde, 
By  kings  protected,  and  to  kings  allied  ? 

What,  but  their  wish  indulged  in  courts  to  shine. 
And  power  too  great  to  keep,  or  to  resign  1 * • 

The  festal  blazes,  the  triumphal  show. 

The  ravished  standard,  and  the  captive  foe. 

The  senate’s  thanks,  the  gazettes  pompous  tale. 

With  force  resistless  o’er  the  brave  i)revail. 

Such  bribes  the  rapid  Greek  o’er  Asia  whirled. 

For  such  the  steady  Romans  shook  the  world  ; 

For  such  in  distant  lands  the  Britons  shine. 

And  stain  with  blood  the  Danube  or  the  Rhine ; 

This  power  has  praise,  that  virtue  scarce  can  warm. 
Till  fame  supplies  the  universal  charm. 

Y et  reason  frowns  on  war’s  unequal  game. 

Where  wasted  nations  raise  a single  name. 

And  mortgaged  states  their  grandsires  wreaths  regret, 
From  age  to  age  in  everlasting  debt ; 

Wreaths  which  at  last  the  dear-bought  right  convey 
To  rust  on  medals,  or  on  stones  decay. 

On  what  foundations  stands  the  warrior’s  pride, 
How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide; 

A frame  of  adamant,  a soul  of  fire. 

No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labours  tire  ; 

O’er  love,  o’er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain. 
Unconquered  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain. 

No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield. 

War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the  fiehl  ; 

Behold  surrounding  kings  their  power  combine. 

And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign  ; 

Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms  in  vain  ; 
‘ Think  nothing  gained,’  he  cries,  ‘ till  nought  remain, 
On  Moscow’s  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly. 

And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky.’ 

The  march  begins  in  military  state. 

And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait ; 

Stern  famine  guards  the  solitary  coast. 

And  winter  barricades  the  realms  of  frost ; 

He  comes,  nor  want,  nor  cold,  his  course  delay; 

Hide,  blushing  glory,  hide  Pultowa’s  day : 


28 


POSTS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  dr  Samuel  Johnson. 

The  vanquished  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands, 

And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands; 

(londcmned  « needy  supplicant  to  wait, 

While  ladies  interpose,  and  slaves  debate. 

Hut  did  not  chance  at  length  her  error  mend  1 
Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end  ? 

1 >id  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound. 

Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground  1 
His  fall  was  destined  to  a barren  strand, 

A petty  fortress,  and  a dubious  hand  ; 

He  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world  grew  pale. 

To  point  a moral,  or  adorn  a tale.* 

All  times  their  scenes  of  pompous  woes  afford. 

From  Persia’s  tyrant,  to  Bavaria’s  lord. 

In  gay  hostility  and  barbarous  pride. 

With  half  mankind  embattled  at  his  side. 

Great  Xerxes  came  to  seize  the  certain  prey, 

And  starves  exhausted  regions  in  his  way ; 

Attendant  flattery  counts  his  myriads  o’er, 

Till  counted  myriads  soothe  his  pride  no  more ; 

Fresh  praise  is  tried  till  madness  fires  the  mind. 

The  waves  he  lashes,  and  enchains  the  wind  ; 

New  powers  are  claimed,  new  powers  are  still 
bestowed. 

Till  rude  resistance  lops  the  spreading  god  ; 

The  daring  Greeks  deride  the  martial  show. 

And  heap  theit  valleys  with  the  gaudy  foe ; 

The  insulted  sea  with  humbler  thoughts  he  gains, 

A single  skiff  to  speed  his  flight  remains  ; 

The  encumbered  oar  scarce  leaves  the  dreaded  coast 
Through  purple  billows  and  a floating  host.  * * 

Enlarge  my  life  with  multitude  of  days. 

In  health,  and  sickness,  thus  the  suppliant  prays ; 
Hides  from  himself  his  state,  and  shuns  to  know. 
That  life  protracted,  is  protracted  wo. 

Time  hovers  o’er,  impatient  to  destroy. 

And  shuts  up  all  the  passages  of  joy : 

In  vain  their  gifts  the  bounteous  seasons  pour. 

The  fruit  autumnal,  and  the  vernal  flower  ; 

With  listless  ej'es  the  dotard  views  the  store, 

He  views  and  wonders  that  they  please  no  more ; 

Now  pall  the  tasteless  meats,  and  joyless  wines, 

.\nd  luxury  with  sighs  her  slave  resigns. 

Approach,  ye  minstrels,  try  the  soothing  strain, 
Uifl'use  the  tuneful  lenitives  of  pain  : 

No  sounds,  alas  ! would  touch  the  impervious’ ear. 
Though  dancing  mountains  witnessed  Orpheus  near  ; 

* To  show  how  admirably  Johnson  has  imitated  this  part 
of  Juvenal,  applying  to  the  modern  hero,  Charles  XII.,  what 
the  Roman  satirist  directed  against  Hannibal,  we  subjoin  a 
literal  version  of  the  words  of  Juvenal: — ‘Weigh  Hannibal — 
how  many  pounds'  weight  will  you  find  in  that  consummate 
general?  This  is  the  man  whom  Africa,  washed  by  the 
Moorish  sea,  and  stretching  to  the  warm  Nile,  cannot  contain. 
Again,  in  addition  to  Ethiopia,  and  other  elephant-breeding 
countries;  Spain  is  added  to  his  empire.  He  jumps  over  the 
Pyrenees:  in  vain  nature  opposed  to  him  the  Alps  with  their 
snows ; he  severed  the  rocks,  and  rent  the  mountains  with 
Wnegar.  Now  he  reaches  Italy,  yet  he  determines  to  go  farther : 
“ Nothing  is  done,”  says  he,  “ unless  with  our  Punic  soldiers  we 
break  down  their  gates,  and  I plant  my  standard  in  the  midst 
of  Saburra  (street).  0 what  a figure,  and  what  a fine  picture 
he  would  make,  the  one-eyed  general,  carried  by  the  Getulian 
brute!  ^Vhat,  after  all,  was  the  end  of  it?  Alas  for  glory! 
this  very  man  is  routed,  and  flies  headlong  into  banishment, 
and  there  the  great  and  wonderful  comman3er  sits  like  a poor 
dependent  at  the  palace  door  of  a king,  till  it  please  the 
Bithynian  tyrant  to  awake.  That  life,  which  had  so  long 
disturbed  all  human  affairs,  was  brought  to  an  end,  not  by 
swords,  nor  stones,  nor  darts,  but  by  that  redresser  of  Cann$, 
and  avenger  of  the  blood  that  had  been  shed — a ring.^  Go, 
madman ; ‘hurrj’  over  the  savage  Alps,  to  please  the  school- 
boys, and  become  their  subject  of  declamation !”' 

* It  will  be  recollected  that  Hannibal,  to  prevent  his  falling 
Into  the  hands  of  the  Romans,  swallowed  poison,  which  he 
carried  in  a ring  on  his  finger. 

Nor  lute  nor  lyre  his  feeble  powers  attend, 

Nor  sweeter  music  of  a virtuous  friend, 

But  everlasting  dictates  crowd  his  tongue. 

Perversely  grave,  or  positively  wrong. 

The  still  returning  tale,  and  lingering  jest. 

Perplex  the  fawning  niece,  and  pampered  guest. 
While  growing  hopes  scarce  awe  the  gathering 
sneer. 

And  scarce  a legacy  can  bribe  to  hear ; 

The  watchful  guests  still  hint  the  last  offence. 

The  daughter’s  petulance,  the  son’s  expense. 

Improve  his  heady  rage  with  treacherous  skill, 

And  mould  his  passions  till  they  make  his  will. 

Unnumbered  maladies  his  joints  invade. 

Lay  siege  to  life,  and  press  the  dire  blockade ; 

But  unextinguished  avarice  still  remains. 

And  dreaded  losses  aggravate  his  pains  ; 

He  turns,  with  anxious  heart  and  crippled  hands, 

His  bonds  of  debt,  and  mortgages  of  lands; 

Or  views  his  coffers  with  suspicious  eyes. 

Unlocks  his  gold,  and  counts  it  till  he  dies. 

But  grant  the  virtues  of  a temperate  prime. 

Bless  with  an  age  exempt  from  scorn  or  crime ; 

An  age  that  melts  with  unperceived  decay. 

And  glides  in  modest  innocence  away ; 

Whose  peaceful  day  benevolence  endears. 

Whose  night  congratulating  conscience  cheers ; 

The  general  favourite  as  the  general  friend  ; 

Such  age  there  is,  and  who  shall  wish  its  end  ? 

Yet  even  on  this  her  load  misfortune  flings, 

To  press  the  weary  minutes’  flagging  wings; 

New  sorrow  rises  as  the  day  returns, 

A sister  sickens,  or  a daughter  mourns. 

Now  kindred  merit  fills  the  sable  bier, 

Now  lacerated  friendship  claims  a tear. 

Year  chases  year,  decay  pursues  decay, 

Still  drops  some  joy  from  withering  life  away; 

New  forms  arise,  and  different  views  engage, 
Supeifiuous  lags  the  veteran  on  the  .stage. 

Till  pitying  nature  signs  the  last  release. 

And  bids  afflicted  worth  retire  to  peace. 

But  few  there  are  wliom  hours  like  these  await. 
Who  set  unclouded  in  the  gulfs  of  fate. 

From  Lydia’s  monarch  should  the  search  descend. 

By  Solon  cautioned  to  regard  his  end. 

In  life’s  last  scene  what  prodigies  surprise. 

Fears  of  the  brave,  and  follies  of  the  wise? 

From  Marlb’rough’s  eyes  the  streams  of  dotage  flow, 
And  Swift  expires  a driveller  and  a show.  * * 

Where,  then,  shall  hope  and  fear  their  object! 
find  ? 

Must  dull  suspense  corrupt  the  stagnant  mind? 

Must  helpless  man,  in  ignorance  sedate. 

Roll  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate  ? 

Mu.st  no  dislike  alarm,  no  wishes  rise, 

No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies  ? 

Inquirer,  cease  ; petitions  yet  remain, 

Which  Heaven  may  hear,  nor  deem  religion  vain. 
Still  raise  for  good  the  supj)licating  voice, 

But  leave  to  Heaven  the  measure  and  the  choice. 

Safe  in  his  power,  whose  eyes  discern  afar 
The  secret  ambush  of  a specious  prayer. 

Implore  his  aid,  in  his  decisions  rest. 

Secure  whate’er  he  gives,  he  gives  the  hc.st. 

Yet  'when  the  sense  of  sacred  presence  fires, 

And  strong  devotion  to  the  .skies  aspires, 

Pour  forth  thy  fervours  for  a l;ealtliftil  mind. 
Obedient  passions,  and  a will  resigned  ; 

For  love,  which  scarce  collective  man  can  fill ; 

For  patience,  sovereign  o’er  transmuted  ill  ; 

For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a happier  seat, 

Counts  death  kind  nature’s  signal  of  retreat : 

These  goods  for  man  the  laws  of  Heaven  ordain. 

These  goods  he  grants,  who  grants  the  power  to  gain  , 
With  these  celestial  wisdom  calms  the  mind. 

And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  find. 

29 

FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  or 


TO  1780. 


I’rulof/tte  spol-en  hy  Mr  Garriclc,  at  the  opening  of  the 
Theatre  in  Drury  Lane,  in  1747. 

When  Leiiriiing’fl  triurniili  o’er  lier  barbarous  foes 
First  reared  tlie  staee,  iiriinortal  J'bakspeare  rose  ; 
Kacb  cbatigo  of  many-coloured  life  be  drew, 
Kxbausted  worlds,  and  then  iina"incd  new: 

F.xistence  saw  bini  spurn  her  bounded  reign, 

And  panting  time  toiled  after  him  in  vain; 
llis  powerful  strokes  presiding  truth  impressed. 

And  unresisted  passion  stormed  tlie  breast. 

Then  .lonson  eame,  instructed  from  the  school, 

I To  please  in  method,  and  invent  by  rule; 

I llis  studious  patience  and  laborious  art, 
lly  regular  approach  essayed  the  heart : 

I Cold  apiuobation  gave  the  lingering  bays, 

1 For  those  who  durst  not  eensure,  scarce  could  praise. 

K mortal  born,  he  met  the  general  doom, 

I But  left,  like  Egypt’s  kings,  a lasting  tomb. 

I The  wits  of  Charles  found  easier  ways  to  fame. 

Nor  wished  for  .lonson’s  art,  or  Shakspeare’s  flame; 
Themselves  they  studied,  as  they  felt  they  writ. 
Intrigue  was  plot,  obscenity  was  wit. 

Vice  always  found  a sympathetic  friend  ; 

They  pleased  their  age,  and  did  not  aim  to  mend. 

Yet  bards  like  these  aspired  to  lasting  praise. 

And  proudly  hoped  to  pimp  in  future  days : 

Their  cause  was  general,  their  supports  were  strong. 
Their  slaves  were  willing,  and  their  reign  was  long ; 
Till  shame  regained  the  post  that  sense  betrayed. 

And  virtue  called  oblivion  to  her  aid. 

Then  crushed  by  rules,  and  weakened  as  refined. 
For  years  the  power  of  Tragedy  declined  : 

From  bard  to  bard  the  frigid  caution  crept. 

Till  declamation  roared,  whilst  passion  slept; 

Yet  still  did  virtue  deign  the  stage  to  tread; 
Philosoiihy  remained,  though  nature  fled. 

But  forced  at  length  her  ancient  reign  to  quit. 

She  saw'  great  Faustus  lay  the  ghost  of  wit : 

Exulting  folly  hailed  the  joyful  day, 

And  Pantomime  and  song  confirmed  her  sway. 

But  who  the  coming  changes  can  presage. 

And  mark  the  future  periods  of  the  stage  ? 

Perhaps,  if  skill  could  distant  times  explore. 

New  Behns,  new  D’Urfeys,  yet  remain  in  store ; 
Perhaps,  where  Lear  has  raved,  and  Hamlet  died. 

On  flying  cars  new  sorcerers  may  ride  ; 

Perhaps  (for  who  can  guess  the  effects  of  chancel) 
Here  Hunt  may  box,  or  Mahomet  may  dance. 

Hard  is  his  lot,  that,  here  by  fortune  placed, 

Must  watch  the  wild  vicissitudes  of  taste ; 

With  every  meteor  of  caprice  must  play. 

And  chase  the  new-blown  bubble  of  the  day. 

Ah!  let  not  censure  terra  our  fate  our  choice. 

The  stage  but  echoes  back  the  public  voice ; 

The  drama’s  laws  the  drama’s  patrons  give. 

For  we  that  live  to  please,  must  please  to  live. 

Then  prompt  no  more  the  follies  you  decry. 

As  tyrants  doom  their  tools  of  guilt  to  die ; 

’Tis  yours  this  night  to  bid  the  reign  commence 
Of  rescued  nature  and  reviving  sense; 

To  chase  the  charms  of  sound,  the  pomp  of  show. 

For  useful  mirth  and  solitary  wo. 

Bid  Scenic  V'irtue  form  the  rising  age. 

And  Truth  diffuse  her  radiance  from  the  stage. 

On  the  Death  of  Dr  Robert  Levett — 1782. 

Condemned  to  hope’s  delusive  mine. 

As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day. 

By  sudden  blasts,  or  slow  decline. 

Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 

Well  tried  through  many  a varying  year. 

See  Levett  to  the  grave  descend. 

Officious,  innocent,  sincere. 

Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 


Yet  still  he  fills  affection’s  eye. 

Obscurely  wi.se  and  coarsely  kind  ; 

Nor,  lettered  arrogance,  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 

When  fainting  nature  called  for  aid. 

And  hovering  death  prepared  the  blow. 

His  vigorous  remedy  dis]>layed 

The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  misery’s  darke.st  cavern  known. 

His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh. 

Where  hopeless  anguish  poured  nis  groan. 

And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mocked  by  chill  delay. 

No  petty  gain  disdained  by  pride; 

The  modest  wants  of  every  day 
The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 

His  virtues  walked  their  narrow  round. 

Nor  made  a pau.se,  nor  left  a void  ; 

And  sure  the  Eternal  Master  found 
The  single  talent  well  employed. 

The  busy  day — the  peaceful  night. 

Unfelt,  uncounted,  glided  by  ; 

His  frame  was  firm — his  powers  were  brightj 
Though  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nish. 

Then  with  no  fiery  throbbing  pain. 

No  cold  gradations  of  decay. 

Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain. 

And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way.  ' 

i 

■WILLIAM  COLLINS. 

None  of  our  poets  have  lived  more  under  the 
‘ skiey  influences’  of  imagination  than  that  exquisite 
but  ill-fated  bard,  Collins.  His  works  are  imbued 
with  a fine  ethere.al  fancy  and  purity  of  taste  ; and 
though,  like  the  [loems  of  Gray,  they  are  small  in 
number  and  amount,  they  are  rich  in  vivid  imagery 
and  beautiful  description.  His  history  is  brief  but  I 
painful.  William  Collins  was  the  son  of  a respect- 
able tradesman,  a hatter,  at  Chichester,  where  he 
M'as  born  on  Christmas  day,  1720.  In  his  ‘Ode  to 
Pity,’  the  poet  alludes  to  his  ‘ native  plains,’  w'hich  ■ 
are  bounded  by  the  South  Down  hills,  and  to  the 
small  river  Arun,  one  of  the  streams  of  Sussex,  near  j 
which  Otway,  also,  was  born.  i 

But  wherefore  need  I wander  wide 
To  old  Hissus’  di.stant  side? 

Deserted  stream  and  mute  ! 

Wild  Arun,  too,  has  heard  thy  strains, 

And  Echo  ’midst  my  native  plains 
Been  soothed  by  Pity’s  lute. 

Collins  received  a learned  education,  in  which  be 
was  aided  by  pecuniary  assistance  from  his  uncle,  j 
Colopel  Martin,  stationed  with  his  regiment  in  j 
Flanders.  While  at  ilagdalen  college,  Oxford,  he 
published  his  Oriental  Eclogues,  which,  to  the  dis-  i 
grace  of  the  university  and  the  literary  public,  ■w'ere  I 
wholly  neglected.  Meeting  shortly  afterwmrds  with 
some  repulse  or  indignity  at  the  university,  he  sud- 
denly quitted  Oxford,  and  repaired  to  London,  full 
of  high  hopes  and  magnificent  schemes.  His  learn- 
ing was  extensive,  but  he  wanted  steadiness  of  pur- 
pose and  application.  Two  j'ears  afterwards,  in 
1746,  he  published  his  Odes,  which  were  purchased 
by  Millar  the  bookseller,  but  failed  to  attract  at- 
tention. Collins  sunk  under  the  disappointment, 
and  became  still  more  indolent  and  dissipated.  The 
fine  promise  of  his  j’outh,  his  ardour  and  ambition, 
melted  away  under  this  baneful  and  depressing  in- 
fluence. Once  again,  however,  lie  strung  his  lyre 
with  poetical  enthusiasm.  Thomson  died  in  1747  : 
Collins  seems  to  have  known  and  loved  him,  and  he 

30 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


I 

WILLIAM  COki  ins. 


honoured  his  memory  with  an  Ode,  which  is  cer- 
taiidy  one  of  tlie  finest  elepiac  productions  in  the 
laiifcuage.  Among  liis  friends  was  also  Home,  the 
author  of  ‘ Douglas,’  to  whom  he  addressed  an 
Ode,  w’hich  was  found  unfinished  after  his  death, 
on  the  Superstitions  of  the  Highlands.  He  loved  to 
dwell  on  these  dim  and  visionary  objects,  and  the 
compliment  he  pays  to  Tasso,  may  be  applied 
equally  to  himself — 

Prevailing  poet,  whose  undoubting  mind 
Relieved  the  magic  wonders  which  he  sung. 

At  this  period,  Collins  seems  to  have  contemplated 
a journey  to  Scotland — 

The  time  shall  come  when  I perhaps  may  tread 
Your  lowly  glens  o’erhung  with  spreading  broom  ; 
Or  o’er  your  stretching  heaths  by  Fancy  led  ; 

Or  o’er  ^our  mountains  creep  in  awful  gloom  ! 

Then  will  I dress  once  more  the  faded  flower, 
M’here  Jonson  sat  in  Drummond’s  classic  shade ; 

Or  crop  from  Teviotdale  each  lyric  flower. 

And  mourn  on  Yarrow’s  basiks  where  Willy’s  laid. 

In  the  midst  of  the  poet’s  difficulties  and  distresses, 
his  uncle  died  ami  left  him  £2000  ; ‘ a sum,’  says 
Johnson,  ‘ wliich  Collins  could  scarcely  think  ex- 
haustible, and  which  he  did  not  live  to  exhaust.’ 
He  repaid  Millar  the  bookseller  the  loss  sustained 
by  the  publication  of  his  ‘ Odes  ;’  and  buying  up  the 
remaining  copies,  committed  them  all  to  the  flames. 
He  became  still  more  irregular  in  his  habits,  and 
sank  into  a state  of  nervous  imbecility.  All  hope 
and  exertion  had  fled.  Johnson  met  him  one  day, 
carrying  with  him  as  he  travelled  an  English  Testa- 
ment. ‘ I have  but  one  book,’  said  Collins,  ‘ but  it 
is  the  best’  In  his  latter  days  he  was  tended  by 
his  sister  in  Chichester;  but  it  was  necessary  at  one 
time  to  confine  him  in  a lunatic  asylum.  He  used, 
when  at  liberty,  to  w.ander  day  and  night  among 
the  aisles  and  cloisters  of  Chichester  cathedral,  ac- 
companying the  music  with  loud  sobs  and  moans. 
Death  at  length  came  to  his  relief,  and  in  1756 — at 
the  early  age  of  thirty-six,  ten  years  after  the  publi- 
cation of  his  immortal  works  — his  troubled  and 
melancholy  career  w'as  terminated : it  atfords  one 
of  the  most  touching  examples  of  accomplished 
youth  and  genius,  linked  to  personal  humiliation 
and  calamity,  that  throws  its  lights  and  shades  on 
our  literary  annals. 


Collins’s  Monument  in  Chichester  Cathedral. 

Mr  Southey  has  remarked,  that,  though  utterly 
neglected  on  their  first  appearance,  the  ‘Odes’  of 


Collins,  in  the  course  of  one  generation,  without  any 
adventitious  aid  to  bring  them  into  notice,  were 
acknowledged  to  be  the  best  of  their  kind  in  the 
language.  ‘ Silently  and  imperceptibly  they  had 
risen  by  their  own  buoyancy,  and  their  power  was 
felt  by  every  reader  who  had  any  true  poetic  feel- 
ing.’ This  popularity  seems  still  to  be  on  the  in- 
crease, though  the  want  of  human  interest  and  of  I 
action  in  Collins’s  poetry  prevent  its  being  generally 
read.  The  ‘ Eclogues’  are  free  from  the  occasional  i 
obscurity  and  remoteness  of  conception  that  in  part  | 
pervade  the  ‘ Odes,’  and  they  charm  by  their  figu- 
rative language  and  descriptions,  the  simplicity  and 
beauty  of  their  dialogues  and  sentiments,  and  their 
musical  versification.  The  desert  scene  in  Hassan,  I 
the  Camel  Driver,  is  a finished  picture — impressive  | 
and  even  appalling  in  its  reality.  The  Ode  on  the 
Passions,  and  that  on  Evening,  are  the  finest  of 
his  lyrical  works.  The  former  is  a magnificent 
gallery  of  allegorical  paintings ; and  the  poetical 
diction  is  equally  rich  wdth  the  conception.  No 
poet  has  made  more  use  of  metaphors  and  personi- 
fication. He  has  individualised  even  metaphysical 
pursuits,  which  he  terms  ‘the  shadowy  tribes  of 
Mind.’  Pity  is  pres,  nted  with  ‘eyes  of  dewy  light’ 
— a felicitous  epithet ; and  Danger  is  described  with 
the  boldness  and  distinctness  of  sculpture — 

Danger,  whose  limbs  of  giant  mould 
What  mortal  eye  can  fixed  behold  1 
M^ho  stalks  his  round,  a hideous  form, 

Howling  amidst  the  midnight  storm, 

Or  throws  him  on  the  ridgy  steep 
Of  some  loose  hanging  rock  to  sleep. 

Eclogue  II. — Hassan;  or  the  Camel  Driver. 

Scene— The  Desert.  Time — Mid-day. 

In  silent  horror,  o’er  the  boundless  waste, 

The  driver  Hassan  with  his  camels  past ; 

One  cruise  of  water  on  his  back  he  bore. 

And  his  light  scrip  contained  a scanty  store; 

A fan  of  painted  feathers  in  his  hand. 

To  guard  his  shaded  face  from  scorching  sand. 

The  sultry  .sun  had  gained  the  middle  sky, 

And  not  a tree  and  not  a herb  was  nigh  ; 

The  beasts  with  pain  their  dusty  way  pursue, 

Shrill  roared  the  winds,  and  dreary  was  the  view  f 
With  desperate  sorrow  wild,  the  affrighted  man 
Thrice  sighed,  thrice  struck  his  breast,  and  thus  began 
‘ Sad  was  the  hour,  and  luckless  was  the  day. 

When  first  from  Schiraz’  walls  I bent  my  way !’ 

Ah  ! little  thought  I of  the  blasting  wind. 

The  thirst  or  pinching  hunger  that  I find ! 

Bethink  thee,  Hassan  ! where  shall  thirst  assuage, 
When  fails  this  cruise,  his  unrelenting  rage  ? 

Soon  shall  this  scrip  its  precious  load  resign, 

Then  what  but  tears  and  hunger  shall  be  thine ! 

Ye  mute  companions  of  my  toils,  that  bear 
In  all  my  griefs  a more  than  equal  share ! 

Here,  where  no  springs  in  murmurs  break  away. 

Or  moss-cro\vned  fountains  mitigate  the  day. 

In  vain  ye  hope  the  green  delight  to  know. 

Which  plains  more  ble.ssed  or  verdant  \ ales  bestow  , 
Here  rocks  alone  and  tasteless  sands  are  found, 

Aud  faint  and  sickly  winds  for  ever  howl  around. 

‘ Sad  was  the  hour,  and  luckless  was  the  day. 

When  first  from  Schiraz’  walls  I bent  my  way  i’ 

Cursed  be  the  gold  and  silver  which  persua*te 
Weak  men  to  follow  far  fatiguing  trade  I 
The  lily  peace  outshines  the  silver  store. 

And  life  is  dearer  than  the  golden  ore ; 

Yet  money  tempts  us  o’er  tbe  desert  brown. 

To  every  distant  mart  and  wealthy  town. 

Full  oft  we  temjit  the  land,  and  oft  the  sea; 

And  are  we  only  yet  repaid  by  thee  ? 


Fiti  M 1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


All ! why  was  ruin  so  attractive  niaile, 

Or  why  fond  man  so  easily  betrayed? 

Why  heed  we  not,  while  mad  we  haste  along, 

I'he  gentle  voice  of  Peace,  or  Pleasure’s  song? 

Or  wherefore  think  the  flowery  mountain’s  side, 

I’he  fountain’s  murmurs,  and  the  valley’s  pride; 

.\'hy  think  we  these  less  jdeasing  to  behold 
f nan  dreary  deserts,  if  they  lead  to  gold  ? 

‘Sad  was  the  hour,  and  luckless  was  the  day. 

When  first  from  Schiraz’  walls  I bent  my  way!’ 

O cease,  my  fears ! All  frantic  as  I go. 

When  thought  creates  unnumbered  scenes  of  wo, 
U’hat  if  the  lion  in  his  rage  I meet ! 

Oft  in  the  dust  1 view  his  printed  feet ; 

And  fearful  oft,  when  Day’s  declining  light 
Yields  her  pale  empire  to  the  mourner  Night, 

•Ily  hunger  roused  he  scours  the  groaning  plain, 
(iaiint  wolves  and  sullen  tigers  in  his  train  ; 

Ilefore  them  Death  with  shrieks  directs  their  way. 
Fills  the  wild  yell,  and  leads  them  to  their  prey. 

‘ Sad  was  the  hour,  and  luckless  was  the  day. 

When  first  from  Schiraz’  walls  I bent  my  way  !’ 

At  that  dead  hour  the  silent  asp  shall  creep, 

If  aught  of  rest  I find,  upon  my  sleep ; 

Or  some  swoln  serpent  twist  his  scales  around, 

And  wake  to  anguish  with  a burning  wound. 

Thrice  happy  they,  the  wise  contented  poor. 

From  lust  of  wealth  and  dread  of  death  secure  1 
They  tempt  no  deserts,  and  no  griefs  they  find  ; 

Peace  rules  the  day  where  reason  rules  the  mind. 

‘ Sad  was  the  hour,  and  luckless  was  the  day. 

When  first  from  Schiraz’  walls  I bent  my  way !’ 

O hapless  youth  ! for  she  thy  love  hath  won. 

The  tender  Zara ! will  be  most  undone. 

Big  swelled  my  heart,  and  owned  the  powerful  maid, 
^Vllen  fast  she  dropped  her  tears,  as  thus  she  said  : 

‘ Farewell  the  youth  whom  sighs  could  not  detain. 
Whom  Zara’s  breaking  heart  implored  in  vain  ! 

Yet  as  thou  go’st,  may  every  blast  arise 
Weak  and  unfelt  as  these  rejected  sighs  ; 

Safe  o’er  the  wild  no  perils  niay’st  thou  see. 

No  griefs  endure,  nor  weep,  false  youth ! like  me.’ 

‘ 0 ! let  me  safely  to  the  fair  return. 

Say  with  a kiss,  she  must  not,  shall  not  mourn ; 

O ! let  me  teach  my  heart  to  lose  its  fears. 

Recalled  by  Wisdom’s  voice  and  Zara’s  tears.’ 

He  said,  and  called  on  Heaven  to  bless  the  day 
When  back  to  Schiraz’  walls  he  bent  his  way. 

Ode  Written  in  the  Year  1746. 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest. 

By  all  their  country’s  wishes  blest  ? 

When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold. 

Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould. 

She  there  shall  dress  a sweeter  sod. 

Than  Fancy’s  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung. 

By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 

There  Honour  comes,  a pilgrim  gray. 

To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay, 

And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair. 

To  dwell  a weeping  hermit  there. 

Ode  to  Evening, 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song. 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear. 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs. 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales ; 

Oh  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts. 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

*')’«rhang  his  wary  bed  • 


TO  178u. 


Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat. 
With  short  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern  wing. 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path. 

Against  the  ))ilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum  : 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain. 

Whose  numbers  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit. 

As,  musing  slow,  I hail 
Thy  genial  loved  return  1 
For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 
The  fragrant  hours,  and  elves 
Who  slept  in  buds  the  day. 

And  many  a nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  .sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and  lovelier  still. 

The  pensive  pleasures  sweet 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  he.athy  scene. 

Or  find  some  ruin  ’midst  its  dreary  dell.s, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 
By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain. 

Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 
That  from  the  mountain’s  side 
Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods. 

And  hamlets  brotvn,  and  dim-discovered  spires. 

And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o’er  all 
Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont. 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve  ! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light : 

While  sallow  autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves. 

Or  Winter  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 
Aft'rights  thy  shrinking  train. 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes  : 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule. 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own. 

And  love  thy  favourite  name  1 

Ode  on  the  Passions. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid!  was  young, 

W’hile  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung. 

The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell. 

Thronged  around  her  magic  cell  ; 

Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting. 

Possessed  beyond  the  muse’s  painting ; 

By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined  ; 

Till  once,  ’tis  said,  when  all  were  fired. 

Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired. 

From  the  supporting  myrtles  round. 

They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound ; 

And  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art. 

Each,  for  madness  ruled  the  hour. 

Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try. 

Amid  the  chords,  bewildered  laid  ; 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why. 

Even  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed,  his  eyes  on  fire 
In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings; 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre. 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  stringk, 

32 


roBTs.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  william  colliiu. 


Il’ith  woful  ineiisurea  wan  Despair, 

Low  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled ; 

A soleiiMi,  strange,  and  mingled  air ; 

’Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  ’twas  wild. 

But  then,  oh  Hope ! with  eyes  so  fair, 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 

Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure. 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail. 

Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong  ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale. 

She  called  on  Echo  still  through  all  the  song; 

Ami  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close ; 

And  Hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden 
hair: 

And  longer  had  she  sung,  but  with  a frown 
Revenge  impatient  rose ; 

He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down. 
And,  with  a withering  look. 

The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took. 

And  blew  a blast  so  loud  and  dread. 

Were  ne’er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  wo ; 

And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 

The  double  drum  with  furious  heat ; 

And  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between. 
Dejected  Pity  at  his  side 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied. 

Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien. 

While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting 
from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fixed  ; 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state ; 

Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed, 
Aud  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving  called  on  Hate. 

^Yith  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired. 

Anil  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat. 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet. 

Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 
And  clashing  soft  from  rocks  around. 

Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound  ; 

Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure 
stole : 

Or  o’er  some  haunted  streams  with  fond  delay. 
Round  a holy  calm  diffusing. 

Love  of  peace  and  lonely  musing, 

In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  oh  ! how  altered  was  its  sprightly  tone. 

When  Cheerfulness,  a nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung. 

Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew. 

Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung. 
The  hunter’s  call,  to  Fawn  and  Dryad  known ; 

The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  their  chaste-eyed  queen. 
Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green ; 

Broivn  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear. 

And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear. 

Last  came  Joy’s  ecstatic  trial : 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

Fir.'tt  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addressed  ; 

But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk,  awakening  viol. 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best. 

They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the  strain. 
They  saw,  in  Terape’s  vale,  her  native  maids. 
Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades. 

To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing : 

While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings. 

Love  framed  with  Mirth,  a gay  fantastic  round. 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound : 

And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play. 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay. 

Shook  thousand  odour.s  from  his  dewy  wings. 

4.5 


Oh  Music  ! sphere-descended  maid. 

Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom’s  aid, 

Why,  goddess  ! why  to  us  denied, 

Lay’st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside! 

As  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower. 

You  learn  an  all-commanding  power; 

Thy  mimic  soul,  oh  nymph  endeared, 

Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 

Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 

Devote  to  virtue,  fancy,  art  ? 

Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time. 

Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime! 

Thy  wonders  in  that  godlike  age 
Fill  thy  recording  sister’s  page  ; 

’Tis  said,  and  1 believe  the  tale. 

Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail, 

Had  more  of  .strength,  diviner  rage. 

Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age ; 

Even  all  at  once  together  found, 

Cecilia’s  mingled  world  of  sound. 

Oh  ! bid  your  vain  endeavours  cease, 

Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece ; 

Return  in  all  thy  simple  state ; 

Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate. 

Ode  to  Liberty. 

STROPHE. 

Who  shall  awake  the  Spartan  fife. 

And  call  in  solemn  sounds  to  life. 

The  youths,  whose  locks  divinely  spreading. 

Like  vernal  hyacinths  in  sullen  hue. 

At  once  the  breath  of  fear  and  virtue  shedding, 
Applauding  freedom  loved  of  old  to  view  2 
What  new  Alceus,  fancy-blessed. 

Shall  sing  the  sword,  in  myrtles  dressed. 

At  wisdom’s  shrine  a while  its  flame  concealing, 
(What  place  so  fit  to  seal  a deed  renowned?) 

Till  she  her  brightest  lightnings  round  revealing. 

It  leaped  in  glory  forth,  and  dealt  her  prompted  wound! 
Oh  goddess,  in  that  feeling  hour. 

When  most  its  sounds  would  court  thy  ears. 

Let  not  my  shell’s  misguided  power, 

E’er  draw  thy  sad,  thy  mindful  tears. 

No,  freedom,  no ; I will  not  tell 
How  Rome,  before  thy  face. 

With  heaviest  sound,  a giant  statue  fell. 

Pushed  by  a wild  and  artless  race 
From  off  its  wide  ambitious  base. 

When  time  his  northern  sons  of  spoil  awoke. 

And  all  the  blended  work  of  strength  and  grace. 
With  many  a rude  repeated  stroke. 

And  many  a barbarous  yell,  to  thousand  fragments 
broke. 

EPODE. 

Yet,  even  where’er  the  least  appeareu. 

The  admiring  world  thy  hand  revered ; 

Still  ’midst  the  scattered  states  around. 

Some  remnant.?  of  her  strength  were  found  ; 

They  saw,  by  what  escaped  the  storm. 

How  wondrous  rose  her  perfect  form  ; 

How  in  the  great,  the  laboured  whole. 

Each  mighty  master  poured  his  soul ; 

For  sunny  Florence,  seat  of  art. 

Beneath  her  vines  preserved  a part,  ' 

Till  they,  whom  science  loved  to  name, 

(Oh,  who  could  fear  it  2)  quenched  her  flame. 

And,  lo,  a humbler  relic  laid 
In  jealous  Pisa’s  olive  shade  ! 

See  small  Marino  joins  the  theme. 

Though  least,  not  last  in  thy  esteem ; 

Strike,  louder  strike  the  ennobling  strings 
To  those  whose  merchants’  sons  were  kings  ; 

To  him,  who,  decked  with  pearly  pride. 

In  Adria  weds  his  green-haired  bride  : 


PROM  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  w I7b0. 


Hftil  port  of  glory,  wealth  and  pleasure, 

Ne’er  let  me  cliange  tliis  Lydian  measure ; 

Nor  e’er  her  former  pride  relate, 

To  sad  Liguria’s  bleeding  state. 

Ah,  no ! more  pleased  thy  haunts  I seek, 

On  wild  Helvetia’s  mountains  bleak 
(Where,  when  the  favoured  of  thy  choice, 

Tlie  daring  archer  lieard  thy  voice. 

Forth  from  his  eyry  roused  in  dread. 

The  ravening  eagle  northward  fled) ; 

Or  dwell  in  willowed  meads  more  near. 

With  those  to  whom  thy  stork  is  dear: 

Tliose  whom  the  rod  of  Alva  bruised. 

Whose  crown  a llritish  queen  refused  ! 

The  magic  works,  thou  feel’st  the  strains, 

One  holier  name  alone  remains ; 

The  perfect  spell  shall  then  avail. 

Hail,  nymph,  adored  by  IJritain,  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Beyond  the  measure  vast  of  thought. 

The  works  the  wizard  time  has  wrought ! 

The  Gaul,  ’tis  held  of  antique  story. 

Saw  Britain  linked  to  his  now  adver.se  strand. 

No  sea  between,  nor  cliff  sublime  and  hoary. 

He  passed  with  unwet  feet  through  all  our  land. 

To  the  blown  Baltic  then,  they  say. 

The  wild  waves  found  another  way. 

Where  Orcas  howls,  his  wolfish  mountains  rounding; 

Till  all  the  banded  west  at  once  ’gain  rise, 

A wide  wild  storm  even  Nature’s  self  confounding. 
Withering  her  giant  sons  with  strange  uncouth 
surprise. 

This  pillared  earth  so  firm  and  wide, 

I By  winds  and  inward  labours  tom. 

In  thunders  dread  was  pushed  aside. 

And  down  the  shouldering  billows  home. 

And  see,  like  gems,  her  laughing  train. 

The  little  isles  on  every  side, 

Mona,  once  hid  from  those  who  search  the  main. 
Where  thousand  elfin  shapes  abide. 

And  Wight  who  checks  the  westering  tide. 

For  thee  consenting  heaven  has  each  bestowed 
A fair  attendant  on  her  sovereign  pride : 

To  thee  this  blessed  divorce  she  owed. 

For  thou  hast  made  her  vales  thy  loved,  thy  last 
abode ! 

SECOND  EPODE. 

Then,  too,  ’tis  said,  a hoary  pile, 

’Midst  the  green  naval  of  our  isle. 

Thy  shrine  in  some  religious  wood, 

0 soul  enforcing  goddess,  stood  ! 

There  oft  the  painted  native’s  feet 
Were  vront  thy  form  celestial  meet : 

Though  now  with  hopeless  toil  we  trace 
Time’s  backward  rolls,  to  find  its  place  ; 

Whether  the  fiery-tressed  Dane, 

Or  Roman’s  self  o’erturned  the  fane. 

Or  in  what  heaven  left  age  it  fell, 

’Twere  hard  for  modern  song  to  tell. 

Yet  still,  if  truth  those  beams  infuse. 

Which  guide  at  once,  and  charm  the  muse 
Beyond  you  braided  clouds  that  lie. 

Paving  the  light  embroidered  sky ; 

Amidst  the  bright  pavilioned  plains. 

The  beauteous  model  still  remains. 

There  happier  than  in  islands  blessed. 

Or  bowers  by  spring  or  Hebe  dressed. 

The  chiefs  who  fill  our  Albion’s  story, 

In  warlike  weeds,  retired  in  glory, 

Hear  their  consorted  Druids  sing 
Their  triumphs  to  the  immortal  string. 

How  may  the  poet  now  unfold 
What  never  tongue  or  numbers  told! 


How  learn  deliglited,  and  amazed, 

What  hands  unknown  that  fabric  raised  I 
Even  now,  before  his  favoured  eyes. 

In  Gothic  pride  it  seems  to  rise! 

Yet  Grecia’s  graceful  orders  join. 

Majestic,  though  the  mixed  design; 

The  secret  builder  knew  to  choose. 

Each  sphere  found  gem  of  richest  hues ; 

WTiate’er  heaven’s  purer  mould  contains. 

When  nearer  suns  emblaze  its  veins  ; 

There  on  the  walls  the  patriots  sight 
May  ever  liang  with  fresh  delight, 

And,  graved  with  some  prophetic  rage. 

Read  Albion’s  fame  through  every  age. 

Ye  forms  divine,  ye  laureate  band, 

That  near  her  inmost  altar  stand  ! 

Now  soothe  her  to  her  blissful  train, 

Blithe  Concord’s  social  form  to  gain  : 

Concord,  whose  myrtle  wand  can  steep 
Even  Anger’s  blood-shot  eyes  in  sleep  : 

Before  whose  breathing  bosom’s  balm. 

Rage  drops  his  steel,  and  stonns  grow  calm  ; 

Her  let  our  sires  and  matrons  hoar 
Welcome  to  Britain’s  ravaged  shore; 

Our  youths,  enamoured  of  the  fair. 

Play  with  the  tangles  of  her  hair  ; 

Till,  in  one  loud  applauding  sound. 

The  nations  shout  to  her  around. 

0 how  supremely  art  thou  blest. 

Thou,  lady,  thou  shalt  rule  the  west ! 

Dirge  in  Cymheline. 

Sung  by  Gdiderius  and  Arvfragus  over  Fideie,  suppowid 
to  be  dead. 

To  fair  Fidele’s  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet,  of  earliest  bloom. 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear 
To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove. 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 

And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen. 

No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew; 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green. 

And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew; 

The  redbreast  oft  at  evening  hours 
Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid. 

With  hoary  moss,  and  gathered  flowers, 

To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds,  and  beating  rain. 

In  tempests  shake  thy  sylvan  cell. 

Or  midst  the  chase  on  every  plain. 

The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dweU, 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore. 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed  ; 

Beloved  till  life  can  charm  no  more ; 

And  mourned  till  pity’s  self  be  dead. 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Mr  Thomson. 

The  scene  of  the  following  stanzas  is  supposed  to  lie  on  the 
Thames,  near  Riehmoni 

In  yonder  grave  a Druid  lies. 

Where  slowly  winds  the  stealing  wave  ! 

The  year’s  best  sweets  shall  duteous  rise. 

To  deck  its  poet’s  sylvan  grave  ! 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds 
His  airy  harp  shall  now  be  laid, 

That  he,  whose  heart  in  sorrow  bleeds, 

May  love  through  life  the  soothing  shade. 


I 

I 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  SIIKNBTOW*. 


The  innids  and  youths  shall  linger  here. 
And,  wliile  its  scunds  at  distance  swell, 
Shall  sadly'seein  in  jiity’s  ear 

To  heir  the  woodland  pilgrim’s  knell. 


Kemeinl  ranee  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore, 

When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drest ; 

And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar. 

To  hid  his  gentle  spirit  rest! 

And  oft  as  case  and  health  retire 
To  breezy  lawn,  or  forest  deep, 

The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening  spire, 

And  ’raid  the  varied  landscape  weep. 

But  thou,  who  own’st  that  earthly  bed. 

Ah ! what  will  every  dirge  avail  ? 

Or  tears,  which  love  and  pity  shed. 

That  mourn  beneath  the  gliding  .sail ! 

Yet  lives  there  one,  whose  heedless  eye 
Shall  scorn  thy  pale  shrine  glimmering  near  ? 

With  'lira,  sweet  bard,  may  fancy  die. 

And  joy  desert  the  blooming  year. 

But  thou,  lorn  stream,  whose  sullen  tide 
No  sedge-crowned  sisters  now  attend. 

Now  waft  me  from  the  green  hill’s  side, 

Whose  cold  turf  hides  the  buried  friend  ! 

^ And  see,  the  fairy  valleys  fade. 

Dun  night  has  veiled  the  solemn  view  ! 

Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shade. 

Meek  nature’s  child,  again  adieu  ! 

The  genial  meads,  assigned  to  bless 
Thy  life,  shall  mourn  thy  early  doom  ! 

Their  hinds  and  shepherd  girls  shall  dress 
With  simple  hands  thy  rural  tomb. 

Long,  long  thy  stone  and  pointed  clay 
Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton’s  eyes  : 

0 ! vales,  and  wild  woods,  shall  he  say. 

In  yonder  grave  your  Druid  lies  !■ 

WILLIAM  SHENSTONE. 

William  Shenstone  added  some  pleasing  pas- 
toral and  elegiac  strains  to  our  national  poetry,  but 
he  wanted,  as  Johnson  justly  remarks,  ‘ comprehen- 
sion and  variety.’  Though  highly  ambitious  of 
poetical  fame,  he  devoted  a large  portion  of  his  time, 
and  squandered  most  of  his  means,  in  landscape- 
gardening and  ornamental  agriculture.  lie  reared 
up  around  him  a sort  of  rural  paradise,  expending 
his  poetical  taste  and  fancy  in  the  disposition  and 
embellishment  of  his  grounds,  till  at  length  pecuniary 
difficulties  and  distress  drew  a cloud  over  the  fair 
prospect,  and  darkened  the  latter  days  of  the  poet’s 
life.  Swift,  who  entertained  a mortal  aversion  to 
all  projectors,  might  have  included  the  unhappy 
Shenstone  among  the  fanciful  inhabitants  of  his 
Laputa.  The  estate  which  he  laboured  to  adorn 
was  his  natal  ground.  At  Leasowes,  in  the  parish 
of  Hales  Owen,  Shropshire,  the  poet  was  born  in 
November  1714.  He  was  taught  to  read  at  what 
is  termed  a dame  school,  and  his  venerable  precep- 
i tress  has  been  immortalised  by  his  poem  of  the 
j Schoolmistress.  At  the  proper  age  he  was  sent  to 
I Pembroke  college,  Oxford,  where  he  remained  four 
i j years.  In  1745,  by  the  death  of  his  parents  and  an 
1 1 elder  brother,  the  paternal  estate  fell  to  his  own  care 
1 1 and  management,  and  he  began  from  this  time,  as 
j Johnson  characteristically  describes  it,  ‘ to  point  his 
I prospects,  to  diversify  his  surface,  to  entangle  his 
I ' walks,  and  to  wind  his  waters  ; which  he  did  with 
I such  judgment  and  fancy,  as  made  his  little  domain 
I the  envy  of  the  great  and  the  admiration  of  the 
! gkiiful  a place  to  be  visited  by  travellers  and  copied 
|!  


by  designers.’  Descriptions  of  the  Leasowes  have 
been  written  by  Dodslcy  and  Goldsmith.  'I'he  pro- 
perty was  altogether  not  worth  more  than  £300  per 
annum,  and  Shenstone  had  devoted  so  much  of  his 


The  Leasowes. 

means  to  external  embellishment,  that  he  wa  com-  j 
pelled  to  live  in  a dilapidated  house,  not  fit,  as  be 
acknowledges,  to  receive  ‘ polite  friends.’  An  unfor-  | 
tunate  attachment  to  a young  lady,  and  disappointed  j 
ambition — for  he  aimed  at  poliUcal  as  well  as  poetical 
celebrity — conspired,  ■with  his  passion  for  gardening 
and  improvement,  to  fix  him  in  his  solitary  situation. 
He  became  querulous  and  dejected,  pined  at  the  un- 
equal gifts  of  fortune,  and  even  contempl.ated  with 
a gloomy  joy  the  complaint  of  Swift,  that  he  would 
be  ‘ forced  to  die  in  a rage,  like  a poisoned  rat  in  a 
hole.’  Y et  Shenstone  was  essentially  kind  and  bene- 
volent, and  he  must  at  times  have  experienced  ex- 
quisite pleasure  in  his  romantic  retreat,  in  which 
every  year  would  give  fresh  beauty,  and  develop 
more  distinctly  the  creations  of  his  taste  and  labour. 

‘ The  works  of  a person  that  builds,’  he  saj's,  ‘ begin 
immediately  to  decay,  while  those  of  him  who  plants 
begin  directly  to  improve.’  This  advantage  be  pos- 
sessed, with  the  additional  charm  of  a love  of  litera- 
ture ; but  Shenstone  sighed  for  more  than  inward  ■ 
peace  and  satisfaction.  He  built  his  happiness  on 
the  applause  of  others,  and  died  in  solitude  a votary 
of  the  world.  His  death  took  place  at  the  Leasowes, 
February  11,  1763. 

The  works  of  Shenstone  were  collected  and  jiub- 
lished  after  his  death  by  his  friend  Dodsley,  in  three 
volumes.  The  first  contains  his  poems,  the  second 
his  prose  essays,  and  the  third  his  letters  and  other 
pieces.  Gray  remarks  of  his  correspondence,  that 
it  is  ‘ about  nothing  else  but  the  I^easowes,  and  bis 
writings  with  two  or  three  neighbouring  r lergyman 
who  wrote  verses  too.’  The  essays  are  good,  dis- 
playing .an  ease  and  grace  of  style  united  to  judg- 
ment and  discrimination.  They  have  not  the  mellow  i 

36  _J 


PROM  1727  CYCLOPiEUIA  OF  to  176u 


ri|UTiess  of  thought  and  learning  of  Cowley’s  essays, 
but  they  resemble  them  more  elosely  than  any  others 
we  ixjssess.  In  p<x;rry,  Shenstone  tried  diflerent 
styles ; his  elegies  barely  reaeh  mediocrity ; his 
levities,  or  pieces  of  humour,  are  dull  and  spirit- 
less. His  highest  effort  is  the  ‘ Schoolmistress,’  a 
descriptive  sketch  in  imitation  of  Spenser,  so  de- 
lightfully (juaint  and  ludicrous,  yet  true  to  nature, 
that  it  has  all  the  force  and  vividness  of  a jjainting 
by  Teniers  or  Wilkie.  His  I'astural  Ballad,  in  four 
parts,  is  also  the  finest  English  poem  of  that  or- 
der. The  pastorals  of  Spenser  do  not  aim  at  lyrical 
simplicity,  and  no  modern  poet  has  approached 
Shenstone  in  the  simple  tenderness  and  pathos  of 
pastoral  song.  Mr  Campbell  seems  to  regret  the 
affected  Areadianisrn  of  these  pieces,  which  un- 
doubtedly present  an  incongruous  mixture  of  pas- 
toral life  and  modern  manners.  But,  wdiether  from 
early  associations  (for  almost  every  person  has  read 
Shenstone’s  ballad  in  youth),  or  from  the  romantic 
simplicity,  the  true  touches  of  nature  and  feeling, 
and  the  easy  versification  of  the  stanzas,  they  are 
always  rand  and  remembered  with  delight.  We 
must  surrender  up  the  judgment  to  the  imagination 
in  perusing  them,  well  knowing  that  no  such  Cory- 
dons  or  Tliylisses  are  to  be  found  ; but  this  is  a sa- 
crifice which  the  Faery  Queen  equally  demands,  and 
which  few  readers  of  poetry  are  slow  to  grant. 
Johnson  quotes  the  following  verses  of  the  first  part, 
with  the  striking  eulogiuin,  that,  if  any  mind  denies 
its  sympathy  to  them,  it  has  no  acquaintance  with 
love  or  nature  : — 

I prized  every  hour  that  went  by. 

Beyond  all  that  had  pleased  me  before ; 

But  now  they  are  past,  and  1 sigh. 

And  I grieve  that  1 prized  them  no  more. 

When  forced  the  fair  nymph  to  forego, 

What  anguish  I felt  in  my  heart ! 

Yet  1 thought  (but  it  might  not  be  so) 

’Twas  with  pain  that  she  saw  me  depart. 

She  gazed  as  I slowly  withdrew. 

My  path  I could  hardly  discern ; 

So  sweetly  she  bade  me  adieu, 

I thought  that  she  bade  me  return. 

We  subjoin  the  best  part  of  the  ‘ Schoolmistress  ;’ 
but  one  other  stanza  is  worthy'  of  notice,  not  oidy 
for  its  intrinsic  e.xcellence,  but  for  its  having  j>ro- 
bably  suggested  to  Gray  the  fine  reflection  in  his 
elegy— 

‘ Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest,’  &c. 

Mr  D’Israeli  has  pointed  out  this  resemblance  in 
Ins  ‘ Curiosities  of  Literature,’  and  it  appears  well- 
founded.  The  palm  of  merit,  as  well  as  originality, 
seems  to  rest  with  Shenstone ; for  it  is  more  natural 
and  just  to  predict  the  existence  of  undeveloped 
powers  and  great  eminence  in  the  humble  child  at 
school,  than  to  conceive  they  had  slumbered  through 
life  in  the  peasant  in  the  grave.  Yet  the  conception 
of  Gray  has  a sweet  and  touching  pathos,  that 
sinks  into  the  heart  and  memory.  Shenstone’s  is  as 
follows : — 

Yet,  nursed  with  skill,  what  dazzling  fruits  appear! 
Even  now  sagacious  foresight  points  to  show 
A little  bench  of  heedless  bi.shops  here, 

And  there  a chancellor  in  embryo. 

Or  bard  sublime,  if  bard  may  e’er  be  so. 

As  Milton,  Shakspeare — names  that  ne’er  shall  die  1 
Though  now  he  crawl  along  the  ground  so  low. 

Nor  weeting  how  the  Muse  should  soar  on  high, 
tVisheth,  poor  starveling  elf ! his  paper  kite  may  fly. 

* 


Schoolmistress. 

Ah  me  ! full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn. 

To  think  how  modest  worth  neglected  lies  ; 

While  partial  fame  doth  with  her  blasts  adorn 
Such  deeds  alone  as  pride  and  pomp  disguise ; 
Heeds  of  ill  sort,  and  mischievous  emprise; 

Lend  me  thy  clarion,  goddess!  let  me  try 
To  sound  the  praise  of  merit  ere  it  dies ; 

Such  as  I oft  have  chanced  to  espy. 

Lost  in  the  dreary  shades  of  dull  obscurity. 

In  every  village  marked  >yith  little  spire. 
Embowered  in  trees,  and  hardly  known  to  fame, 
There  dwells,  in  lowly  shed,  and  mean  attire, 

A matron  old,  whom  we  schoolmistress  name; 

Who  boasts  unruly  brats  with  birch  to  tame : 

They  grieven  sore,  in  piteous  durance  pent, 

Awed  by  the  power  of  this  relentless  dame ; 

And  ofttirnes,  on  vagaries  idly  bent, 

For  unkempt  haii',  or  task  uncouned,  are  sorely' shent. 


Cottage  of  the  Schoolmistress,  near  llales-Owen,  Shropshire. 


And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a birchen  tree. 

Which  learning  near  her  little  dome  did  stowe; 
Whilom  a twig  of  small  regard  to  see. 

Though  now  so  wide  its  waving  branches  flow, 

And  work  the  simple  vassals  mickle  wo  ; 

For  not  a wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that  blew, 

■ But  their  limbs  shuddered,  and  their  pul.se beat  low  ; 

And  as  they  looked,  they  found  their  horror  grew. 
And  shaped  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the  view. 

Near  to  this  dome  is  found  a patch  so  green. 

On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  display  ; 

And  at  the  door  impri.soning  board  is  seen. 

Lest  weakly  wdghts  of  smaller  size  should  stray ; 
Eager,  perdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day ! 

The  noises  intermixed,  which  thence  resound. 

Do  learning’s  little  tenement  betray  ; 

Where  sits  the  dame,  disguis'  i in  look  profound. 
And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  tarns  her  wheel  around. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow, 

Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield  : 

Her  apron  dyed  in  grain,  as  blue,  1 trow, 

As  is  the  harebell  that  adorns  the  field ; 


pt'UTS.  ENGLISH  LITER A'l’U HE.  wii.uam  siienstonb. 

Aiul  in  Iwr  liaml,  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield 
Tway  birchen  sprays  ; with  anxious  fear  entwined, 
Witli  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance  filled  ; 

And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction  joined, 

Ai.d  fury  uncontrolled,  and  chastisement  unkind. 

A russet  stole  was  o’er  her  shoulders  thrown ; 

A russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air; 

’Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own  ; 

’Twas  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so  fairl 
’Twos  her  own  labour  did  the  fleece  prepare ; 

And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils  ranged  around, 
Th’rough  pious  awe,  did  terra  it  passing  rare ; 

For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound. 

And  think,  nC'  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest  wight  on 
ground. 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  her  truth, 

Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear ; 

Goody,  good  woman,  gossip,  n’aunt,  forsooth. 

Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear ; 

Y et  these  she  challenged,  these  she  held  right  dear ; 
Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  behove. 

Who  should  not  honoured  eld  with  these  revere ; 
For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove. 

But  there  was  eke  a mind  which  did  that  title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed. 

The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame  ; 

Which,  ever  and  anon,  impelled  by  need. 

Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came  ; 

Such  favour  did  her  past  deportment  claim  ; 

And,  if  neglect  had  lavished  on  the  ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the  same ; 

For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  expound. 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb  she 
found. 

Herbs,  too,  she  knew,  and  well  of  each  could  speak, 
That  in  lier  garden  sipped  the  silvery  dew  ; 

Where  no  vain  flower  disclosed  a gaudy  streak. 

But  herbs  for  use  and  physic,  not  a few. 

Of  gray  renown,  within  those  borders  grew : 

The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme, 

Fresh  balm,  and  marigold  of  cheerful  hue : 

The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to  climb ; 

And  more  I fain  would  sing,  disdaining  here  to  rhyme. 

Here  oft  the  dame,  on  Sabbath’s  decent  eve. 
Hymned  such  psalms  as  Stemhold  forth  did  mete ; 
If  winter  ’twere,  she  to  her  hearth  did  cleave. 

But  in  her  garden  found  a summer-seat : 

Sweet  melody  ! to  hear  her  then  repeat 
How  Israel’s  sons,  beneath  a foreign  king. 

While  taunting  foemen  did  a song  entreat. 

All,  for  the  nonce,  untuning  every  string, 

Uphung  their  useless  lyres — small  heart  had  they  to 
sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous  lore. 

And  passed  much  time  in  truly  virtuous  deed ; 
And,  in  those  elfins’  ears  would  oft  deplore 
The  times,  when  truth  by  popish  rage  did  bleed. 
And  tortuous  death  was  true  devotion’s  meed ; 

And  simple  faith  in  iron  chains  did  mourn. 

That  nould  on  wooden  image  place  her  creed  ; 

And  lawny  saints  in  smouldering  flames  did  bum : 
Ah ! dearest  Lord,  forefend  thilk  days  should  e’er  re- 
turn. 

In  elbow-chair  (like  that  of  Scottish  stem. 

By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cankering  eld  defaced. 

In  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem. 

Our  sovereign  prince  and  liefest  liege  is  placed) 
The  matron  sat ; and  some  with  rank  she  graced, 
(The  source  of  children’s  and  of  courtiers’  pride!) 
Redressed  affronts- — for  vile  affronts  there  passed ; 

1 And  warned  them  not  the  fretful  to  deride. 

But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever  them  betide. 

Right  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry. 

To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  to  raise ; 
Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt  on  high. 

And  some  entice  with  pittance  small  of  praise; 
And  other  some  with  baleful  sprig  she  'frays  ; 

Even  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power  doth  hold, 
While  with  quaint  arts  the  giddy  crowd  she  sways ; 
Forewarned,  if  little  bird  their  pranks  behold, 
’Twill  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene  unfold. 

Lo  1 now  with  state  she  utters  her  command  j 
Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair. 

Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in  hand. 
Which  with  pellucid  horn  secured  are. 

To  save  from  finger  wet  the  letters  fair : 

The  work  so  gay,  that  on  their  back  is  seen, 

St  George’s  high  achievements  does  declare ; 

On  which  thilk  wight  that  has  y-gazing  been, 

Kens  the  forthcoming  rod — unpleasing  sight,  I ween  ! 

Ah  ! luckless  he,  and  born  beneath  the  beam 
Of  evil  star ! it  irks  me  whilst  I write ; 

As  erst  the  bard  by  Mulla’s  silver  stream,* 

Oft,  as  he  told  of  deadly  dolorous  plight. 

Sighed  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears  indite ; 

For  brandishing  the  rod,  she  doth  begin 
To  loose  the  brogues,  the  striplings  late  delight ; 
And  down  they  drop  ; appears  his  dainty  skin. 

Fair  as  the  furry  coat  of  whitest  ermilin. 

0 ruthful  scene  ! when,  from  a nook  obscure. 

His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see. 

All  playful  as  she  sat,  she  grows  demure  ; 

She  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee ; 

She  meditates  a prayer  to  set  him  free ; 

Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny 
(If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames  agree) 

To  her  sad  grief  that  swells  in  either  eye, 

And  wrings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  she  could  die. 

No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  command  ; 

And  hardly  she  forbears,  through  awful  fear. 

To  rushen  forth,  and,  with  presumptuous  hand. 

To  stay  harsh  justice  in  its  mid  career. 

On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee  her  parent  deal ; 

(Ah  I too  remote  to  ward  the  shameful  blow !) 

She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near. 

And  soon  a flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow. 

And  gives  a loose  at  last  to  unavailing  wo. 

But,  ah ! what  pen  his  piteous  plight  may  trace ! 

Or  what  device  his  loud  laments  explain — 

The  form  uncouth  of  his  disguised  face — 

The  pallid  hue  that  dyes  his  looks  amain — 

The  plenteous  shower  that  does  his  cheek  distaiu  1 
When  he,  in  abject  wise,  implores  the  dame, 

Ne  hopeth  aught  of  sweet  reprieve  to  gain ; 

Or  when  from  high  she  levels  well  her  aim. 

And,  through  the  thatch,  his  cries  each  falling  stroke 
proclaim. 

But  now  Dan  Phoebus  gains  the  middle  sky. 

And  liberty  unbars  her  prison  door ; 

And  like  a rushing  torrent  out  they  fly ; 

And  now  the  grassy  cirque  ban  covered  o’er 
With  boisterous  revel  rout  and  wild  uproar ; 

A thousand  ways  in  wanton  rings  they  run. 

Heaven  shield  their  short-lived  pastimes  I imploie , 
For  well  may  freedom  erst  so  dearly  won 
Appear  to  British  elf  more  gladsome  than  the  sun. 

Enjoy,  poor  imps!  enjoy  your  sportive  trade, 

And  cliase  gay  flies,  and  cull  the  fairest  flowers ; 
For  when  my  bones  in  grass-green  sods  are  laid. 

Oh  never  may  ye  taste  more  careless  hours 
In  knightly  castles  or  in  ladies’  bowers. 

* Spenser. 

87 

FROM  I in 


CYCLOP^iDIA  vtF 


•lO  I7bt 


Oh  vain  to  seek  delight  in  earthly  thing ! 
lint  most  in  courts,  where  proud  ambition  towers ; 
Ueluded  wight  1 who  weens  fair  peace  can  spring 
Beneath  the  pompous  dome  of  kesar  or  of  king. 

See  in  each  sprite  some  various  bent  appear  ! 

These  rudely  carol  most  incondite  lay  ; 

Those  sauntering  on  the  green,  with  jocund  leer 
Salute  the  stranger  passing  on  his  way  ; 

Some  builden  fragile  tenements  of  clay ; 

Some  to  the  standing  lake  their  courses  bend. 

With  pebbles  smooth  at  duck  and  drake  to  play ; 
Thilk  to  the  huxter’s  savoury  cottage  tend. 

In  pastry  kings  and  queens  the  allotted  mite  to  spend. 

Here  as  each  season  yields  a different  store, 

Each  season’s  stores  in  order  ranged  been  ; 

Api)les  with  cabbage-net  y-covered  o’er. 

Galling  full  sore  the  unmoneyed  wight,  are  seen. 
And  goosebrie  clad  in  livery  red  or  green  ; 

And  here,  of  lovely  dye,  the  cath.arine  pear. 

Fine  pear  ! as  lovely  for  thy  juice,  I ween  ; 

O may  no  wight  e’er  penniless  come  there. 

Lest,  smit  with  ardent  love,  he  pine  with  hopeless  care. 

See,  cherries  here,  ere  cherries  yet  abound. 

With  thread  so  white  in  tempting  posies  tied. 
Scattering,  like  hlooming  maid,  their  glances  round, 
With  pampered  look  draw  little  e3'es  aside ; 

And  must  be  bought,  though  pcnui-y  betide. 

The  plum  all  azure,  and  the  nut  all  brown  ; 

And  here  each  season  do  those  cakes  abide. 

Whose  honoured  names*  the  inventive  city  own. 
Rendering  through  Britain’s  isle  Salopia’s  praises 
known. 

Admired  Salopia  ! that  with  venial  pride 
Eyes  her  bright  form  in  Severn’s  ambient  wave, 
Famed  for  her  loyal  cares  in  perils  tried. 

Her  daughters  lovely,  and  her  striplings  brave  : 

Ah  ! midst  the  rest,  may  flowers  adorn  his  grave 
Whose  art  did  first  these  dulcet  cates  display ! 

A motive  fair  to  learning’s  imps  he  gave. 

Who  cheerless  o’er  her  darkling  region  stray ; 
rill  reason’s  morn  arise,  and  light  them  on  their  way. 

A Pastoral  Ballad,  in  Four  Parts — 1743. 

• Aibusta  humilesque  mjTicas.’ — Viro. 

I.  ABSENCE. 

Ye  shepherds,  so  cheerful  and  gay. 

Whose  flocks  never  carelessly  roam ; 

Should  Corydon’s  happen  to  stray. 

Oh  ! call  the  poor  wanderers  home. 

Allow  me  to  muse  and  to  sigh. 

Nor  talk  of  the  change  that  ye  find ; 

None  once  was  so  watchful  as  I ; 

I have  left  my  dear  Phyllis  behind. 

Now  I know  what  it  is  to  have  strove 
With  the  torture  of  doubt  and  desire ; 

What  it  is  to  admire  and  to  love, 

And  to  leave  her  we  love  and  admire. 

Ah  ! lead  forth  my  flock  in  the  mom. 

And  the  damps  of  each  evening  repel ; 

Alas  1 I am  faint  and  forlorn — 

I have  hade  my  dear  Phyllis  farewell. 

Since  Phyllis  vouchsafed  me  a look, 

I never  once  dreamt  of  my  vine ; 

May  I lose  both  my  pipe  and  my  crook, 

If  I knew  of  a kid  that  was  mine. 

1 prized  every  hour  that  went  by. 

Beyond  all  that  had  pleased  me  before ; 

But  now  they  are  past,  and  I sigh. 

And  I grieve  that  I prized  them  no  more. 

* Shrewsbury  Cakes. 


But  why  do  I languish  in  vain  ? 

Why  wander  thus  pensively  here? 

Oh  ! why  did  I come  from  the  ))lain. 

Where  I fed  on  the  smiles  of  my  dearl 
They  tell  me,  my  favourite  maid. 

The  pride  of  that  valley,  is  flown  ; 

Alas!  where  with  her  1 have  strayed, 

I could  wander  with  pleasure  alone. 

When  forced  the  fair  nymph  to  forego. 

What  anguish  I felt  at  my  heart : 

Yet  I thought — but  it  might  not  be  so — 

’Twas  with  pain  that  she  saw  me  depart. 

She  gazed  as  I slowly  withdrew. 

My  path  I could  hardly  discern ; 

So  sweetly  she  bade  me  adieu, 

1 thought  that  she  bade  me  return. 

The  pilgrim  that  joumies  all  day 
To  visit  some  far  distant  shrine. 

If  he  bear  but  a relic  away,  I 

Is  happy,  nor  heard  to  repine.  | 

Thus  widely  removed  from  the  fair,  I 

Where  my  vows,  my  devotion,  I owe ; 

Soft  hope  is  the  relic  I bear. 

And  my  solace,  wherever  I go. 

II.  HOPE. 

My  banks  they  are  furnished  with  bees. 

Whose  murmur  invites  one  to  sleej) ; 

My  grottos  are  shaded  with  trees. 

And  my  hills  are  white  over  with  sheep. 

I seldom  have  met  with  a loss. 

Such  health  do  my  fountains  bestow ; 

My  fountains,  all  bordered  with  moss. 

Where  the  harebells  and  violets  grow. 

Not  a pine  in  my  grove  is  there  seen,  i 

But  with  tendrils  of  woodbine  is  bound  ; I ; 

Not  a beech’s  more  beautiful  green. 

But  a sweetbrier  entwines  it  around.  | 

Not  my  fields  in  the  prime  of  the  year  j i 

More  charms  than  my  cattle  unfold ; 

Not  a brook  that  is  limpid  and  clear,  ' 

But  it  glitters  with  fishes  of  gold.  ; 

One  would  think  she  might  like  to  retire  j 

To  the  bower  I have  laboured  to  rear;  I 

Not  a shrub  that  I heard  her  admire,  | 

But  I hasted  and  planted  it  there.  i 

0 how  sudden  the  jessamine  strove  i 

With  the  lilac  to  render  it  gay  ! ' 

Already  it  calls  for  my  love  ; 

To  prune  the  wild  branches  away. 

From  the  plains,  from  the  woodlands,  and  grovoe^  | 
What  strains  of  wild  melody  flow!  j 

How  the  nightingales  warble  their  loves,  j 

From  thickets  of  roses  that  blow!  | 

And  when  her  bright  form  shall  appear. 

Each  bird  shall  harmoniously  join 
In  a concert  so  soft  and  so  clear. 

As — she  may  not  be  fond  to  resign.  t 

1 have  found  out  a gift  for  my  fair,  | 

1 have  found  where  the  wood-pigeons  breed  ; I 

But  let  me  that  plunder  forbear. 

She  will  say,  ’twas  a barbarous  deed. 

For  he  ne’er  could  be  true,  she  averred,  I 

Who  could  rob  a poor  bird  of  his  young;  | 

And  I loved  her  the  more  when  I heard  I 

Such  tenderness  fall  from  her  tongue. 

I have  heard  her  with  sweetness  unfold 
How  that  pity  was  due  to  a dove ; 

That  it  ever  attended  the  bold. 

And  she  called  it  the  sister  of  Love. 

38 


ENGLISH  LITERATUEE. 


WILLIAM  SHENSTOni. 


But  her  words  such  a pleasure  convey, 

So  much  I her  accents  adore, 

Let  her  sp6ak,  and  whatever  she  say, 
hletbinks  1 should  love  her  the  more. 

Can  a bosom  so  gentle  remain 

Unmoved,  when  her  Corydon  sighs  1 
Will  a nymph  that  is  fond  of  the  plain. 
These  plains  and  this  valley  despise ! 

Dear  regions  of  silence  and  shade! 

Soft  scenes  of  contentment  and  ease! 
Where  I could  have  pleasingly  strayed. 

If  aught  in  her  absence  could  please. 

But  where  does  my  Phyllida  stray  ? 

And  where  are  her  grots  and  her  bowers  ? 
Are  the  groves  and  the  valleys  as  gay. 

And  the  shepherds  as  gentle  as  ours!  « 
The  groves  may  perhaps  be  as  fair. 

And  the  face  of  the  valleys  as  fine ; 

The  swains  may  in  manners  compare. 

But  their  love  is  not  equal  to  mine. 

III.  SOLICITUDE. 

Why  will  you  my  passion  reprove ! 

Why  term  it  a folly  to  grieve  ? 

Ere  I show  you  the  charms  of  my  love ; 

She  is  fairer  than  you  can  believe. 

With  her  mien  she  enamours  the  brave. 
With  her  wit  she  engages  the  free, 
i With  her  modesty  pleases  the  grave ; 
j She  is  every  way  pleasing  to  me. 

j 0 you  that  have  been  of  her  train, 
j Come  and  join  in  my  amorous  lays  ; 
j I could  lay  down  my  life  for  the  swain, 
j That  will  sing  but  a song  in  her  praise, 
j When  he  sings,  may  the  nymphs  of  the  tewn 
j Come  trooping,  and  listen  the  while ; 

I Nay,  on  him  let  not  Phyllida  frown, 

! But  I cannot  allow  her  to  smile. 

j For  when  Paridel  tries  in  the  dance 
( Any  favour  with  Phyllis  to  find, 
j 0 how,  with  one  trivial  glance. 

Might  she  ruin  the  peace  of  my  mind! 
j In  ringlets  he  dresses  his  hair, 
j And  his  crook  is  bestudded  around ; 
j And  his  pipe — oh  my  Phyllis,  beware 
I Of  a magic  there  is  in  the  sound. 

j ’Tis  his  with  mock  passion  to  glow, 

’Tis  his  in  smooth  tales  to  unfold 
‘ How  her  face  is  as  bright  as  the  snow, 

!And  her  bosom,  be  sure,  is  as  cold. 

How  the  nightingales  labour  the  strain. 

With  the  notes  of  his  charmer  to  vie  ; 

How  they  vary  their  accents  in  vain. 

Repine  at  her  triumphs,  and  die.’ 

To  the,  grove  or  the  garden  he  strays. 

And  pillages  every  sweet ; 

Then  suiting  the  wreath  to  his  lays. 

He  throws  it  at  Phyllis’s  feet. 

* 0 Phyllis,  he  whispers,  more  fair. 

More  sweet  than  the  jessamine’s  flower ! 
What  are  pinks  in  a mom,  to  compare  I 
What  is  eglantine  after  a shower! 

Then  the  lily  no  longer  is  white. 

Then  the  rose  is  deprived  of  its  bloom. 
Then  the  violets  die  with  despite. 

And  the  woodbines  give  up  their  perfume.’ 
Thus  glide  the  soft  numbers  along, 

And  he  fancies  no  shepherd  his  peer; 

Yet  I never  should  envy  the  song. 

Were  not  Phyllis  to  lend  it  an  ear. 


Let  his  crook  be  with  hyacinths  bound. 

So  Phyllis  the  trophy  despise : 

Let  his  forehead  with  laurels  be  crowned, 

So  they  shine  not  in  Phyllis’s  eyes. 

The  language  that  flows  from  the  heart. 

Is  a stranger  to  Paridel’s  tongue ; 

Yet  may  she  beware  of  his  art. 

Or  sure  I must  envy  the  song 

IV.  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Y e shepherds,  give  ear  to  my  lay, 

And  take  no  more  heed  of  my  sheep ; 

They  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  stray ; 

I have  nothing  to  do  but  to  weep. 

Y et  do  not  my  folly  reprove ; 

She  was  fair,  and  my  passion  begun  ; 

She  smiled,  and  I could  not  but  love; 

She  is  faithless,  and  I am  undone. 

Perhaps  I was  void  of  all  thought : 

Perhaps  it  was  plain  to  foresee. 

That  a nymph  so  complete  would  be  sought 
By  a swain  more  engaging  than  me. 

Ah  ! love  every  hope  can  inspire; 

It  banishes  wisdom  the  while  ; 

And  the  lip  of  the  nymph  we  admire 
Seems  for  ever  adorn^  with  a smile. 

She  is  faithless,  and  I am  undone ; 

Ye  that  witness  the  woes  I endure. 

Let  reason  instruct  you  to  shun 

What  it  cannot  instruct  you  to  cure. 

Beware  how  you  loiter  in  vain 
Amid  nymphs  of  a higher  degree ; 

It  is  not  for  me  to  explain 

How  fair  and  how  fickle  they  be. 

Alas  ! from  the  day  that  we  met, 

What  hope  of  an  end  to  my  woes  ! 

When  1 cannot  endure  to  forget 
The  glance  that  undid  my  repose. 

Yet  time  may  diminish  the  pain ; 

The  flower,  and  the  shrub,  ar  d the  tree. 

Which  I reared  for  her  pleasuie  in  vain. 

In  time  may  have  comfort  for  me. 

The  sweets  of  a dew-sprinkled  rose. 

The  sound  of  a murmuring  stream. 

The  peace  which  from  solitude  flows, 

Henceforth  shall  be  Corydoii’s  theme. 

High  transports  are  shown  to  the  sight, 

But  we  are  not  to  find  them  our  own ; 

Fate  never  bestowed  such  delight, 

As  I with  my  Phyllis  had  known. 

0 ye  woods,  spread  your  branches  apace ; 

To  your  deepest  recesses  I fly  ; 

1 would  hide  with  the  beasts  of  the  chase ; 

I would  vanish  from  every  eye. 

Yet  my  reed  shall  resound  through  the  grove 
With  the  same  sad  complaint  it  begun  ; 

How  she  smiled,  and  I could  not  but  love; 

Was  faithless,  and  1 am  undone! 

Sonff. — Jemmy  Dawson.* 

Come  listen  to  my  mournful  tale, 

Y e tender  hearts  and  lovers  dear ; 

Nor  will  you  scorn  to  heave  a sigh, 

Nor  will  you  blush  to  shed  a tear. 

* Captain  James  Dawson,  the  amiable  and  unfortunate  sub- 
ject of  these  stanzas,  was  one  of  the  eight  officers  belonging 
to  the  Manchester  regiment  of  volunteers,  in  the  service  of  the 
young  chevalier,  who  were  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered,  on 
Kennington-Common  in  17^. 

39 


PROM  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1780. 


The  dismal  scene  was  o’er  and  pimt, 

The  lover’s  niouniful  hearse  retired  ; 
The  maid  drew  back  her  languid  head. 
And,  sighing  forth  his  name,  expired. 


And  thou,  dear  Kitty,  peerless  maid, 

Do  thou  a pensive  ear  incline  ; 

For  thou  canst  weep  at  every  wo. 

And  pity  every  plaint  but  mine. 

Young  Dawson  was  a gallant  youth, 

A brighter  never  trod  the  plain  ; 

And  well  he  loved  one  charming  maid. 

And  dearly  was  he  loved  again.  , 

One  tender  maid  she  loved  him  dear, 

Of  gentle  blood  the  damsel  c-ame  : 

And  faultless  was  her  beauteous  form. 

And  s])otless  was  her  virgin  fame. 

But  curse  on  party’s  hateful  strife. 

That  led  the  favoured  youth  astray  ; 

The  day  the  rebel  clans  appeared, 

O had  he  never  seen  that  day  ! 

Their  colours  and  their  sash  he  wore. 

And  in  the  fatal  dress  was  found  ; 

And  now  he  must  that  death  endure. 

Which  gives  the  brave  the  keenest  wound. 

How  pale  was  then  his  true  love’s  cheek. 

When  Jemmy’s  sentence  reached  her  earl 

For  never  yet  did  Alpine  snows 
So  pale  or  yet  so  chill  appear. 

With  faltering  voice  she  weeping  said. 

Oh  Dawson,  monarch  of  my  heart  1 

Think  not  thy  death  shall  end  our  loves. 

For  thou  and  I will  never  part. 

Yet  might  sweet  mercy  find  a place. 

And  bring  relief  to  Jemmy’s  woes, 

0 George  ! without  a prayer  for  thee 
Aly  orisons  should  never  close. 

The  gracious  prince  that  gave  him  life 
Would  crown  a never-dying  flame  ; 

And  every  tender  babe  I bore 

Should  learn  to  lisp  the  giver’s  name. 

But  though,  dear  youth,  thou  shouldst  be  dragged 
To  yonder  ignominious  tree. 

Thou  shalt  not  want  a faithful  friend 
To  share  thy  bitter  fate  with  thee. 

O then  her  mouniing-coach  was  called. 

The  sledge  moved  slowly  on  before  ; 

Though  lK>rne  in  her  triumphal  car. 

She  had  not  loved  her  favourite  more. 

She  followed  him,  prepared  to  view 
The  terrible  behests  of  law  ; 

And  the  last  scene  of  Jemmy’s  woes 
With  calm  and  steadfast  eye  she  saw. 

Distorted  was  that  blooming  face. 

Which  she  had  fondly  loved  so  long  ; 

And  stifled  was  that  tuneful  breath. 

Which  in  her  praise  had  sweetly  sung  : 

And  severed  was  that  beauteous  neck. 

Round  which  her  anns  had  fondly  closed  ; 

And  mangled  was  that  beauteous  breast. 

On  which  her  love-sick  head  reposed  : 

And  ravished  was  that  constant  heart. 

She  did  to  every  heart  prefer  ; 

For  though  it  could  its  king  forget, 

’Twas  true  and  loyal  still  to  her. 

Amid  those  unrelenting  flames 

She  bore  this  constant  heart  to  see  ; 

But  when  ’twas  mouldered  into  dust. 

Now,  now,  she  cried,  I follow  thee. 

My  death,  my  death  alone  can  show 
The  pure  and  lasting  love  I bore  : 

Accept,  0 Heaven  ! of  woes  like  ours. 

And  let  us.  let  us  weep  no  more. 


Though  justice  ever  must  prevail. 

The  tear  my  Kitty  sheds  is  due  ; 

For  seldom  shall  she  hear  a tale 
So  sad,  so  tender,  and  so  true. 

[ WriUen  at  an  Inn  at  Ilenky.'] 

To  thee,  fair  Freedom,  I retire 

F’rom  flattery,  cards,  and  dice,  and  din  ; 

Nor  art  thou  found  in  mansions  higher 
Than  the  low  cot  or  humble  inn. 

’Tis  here  with  boundless  power  I reign. 
And  every  health  which  I begin 

Converts  dull  port  to  bright  champagne  : 
Such  freedom  crowns  it  at  an  inn. 

I fly  from  pomp,  I fly  from  plate, 

I fly  from  falsehood’s  specious  grin  ; 

Freedom  I love,  and  form  I hate. 

And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  inn. 

Here,  waiter  ! take  my  sordid  ore, 

Which  lackeys  else  might  hope  to  win  ; 

It  buys  what  courts  have  not  in  store. 

It  buys  me  freedom  at  an  inn. 

Whoe’er  has  travelled  life’s  dull  round. 
Where’er  his  stages  may  have  been, 

May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 
The  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn. 


DAVID  MALLET. 

David  Mallet,  author  of  some  beautiful  ballad 
stanzas,  and  some  florid  unimpassioned  poems  in 
blank  verse,  was  a successful  but  unprincipled  lite- 
rary adventurer.  lie  praised  and  courted  Pope 
while  living,  and,  after  experiencing  his  kindness, 
traduced  his  memory  when  dead.  He  earned  a dis- 
graceful pension  by  contributing  to  the  death  of  a 
brave  naval  oflScer,  Admiral  Byng,  who  fell  a victim 
to  the  clamour  of  faction  ; and  by  various  other  acts 
of  his  life,  he  evinced  that  sedf-aggrandisement  was 
his  only  steady  and  ruling  passion.  When  .John- 
son, therefore,  states  that  Mallet  was  the  only  Scot 
whom  Scotchmen  did  not  commend,  he  pays  a com- 
pliment to  the  virtue  and  integrity  of  the  natives  of 
Scotland.  The  original  name  of  the  poet  was  Mal- 
loch,  which,  after  his  removal  to  London,  and  his 
intimacy  with  the  great,  he  changed  to  Mallet,  as 
more  easily  pronounced  by  the  English.  His  father 
kept  a small  inn  at  Crieff,  Perthshire,  where  David 
was  born  about  the  year  1700.  He  attended  Aber- 
deen college,  and  was  afterwards  received,  though 
w'ithout  salary,  as  tutor  in  the  family'  of  Mr  Home 
of  Dreghorn,  near  Edinburgh.  He  next  obtained  a 
similar  situation,  but  with  a salary  of  i'.JO  per  an- 
num, in  the  family  of  the  Duke  of  Jlontrose.  In 
1723,  he  went  to  London  with  the  duke’s  family, 
and  next  year  his  ballad  of  William  atnl  Muryaret 
appeared  in  Hill’s  periodical,  ‘ The  Plain  Dealer.’  He 
soon  numbered  among  his  friends  Young,  Pope,  and 
other  eminent  persons,  to  whom  his  assiduous  atten- 
tions, his  agreeable  manners,  and  literary  taste, 
rendered  his  society  acceptable.  In  1733  he  pub- 
lished a satire  on  Bentley,  inscrited  to  Pope,  en- 
titled Verbal  Criticism,  in  which  he  characterises  the 
venerable  scholar  as 

In  error  obstinate,  in  wrangling  loud, 

For  trifles  eager,  positive,  and  )>roud  ; 

Deep,  in  the  darkness  of  dull  authors  bred. 

With  all  their  refuse  lumbered  in  his  head. 

40 


KXCI-ISll  LITKItATUUK. 


DAVID  MALLET. 


Mallet  was  aiiiioiuted  under  secretary  to  tlie  Prince 


of  Wales,  with  a salary  of  i200  per  annum  ; and,  in 
conjunction  with  Thomson,  lie  produced,  in  1740,  the 
Manque  of  Alfred,  in  honour  of  the  birth-day  of  the 
Princess  Augusta.  A fortunate  second  marriage 
(nothing  is  known  of  his  first)  brought  to  the  poet 
a fortune  of  £10,000.  The  lady  was  daughter  of 
Lord  Carlisle’s  steward.  Both  Mallet  and  his  wife 
professed  to  be  deists,  and  the  lady  is  said  to  have 
surprised  some  of  her  friends  by  commencing  her 
arguments  with — ‘iSVr,  we  deists’  When  Gibbon 
the  historian  was  dismissed  from  his  college  at 
O.vford  for  embracing  popery,  he  took  refuge  in 
Mallet’s  house,  and  was  rather  scandalised,  he  says, 
than  reclaimed,  by  the  philosophy  of  his  host. 
Wilkes  mentions  that  the  vain  and  fantastic  wife  of 
Mallet  one  day  lamented  to  a lady  that  her  husband 
suffered  in  reputation  by  his  name  being  so  often 
confounded  with  that  of  Smollett;  the  lady  wittily 
answered,  ‘ Jladam,  there  is  a short  remedy ; let 
your  husband  keep  his  own  name.’  To  gratify  Lord 
Bolingbroke,  Mallet,  in  his  prefiice  to  the  ‘ Patriot 
King,’  heaped  abuse  on  the  memory  of  Pope,  and 
Bolingbroke  rewarded  him  by  bequeathing  to  him 
the  whole  of  his  works  and  manuscripts.  When 
the  government  became  unpopular  by  the  defeat  at 
Minorca,  he  was  employed  to  defend  them,  and 
under  the  signature  of  a Plain  Man,  he  published 
an  address  imputing  cowardice  to  the  admiral  of 
the  fleet.  He  succeeded ; Byng  was  shot,  and  Mallet 
was  pensioned.  On  the  death  of  the  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough, it  was  found  that  she  had  left  £1000  to 
Glover,  author  of  ‘ Leonidas,’  and  Mallet,  jointly, 
on  condition  that  they  should  draw  up  from  the 
family  papers  a life  of  the  great  duke.  Glover,  in- 
dignant at  a stipulation  in  the  will,  that  the  memoir 
was  to  be  submitted  before  publication  to  the  Earl 
of  Chesterfield,  and  being  a high-spirited  man,  de- 
volved the  whole  on  Mallet,  who  also  received  a 
pension  from  the  second  Duke  of  Marlborough,  to 
stimulate  his  industry.  He  pretended  to  be  busy 
with  the  work,  and  in  the  dedication  to  a small  col- 
lection of  his  poems  published  in  1762,  he  stated 
that  he  hoped  soon  to  present  his  grace  with  some- 
tliing  more  solid  in  the  life  of  the  first  Duke  of 
Iilarlborough.  Mallet  had  received  the  solid  money, 
and  cared  for  nothing  else.  On  his  death,  it  was 
found  that  not  a single  line  of  the  memoir  had  been 
written.  In  his  latter  days  the  poet  held  the  lucra- 
tive situation  of  Keeper  of  the  Book  of  Entries  for 
the  port  of  London.  He  died  April  21,  1765. 

ftlallet  wrote  some  theatrical  pieces,  which,  though 
partially  successful  on  their  representation,  are  now 
utterly  forgotten.  Gibbon  anticipated,  that,  if  ever 
his  friend  should  attain  poetic  fame,  it  would  be 
acquired  by  his  poem  of  Amyntor  and  Theodora. 
This,  the  longest  of  his  poetical  works,  is  a tale  in 
blank  verse,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  the  solitary 
island  of  St  Kilda,  whither  one  of  his  characters, 
Aurelius,  had  fled  to  avoid  the  religious  perse- 
cutions under  Charles  II.  Some  highly-wrought 
descriptions  of  marine  scenery,  storms,  and  ship- 
wreck, with  a few  touches  of  natural  pathos  and 
affection,  constitute  the  chief  characteristics  of  the 
poem.  The  whole,  however,  even  the  very  names 
in  such  a locality,  has  an  air  of  improbability  and 
extravagance.  Another  work  of  the  same  kind,  but 
inferior  in  execution,  is  his  poem  The  Excursion, 
written  in  imitation  of  the  style  of  Thomson’s 
‘ Seasons.’  The  defects  of  Thomson’s  style  are 
servilely  copied ; some  of  his  epithets  and  expres- 
sions are  also  borrowed ; but  there  is  no  approach  to 
his  redeeming  graces  and  beauties.  Contrary  to 
the  dictum  of  Gibbon,  the  poetic  fame  of  Mallet 
rests  on  his  ballads,  and  chiefly  on  his  ‘ William 


and  Margaret,’  which,  written  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
three,  afforded  high  hopes  of  ultimate  excellence. 
The  simplicity,  here  remarkable,  he  seems  to  have 
thrown  aside  when  he  a.ssumed  the  airs  and  dress  of 
a man  of  taste  and  fashion.  All  critics,  from  Dr 
Percy  downwards,  have  united  in  considering  ‘ Wil- 
liam and  Margaret’  one  of  the  finest  compositions  of 
the  kind  in  our  language.  Sir  Walter  Scott  con- 
ceived that  Mallet  had  imitated  an  old  Scottish  tale 
to  be  found  in  Allan  liamsay’s  ‘ Tea-Table  Miscel- 
lany,’ beginning. 

There  came  a ghost  to  Margaret’s  door. 

The  resemblance  is  striking.  Mallet  confessed  only 
(in  a note  to  his  ballad)  to  the  following  verse  in 
Fletcher’s  ‘ Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle  :’ — 

M'hen  it  was  grown  to  dark  midnight, 

And  all  were  fast  asleep, 

In  came  Margaret’s  grimly  ghost. 

And  stood  at  William’s  feet. 

In  the  first  printed  cojiies  of  Mallet’s  ballad,  the  two 
first  lines  were  nearly  the  same  as  the  above — 

M'hen  all  was  wrapt  in  dark  midnight. 

And  all  were  fast  asleep. 

He  improved  the  rhyme  by  the  change  ; but  beauti- 
ful as  the  idea  is  of  night  and  morning  meeting,  it 
may  be  questioned  whether  there  is  not  more  of 
superstitious  awe  and  affecting  simplicity  in  the  old 
words. 

William  and  Margaret. 

’Twas  at  the  silent  solemn  hour. 

When  night  and  morning  meet ; 

In  glided  Margaret’s  grimly  ghost, 

And  stood  at  William’s  feet. 

Her  face  was  like  an  April  mom 
Clad  in  a wintry  cloud  ; 

And  clay-cold  was  her  lily  hand 
That  held  her  sable  shroud. 

So  shall  the  fairest  face  appear 
When  youth  and  years  are  flown 
Such  is  the  robe  that  kings  must  weal, 

When  death  has  reft  their  crown. 

Her  bloom  was  like  the  springing  flowei, 

That  sips  the  silver  dew ; 

The  rose  was  budded  in  her  cheek. 

Just  opening  to  the  view. 

But  love  had,  like  the  canker-worm, 

Consumed  her  early  prime  ; 

The  rose  grew  pale,  and  left  her  cheek — 

She  died  before  her  time. 

Awake  1 she  cried,  thy  true  love  calls. 

Come  from  her  midnight  grave : 

Now  let  thy  pity  hear  the  maid 
Thy  love  refused  to  save. 

This  is  the  dark  and  dreary  hour 
When  injured  ghosts  complain; 

When  yawning  graves  give  up  their  dead, 

To  haunt  the  faithless  swain. 

Bethink  thee,  William,  of  thy  fault. 

Thy  pledge  and  broken  oath  ! 

And  give  me  back  my  maiden-vow. 

And  give  me  back  my  troth. 

Why  did  you  promise  love  to  me. 

And  not  that  promise  keep  ? 

Why  did  you  swear  my  eyes  were  bright, 

Yet  leave  those  eyes  to  weep ! 


PROM  1727 


CYCLOPiEDIA  OF 


TO  17«K>. 


IIow  could  you  say  my  face  was  fair, 

And  yet  tliat  f.vcc  forsake  1 

IIow  eould  you  win  my  virgin  heart, 

Y et  leave  that  heart  to  break  1 

Why  did  you  say  my  lip  was  sweet. 

And  made  the  scarlet  pale  ? 

And  why  did  1,  young  witless  maidl 
Believe  the  flattering  tale? 

That  face,  alas  ! no  more  is  fair, 

Tliose  lips  no  longer  red  : 

Dark  are  my  eyes,  now  closed  in  death. 
And  every  charm  is  fled. 

The  hungry  worm  my  sister  is  ; 

This  winding-sheet  I wear: 

And  cold  and  weary  lasts  our  night. 

Till  that  last  morn  appear. 

But  hark  ! the  cock  has  warned  me  hence  ; 
A long  and  last  adieu  ! 

Come  see,  false  man,  how  low  she  lies. 

Who  died  for  love  of  you. 

The  lark  sung  loud  ; the  morning  smiled 
With  beams  of  rosy  red : 

Pale  William  quaked  in  every  limb. 

And  raving  left  his  bed. 

He  hied  him  to  the  fatal  place 
Where  Margaret’s  body  lay ; 

And  stretched  him  on  the  green-grass  turf 
That  wrapt  her  breathless  clay. 

And  thrice  he  called  on  Margaret’s  name, 
And  thrice  he  wept  full  sore ; 

Then  laid  his  cheek  to  her  cold  grave. 

And  word  spake  never  more ! 

Edwin  and  Emma, 

Far  in  the  windings  of  a vale. 

Fast  by  a sheltering  wood, 

The  safe  retreat  of  health  and  peace, 

A humble  cottage  stood. 

There  beauteous  Emma  flourished  fair. 
Beneath  a mother’s  eye ; 

Whose  only  wish  on  earth  was  now 
To  see  her  blest,  and  die. 

The  softest  blush  that  nature  spreads 
Gave  colour  to  her  cheek ; 

Such  orient  colour  smiles  through  heaven, 
When  vernal  mornings  break. 

Nor  let  the  pride  of  great  ones  scorn 
This  charmer  of  the  plains : 

That  sun,  who  bids  their  diamonds  blaze. 
To  paint  our  lily  deigns. 

Long  had  she  filled  each  youth  with  love. 
Each  maiden  with  despair; 

And  though  by  all  a wonder  owned. 

Yet  knew' not  she  was  fair: 

Till  Edwin  came,  the  pride  of  swains, 

A soul  devoid  of  art ; 

Afld  from  whose  eye,  serenely  mild. 

Shone  forth  the  feeling  heart. 

A mutual  flame  was  quickly  caught. 

Was  quickly  too  revealed ; 

For  neither  bosom  lodged  a wish 
That  virtue  keeps  concealed. 

What  happy  hours  of  home-felt  bliss 
Did  love  on  both  bestow ! 

But  bliss  too  mighty  long  to  last. 

Where  fortune  proves  a foe. 


Ilis  sister,  who,  like  envy  formed. 

Like  her  in  mischief  joyed. 

To  work  them  harm,  with  wicked  skill. 

Each  darker  art  employed. 

'rhe  father  too,  a sordid  m.an. 

Who  love  nor  pity  knew. 

Was  all  unfeeling  as  the  clod 
From  whence  his  riches  grew. 

Long  had  he  seen  their  secret  flame. 

And  seen  it  long  unmoved  ; 

Then  with  a father’s  frown  at  last 
Had  sternly  disapproved. 

In  Edwin’s  gentle  heart,  a war 
Of  differing  passions  strove: 

, His  heart,  that  durst  not  disobey. 

Yet  could  not  cease  to  love. 

Denied  her  sight,  he  oft  behind 
The  spreading  hawthorn  crept. 

To  snatch  a glance,  to  mark  the  spot 
Where  Emma  nalked  and  wept. 

Oft,  too,  on  Stanmore’s  wintry  waste. 
Beneath  the  moonlight  shade. 

In  sighs  to  pour  his  softened  soul. 

The  midnight  mourner  strayed. 

His  cheek,  where  health  with  beauty  glow‘»d, 
A deadly  pale  o’ercast ; 

So  fades  the  fresh  rose  in  its  prime. 

Before  the  northern  blast. 

The  parents  now,  with  late  remorse. 

Hung  o’er  his  dying  bed  ; 

And  wearied  Heaven  with  fruitless  vows. 
And  fruitless  sorrows  shed. 

’Tis  past ! he  cried,  but,  if  your  souls 
Sweet  mercy  yet  can  move. 

Let  these  dim  eyes  once  more  behold 
What  they  must  ever  love  ! 

She  came  ; his  cold  hand  softly  touched. 

And  bathed  with  many  a tear : 

Fast-falling  o’er  the  primrose  pale. 

So  morning  dews  appear. 

But  oh  ! his  sister’s  jealous  care, 

A cruel  sister  she  1 
Forbade  what  Emma  came  to  say; 

‘ My  Edwin,  live  for  me  1’ 

Now  homeward  as  she  hopeless  wept. 

The  churchyard  path  along. 

The  blast  blew  cold,  the  dark  owl  screamed 
Her  lover’s  funeral  song. 

Amid  the  falling  gloom  of  night. 

Her  startling  fancy  found 
In  every  bush  his  hovering  shade. 

His  groan  in  every  sound. 

' Alone,  appalled,  thus  had  she  passed 
The  visionary  vale — 

When  lo  ! the  death-bell  smote  her  ear. 

Sad  sounding  in  the  gale  ! 

Just  then  she  reached,  with  trembling  step, 
Her  aged  mother’s  door  : 

He’s  gone  1 she  cried,  and  I shall  see 
That  angel-face  no  more. 

I feel,  I feel  this  breaking  heart 
Beat  high  against  my  side ! 

From  her  white  arm  down  sunk  her  head — 
She  shivered,  sighed,  and  died. 

43 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MARK  AKRITStDB. 


The  Birh  of  Invemiay. 


The  smiling  morn,  the  breathing  spring, 

Invite  the  tunefu’  birds  to  sing ; 

And,  while  they  warble  from  the  spray, 

Love  melts  the  universal  lay. 

I.et  us,  Amanda,  timely  wise. 

Like  them,  improve  the  hour  that  flics ; 

And  in  soft  raptures  waste  the  day. 

Among  the  birks  of  Invermay. 

For  soon  the  winter  of  the  year. 

And  age,  life’s  winter,  will  appear; 

At  this  thy  living  bloom  will  fade. 

As  that  will  strip  the  verdant  shade. 

Our  taste  of  pleasure  then  is  o’er. 

The  feathered  songsters  are  no  more ; 

And  when  they  drop  and  we  decay. 

Adieu  the  birks  of  Invermay ! 

Some  additional  stanzas  were  added  to  the  above 
by  Dr  Bryce,  Kirknewton.  Invermay  is  in  Perth- 
shire, the  native  county  of  ^lallet,  and  is  situated 
near  the  termination  of  a little  picturesque  stream 
called  the  May.  The  ‘ birk’  or  birch-tree  is  abun- 
dant, adding  grace  and  beauty  to  rock  and  stream. 
Though  a Celt  by  birth  and  language.  Mallet  had 
none  of  the  imaginative  wildness  or  superstition  of 
his  native  country.  Maepherson,  on  the  other  hand, 
seems  to  have  been  completely  imbued  with  it. 

MARK  AKENSIDE. 

The  author  of  The  Pleasures  of  Imagination,  one 
of  the  most  pure  and  noble-minded  poems  of  the 
age,  was  of  humble  origin.  Ilis  parents  were  dis- 
senters, and  the  Puritanism  imbibed  in  his  early 
years  si^ems,  as  in  the  case  of  Milton,  to  have  given 
a gravity  and  earnestness  to  his  character,  and  a 
love  of  freedom  to  his  thoughts  and  imagination. 
Mark  Akenslde  was  the  son  of  a respectable 


House  in  which  Akenside  was  bom. 


butcher  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  where  he  was  born, 
November  9,  1721.  An  accident  in  his  early  years — 


the  fall  of  one  of  his  father’s  cleavers,  or  hatchets, 
on  his  foot — rendered  him  lame  for  life,  and  per- 
petuated the  recollection  of  his  lowly  birth.  The 
Society  of  Dissenters  advanced  a sum  for  the  edu- 
cation of  the  poet  as  a clergyman,  and  he  repaired 
to  Edinburgh  for  this  purpose  in  his  eighteenth 
year.  He  afterwards  repented  of  this  destination, 
and,  returning  the  money,  entered  himself  as  a stu- 
dent of  medicine.  He  was  then  a poet,  and  in  his 
Hymn  to  Science,  W'ritten  in  Edinburgh,  we  see  at 
once  the  formation  of  his  classic  taste,  and  the 
dignity  of  his  personal  character : — • 

That  last  best  effort  of  thy  skill, 

To  form  the  life  and  rule  the  will. 

Propitious  Power  ! impart ; 

Teach  me  to  cool  my  passion’s  fires. 

Make  me  the  judge  of  my  desires. 

The  master  of  my  heart. 

Raise  me  above  the  vulgar’s  breath. 

Pursuit  of  fortune,  fear  of  death. 

And  all  in  life  that’s  mean  ; 

Still  true  to  reason  be  my  plan, 

Still  let  my  actions  speak  the  man, 

Through  every  various  scene. 

A youth  animated  by  such  sentiments,  promised  a 
manhood  of  honour  and  integrity.  After  three 
years  spent  in  Edinburgh,  Akenside  removed  to 
Leyden  to  complete  his  studies;  and  in  1744  he  was 
admitted  to  the  degree  of  M.D.  He  next  esta- 
blished himself  as  a physician  in  London.  In  Hol- 
land he  had  (at  the  age  of  twenty-three)  writ- 
ten his  ‘ Pleasures  of  Imagination,’  which  he  now 
offered  to  Dodsley,  demanding  £120  for  the  copy- 
right. The  bookseller  consulted  Pope,  who  told 
him  ‘ to  make  no  niggardly  offer,  since  this  was  no 
every-day  writer.’  The  poem  attracted  much  at- 
tention, and  was  afterwards  translated  into  Erench 
and  Italian.  Akenside  established  himself  as  a 
physician  in  Northampton,  where  he  remained  a 
year  and  a-half,  but  did  not  succeed.  The  latter 
part  of  his  life  was  spent  in  London.  At  Leyden 
he  had  formed  an  intimacy  with  a young  English- 
man of  fortune,  Jeremiah  Dyson,  Esq.,  which  ripened 
into  a friendship  of  the  most  close  and  enthusiastic 
description ; and  Mr  Dyson  (who  w’as  afterwards 
clerk  of  the  House  of  Commons,  a lord  of  the  trea- 
sury, See.)  had  the  generosity  to  allow  the  poet  £300 
ayear.  After  writing  a few  Odes,  and  attempting 
a total  alteration  of  his  great  poem  (in  which  he 
was  far  from  successful),  Akenside  made  no  further 
efforts  at  composition.  His  society  was  courted  for 
his  taste,  knowledge,  and  eloquence ; but  his  solemn 
sententiousness  of  manner,  his  romantic  ideas  of 
liberty,  and  his  unbounded  admiration  of  the  an- 
cients, exposed  him  occasionally  to  ridicule.  The 
physician  in  Peregrine  Pickle,  who  gives  a feast  in 
the  manner  of  the  ancients,  is  supposed  to  have  been 
a caricature  of  Akenside.  The  description,  for  rich 
humour  and  grotesque  combinations  of  learning  and 
folly,  has  not  been  excelled  by  Smollett ; but  it  was 
unAvorthy  his  talents  to  cast  ridicule  on  a man  oi 
high  character  and  splendid  genius.  Akenside  died 
suddenly  of  a putrid  sore  throat,  on  the  23d  of  June 
1770,  in  his  49th  year,  and  was  buried  in  St  James’s 
church.  With  a feeling,  comm  on  to  poets',  as  to 
more  ordinary  mortals,  Akenside,  in  his  latter  days, 
reverted  with  delight  to  his  native  landscape  on  the 
banks  of  the  Tyne.  In  his  fragment  of  a fourth 
bqok  of  ‘ The  Pleasures  of  Imagination,’  written  in 
the  last  year  of  his  life,  there  is  the  following  beau- 
tiful passage : — 

0 ye  dales 

Of  Tyne,  and  ye  most  ancient  Avoodlands ; where 
Oft  as  the  giant  flood  obli  lue  y strides, 

43 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


And  his  hanks  open  and  liis  la«'n»  extend, 

Stops  short  tlie  pleased  traveller  to  view, 

Presidinj'  o’er  the  secne,  some  rustic  tower 
Founded  by  Norman  or  by  Saxon  hands: 

0 ye  Northumbrian  shades,  which  overlook 
The  rocky  pavement  and  the  mossy  falls 
Of  solitary  W’ensbeek’s  limpid  stream  1 
How  gladly  1 recall  your  well-known  seats 
Ileloved  of  old,  and  that  delightful  time 
When  all  alone,  for  many  a summer’s  day, 

1 wandered  through  your  calm  recesses,  led 
In  silence  by  some  powerful  hand  unseen. 

Nor  will  I e’er  forget  you  ; nor  shall  e’er 
The  graver  tasks  of  manhood,  or  the  advice 
Of  vulgar  wisdom,  move  me  to  disclaim 
Those  studies  which  possessed  me  in  the  dawn 
Of  life,  and  fixed  the  colour  of  my  mind 

For  every  future  year:  whence  even  now 
From  sleep  1 rescue  the  clear  hours  of  mom. 

And,  while  the  world  around  lies  overwhelmed 
In  idle  darkness,  am  alive  to  thoughts 
Of  honourable  fame,  of  truth  divine 
Or  moral,  and  of  minds  to  virtue  won 
By  the  sweet  magic  of  harmonious  verse. 

The  spirit  of  Milton  seems  to  speak  in  this  strain  of 
lofty  egotism  1 

‘ The  Pleasures  of  Imagination’  is  a poem  seldom 
read  continuously,  though  its  finer  passages,  by  fre- 
quent quotation,  particularly  in  works  of  criticism 
and  moral  philosophy,  are  well  known.  Gray  cen- 
sured the  mixture  of  spurious  philosophy — the  spe- 
culations of  Hutcheson  and  Shaftesbury — which  the 
■work  contains.  Plato,  Lucretius,  and  even  the  papers 
by  Addison  in  the  Spectator,  were  also  laid  under 
contribution  by  the  studious  author.  He  gathered 
sparks  of  enthusiasm  from  kindred  minds,  but  the 
train  was  in  his  own.  The  pleasures  which  his  poem 
professes  to  treat  of,  ‘ proceed,’  he  says,  ‘ either  from 
natural  objects,  as  from  a flourishing  grove,  a clear 
and  murmuring  fountain,  a calm  sea  by  moonlight, 
or  from  works  of  art,  such  as  a noble  edifice,  a mu- 
sical tune,  a statue,  a picture,  a poem.’  These,  with 
the  moral  and  intellectual  objects  arising  from  them, 
furnish  abundant  topics  for  illustration ; but  Aken- 
side  dealt  chiefly  with  abstract  subjects,  pertaining 
more  to  philosophy  than  to  poetry.  He  did  not 
seek  to  graft  upon  them  human  interests  and  pas- 
sions. In  tracing  the  final  causes  of  our  emotions, 
he  could  have  described  their  exercise  and  effects  in 
scenes  of  ordinary  pain  or  pleasure  in  the  walks 
of  real  life  This  does  not  seem,  how'ever,  to  have 
been  the  purpose  of  the  poet,  and  hence  his  work  is 
deficient  in  interest.  He  seldom  stoops  from  the 
heights  of  philosophy  and  classic  taste.  He  con- 
sidered that  physical  science  improved  the  charms  of 
uUture.  Contrary  to  the  feeling  of  an  accomplished 
living  poet,  who  repudiates  these  ‘ cold  material 
laws,’  he  viewed  the  rainbow  with  additional  plea- 
sure after  he  had  studied  the  Newtonian  theory  of 
lights  and  colours. 

Nor  ever  yet 

The  melting  rainbow’s  vernal  tinctured  hues 
To  me  have  shone  so  pleasing,  as  when  first 
The  hand  of  Science  pointed  out  the  path 
In  which  the  sunbeams  gleaming  from  the  west 
Fall  oE.  the  watery  cloud,  whose  darksome  veil 
Involves  the  orient. 

Akenside’s  Hymn  to  the  Naiads  has  the  true  classical 
spirit.  He  had  caught  the  manner  and  feeling,  the 
varied  pause  and  harmony,  of  the  Greek  poets,  with 
ewch  felicity,  that  Lloyd  considered  his  Hymn  as 
fitted  to  give  a better  idea  of  that  form  of  compo- 
sition, than  could  be  conveyed  by  any  translation 
af  Homer  or  Callimachus.  Gray  was  an  equally 


TO  1780. 


learned  poet,  perhaps  superior.  His  knowledge  wag 
better  digested.  But  Gray  had  not  the  romantic 
enthusiasm  of  character,  tinged  with  pedantry,  which 
naturally  belonged  to  Akenside.  He  had  also  the 
experience  of  mature  years.  The  genius  of  Aken- 
side was  early  developed,  and  his  diffuse  and  florid 
descriptions  seem  the  natural  product — marvellous 
of  its  kind— of  youthful  exuberance.  He  was  after- 
wards conscious  of  the  defects  of  his  poem.  He  saw 
that  there  was  too  much  leaf  for  the  fruit;  but  iii 
cutting  off'  these  luxuriances,  he  sacrificed  some  of 
the  finest  blossoms.  Posterity  has  been  more  just 
to  his  fame,  by  almost  wholly  disregarding  this 
second  copy  of  his  philosophical  poem.  In  his  youth- 
ful aspirations  after  moral  and  intellectual  great- 
ness and  beauty,  he  seems,  like  Jeremy  Taylor  in 
the  pulpit,  ‘ an  angel  newly  descended  from  the 
visions  of  glory.’  In  advanced  years,  he  is  the  pro- 
fessor in  his  robes;  still  free  from  stain,  but  stately, 
formal,  and  severe.  The  blank  verse  of  ‘ The  Plea- 
sures of  Imagination’  is  free  and  well-modulated,  and 
seems  to  be  distinctively  his  own.  Though  apt  to 
run  into  too  long  periods,  it  has  more  compactness 
of  structure  tlian  Thomson’s  ordinary  composition. 
Its  occasional  want  of  perspicuity  probably  arises 
from  the  fineness  of  his  distinctions,  and  the  difli 
culty  attending  mental  analysis  in  verse.  He  might 
also  wish  to  avoid  all  vulgar  and  common  expres- 
sions, and  thus  err  from  excessive  refinement.  A 
redundancy  of  ornament  undoubtedly,  in  some  p.as- 
sages,  takes  off  from  the  clearness  and  prominence 
of  his  conceptions.  His  highest  flights,  however — 
as  in  the  allusion  to  the  death  of  Caisar,  and  his 
exquisitely-wrought  parallel  between  art  and  na- 
ture— have  a flow  and  energy  of  expression,  with 
appropriate  imagery,  which  mark  the  great  poet. 
His  style  is  chaste,  yet  elevated  and  musical.  He 
never  compromised  his  dignity,  though  he  blended 
sweetness  with  its  expression. 

[Aspirations  after  the  Infinite.^ 

Say,  why  was  man  so  eminently  raised 
Amid  the  vast  creation  ; why  ordained 
Through  life  and  death  to  dart  his  piercing  eye, 

With  thoughts  beyond  the  limit  of  his  frame  ; 

But  that  the  Omnipotent  might  send  him  forth 
In  sight  of  mortal  and  immortal  powers, 

As  on  a boundless  theatre,  to  run 
The  great  career  of  justice;  to  exalt 
His  generous  aim  to  all  diviner  deeds  ; 

To  chase  each  partial  purpose  from  his  breast ; 

And  through  the  mists  of  p.assion  and  of  sense. 

And  through  the  tossing  tide  of  chance  and  pain, 

To  hold  his  course  unfaltering,  while  the  voice 
Of  Truth  and  Virtue,  up  the  steep  ascent 
Of  Nature,  calls  him  to  his  high  reward. 

The  applauding  smile  of  Heaven  ? Else  wherefore  bums 
In  mortal  bosoms  this  unquenched  hope. 

That  breathes  from  day  to  day  subliiner  things. 

And  mocks  possession  ! wherefore  darts  the  mind 
With  such  resistless  ardour  to  embrace 
Majestic  forms  ; impatient  to  be  free. 

Spurning  the  gross  control  of  wilful  might ; 

Proud  of  the  strong  contention  of  her  toils  ; 

Proud  to  be  daring  ? who  but  rather  turns 
To  Heaven’s  broad  fire  his  unconstrained  view, 

Thau  to  the  glimmering  of  a waxen  flame  ? 

Who  that,  from  Alpine  heights,  his  labouring  eye 
Shoots  round  the  wide  horizon,  to  survey 
Nilus  or  Ganges  rolling  his  bright  wave 
Through  mountains,  plains,  through  empires  black 
with  shade. 

And  continents  of  sand,  will  turn  his  gaze 
To  mark  the  windings  of  a scanty  rill 
That  murmurs  at  his  feet  2 The  high-bom  soul 

44 


POETS. 


~9 — — 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  maiik  AKunsiDR. 


Disdains  to  rest  her  hcaTcn-aspiring  wing 
Beneath  its  ijative  quarry.  Tired  of  earth 
.•\nd  this  diurnal  scene,  she  springs  aloft 
Tlirough  fields  of  air;  pursues  the  flying  storm  ; 
Bides  on  the  vollied  lightning  through  the  heavens  ; 
Dr,  yoked  with  whirlwinds  and  the  northern  blast, 
I^weeps  the  long  tract  of  day.  Then  high  she  soars 
The  blue  profound,  and,  hovering  round  the  sun, 
Beholds  him  pouring  the  redundant  stream 
Of  light ; beholds  his  unrelenting  sway 
Bend  the  reluctant  planets  to  absolve 
The  fated  rounds  of  Time.  Thence  far  effused, 

She  darts  her  swiftness  up  the  long  career 
Of  devious  comets  ; through  its  burning  signs 
K.xulting  measures  the  perennial  wheel 
Of  Nature,  and  looks  back  on  all  the  stars. 

Whose  blended  light,  as  with  a milky  zone. 

Invest  the  orient.  Now,  amazed  she  views 
The  empyreal  waste,  where  hapjiy  spirits  hold. 
Beyond  this  concave  heaven,  their  calm  abode ; 

.\nd  fields  of  radiance,  whose  unfading  light 
lias  travelled  the  profound  six  thousand  years. 

Nor  yet  arrives  in  sight  of  mortal  things. 

Even  oi>  the  barriers  of  the  world,  untired 
She  meditates  the  eternal  depth  below; 

Till  half  recoiling,  down  the  headlong  steep 
She  plunges  ; soon  o’erwhelraed  and  swallowed  up 
In  that  Immense  of  being.  There  her  hopes 
Rest  at  the  fated  goal.  For  from  the  birth 
Of  mortal  man,  the  sovereign  Maker  said. 

That  not  in  humble  nor  in  brief  delight. 

Not  in  the  fading  echoes  of  Renown, 

Bower’s  purple  robes,  nor  Pleasure’s  flowery  lap. 

The  soul  should  find  enjoyment ; but  from  these 
Turning  disdainful  to  an  equal  good. 

Through  all  the  ascent  of  things  enlarge  hev  view. 
Till  every  bound  at  length  should  disappear. 

And  infinite  perfection  close  the  scene. 

[Intellectual  Beauty — PatnotismJ] 

Mind,  mind  alone  (bear  witness  earth  and  heaven !) 
The  living  fountains  in  itself  contains 
Of  beauteous  and  sublime : here  hand  in  hand 
Sit  paramount  the  Graces  ; here  enthroned. 

Celestial  Venus,  with  divinest  airs. 

Invites  the  soul  to  never-fading  joy. 

Look,  then,  abroad  through  Nature,  to  the  range 
( )f  planets,  suns,  and  adamantine  spheres. 

Wheeling  unshaken  through  the  void  immense ; 
And  speak,  oh  man!  does  this  capacious  scene 
With  haU  that  kindling  majesty  dilate 
Thy  stron,  conception,  as  when  Brutus  rose 
Refulgent  Item  the  stroke  of  Caesar’s  fate. 

Amid  the  crowd  of  patriots ; and  his  arm 

Aloft  extending,  like  eternal  Jove 

When  guilt  brings  down  the  thunder,  called  aloud 

On  Tully’s  name,  and  shook  his  crimson  steel. 

And  bade  the  father  of  his  country,  hail ! 

F or  lo  ! the  tyrant  prostrate  on  the  dust. 

And  Rome  again  is  free!  Is  aught  so  fair 
In  all  the  dewy  landscapes  of  the  spring. 

In  the  bright  eye  of  Hesper,  or  the  morn, 
in  Nature’s  fairest  forms,  is  aught  so  fair 
As  virtuous  friendship  1 as  the  candid  blush 
Of  him  who  strives  with  fortune  to  be  just  ? 

The  graceful  tear  that  streams  for  others’  woes. 

Or  the  mild  majesty  of  private  life, 

WTiere  Peace,  with  ever-blooming  olive,  crowns 
The  gate  ; where  Honour’s  liberal  hands  effuse 
IJnenvied  treasures,  and  the  snowy  wings 
Of  Innocence  and  Love  protect  the  scene? 

Once  more  search,  undismayed,  the  dark  profound 
Where  nature  works  in  secret  ; view  the  beds 
Of  mineral  treasure,  and  the  eternal  vault 
That  bounds  the  hoary  ocean  ; trace  the  forms 


Of  atoms  moving  with  incessant  change 
Their  elemental  round  : behold  the  seeds 
Of  being,  and  the  energy  of  life 
Kindling  the  mass  with  cver-active  flame: 

Then  to  the  secrets  of  the  working  mind 
Attentive  turn  ; from  dim  oblivion  call 
Her  fleet,  ideal  band  ; and  bid  them,  go ! 

Break  through  time’s  barrier,  and  o’ertake  the  hour 
That  saw  the  heavens  created  : then  declare 
If  aught  were  found  in  those  external  scenes 
To  move  thy  wonder  now.  For  what  are  all 
The  forms  which  brute  unconscious  matter  wears. 
Greatness  of  bulk,  oi  symmetry  of  parts? 

Not  reaching  to  the  heart,  soon  feeble  grows 
The  supei-ficial  impulse  ; dull  their  charms. 

And  satiate  soon,  and  pall  the  languid  eye. 

Not  so  the  moral  species,  nor  the  powers 
Of  genius  and  design  : the  ambitious  mind 
There  sees  herself : by  these  congenial  forms 
Touched  and  awakened,  with  intenser  act 
She  bends  each  nerve,  and  meditates  well-p  ti.sed 
Her  featujes  in  the  mirror.  For  of  all 
The  inhabitants  of  earth,  to  man  alone 
Creative  Wisdom  gave  to  lift  his  eye 
To  truth’s  eternal  measures  ; thence  to  frame 
The  sacred  laws  of  action  and  of  will. 

Discerning  justice  from  unequal  deeds, 

.And  temperance  from  folly.  But  beyond 
This  energy  of  truth,  whose  dictates  bind 
.Assenting  reason,  the  benignant  Sire, 

To  deck  the  honoured  paths  of  just  and  gvod. 

Has  added  bright  imagination’s  rays: 

Where  virtue,  rising  from  the  awful  depth 
Of  truth’s  mysterious  bosom,  doth  forsake 
The  unadorned  condition  of  her  birth  ; 

And,  dressed  by  fancy  in  ten  thousand  hues. 
Assumes  a various  feature  to  attract 
With  charms  responsive  to  each  gazer’s  eye. 

The  hearts  of  men.  Amid  his  rural  walk. 

The  ingenious  youth,  whom  solitude  inspires 
With  purest  wishes,  from  the  pensive  shade 
Beholds  her  moving,  like  a virgin-muse 
That  wakes  her  lyre  to  some  indulgent  theme 
Of  harmony  and  wonder  : while  among 
The  herd  of  servile  minds  her  strenuous  form 
Indignant  flashes  on  the  patriot’s  eye. 

And  through  the  rolls  of  memory  appeals 
To  ancient  honour,  or,  in  act  serene 
Yet  watchful,  raises  the  majestic  sword 
Of  public  power,  from  dark  ambition’s  reach. 

To  guard  the  sacred  volume  of  the  laws. 

[^Operations  of  the  Mind  in  the  Production  of  Warii 
of  Imagination.'\ 

By  these  mysterious  ties,  the  busy  power 

Of  memory  her  ideal  train  preserves 

Entire  ; or  when  they  would  elude  her  watch. 

Reclaims  their  fleeting  footsteps  from  the  waste 

Of  dark  oblivion  ; thus  collecting  all 

The  various  forms  of  being,  to  present 

Before  the  curious  eye  of  mimic  art 

Their  largest  choice : like  spring’s  unfolded  blooms 

Exhaling  sweetness,  that  the  .skilful  bee 

May  taste  at  will  from  their  selected  spoils 

To  work  her  dulcet  food.  For  not  the  expanse 

Of  living  lakes  in  summer’s  noontide  calm. 

Reflects  the  bordering  shade  and  sun-bright  heavens 
With  fairer  semblance  ; not  the  sculptured  gold 
More  faithful  keeps  the  graver’s  lively  trace. 

Than  he  whose  birth  the  sister  powers  of  art 
Propitious  viewed,  and  from  his  genial  star 
Shed  influence  to  the  seeds  of  fancy  kind. 

Than  his  attempered  bosom  must  preserve 
The  seal  of  nature.  There  alone,  unchanged 
Her  f ■ rm  rema  ins.  The  balmy  walks  of  May 

45 


FROM  1 727 


CYCLOPiEDIA  OF 


TO  1780- 


Thcre  lirciithe  perennial  sweeta  : the  trembling  chord 
Itcaatinds  for  ever  in  tlie  abstracted  ear, 

Melodious;  and  the  virgin’s  radiant  eye, 

Superior  to  disease,  to  grief,  and  time, 

Sliines  with  unbating  lustre.  Thus  at  length 
lOndowcd  with  all  that  nature  can  bestow. 

The  child  of  fancy  oft  in  silence  bends 
O’er  these  mixed  treasures  of  his  pregnant  breast 
With  conscious  pride.  From  them  he  oft  resolves 
To  frame  he  knows  not  what  excelling  things, 

And  win  he  knows  not  what  sublime  reward 
Of  praise  and  wonder,  liy  degrees  the  mind 
Feels  her  young  nerves  dilate  : the  plastic  powers 
Labour  for  action  : blind  emotions  heave 
His  bosom  ; and  with  loveliest  frenzy  caught, 

I From  earth  to  heaven  he  rolls  his  daring  eye, 

I From  heaven  to  earth.  Anon  ten  thousand  shapes, 

' Like  spectres  trooping  to  the  wizard’s  call, 

I Flit  swift  before  him.  From  the  womb  of  eaith, 

I From  ocean’s  bed  they  come  : the  eternal  heavens 
I Disclose  their  splendours,  and  the  dark  abyss 
I Pours  out  her  births  unknown.  With  fixed  gaze 
He  marks  the  rising  phantoms.  Now  compares 
Their  different  forms  ; now  blends  them,  now  divides; 
Enlarges  and  extenuates  by  turns  ; 

Opposes,  ranges  in  fantastic  bands. 

And  infinitely  varies.  Hither  now. 

Now  thither  fluctuates  his  inconstant  aim. 

With  endless  choice  perplexed.  At  length  his  plau 
Begins  to  open.  Lucid  order  dawns  ; 

And  as  from  Chaos  old  the  jarring  seeds 
Of  nature  at  the  voice  divine  repaired 
I'lach  to  its  pliice,  till  rosy  earth  unveiled 
Her  fragrant  bosom,  and  the  joyful  sun 
Sprung  up  the  blue  serene  ; by  swift  degrees 
Thus  disent.angled,  his  entire  design 
Emerges.  Colours  mingle,  features  join. 

And  lines  converge : the  fainter  parts  retire  ; 

The  fairer  eminent  in  light  advance; 

And  every  image  on  its  neighbour  smiles. 

Awhile  he  stands,  and  with  a father’s  joy 
Contemplates.  Then  with  Promethean  art 
Into  its  proper  vehicle  he  breathes 
The  fair  conception  ; which,  embodied  thus. 

And  permanent,  becomes  to  eyes  or  ears 
An  object  ascertained  : while  thus  informed. 

The  various  objects  of  his  mimic  skill. 

The  consonance  of  sounds,  the  featured  rock. 

The  shadowy  picture,  and  impassioned  verse. 

Beyond  their  proper  powers  attract  the  soul 
By  that  expressive  .semblance,  while  in  sight 
Of  nature’s  great  original  we  .scan 
The  lively  child  of  art ; while  line  by  line. 

And  feature  after  feature,  we  refer 
To  that  divine  exemplar  wheirce  it  stole 
Those  animating  charms.  Thus  beauty’s  palm 
Betwixt  them  wavering  hangs:  applauding  love 
Doubts  where  to  choose ; and  mortal  man  aspires 
To  tempt  creative  praise.  As  when  a cloud 
Of  gathering  hail  with  limpid  crusts  of  ice 
Enclosed,  and  obvious  to  the  beaming  sun. 

Collects  his  large  effulgence  ; straight  the  heavens 
With  equal  flames  present  on  either  h.and 
The  radiant  visage  : Persia  stands  at  gaze. 

Appalled  ; and  on  the  brink  of  Ganges  doubts 
I'he  snowy- vested  seer,  in  Mithra’s  name. 

To  which  the  fragrance  of  the  south  shall  burn. 

To  which  his  warbled  orisons  ascend. 

[Taste.'] 

What  then  is  taste,  but  these  internal  powers 
Active,  and  strong,  and  feelingly  alive 
lo  each  fine  impulse?  a discerning  sense 
Of  decent  and  sublime,  with  quick  disgust 
’rom  things  deformed  or  disarranged,  or  gross 


In  specicii?  This,  nor  gems  nor  stores  of  gold. 

Nor  purple  state,  nor  culture  can  bestow  ; 

But  God  alone,  when  first  his  active  hand 
Imprints  the  secret  bias  of  the  soul. 

He,  mighty  parent  ! wise  and  just  in  all. 

Free  as  the  vital  breeze  or  light  of  heaven. 

Reveals  the  charms  of  nature.  Ask  the  swain 
Who  journies  homeward  from  a summer  day’s 
Long  labour,  why,  forgetful  of  his  toils 
And  due  repo.se,  he  loiters  to  behold 
The  sunshine  gleaming,  as  through  amber  clouds. 
O’er  all  the  western  sky ; full  soon,  I ween. 

His  rude  expression  and  untutored  airs. 

Beyond  the  power  of  language,  will  unfold 
The  form  of  beauty  smiling  at  his  heart. 

How  lovely  ! how  commanding ! But  though  heaven 
In  every  breast  hath  sown  these  early  seeds 
Of  love  and  admiration,  yet  in  vain. 

Without  fair  culture’s  kind  parental  aid. 

Without  enlivening  suns,  and  genial  showers. 

And  shelter  from  the  blast,  in  vain  we  hope 
The  tender  plant  should  rear  its  blooming  head. 

Or  yield  the  harve.st  promised  in  its  spring. 

Nor  yet  will  every  soil  with  equal  stores 
Repay  the  tiller’s  labour ; or  attend 
His  will,  obsequious,  whether  to  produce 
The  olive  or  the  laurel.  Different  minds 
Incline  to  different  objects : one  pursues 
The  vast  alone,  the  wonderful,  the  wild ; 

Another  sighs  for  harmony,  and  grace. 

And  gentlest  beauty.  Hence  when  lightning  fires 
The  arch  of  heaven,  and  thunders  rock  the  groun  I ; 
When  furious  whirlwinds  rend  the  howling  air. 

And  ocean,  groaning  from  his  lowest  bed. 

Heaves  his  tempestuous  billows  to  the  sky. 

Amid  the  mighty  uproar,  while  below 
The  nations  tremble,  Shakspeare  looks  abroad 
From  some  high  cliff  superior,  and  enjoys 
The  elemental  war.  But  Waller  longs 
All  on  the  margin  of  some  flowery  stream 
To  spread  his  careless  limbs  amid  the  cool 
Of  plantain  shades,  and  to  the  listening  deer 
The  tale  of  slighted  vows  and  love’s  disdain 
Resound  soft-warbling  all  the  live-long  day : 
Consenting  zephyr  sighs  ; the  weeping  rill 
Joins  in  his  plaint,  melodious  ; mute  the  groves ; 

And  hill  and  dale  with  all  their  echoes  mourn. 

Such  and  so  various  are  the  tastes  of  men. 

O blest  of  heaven  ! whom  not  the  languid  songs 
Of  luxury,  the  siren  ! not  the  bribes 
Of  sordid  wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 
Of  pageant  honour,  can  seduce  to  leave 
Those  ever-blooming  sweets,  w'hich  from  the  store 
Of  nature  fair  imagination  culls 
To  charm  the  enlivened  soul ! What  though  not  all 
Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the  heights 
Of  envied  life  ; though  only  few  possess 
Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state ; 

Y et  nature’s  care,  to  all  her  children  just, 

W'ith  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler  state. 

Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 

Will  deign  to  use  them.  His  the  city’s  pomp, 

Tlie  rural  honours  his.  Whate’er  adorns 
The  princely  dome,  the  column  and  the  arch. 

The  breathing  marbles  and  the  sculptured  gold, 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor’s  narrow  claim. 

His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.  For  him  the  sirring 
Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken  gem 
Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds  : for  him  the  hand 
Of  autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
With  blooming  gold  and  blushes  like  the  morn. 

Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  wings  ; 

And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk. 

And  loves  unfelt  attract  him.  Not  a breeze 
Flies  o’er  the  meadow,  not  a cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  sun’s  effulgence,  not  a strain 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 
Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake 
Fresh  pleasure,  unreproved.  Nor  thence  partakes 
Fresh  pleasure  only  : for  the  attentive  mind, 

Hy  this  harmonious  action  on  her  powers, 
llccomes  herself  harmonious  : wont  so  oft 
In  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 
Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home 
To  find  a kindred  order,  to  exert 
Within  herself  this  elegance  of  love, 

This  fair  inspired  delight ; her  tempered  powers 
Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 
A chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 

Rut  if  to  ampler  prospects,  if  to  gaze 

On  nature’s  form,  where,  negligent  of  all 

These  lesser  graces,  she  assumes  the  port 

Of  that  eternal  majesty  that  weighed 

The  world’s  foundations  ; if  to  these  the  mind 

Exalts  her  daring  eye ; then  mightier  far 

Will  be  the  change,  and  nobler.  Would  the  forms 

Of  servile  custom  cramp  her  generous  power ; 

Would  sordid  policies,  the  barbarous  growth 
Of  ignorance  and  rapine,  bow  her  down 
To  tame  pursuits,  to  indolence  and  fear  \ 

Lo ! she  appeals  to  nature,  to  the  winds 
And  rolling  waves,  'the  sun’s  unwearied  course, 

The  elements  and  seasons  : all  declare 
For  what  the  eternal  Maker  has  ordained 
The  powers  of  man  : we  feel  within  ourselves 
His  energy  divine : he  tells  the  heart. 

He  meant,  he  made  us  to  behold  and  love 
What  he  beholds  and  loves,  the  general  orb 
Of  life  and  being  ; to  be  great  like  him. 

Beneficent  and  active.  Thus  the  men 

Whom  nature’s  works  can  charm,  with  God  himself 

Hold  converse ; grow  familiar,  day  by  day. 

With  his  conceptions,  act  upon  his  plan. 

And  form  to  his,  the  relish  of  their  souls. 

On  a Sermon  Against  Glory. — 1747. 

Come,  then,  tell  me,  sage  divine. 

Is  it  an  offence  to  own 
That  our  bosoms  e’er  incline 

Towards  immortal  glory’s  throne  1 
For  with  me  nor  pomp  nor  pleasure. 

Bourbon’s  might,  Braganza’s  treasure. 

So  can  fancy’s  dream  rejoice, 

So  conciliate  reason’s  choice. 

As  one  approving  word  of  her  impartial  voice. 

If  to  spurn  at  noble  praise 

Be  the  passport  to  thy  heaven. 

Follow  thou  those  gloomy  ways ; 

No  such  law  to  me  was  given  ; 

Nor,  I trust,  shall  I deplore  me. 

Faring  like  my  friends  before  me  ; 

Nor  a holier  place  desire 
Than  Timoleon’s  arms  acquire. 

And  Tully’s  curule  chair,  and  Milton’s  golden  lyre. 

Inscription  for  a Monument  to  Shakspeare. 

0 youths  and  virgins  : 0 declining  eld  : 

O pale  misfortune’s  slaves ; 0 ye  who  dwell 
Unknown  with  humble  quiet : ye  who  wait 
In  courts,  or  fill  the  golden  seat  of  kings : 

O sons  of  sport  and  pleasure : 0 thou  wretch 
That  weep’st  for  jealous  love,  or  the  sore  wounds 
Of  conscious  guilt,  or  death’s  rapacious  hand, 
Which  left  thee  void  of  hope  : O ye  who  roam 
In  exile,  ye  who*through  the  embattled  field 
Seek  bright  renown,  or  who  for  nobler  palms 
Contend,  the  leaders  of  a public  cause, 

Approach : behold  this  marble.  Know  ye  not 
The  features?  Hath  not  oft  his  faithful  tongue 
Told  you  the  fashion  of  your  own  estate. 


LORD  LYTTELTOJI. 


The  secrets  of  your  bosom  ? Here  then  round 
His  monument  with  reverence  while  ye  stand. 

Say  to  each  other:  ‘This  was  Shakspeare’s  form  ; 
Who  walked  in  every  path  of  human  life. 

Felt  every  passion  ; and  to  all  mankind 
Doth  now,  will  ever  that  experience  yield. 

Which  his  own  genius  only  could  acquire.’ 

Insanption  for  a Statue  of  Chaucer,  at  Woodstock. 

Such  was  old  Chaucer : such  the  placid  mien 
Of  him  who  first  with  harmony  informed 
The  language  of  our  fathers.  Here  he  dwelt 
For  many  a cheerful  day.  Those  ancient  walls 
Have  often  heard  him,  while  his  legends  blithe 
He  sang ; of  love,  or  knighthood,  or  the  wiles 
Of  homely  life  ; through  each  estate  and  age. 

The  fashions  and  the  follies  of  the  world 
With  cunning  hand  portraying.  Though  perchance 
From  Blenheim’s  towers,  0 stranger,  thou  art  come 
Glowing  with  Churchill’s  trophies  ; yet  in  vain 
Dost  thou  applaud  them,  if  thy  breast  be  cold 
To  him,  this  other  hero ; who  in  times 
Dark  and  untaught,  began  with  charming  verse 
To  tame  the  rudeness  of  his  native  land. 

LORD  LYTTELTON. 

As  a poet,  Lyttelton  might  escape  remembrance, 
but  he  comes  before  us  as  a general  author,  and  is, 
from  various  considerations  apart  from  literary  talent, 
worthy  of  notice.  He  was  the  son  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lyttelton  of  Hagley,  in  Worcestershire  (near  the 
Leasowes  of  Shenstone) ; and  after  distinguishing 


Hagley,  the  seat  of  Lord  Lyttelton.  I 

himself  at  Eton  and  Oxford,  he  went  abroad,  and 
passed  some  time  in  France  and  Italy.  On  his 
return,  he  obtained  a seat  in  parliament,  and  op- 
posed the  measures  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole.  He  be- 
came secretary  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  was  thus 
able  to  benefit  his  literary  friends,  Thomson  and 
Mallet.  In  1741  he  married  Miss  Lucy  Fortescue 
of  Devonshire,  who,  dying  five  years  afterwards, 
afforded  a theme  for  his  muse,  considered  by  many 
the  most  successful  of  his  poetical  efforts.  When 
Walpole  and  the  Whigs  were  vanquished,  Lyttelton 

47 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


was  made  one  of  the  lords  of  the  treasury.  He  was 
afterwards  a ])rivy  couneillor  and  chancellor  of  the 
exchequer,  and  was  elevated  to  the  peerage.  He 
died  August  22,  1773,  aged  sixty-four.  Lyttelton 
was  author  of  a short  but  excellent  treatise  on  The 
Conversion  of  Si  J’liitl,  which  is  still  regarded  as  one 
of  the  subsidiary  bulwarks  of  Christianity.  He  also 
wrote  an  elaborate  History  of  the  lleiyn  of  Henry  //., 
to  which  he  brouglit  ample  information  and  a spirit 
of  imi)artiality  and  justice.  These  valuable  works, 
and  his  patronage  of  literary  men  (Fielding,  it  will 
be  recollected,  dedicated  to  him  his  Tom  Jones,  and 
to  Thomson  he  was  a firm  friend),  constitute  the 
chief  claim  of  Lyttelton  njion  the  regard  of  pos- 
terity. Gray  has  j)raised  his  Monody  on  his  wife’s 
death  as  tender  and  elegiac;  but  undoubtedly  the 
finest  poetical  effusion  of  Lyttelton  is  his  Prologue 
to  Thomson's  Tragedy  of  Coriolanus.  Before  this 
jilay  eould  be  brought  out,  'I’homson  liad  paid  the 
debt  of  nature,  and  his  premature  death  was  deeply 
lamented.  'J’he  tragedy  was  acted  for  the  “benefit 
of  the  poet’s  relations,  and  when  Quin  spoke  the 
prologue  by  Lyttelton,  many  of  the  audience  wept 
at  the  lines — 

He  loved  his  friends — forgive  this  gushing  tear: 
Alas  ! I feel  1 am  no  actor  here. 

[From  the  Monody.'] 

In  vain  I look  around 
O’er  all  the  well-known  ground, 

My  Lucy’s  wonted  footsteps  to  descry  ; 

^Vhel■e  oft  we  used  to  walk, 

M’here  oft  in  tender  talk 
We  saw  the  summer  sun  go  down  the  sky; 

Nor  by  yon  fountain’s  side, 

Nor  where  its  waters  glide 
Along  the  valley,  can  she  now  be  found : 

In  all  the  wide-stretched  prospect’s  ample  bound, 

No  more  my  mournful  eye 
Can  aught  of  her  espy. 

But  the  sad  sacred  earth  where  her  dear  relics  lie. 

Sweet  babes,  who,  like  the  little  playful  fawns. 

Were  wont  to  trip  along  these  verdant  lawns. 

By  your  delighted  mother’s  side  : 

Who  now  your  infant  steps  shall  guide  ? 

Ah  ! where  is  cow  the  hand  whose  tender  care 
To  every  virtue  would  have  formed  your  youth. 

And  strewed  with  flowers  the  thorny  ways  of  truth  ? 

0 loss  beyond  repair  ! 

0 wretched  father,  left  alone 
To  w'eep  their  dire  misfortune  and  thy  own  ! 

How  shall  thy  weakened  mind,  oppressed  with  wo. 

And  drooping  o’er  thy  Lucy’s  grave. 

Perform  the  duties  that  you  doubly  owe, 

Now  she,  alas  ! is  gone. 

From  folly  and  from  vice  their  helpless  age  to  save  1 
Advice  to  a Lady. 

The  counsels  of  a friend,  Belinda,  hear. 

Too  roughly  kind  to  please  a lady’s  ear. 

Unlike  the  flatteries  of  a lover’s  pen. 

Such  truths  as  women  seldom  learn  from  men. 

Nor  think  I praise  you  ill,  when  thus  I show 
What  female  vanity  might  fear  to  know: 

Some  merit’s  mine  to  dare  to  be  sincere; 

But  greater  yours  sincerity  to  bear. 

Hard  is  the  fortune  that  your  sex  attends  ; 

Women,  like  princes,  find  few  real  friends : 

All  who  approach  them  their  own  ends  pursue; 

Lovers  and  ministers  are  seldom  true. 

Hence  oft  from  Reason  heedless  Beauty  strays. 

And  the  most  trusted  guide  the  most  betrays ; 


Hence,  by  fond  dreams  of  fancied  power  amused. 
When  most  you  tyrannise,  you’re  mo.st  abused. 
What  is  your  sex’s  earliest,  latest  care, 

Y our  heart’s  supreme  ambition  ? — To  be  fair. 

For  this,  the  toilet  every  thought  emidoys. 

Hence  all  the  toils  of  dress,  .and  all  the  joys: 

For  this,  Inands,  lips,  and  eyes,  are  put  to  school. 
And  each  instructed  feature  has  its  rule : 

And  yet  how  few  have  learnt,  when  this  is  given. 
Not  to  disgrace  the  partial  boon  of  Heaven  ! 

How  few  with  ah  their  pride  of  form  can  move  ! 
How  few  are  lovely,  that  are  made  for  love  1 
Ho  you,  my  fair,  endeavour  to  j)Osse,ss 
An  elegance  of  mind,  as  well  as  dress ; 

Be  that  your  ornament,  and  know  to  plca.se 
By  graceful  Nature’s  unaffected  ease. 

Nor  make  to  dangerous  wit  a vain  pretence. 

But  wisely  rest  content  with  modest  .sense ; 

For  wit,  like  wine,  intoxicates  the  brain. 

Too  strong  for  feeble  woman  to  sustain  : 

Of  those  who  claim  it  more  than  half  have  none ; 
And  half  of  those  who  have  it  are  undone. 

Be  still  superior  to  your  sex’s  arts, 

Nor  think  dishonesty  a proof  of  parts: 

For  you,  the  plainest  is  the  wisest  rule  : 

A cunning  woman  is  a knavish  fool. 

Be  good  yourself,  nor  think  another’s  shame 
Can  raise  your  merit,  or  adorn  your  fame. 

Virtue  is  amiable,  mild,  serene  ; 

Without  all  beauty,  and  all  peace  within  ; 

The  honour  of  a prude  is  rage  and  storm, 

’Tis  ugliness  in  its  most  frightful  form  ; 

Fiercely  it  stands,  defying  gods  and  men, 

As  fiery  monsters  guard  a giant’s  den. 

Seek  to  be  good,  but  aim  not  to  be  great ; 

A woman’s  noblest  station  is  retreat ; 

Her  fairest  virtues  fly  from  public  sight. 

Domestic  worth,  that  shuns  too  strong  a light. 

To  rougher  man  Ambition’s  task  resign, 

’Tis  ours  in  senates  or  in  courts  to  shine. 

To  labour  for  a sunk  corrupted  state. 

Or  dare  the  rage  of  Envy,  and  be  great ; 

One  only  care  your  gentle  breasts  should  move, 
The  important  business  of  your  life  is  love  ; 

To  this  great  point  direct  your  constant  aim. 

This  makes  your  happiness,  and  this  your  fame. 
Be  never  cool  reserve  with  passion  joined  ; 

With  caution  choose!  but  then  be  fondly  kind. 
The  selfish  heart,  that  but  by  halves  is  given. 
Shall  find  no  place  in  Love’s  delightful  heaven ; 
Here  sweet  extremes  alone  can  truly  bless: 

The  virtue  of  a lover  is  excess. 

A maid  unasked  may  own  a well-placed  flame ; 
Not  loving but  loving  wrong,  is  shame. 
Contemn  the  little  pride  of  giving  pain. 

Nor  think  that  conquest  justifies  disdain. 

Short  is  the  period  of  insulting  power ; 

Offended  Cupid  finds  his  vengeful  hour; 

Soon  will  resume  the  empire  which  he  gave. 

And  soon  the  tyrant  shall  become  the  slave. 

Blest  is  the  maid,  and  worthy  to  be  blest. 

Whose  soul,  entire  by  him  she  loves  possessed, 
Feels  every  vanity  in  fondness  lost. 

And  asks  no  power  but  that  of  pleasing  most : 
Hers  is  the  bliss,  in  just  return,  to  prove 
The  honest  warmth  of  undissembled  love  ; 

For  her,  inconstant  man  might  cease  to  range. 
And  gratitude  forbid  desire  to  change. 

But,  lest  harsh  care  the  lover’s  peace  destroy. 

And  roughly  blight  the  tender  buds  of  joy. 

Let  Reason  teach  what  Passion  fein  would  hide. 
That  Hymen’s  bands  by  Prudence  should  be  tied  ; 
Venus  in  vain  the  wedded  pair  would  crown. 

If  angry  Fortune  on  their  union  frown  : 

Soon  will  the  flattering  dream  of  bliss  be  o’er. 

And  cloyed  Imagination  cheat  no  more. 


48 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


TnOMAS  O&AT. 


I Ihoii,  wakiii"  to  the  sense  of  lasting  pain, 

; With  nuitual  tears  the  nuptial  couch  they  stain  ; 

■ And  that  fond  love,  which  should  afford  relief, 

I Does  hut  increase  the  anguish  of  their  grief : 

I While  both  could  easier  their  own  sorrows  bear, 

■ Than  the  sad  knowledge  of  each  other’s  care. 

Yet  may  you  rather  feel  that  virtuous  pain. 

Than  sell  your  violated  charms  for  gain, 

! Than  wed  the  wretch  whom  you  despise  or  hate, 
j For  the  vain  glare  of  useless  wealth  or  state. 

E’en  in  the  happiest  choice,  where  favouring  Heaven 
I Has  equal  love  and  easy  fortune  given, 

I Think  not,  the  husband  gained,  that  all  is  done ; 

I The  prize  of  happiness  must  still  be  won  : 

I And  oft  the  careless  find  it  to  their  cost, 

The  lover  in  the  husband  may  be  lost ; 

I The  Gnvees  might  alone  his  heart  allure ; 

! They  and  the  Virtues  meeting  must  secure. 

{ Let  e’en  your  prudence  wear  the  pleasing  dress 
Of  care  for  him,  and  an.vious  tenderness  ; 

I From  kind  concern  about  his  weal  or  wo, 

I Let  each  domestic  duty  seem  to  flow. 

I The  household  sceptre  if  he  bids  you  bear, 

I Make  it  your  pride  his  servant  to  appear: 
j Endearing  thus  the  common  acts  of  life. 

The  mistress  still  shall  charm  him  in  the  w'ife ; 

And  wrinkled  age  shall  unobserved  come  on, 

Before  his  eye  perceives  one  beauty  gone  : 

I E’en  o’er  your  cold,  your  ever-sacred  urn, 

! His  constant  flame  shall  unextinguished  bum. 

Thus  1,  Belinda,  would  your  charms  improve. 

And  form  your  heart  to  all  the  arts  of  love. 

The  task  were  harder,  to  secure  my  own 
Against  the  power  of  those  already  known  ; 

F'or  well  you  twist  the  secret  chains  that  bind 
With  gentle  force  the  captivated  mind  ; 

Skilled  every  soft  attraction  to  employ. 

Each  flattering  hope,  and  each  alluring  joy  ; 

I own  your  genius,  and  from  you  receive 
The  rules  of  pleasing,  which  to  you  I give. 

[Prologxie  to  the  Tragedy  of  Coriolanus — Spoken  hy 
Mr  Quin.] 

I come  not  here  your  candour  to  implore 
For  scenes  whose  author  is,  alas  ! no  more  ; 

He  wants  no  advocate  his  cause  to  plead  ; 

Y on  will  yourselves  be  patrons  of  the  dead. 

No  party  his  benevolence  confined. 

No  sect — alike  it  flowed  to  all  mankind. 

He  loved  his  friends — forgive  this  gushing  tear : 

Alas  ! I feel  I am  no  actor  here — 

He  loved  his  friends  with  such  a warmth  of  heart. 

So  clear  of  interest,  so  devoid  of  art. 

Such  generous  friendship,  such  unshaken  zeal. 

No  words  can  speak  it,  but  our  tears  may  tell. 

O candid  truth  ! O faith  without  a stain ! 

0 manners  gently  firm,  and  nobly  plain ! 

1 O sympathising  love  of  others’  bliss — 

Where  will  you  find  another  breast  like  his ! 

Such  was  the  man  : the  poet  w'ell  you  know ; 

Oft  has  he  touched  your  hearts  with  tender  wo  ; 

Oft  in  this  crowded  house,  with  just  applause. 

You  heard  him  teach  fair  Virtue’s  purest  laws; 

For  his  chaste  muse  employed  her  heaven-taught  lyre 
None  but  the  noblest  passions  to  inspire ; 

Not  one  immoral,  one  corrupted  thought. 

One  line  which,  dying,  he  could  wish  to  blot. 

0 may  to-night  your  favourable  doom 
Another  laurel  add  to  grace  his  tomb : 

Whilst  he,  suj>erior  now  to  praise  or  blame, 

] Hears  not  the  feeble  voice  of  human  fame. 

Yet  if  to  those  wnom  most  on  earth  he  loved. 

From  whom  his  pious  care  is  now  removed. 

With  whom  his  liberal  hand,  and  bounteous  heart. 
Shared  all  his  little  fortune  could  impart : 

46 


If  to  those  friends  your  kind  regard  shall  give 
Wliat  they  .no  longer  can  from  his  receive. 

That,  that,  even  now,  above  yon  starry  pole. 

May  touch  with  pleasure  his  immortal  soul. 

To  the  ‘Castle  of  Indolence,’  Lyttelton  contributed 
the  following  excellent  stanza,  containing  a portrait 
of  Thomson  : — 

A bard  here  dwelt,  more  fat  than  bard  beseems. 
Who,  void  of  envy,  guile,  and  lust  of  gain. 

On  virtue  still,  and  nature’s  pleasing  themes. 
Poured  forth  his  unpremeditated  strain  : 

The  world  forsaking  with  a calm  disdain. 

Here  laughed  he  careless  in  his  easy  seat; 

Here  quaffed  encircled  with  the  joyous  train. 

Oft  moralising  sage:  his  ditty  sweet 
He  loathed  much  to  write,  ne  cared  to  repeat. 

THOMAS  GRAY. 

Thomas  Gray  was  born  at  Cornhill.  Londo^, 
December  26.  1716.  His  father,  Philip  Gray,  was 
a money-scrivener  — the  same  occupation  carried 


on  by  Milton’s  father;  but  though  a ‘respectable 
citizen,’  the  parent  of  Gray  was  a man  of  harsh 
and  violent  disposition.  His  wife  was  forced  to 
separate  from  him  ; and  it  was  to  the  exertions  of 
this  excellent  woman,  as  partner  with  her  sister  in 
a millinery  business,  that  the  poet  owed  the  advan- 
tages of  a learned  education,  first  at  Eton,  and  after- 
w’ards  at  Cambridge.  The  painful  domestic  circum- 
stances of  his  youth  gave  a tinge  of  melancholy  and 
pensive  reflection  to  Gray,  which  is  visible  in  his 
poetrv.  At  Eton,  the  young  student  had  made  the 
friendship  of  Horace  Wal])ole,  son  of  the  prime 
minister;  and  when  his  college  education  was  com- 
pleted, Walpole  induced  him  to  accompany  him  in 
a tour  through  France  and  Italy.  They  had  been 
about  a twelvemonth  together,  exploring  the  natural 
beauties,  antiquities,  and  picture  galleries  of  Rome, 
Florence,  Naples,  &c.,  when  a quarrel  took  place 
between  them  at  Reggio,  and  the  travellers  sepa- 
rated, Gray  returning  to  England.  Walpole  took 


riu)M  1727 


CYCLOVTlilDlA  Oy 


TO  1780. 


tlio  blame  of  this  (iiirereiice  on  himself,  as  he  was 
vain  .and  volatile,  and  not  dis])osed  to  trust  in  the 
better  knowledge  and  the  somewhat  fastidious  tastes 
and  habits  of  his  assoeiate.  Gray  went  to  Cam- 
bridge, to  take  his  degree  in  eivil  law,  but  without 
intending  to  follow  up  the  profession.  Ilis  father 
had  died,  his  mother's  fortune  w;is  small,  and  the 
poet  was  more  intent  on  learning  than  on  riches. 
He  had,  however,  enough  for  his  wants.  He  fixed 
his  residence  at  Cambridge;  and  amid.st  its  noble 
libraries  and  learned  society,  passed  the  greater 
part  of  his  remaining  life.  He  hated  mathematical 
and  metaphysical  ]mrsuits,  but  was  ardently  de- 
voted to  classical  learning,  to  which  he  added  the 
study  of  architecture,  antiquities,  natural  history, 
and  other  branches  of  kuowdedge.  His  retired  life 
was  varied  by  occasional  residence  in  London, 
where,  he  revelled  among  the  treasures  of  the 
British  Museum  ; and  bv  frequent  excursions  to 
the  country  on  visits  to  a few  learned  and  attached 
friends.  At  Cambridge  Gray  was  considered  as  an 
unduly  fastidious  man,  and  this  gave  occasion  to 
practical  jokes  being  jdayed  olf  upon  him  by  his 
fellow-inmates  of  St  I’eter’s  college,  one  of  which — ■ 
a false  alarm  of  fire,  by  which  he  was  induced  to 
descend  from  his  window  to  the  ground  by  a rope — 
was  the  cause  of  his  removing  (17.'j0)  to  Pend)roke 
Hall.  In  1765  he  took  a journey  into  Scotl.and, 


Gray’s  Window,  St  Peter’s  college,  Cambridge. 

and  met  his  brother  poet  Dr  Beattie,  at  Glammis 
castle.  He  also  penetrated  into  Wales,  and  made 
a journey  to  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland,  to  see 
the  scenery  of  the  lakes.  His  letters  de.scribing 
these  excursions  are  remarkable  for  elegance  and 
precision,  for  correct  and  extensive  observation,  and 
for  a dry  scholastic  humour  peculiar  to  the  poet. 
On  returning  from  these  agreeable  holidays.  Gray 
set  himself  calmly  down  in  his  college  retreat— pored 
over  his  favourite  authors,  compiled  tables  of  chro- 
nology or  botany,  moralised  on  ’ all  he  felt  and  all 


he  saw’  in  correspondence  with  his  friends,  and  occa- 
sionally ventured  into  the  realms  of  poetry  and  ima- 
gination. He  had  studied  the  Greek  poets  w ith  such 
intense  devotion  and  critical  care,  that  their  sj)irit 
and  cs.sence  seem  to  have  sunk  into  his  mind,  and  | 
coloured  all  his  efforts  at  original  composition.  At  ^ 
the  same  time,  his  knowledge  of  human  nature,  j 
and  his  sympathy  with  the  world,  were  varied  and  1 
profound.  Tears  fell  unbidden  among  the  classic  j 
flowers  of  fancy,  and  in  his  almost  monastic  cell, 
his  heart  vibrated  to  the  finest  tones  of  humanity. 

Gray’s  first  public  appc.arance  as  a poet  was 
made  in  1747,  wdien  his  Ode  to  Eton  College  was 
published  by  Dodsley.  7' wo  years  afterwards,  his 
Elegy  Written  in  a Country  Churchyard  was  printed, 
and  immediately  became  pojmlar.  His  Eindaric 
Of/c.9  appeared  in  1757,  but  met  with  little  success. 
His  name,  however,  was  now  so  well  known,  that 
he  w.as  offered  the  situation  of  poet-laureate,  vacant  1 
by  the  death  of  Colley  Cibber.  Gray  declined  the 
.appointment;  but  shortly  afterwards  he  obtained 
the  more  reputable  and  lucrative  situation  of  Pro- 
fessor of  Modern  History,  which  brought  him  in 
about  £400  per  annum.  For  some  years  he  had 
been  subject  to  hereditary  gout,  and  as  liis  circum- 
stances improved,  his  health  declined.  tVliile  at 
dinner  one  day  in  the  college  hall,  he  was  seized 
with  an  attack  in  the  stomach,  which  was  so  vio- 
lent, as  to  resist  all  the  efforts  of  medicine,  and 
after  six  days  of  suffering,  he  expired  on  the  .‘JOth 
of  July  1771,  in  the  fifty-fifth  year  of  his  age.  He 
was  buried,  according  to  his  desire,  by  the  side  of 
his  mother,  at  Stoke,  near  Eton — adding  one  more 
I>oetical  association  to  that  beautiful  and  classic  j 
district  of  England.  , 

The  poetry  of  Gray  is  all  comprised  in  a few 
pages,  yet  he  appears  worthy  to  rank  in  quality  | 
with  the  first  order  of  poets.  His  two  great  odes,  1 
The  Progress  of  Poesy,  and  The  Bard,  are  the  most  j 
splendid  compositions  we  possess  in  the  Pindaric  i 
stj’le  and  measure.  They  surpass  the  odes  of  Col- 
lins in  fire  and  energy,  in  boldness  of  imagination,  1 
and  in  condensed  and  brilliant  expression.  Collins 
is  as  purely  and  entirely  poetical,  hut  he  is  less  com- 
manding and  sublime.  Gray’s  stanzas,  notwith- 
standing their  v,aried  and  complicated  versification, 
flow  with  lyrical  ease  and  perfect  harmony.  Each 
presents  rich  personification,  striking  thoughts,  or 
happy  imagery — 

Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear. 

‘ The  Bard’  is  more  dramatic  and  picturesque  than 
‘ The  Progress  of  Poesy,’  yet  in  the  latter  are  some 
of  the  poet’s  richest  and  most  majestic  strains.  As, 
for  example,  the  sketch  of  the  savage  youth  of 
Chili : — 

In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road. 

Where  shaggy  forms  o’er  ice-built  mountains  roam, 

The  muse  has  broke  the  twdlight  gloom. 

To  cheer  the  shivering  native’s  dull  abode. 

And  oft  beneath  the  odorous  .shade 
Of  Chili’s  boundless  forests  laid. 

She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  repeat, 

In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet, 

Their  feather-cinctured  chiefs  and  dusky  loves. 

Her  track,  where’er  the  g6ddess  roves, 

Glory  pursue  and  generous  shame, 

The  unconquerable  mind  and  Freedom’s  holy  flame. 

Or  the  poetical  characters  of  Shakspeare,  Milton, 
and  Dryden  : — 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer  gale. 

In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature’s  darling  laid. 

What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  strayed. 

To  him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 


SO 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  ORAT 


Her  awful  face : the  dauntless  child 
Stretched  forth  his  little  anus,  and  smiled, 
j ‘ This  pencil  take,’  she  said,  ‘ whose  colours  clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year: 

I Thine,  too,  these  golden  keys,  immortal  boy  1 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  .Toy  ; 

Of  Horror  that,  and  thrilling  Fears, 

[ Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  Tears.’  . 

i Nor  second  he,  that  rode  sublime 
I Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  Ecstacy, 

The  secrets  of  the  abyss  to  spy. 

I He  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  space  and  time : 

' The  living  throne,  the  sapphire-blaze, 

I Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze. 

He  saw  ; but  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 

j Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 

' Behold  where  Dryden’s  less  presumptuous  car 
i ! Wide  o’er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 
!j  Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race, 

j VV'ith  necks  in  thunder  clothed,  and  long-resounding 
pace. 

' The  ‘ Ode  to  Eton  College,’  the  ‘ Ode  to  Adversity,’ 

: and  the  far-famed  ‘ Elegy,’  present  the  same  careful 

and  elaborate  finishing  ; but  the  thoughts  and  ima- 

I I gery  are  more  simple,  natural,  and  touching.  A 
1 1 train  of  moral  feelings,  and  solemn  or  affecting  asso- 
j ciations,  is  presented  to  the  mind,  in  connection 

I with  beautiful  natural  scenery  and  objects  of  real 

I I life.  In  a letter  to  Beattie,  Gray  remarks — ‘ As  to 
; i description,  I have  always  thouglit  that  it  made  the 
i I most  graceful  ornament  of  poetry,  but  never  ought 
; to  make  the  subject.’  lie  practised  what  he  taught ; 

’ for  there  is  always  some  sentiment  or  reflection 
I arising  out  of  the  poet’s  descriptive  passages.  These 

1 ! are  generally  grave,  tender,  or  pathetic.  The  cast  of 
I ! his  own  mind,  and  the  comparative  loneliness  of  his 
I situation  and  studies,  nursed  a sort  of  philosophic 
I spleen,  and  led  him  to  moralise  on  the  vanity  of 

I life.  Byron  and  others  have  attached  inordinate 

I value  to  the  ‘ Elegy,’  as  the  main  prop  of  Gray’s 
! reputation.  It  is,  doubtless,  the  most  frequently 
I read  and  repeated  of  all  his  productions,  because  it 
i I is  connected  with  ordinary  existence  and  genuine 
] feeling,  and  describes,  in  exquisite  harmonious  verse, 
i I w'hat  all  persons  must,  at  some  time  or  other,  have 
j felt  or  imagined.  But  the  highest  poetry  can  never 
be  very  extensively  popular.  A simple  ballad  air 
I will  convey  jdeasure  to  a greater  number  of  persons 
' than  the  most  successful  efforts  of  accomplished 
musical  taste  and  genius ; and,  in  like  manner, 
poetry  which  deals  with  subjects  of  familiar  life, 
must  find  more  readers  than  those  inspired  flights 
of  imagination,  or  recondite  allusions,  however 
graced  with  the  charms  of  poetry,  which  can  only 
I be  enjoyed  by  persons  of  fine  sensibility,  and  some- 
I thing  of  kindred  taste  and  knowledge.  Gray’s 
I classical  diction,  his  historical  and  mythological 

I personifications,  must  ever  be  lost  on  the  multi- 

i I tude.  Even  Dr  Johnson  was  tempted  into  a coarse 

! and  unjust  criticism  of  Gray,  chiefly  because  the 

I critic  admired  no  poetry  which  did  not  contain 

I some  weighty  moral  truth,  or  some  chain  of  rea- 

I soning.  To  restrict  poetical  excellence  to  this 

standard,  would  be  to  blot  out  Spenser  from  the 
I list  of  high  poets,  and  to  curtail  Shakspeare  and 

I Milton  of  more  than  half  their  glory.  Let  us 

I recollect  with  another  poet  — the  author  of  the 

I Night  Thoughts — that  ‘ a fixed  star  is  as  much  in 

the  bounds  of  nature  as  a flower  of  the  field,  though 
less  obvious,  and  of  far  greater  dignity.’ 

I In  the  character  of  Gray  there  are  some  seeming 
! I inconsistencies.  As  a man,  he  was  nice,  reserved, 
j and  proud — a haughty  retired  scholar ; yet  we  find 

him  in  his  letters  full  of  Enghsh  idiom  and  English 


feeling,  with  a touch  of  the  gossip,  and  sometimes 
not  over  fastidious  in  his  allusions  and  remarks. 

He  was  indolent,  yet  a severe  student — hating  Cam- 
bridge and  its  college  discipline,  yet  constantly  re- 
siding there.  He  loved  intellectual  ease  and  luxury, 
and  wished,  as  a sort  of  Mohammedan  paradise,  to 
‘ lie  on  a sofa,  and  read  eternal  new  romances  of 
M.arivaux  and  Crebillon.’  Yet  all  he  could  say  of 
Thomson’s  ‘ Castle  of  Indolence,’  when  it  wuis  first 
published,  was,  that  there  were  some  good  verses  in 
it!  Akenside,  too,  whom  he  was  so  well  fitted  to 
appreciate,  he  thought  ‘ often  obsc\ire,  and  even  un- 
intelligible.’ As  a poet.  Gray  studied  in  the  school 
of  the  ancient  and  Italian  poets,  labouring  like  an 
artist  to  infuse  part  of  their  spirit,  their  melody,  and 
even  some  of  their  expressions,  into  his  inimitable 
Mosaic  work,  over  which  he  breathed  the  life  and 
fragrance  of  eternal  spring.  In  his  country  tours, 
the  poet  carried  with  him  a plano-convex  mirror, 
which,  in  surveying  landscapes,  gathers  into  one 
confined  glance  the  forms  and  tints  of  the  surround- 
ing scene.  His  imagination  performed  a similar 
operation  in  collecting,  fixing,  and  appropriating 
the  materials  of  poetry.  All  is  bright,  natural,  and 
interesting — rich  or  magnificent — but  it  is  seen  but 
for  a moment.  Yet,  despite  bis  classic  taste  and 
models.  Gray  was  among  the  first  to  welcome  and 
admire  the  Celtic  strains  of  Maepherson’s  Ossian  ; 
and  be  could  also  delight  in  the  wild  superstitions  of 
the  Gothic  nations : in  transiating  from  the  Norse 
tongue  the  Fatal  Sisters  and  the  Descent  of  Odin, 
he  called  up  the  martial  fire,  the  rude  energy  and 
abruptness  of  the  ancient  bailad  minstrels.  Had 
his  situation  and  circumstances  been  different,  the 
genius  of  this  accomplished  and  admirable  poet 
would  in  all  probability  have  expanded,  so  as  to  < m- 
brace  subjects  of  wider  and  more  varied  interest — 
of  greater  length  and  diversity  of  character. 

The  subdued  humour  and  fancy  of  Gray  are  per- 
petually breaking  out  in  his  letters,  with  brief 
jiicturesque  touches  that  mark  the  poet  and  man  of 
taste.  The  advantages  of  travelling  and  of  taking 
notes  on  the  spot,  he  has  playfully  but  admirably 
summed  up  in  a letter  to  a friend,  then  engaged  in 
making  a tour  in  Scotland  : — ‘ Do  not  you  think 
a man  may  be  the  wiser  (I  had  almost  said  the 
better)  for  going  a hundred  or  two  of  miles ; and 
that  the  mind  has  more  room  in  it  than  most 
people  seem  to  think,  if  you  will  but  furnish  the 
apartments  ? I almost  envy  your  last  month,  being 
in  a very  insipid  situation  myself ; and  desire  you 
would  not  fail  to  send  me  some  furniture  for  nty 
Gothic  apartment,  which  is  very  cold  at  present. 

It  will  be  the  easier  task,  as  you  have  notliing 
to  do  but  transcribe  your  little  red  books,  if  they 
are  not  rubbed  out ; for  I conclude  you  have  not 
trusted  everything  to  memory,  which  is  ten  times 
worse  than  a lead  pencil.  Half  a word  fixed  upon 
or  near  the  spot  is  worth  a cartload  of  recollection. 
When  we  trust  to  the  picture  that  objects  draw 
of  themselves  on  our  mind,  we  deceive  ourselves , 
without  accurate  and  particular  observation,  it  is 
but  ill-drawn  at  first,  the  outlines  are  soon  blurrcii, 
the  colours  every  d.ay  grow  fainter,  and  at  last, 
when  we  would  produce  it  to  anybody,  we  art 
forced  to  supply  its  defects  with  a few  strok  ?s  of  oui 
own  imagination.’ 

Impressed  with  the  opinion  he  here  inculcates, 
the  poet  was  a careful  note-taker,  and  liis  delinea- 
tions are  all  fresh  and  distinct.  Thus,  lie  writes  in 
the  following  graceful  strain  to  his  friend  Ni»  bolls,  ' 
in  commemoration  of  a tour  which  be  made  to  | 
Southampton  and  Netiey  Abbey:  — ‘My  health  j 
is  much  improved  by  the  sea,  not  that  I drank 
it  or  bathed  in  it,  as  tlie  common  people  do-. 

51 


FROM  1727  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  to  1780. 

no,  I only  walked  by  it,  and  looked  upon  it.  The 
climate  is  remarkably  mild,  even  in  October  and 
November;  no  snow  has  been  seen  to  lie  there 
for  these  thirty  years  past ; the  myrtles  grow  in  the 
ground  against  the  houses,  and  Guernsey  lilies 
bloom  in  every  window ; the  town  clean  and  well- 
built.  surrouiuled  by  its  old  stone-walls,  with  their 
towers  and  gateways,  stands  at  the  point  of  a penin- 
sula, and  opens  full  south  to  an  arm  of  the  sea, 
which,  having  formed  two  beautiful  bays  on  each 
hand  of  it,  stretches  away  in  direct  view,  till  it  joins 
the  British  Channel ; it  is  skirted  on  either  side 
with  gently-rising  grounds,  clothed  with  thick  wood, 
and  directly  cross  its  mouth  rise  the  high  lands  of 
the  Isle  of  Wight  at  some  distance,  but  distinctly 
seen.  In  the  bosom  of  the  woods  (concealed  from 
profane  eyes)  lie  hid  the  ruins  of  Netley  Abbey ; 
there  may  be  richer  and  greater  houses  of  religion, 
but  the  abbot  is  content  with  his  situation.  See 
there,  at  the  top  of  that  hanging  meadow,  under  the 
shade  of  those  old  trees  that  bend  into  a half  circle 
about  it,  he  is  walking  slowly  (good  man  !),  and 
bidding  his  beads  for  the  souls  of  his  benefactors, 
interred  in  that  venerable  i>ile  that  lies  beneath  him. 
Beyond  it  (the  meadow  still  descending)  nods  a 
thicket  of  oaks  that  mask  the  building,  and  have 
e.xcluded  a view  too  garish  and  luxuriant  for  a holy 
eye ; only  on  either  hand  they  leave  an  opening  to 
the  blue  glittering  sea.  Did  you  not  observe  how, 
as  that  white  sail  shot  by  and  was  lost,  he  turned 
and  crossed  himself  to  drive  the  tempter  from  him 
that  had  thrown  that  distraction  in  his  way?  I 
should  tell  you  that  the  ferryman  who  rowed  me,  a 
lusty  young  fellow,  told  me  that  he  would  not  for  all 
the  world  pass  a night  at  the  abbey  (there  were  such 
things  near  it),  though  there  was  a power  of  money 
hid  there.  Fivim  thence  I went  to  Salisbury,  Wil- 
ton, and  Stonehenge ; but  of  these  I say  no  more  ; 
they  will  be  published  at  the  university  press. 

P.  S. — I must  not  close  my  letter  without  giving 
j’ou  one  princi[)al  event  of  my  history,  which  was, 
that  (in  the  course  of  my  late  tour)  I set  out  one 
morning  before  five  o’clock,  the  moon  shining 
through  a dark  and  misty  autumnal  air,  and  got  to 
the  sea-coast  time  enough  to  be  at  the  sun’s  levee. 
I saw  the  clo;ids  and  dark  vapours  open  gradually  to 
right  and  left,  rolling  over  one  another  in  great 
smoky  wreaths,  and  the  tide  (as  it  flowed  gently  in 
upon  the  sands)  first  whitening,  then  slightly  tinged 
with  gold  and  blue ; and  all  at  once  a little  hue  of 
insufferable  brightness  that  (before  I can  write  these 
five  words)  was  grown  to  half  an  orb,  and  now  to  a 
whole  one,  too  glorious  to  be  distinctly  seen.  It  is 
very  odd  it  makes  no  figure  on  paper ; yet  I shall 
remember  it  as  long  as  the  sun,  or  at  least  as  long  as 
I endure.  I wonder  whether  anybody  ever  saw  it 
before?  I hardly  believe  it’ 

>Iueh  as  has  since  been  written  on  the  lake 
country,  nothing  can  exceed  the  beauty  and  Jinish 
of  this  mini.ature  picture  of  Grassmere : — 'Passed 
by  the  little  chapel  of  Wiborn.  out  of  which  the  Sun- 
day eongreg.ation  were  then  issuing.  Passed  a beck 
[rivulet]  near  Dunmailrouse,  and  entered  Westmore- 
land a second  time ; now  begin  to  see  Helmcrag,  dis- 
tinguished from  its  rugged  neighbours  not  so  much 
by  its  height,  as  by  the  strange  broken  outline  of 
its  top,  like  some  gigantic  building  demolished,  and 
the  stones  that  composed  it  flung  across  each  other 
in  wild  confusion.  Just  bej’ond  it  opens  one  of  the 
sweetest  landscapes  that  art  ever  attempted  to  imi- 
tate. The  bosom  of  the  mountains  spreading  here 
into  a broad  basin,  discovers  in  the  midst  Grassmere 
water;  its  margin  is  hollowed  into  small  bays  with 
bold  eminences,  some  of  them  rocks,  some  of  soft 
turf,  that  half  conceal  and  vary  the  figure  of  the 

little  lake  they  command.  From  the  shore  a low 
promontory  pushes  itself  far  into  the  water,  and  on 
it  stands  a white  village  with  the  parish  church 
rising  in  the  midst  of  it;  hanging  inclosures,  corn 
fields,  and  meadows  green  as  an  emerald,  with  their 
trees,  hedges,  and  cattle,  fill  up  the  whole  space 
from  the  edge  of  the  water.  Just  opposite  to  you  is 
a large  farm-house,  at  the  bottom  of  a steep  smooth 
lawn  embosomed  in  old  woods,  which  climb  half  way 
up  the  mountain’s  side,  and  discover  above  them  a 
broken  line  of  crags,  that  crown  the  scene.  Not  a 
single  red  tile,  no  glaring  gentleman’s  house  or 
garden  M-all.s,  break  in  upon  the  repose  of  this  little 
unsu.spected  paradise;  but  all  is  peace,  rusticity, 
and  hapj)y  poverty,  in  its  neatest  and  most  bei:oming 
attire.’ 

The  sublime  scenery  of  the  Grande  Chartreuse, 
in  Dauphiny  (the  subject  of  Gray’s  noble  Alcaic 
ode),  awakened  all  his  poetical  enthusiasm.  Writ- 
ing to  his  mother  from  Lyons,  he  says — ‘ It  is  a 
fortnight  since  we  set  out  hence  upon  a little  excur- 
sion to  Geneva.  We  took  the  longest  road,  which 
lies  through  Savoy,  on  purpose  to  see  a famous 
monastery,  called  the  Grande  Chartreuse,  and  had 
no  reason  to  think  our  time  lost.  After  having 
travelled  seven  days  very  slow  (for  we  did  not 
change  horses,  it  being  impossible  for  a chaise  to  go 
post  in  these  roads),  we  arrived  at  a little  village 
among  the  mountains  of  Savoy,  called  Echelles ; 
from  thence  we  proceeded  on  horses,  who  are  used 
to  the  way,  to  the  mountain  of  the  Chartreuse.  It 
is  six  miles  to  the  top ; the  road  runs  winding  up  it, 
commonly  not  six  feet  broad  ; on  one  hand  is  the 
rock,  with  woods  of  pine-trees  hanging  overhead ; 
on  the  other  a monstrous  precipice,  almost  perpen- 
dicular, at  the  bottom  of  which  rolls  a torrent,  that, 
sometimes  tumbling  among  the  fragments  of  stone 
that  have  fallen  from  on  high,  and  sometimes  preci- 
pitating itself  down  vast  descents  with  a noise  like 
thunder,  which  is  still  made  greater  by  the  echo 
from  the  mountains  on  each  side,  concurs  to  form 
one  of  the  most  solemn,  the  most  romantic,  and  the 
most  astonishing  scenes  I ever  beheld.  Add  to  this 
the  strange  views  made  by  the  crags  and  cliffs  on 
the  other  hand,  the  cascades  that  in  many  places 
throw  themselves  from  the  very  summit  down  into 
the  v.ale  and  the  river  below,  and  many  other  par- 
ticulars impossible  to  describe,  you  will  conclude 
we  had  no  occasion  to  repent  our  pains,  ’rids  place 
St  Bruno  chose  to  retire  to,  and  upon  its  very  top 
founded  the  aforesaid  convent,  which  is  the  stiperior 
of  the  whole  order.  When  we  came  there,  the  two 
fathers  who  are  commissioned  to  entertain  strangers 
(for  the  rest  must  neither  speak  one  to  another,  not 
to  any  one  else)  received  us  very  kindly,  and  set  be- 
fore us  a repast  of  dried  fish,  eggs,  butter,  and  fruits, 
all  excellent  in  their  kind,  and  extremely  neat. 
They  pressed  us  to  spend  the  night  there,  and  to 
stay  some  days  with  them  ; but  this  we  could  not 
do,  so  they  led  us  about  their  house,  which  is.  you 
must  think,  like  a little  city,  for  there  are  a hundred 
fathers,  besides  three  hundred  servants,  that  make 
their  clothes,  grind  their  corn,  press  their  wine,  and 
do  everything  among  themselves.  The  whole  is 
quite  orderly  and  simple ; nothing  of  finery ; but 
the  wonderful  decency,  and  the  strange  situation, 
more  than  supply  the  place  of  it.  In  the  evening 
we  descended  by  the  same  way,  passing  through 
many  clouds  that  were  then  forming  themselves  on 
the  mountain’s  side.’ 

In  a subsequent  letter  to  his  poetical  friend  West, 
Gray  again  adverts  to  this  memorable  visit:  ' In  our 
little  journey  up  the  Grande  Chartre  ,rse,’  he  say.s, 
' I do  not  remember  to  have  gone  ten  paces  without 
an  exclamation  that  there  was  no  restraining.  Not 

62 

I POKTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  OBAT. 


I a precipice,  not  a torrent,  not  a cliff,  but  is  pregnant  with 
religion  and  poetry.  There  are  certain  scenes  that 
I would  awe  an  atheist  into  belief,  without  the  help  of  other 
i argument.  One  need  not  have  a very  fantastic  ima- 
' gination  to  see  spirits  there  at  noonday.  You  liave 
Death  perpetually  before  your  eyes,  only  so  far  re- 
moved, as  to  compose  the  mind  without  frigliten- 
ing  it’ 

In  turning  from  these  exquisite  fragments  of  de- 
scription to  the  poetry  of  Gray,  the  difference  will 
be  found  to  consist  chiefly  in  the  rhyme  and  mea- 
sure : in  loftiness  of  sentiment  and  vividness  of 
expression,  the  prose  is  equal  to  the  verse. 

Hymn  to  Adversity. 

Daughter  of  Jevo,  relentless  power. 

Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast. 

Whose  iron  scourge,  and  torturing  hour. 

The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best! 

Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain, 

! The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain, 

I And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 

I With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied,  and  alone. 

I When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 
1 Virtue,  his  darling  child,  designed, 

! To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth. 

And  bade  to  form  lier  infant  mind. 

I Stern  rugged  nurse,  thy  rigid  lore 
I With  patience  many  a year  she  bore  : 

1 What  sorrow  was,  thou  bad’st  her  know, 

I And  from  her  own  she  learned  to  melt  at  others’  wo. 

I 

j Scared  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 
: Self-pleasing  Folly’s  idle  brood, 

I Wild  Laughter,  Noise,  and  thoughtless  Joy, 

^ And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 

I Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go 
The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe  ; 
i By  vain  Prosperity  received, 

To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again  believed. 

Wisdom,  in  sable  garb  arrayed. 

Immersed  in  rapturous  thought  profound. 

And  Melancholy,  silent  maid, 

I I With  leaden  eye,  that  loves  the  ground, 
j i Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend  : 

Warm  Charity,  the  general  friend. 

With  Justice,  to  herself  severe, 

I And  Pity,  dropping  soft  the  sadly-pleasing  tear. 

j Oh,  gently  on  thy  suppliant’s  head, 

I Dread  goddess,  lay  thy  chastening  hand! 

I Not  in  thy  gorgon  terrors  clad, 

(1  Nor  circled  with  the  vengeful  band 
I (As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen), 

I With  thundering  voice,  and  threatening  mien. 

With  screaming  Horror’s  funeral  cry. 

Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly  Poverty. 

j Thy  form  beni^,  oh  goddess ! wear, 

Thy  milder  influence  impart. 

Thy  philosophic  train  be  there, 

I To  soften,  not  to  wound,  my  heart, 
j The  generous  spark  extinct  revive  ; 
i Teach  me  to  love  and  to  forgive; 
j Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan, 
j What  others  are,  to  feel,  and  know  myself  a man. 

I 

j Ode  on  a Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College. 

I Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers. 

That  crorvn  the  watery  glade. 

Where  grateful  science  still  adores 
Her  Henry’s*  holy  shade ; 

V King  Henry  VI.,  foimder  of  the  college. 


And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor’s  heights  the  expanse  below 
Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey  ; 

Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 
His  silver-winding  way ! 

Ah,  happy  hills  ! ah,  pleasing  shade ! 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 

Where  once  my  careless  childhood  strayed, 

A stranger  yet  to  pain  : 

I feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A momentary  bliss  bestow. 

As,  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing. 

My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe. 

And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 

To  breathe  a second  spring. 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 
Full  many  a sprightly  race. 

Disporting  on  thy  margent  green. 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace. 

Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave  1 
The  captive  linnet  which  inthral? 

What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle’s  speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ? 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent 
Their  murmuring  labours  ply 
’Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 
To  sweeten  liberty ; 

Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign. 

And  unknowm  regions  dare  descry  : 

Still  as  they  run,  they  look  behind  ; 

They  hear  a voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs,  by  fancy  fed. 

Less  pleasing  when  possessed ; 

The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed. 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast. 

Theirs  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue. 

Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new, 

And  lively  cheer  of  vigour  born  ; 

The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night. 

The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light, 

That  fly  the  approach  of  morn. 

Alas!  regardless  of  their  doom, 

The  little  victims  play ; 

No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to  day; 

Yet  see  how  all  around  ’em  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate. 

And  black  Misfortune’s  baleful  train. 

Ah!  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand. 

To  seize  their  prey,  the  murth’rous  band ; 

Ah,  tell  them  they  are  men  ! 

These  shall  the  fury  passions  tear. 

The  vultures  of  the  mind. 

Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  shame  that  skulks  behind ; 

Or  pining  love  shall  waste  their  youth, 

Or  Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth. 

That  inly  gnaws  the  -secret  heart ; 

And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 

Grim-visaged  comfortless  Despair, 

And  Sorrow’s  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise. 

Then  whirl  the  m-etch  from  high. 

To  bitter  Scorn  a sacrifice, 

And  grinning  Infamy. 

The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  tiy. 

And  hard  Unkinduess’ altered  eye. 


PROM  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  .7Ca 

Tliat  mockB  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow ; 
j\i)d  keen  Kemorsc  with  blood  defiled, 

And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 
Amid  severest  wo. 

Lo!  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 
A grisly  troop  are  .seen, 

The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen  ; 

This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 

That  every  labouring  sinew  strains, 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage : 

Lo  ! Poverty,  to  fill  the  band. 

That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 

And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  sufferings : all  are  men. 

Condemned  alike  to  groan  ; 

The  tender  for  another’s  pain, 

The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 

Y et,  ah  1 why  should  they  know  their  fate. 

Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late. 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies? 

Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 

No  more  ; where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

’Tis  folly  to  bo  wise. 

[ The  Bard. — -A  Pindaric  Ode.~\ 

[This  ode  is  founded  on  a,  tradition  current  in  Wales,  that 
Udward  I.,  wlicn  he  completed  the  conquest  of  that  country, 
ordered  all  the  bards  that  fell  into  his  hands  to  be  put  to 
death.] 

‘ Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  king. 

Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait ; 

Though  fanned  by  conquest’s  crimson  wing. 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 

Helm,  nor  hauberk’s  twisted  mail, 

Nor  e’en  thy  virtues,  tyrant,  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears. 

From  Cambria’s  curse,  from  Cambria’s  tears !’ 

Such  were  the  sounds,  that  o’er  the  crested  pride 
Of  the  first  Edward  scattereil  wild  dismay. 

As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon’s  * shaggy  side 
He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  array. 
Stout  Glo’ster-  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance ; 

‘ To  arms  1’  cried  Mortimer,-'*  and  couched  his  quiver- 
ing lance. 

On  a rock,  whose  haughty  brow 

Frowns  o’er  old  Conway’s  foaming  flood. 

Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  wo. 

With  haggard  eyes  the  poet  stood 
(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair 
Streamed,  like  a meteor,  to  the  troubled  air) ; 

And  with  a master’s  hand,  and  prophet’s  fire. 

Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre. 

‘ Hark,  how  each  giant  oak,  and  desert  cave. 

Sighs  to  the  torrent’s  awful  voice  beneath  1 
O’er  thee,  oh  king!  their  hundred  arms  they  wave, 
Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe; 

\'ocal  no  more,  since  Cambria’s  fatal  day. 

To  high-born  Hoel’s  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn’s  Lay. 

1 Snowdon  was  a name  given  by  the  Saxons  to  that  moun- 
tainous tract  which  the  Welsh  themselves  call  Craigian-eryri. 
It  included  all  the  highlands  of  Caernarvonshire  and  Merio- 
nethshire, as  far  east  as  the  river  Conway.  It.  Ilygden,  speak- 
ing of  the  castle  of  Conway,  built  by  King  Edward  I.,  says, 

* Ad  ortum  amnis  Conway  ad  clivum  mentis  Erery and 
Matthew  of  Westminster  (ad  ann.  128.S),  ‘ Apud  Aberconway 
id  pedes  mentis  Snowdonioe  feeit  erigi  castrum  forte.' 

: -Giibeit  de  Clare,  surnamed  the  Red,  Earl  of  Gloucester 

and  Hertford,  son-in-law  to  King  Edward. 

s Edmond  de  Mortimer,  Lord  of  Wigmore.  They  both  were 
Lords- Marchers,  whose  lands  lay  on  the  borders  of  Wales,  and 
Drobably  accompanied  the  king  in  this  expedition. 

‘ Cold  is  Cadwallo’s  tongue,  i 

That  hushed  the  stormy  main  : 

Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed : 

Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain  < 

Modred,  whose  magic  song  j 

Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topped  head,  | 

On  dreary  Arvon’s  shore*  they  lie,  | 

Smeared  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale:  i 

Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail ; j] 

The  famished  eagle^  screams,  and  passes  by.  j i 

Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art,  1 1 

Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes,  j | 

Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart,  j 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country’s  cries — | 

No  more  1 weej).  They  do  not  sleep.  ! 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a grisly  band,  1 

I see  them  sit ; they  linger  yet. 

Avengers  of  their  native  land  : 

With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join. 

And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line.' 

‘ Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof, 

The  winding-.sheet  of  Edward’s  race. 

Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 

The  characters  of  hell  to  trace.  1 

Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night,  ' 

When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright, 

The  shrieks  of  death  through  Berkeley’s-'*  roof  that  ring, 
Shrieks  of  an  agonising  king!  ; 

She-wolf^  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs, 

'J'hat  tear’st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate,  | , 

From  thee  be  born,5  who  o’er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  Heaven  1 What  terrors  round  him 
wait  1 

Amazement  in  his  van,  with  Flight  combined. 

And  Sorrow’s  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 
hlighty  victor,  mighty  lord. 

Low**  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies  ! i 

No  pitying  heart,  no  eye  afford  , 

A tear  to  grace  his  obsequies.  * 

Is  the  sable  warrior"  fled?  i : 

Thy  son  i.s  gone.  He  rests  among  the  dead.  | 

The  swarm,  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were  born  ? | 

Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 

Fair  laughs  the  morn,**  and  soft  the  zephyr  blow.s,  ' ' 

While  proudly  riding  o’er  the  azure  realm. 

In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes  ; i 

Y outh  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm ; 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind’s  sway,  ; 

That,  hushed  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening  prey. 

Fill  high  the  .sparkling  bowl,9 
The  rich  repast  prepare  ; 

Reft  of  a crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast : 

Close  by  the  regal  chair  i - 

Fell  Thir.st  and  Famine  scowl  j 

A baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest.  1 1 

' The  shores  of  Caernarvonshire,  opposite  to  the  Isle  of  i 

Anglesey.  | 

2 Camden  and  others  observe,  th.at  eagles  used  annually  to  j 

build  their  eyry  among  the  rocks  of  Snowdon,  which  from  ( 

thence  (as  some  think)  were  named  by  the  \Vel.-,h  Craigian-  j 

eryri,  or  the  crags  of  the  eagles.  At  this  day,  I am  told,  the  [ 

highest  point  of  Snowdon  is  called  the  eagle's  nest.  That  bird  j 

is  certainly  no  stranger  to  this  island,  as  the  Scots  and  the  j 

people  of  Cumberland,  Westmoreland,  &c.,  can  testify;  it  | 

h;i3  even  built  its  nest  in  the  Peak  of  Derbyshire. — (See  lEif- 
loughbi/s  OrnUhologti,  published  by  Rayl. 

3 Edward  II.,  cruelly  butchered  in  llerkeley  Castle,  i 

-*  Isabel  of  France,  Edward  ll.'s  adulterous  queen.  ; 

5 Alluding  to  the  triumphs  of  Edward  III.  in  France.  , 

<*  Alluding  to  the  death  of  that  king,  abandoned  by  his  chil-  [ 

dren,  and  even  robbed  in  his  last  moments  by  his  courtiers  and  I 

his  mistress.  1 

7 Edward,  the  Black  Prince,  dead  some  time  beforehis  father.  ! 

3 Magnificence  of  Richard  II. 's  reign.  See  Froissart,  and 
other  contemporary  writers. 

* Richard  II.  (as  we  are  told  by  Archbishop  Scroop,  and  the 

5-i 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  OKAT. 


Ilcurd  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray,* 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse  t 

Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined  course. 

And  through  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way. 
Ye  Towers  of  Julius,^  Loudon’s  lasting  shame. 

With  many  a foul  and  midnight  murder  fed, 
Revere  his  consort’s  faith,-*  his  father’s*  fame. 

And  spare  the  meek  usurper’s^  holy  head  1 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow,** 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread  : 

The  bristled  boar?  in  infant  gore 
Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 

Now,  brothers,  bending  o’er  the  accursed  loom. 

Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom. 

“ Edward,  lo  ! to  sudden  fate 

(Weave  we  the  woof.  The  thread  is  spun). 

Half  of  thy  heart**  we  consecrate. 

(The  web  is  wove-  The  work  is  done).” 

Stay,  oh  stay  ! nor  thus  forlorn 

Ijcave  me  unblessed,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn  : 

In  yon  bright  tract,  that  fires  the  western  skies. 

They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 

But  oh ! what  solemn  scenes,  on  Snowdon’s  height 
Descending  slow,  their  glittering  skirts  unroll? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight ; 

Y'e  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul! 

No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur'-*  we  bewail. 

All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings!***  Britannia’s  issue  haill 

Girt  with  many  a baron  bold. 

Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear  ; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old. 

In  bearded  majesty  appear. 

In  the  midst  a form  divine ! 

Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-line ; 

Her  lion-port,**  hbr  awe-commanding  face. 
Attempered  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 

What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air, 

M'hat  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play  ! 

Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,*2  hear! 

They  breathe  a soul  to  animate  thy  clay, 

confederate  lords  in  their  manifesto,  by  Thomas  of  Walsing-- 
ham,  and  all  the  older  writers)  was  starved  to  death.  The 
story  of  his  assassination  by  Sir  Piers,  of  Exon,  is  of  much 
later  date. 

' Ruinous  civil  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster. 

* Henry  VI.,  George,  Dukeof  Clarence,  Edward  V.,  Richard, 
Duke  of  York,  &c.,  believed  to  be  murdered  secretly  in  the 
Tower  of  London.  The  oldest  part  of  that  structure  is  vul- 
garly attributed  to  Julius  Caesar. 

3 Margaret  of  Anjou,  a woman  of  heroic  spirit,  who  struggled 
hard  to  save  her  husband  and  her  crown. 

A Henry  V.  * Henry  VI. , very  near  been  canon- 

ised. The  line  of  Lancaster  had  no  right  of  inheritance  to  the 
crown. 

® The  white  and  red  roses,  devices  of  York  and  Lancaster. 

7 The  silver  boar  was  the  badge  of  Richard  HI. ; whence 
he  was  usually  known,  in  bis  own  time,  by  the  name  of  the 
Boar. 

® Eleanor  of  Castile  died  a few  years  after  the  conquest  of 
Wales.  The  heroic  proof  she  gave  of  lier  affection  for  her  lord 
is  well-known.  The  monuments  of  his  regret  and  sorrow  for 
the  loss  of  her,  are  still  to  be  seen  at  Northampton,  Gedding- 
ton,  Waltham,  and  other  places. 

f It  was  the  common  belief  of  the  Welsh  nation,  that  King 
Ailhur  w-as  still  alive  in  Fairy  Land,  and  should  return  again 
to  reign  over  Britain. 

*“  Both  Merlin  and  Taliessin  had  prophesied,  that  the  AVelsh 
should  regain  their  sovereignty  over  this  island,  which  seemed 
to  be  aceomplisiied  in  the  house  of  Tudor, 

**  Speed,  relating  an  audience  given  by  Queen  Elizabeth  to 
Paul  Bzialinski,  ambassador  of  Poland,  says,  ‘And  thus  she, 
lion-like,  rising,  daunted  the  malipert  orator  no  less  with  her 
stately  port  and  inajestieal  deporture,  tlian  with  the  tartnesse 
of  her  princelie  checkes.* 

'*  Taliessin,  cliief  of  the  b.ards,  flourished  In  the  sixth  een- 


Brlght  Rapture  call.s,  and  soaring  as  she  sings. 

Waves  in  the  eye  of  Heaven  her  many-coloured  wings. 

The  verse  adorn  again 

Fierce  War,  and  faithful  Love, 

And  Truth  severe,  by  fairy  Fiction  dressed. 

In  buskined*  nietisures  move 
Pale  Grief,  and  pleasing  Pain, 

'With  Horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast. 

A voice**  as  of  the  cherub-clioir. 

Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear; 

And  distant  warblings^  lessen  on  my  ear, 

That,  lost  in  long  futurity,  expire. 

Fond,  impious  man,  think’st  thou  y-on  sanguine  cloud. 
Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quenched  the  orb  of  day  I 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood, 

And  warms  the  mvtions  with  redoubled  ray. 

Enough  for  me  : with  joy  I see 

The  different  doom  our  Fates  assign. 

Be  thine  Despair,  and  sceptred  Care ; 

To  triumph,  and  to  die,  are  mine.’ 

He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  the  mountain’s  height. 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to  endless  night 

Elegy  Wntten  in  a Country  Churchyard. 


Stoke  Pogeis  Church,  and  Tomb  of  Gray. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 

The  lowing  hei-ds  wind  slowly  o’er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  oii  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a solemn  stillness  holds 
Save  where  the  "beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight. 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  ; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower. 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 

Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

tiiry.  His  worljs  are  still  preservcil,  and  his  memory  held  iB 
high  veneration  among  his  countrymen. 

* Shakspeare.  2 Milton. 

8 The  succession  of  poets  after  Milton's  time. 

6& 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  Op 


Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree’s  shade, 
W’here  heaves  tlie  turf  in  many  a mouldering  heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  mom. 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed. 
The  cock’s  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  bum, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire’s  return. 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  a-field! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e’er  gave, 
Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour: — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 

If  Memory  o’er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honour’s  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed. 

Or  waked  to  ecstacy  the  living  lyre. 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne’er  unroll ; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage. 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a gem,  of  purest  ray  serene. 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear : 

Full  many  a flower  is  bom  to  blush  unseen. 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood  ; 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country’s  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command. 

The  thre.ats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 

To  scatter  plenty  o’er  a smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a nation’s  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  : nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined  ; 
B’orbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a throne. 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse’s  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd’s  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray  ; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Y et  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect. 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh. 

With  uncouth  rhymes  anil  shapeless  sculpture  decked. 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh. 


TC  1/tHl  I 


Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  muse,  i 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  : 

And  many  a holy  text  around  she  strews. 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a prey. 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e’er  resigned. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 

Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries. 

Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonoured  dead. 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led. 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate; 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

‘ Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away. 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch. 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  sconi. 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove; 

Now  drooping,  woful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

One  morn  I missed  him  on  the  ’customed  hill. 

Along  the  heath  and  near  his  favourite  tree ; 

Another  came  ; nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he; 

The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.’ 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 

A Youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown; 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth. 

And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  oivn. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere. 

Heaven  did  a recompense  as  largely  send  : 

He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a tear, 

Hegainedfrom  Heaven  (’twas  all  he  wished)  a friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose). 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

The  Alliance  between  Govei-nment  and  Educaticn; 
a Fragment. 

As  sickly  plants  betray  a niggard  earth. 

Whose  barren  bosom  starves  her  generous  birth. 

Nor  genial  warmth,  nor  genial  juice  retains 
Their  roots  to  feed,  and  fill  their  verdant  veins  : 

And,  as  in  climes  where  Winter  holds  his  reign, 

The  soil,  though  fertile,  will  not  teem  in  vain. 

Forbids  her  germs  to  swell,  her  shades  to  rise. 

Nor  trusts  her  blossoms  to  the  churlish  skies  : 

To  draw  mankind  in  vain  the  vital  airs. 

Unformed,  unfriended  by  those  kindly  cares. 

That  health  and  vigour  to  the  soul  impart. 

Spread  the  young  thought,  and  warm  the  opening  heart. 

So  fond  instruction  on  the  growing  powers 
Of  nature  idly  lavishes  her  stores. 

If  equal  justice,  with  unclouded  face. 

Smile  not  indulgent  on  the  rising  race, 

fi6 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  MAaOM. 


To  turn  tlie  torrent’s  swlft-dcsceiiding  flood, 
To  brave  the  savage  rushing  from  the  wood, 


And  scatter  with  a free,  though  frugal  hand. 

Light  golden  showers  of  plenty  o’er  the  laud ; 

Hut  tyranny  has  fixed  her  empire  tlierc. 

To  check  their  tender  hopes  with  chilling  fear, 

And  blast  the  blooming  promise  of  the  year. 

The  spacious  animated  scene  survey. 

From  where  the  rolling  orb  that  gives  the  day, 

His  sable  sons  with  nearer  course  surrounds. 

To  either  pole,  and  life’s  remotest  bounds. 

How  rude  soe’cr  the  exterior  form  we  find. 

Howe’er  opinion  tinge  the  varied  mind. 

Alike  to  all  the  kind  impartial  Heaven 
The  sparks  of  truth  and  happiness  has  given  : 

With  sense  to  feel,  with  memory  to  retain. 

They  follow  pleasure,  and  they  fly  from  pain  ; 

Their  judgment  mends  the  plan  their  fancy  draws. 
The  event  presages,  and  explores  the  cause ; 

The  soft  returns  of  gratitude  they  know. 

By  fraud  elude,  by  force  repel  the  foe ; 

While  mutual  wishes  mutual  woes  endear. 

The  social  smile  and  sympathetic  tear. 

Say,  then,  through  ages  by  what  fate  confined. 

To  different  climes  seem  different  souls  assigned  ? 
Here  measured  laws  and  philosophic  ease 
Fix  and  improve  the  polished  arts  of  peace. 

There  industry  and  gain  their  vigils  keep. 

Command  the  winds,  and  tame  the  unwilling  deep. 
Here  force  and  hardy  deeds  of  blood  prevail ; 

Thei'e  languid  pleasure  sighs  in  every  gale. 

Dft  o’er  the  trembling  nations  from  afar 
Has  Scythia  breathed  the  living  cloud  of  war ; 

And,  where  the  deluge  burst,  with  sweepy  sway. 

Their  arm  i,  their  kings,  their  gods  w'ere  rolled 
away. 

As  oft  have  issued,  host  impelling  host, 

The  blue-eyed  myriads  from  the  Baltic  coast. 

The  prostrate  south  to  the  destroyer  yields 
Her  boasted  titles,  and  her  golden  fields ; 

With  grim  delight  the  brood  of  winter  view 
A.  brighter  day,  and  heavens  of  azure  hue. 

Scent  the  new  fragrance  of  the  breathing  rose. 

And  quaff  the  pendent  vintage  as  it  grows. 

Proud  of  the  yoke,  and  pliant  to  the  rod. 

Why  yet  does  Asia  dread  a monaich’s  nod. 

While  European  freedom  still  withstands 

The  encroaching  tide  that  drowns  her  lessening  lands. 

And  sees  far  off,  with  an  indignant  groan, 

Her  native  plains  and  empires  once  her  own  ? 

Can  opener  skies  and  suns  of  fiercer  flame 
O’erpower  the  fire  that  animates  our  frame ; 

As  lamps,  that  shed  at  eve  a cheerful  ray. 

Fade  and  expire  beneath  the  eye  of  day  ! 

Need  we  the  influence  of  the  northern  star 
To  string  our  nerves  and  steel  our  hearts  to  war ! 

And  where  the  face  of  nature  laughs  around, 
hlust  sickening  virtue  fly  the  tainted  ground? 
Unmanly  thought ! tvhat  seasons  can  control, 

Vf  hat  fancied  zone  can  circumscribe  the  soul. 

Who,  conscious  of  the  source  from  whence  she  springs. 
By  reason’s  light,  on  resolution’s  wings. 

Spite  of  her  frail  companion,  dauntless  goes 
O’er  Lybia’s  deserts  and  through  Zembla’s  snows  1 
She  bids  each  slumbering  energy  awake. 

Another  touch,  another  temper  take. 

Suspends  the  inferior  laws  that  rule  our  clay ; 

The  stubborn  elements  confess  her  sway ; 

Their  little  wants,  their  low  desires,  refine. 

And  raise  the  mortal  to  a height  divine. 

Not  but  the  human  fabric  from  the  birth 
Imbibes  a flavour  of  its  parent  earth. 

As  various  tracts  enforce  a various  toil. 

The  manners  speak  the  idiom  of  their  soil. 

An  iron  race  the  mountain  cliffs  maintain. 

Foes  to  the  gentle  genius  of  the  plain  ; 

For  where  unwearied  sinews  must  be  found. 

With  side-long  plough  to  quell  the  flinty  ground. 


What  wonder,  if  to  patient  valour  trained. 

They  guard  with  spirit  what  by  strength  they  gained  .> 
And  while  their  rocky  ramparts  round  they  see, 

The  rough  abode  of  want  and  liberty, 

(As  lawless  force  from  confidence  will  grow). 

Insult  the  plenty  of  the  vales  below? 

What  wonder,  in  the  sultry  climes  that  spread. 
Where  Nile,  redundant  o’er  his  summer  bed. 

From  his  broad  bosom  life  and  verdure  flings. 

And  broods  o’er  Egypt  with  his  watery  wings. 

If  with  adventurous  oar  and  ready  sail. 

The  dusky  people  drive  before  the  gale ; 

Or  on  frail  floats  to  neighbouring  cities  ride. 

That  rise  and  glitter  o’er  the  ambient  tide. 

WILLIAM  MASON. 

William  ^Iason,  the  friend  andliterarj'  executor 
of  Gray,  long  survived  the  connection  which  did  him 
so  much  honour,  but  he  appeared  early  as  a poet. 
He  was  the  son  of  the  Rev.  Mr  Mason,  vicar  of  St. 
Trinity,  Yorkshire,  where  he  was  born  in  1725. 
At*  Pembroke  college,  Cambridge,  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  Gray,  who  assisted  him  in  obtaining 
his  degree  of  M.A.  His  first  literary  production 
was  an  attack  on  the  Jacobitism  of  O.xford,  to  which 
Tliomas  Warton  replied  in  his  ‘Triumph  of  Isis.’  In 
1753  appeared  his  tragedy  of  Elfrkla,  ‘written,’  says 
Southey,  ‘ on  an  artificial  model,  and  in  a gorgeous 
diction,  because  he  thought  Shakspeare  had  pre- 
cluded all  hope  of  excellence  in  any  other  form  of 
drama.’  The  model  of  Mason  was  the  Greek  drama, 
and  he  introduced  into  his  play  the  classic  accom- 
paniment of  the  chorus.  A second  drama,  Curacta- 
cus,  is  of  a higher  cast  than  ‘ Elfrida :’  more  noble 
ami  spirited  in  language,  and  of  more  sustained 
dignity  in  scenes,  situations,  and  character.  Mason 
also  wrote  a series  of  odes  on  Independence,  Mimory, 
Melancholy,  and  The  Fall  of  Tyranny,  in  which  his 
gorgeousness  of  diction  swells  into  extravagance 
and  bombast.  His  other  poetical  works  are  his 
English  Garden,  a long  descriptive  poem  in  blank 
verse,  extended  over  four  books,  and  an  ode  on  the 
Commemoration  of  the  British  Ixevolution,  in  which  he 
asserts  those  Whig  principles  which  he  steadftistly 
maintained  during  the  trying  period  of  the  Ameri- 
can war.  As  in  his  dramas  Mason  had  made  an  in- 
novation on  the  established  taste  of  the  times,  he 
ventured,  with  equal  success,  to  depart  from  the 
practice  of  English  authors,  in  writing  the  life  of 
his  friend  Gray.  Instead  of  presenting  a continuous 
narrative,  in  w'hich  the  biographer  alone  is  visible, 
he  incorporated  the  journals  and  letters  of  the  poet 
in  chronological  order,  thus  making  the  subject  of 
the  memoir  in  some  degree  his  own  biographer, 
and  enabling  the  reader  to  judge  more  fully  and 
correctly  of  his  situation,  thoughts,  and  feeling  i. 
The  plan  was  afterwards  adopted  by  Boswell  in  his 
Life  of  Johnson,  and  has  been  sanctioned  by  subse- 
quent usage,  in  all  cases  where  the  subject  is  cf  im- 
portance enough  to  demand  copious  information  and 
minute  personal  details.  The  circumstances  ot 
Mason’s  life  are  soon  related.  After  his  career  at 
college,  he  entered  into  orders,  and  was  appointed 
one  of  the  royal  chaplains.  He  held  the  living  of 
Ashton,  and  was  precentor  of  York  cathedral. 
When  politics  ran  high,  he  took  an  active  part  on 
the  side  of  the  Whigs,  but  was  respected  by  all 
parties.  He  died  in  1797. 

Mason’s  poetry  cannot  be  said  to  be  popular,  even 
with  poetical  readers.  His  greatest  want  is  simpli- 
city, yet  at  times  his  rich  diction  has  a fine  effect. 
In  his  ‘ English  Garden,’  though  verbose  and  Ian- 


fHOM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


1780. 


|.'uiil  as  a whole,  there  are  some  exquisite  images. 
'I'lius,  he  says  of  Time,  its 

Gr.adu.al  touch 

Has  mouldcn^d  into  beauty  many  a tower 
W'hich,  when  it  frowned  with  all  its  battlements, 

Was  only  terrible. 

Of  woodland  scenery — 

Many  a glade  is  found 
The  haunt  of  wood-gods  only  ; where,  if  art 
E’er  dared  to  tread,  ’twas  with  unsandaled  foot, 
Priutless,  as  if  ’tvvere  holy  ground. 

Gray  quotes  the  following  lines  in  one  of  Mason’s 
odes  as  ‘ suiierlative :’ — 

While  through  the  west,  where  sinks  the  crimson  day. 
Meek  twilight  slowly  sails,  and  waves  her  banners  gray. 

[From  Caractacus.] 

Mona  on  Snowdon  calls : 

Hear,  thou  king  of  mountains,  hear  ; 

Hark,  she  speaks  from  all  her  strings  : 

Hark,  her  loudest  echo  rings  ; 

King  of  mountains,  bend  thine  ear: 

Send  thy  spirits,  send  them  soon. 

Now,  when  midnight  and  the  moon 
Meet  upon  thy  front  of  snow  ; 

See,  their  gold  and  ebon  rod. 

Where  the  sober  sisters  nod. 

And  greet  in  whispers  sage  and  slow. 

Snowdon,  mark  ! ’tis  magic’s  hour, 

Now  the  muttered  spell  hath  power  ; 

Power  to  rend  thy  ribs  of  rock, 

And  burst  thy  base  with  thunder’s  shoek : 

But  to  thee  no  ruder  spell 
Shall  Mona  use,  than  those  that  dwell 
In  music’s  secret  cells,  and  lie 
Steeped  in  the  stream  of  harmony. 

Snowdon  has  heard  the  strain  : 

Hark,  amid  the  wondering  grove 
Other  harpings  answer  clear. 

Other  voices  meet  our  ear. 

Pinions  flutter,  shadows  move. 

Busy  murmurs  hum  around, 

Bustling  vestments  brush  the  ground; 

Round  and  round,  and  round  they_,go. 

Through  the  twilight,  through  the  shade. 

Mount  the  oak’s  majestic  head. 

And  gild  the  tufted  misletoe. 

Cease,  ye  glittering  race  of  light. 

Close  your  wings,  and  check  your  flight  ; 

Here,  arranged  in  order  due. 

Spread  your  robes  of  saffron  hue  ; 

For  lo  ! with  more  than  mortal  fire. 

Mighty  Mador  smites  the  lyre: 

Hark,  he  sweeps  the  master-strings  ; 

Listen  all 


OLIVER  COLE5MITH. 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  whose  writings  range  over 
every  department  of  miscellaneous  literature,  chal- 
lenges attention  as  a poet  chiefly  for  the  unaffected 
ease,  grace,  and  tenderness  of  his  descriptions  of  rural 
and  domestic  life,  and  for  a certain  vein  of  pensive 
philosophic  reflection.  Ilis  countryman  Burke  said 
of  himself,  that  he  had  taken  his  ideas  of  liberty  not 
too  high,  that  they  might  last  him  through  life. 
Goldsmith  seems  to  have  pitched  his  poetry  in  a 
subdued  under  tone,  that  he  might  luxuriate  at  will 
among  those  images  of  quiet  beauty,  comfort,  bene- 
volence, and  simple  pathos,  that  were  most  congenial 
to  his  own  character,  his  hopes,  or  his  experience. 
This  popular  poet  was  born  at  Pallas,  a small  village 
in  the  parish  of  Forney,  county  of  Longford,  Ireland, 
on  the  10th  of  November  1728.  He  was  the  sixth 
of  a family  of  nine  children,  and  his  father,  the  Rev. 
Charles  Goldsmith,  was  a poor  curate,  who  eked 
out  the  scanty  funds  which  he  derived  from  his  pro- 
fession, by  renting  and  cultivating  some  land.  The 
poet’s  father  afterwards  succeeded  to  the  rectory  of 
Kilkenny  West,  and  removed  to  the  house  and  farm 


Iluius  of  the  house  at  Lissoy,  where  Goldsmith  spent 
his  youth. 


I 


1 


I 


I 


Epitaph,  on  Mrs  Mason,  in  the  Cathedral  of  Bristol. 
Take,  holy  earth  ! all  that  my  soul  holds  dear: 

Take  that  best  gift  which  heaven  so  lately  gave : 
To  Bristol’s  fount  I bore  with  trembling  care 
Her  faded  form  ; she  bowed  to  taste  the  wave. 

And  died  ! Does  youth,  does  beauty,  re.ad  the  line  2 
Does  sympathetic  fear  their  breasts  alarm? 

Speak,  dead  klaria  ! breathe  a strain  divine  ; 

Even  from  the  grave  thou  shalt  have  power  to  charm. 
Bid  them  be  chaste,  be  innocent,  like  thee  ; 

Bid  them  in  duty’s  sphere  as  meekly  move  ; 

And  if  so  fair,  from  vanity  as  free  ; 

As  firm  in  friendship,  and  as  fond  in  love. 

Tell  them,  though  ’tis  an  awful  thing  to  die, 

(’Twas  even  to  thee)  yet  the  dread  path  once  trod. 
Heaven  lifts  its  everlasting  portals  high. 

And  bids  ‘ tuc  pure  in  heart  behold  their  God.’ 


of  Lissoy,  in  his  former  p.arish.  Here  Goldsmith’s 
youth  w.as  spent,  and  here  he  found  the  materials 
for  his  Deserted  Village.  After  a good  country'  edu- 
cation, Oliver  was  admitted  a sizer  of  Trinity  college, 
Dublin,  June  11,1745.  The  expense  of  his  education 
was  chiefly  defrayed  by  his  uncle,  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Contarini,  an  excellent  man,  son  to  an  Italian  of  the 
Cont.arini  family  at  Venice,  and  a clergyman  of  the 
established  church.  At  college,  the  poet  was 
thoughtless  and  irregular,  and  always  in  want.  His 
tutor  was  a man  of  fierce  and  brutal  passions,  and 
having  struck  him  on  one  occasion  before  a party 
of  friends,  the  poet  left  college,  and  wandered  about 
the  country  for  some  time  in  the  utmost  poverty. 
His  brother  Henry  clothed  and  carried  him  back  to 
college,  and  on  the  27th  of  February  1749,  he  was 
admitted  to  the  degree  of  B.A.  Goldsmith  now 
gladly  left  the  university,  and  returned  to  Lissoy. 

58 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


roirrs.  KNGLISII  LITERATURE. 


His  father  was  deaJ,  but  he  idled  away  two  years 
among  his  relations.  He  afterwards  became  tutor 
in  the  family  of  a gentleman  in  Ireland,  where  he 
remained  a year.  His  uncle  then  gave  him  £.50  to 
study  the  law  in  Hublin,  but  he  lost  the  whole  in  a 
gaming  house.  A second  contribution  was  raised, 
and  the  poet  next  proceeded  to  Edinburgh,  where 
he  continued  a year  and  a-half  studying  medi- 
cine. He  then  drew  upon  his  uncle  for  £20,  and 
embarked  for  Bordeaux.  The  vessel  was  driven 
into  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  and  whilst  there.  Gold- 
smith and  his  fellow  passengers  were  arrested  and 
put  into  prison,  where  the  poet  was  kept  a fortnight. 
It  appeared  that  his  companions  were  Scotsmen,  in 
the  French  service,  and  had  been  in  Scotland  enlist- 
ing soldiers  for  the  French  army.  Having  over- 
come this  most  innocent  of  all  his  misfortunes,  he  is 
represented  as  having  immediately  proceeded  to 
Leyden ; but  this  part  of  his  biography  has  lately 
got  a new  turn  from  the  inquiries  of  a gentleman 
whose  book  is  quoted  below,*  according  to  which  it 
would  appear  to  have  been  now,  instead  of  four  years 
later,  that  Goldsmith  acted  as  usher  of  Hr  Milner’s 
school  at  Feckham,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  London. 
Tlie  tradition  of  the  school  is,  that  he  was  ex- 
tremely good-natured  and  playful,  and  advanced 
his  pupils  more  by  conversation  than  by  book-tasks. 
On  tile  supposition  of  this  being  the  true  account  of 
Goldsmith’s  25th  year,  we  may  presume  that  he 
next  went  to  Leyden,  and  there  made  the  resolution 
to  travel  over  the  Continent  in  spite  of  all  pecuniary 
defi  liencies.  He  stopped  some  time  at  Louvain,  in 
Flanders,  at  Antwerp,  and  at  Brussels.  In  France, 
he  is'  said,  like  George  Primrose,  in  his  Vicar  of 
'Wakefield,  to  have  occasionally  earned  a night’s 
lodging  and  food  by  playing  on  his  flute. 

How  often  have  I led  thy  sportive  choir, 

With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire  1 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew. 

And  freshened  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew  ; 

And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  faltering  still. 
But  mocked  all  tune,  and  marred  the  dancer’s  skill, 

Y et  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 

And  dan  'e,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 

Traveller. 

Scenes  of  this  kind  formed  an  appropriate  school 
for  the  poet.  He  brooded  with  delight  over  these 
pictures  of  humble  primitive  happiness,  and  his 
imagination  loved  to  invest  them  with  the  charms  of 
poetry.  Goldsmith  afterwards  visited  Germany 
and  the  Rhine.  From  Switzerland  he  sent  the  first 
sketch  of  the  ‘Traveller’  to  his  brother.  The  loftier 
charms  of  nature  in  these  Alpine  scenes  seems  to 
have  had  no  permanent  effect  on  the  character  or 
direction  of  his  genius.  He  visited  Florence,  Verona, 
Venice,  and  stopped  at  Fadua  some  months,  where 
he  is  supposed  to  have  taken  his  medical  degree.  In 
1756  the  poet  reached  England,  after  tw'o  years  of 
wandering,  lonely  and  in  poverty,  yet  buoyed  up 
by  dreams  of  hope  and  fame.  Many  a hard  struggle 
he  had  yet  to  encounter ! His  biographers  repre- 
sent him  as  now  becoming  usher  at  Dr  Milner’s 
school,  a portion  of  his  history  which  we  have  seen 
reason  to  place  at  an  earlier  period.  However  this 
may  be,  he  is  soon  .after  found  contributing  to  the 
Monthly  Review.  He  was  also  some  time  assistant 
to  a chemist.  A college  friend.  Dr  Sleigh,  enabled 
him  to  commence  practice  as  a humble  physician 
in  Bankside,  Southwark;  but  his  chief  support 
arose  from  contributions  to  the  periodical  literature 

* Collections  Illustrative  of  the  Geology,  History,  Anti- 
quities, and  Associations  of  CamberwelL  By  Douglas  Alljort. 
Camberwell:  1P41, 


of  the  day.  In  1758  he  presented  himself  at 
Surgeons  Hall  for  examination  as  an  hospital 
mate,  with  the  view  of  entering  the  army  or  navy  ■ 
but  he  had  the  mortific.ation  of  being  rejected 
as  unqu.alified.  That  he  might  appear  before 
the  examining  surgeon  suit.ably  dressed.  Goldsmith 
obtained  a new  suit  of  clothes,  for  which  Griffiths, 
publisher  of  the  Monthly  Review,  became  security. 
The  clothes  were  immediately  to  be  returned  when 
the  purpose  was  served,  or  the  debt  was  to  be 
discharged.  Poor  Goldsmith,  having  failed  in  his 
object,  and  probably  distressed  by  urgent  want, 
pawned  the  clothes.  The  publisher  tlireatened,  and 
the  poet  replied — ‘ I know  of  no  misery  but  a gaol, 
to  which  my  own  imprudences  and  your  letter 
seem  to  point.  I h.ave  seen  it  inevitable  these 
three  or  four  weeks,  and,  by  heavens  ! request  it  as 
a favour — as  a favour  that  may  prevent  somewhat 
more  fat<al.  I have  been  some  years  struggling  with 
a wretched  being — with  all  that  contempt  and  indi- 
gence brings  with  it — with  all  those  strong  p.assions 
which  make  contempt  insupportable.  What,  then, 
has  a gaol  that  is  formidable  ?’  Such  was  the  almost 
hopeless  condition,  the  deep  despair,  of  this  im 
prudent  but  amiable  autlior,  who  has  added  to  the 
delight  of  millions,  and  to  the  glory  of  English 
literature. 

Henceforward  the  life  of  Goldsmith  was  that  of  a 
man  of  letters.  He  lived  solely  by  his  pen.  Besides 
numerous  contributions  to  the  IMonthly  and  Critical 
Reviews,  the  Lady’s  Magazine,  the  British  Jlaga- 
zine,  &c.,  he  published  an  Inquiry  into  the  Present 
State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe  (1759),  his  admir- 
able Chinese  Letters,  afterwards  published  with  the 
title  of  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  a Life  of  Beau  Nash, 
and  the  History  of  England  in  a series  of  letters  from 
a nobleman  to  his  son.  The  latter  was  highly  suc- 
cessful, and  was  popularly  attributed  to  Lord  Ches- 
terfield. In  December  1764  appeared  his  poem  of 
The  Traveller,  the  chief  corner-stone  of  his  fame, 
‘ without  one  bad  line,’  as  has  been  said ; ‘ without 
one  of  Dryden’s  careless  verses.’  Charles  Fox  pro- 
nounced it  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  English 
language  ; and  Dr  Johnson  (then  numbered  among 
Goldsmith’s  friends)  said  that  the  merit  of  ‘ The 
Traveller’  was  so  well  established,  that  Mr  Fox’s 
praise  could  not  augment  it,  nor  his  censure  diminish 
it.  The  periodical  critics  were  unanimous  in  its 
praise.  In  1766  he  published  his  exquisite  novel. 
The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  which  had  been  written  two 
years  before,  and  sold  to  Newberry  the  bookseller, 
to  discharge  a pressing  debt.  His  comedy  of  The 
Good-Natured  Man  was  produced  in  1767,  his  Poman 
History  next  year,  and  The  Deserted  Village  in  1770. 
The  latter  was  as  popular  as  ‘ The  Traveller,’  and 
speedily  ran  through  a number  of  editions.  In  1773, 
Goldsmith’s  comedy.  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  was 
brought  out  atCovent  Garden  theatre  with  immense 
applause.  He  was  now  at  the  summit  of  his  fame 
and  popularity.  The  march  had  been  long  and  toil- 
some, and  he  was  often  nearly  fainting  by  the  way ; 
but  his  success  was  at  length  complete.  His  name 
stood  among  the  foremost  of  his  contemporaries ; his 
works  brought  him  in  from  £1000  to  £1800  per  an- 
num. Difficulty  and  distress,  however,  still  clung 
to  him ; poetry  had  found  him  poor  at  first,  and  she 
kept  him  so.  From  heedless  profusion  and  extrava- 
gance, chiefly  in  dress,  and  from  a benevolence  which 
knew  no  limit  while  his  funds  lasted.  Goldsmith  ivas 
scarcely  ever  free  from  debt.  The  gaming  table  also 
presented  irresistible  attractions.  He  hung  loosely 
on  society,  without  wife  or  domestic  tie ; and  his 
early  habits  and  experience  were  ill  calculated  to 
teach  him  strict  conscientiousness  or  regularity.  He 
continued  to  write  task-work  for  the  booksellers* 

69 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


nii{l  ])r()(luced  a ‘ History  of  England’  in  four  volumes. 
This  was  succeeded  by  a ‘History  of  Greece’  in  two 
volumes,  fur  which  he  was  paid  £2,'50.  He  had  con- 
tracted to  write  a ‘ History  of  Animated  Nature’  in 
eight  volumes,  at  the  rate  of  a hundred  guineas  for 
each  volume;  but  this  work  he  did  not  live  to  corn- 
j)lete,  though  the  greater  part  was  finished  in  his 
own  attra(;tive  ami  easy  manner.  In  March  1774, 
he  was  attacked  by  a painful  complaint  (dysuria) 
caused  by  close  study,  which  was  succeeded  by  a 
nervous  fever.  Contrary  to  the  advice  of  his  apo- 
thecary, he  persisted  in  the  use  of  James’s  powders, 
a medicine  to  which  he  had  often  had  recourse;  and 
gradually  getting  worse,  he  e.xpired  in  strong  con- 
vulsions on  the  4th  of  April.  The  death  of  so  popu- 
lar an  author,  at  the  age  of  forty-five,  was  a shock 
equally  to  his  friends  and  the  public.  The  former 
knew  his  sterling  worth,  and  loved  him  with  all  his 
foibles — his  undisguised  vanity,  his  national  prone- 
ness to  blundering,  his  thoughtless  extravagance,  his 
credulity,  :ind  his  frequent  absurdities.  Under  these 
ran  a current  of  generous  benevolence,  of  enlightened 
zeal  for  the  happiness  and  improvement  of  mankind, 
and  of  manly  independent  feeling.  He  died  £2000 
in  debt;  ‘Was  ever  poet  so' trusted  before!’  ex- 
claimed Johnson.  His  remains  were  interred  in  the 
Temple  burying  ground,  and  a monument  erected  to 
his  memory  in  Westminster  Abbey,  next  the  grave 
of  Gay,  whom  he  somewhat  resembled  in  character, 
and  far  surpassed  in  genius. 

The  j)lan  of  ‘ The  Traveller’  is  simple,  yet  compre- 
hensive and  philosophical.  The  poet  represents  him- 
self as  sitting  among  Alpine  solitudes,  looking  down 
on  a hundred  realms — 

Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 

The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd’s  humbler  pride. 

He  views  the  whole  with  delight,  yet  sighs  to  think 
that  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  is  so  small,  and  he 
wishes  to  find  some  spot  consigned  to  real  happiness, 
■where  his  ‘ worn  souT 

Might  gather  bliss  to  see  his  fellows  blessed. 

But  where  is  such  a spot  to  be  found  ? The  natives 
of  each  country  think  their  own  the  best — the  pa- 
triot boasts — 

His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 

If  nations  are  compared,  the  amount  of  happiness  in 
each  is  found  to  be  about  the  same ; and  to  illustrate 
this  position,  the  poet  describes  the  state  of  manners 
and  government  in  Italy,  Switzerland,  France,  Hol- 
land, and  England.  In  general  correctness  and 
beauty  of  expression,  these  sketches  have  never  been 
surpassed.  The  politician  may  think  that  the  poet 
ascribes  too  little  importance  to  the  infiuence  of 
government  on  the  happiness  of  mankind,  seeing 
that  in  a despotic  state  the  whole  must  depend  on 
the  individual  character  of  the  governor ; yet  in  the 
cases  cited  by  Goldsmith,  it  is  difficult  to  resist  his 
conclusions ; while  his  short  sententious  reasoning 
is  relieved  and  elevated  by  bursts  of  true  poetry. 
His  character  of  the  men  of  England  used  to  draw 
tears  from  Dr  Johnson  : — 

Stem  o’er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her  state, 

With  daring  aims  irregularly  great. 

Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 

I see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by  ; 

Intent  on  high  designs,  a thoughtful  band. 

By  forms  unfa-shioned,  fresh  from  nature’s  hand. 

Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul. 

True  to  imagined  right,  above  control. 

While  even  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan. 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Goldsmith  was  a master  of  the  art  of  contrast  in 


TO  178t  j 

heightening  the  effect  of  his  pictures.  In  the  fol-  ^ 
lowing  quotation,  the  rich  scenery  of  Italy,  and  the  I 
effeminate  character  of  its  population,  are  placed  in  | 
striking  juxtaposition  with  the  rugged  mountains  of 
Switzerland  and  their  hardy  natives. 

[Ilaliana  and  Sums  Coniraaled.^ 

Far  to  the  right,  where  Apennine  ascends. 

Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends  ; 

Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain’s  side, 

Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride ; 

While  oft  some  temple’s  mouldering  tops  between. 

With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  nature’s  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 

The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 

Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  were  found. 

That  proudly  ri.se,  or  humbly  court  the  ground  ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 

Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year; 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die ; 

These,  here  disporting,  own  the  kindred  soil. 

Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter’s  toil  ; 

While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand. 

To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows. 

And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 

In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 

Man  .seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign  : 
Though  poor,  luxurious  ; though  submi.ssive,  vain  ; 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling  ; zealous,  yet  untrue ; 

And  even  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 

All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind. 

That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  ; 

For  wealth  was  theirs,  not  far  removed  the  date. 

When  commerce  proudly  flouri.shed  through  the  state, 

At  her  command  the  palace  learned  to  rise. 

Again  the  long-fallen  column  sought  the  skies  ; 

The  canvass  glowed  beyond  even  nature  warm. 

The  pregnant  quarry  teemed  with  human  form. 

Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale. 

Commerce  on  other  shores  displayed  her  sail  ; 

While  nought  remained  of  all  that  riches  gave. 

But  towns  unmanned,  and  lords  without  a slave ; 

And  late  the  nation  found  with  fruitless  skill,  i 

Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill.  I 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied  I 

By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride ; 

From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fallen  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 

Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  arrayed. 

The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade ; I 

Processions  formed  for  piety  and  love, 

A mistress  or  a saint  in  evei'y  grove. 

By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled, 

The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child  ; 

Each  nobler  aim,  repressed  by  long  control. 

Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul  ; 

While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind. 

In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind  : 

As  in  those  domes,  where  Ca:sars  once  bore  sway. 

Defaced  by  time  and  tottering  in  decay. 

There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead. 

The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed  ; 

And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pile. 

Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a smile. 

My  soul  turn  from  them,  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a nobler  race  display. 

Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread 
And  force  a churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread ; 

No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford. 

But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword; 

No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 

But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May  ; 

60 


4 


ENOLISII  LITERATURE 


No  7-cphyr  fmi'lly  sues  the  mountain’s  breast, 

Hut  meteors  {*iare,  anJ  stormy  glooms  invest. 

Vet  still,  even  here,  content  can  spread  a charm. 
He  Iress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 

Though  poor  the  peasant’s  hut,  his  feasts  though 
small, 

He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all  ; 

Secs  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head. 

To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed  ; 

No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal, 

To  make  him  loath  his  vegetable  meal  ; 

Rut  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil. 

Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 

Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose. 
Breathes  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes  ; 

\\'ith  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep. 

Or  drives  his  venturous  ploughshare  to  the  steep  ; 

O'"  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way. 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 

Al  night  returning,  every  labour  sped. 

He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a shed  ; 

Smi'es  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
HW  children’s  looks,  that  brighten  at  the  blaze  ; 
W'hile  his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard. 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board  : 

And  haply  too  .some  pilgrim  thither  led. 

With  many  a tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart. 

Imprints  the  patriot  jiassion  on  his  heart  ; 

And  even  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion  rise. 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  .scanty  fund  supplies. 

Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms. 

And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms ; 
And  as  a child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest. 

Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother’s  breast, 

So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind’s  roar. 

But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

[France  Contrasted  with  HollandSl 

So  blest  a life  these  thoughtless  realms  display. 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away : 

Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear. 

For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here. 

Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains. 

Or  even  imaginary  worth  obtains. 

Here  passes  current ; paid  from  hand  to  hand, 

It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land. 

From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 

And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise  ; 

They  please,  are  pleased,  they  give  to  get  esteem. 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 

It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise : 

For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly  sought. 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought ; 

And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest. 

Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another’s  breast. 

Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art. 

Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 

Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace. 

And  trims  her  robe  of  frieze  with  cepper  lace ; 

Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer. 

To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a-year ; 

The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws. 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies. 

Embosomed  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 

Af'hcre  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 

And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide. 

Lift  the  tall  rarnpire’s  artificial  pride. 

Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 

TTie  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow; 

Spreads  its  long  arras  amidst  the  watery  roar, 

Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore : 


OLivEit  aoi.cesiiTH, 


\Vhile  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o’er  the  pile. 

Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile  J 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossomed  vale. 

The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail. 

The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 

A new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil. 

Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign. 

And  industry  begets  a love  of  gain. 

Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs. 

With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings. 

Are  here  displayed.  Their  much-loved  wealth  imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts  ; 

But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear, 

Even  liberty  itself  is  bartered  here. 

At  gold’s  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies. 

The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys ; 

A land  of  tyrants,  and  a den  of  slaves  ; 

Here  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves. 

And  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform. 

Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

The  ‘ Deserted  Village  ’ is  limited  in  design,  but 
exhibits  the  same  correctness  of  outline,  and  the 
same  beauty  of  colouring,  as  ‘ The  Traveller.’  The 
poet  drew  upon  his  recollections  of  Lissoy  for  most 
of  the  landscape,  as  well  as  the  characters  introduced. 
His  father  sat  for  the  vilhage  pastor,  and  such  a por- 
trait might  well  have  cancelled,  with  Oliver’s  rela- 
tions, all  the  follies  and  irregularities  of  his  youth. 
Perliaps  there  is  no  poem  in  the  English  language 
more  universally  popular  than  the  ‘Deserted  Vil- 
lage.’ Its  best  pass.ages  are  learned  in  youth,  and 
never  quit  the  memory.  Its  delineations  of  rustic 
life  accord  with  those  ideas  of  romantic  purity, 
seclusion,  and  happiness,  which  the  young  mind 
associates  with  the  country  aiid  all  its  charms,  be- 
fore modern  manners  and  optpression  had  driven 
them  thence — 

To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind. 
Political  economists  may  dispute  the  axiom,  that 
luxury  is  hurtful  to  nations ; and  curious  speculators, 
like  Mandeville,  may  even  argue  that  private  vices 
are  public  benefits ; but  Goldsmith  has  a surer  ad- 
vocate in  the  feelings  of  the  heart,  which  yield  a 
spontaneous  assent  to  the  principles  he  inculcates, 
when  teaching  by’  examples,  with  all  the  efficacy  of 
apparent  truth,  and  all  the  effect  of  poetical  beauty 
and  excellence. 

[Description  of  Auburn — The  Village  Preacher,  the 
Schoolmaster,  and  Alehouse — Reflections.] 

Sweet  Auburn  ! loveliest  village  of  the  plain. 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labouring  swain  ; 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earlies,  visit  paid. 

And  parting  summer’s  lingering  blooms  delayed; 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease. 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please ; 
How  often  have  I loitered  o’er  thy  green. 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene! 

How  often  have  I paused  on  every  charm! 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm  , 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighbouring  hill; 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  .shade. 

For  talking  age,  and  whispering  lovers  made! 

How  often  have  I blessed  the  coming  day. 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play  ; 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free. 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tret , 

While  many  a pastime  circled  in  the  .shade. 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed  ; 

And  many  a gambol  frolicked  o’er  the  ground. 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  rouna. 


FROM  1727  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  17So. 


Ami  still,  as  each  T .peated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeediiif'  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired: 

The  daiieinj;  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 
l!y  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 

The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face. 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place  ; 

The  bashful  virgin’s  sidelong  looks  of  love. 

The  matron’s  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove — 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  ! sports  like  these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e’en  toil  to  please. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening’s  close, 
ITp  younder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose  ; 

There  as  1 passed,  with  careless  steps  and  slow. 

The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below; 

The  swain  resjionsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung. 

The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young ; 

The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o’er  the  pool, 

'I'he  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school  ; 

The  watchdog’s  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind ; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade. 

And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled. 
And  still  where  many  a garden  flower  grows  wild. 
There,  where  a few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose. 

The  village  preacher’s  modest  mansion  rose. 

A man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a-year; 

Remote  from  towns,  he  ran  his  godly  race. 

Nor  e’er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his  place  ; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power. 

By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour ; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize. 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

Ilis  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train  ; 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain. 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest. 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 

The  ruined  spendthrift  now  no  longer  proud. 

Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed  ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away  ; 

Wept  o’er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done. 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  wo ; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  .scan. 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride. 

And  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side ; 

But,  In  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call. 

He  watched  and  wept,  he  pr.ayed  and  felt  for  all ; 

And,  as  a bird  each  fond  endearment  tries. 

To  tempt  her  new  fledged  offspring  to  the  skies. 

He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 

Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismayed. 

The  reverend  champion  stood.  At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 

Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise. 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace. 

His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place  ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway ; 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man. 

With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 

Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 

And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile ; 
His  re.ady  smile  a parent’s  warmth  expressed. 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed ; 
To  them  his  he.art,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given. 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm ; 


Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay. 

There,  in  his  noisy  mansion  skilled  to  rule. 

The  village  master  taught  his  little  school ; 

A man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  ; 

1 knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew. 

Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day’s  disasters  in  his  morning’s  face ; 

Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a joke  had  he ; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round. 

Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned  ; 

Yet  he  was  kind  ; or,  if  sevqre  in  aught. 

The  love  he  bore  to  leaniing  was  in  fault ; 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew  ; 

’Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage; 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  guage ; 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill. 

For  even,  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length,  and  thundering  sound. 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame : the  very  spot 
Where  many  a time  he  triumphed,  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn  that  lifts  its  head  on  high. 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired ; 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 
.\nd  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  .splendours  of  that  festive  place ; 

The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor. 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door ; 

The  chest,  contrived  a double  debt  to  pay, 

A bed  by  night,  a chest  of  drawers  by  day; 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use. 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day. 

With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay  ; 
While  broken  te.a-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show. 

Ranged  o’er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a row. 

Vain  transitory  splendour  ! could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  I 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour’s  importance  to  the  poor  man’s  heart. 

Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 

To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 

No  more  the  farmer’s  news,  the  barber’s  tale. 

No  more  the  woodman’s  ballad  shall  jirevail  ; 

No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear. 

Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear ; 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round  ; 

Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  pre.ssed. 

Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes ! let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain. 

These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart. 

One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway : 
Lightly  they  frolic  o’er  the  vacant  mind. 

Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed. 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain. 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 

And  even  while  fashion’s  brightest  aids  decoy. 

The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy  ? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man’s  joys  increase,  the  poor’s  decay, 

62 


1 P0KT8.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  Oliver  ooldsmit'O. 

Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Hetwccn  a splendid  and  a happy  laud. 

Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 

And  shouting  folly  hails  them  from  her  shore ; 
Hoards,  even  beyond  the  miser’s  wish,  abound, 

And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 

V et  count  our  gains.  This  wealth  is  but  a name. 
That  leaves  our  useful  product  still  the  same. 

Not  so  the  loss.  The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 

Space  for  his  lake,  his  parks  extended  bounds. 

Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds ; 

The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth, 
lias  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their 
growth  ; 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen. 

Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  ; 

Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies. 

For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies. 

While  thus  the  land  adorned  for  pleasure  all. 

In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain. 

Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies. 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes  ; 

But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are  frail. 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress  : 

Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betrayed. 

In  nature’s  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed ; 

But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise. 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band  ; 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save. 

The  country  blooms-  - -a  garden,  and  a grave. 

Edwin  and  Angelina. 

‘ Turn,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale. 

And  guide  my  lonely  way, 

To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I tread, 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow  ; 

Where  wilds  immeasurably  spread. 

Seem  lengthening  as  I go.’ 

‘ Forbear,  my  son,’  the  hermit  cries. 

To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 

For  yonder  phantom  only  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

Here,  to  the  houseless  child  of  want, 

My  door  is  open  still : 

And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I give  it  with  good  will. 

Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate’er  my  cell  bestows  ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

Jly  blessing  and  repose. 

No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free. 

To  slaughter  I condemn  ; 

Taught  by  that  power  that  pities  me, 

I learn  to  pity  them. 

But  from  the  mountain’s  grassy  side, 

A guiltless  feast  I bring  ; 

A scrip,  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied. 

And  water  from  the  spring 

Then,  Pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego ; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong  : 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below. 

Nor  wants  that  little  long.’ 



Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends. 

His  gentle  accents  fell  ; 

The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends. 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a wilderness  obscure. 

The  lonely  mansion  lay  ; 

A refuge  to  the  neighbouring  poor. 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 
Required  a master’s  care  ; 

The  wicket,  opening  with  a latch, 
Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire. 

To  take  their  evening  rest. 

The  hermit  trimmed  his  little  fire. 

And  cheered  his  pensive  guest : 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store. 

And  gaily  pressed  and  smiled ; 

And,  skilled  in  legendary  lore. 

The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth. 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries  ; 

The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth. 

The  crackling  faggot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a charm  impart. 

To  soothe  the  stranger’s  wo  ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart. 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  hermit  spied. 

With  answering  care  opprest  : 

‘And  whence,  unhappy  youth,’  he  cried, 

‘ The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  i 

From  better  habitations  spumed. 
Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 

Or  grieve  for  friendship  unretumed. 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

Alas!  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 
Are  trifling  and  decay  ; 

And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things 
More  trifling  still  than  they. 

And  what  is  friendship  but  a name  : 

A charm  that  lulls  to  sleep ! 

A shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame. 

And  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep ! 

And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound. 

The  modem  fair-one’s  jest  ; 

On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warm  the  turtle’s  nest. 

For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,’  he  said  : 

But  while  he  spoke,  a rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  betrayed. 

Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise. 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view. 

Like  colours  o’er  the  morning  skies. 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast. 
Alternate  spread  alarms  ; 

The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 
A maid  in  all  her  charms. 

‘ And  ah!  forgive  a stranger  rude, 

A wretch  forlorn,’  she  cried, 

‘ Whose  feet  unhallowed  thus  intmde 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

But  let  a maid  thy  pity  share. 

Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray  : 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

69 

raoM  1727 


CYCLOriKOrA  OF 


TO  1780. 


My  fiitlier  UvcmI  l.eHiilo  the  Tyne, 


A wealtiiy  lord  was  he  ; 

And  all  hi?  wealth  was  marked  as  mine; 

He  had  but  only  me. 

To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumbered  suitors  came  ; 

Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 

And  felt,  or  feigned,  a fiarae. 

Each  hour  a mercenary  crowd 
^\'ith  richest  proffers  strove  ; 

Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bowed, 
liut  never  talked  of  love. 

In  humblest,  simplest,  habit  clad. 

No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  ; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had; 

But  these  were  all  to  me. 

The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined. 

Could  nought  of  purity  display, 

To  emulate  his  mind. 

The  dew,  the  blossoms  of  the  tree. 

With  charms  inconstant  shine  ; 

Their  charms  were  his  ; but,  wo  to  me. 

Their  constancy  was  mine. 

For  still  1 tried  each  fickle  art 
Importunate  and  vain  ; 

And  while  his  passion  touched  my  heart, 

1 triumphed  in  hi^pain. 

Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn. 

He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 

And  sought  a solitude  forlorn. 

In  secret,  where  he  died  1 
But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay  : 

I’ll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought. 

And  stretch  me  wdiere  he  lay. 

And  there,  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I’ll  lay  me  down  and  die  : 

’Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did. 

And  so  for  him  will  I.’ 

‘ Forbid  it.  Heaven  1’  the  hermit  cried. 

And  clasped  her  to  his  breast  : 

The  wondering  fair  one  turned  to  chide  : 

’Twas  Edwin’s  self  that  prest! 

‘ Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear. 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart. 

And  every  care  resign  ; 

And  shall  we  never,  never  part. 

My  life — my  all  that’s  mine  I 
No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part. 

We’ll  live  and  love  so  true  ; 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart. 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin’s  too.’ 

[^jrtj-acls  /i-om  Retaliation.'] 

[(foldsmith  and  some  of  his  friends  occasionally  dined  to- 
gether at  the  St  James's  coffee-house.  One  day  it  was  proposed 
to  write  epitaphs  upon  him.  liis  country,  dialect,  and  wisdom, 
furnished  s>;bjccts  for  witticism,  lie  was  called  on  for  retalia- 
tion, and,  at  the  next  meeting,  produced  his  poem  bearing  that 
name,  in  w hich  we  find  mucli  of  the  shrewd  observation,  wit, 
and  liveliness  wiiich  distinguish  his  prose  writings.] 

» * ♦ 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,*  whose  genius  was  such. 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blame  it  too  much  ; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind, 

\nd  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 

♦ Burke. 


Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his 
throat. 

To  persuade  Tommy  Townsend  to  lend  him  a vote; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining. 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of 
dining. 

Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit ; 

Too  nice  for  a statesman,  too  proud  for  a wit; 

For  a patriot  too  cool  ; for  a drudge  disobedient, 

And  too  fond  of  the  liyht  to  pursue  the  expedient. 

In  short,  ’twas  his  fate,  unemployed,  or  in  place,  sir. 

To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a razor. 

# 

Here  lies  David  Oarrick,  describe  him  who  can. 

An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  ])leasant  in  man  ; 

As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine  ; 

As  a wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line ; 

Yet  with  talents  like  these,  anil  an  excellent  heart. 

The  man  had  his  failings — a dupe  to  his  art ; 

Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread. 

And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting  ; 

’Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting : 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way. 

He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a day  ; 

Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick  : 

He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a huntsman  his  pack. 

For  he  knew,  when  he  pleased,  he  could  whistle  them 
back.  I 

Of  praise  a mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what  came  : , 

And  the  puff  of  a dunce  he  mi.stook  it  for  fame  ; 

Till  his  relish  grown  callous  almost  to  disease. 

Who  peppered  the  highest  was  surest  to  i>lease. 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind ; 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 

Ye  Kenrick.s,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so  grave. 

What  a commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you 
gave  ! 

How  did  Grub  Street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  raised. 
While  he  was  be-Rosciused,  and  you  were  be-praised  ! 
But  peace  to  his  .spirit,  wherever  it  flies. 

To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  with  the  skies  : 

Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill. 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will  ; 

Old  Shakspeare,  receive  him  with  prai.se  and  with  love. 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

* « * 

Here  Reynolds*  is  laid  ; and,  to  tell  you  my  mind. 

He  has  not  left  a wiser  or  better  behind. 

His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand  ; 

His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland; 

Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part. 

His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 

To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering; 

When  they  judged  without  skill,  he  was  still  hard  of 
hearing  : 

When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and 
.vtuff. 

He  shifted  his  trumpet,!  and  only  took  snuff. 

TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT. 

Many  who  are  familiar  with  Smollett  as  a novel- 
ist, scarcely  recollect  him  as  a poet,  though  he  has 
scattered  some  fine  verses  amidst  his  prose  fictions, 
and  has  written  an  Ode  to  Independence,  wdiich 
possesses  the  masculine  strength  of  Dryden,  with 
an  elevation  of  moral  feeling  and  sentiment  rarely 
attempted  or  felt  by  that  great  poet.  Tobias 
George  Smollett  was  born  in  Dalquhurn-house, 
near  the  village  of  Renton,  Dumbartonshire,  in 

* Sir  JoBhua  Reynolds. 

1 Sir  Joshua  was  bo  remarKaoiy  aeaf,  as  to  be  under  the 
necebsity  of  using  an  ear-trumpet  iu  company. 


64 


po^ns. 


ENGLISH  LITEKATURE. 


TOBIAS  OEOROE  SMOLI.ETt. 


I 


I 

i 

I 

i 


, I 

I 


'7^1.  Ills  father,  a younger  son  of  Sir  Janies 
Smollett  of  Honhill,  having  died  early,  the  poet 
i"as  edueated  hy  his  grandfather.  After  the  usual 


Birthplace  of  SmoUatt. 


course  of  instruction  in  the  grammar  school  of 
Dumbarton,  and  at  the  university  of  Glasgow, 
Tobias  was  placed  apprentice  to  a medical  prac- 
titioner, Mr  Gordon,  Glasgow.  He  was  nineteen 
when  his  term  of  apprenticeship  expired,  and,  at 
this  early  age,  his  grandfather  having  died  with- 
out making  any  provision  for  him,  the  young  and 
s.anguine  adventurer  proceeded  to  London,  his  chief 
dependence  being  a tragedy,  called  the  Regicide, 
which  he  attempted  to  bring  out  at  the  theatres. 
Foiled  in  this  effort  of  juvenile  ambition,  Smollett 
became  surgeon's  mate  on  board  an  eighty-gun  ship, 
and  was  present  at  the  ill  planned  and  disastrous 
expedition  against  Carthagena,  which  he  has  de- 
scribed with  much  force  in  his  Roderick  Random. 
He  returned  to  England  in  1746,  published  two 
satires.  Advice  and  Reproof,  and  in  1748  gave  to  the 
world  his  novel  of  ‘ Roderick  Random.’  Peregrine 
Pickle  appeared  three  years  afterwards.  Smollett 
next  attempted  to  practise  as  a physician,  but  failed, 
.and,  taking  a house  at  Chelsea,  devoted  himself  to 
literature  as  a profession.  Notwithstanding  his 
facility  of  composition,  his  general  information  and 
talents,  his  life  was  one  continual  struggle  for  exist- 
ence, embittered  hy  personal  quarrels,  brought  on 
partly  by  irritability  of  temper.  In  175.3,  his  ro- 
mance of  Ferdinand  Count  Fathom  was  published, 
and  in  1755  his  translation  of  Don  Quixote.  The 
version  of  Motteux  is  now  generally  preferred  to 
that  of  our  author,  though  the  Latter  is  marked  by 
his  ch.aracteristic  liiimour  and  versatility  of  talenb 
After  he  had  finished  this  task.  Smollett  paid  a visit 
to  his  native  country.  His  fame  had  gone  before 
him,  and  his  reception  by  the  literati  of  Scotland 
was  cordial  and  flattering.  His  filial  tenderness  and 
affection  was  also  gratified  by  meeting  with  his 
surviving  parent.  ‘ On  Smollett’s  arrival,’  says  Dr 
Moore.  ‘ he  was  introduced  to  his  mother,  with  the 
connivance  of  Mrs  Tclfer  (his  sister)  as  a gentleman 
from  the  West  Indies,  who  was  intimately  acquainted 
47 


with  her  son.  The  better  to  support  his  assumed 
character,  he  endeavoured  to  preserve  a serious 
countenance  approaching  to  a frown  ; but,  while  his 
mother’s  eyes  were  rivetted  on  his  countenance,  he 
could  not  refrain  from  smiling.  She  immediately 
sprung  from  her  chair,  and  throwing  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  exclaimed,  “ Ah,  my  son!  my  sonl 
I have  found  you  at  last.”  She  afterwards  told  him 
that  if  he  had  kept  his  austere  looks,  and  continued 
to  gloom,  he  might  have  escaped  detection  some  time  1 
longer;  “but  your  old  roguish  smile,”  added  she,  | 
“ betrayed  you  at  once.”  ’ On  this  occasion  Smollett 
visited  his  relations  and  native  scenes  in  Dumb.ar-  j 
tonshire.  and  spent  two  days  in  Glasgow,  amidst  I 
his  boj’ish  companions.  Returning  to  England,  he  | 
resumed  his  litei  ary  occupati('us.  He  unfortunately  I 
became  editor  of  the  Critical  Review,  and  an  attack  | 
in  that  journal  on  Admiral  Knowles,  one  of  the  j 
commanders  at  Carthagena  (which  Smollett  ac- 
knowledged to  be  his  composition),  led  to  a trial  ; 
for  libel ; and  the  author  was  sentenced  to  pay  a fine  I 
of  £100.  and  suffered  three  months  imprisonment. 

He  consoled  himself  by  writing,  in  prison,  his  novel  of 
Launcelot  Greaves.  Another  proof  of  his  fertility 
and  industry  as  .an  author  was  afforded  by  his  His- 
tory  of  England,  written,  it  is  said,  in  fourteen 
months.  lie  engaged  in  political  discussion,  for 
which  he  was  ill  qualified  by  temper,  and,  taking 
the  unpopular  side,  he  was  completely  vanquished 
by  the  truculent  s.atire  and  abuse  of  Wilkes.  His 
health  was  also  shattered  by  close  application  to  his 
studies,  and  by  private  misfortune.  In  his  early 
days  Smollett  had  married  a young  fVest  Indian 
lady.  Miss  Lascelles,  by  whom  he  had  a daughter. 
This  only  child  died  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  and  tlie 
disconsolate  father  tried  to  fly  from  his  grief  by  a 
tour  through  France  and  Italy.  He  was  absent  two  ’ 
years,  and  published  an  account  of  his  travels,  which,  | 
amidst  gleams  of  humour  and  genius,  is  disfigured 
hy  the  coarsest  prejudices.  Sterne  has  successfully 
ridiculed  this  work  in  his  Sentiinent.al  Journey. 
Some  of  the  critical  dicta  of  Smollett  are  mere 
ebullitions  of  spleen.  In  the  famous  statue  of  the 
Venus  de  Medici,  ‘which  enchants  the  rvorld,’  he 
could  see  no  beautv’  of  fe.ature,  and  the  attitude  he 
considered  awkward  and  out  of  character ! The  1 
Pantheon  at  Rome — that  ‘ glorious  combination  of  I 
beauty  and  magnificence’ — he  said  looked  like  a | 
huge  cock-pit,  open  at  the  top.  Sterne  said  justly,  ; 
that  such  declarations  should  have  been  reserved 
for  his  physician ; they  could  only  have  sprung 
from  bodily  distemper.  ‘Yet.be  it  said,’  remarks 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘ without  offence  to  the  memory 
of  the  witty  and  elegant  Sterne,  it  is  more  easy  to 
assume,  in  composition,  an  air  of  alternate  gaiety 
and  sensibility,  than  to  practise  the  virtues  of  gene- 
rosity and  benevolence,  which  Smollett  exercised 
during  his  whole  life,  though  often,  like  his  own 
Matthew  Bramble,  under  the  disguise  of  peevish- 
ness and  irritability.  Sterne’s  writings  show  much 
flourish  concerning  virtues  of  which  his  life  is 
understood  to  have  produced  little  fruit;  the  temper 
of  Smollett  was 

like  a lusty  winter, 

Frosty,  but  kindly.’ 

The  native  air  of  the  gre.at  novelist  was  more  cheer- 
ing and  exhil.arating  than  tlie  genial  gales  of  the 
south.  On  his  return  from  Italy  he  repaired  to 
Scotl.and,  saw  once  more  his  affectionate  mother,  and 
sojourned  a short  time  with  his  cousin,  Mr  Smollett 
of  Bonhill.  on  tlie  banks  of  the  Leven. 

‘ The  water  of  Leven,’  he  observes  in  his  Hum- 
phry Clin’Ker,  ‘ though  nothing  near  so  considerable  j 
as  the  Clyde,  is  much  more  transparent,  pastoral,  i 


FROM  1727 


CVCLOPiEDIA  01- 


Hiiil  lU'liHlitfiil.  'I’liis  c'lijiniiiiif;  stroiim  is  tho  outlet 
of  Locli  Lomond,  tind  throiipli  a tfiick  of  four  miles 
pursues  its  wiiHlin.u-  eourse  over  a bi-d  of  jiebbles,  till 
it  loins  the  Firlli  of  Clyde  at  Dimibartoii.  On  this 
spot  stands  the  castle  formerly  called  Akdtiy<l,  atid 
■H’lsbed  by  tliese  ttvo  rivers  on  all  sides  except  a 
narrow  istbtims,  wbicb  at  every  sprint;  tide  is  over- 
flowed; the  whole  is  a great  ctiriosity,  from  the 
• juality  and  form  of  the  rock,  as  from  the  nature  of 
ils  situation.  A very  little  above  the  source  of  tlie 
Leven,  on  the  lake,  stands  the  liouse  of  Cameron, 
belonging  to  Mr  Smollett  (the  late  commissary),  so 
embosotned  in  oak  wood,  that  we  did  not  perceive  it 
till  w8  were  within  fifty  yards  of  the  door.  The 
lake  approaches  on  one  side  to  within  six  or  seven 
yards  of  the  windows.  It  might  have  been  placed 
on  a Iiigher  site,  which  would  have  afforded  a more 
extensive  prospect,  and  a drier  atmosphere;  but 
this  imperfection  is  not  chargeable  on  the  present 
laoprictor,  who  purchased  it  ready  built,  rather  than 
be  at  the  trouble  of  rei)airing  his  own  family  house 
of  Bonhill,  which  stands  two  miles  hence,  on  the 
Leven,  so  surrounded  with  plantations,  that  it  u.sed 
to  be  known  by  the  name  of  the  Mavis  (or  Thrush) 
Nest.  Above  the  house  is  a romantic  glen,  or  cleft 
of  a mountain,  covered  with  hanging  woods,  having 
at  the  bottom  a stream  of  fine  water,  that  forms  a 
number  of  cascades  in  its  descent  to  join  the  Leven, 
so  that  the  scene  is  quite  enchanting. 

I have  seen  the  Lago  di  Gardi,  Albano  di  Vico, 
Bolsena  and  Geneva,  and  I prefer  Loch  Lomond  to 
them  all — a preference  which  is  certainly  owing  to 
the  verdant  islands  that  seem  to  float  upon  its  sur- 
face, affording  the  most  enchanting  objects  of  repose 
I to  the  excursive  view.  Nor  are  the  banks  destitute 
of  beauties  which  can  partake  of  the  sublime.  ( )n 
this  side  they  display  a sweet  variety  of  woodland, 
corn  field,  and  pasture,  with  several  agreeable  villas, 
emerging  as  it  were  out  of  the  lake,  till  at  some  dis- 
tance the  prospect  terminates  in  huge  mountains, 
covered  with  heath,  which,  being  in  the  bloom, 
affords  a very  rich  covering  of  purple.  Everything 
here  is  romantic  beyond  imagination.  This  country 
is  justly  styled  the  Arcadia  of  Scotland;  I do  not 
doubt  but  it  may  vie  with  Arcadia  in  everything 
but  climate.  I am  sure  it  excels  it  in  verdure,  wood, 
and  water.’ 

All  who  have  traversed  the  banks  of  the  Leven, 
or  sailed  along  the  shores  of  Loch  Lomond,  in  a 
calm  clear  summer  da}’,  when  the  rocks  and  islands 
are  reflected  with  magical  brightness  and  fldedity  in 
its  waters,  will  acknowledge  the  truth  of  this  de- 
scription, and  can  readily  account  for  Smollett’s 
preference,  independently  of  the  early  recollections 
which  must  have  endeared  the  whole  to  his  feelings 
and  imagination.  The  extension  of  manufactures  in 
Scotland  has  destroyed  some  of  the  pastoral  charms 
and  seclusion  of  the  Leven,  but  the  course  of  the 
river  is  still  eminently  rich  and  beautiful  in  sylvan 
scenery.  Smollett’s  health  was  now  completely 
gone.  His  pen,  however,  was  his  only  resource, 
and  on  his  return  to  England  he  published  a politi- 
cal satire.  The  Adventures  of  an  Atom,  in  which  he 
attacks  his  former  patron.  Lord  Bute,  and  also  the 
Earl  of  Chatham.  As  a politician,  Smollett  was  far 
from  consistent.  His  conduct  in  this  respect  was 
guided  more  by  personal  feelings  than  public  prin- 
ciples, and  any  seeming  neglect  or  ingratitude  at 
once  roused  his  constitutional  irritability  and  indig- 
nation. He  was  no  longer  able,  however,  to  con- 
tend with  the  ‘sea  of  troubles’  that  encompassed 
him.  In  1770,  he  again  went  abroad  in  quest  of 
health.  His  friends  endeavoured,  but  in  vain,  to 
procure  him  an  appointment  as  consul  in  some  port 
in  the  Mediterranean;  and  he  took  up  his  residence 


TO  17IH). 


in  a cottage  vdiicli  Dr  Armstrong,  then  abroad,  en- 
gaged for  him  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Leghorn. 
'I'he  warm  and  genial  climate  seems  to  have 
awakened  his  fancy,  and  breathed  a temj)orary  ani- 
mation into  his  debilitated  frame.  He  here  wrote 
his  IIiimjAtn/  Cliri/ier,  the  most  ricdi,  varied,  and 
agreeable  of  all  his  novels.  Like  Fielding,  Smol- 
lett was  destined  to  die  in  a foreign  country.  He  I 
bad  just  committed  his  novel  to  the  public,  when  j 
he  expired,  on  the  21st  of  October  1771,  aged  .51. 
Had  he  lived  a few'  years  longer,  he  would  have  in- 
herited, ;is  heir  of  entail,  the  estate  of  Bonhill, 
worth  about  £1000  a-year.  His  widow  erected  :k 
plain  monument  over  his  remains  at  Leghorn,  and 
lii.s  relations,  who  had  neglected  him  in  his  days  of 
suffering  and  distress,  raised  a cenotaph  to  his'  me- 
mory on  the  banks  of  the  Leven.  'I'he  prose  works 
of  Smollett  will  hereafter  be  noticed.  He  wrote  no 
poem  of  any  length  ; but  it  is  evident  he  could  have 
excelled  in  verse  had  he  cultivated  his  talents,  and 
enjf'yed  a life  of  greater  ease  and  competence.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  has  ])raised  the  fine  mythological  com- 
mencement of  his  Ode;  and  few  readiTs  of  taste  or 
feeling  are  unacquainted  with  his  lines  on  Leven 
Water,  the  picturesque  scene  of  his  early  day.s.  The 
latter  were  first  )uibli.sbed  in  ‘Humphry  Clinker,’ 
after  the  above  prose  description  of  the  same  land- 
scape, scarcely  less  poetical.  When  soured  by  mis- 
fortune, by  party  conflicts,  and  the  wasting  effects  of 
disease,  the  generous  heart  and  warm  sensibilities  of 
Smollett  seem  to  have  kindled  at  the  recollection  of 
his  youth,  and  at  the  rural  life  and  manners  of  his 
native  country. 

Ode  to  Independence. 

Strophe. 

Thy  spirit.  Independence,  let  me  share, 

Lord  of  the  lion-heart  and  eagle-eye  ; 

Thy  steps  I follow,  with  my  bosom  bare, 

Nor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along  the  sky. 

Deep  in  the  frozen  regions  of  the  north, 

A goddess  violated  brought  thee  forth. 

Immortal  Liberty,  whose  look  sublime 
Hathbleached  the  tyrant’seheek  in  every  varyingclinst. 
What  time  the  iron-hearted  Gaul,  \ 

With  frantic  superstition  for  his  guide. 

Armed  M’ith  the  dagger  and  the  pall. 

The  sons  of  Woden  to  the  field  defied 
The  ruthless  hag,  by  Weser’s  flood. 

In  Heaven’s  name  urged  the  infernal  blow 
And  red  the  stream  began  to  flow  : 

'The  vanquished  were  baptised  with  blood  ! 

Antistrophe, 

The  Saxon  prince  in  horror  fled. 

From  altars  stained  with  human  gore. 

And  Liberty  his  routed  legions  led  i 

In  safety  to  the  bleak  Norwegian  shore. 

There  in  a cave  asleep  she  lay. 

Lulled  by  the  hoarse-resounding  main. 

When  a bold  savage  passed  that  way. 

Impelled  by  destiny,  his  name  Disdain. 

Of  ample  front  the  portly  chief  appeared  : 

The  hunted  bear  supplied  a shaggy  vest  ; 

The  drifted  snow  hung  on  his  yellow  beard. 

And  his  broad  shoulders  braved  the  furious  bhist. 

He  stopt,  he  gazed,  his  bosom  glowed. 

And  deeply  felt  the  impression  of  her  charms: 

He  seized  the  advantage  Fate  allowed. 

And  straight  compressed  her  in  his  vigorous  arras. 

Strophe. 

The  curlew  screamed,  the  tritons  blew 
Their  shells  to  celebrate  the  ravished  rite  ; 

Old  'Time  exulted  as  he  flew ; 

And  Independence  saw  the  light. 

C6 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


TOBIAS  OEOnOE  SMOLUCTT. 


FOBTS. 


Tlic  light  he  saw  in  Albion’s  happy  plains. 

Where  under  cover  of  a flowering  thorn, 

While  I’hiloinel  renewed  her  warbled  strains, 

The  auspicious  fruit  of  stolen  embrace  was  born — 
The  mountain  Dryads  seized  with  joy. 

The  smiling  infant  to  their  charge  consigned; 

The  Doric  muse  caressed  the  favourite  ^oy ; 

The  hermit  Wisdom  stored  his  opening  mind. 

As  rolling  years  matured  his  age, 

lie  flourished  bold  and  sinewy  as  his  sire; 

While,  the  mild  passions  in  his  breast  assuage 
The  fiercer  flames  of  his  maternal  fire. 

Antistroplie. 

Accomplished  thus,  he  winged  his  way, 

And  zealous  roved  from  pole  to  pole, 

The  rolls  of  right  eternal  to  display. 

And  warm  with  patriot  thought  the  aspiring  soul. 
On  desert  isles  ’twas  he  that  raised 
Those  spires  that  gild  the  Adriatic  wave. 

Where  Tyranny  beheld  amazed 

Fair  Freedom’s  temple,  where  he  marked  her  grave. 

He  steeled  the  blunt  Batavian’s  arras 

To  burst  the  Iberian’s  double  chain  ; 

And  cities  reared,  and  planted  farms. 

Won  from  the  skirts  of  Neptune’s  wide  domain. 
He,  with  the  generous  rustics,  sat 
On  Uri’s  rocks  in  close  divan  ; 

And  winged  that  arrow  sure  as  fate. 

Which  ascertained  the  sacred  rights  of  man. 

Strophe. 

Arabia’s  scorching  sands  he  crossed. 

Where  blasted  nature  pants  supine, 

Conductor  of  her  tribes  adust. 

To  Freedom’s  adamantine  shrine ; 

And  many  a Tartar  horde  forlorn,  aghast ! 

He  snatched  from  under  fell  Oppression’s  wing. 
And  taught  amidst  the  dreary  waste. 

The  all-cheering  hymns  of  liberty  to  sing. 

He  virtue  finds,  like  precious  ore. 

Diffused  through  every  baser  mould  ; 

Even  now  he  stands  on  Calvi’s  rocky  shore. 

And  turns  the  dross  of  Corsica  to  gold  : 

He,  guardian  genius,  taught  my  youth 
Pomp’s  tinsel  livery  to  despise : 

My  lips  by  him  chastised  to  truth. 

Ne’er  paid  that  homage  which  my  heart  denies. 

Antistrophe. 

Those  sculptured  halls  my  feet  shall  never  tread. 
Where  varnished  vice  and  vanity  combined. 

To  dazzle  and  seduce,  their  banners  spread. 

And  forge  vile  shackles  for  the  free-born  mind. 
While  Insolence  his  wrinkled  front  uprears. 

And  all  the  flowers  of  spurious  fancy  blow  ; 

And  Title  his  ill-woven  chaplet  wears. 

Full  often  wreathed  around  the  miscreant’s  brow; 
Where  ever-dimpling  falsehood,  pert  and  vain. 
Presents  her  cup  of  stale  profession’s  froth  ; 

And  pale  disease,  with  all  his  bloated  train. 
Torments  the  sons  of  gluttony  and  sloth. 

Strophe. 

In  Fortune’s  car  behold  that  minion  ride. 

With  either  India’s  glittering  spoils  oppressed. 

So  moves  the  sumpter-mule  in  harnessed  pride. 
That  bears  the  treasure  which  he  cannot  taste. 

For  him  let  venal  bards  disgrace  the  bay. 

And  hireling  minstrels  wake  the  tinkling  string  ; 
Her  sensual  snares  let  faithless  pleasure  lay. 

And  jingling  bells  fantastic  folly  ring : 

Disquiet,  doubt,  and  dread,  shall  intervene ; 

And  nature,  still  to  all  her  feelings  just. 

In  vengeance  hang  a damp  on  every  scene. 

Shook  from  the  baleful  pinions  of  disgust. 


Antistrophe. 

Nature  I’ll  court  in  her  sequestered  haunts. 

By  mountain,  meadow,  streamlet,  grove,  or  cell ; 
Where  the  poised  hark  his  evening  ditty  chaunts. 

And  health,  and  peace,  and  contemplation  dwell 
There,  study  shall  with  solitude  recline. 

And  friendship  pledge  me  to  his  fellow-swains. 

And  toil  and  temperance  sedately  twine 
The  slender  cord  that  fluttering  life  sustains  : 

And  fearless  poverty  shall  guard  the  door. 

And  taste  unspoiled  the  frugal  table  spread. 

And  industry  supply  the  humble  store. 

And  sleep  unbrihed  his  dews  refreshing  shed  ; 
White-mantled  Innocence,  ethereal  sprite. 

Shall  chase  far  off  the  goblins  of  the  night ; 

And  Independence  o’er  the  day  preside. 

Propitious  power  ! my  patron  and  my  pride. 

Ode  to  Leven- Water. 

On  Leven’s  banks,  while  free  to  rove. 

And  tune  the  rural  pipe  to  love, 

I envied  not  the  happiest  swain 
That  ever  trod  the  Arcadian  plain. 

Pure  stream,  in  whose  transparent  wave 
My  youthful  limbs  I wont  to  lave  ; 

No  torrents  stain  thy  limpid  source. 

No  rocks  impede  thy  dimpling  course. 

That  sweetly  warbles  o’er  its  bed. 

With  white,  round,  polished  pebbles  .spread ; 
While,  lightly  poi.sed,  the  scaly  brood 
In  myriads  cleave  thy  crystal  flood  ; 

The  springing  trout  in  speckled  pride. 

The  salmon,  monarch  of  the  tide  ; 

The  ruthle.ss  pike,  intent  on  war. 

The  silver  eel,  and  mottled  par. 

Devolving  from  thy  parent  lake, 

A charming  maze  thy  waters  make. 

By  bowers  of  birch,  and  groves  < f pine 
And  edges  flowered  with  eglantine. 

Still  on  thy  banks  so  gaily  green. 

May  numerous  herds  and  flocks  be  seen  , 

And  lasses  chanting  o’er  the  pail. 

And  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale  ; 

A .id  ancient  faith  that  knows  no  guile. 

And  industry  embrowned  with  toil  ; 

And  hearts  resolved,  and  hands  prepared. 

The  blessings  they  enjoy  to  guard  ! 

TJte  Tears  of  Scotland. 

[Written  on  the  barbarities  committed  in  the  Highlands  b 
order  of  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  after  the  battle  of  CuUoden, 
1746.  Smollett  was  then  a surgeon's  mate,  newly  returned 
from  service  abroad.  It  is  said  that  he  originally  hnislied  the 
poem  in  six  stanzas;  when,  some  one  representing  that  such  a 
diatribe  against  government  might  injure  his  prospects,  he  sat 
down  and  added  tlie  still  more  pointed  invective  of  the  seventh 
stanza.] 

Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 
Thy  banished  peace,  thy  laurels  torn  ! 

Thy  sons,  for  valour  long  renowned. 

Lie  slaughtered  on  their  native  ground  , 

Thy  hospitable  roofs  no  more 
Invite  the  stranger  to  the  door  ; 

In  smoky  ruins  sunk  they  lie. 

The  monuments  of  cruelty. 

The  wretched  owner  sees  afar 
His  all  become  the  prey  of  war  ; 

Bethinks  him  of  his  babes  and  wife. 

Then  .smites  his  breast,  and  curses  lift. 

Thy  swains  are  famished  on  the  rocks. 

Where  once  they  fed  their  wanton  flocks  , 

Thy  ravished  virgins  shriek  in  vain  ; 

Thy  infants  perish  on  the  plain. 


PHOM  1727  CYCLOPiliDIA  OF  to  178o. 

Wliat  boots  it,  then,  in  every  clime, 

'I'hrough  the  wide-siireadiiig  waste  of  time. 

Thy  martial  glory,  crowned  with  praise, 

Still  shone  with  undiminished  blaze  1 
Thy  towering  spirit  now  is  broke, 

Thy  neck  is  bended  to  the  yoke. 

What  foreign  arms  could  never  quell, 
liy  civil  rage  and  rancour  fell. 

The  rural  i)ipe  and  merry  lay 
No  more  shall  cheer  the  happy  day: 

No  social  scenes  of  gay  delight 
Beguile  the  dreary  winter  night : 

No  strains  but  those  of  sorrow  flow. 

And  nought  be  heard  but  sounds  of  wo, 

M'hile  the  pale  phantoms  of  the  slain 
Glide  nightly  o’er  the  silent  plain. 

Oh ! baneful  cause,  oh  ! fatal  mom. 

Accursed  to  ages  yet  tmborn  ! 

The  sons  against  their  father  stood. 

The  parent  shed  his  children’s  blood. 

Y et,  when  the  rage  of  battle  ceased. 

The  victor’s  soul  was  not  appeased  : 

The  naked  and  forlorn  must  feel 
Devouring  flames  and  murdering  steel ! 

The  pious  mother,  doomed  to  death. 

Forsaken  wanders  o’er  the  heath. 

The  bleak  wind  whistles  round  her  head. 

Her  helpless  orjjhans  cry  for  bread  ; 

Bereft  of  shelter,  food,  and  friend. 

She  views  the  shades  of  night  descend  : 

And  stretched  beneath  the  inclement  skies. 
Weeps  o’er  her  tender  babes,  and  dies. 

Y'hile  the  warm  blood  bedews  my  veins. 

And  unimpaired  remembrance  reigns. 
Resentment  of  my  country’s  fate 
'Within  my  filial  breast  shall  beat  ; 

And,  spite  of  her  insulting  foe. 

My  sympathising  verse  shall  flow  : 

‘ Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 
Thy  banished  peace,  thy  laurels  tom.’ 

JOHN  ARMSTRONG. 

John  Armstrong,  the  friend  of  Thomson,  of 
Mallet,  Wilkes,  and  other  public  and  literary  cha- 
racters of  that  period,  is  now  only  known  as  the 
author  of  a didactic  poem,  the  Art  of  Preserving 
He.iilth,  which  is  but  little  read.  Armstrong  was 
son  of  the  minister  of  Castleton,  a pastoral  parish 
in  Roxburghshire,  lie  studied  medicine  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  took  his  degree  of  M.D.  in  1732.  He 
repaired  to  London,  and  became  known  by  the 
publication  of  several  fugitive  pieces  and  medical 
essays.  A very  objectionable  poem,  the  Economy  of 
Love,  gave  promise  of  poetical  poevers,  but  marred 
his  practice  as  a physician.  In  1744  appeared  his 
‘ Art  of  Preserving  Health,’  which  was  follovi'ed  by 
two  other  poems.  Benevolence  and  Taste,  and  a 
volume  of  prose  essays,  the  latter  indifferent  enough. 
In  1760  he  was  appointed  physician  to  the  forces 
in  Germany;  and  on  the  peace  in  1763,  he  returned 
to  London,  where  he  practised,  but  w'ith  little  suc- 
cess, till  his  death,  September  7,  1779,  in  the  70th 
year  of  his  age.  Armstrong  seems  to  have  been 
an  indolent  and  splenetic,  but  kind-hearted  man — 
shrew'd,  caustic,  and  careful  (he  left  £3000,  saved 
out  of  a small  income),  yet  warmly  attached  to  his 
friends.  Ilis  portrait  in  the  ‘ Castle  of  Indoleuce’  is 
in  Thomson’s  happiest  manner  : — 

With  him  was  sometimes  joined  in  silent  walk 
(Profoundly  silent,  for  they'  never  spoke) 

One  shyer  still,  who  quite  detested  talk  ; 

OR  stung  by  spleen,  at  once  away  he  broke 

To  groves  of  pine  and  broad  o’ershadowing  oak  ; 

There,  inly  thrilled,  he  wandered  all  alone, 

And  on  himself  his  pensive  fury  wroke. 

Nor  ever  uttered  word,  save  when  first  shone 
The  glittering  star  of  eve — ‘ Thank  Heaven,  the  day  ts 
done !’ 

Warton  has  praised  the  ‘ Art  of  Preserving  Health’ 
for  its  classical  correctness  and  closeness  of  style 
and  its  numberless  poetical  images.  In  genend, 
however,  it  is  stiff  and  laboured,  witli  occasional  j 
passages  of  tumid  extravagance;  and  the  images  j 
are  not  unfreqnently  echoes  of  those  of  Thomson  ami  j 
other  poets.  The  subject  required  the  aid  of  orrni-  | 
ment,  for  scientific  rules  arc  in  general  b:id  themes  i 
for  poetry',  and  few  men  are  ignorant  of  the  true  | 
I)hilosophy  of  life,  however  they  may  deviate  from  i 
it  in  practice.  That  health  is  to  be  preserved  by  j 
temperance,  exercise,  and  cheerful  recreation,  is  a , 
truth  familiar  to  all  from  infancy.  Armstrong,  how-  ' 
ever,  was  no  a.scetic  philosopher.  His  motto  is,  j 
‘ take  the  good  the  gods  provide  you,’  but  take  it 
in  moderation. 

When  you  smooth  1 

The  brows  of  care,  indulge  your  festive  vein 
In  cups  by  well-informed  experience  found 
The  least  your  bane,  and  only  with  your  friends.  j 

Tlie  effects  of  over-indulgence  in  wine  he  has  fini  ly  1 
described ; — | 

But  most  too  passive,  when  the  blood  runs  low, 

Too  weakly  indolent  to  strive  with  pain,  ; 

-\nd  bravely  by  resisting  conquer  fate,  ' 

Try  Circe’s  arts;  and  in  the  tempting  bowl 
Of  poisoned  nectar  sweet  oblivion  swill. 

Struck  by  the  powerful  charm,  the  gloom  dissolves 
In  empty  air  ; Elysium  opens  round, 

A pleasing  phrenzy  buoys  the  lightened  soul, 

And  sanguine  hopes  dispel  your  fleeting  care; 

And  what  was  difficult,  and  what  was  dire. 

Yields  to  your  prowe.ss  and  superior  stars  : 

The  happiest  you  of  all  that  e’er  wore  mad. 

Or  are,  or  shall  be,  could  this  folly  last. 

But  soon  your  heaven  is  gone  : a heavier  gloom  i 

Shuts  o’er  your  head  ; and,  as  the  thundering  stream,  i 
Swollen  o’er  its  banks  with  sudden  mountain  rain,  | 

Sinks  from  its  tunfult  to  a silent  brook,  ' 

So,  when  the  frantic  raptures  in  your  breast  i 

Subside,  you  langui.sh  into  mortal  man  ; 

You  sleep,  and  waking  find  yourself  undone. 

For,  prodigal  of  life,  in  one  rash  night 

You  lavished  more  than  might  support  three  days. 

heavy  morning  comes  ; your  cares  return 
With  tenfold  rage.  An  anxious  stomach  well 
May  be  endured  ; so  may  the  throbbing  head  ; 

But  such  a dim  delirium,  such  a dream. 

Involves  you  ; such  a dastardly  desi>air 
Unmans  your  soul,  as  maddening  Bentheus  felt. 

When,  baited  round  Cithasron’s  cruel  sides. 

He  saw  two  suns,  and  double  Thebes  asceml. 

In  prescribing  as  a healthy  situation  for  residence 
a house  on  an  elevated  part  of  the  sea-coasi,  he 
indulges  in  a vein  of  poetical  luxury  wortliy  the  en 
chanted  grounds  of  the  ‘ Castle  of  Indolence  ;’ 

Oh  ! when  the  growling  winds  contend,  and  all 
The  sounding  forest  fluctuates  in  the  storm  ; 

To  sink  in  warm  repose,  and  he:ir  the  din 
Howl  o’er  the  steady  battlements,  delights 
Above  the  luxury  of  vulgar  sleep. 

The  murmuring  rivulet,  and  the  hoarser  strara 
Of  waters  rushing  o’er  the  slippery  rocks. 

Will  nightly  lull  you  to  ambrosial  rest. 

To  please  the  fancy  is  no  trifling  good. 

Where  health  is  studied  ; for  whatever  moves 
The  mind  with  calm  delight,  promotes  the  just 
.\nd  natural  movements  of  the  harmonious  irainft 

63 

rOKTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  joiin  aumstrono. 


All  who  have  witnessed  or  felt  the  inspiriting  eflects 
of  fine  mountain  scenery  on  invalids,  will  subscribe 
to  the  truth  so  happily  expressed  in  the  concluding 
lines  of  this  passage.  The  blank  verse  of  Armstrong 
somewhat  resembles  that  of  Cowper  in  compact- 
ness and  vigour,  but  his  imagination  was  hard  and 
literal,  and  wanted  the  airy  expansiveness  and 
tenderness  of  pure  inspiration.  It  was  a high  merit, 
however,  to  succeed  where  nearly  all  have  failed,  in 
blending  with  a subject  so  strictly  practical  and 
prosaic,  the  art  and  fancy  of  the  poet.  Much  learn- 
ing, skill,  and  knowledge  are  compressed  into  his 
poem,  in  illustration  of  his  medical  and  ethical  doc- 
trines. The  whole  is  divided  into  four  books  or 
divisions — the  first  on  air,  the  second  on  diet,  the 
third  on  exercise,  and  the  fourth  on  the  passions.  In 
his  first  book,  Armstrong  has  penned  a ludicrously 
pompous  invective  on  the  climate  of  Great  Britain, 
‘ steeped  in  continual  rains,  or  with  raw  fogs  be- 
dewed.’ He  exclaims — 

Our  fathers  talked 

Of  summers,  balmy  airs,  and  skies  serene : 

Good  Heaven  1 for  what  unexpiated  crimes 
This  dismal  change  ! The  brooding  elements 
Do  they,  your  powerful  ministers  of  wrath. 

Prepare  some  fierce  exterminating  plague  1 
Or  is  it  fi.xed  in  the  decrees  above. 

That  lofty  Albion  melt  into  the  main  ? 

Indulgent  nature!  0,  dissolve  this  gloom; 

Bind  in  eternal  adamant  the  winds 

That  di'own  or  wither  ; give  the  genial  west 

To  breathe,  and  in  its  turn  the  sprightly  south, 

.\nd  may  once  more  the  circling  seasons  rule 
The  year,  not  mix  in  every  monstrous  day ! 

Now,  the  fiict  we  believe  is,  that  in  this  country 
there  are  more  good  days  in  the  year  than  in  any 
other  country  in  Europe.  A few  extracts  from  the 
‘ Art  of  Preserving  Health’  are  subjoined.  The 
last,  which  is  certainly  the  most  energetic  passage 
in  the  whole  poem,  describes  the  ‘ sweating  sickness’ 
which  scourged  England 

Ere  yet  the  fell  Plantagenets  had  spent 

Their  ancient  rage  at  Bosworth’s  purple  field. 

In  the  second,  Armstrong  introduces  an  apostrophe 
to  his  native  stream,  which  perhaps  suggested  the 
more  felicitous  ode  of  Smollett  to  Leven  Water.  It 
is  not  unworthy  of  remark,  that  the  poet  entirely 
overlooks  the  store  of  romantic  association  and 
ballad -poetry  pertaining  to  Liddisdale,  which  a 
mightier  than  he,  in  the  next  age,  brought  so  pro- 
minently before  the  notice  of  the  world. 


[ Wrecks  and  Mxitations  of  Time.'\ 

What  does  not  fade  ? The  tower  that  long  had  stood 
The  crush  of  thunder  and  the  warring  winds, 

Shook  by  the  slow  but  sure  destroyer  Time, 

Now  hangs  in  doubtful  ruins  o’er  its  base. 

And  flinty  pyramids  and  walls  of  brass 
Descend.  The  Babylonian  spires  are  sunk  ; 

Achaia,  Rome,  and  Egypt  moulder  down. 

Time  shakes  the  stable  tyranny  of  thrones. 

And  tottering  empires  rush  by  their  own  weight. 

This  huge  rotundity  we  tread  grows  old. 

And  all  those  worlds  that  roll  around  the  sun  ; 

The  .sun  himself  shall  die,  and  ancient  night 
Again  involve  the  desolate  abyss. 

Till  the  gre.at  Father,  through  the  lifeless  gloom. 
Extend  his  arm  to  light  another  world, 

And  bid  new  planets  roll  by  other  laws. 


[^Recommendation  of  Anglin/).] 

But  if  the  breathless  chase  o’er  hill  and  dale 
Exceed  your  strength,  a sport  of  less  fatigue. 

Not  less  delightful,  the  prolific  stream 
Affords.  The  crystal  rivulet,  that  o’er 
A stony  channel  rolls  its  rapid  maze. 

Swarms  with  the  silver  fry : such  through  the  bounds 
Of  pastoral  Stafford  runs  the  brawling  Trent ; 

Such  Eden,  sprung  from  Cumbrian  mountains  ; such 
The  Esk,  o’erhung  with  woods ; and  such  the  stream 
On  whose  Arcadian  banks  I first  drew  air ; 

Liddel,  till  now,  except  in  Doric  lays. 

Tuned  to  her  murmurs  by  her  love-sick  swains. 
Unknown  in  song,  though  not  a purer  stream 
Through  meads  more  flowery,  or  more  romantic  groves. 
Rolls  towards  the  western  main.  Hail,  .sacred  flood! 
May  still  thy  hospitable  swains  be  blest 
In  rural  innocence,  thy  mountains  still 
Teem  with  the  fleecy  race,  thy  tuneful  woods 
For  ever  flourish,  and  thy  vales  look  gay 
With  painted  meadows  and  the  golden  grain  ; 

Oft  with  thy  blooming  sons,  when  life  was  new. 
Sportive  and  petulant,  and  charmed  with  toys. 

In  thy  transparent  eddies  have  I laved  ; 

Oft  traced  with  patient  steps  thy  fairy  banks. 

With  the  well-imitated  fly  to  hook 

The  eager  trout,  and  with  the  slender  line 

And  yielding  rod  solicit  to  the  shore 

The  struggling  panting  prey,  while  vernal  clouds 

And  tepid  gales  obscured  the  ruffled  pool. 

And  from  the  deeps  called  forth  the  wanton  swarms. 

Formed  on  the  Samian  school,  or  those  of  Ind, 
There  are  who  think  these  pastimes  scarce  humane ; 
Yet  in  my  mind  (and  not  relentless  I) 

His  life  is  pure  that  wears  no  fouler  stains. 

[Pestilence  of  the  Fifteenth  Century.] 

Ere  yet  the  fell  Plantagenets  had  spent 
Their  ancient  rage  at  Bosworth’s  purple  field  ; 

While,  for  which  tyrant  England  should  receive. 

Her  legions  in  incestuous  murders  mixed. 

And  daily  horrors  ; till  the  fates  were  drunk 
With  kindred  blood  by  kindred  hands  profused: 
Another  plague  of  more  gigantic  arm 
Arose,  a monster  never  known  before. 

Reared  from  Cocytus  its  portentous  head  ; 

This  rapid  fury  not,  like  other  pests, 

Pursued  a gradual  course,  but  in  a day 
Rushed  as  a storm  o’er  half  the  astonished  isle. 

And  strewed  with  sudden  carcases  the  land. 

First  through  the  shoulders,  or  whatever  part 
Was  seized  the  first,  a fervid  vapour  sprung  ; 

With  rash  combustion  thence,  the  quivering  spark 
Shot  to  the  heart,  and  kindled  all  within  ; 

And  soon  the  surface  caught  the  spreading  fires. 
Through  all  the  yielding  pores  the  melted  blood 
Gushed  out  in  smoky  sweats ; but  nought  assuaged 
The  torrid  heat  within,  nor  aught  relieved 
The  stomach’s  anguish.  With  incessant  toil. 
Desperate  of  ease,  impatient  of  their  pain. 

They  tossed  from  side  to  side.  In  vain  the  stream 
Ran  full  and  clear,  they  burnt,  and  thirsted  still. 

The  restless  arteries  with  rapid  blood 
Beat  strong  and  frequent.  Thick  and  pantingly 
The  breath  was  fetched,  and  with  huge  labouringj 
heaved. 

At  last  a heavy  pain  oppressed  the  head, 

A wild  delirium  came  : their  weeping  friends 
Were  strangers  now,  and  this  no  home  of  theirs. 
Harassed  with  toil  on  toil,  the  sinking  powers 
Lay  prostrate  and  o’erthrown  ; a ponderous  sleep 
Wrapt  all  the  senses  up : they  slept  and  died. 

In  some  a gentle  horror  crept  at  first 
O’er  all  the  limbs  ; the  sluices  cf  the  skin 

bs* 


fBOM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  1750. 


Withheld  their  inoi«ture,  till  by  art  provoked 
'J'he  sweats  o’erflowed,  but  in  a clammy  tide ; 

Now  free  and  copious,  now  restrained  and  slow; 

Of  tinctures  various,  as  the  temperature 

Had  mixed  the  blood,  and  rank  with  fetid  streams: 

As  if  the  pent-up  humours  by  delay 

Were  grown  more  fell,  more  putrid,  and  malign. 

Here  lay  their  hopes  (though  little  hope  remained), 
With  full  effusion  of  perpetual  sweats 
To  drive  the  venom  out.  And  here  the  fates 
^V■cre  kind,  that  long  they  lingered  not  in  pain. 

For,  who  survived  the  sun’s  diurnal  race. 

Rose  from  the  dreary  gates  of  hell  redeemed  ; 

Some  the  sixth  hour  oppressed,  and  some  the  third. 
Of  many  thousands,  few  untainted  ’scaped; 

Of  those  infected,  fewer  ’scaped  alive  ; 

Of  those  who  lived,  some  felt  a second  blow ; 

And  whom  the  second  spared,  a third  destroyed. 
Frantic  with  fear,  they  sought  by  flight  to  shun 
The  fierce  contagion.  O’er  the  mournful  land 
The  infected  city  poured  her  hurrying  swarms : 

Roused  by  the  flames  that  fired  her  seats  around. 

The  infected  country  rushed  into  the  town. 

Some  sad  at  home,  and  in  the  desert  some 
Abjured  the  fatal  commerce  of  mankind. 

In  vain  ; w’here’er  they  fled,  the  fates  pursued. 

Others,  with  hopes  more  specious,  crossed  the  main. 
To  .seek  protection  in  far  distant  skies  ; 
lint  none  they  found.  It  seemed  the  general  air. 
From  pole  to  pole,  from  Atlas  to  the  east. 

Was  then  at  enmity  with  English  blood  ; 

For  but  the  race  of  England  all  were  safe 

In  foreign  climes  ; nor  did  this  fury  taste 

The  foreign  blood  which  England  then  contained. 

Where  should  they  fly?  The  circumambient  heaven 

Involved  them  still,  and  every  breeze  was  bane: 

Where  find  relief?  The  salutary  art 

Was  mute,  and,  startled  at  the  new  disease. 

In  fearful  whispers  hopeless  omens  gave. 

'To  heaven,  with  suppliant  rites  they  sent  their 
prayers ; 

I leaven  heard  them  not.  Of  every  hope  deprived, 
Fatigued  with  vain  resources,  and  subdued 
With  woes  resistless,  and  enfeebling  fear. 

Passive  they  sunk  beneath  the  weighty  blow. 

Nothing  but  lamentable  sounds  were  heard. 

Nor  aught  w’as  seen  but  ghastly  views  of  death. 
Infectious  heirror  ran  from  face  to  face. 

And  pale  despair.  ’Tw'as  all  the  business  then 
To  tend  the  sick,  and  in  their  turns  to  die. 

In  heaps  they  fell ; and  oft  the  bed,  they  say. 

The  sickening,  dying,  and  the  dead  contained. 


■WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 

An  admirable  translation  of  ‘ The  Lusiad’  of 
Cainoens,  the  most  distinguished  poet  of  Portugal, 
was  executed  by  William  .Iulius  Mickle,  himself 
a poet  of  taste  and  fancy,  but  of  no  great  originality 
or  energy.  Mickle  was  son  of  the  minister  of  Lang- 
holm, iu  Dumfriesshire,  where  he  was  born  in  1734. 
He  was  engaged  in  trade  in  Edinburgh  as  conductor, 
and  afterwards  partner,  of  a brewery ; but  he  failed 
in  business,  and  in  1764  went  to  London,  desirous 
of  literary  distinction.  Lord  Lyttelton  noticed  and 
encouraged  his  poetic.al  efforts,  and  Mickle  was 
buoved  up  -with  dreams  of  patronage  and  celebrity. 
Two  years  of  increasing  destitution  dispelled  this 
vision,  and  the  poet  was  glad  to  accept  the  situation 
of  corrector  of  the  Clarendon  press  at  Oxford.  Here 
! he  published  PoUio,  an  elegy,  and  The  Concubine,  a 
! moral  poem  in  the  manner  of  Spenser,  whicdi  he 
; afterwards  reprinted  with  the  title  of  Syr  Martyn. 
Mickle  adopted  the  obsolete  phraseology  of  Spenser, 
wliich  was  too  antiquated  even  for  the  age  of  the 


‘ Faery  Queen,’  and  which  Thomson  had  almost 
wholly  discarded  in  his  ‘ Castle  of  Indolence.’  The 
first  stanza  of  this  poem  has  been  quoted  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott  (divested  of  its  antique  spelling)  in 
illustration  of  a remark  made  by  him,  that  Mickle,  | 

‘ with  a vein  of  great  facility,  united  a power  of 
verbal  melody,  which  might  have  been  envied  by 
bards  of  much  greater  renown  ;’ — 

Awake,  ye  west  winds,  through  the  lonely  dale. 

And  Fancy  to  thy  faery  bower  betake  ; 

Even  now,  with  balmly  sweetness,  breathes  the  gale. 
Dimpling  with  downy  wing  the  stilly  lake; 

Through  the  pale  willows  faltering  whispers  wake. 

And  Evening  comes  with  locks  bedropped  with  dew ; 

On  Desmond’s  mouldering  turrets  slowly  shake 
The  withered  rye-grass  and  the  harebell  blue. 

And  ever  and  anon  sweet  Mulla’s  plaints  renew. 

Sir  Walter  adds,  that  Mickle,  ‘being  a printer  by 
profession,  frequently  put  his  lines  into  types  with- 
out taking  the  trouble  previously  to  put  them  into 
writing.’  This  is  mentioned  by  none  of  the  poet’s 
biographers,  and  is  improbable.  The  office  of  a 
corrector  of  the  jiress  is  quite  separate  from  the 
mechanical  operations  of  the  printer.  Mickle’s 
poem  was  highly  successful  (not  the  less,  perhaps, 
becaiuse  it  was  printed  anonymously,  and  was  as- 
cribed to  different  authors),  and  it  went  through 
three  editions.  In  1771  he  iniblished  the  first  canto 
of  his  great  translation,  -which  -was  completed  in 
177.6;  and  being  supported  by  a long  list  of  sub- 
scribers, was  highly  .advantageous  both  to  his  fame 
and  fortune.  In  1779  he  went  out  to  Portugal  as 
secretary  to  Commodore  Johnston,  and  was  received  , 
with  much  distinction  in  Lisbon  by  the  countrymen 
of  Camoens.  On  the  return  of  the  expedition. 
Mickle  was  .appointed  joint  agent  for  the  distri- 
bution of  the  prizes.  liis  own  share  was  consider- 
able ; and  having  received  some  money  by  his  mar-  | 
ri.age  with  a lady  whom  he  had  knowm  in  his  obscure  i 

sojourn  at  Oxford,  the  latter  days  of  the  poet  were  I 

spent  in  ease  and  leisure.  He  died  at  i'orest  Hill, 
near  Oxford,  in  1788.  ■ i 

The  most  popular  of  Mickle’s  original  poems  is  j 
his  ballad  of  Cumnor  Hall,  which  has  attained  addi-  | 
tional  celebrity  by  its  having  suggested  to  Sir  Walter 
Scott  the  groundwork  of  his  romance  of  Kenilworth.*  j 
The  plot  is  interesting,  and  the  versification  easy 
and  musical.  Mickle  assisted  in  Evans’s  Collection 
of  Old  Ball.ads  (in  which  ‘ Cumnor  HalT  and  other 
pieces  of  his  first  appeared);  and  though  in  this 
style  of  composition  he  did  not  copy  the  direct  sim- 
plicity and  unsophisticated  ardour  of  the  real  old 
ballads,  he  had  much  of  their  tenderness  and  pathos. 

A still  stronger  proof  of  this  is  afforded  by  a Scottish 
song,  the  author  of  which  was  long  unknown,  but 
which  seems  clearly  to  have  been  written  by  Mickle. 

An  imperfect,  altered,  and  corrected  copy  was  lound 
among  his  manuscripts  after  his  death ; and  his 
widow  being  applied  to,  confirmed  the  external 
evidence  in  his  favour,  by  an  e.xprcss  declaration 
that  her  husband  had  said  the  song  was  his  oivn, 
and  that  he  had  explained  to  her  the  Scottish  words. 

It  is  the  fairest  flower  in  his  poetical  chaplet.  The  I 
delineation  of  humble  matrimonial  happiness  and  | 
affection  which  the  song  presents,  is  almost  un- 
equalled— I 

Sae  true  his  words,  sae  smooth  his  speech,  | 

His  breath  like  caller  air  ! | 

His  very  foot  has  music  in'r 
As  he  conies  up  the  stair. 

* Sir  Walter  intended  to  have  n.ained  his  romance  Cumnor 
Hall,  but  was  persuaded  by  Mr  Constable,  his  publisher,  to 
adopt  the  title  of  Kenilwortli. 


WEI'S. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKlK. 


And  will  I see  his  face  again ! 

And  will  1 hear  him  speak? 

I’m  downright  dizzy  with  the  thought. 

In  troth  Tm  like  to  greet. 

Then  there  are  the  two  lines — happy  Epicurean 
fancy,  but  elevated  by  the  situation  and  the  faithful 
love  of  the  speaker — which  Burns  says  ‘ are  worthy 
of  the  first  poet’ — 

The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 

The  neist  we  never  saw. 

These  brief  felicities  of  natural  expression  and  feel- 
ing, so  infinitely  superior  to  the  stock  images  of 
poetry,  show  that  Mickle  could  have  excelled  in 
the  Scottish  dialect,  and  in  portraying  Scottish  life, 
had  he  truly  known  his  own  strength,  and  trusted 
to  the  impulses  of  his  heart  instead  of  his  ambition. 

Cumnor  Hall. 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall. 

The  moon  (sweet  regent  of  the  sky) 

Silvered  the  walls  of  Cumnor  Hall, 

And  many  an  oak  that  grew  thereby. 

Now  nought  was  heard  beneath  the  skies 
(The  sounds  of  busy  life  were  still), 

Save  an  unhappy  lady’s  sighs. 

That  issued  from  that  lonely  pile. 

‘ Leicester,’  she  cried,  ‘ is  this  thy  love 
That  thou  so  oft  hast  sworn  to  me. 

To  leave  me  in  this  lonely  grove. 

Immured  in  shameful  privity  ? 

No  more  thou  com’st,  with  lover’s  speed. 

Thy  once  beloved  bride  to  see ; 

But  be  she  alive,  or  be  she  dead, 

I fear,  stern  Earl’s,  the  same  to  thee. 

Not  so  the  usage  I received 

When  happy  in  my  father’s  hall ; 

No  faithless  husband  then  me  grieved. 

No  chilling  fears  did  me  appal. 

I rose  up  with  the  cheerful  morn. 

No  lark  so  blithe,  no  flower  more  gay ; 

And,  like  the  bird  that  haunts  the  thorn, 

So  merrily  sung  the  live-long  day. 

If  that  my  beauty  is  but  small. 

Among  court  ladles  all  despised. 

Why  didst  thou  rend  it  from  that  hall. 

Where,  scornful  Earl,  it  well  was  prized  ? 

And  when  you  first  to  me  made  suit. 

How  fair  I was,  you  oft  would  say ! 

And,  proud  of  conquest,  plucked  the  fruit. 

Then  left  the  blossom  to  decay. 

Yes!  now  neglected  and  despised. 

The  rose  is  pale,  the  lily’s  dead  ; 

But  he  that  once  their  charms  so  prized, 

Is  sure  the  cause  those  charms  are  fled. 

For  know,  when  sickening  grief  doth  prey. 

And  tender  love’s  repaid  with  scorn, 

The  sweetest  beauty  will  decay  : 

What  floweret  can  endure  the  storm ! 

At  court,  I’m  told,  is  beauty’s  throne. 

Where  every  lady’s  passing  rare, 

That  eastern  flowers,  that  shame  the  sun. 

Are  not  so  glowing,  not  so  fair. 

Then,  Earl,  why  didst  thou  leave  the  beds 
Where  roses  and  where  lilies  vie. 

To  seek  a primrose,  whose  pale  shades 
Must  sicken  w hen  those  gauds  are  by  t 


’Mong  rural  beauties  I was  one ; 

Among  the  fields  wild  flowers  are  fair ; 

Some  country  swain  might  me  have  won. 

And  thought  my  passing  beauty  rare. 

But,  Leicester  (or  I much  am  wrong), 

It  is  not  beauty  lures  thy  vows ; 

Rather  ambition’s  gilded  crown 

Makes  thee  forget  thy  humble  spouse. 

Then,  Leicester,  why,  again  I plead 
(The  injured  surely  may  repine). 

Why  didst  thou  wed  a country  maid. 

When  some  fair  princess  might  be  thine? 

Why  didst  thou  praise  my  humble  charms. 
And,  oh  I then  leave  them  to  decay  ? 

Why  didst  thou  win  me  to  thy  arms. 

Then  leave  me  to  mourn  the  live-long  day  I 

The  village  maidens  of  the  plain 
Salute  me  lowly  as  they  go ; 

Envious  they  mark  my  silken  train, 

Nor  think  a countess  can  have  wo. 

The  simple  nymphs  ! they  little  know 
How  far  more  happy’s  their  estate  ; 

To  smile  for  joy,  than  sigh  for  wo ; 

To  be  content,  than  to  be  great. 

How  far  less  blessed  am  I than  them. 

Daily  to  pine  and  waste  with  care ! 

Like  the  poor  plant,  that,  from  its  stem 
Divided,  feels  the  chilling  air. 

Nor,  cruel  Earl  I can  I enjoy 
The  humble  charms  of  solitude  ; 

Your  minions  proud  my  peace  destroy. 

By  sullen  frowns,  or  pratings  rude. 

Last  night,  as  sad  I chanced  to  stray. 

The  village  death-bell  smote  my  ear ; 

They  winked  aside,  and  .seemed  to  .say, 

“ Countess,  prepare — thy  end  is  near.” 

And  now,  while  happy  peasants  sleep, 

Here  I sit  lonely  and  forlorn ; 

No  one  to  soothe  me  as  I weep. 

Save  Philomel  on  yonder  thorn. 

My  spirits  flag,  my  hopes  decay ; 

Still  that  dread  death-bell  smites  my  ear; 

And  many  a body  seems  to  say, 

“ Countess,  prepare — thy  end  is  near.’” 

Thus  sore  and  sad  that  lady  grieved 
In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear; 

And  many  a heartfelt  sigh  she  heaved. 

And  let  fall  many  a bitter  tear. 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  day  appeared. 

In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear. 

Full  many  a piercing  scream  was  heard. 

And  many  a cry  of  mortal  fear. 

The  death-bell  thrice  was  heard  to  ring. 

An  aerial  voice  was  heard  to  call. 

And  thrice  the  raven  flapped  his  wing 
Around  the  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

The  mastiff  howled  at  village  door. 

The  oaks  were  shattered  on  the  green ; 

Wo  was  the  hour,  for  never  more 
That  hapless  Countess  e’er  was  seen. 

And  in  that  manor,  now  no  more 
Is  cheerful  feast  or  sprightly  ball ; 

For  ever  since  that  dreary  hour 

Hare  spirits  haunted  Cumnor  HalL 

The  village  maids  with  fearful  glance. 

Avoid  the  ancient  moss-grown  wall ; 

Nor  ever  lead  the  merry  dance 
Among  the  groves  of  Cumnor  HalL 


71 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPiEmA  OF 


Full  many  a traveller  has  slglied, 

And  pensive  wept  the  Countess’  fall, 

As  wandering  on«ards  they’ve  espied 
The  haunted  towers  of  Cuninor  Hall. 

The  Mariner's  Wife. 

But  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true? 

And  are  ye  sure  he’s  wcel  ? 

Is  this  a time  to  think  o’  wark  ? 

Ye  Jauds,  Hing  bye  your  wheel. 

For  there’s  nae  luck  about  the  house. 
There’s  nae  luck  at  a’, 

There’s  nae  luck  about  the  house. 

When  our  gudeman’s  awa. 

Is  this  a time  to  think  o’  wark. 

When  Colin’s  at  the  door? 

Ra.H  down  my  cloak — I’ll  to  the  key. 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 

Rise  up  and  make  a clean  fireside. 

Put  on  the  mickle  pat ; 

Gie  little  Kate  her  cotton  goun. 

And  Jock  his  Sunday’s  coat. 

And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes. 

Their  stockins  white  as  snaw ; 

It’s  a’  to  pleasure  our  gudeman — 

He  likes  to  see  them  braw. 

There  are  twa  hens  into  the  crib, 

Hae  fed  this  month  and  mair, 

Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare. 

My  Turkey  slippers  ITl  put  on. 

My  stockins  pearl  blue — 

It’s  a’  to  pleasure  our  gudeman. 

For  he’s  baith  leal  and  true. 

Sae  sweet  his  voice,  sae  smooth  his  tongue ; 

His  brcath’s  like  caller  air  ; 

His  very  fit  has  music  in’t. 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 

And  will  I see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I hear  him  speak  1 
I’m  downright  dizzy  wi’  the  thought: 

In  troth  I’m  like  to  greet. 

[The  Spirit  of  the  Cape.~^ 

[From  the  ‘ Lusiad.'] 

Now  prosperous  gales  the  bending  canvass  swelled  ; 
From  these  rude  shores  our  fearless  course  we  held: 
Beneath  the  glistening  wave  the  god  of  day 
Had  now  five  times  withdrawn  the  parting  ray. 
When  o’er  the  prow  a sudden  darkness  spread. 

And  slowly  floating  o’er  the  mast’s  tall  head 
A black  cloud  hovered  ; nor  appeared  from  fiir 
The  moon’s  pale  glimpse,  nor  faintly  twinkling  star; 
So  deep  a gloom  the  lowering  vapour  cast. 

Transfixed  with  awe  the  bravest  stood  aghast. 
Meanwhile  a hollow  bursting  roar  resounds, 

As  when  hoarse  surges  lash  their  rocky  mounds ; 

Nor  had  the  blackening  wave,  nor  frowning  heaven. 
The  wonted  signs  of  gathering  tempest  given. 

Amazed  we  stood — O thou,  our  fortune’s  guide. 

Avert  this  omen,  mighty  God,  I cried ; 

Or  through  forbidden  climes  adventurous  strayed. 
Have  we  the  secrets  of  the  deep  surveyed. 

Which  these  wide  solitudes  of  seas  and  sky 
Were  doomed  to  hide  from  man’s  unhallowed  eye? 
Whate’er  this  prodigy,  it  threatens  more 
Than  midnight  tempest  and  the  mingled  roar. 

When  sea  and  sky  combine  to  rock  the  marble  shore. 

I spoke,  when  rising  through  the  darkened  air. 
Appalled  we  saw  a hideous  phantom  glare ; 

High  and  enormous  o’er  the  flood  he  towered. 

And  thwart  our  way  with  sullen  a-spect  lowered. 


TO  1780. 


Unearthly  paleness  o’er  his  checks  was  spread, 

F.rcct  uprose  his  hairs  of  withered  red  ; 

Writhing  to  sjieak,  his  sable  lips  disclose. 

Sharp  and  ili.sjoined,  his  gnashing  teeth’s  blue  row.s, 
His  haggard  beard  flowed  quivering  on  the  wind. 
Revenge  and  horror  in  his  mien  combined  ; 

His  clouded  front,  by  withering  lightning  scared. 

The  inward  anguish  of  his  soul  declared. 

His  red  eyes  glowing  from  their  dusky  caves 
Shot  livid  fires : far  echoing  o’er  the  waves 
His  voice  resounded,  as  the  caverned  shore 
With  hollow  groan  repeats  the  tempest’s  roar. 

Cold  gliding  horrors  thrilled  each  hero’s  breast ; 

Our  bristling  hair  and  tottering  knees  confessed 
Wild  dread  ; the  while  with  visage  ghastly  wan. 

His  hlack  lips  trembling,  thus  the  Kiend  began: 

‘ 0 you,  the  boldest  of  the  nations,  fired 
By  daring  pride,  by  lust  of  fame  inspired. 

Who,  scornful  of  the  bowers  of  sweet  repose. 

Through  these  my  wave.s  advance  your  fearless  prows, 
Regardless  of  the  lengthening  watery  way. 

And  all  the  storms  that  own  my  sovereign  sway. 

Who  ’mid  surrounding  rocks  and  shelves  explore 
Where  never  hero  braved  my  rage  before  ; 

Ye  .sons  of  Lusus,  who,  with  eyes  profane. 

Have  viewed  the  secrets  of  my  awful  reign. 

Have  passed  the  bounds  which  jealous  Nature  drew. 
To  veil  her  .secret  shrine  from  mortal  view. 

Hear  from  my  lips  what  direful  woes  attend. 

And  bursting  soon  shall  o’er  your  race  descend. 

With  every  bounding  keel  that  dares  my  rage. 
Eternal  w.ir  my  rocks  and  storms  shall  w.age ; 

The  next  proud  fleet  that  through  my  dear  domain, 
With  daring  search  shall  hoist  the  streaming  vane. 
That  gallant  navy  by  my  whirlwinds  tost. 

And  raging  seas,  shall  peri.sh  on  my  coast. 

Then  He  who  first  my  secret  reign  descried, 

A naked  corse  wide  floating  o’er  the  tide 
Shall  drive.  Unless  my  heart’s  full  raptures  fail, 

O Lusus  ! oft  shalt  thou  thy  children  wail ; 

Each  year  thy  shipwrecked  sons  shalt  thou  deplore. 
Each  year  thy  sheeted  masts  shall  strew  my  shore.’  * * 

He  spoke,  and  deep  a lengthened  sigh  he  drew, 

A doleful  sound,  and  vanished  from  the  view ; 

The  frightened  billows  gave  a rolling  swell. 

And  distant  far  [irolongcd  the  dismal  yell ; 

Faint  and  more  faint  the  howling  echoes  die. 

And  the  black  cloud  dispersing  leaves  the  sky. 

DR  JOHN  LANGHORNE. 

Dr  John  Lanchorne,  an  amiable  and  excellent 
clergynnin,  lias  long  lost  the  popuhirity  which  he 
possessed  in  his  own  day  as  a poet ; but  his  name 
nevertheless  claims  a jdace  in  the  history  of  Flng- 
lish  literature.  He  was  born  at  Kirkby  Steven, 
in  Westmoreland,  in  1735,  and  held  the  curacy 
and  lectureship  of  St  John’s,  Clerkenwell,  in  Lon- 
don. He  afterwards  obtained  a prebend's  stall  in 
AVells  cathedral,  and  was  much  .admired  as  a 
preacher.  He  died  in  1779.  Langhorne  W'rote 
various  prose  works,  the  most  successful  of  which 
was  his  Letters  of  Theodosius  and  Constantin ; and, 
in  conjunction  with  his  brother,  he  published  a 
translation  of  Plutarch’s  Lives,  which  still  main- 
tains its  ground  as  the  best  English  version  of  the 
ancient  author.  His  poetical  works  were  chiefly 
slight  effusions,  dictated  by  the  passion  or  impulse 
of  the  moment ; but  he  made  an  abortive  attempt 
to  repel  the  coarse  satire  of  Churchill,  and  to  walk 
in  the  magic  circle  of  the  drama.  His  ballad,  Owen 
of  Carron,  founded  on  the  old  Scottisn  tale  of  Gil 
Morrice,  is  smoothly  versified,  but  in  poetical  merit 
is  inferior  to  the  original.  The  only  poem  of  Lang- 
horne’s  which  has  a cast  of  originality  is  his  Country 
Justice.  Here  he  seems  to  have  anticipated  Crabl^ 

72 


1 


n>f.Ts.  ENGLISH  LITERA'rUIiK.  i>n  joiin  langiiorne. 


ill  [uintiiig  tlic  rural  life  of  England  in  true  colours. 
His  iiieture  of  the  gipsies,  and  his  skctelu  s of  venal 
clerks  and  rapacious  overseers,  are  genuine  like- 
nesses. He  has  not  the  raeiness  or  the  distinctness 
of  Crahhe,  hut  is  equally  faithful,  and  as  sincerely 
» friend  to  huuiauity.  lie  pleads  warmly  for  the 
poor  vagrant  tribe : — 

Still  mark  if  vice  or  nature  prompts  the  deed  ; 

Still  mark  the  strong  temptation  and  the  need: 

On  pressing  want,  on  famine’s  powerful  call, 

At  least  more  lenient  let  thy  justice  fall. 

Tor  him  who,  lost  to  every  hope  of  life, 

Has  long  with  Fortune  held  unequal  strife, 

Known  to  no  human  love,  no  human  care. 

The  friendless  homeless  object  of  despair  ; 

For  the  poor  vagrant  feel,  while  he  complains, 

Nor  from  sad  freedom  send  to  sadder  chains. 

Alike  if  folly  or  misfortune  brought 

Those  last  of  woes  his  evil  days  have  wrought ; 

Ilelieve  with  social  mercy  and  with  me. 

Folly ’s  misfortune  in  the  first  degree. 

Perhaps  on  some  inhospitable  shore 
Tlie  houseless  wretch  a widowed  parent  bore  ; 

Who  then,  no  more  by  golden  prospects  led. 

Of  the  poor  Indian  begged  a leafy  bed. 

Cold  on  Canadian  hills  or  Minden’s  plain. 

Perhaps  that  parent  mourned  her  soldier  slain  ; 

Rent  o’er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew. 

The  big  drops  mingling  with  the  milk  he  drew. 

Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years. 

The  child  of  misery,  baptised  in  tears. 

This  allusion  to  the  dead  soldier  and  his  widow  on 
the  field  of  battle  was  made  the  subject  of  a print 
by  Bunbury,  under  which  were  engraved  the  pa- 
thetic lines  of  Langhorne.  Sir  Walter  Scott  has 
mentioned,  that  tlie  only  time  he  saw  Burns,  the 
Scottish  poet,  this  picture  was  in  the  room.  Burns 
shed  tears  over  it;  and  Scott,  then  a lad  of  fifteen, 
was  the  only  person  present  who  could  tell  him 
where  the  lines  were  to  be  found.  The  passage  is 
beautiful  in  itself,  but  this  incident  will  embalm  and 
nreserve  it  for  ever. 

\_Appecd  to  Country  Justices  in  Behalf  of  the  Rural 
Poor.'] 

Let  age  no  longer  toll  with  feeble  strife. 

Worn  by  long  service  in  the  war  of  life  ; 

Nor  leave  the  head,  that  time  hath  whitened,  bare 
To  the  rude  insults  of  the  searching  air ; 

Nor  bid  the  knee,  by  labour  hardened,  bend, 

O thou,  the  poor  man’s  hope,  the  poor  man’s  friend  ! 

If,  when  from  heaven  severer  seasons  fall. 

Fled  from  the  frozen  roof  and  mouldering  wall, 

Each  face  the  picture  of  a winter  day. 

More  strong  than  Teniers’  pencil  could  portray; 

If  then  to  thee  re.sort  the  shivering  train. 

Of  cruel  days,  and  cruel  man  complain. 

Say  to  thy  heart  (remembering  him  who  said), 

‘ These  people  come  from  far,  and  have  no  bread.’ 

Nor  leave  thy  venal  clerk  empowered  to  hear; 

The  voice  of  want  is  sacred  to  thy  ear. 

He  where  no  fees  his  sordid  pen  invite. 

Sports  with  their  tears,  too  indolent  to  write ; 

Like  the  fed  monkey  in  the  fable,  vain 
To  hear  more  helpless  animals  complain. 

But  chief  thy  notice  shall  one  monster  claim  ; 

A monster  furnished  with  a human  frame — 

The  parish-officer! — though  verse  disdain 
Terms  that  deform  the  splendour  of  the  strain. 

It  stoops  to  bid  thee  bend  the  brow  severe 
On  the  sly,  pilfering,  cruel  overseer ; 

The  shuffling  farmer,  faithful  to  no  trust, 
lluthless  as  rocks,  insatiate  as  the  dust  1 


When  the  jioor  hind,  with  length  of  years  decayed, 
Leans  feebly  on  his  once-subduing  spade. 

Forgot  the  service  of  his  abler  days. 

His  profitable  toil,  and  hone.st  praise. 

Shall  tins  low  wretch  abridge  his  scanty  bread. 

This  slave,  whose  board  his  former  labours  sjircad  I 
When  harvest’s  burning  suns  and  sickening  air 
From  labour’s  unbraced  hand  the  grasped  hook  tear, 
Where  shall  the  helpless  family  be  fed. 

That  vainly  languish  for  a father’s  bread  ? 

See  the  inile  mother,  sunk  with  grief  and  care, 

To  the  proud  farmer  fearfully  repair; 

Soon  to  be  sent  with  insolence  away. 

Referred  to  vestries,  and  a distant  day ! 

Referre<l — to  perish  ! Is  my  verse  severe  ? 

Unfriendly  to  the  human  character? 

Ah  ! to  this  sigh  of  sad  experience  tru.st : 

The  truth  is  rigid,  but  the  tale  is  just. 

If  in  thy  courts  this  caitiff  wTetch  appear, 

Think  not  that  patience  were  a virtue  here. 

His  low-born  pride  with  honest  rage  control ; 

Smite  his  hard  heart,  and  shake  his  reptile  soul. 

But,  hapless  ! oft  through  fear  of  future  wo, 

And  certain  vengeance  of  the  insulting  foe  ; 

Oft,  ere  to  thee  the  poor  prefer  their  prayer. 

The  last  extremes  of  penury  they  bear. 

Wouldst  thou  then  raise  thy  patriot  office  higher  ' 
To  something  more  than  magistrate  aspire  I 
And,  left  each  poorer,  pettier  chase  behind, 

Step  nobly  forth,  the  friend  of  human  kind  ! 

The  game  I start  courageously  pursue ! 

Adieu  to  fear ! to  insolence  adieu  I 

And  first  we’ll  range  this  mountain’s  stormy  side. 

Where  the  rude  winds  the  shepherd’s  roof  deride, 

As  meat  no  more  the  wintry  blast  to  bear. 

And  all  the  wild  hostilities  of  air. 

That  roof  have  I remembered  many  a year ; 

It  once  gave  refuge  to  a hunted  deer — 

Here,  in  those  days,  we  found  an  aged  pair; 

But  time  untenants — ha  ! what  seest  thou  there ! 

‘ Horror ! — by  Heaven,  extended  on  a bed 
Of  naked  fern,  two  human  creatures  dead  I 
Embracing  as  alive  ! — ah,  no  ! — no  life  ! 

Cold,  breathless !’ 

’Tis  the  shepherd  and  his  wiie. 

I knew  the  scene,  and  brought  thee  to  behold 
What  speaks  more  strongly  than  the  story  told — 
They  died  through  want — 

‘ By  every  power  I sweat. 

If  the  wretch  treads  the  earth,  or  breathes  the  air. 
Through  whose  default  of  duty,  or  design. 

These  victims  fell,  he  dies.’ 

They  fell  by  thine. 

‘ Infernal ! Mine  ! — by ’ 

Swear  on  no  pretence  : 

A swearing  justice  wants  both  grace  and  sense. 

[An  Advice  to  the  Mai-ried.'] 

Should  erring  nature  casual  faults  disclose. 

Wound  not  the  breast  that  harbours  your  repose; 

For  every  grief  that  breast  from  you  shall  prove. 

Is  one  link  broken  in  the  chain  of  love. 

Soon,  with  their  objects,  other  woes  are  past. 

But  pains  from  those  we  love  are  pains  that  last. 
Though  faults  or  follies  from  reproach  may  fly. 

Yet  in  its  shade  the  tender  passions  die. 

Love,  like  the  flower  that  courts  the  sun’s  kinU  ray, 
Will  flourish  only  in  the  smites  of  day ; 

Distrust’s  cold  air  the  generous  plant  annoys. 

And  one  chill  blight  of  dire  contempt  destroys 
Oh  shun,  my  friend,  avoid  that  dangerous  coast. 
Where  peace  expires,  and  fan  affection’s  lost ; 

By  wit,  by  grief,  by  anger  urged,  forbear 
The  speech  contemptuous  and  the  scornful  a’lr. 

73 


PitnM  1727  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  to  17 all. 

The  Dead. 

Of  them,  who  wrapt  in  earth  are  cold, 

No  more  the  smiling  day  shall  view, 

Should  many  a tender  tale  he  told. 

For  many  a tender  thought  is  due. 

Why  else  the  o’ergrown  paths  of  time, 

\Vould  tnus  the  lettered  sage  explore. 

With  pain  these  crumbling  ruins  climb, 

And  on  the  doubtful  sculpture  pore  2 

M'hy  seeks  he  with  unwearied  toil. 

Through  Death’s  dim  walks  to  urge  his  way. 
Reclaim  his  long  asserted  spoil. 

And  lead  Oblivion  into  day? 

’Tis  nature  prompts  by  toil  or  fear, 

Unmoved  to  range  through  Death’s  domain  ; 
The  tender  parent  loves  to  hear 
Her  children’s  story  told  again  1 

Eternal  Providence. 

Light  of  the  world.  Immortal  Mind ; 

Father  of  all  the  human  kind  ! 

M'hose  boundless  eye  that  knows  no  rest. 
Intent  on  nature' s ample  orea.it. 

Explores  the  space  of  earth  and  skies. 

And  sees  eternal  incense  rise! 

To  thee  my  humble  voice  I raise  ; 

Forgive,  while  I presume  to  praise. 

Though  thou  this  transient  being  gave. 

That  shortly  sinks  into  the  grave ; 

Y et  ’twas  thy  goodness  still  to  give 
A being  that  can  think  and  live ; 

In  all  thy  works  thy  wisdom  see. 

And  stretch  its  towering  mind  to  thee. 

To  thee  my  humble  voice  I raise ; 

Forgive,  while  I presume  to  praise. 

And  still  this  poor  contracted  span, 

This  life,  that  bears  the  name  of  man. 

From  thee  derives  its  vital  ray. 

Eternal  source  of  life  and  day ! 

Thy  bounty  still  the  sunshine  pours. 

That  gilds  its  morn  and  evening  hours. 

To  thee  my  humble  voice  I raise ; 

Forgive,  while  I presume  to  praise. 

Through  error’s  maze,  through  folly’s  night. 
The  lamp  of  reason  lends  me  light ; 

Where  stern  affliction  waves  her  rod. 

My  heart  confides  in  thee,  my  God! 

When  nature  shrinks,  oppressed  with  woes. 
Even  then  she  finds  in  thee  repose. 

To  thee  my  humble  voice  I raise ; 

Forgive,  while  I presume  to  praise. 

Affliction  flies,  and  Hope  returns  ; 

Her  lamp  with  brighter  splendour  bums  ; 

Gay  Love  with  all  his  smiling  train. 

And  Peace  and  Joy  are  here  again ; 

These,  these,  I know,  ’twas  thine  to  give ; 

I trusted  ; and,  behold,  1 live ! 

To  thee  my  humble  voice  I raise ; 

Forgive,  while  I presume  to  praise. 

0 may  I still  thy  favour  prove  ! 

Still  grant  me  gratitude  and  love. 

Let  truth  and  virtue  guard  my  heart ; 

Nor  peace,  nor  hope,  nor  joy  depart; 

Ivut  yet,  whate’er  my  life  may  be. 

My  heart  shall  still  repose  on  thee ! 

To  thee  my  humble  voice  I raise ; 

Forgive,  while  I presume  to  praise. 

[A  Farewell  Hymn  to  the  Valley  of  Irwan.'\ 
Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan’s  vale. 

My  infant  years  where  F'ancy  led. 

And  soothed  me  with  the  western  gale. 

Her  wild  dreams  waving  round  my  head. 

While  the  blithe  blackbird  told  his  tale. 

Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan’s  vale ! 

The  primrose  on  the  valley’s  side, 

'I'he  green  thyme  on  the  mountain’s  head. 

The  wanton  rose,  the  daisy  pied. 

The  wilding’s  blossom  blushing  red; 

No  longer  I tbeir  sweets  inhale. 

F'arewell  the  fields  of  Irwan’s  vale ! 

How  oft,  within  yon  vacant  shade. 

Has  evening  closed  my  careless  eye! 

How  oft,  along  those  banks  I’ve  strayed. 

And  watched  the  wave  that  wandered  by; 

Full  long  their  loss  shall  I bewail. 

Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan’s  vale ! 

Yet  still,  within  yon  vacant  grove. 

To  mark  the  close  of  parting  day; 

Along  yon  flowery  banks  to  rove. 

And  watch  the  wave  that  winds  away ; 

Fair  Fancy  sure  shall  never  fail. 

Though  far  from  these  and  Irwan’s  vale. 

SIR  WILLIAM  BLACKSTONE. 

Few  votaries  of  the  muses  have  had  the  resolution 
to  abandon  their  early  -worship,  or  to  cast  off  ‘ the 
Dalilahs  of  the  imagination,’  when  embarked  on 
more  gainful  callings.  An  example  of  this,  however, 
is  afforded  by  the  case  of  Sir  William  Blackstonb 
(born  in  London  in  1723,  died  1780),  who,  having 
made  choice  of  the  law  for  his  profession,  and  en- 
tered himself  a student  of  the  IMiddle  Temple,  took 
formal  leave  of  poetry  in  a copy  of  natural  and 
pleasing  verses,  published  in  Dodsley’s  Miscellany. 
Blackstone  rose  to  rank  and  fame  as  a lawyer,  wrote 
a series  of  masterly  commentaries  on  the  laws  of 
England,  was  knighted,  and  died  a judge  in  the 
court  of  common  pleas.  From  some  critical  notes 
on  Shakspeare  by  Sir  William,  published  by  Stevens, 
it  would  appear  that,  though  he  had  forsaken  his 
muse,  he  still  (like  Charles  Lamb,  when  he  had  given 
up  the  use  of  the  ‘ great  plant,’  tobacco)  ‘ loved  to 
live  in  the  suburbs  of  her  graces.’ 

The  Lawyer's  Farewell  to  his  Muse. 

As,  by  some  tyrant’s  stern  command, 

A wretch  forsakes  his  native  land. 

In  foreign  climes  condemned  to  roam 
An  endless  exile  from  his  home ; 

Pensive  he  treads  the  destined  way. 

And  dreads  to  go  ; nor  dares  to  stay ; 

Till  on  some  neighbouring  mountain’s  brow 
He  stops,  and  turns  his  eyes  below ; 

There,  melting  at  the  well-known  view. 

Drops  a last  tear,  and  bids  adieu : 

So  I,  thus  doomed  from  thee  to  part. 

Gay  queen  of  fancy  and  of  art. 

Reluctant  move,  with  doubtful  mind. 

Oft  stop,  and  often  look  behind. 

Companion  of  my  tender  age. 

Serenely  gay,  and  sweetly  sage. 

How  blithesome  we  were  wont  to  rove. 

By  verdant  hill  or  shady  grove. 

Where  fervent  bees,  with  humming  voice. 

Around  the  honied  oak  rejoice. 

And  aged  elms  with  awful  bend,  I 

In  long  cathedral  walks  extend  ! 

Lulled  by  the  lap.se  of  gliding  floods,  < 

Cheered  by  the  warbling  of  the  woodii, 

74 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


DR  THOMAS  I jtncy 


IIow  blest  my  days,  my  thoughts  how  free, 
In  sweet  society  with  tliee  ! 

Then  all  was  joyous,  all  was  young, 

And  years  unlicodcd  rolled  along  : 

Rut  now  the  pleasing  dream  is  o’er. 

These  scenes  must  charm  me  now  no  more; 
Lost  to  the  fields,  and  torn  from  you — 
Farewell ! — a long,  a last  adieu. 

Me  Avrangling  courts,  and  stubborn  law, 

To  smoke,  and  crowds,  and  cities  draw  : 
There  selfish  faction  rules  the  day. 

And  pride  and  avarice  throng  the  way ; 
Diseases  taint  the  murky  air. 

And  midnight  conllagrations  glare  ; 

Loose  Revelry,  and  Riot  bold. 

In  frighted  streets  their  orgies  hold ; 

Or,  where  in  silence  all  is  drowned. 

Fell  Murder  ivalks  his  lonely  round ; 

No  room  for  peace,  no  room  for  you  ; 

Adieu,  celestial  nymph,  adieu! 

Shaksj  eare,  no  more  thy  sylvan  son, 

Nor  all  the  art  of  Addison, 

Pope’s  heaven-strung  lyre,  nor  Waller’s  ease, 
Nor  Milton’s  mighty  self  must  please: 
Instead  of  these,  a formal  band 
In  furs  and  coifs  around  me  stand  ; 

With  sounds  uncouth  and  accents  dry, 

That  grate  the  soul  of  harmony. 

Each  pedant  s.age  unlocks  his  store 
Of  mystic,  dark,  discordant  lore. 

And  points  with  tottering  hand  the  wa}’s 
That  lead  me  to  the  thorny  maze. 

There,  in  a winding  elose  retreat. 

Is  justice  doomed  to  fix  her  seat ; 

There,  fenced  by  bulwarks  of  the  law, 

She  keeps  the  wondering  world  in  awe ; 

And  there,  from  vulgar  sight  retired. 

Like  eastern  queen,  is  more  admired. 

Oh  let  me  pierce  the  secret  shade 
Where  dwells  the  venerable  maid! 

There  humbly  mark,  with  reverent  awe. 

The  guardian  of  Britannia’s  law ; 

Unfold  with  joy  her  sacred  page. 

The  united  boast  of  many  an  age  ; 

Where  mixed,  yet  uniform,  appears 
The  wisdom  of  a thousand  years. 

In  that  pure  spring  the  bottom  view. 

Clear,  deep,  and  regularly  true  ; 

And  other  doctrines  thence  imbibe 
Than  lurk  rvithin  the  sordid  scribe ; 

Observe  how  parts  with  parts  unite 
In  one  harmonious  rule  of  right ; 

See  countless  Avheels  distinctly  tend 
By  various  laws  to  one  great  end  ; 

M'hile  mighty  Alfred’s  piercing  soul 
Pervades,  and  regulates  the  whole. 

Then  welcome  business,  welcome  strife, 
Welcome  the  cares,  the  thorns  of  life, 

The  visage  wan,  the  pore-blind  sight. 

The  toil  by  day,  the  lamp  at  night. 

The  tedious  forms,  the  solemn  prate. 

The  pert  dispute,  the  dull  debate. 

The  drowsy  bench,  the  babbling  hall. 

For  thee,  fair  Justice,  welcome  all ! 

Thus  though  my  noon  of  life  be  past. 

Yet  let  my  setting  sun,  at  last. 

Find  out  the  still,  the  rural  cell. 

Where  sage  retirement  loves  to  dwell  1 
There  let  me  taste  the  homefelt  bliss 
Of  innocence  and  inward  peace ; 

Untainted  by  the  guilty  bribe, 

Uncursed  amid  the  harpy  tribe ; 

No  orphan’s  cry  to  wound  my  ear ; 

My  honour  and  my  conscience  clear. 

Thus  may  I calmly  meet  my  end. 

Thus  to  the  grave  in  peace  descend. 


DR  THOMAS  PERCY. 

Dr  Thomas  Percy,  afterwards  bishop  of  Dro- 
niore,  in  1765  published  his  Jieliqiies  of  English 
Poetry,  in  which  several  excellent  old  songs  and 
ballads  were  revived,  and  a selection  made  of  the 
best  lyrical  pieces  scattered  through  the  works  of 
modern  authors.  The  learning  and  ability  witli 
which  Percy  executed  his  task,  and  the  sterling 
value  of  his  materials,  recommended  his  volumes  to 
public  favour.  They  found  their  way  into  the  hands 
of  poets  and  poetical  re.aders,  and  awakened  a love 
of  nature,  simplicity,  and  true  passion,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  that  coldly-correct  and  sentimental  style 
w’hich  pervaded  part  of  our  literature.  The  influ- 
ence of  Percy’s  collection  was  general  and  extensive. 
It  is  evident  in  many  contemporary  authors.  It 
gave  the  first  impulse  to  the  genius  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott ; and  it  may  be  seen  in  the  writings  of  Cole- 
ridge and  Wordsworth.  A fresh  fountain  of  poetry 
was  opened  up — a spring  of  sweet,  tender,  and  heroic 
thoughts  and  imaginations,  Avhich  could  never  be 
again  turned  back  into  the  artificial  channels  in 
Avhich  the  genius  of  poesy  had  been  too  long  and 
too  closely  confined.  Percy  Avas  himself  a poet. 
His  ballad,  ‘ O,  Nanny,  wilt  Thou  Gang  wi’  Me,’ 
the  ‘ Hermit  of  Warkworth,’  and  other  detached 
pieces,  evince  both  taste  and  talent.  We  subjoin  a 
cento,  ‘ 'The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray,’  which  Percy  says 
he  compiled  from  fragments  of  ancient  ballads,  to 
which  he  added  supplemental  st.anzas  to  connect 
them  together.  The  greater  part,  however,  is  his 
own.  The  life  of  Dr  Percy  presents  little  for  re- 
mark. He  was  born  at  Bridgnorth,  Shropshire,  in 
1728,  and,  after  his  education  at  Oxford,  entered  the 
church,  in  Avhich  he  was  successively  chaplain  to  the 
king,  dean  of  Carlisle,  and  bishop  of  Dromore : the 


The  Deanery,  Carlisle. 


latter  dignity  he  possessed  from  1782  till  his  death 
in  1811.  He  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Johnson, 
Goldsmith,  and  other  distinguished  men  of  his  day, 
and  lived  long  enough  to  hail  the  genius  of  the  most 
illustrious  of  his  admirers.  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


FROM  1727  cyclop^:dia  of  to  i7ao. 

0,  Nanny,  will  Thou  Gang  wi'  Me. 

0,  Nanny,  wilt  tliuu  Rang  wi’  me. 

Nor  sigh  to  leave  the  flaunting  town? 

Can  silent  glens  have  charms  for  thee, 

The  lowly  cot  and  russet  gown  1 
Nac  langer  drest  in  silken  sheen, 

Nae  langer  decked  wi’ jewels  rare, 

Say,  canst  thou  quit  each  courtly  scene, 
^VheIe  thou  wort  fairest  of  the  fair  1 

0,  Nanny,  wdien  thou’rt  far  awa. 

Wilt  thou  not  cast  a look  behind? 

Say,  canst  thou  face  the  flaky  snaw. 

Nor  shrink  before  the  winter  wind  t 
0 can  that  soft  and  gentle  mien 
Severest  hardships  learn  to  bear. 

Nor,  sad,  regret  each  courtly  scene. 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair! 

0 Nanny,  canst  thou  love  so  true. 

Through  perils  keen  wi’  me  to  gae? 

Or,  when  thy  swain  mishap  shall  rue. 

To  share  with  him  the  pang  of  wael 
Say,  should  disease  or  pain  befall. 

Wilt  thou  assume  the  nurse’s  care, 

Nor,  wishful,  those  gay  scenes  recall. 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

And  when  at  last  thy  love  shall  die. 

Wilt  thou  receive  his  parting  breath? 
Wilt  thou  repress  each  struggling  sigh. 

And  cheer  with  smiles  the  bed  of  death? 
And  wilt  thou  o’er  his  much-loved  elay 
Strew  flowers,  and  drop  the  tender  tear? 
Nor  then  regret  those  scenes  so  gay. 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair? 

2Vie  Fnar  of  Orders  Gray. 

It  was  a friar  of  orders  gray 
Walked  forth  to  tell  his  beads. 

And  he  met  with  a lady  fair. 

Clad  in  a pilgrim’s  weeds. 

Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend  friar  1 
1 pray  thee  t<dl  to  me. 

If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 
My  true  love  thou  didst  see.’ 

And  how  should  I know  your  true  love 
From  many  another  one  V 

Oh  1 by  his  cockle  hat  and  staff. 

And  by  his  sandal  shoon  : 

But  chiefly  by  his  face  and  mien. 

That  were  so  fair  to  view. 

His  flaxen  locks  that  sweetly  curled. 

And  eyes  of  lovely  blue.’ 

0 lady,  he  is  dead  and  gone ! 

Lady,  he’s  dead  and  gonel 
At  his  head  a green  grass  turf, 

And  at  his  heels  a stone. 

Within  these  holy  cloisters  long 
lie  languished,  and  he  died, 

Lamenting  of  a lady’s  love. 

And  ’plaining  of  her  pride. 

Here  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier 
Six  proper  youths  and  tall ; 

And  many  a tear  bedewed  his  grave 
Within  yon  kirkyard  wall.’ 

‘ And  art  thou  dead,  thou  gentle  youth — 
And  art  thou  dead  and  gone  ? 

And  didst  thou  die  for  love  of  me  ? 

Break,  cruel  heart  of  stone!’ 

‘ 0 weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  so. 

Some  ghostly  comfort  seek  : 

Let  not  vain  sorrow  rive  thy  heart. 

Nor  tears  bedew  thy  cheek.’ 

‘ 0 do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar. 

My  sorrow  now  rejirove  ; 

For  I have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 
That  e’er  won  lady’s  love. 

And  now,  alas  ! for  thy  sad  loss 
I’ll  evermore  weep  and  sigh; 

For  thee  I only  wished  to  live, 

I'or  thee  I wish  to  die.’ 

‘ Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more; 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain : 

For  violets  plucked,  the  sweetest  shower 
Will  ne’er  make  grow  again. 

Our  Joys  as  winged  dreams  do  fly; 

Why  then  should  sorrow  last? 

Since  grief  but  aggravates  thy  loss. 

Grieve  not  for  what  is  past.’ 

‘ 0 say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar  1 
I pray  thee  say  not  so  ; 

For  since  my  true  love  died  for  me, 

’Tis  meet  my  tears  should  flow. 

And  will  he  never  come  again — 

Will  he  ne’er  come  again? 

Ah,  no ! he  is  dead,  and  laid  in  his  gravcf 
For  ever  to  remain. 

His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  rose — 

The  comeliest  youth  was  he; 

But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave, 

Alas  1 and  wo  is  nr>e.’ 

‘ Sigh  no  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more. 

Men  w'ere  deceivers  ever ; 

One  foot  on  sea,  and  one  on  land. 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 

Hadst  thou  been  fond,  he  had  been  false. 
And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy ; 

For  young  men  ever  were  fickle  found. 

Since  summer  trees  were  leafy.’ 

‘ Now  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar, 

1 pray  thee  say  not  so ; 

My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart — 

0 he  was  ever  true ! 

And  art  thou  de.ad,  thou  much-loved  youth ! 
And  didst  thou  die  for  me? 

Then  farewell  home ; for  evermore 
A pilgrim  I will  be. 

But  first  upon  my  true  love’s  grave 
My  weary  limbs  I’ll  lay. 

And  thrice  I’ll  kiss  the  green  grass  turf 
That  wraps  his  breathless  clay.’ 

‘ Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  rest  a while 
Beneath  this  cloister  wall  ; 

The  cold  wind  through  the  hawthorn  blows. 
And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall.’ 

‘ 0 stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar, 

0 stay  me  not,  1 pray ; 

No  drizzly  rain  that  falls  on  me. 

Can  wash  my  fault  aw'ay.’ 

‘ Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  turn  again. 

And  dry  those  pearly  tears ; 

For  see,  beneath  this  gown  of  gray. 

Thy  own  true  love  appears. 

Here,  forced  by  grief  and  hopeless  love. 
These  holy  weeds  I sought ; 

And  here,  amid  these  lonely  walls. 

To  end  ray  days  I thought. 

7S 

rOKTS. 


ENOLISII  LITEUATUUE.  jamus  maci'iif.usob. 


But  Imply,  f<n-  my  year  of  grace 
Is  not  yet  passed  away, 

Might  1 still  hope  to  win  thy  love, 

No  longer  would  I stay.’ 

‘ Now  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy 
Once  more  unto  my  heart ; 

For  since  I’ve  found  thee,  lovely  youth, 
W’e  never  more  will  part.’ 

JAMES  MACPIIEUSON. 


The  translator  of  Ossian  stands  in  rather  a 
dubious  light  with  posterity,  and  seems  to  have 
been  willing  that  hi»  contemporaries  should  be  no 


James  Maeplierson. 


btdter  informed.  With  the  Celtic  Homer,  however, 
the  name  of  Maepherson  is  inseparably  connected. 
They  stand,  as  liberty  does  with  reason. 

Twinned,  and  from  her  hath  no  dividual  being. 

rime  and  a better  taste  have  abated  the  pleasure 
with  which  these  jiroductions  were  once  read  ; but 
poems  which  engrossed  so  much  attention,  which 
were  translated  into  many  different  languages,  which 
were  hailed  with  delight  by  Gray,  by  David  Hume, 
John  Home,  and  other  eminent  persons,  and  which 
formed  the  favourite  reading  of  Napoleon,  cannot 
be  considered  as  unw'orthy  of  notice. 

James  Macpherson  was  born  at  Kingussie,  a 
village  in  Inverness-  shire,  on  the  road  northwards 
from  Perth,  in  1738.  He  w'as  intended  for  the 
church,  and  received  the  necessary  education  at 
Aberdeen.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  he  published  a 
heroic  poem,  in  six  c.antos,  entitled  The  Highlander, 
which  at  once  proved  his  ambition  and  his  incapa- 
city. It  is  a miserable  production.  For  a short 
time  Alacpherson  taught  the  school  of  Ruthven, 
near  his  native  place,  whence  he  was  glad  to  remove 
as  tutor  in  the  family  of  Mr  Graham  of  Balgow'an. 
While  attending  his  pupil  (afterwards  Lord  Lyne- 
doch)  at  the  spa  of  Moffat,  he  became  acquainted 
with  Mr  John  Home,  the  author  of  ‘ Douglas,’  to 
whom  he  .showed  what  he  represented  as  the  trans- 
lations of  some  fragments  of  ancient  Gaelic  poetry, 
which  he  said  were  still  floating  in  the  Higldands. 
He  stated  that  it  was  one  of  the  favourite  amuse- 


ments of  his  countrymen  to  listen  to  the  tales  and 
compositions  of  their  ambient  bards,  and  he  de- 
scribed these  fragments  as  full  of  pathos  and  poe- 
tical imageiy.  Under  the  ittitronagc  of  Mr  Home’s 
friends — lilair,  Ciirlyle,  and  Fergusson — Macpher- 
son published  a small  volume  of  sixty  ]>agcs,  en- 
titled Fragments  of  Ancient  Poetry;  translated  from 
the  Gaelic  or  Erse  Language.  The  publication  iit- 
tracted  universal  attention,  and  a subscriittion  was 
made  to  enable  Macpherson  to  make  :i  tour  in  the 
Highlands  to  collect  other  pieces.  His  journey 
proved  to  be  highly  successful.  In  1762  he  pre- 
sented the  world  with  Fingal,  an  Ancient  Epic  Poem, 
in  Six  Books;  and  in  1763  Teinora,  another  epic 
poem,  in  eight  books.  The  sale  of  these  works  was 
immense.  The  possibility  that,  in  the  third  or 
fourth  century,  among  the  wild  retnote  mountains 
of  Scotland,  there  e.xisted  a people  exhibiting  all  the 
high  and  chivalrous  feelings  of  refined  valour,  gene- 
rosity, magnanimity,  and  virtue,  was  eminentlj'  cal- 
culated to  excite  astonishment ; while  the  idea  of 
the  poems  being  handed  down  by  tradition  through 
so  many'  centuries  among  rude,  savage,  and  bar- 
barous tribes,  Avas  no  less  astounding.  IMany  doubted 
— others  disbelieved — but  a still  greater  number 
‘ indulged  the  pleasing  supposition  that  Fingal 
fought  and  Ossian  sung.’  Macpherson  reali.sed 
£1200,  it  is  said,  by  these  productions.  In  1764 
the  poet  accompanied  Governor  Johnston  to  Pen- 
sacola as  his  secretary,  but  quarrelling  with  his 
patron,  he  returned,  and  fixed  his  residence  in 
London.  He  became  one  of  the  literary  suppor- 
ters of  the  administration,  imblished  some  histo- 
rical works,  and  was  a copious  pamphleteer.  In 
1773  he  published  a translation  of  the  Iii;id  in  the 
same  style  of  poetical  i>rose  as  Ossian,  which  was 
a complete  failure,  unless  as  a source  of  ridicule 
.and  personal  opi)robrium  to  the  translator.  He 
Avas  more  successful  as  a politiiaan.  A ])ami)hlet 
of  his  in  defence  of  the  tiixation  of  America,  and 
another  on  the  opposition  in  parliament  in  1779, 
were  much  applauded.  He  attempted  (as  Ave  have 
seen  from  his  manuscripts)  to  combat  the  Letters  of 
Junius,  Avriting  under  the  signatures  of  ‘ Jlusatus,’ 
‘ ScsBA'ola,’  &c.  He  Avas  appointed  agent  for  the 
Nabob  of  Arcot,  and  obtained  a seat  in  ]iarliament 
as  representative  for  the  borough  of  Camelford.  It 
does  not  appear,  hoAvever,  that,  Avith  all  his  ambi- 
tion and  political  zeal,  Macpherson  ever  attempted 
to  speak  in  the  House  of  Commons.  In  1789  the 
poet,  having  realised  a handsotne  fortune,  purchased 
the  property  of  Raitts,  in  his  native  p.irish,  and 
having  changed  its  name  to  the  more  euphonious 
and  sounding  one  of  Belleville,  he  built  upon  it  a 
splendid  residence,  designed  by  the  Adelphi  Adams, 
in  the  style  of  an  Italian  villa,  in  Avliicli  he  hoiiej 
to  spend  an  old  age  of  ease  and  dignity.  He  died  at 
Belleville  on  the  17th  of  February  1796.  leaving  a 
handsome  fortune,  Avhich  is  still  enjoyed  by  his  fa- 
mily. His  eldest  daughter.  Miss  Macjiher.son,  is  at 
present  (1842)  proprietrix  of  the  estate,  and  another 
daughter  of  the  poet  is  the  Avife  of  the  distinguished 
n.atural  philosopher.  Sir  David  BrcAvster.  'The  eager- 
ness of  Macpherson  for  the  admiration  of  his  ftlloAv- 
creatures  Avas  seen  by  some  of  the  bciiucsts  of  his 
Avill.  He  ordered  that  his  body  should  ne  interred 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  that  a sum  of  £301) 
should  be  laid  out  in  erecting  a monument  to  his 
memory  in  some  conspioious  situation  at  Belleville. 
Both  injunctions  Avere  duly  fulfilled  : the  body  Avas 
interred  in  Poets’  Corner,  and  a marble  obelisk,  con- 
taining a medallion  portrait  of  the  poet,  may  be  seen 
gleaming  amidst  a clump  of  trees  by  the  road-side 
near  Kingussie 

The  fierce  controversy  Avhich  raged  for  some  time 

77 


FiWM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


as  to  the  autlionticity  of  the  poems  of  Ossian,  tlie 
incredulity  of  Jolinson,  and  the  obstinate  sileiu^c  of 
Maepherson,  a>-e  cireuinstances  well  known.  'J'here 
seems  to  he  no  doubt  that  a great  body  of  tradi- 
tional poetry  was  floating  over  the  Highlands,  whieh 
Maepher.son  collected  and  wrought  ui>  into  regular 
poems.  It  would  seem  also  that  Gaelic  manuscripts 
were  in  existence,  whieh  he  received  from  different 
families  to  aid  in  his  translation.  How  much  of  the 
published  work  is  ancient,  and  how  much  fabricated, 
cannot  now  be  a.scertained.  'J'he  Highland  Society 
instituted  a regular  inquiry  into  the  subject;  and  in 
their  report,  the  comndttee  state  that  they  ‘ have  not 
been  able  to  obtain  any  one  poem  the  same  in  title 
and  tenor  with  the  poems  published.’  Detached 
passages,  the  names  of  characters  and  places,  with 
: some  of  the  wild  imagery  characteristic  of  the 

country,  and  of  the  attributes  of  Celtic  imagination, 
undoubtedly  existed.  The  ancient  tribes  of  the 
Celts  had  their  regular  bards,  even  dowm  to  a com- 
paratively late  period.  A people  like  the  natives  of 
the  Highlands,  leading  an  idle  inactive  life,  and 
doomed  from  their  climate  to  a severe  protracted 
winter,  were  also  well  adajited  to  transmit  from  one 
generation  to  another  the  fragments  of  ancient  song 
which  had  beguiled  their  infancy  and  youth,  and 
whieh  flattered  their  love  of  their  ancestors.  No 
person,  however,  now  believes  that  Maepherson 
found  entire  ejiic  poems  in  the  Highlands.  The 
origin  materials  were  probably  as  scanty  as  those  on 
which  Shakspeare  founded  the  marvellous  super- 
structures of  his  genius ; and  he  himself  has  not 
scrupled  to  state  (in  the  preface  to  his  last  edition 
of  Ossian)  that  ‘ a translator  who  cannot  equal  his 
original  is  incapable  of  expressing  its  beauties.’  Sir 
James  Mackintosh  has  suggested,  as  a s\ipposition 
countenanced  by  many  circumstances,  that,  after 
enjoying  the  pleasure  of  duping  so  many  critics, 
Maepherson  intended  one  day  to  claim  the  poems  as 
his  own.  ‘ If  he  had  such  a design,  considerable 
obstacles  to  its  execution  arose  around  him.  He  was 
loaded  wdth  so  much  praise,  that  he  seemed  bound  in 
honour  to  his  admirers  not  to  desert  them.  The 
support  of  his  own  country  appeared  to  render 
adherence  to  those  poems,  which  Scotland  incon- 
siderately sanctioned,  a sort  of  national  obligation. 
Exasperated,  on  the  other  hand,  by  the  perhaps 
unduly  vehement,  and  sometimes  very  coarse  attacks 
made  on  him,  he  was  unwilling  to  surrender  to  such 
opponents.  He  involved  himself  at  last  so  deeply, 
as  to  leave  him  no  decent  retreat.’  A somewhat 
sudden  and  premature  death  closed  the  scene  on 
Maepherson ; nor  is  there  among  the  papers  which 
he  left  behind  him  a single  line  that  throws  any  light 
upon  the  controversy. 

Mr  Wordsworth  has  condemned  the  imagery  of 
Ossian  as  spurious.  ‘ In  nature  everything  is  dis- 
tinct, j'et  nothing  defined  into  absolute  independent 
singleness.  In  ilacpherson’s  work  it  is  exactly  the 
reverse ; everything  (that  is  not  stolen)  is  in  this 
manner  defined,  insulated,  dislocated,  deadened — 
I yet  nothing  distinct.  It  wdll  always  be  so  w'hen 

I words  are  substituted  for  things.’  Part  of  this  cen- 

sure may  perhaps  be  owing  to  the  style  and  diction 
of  Maepherson,  which  have  a broken  abrupt  appear- 
ance and  sound.  The  imagery  is  drawn  from  the 
natural  appearances  of  a rude  mountainous  coun- 
try. The  grass  of  the  rock,  the  flower  of  the  heath, 
the  thistle  with  its  be.ard,  are  (as  Blair  observes) 
the  chief  ornaments  of  his  landscapes.  The  desert, 
with  all  its  woods  and  deer,  was  enough  for  Fin- 
gal.  We  suspect  it  is  the  sameness — the  perpetual 
recurrence  of  the  same  images — which  fatigues  the 
reader,  and  gives  a misty  confusion  to  the  objects 
«nd  incidents  of  the  poem.  That  there  i.s  some- 


thing i)oeticid  and  striking  in  Ossian— a wild  soli- 
tary magnificence,  pathos,  and  tenderness — i.s  un- 
deniable. 'I’lie  Desolation  of  Balclutha,  and  tbe 
lamentations  in  the  Song  of  Selma,  are  conceived 
with  true  feeling  and  poetical  power.  The  battles  of 
the  car-borne  heroes  are,  we  confess,  much  less  to  our 
taste,  and  seem  stilted  and  unnatural.  'I'hey  are 
like  the  Quixotic  encounters  of  knightly  romance, 
anil  want  the  air  of  remote  antiquity,  of  dim  and 
.solitary  grandeur,  and  of  shadowy  superstitious  fear, 
which  shrouds  the  wild  heaths,  lakes,  and  mountains 
of  Ossian. 

[Oman’s  Address  to  the  <Su«.3 

I feel  the  sun,  0 Malvina ! leave  me  to  my  rest. 
Perhaps  they  may  come  to  my  dreams ; I think  I 
hear  a feeble  voice ! The  beam  of  heaven  delights  to 
shine  on  the  grave  of  Carthon  ; I feel  it  warm  around. 

0 thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield  of 
my  fathers ! Whence  are  thy  beams,  O sun  ! thy 
everlasting  light?  Thou  coinest  forth  in  thy  awful 
beauty  ; the  stars  hide  themselves  in  the  sky ; the 
moon,  cold  and  pale,  sinks  in  the  western  wave ; but 
thou  thyself  movest  alone.  Who  can  be  a companion 
of  thy  course  ? The  oaks  of  the  mountains  fall ; the 
mountains  themselves  decay  with  years ; the  ocean 
shrinks  and  grows  again  ; the  moon  herself  is  lost  in 
heaven,  but  thou  art  for  ever  the  same,  rejoicing  in 
the  brightness  of  thy  course.  When  the  world  is  dark  i 
with  tempests,  when  thunder  rolls  and  lightning  flies,  i 
thou  lookest  in  thy  beauty  from  the  clouds,  and  ! 
laughest  at  the  storm.  But  to  Ossian  thou  lookest  in  , 
vain,  for  he  beholds  thy  beams  no  more  ; whether  thy 
yellow  hair  flows  on  the  eastern  clouds,  or  thou  trem- 
blest  at  the  gates  of  the  west.  But  thou  art  perhaps 
like  me  for  a season  ; thy  years  will  have  an  end 
Thou  shalt  sleep  in  thy  clouds  careless  of  the  voice  of 
the  morning.  Exult  then,  O sun,  in  the  strength  of 
thy  youth  ! Age  is  dark  and  unlovely  ; it  is  like  the 
glimmering  light  of  the  moon  when  it  shines  through 
broken  clouds,  and  the  mist  is  on  the  hills : the  blast 
of  the  north  is  on  the  plain  ; the  traveller  shrinks  iu 
the  midst  of  his  journey. 

\_FingaVs  A iry  llall.'\ 

His  friends  sit  around  the  king,  on  mist ! They 
hear  the  songs  of  Ullin  : he  strikes  the  half-viewless 
harp.  He  raises  the  feeble  voice.  The  lesser  heroes, 
with  a thou,sand  meteors,  light  the  airy  hall.  Malvina 
rises  in  the  midst ; a blush  is  on  her  cheek.  She 
beholds  the  unknown  faces  of  her  fathers.  She  turns 
aside  her  humid  eyes.  ‘ Art  thou  come  so  soon  ?’  said 
Fingal,  ‘ daughter  of  generous  Toscar.  Sadness  dwells 
in  the  halls  of  Lutha.  My  aged  son  is  sad  ! I hear 
the  breeze  of  Cona,  that  was  wont  to  lift  thy  heavy 
locks.  It  comes  to  the  hall,  but  thou  art  not  there.  i 
Its  voice  is  mournful  among  the  arms  of  thy  fathers  1 i 
Go,  with  thy  rustling  wing,  oh  breeze ! sigh  on  Mal- 
vina’s tomb.  It  rises  yonder  beneath  the  rock,  at  the 
blue  stream  of  Lutha.  The  maids  are  departed  to 
their  place.  Thou  alone,  oh  breeze,  moumest  there  1’ 

{^Address  to  the  3foon.] 

Daughter  of  heaven,  fair  art  thou  ! the  silence  of 
thy  face  is  pleasant ! Thou  comest  forth  in  loveliness. 
The  stars  attend  thy  blue  course  in  the  east.  The 
clouds  rejoice  in  thy  presence,  O moon  ! they  brighten 
their  dark-brown  sides.  Who  is  like  thee  in  heaven, 
light  of  the  silent  night  ? The  stars  are  ashamed  in 
thy  presence.  They  turn  away  their  sparkling  eyes. 
Whither  dost  thou  retire  from  thy  course,  when  the 
darkness  of  thy  countenance  grows?  hast  thou  thy 
hall,  like  Ossian  ? dwellcst  thou  in  the  shadow  ol 

78 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  MACPHERSON 


pricf  1 have  thy  sisters  fallen  from  heaven!  are  they 
«ho  rejoiced  with  thee,  at  night,  no  more?  Yes, 
they  have  fallen,  fair  light ! and  thou  dost  often  re- 
tire to  mourn.  Rut  thou  thyself  shalt  fail,  one  night, 
and  leave  thy  blue  path  in  heaven.  The  stars  will 
then  lift  their  heads : they,  who  were  ashamed  in  thy 
presence,  will  rejoice.  Thou  art  now  clothed  with 
thy  brightness.  Look  from  thy  gates  in  the  sky. 
Burst  the  cloud,  0 wind  ! that  the  daughter  of  night 
may  look  forth!  that  the  shaggy  mountains  may 
brighten,  and  the  ocean  roll  its  white  waves  in  light. 

[Desolation  of  BalcluthaJl 

i have  seen  the  walls  of  Ralclutha,  but  they  were 
desolate.  The  fire  had  resounded  in  the  halls ; and 
the  voice  of  the  people  is  heard  no  more.  The 
stream  of  Clutha  was  removed  from  its  place  by  the 
fall  of  the  walls.  The  thistle  shook  there  its  lonely 
head  ; the  moss  whistled  to  the  wind.  The  fox  looked 
out  from  the  windows ; the  rank  grass  of  the  wall 
waved  round  its  head.  Desolate  is  the  dwelling  of 
Moina ; silence  is  in  the  house  of  her  fathers.  Raise 
the  song  of  mourning,  0 bards ! over  the  land  of 
strangers.  They  have  but  fallen  before  us ; for  one 
day  we  must  fall.  Why  dost  thou  build  the  hall, 
son  of  the  winged  days?  Thou  lookest  from  thy 
towers  to-day : yet  a few  years,  and  the  blast  pf  the 
desert  comes ; it  howls  in  thy  empty  court,  and 
whistles  round  thy  half-worn  shield.  And  let  the 
blast  of  the  desert  come ! we  shall  be  renowned  in 
our  day ! The  mark  of  my  arm  shall  be  in  battle  ; 
my  name  in  the  song  of  bards.  Raise  the  song,  send 
round  the  shell ; let  joy  be  heard  in  my  hall.  When 
thou,  sun  of  heaven,  shalt  fail  I if  thou  shalt  fail, 
thou  mighty  light ! if  thy  brightness  is  but  for  a sea- 
son, like  Fingal,  our  fame  shall  survive  thy  beams. 
Such  was  the  song  of  Fingal  in  the  day  of  his  joy. 

[A  Description  of  Female  Beauty. ~\ 

The  daughter  of  the  snow  overheard,  and  left  the 
hall  of  her  secret  sigh.  She  came  in  all  her  beauty, 
like  the  moon  from  the  cloud  of  the  east.  Loveliness 
was  around  her  as  light.  Her  steps  were  like  the 
music  of  songs.  She  saw  the  youth  and  loved  him. 
He  was  the  stolen  sigh  of  her  soul.  Her  blue  eyes 
rolled  on  him  in  secret;  and  she  blest  the  chief  of 
Morven. 

[Tk^Semgs  of  Sehna.'\ 

Star  of  descending  night ! fair  is  thy  light  in  the 
west ! thou  liftest  thy  unshorn  head  from  thy  cloud  : 
thy  steps  are  stately  on  thy  hill.  What  dost  thou 
behold  in  the  plain  ? The  stormy  winds  are  laid. 
The  murmur  of  the  torrent  comes  from  afar.  Roaring 
waves  climb  the  distant  rock.  The  flies  of  evening 
are  on  their  feeble  wings ; the  hum  of  their  course  is 
on  the  field.  What  dost  thou  behold,  fair  light  ? 
But  thou  dost  smile  and  depart.  The  waves  come 
with  joy  around  thee : they  bathe  thy  lovely  hair. 
Farewell,  thou  silent  beam!  Let  the  light  of  Ossian’s 
soul  arise ! 

And  it  does  arise  in  its  strength ! I behold  my  de- 
parted friends.  Their  gathering  is  on  Lora,  as  in  the 
days  of  other  years.  Fingal  comes  like  a watery 
column  of  mist ; his  heroes  are  around  : And  see  the 
bards  of  song,  gray-haired  Ullin ! stately  Ryno ! 
Alpin,  with  the  tuneful  voice  ! the  soft  complaint  of 
Minona ! How  are  ye  changed,  my  friends,  since  the 
days  of  Selma’s  feast?  when  we  contended,  like  gales 
of  spring,  as  they  fly  along  the  hill,  and  bend  by 
turns  the  feebly-whistling  grass. 

Minona  came  forth  in  her  beauty,  with  downcast 
look  and  tearfa'  eye.  Her  hair  flew  slowly  on  the 


blast,  that  rushed  unfrequent  from  the  hill.  The 
souls  of  the  heroes  were  sad  when  she  raised  the  tune- 
ful voice.  Often  had  they  seen  the  grave  of  Salgar, 
the  dark  dwelling  of  white-bosomed  Colma.  Colma 
left  alone  on  the  hill,  with  all  her  voice  of  song ! 
Salgar  promised  to  come : but  the  night  descended 
around.  Hear  the  voice  of  Colma,  when  she  sat  alone 
on  the  hill! 

Colma.  It  is  night ; I am  alone,  forlorn  on  the  hill 
of  storms.  The  wind  is  heard  in  the  mountain.  The  , 
torrent  pours  down  the  rock.  No  hut  receives  me 
from  the  rain  ; forlorn  on  the  hill  of  winds  ! 

Rise,  moon  ! from  behind  thy  clouds.  Stars  of  the 
night,  arise  ! Lead  me,  some  light,  to  the  place  where 
my  love  rests  from  the  chase  alone  ! his  bow  near  him, 
unstrung : his  dogs  panting  around  him.  But  here  I 
must  sit  alone,  by  the  rock  of  the  mossy  stream.  The 
stream  and  the  wind  roar  aloud.  I hear  not  the  voice 
of  my  love  ! Why  delays  my  Salgar,  why  the  chief 
of  the  hill  his  promise  ? Here  is  the  rock,  and  here 
the  tree!  here  is  the  roaring  stream!  Thou  didst 
promise  with  night  to  be  here.  Ah ! whither  is  my 
Salgar  gone?  With  thee  I would  fly  from  my  father', 
with  thee  from  my  brother  of  pride.  Our  race  have 
long  been  foes  ; we  are  not  foes,  0 Salgar! 

Cease  a little  while,  0 wind ! stream,  be  thou  silent 
a while!  let  my  voice  be  heard  around  ! Let  my  wan- 
derer hear  me!  Salgar,  it  is  Colma  who  calls!  Here 
is  the  tree  and  the  rock.  Salgar,  my  love ! I am  here. 
Why  delayest  thou  thy  coming?  Lo  ! the  calm  moon 
comes  forth.  The  flood  is  bright  in  the  vale.  The 
rocks  are  gray  on  the  steep.  I see  him  not  on ' the 
brow.  His  dogs  come  not  before  him  with  tidings  of 
his  near  approach.  Here  I must  sit  alone ! 

M'ho  lie  on  the  heath  beside  me  ? Are  they  my 
love  and  my  brother  ? Speak  to  me,  0 my  friend  ! To 
Colma  they  give  no  reply.  Speak  to  me : I am 
alone ! My  soul  is  tormented  with  fears ! Ah ! they 
are  dead  ! Their  swords  are  red  from  the  fight.  O my 
brother  ! my  brother!  why  hast  thou  slain  my  Salgar  ? 
why,  0 Salgar!  hast  thou  slain  my  brother?  Dear 
were  ye  both  to  me ! what  .shall  I say  in  your  praise  ? 
Thou  wert  fair  on  the  hill  among  thousands  ! he  was 
terrible  in  fight.  Speak  to  me  ; hear  my  voice  ; hear  ! 
me,  sons  of  my  love ! They  are  silent ; silent  for 
ever ! Cold,  cold  are  their  breasts  of  clay ! Oh  ! 
from  the  rock  on  the  hill ; from  the  top  of  the  windy 
steep,  speak,  ye  ghosts  of  the  dead  ! speak,  I will 
not  be  afraid!  Whither  are  you  gone  to  rest!  In 
what  cave  of  the  hill  shall  I find  the  departed?  No 
feeble  voice  is  on  the  gale : no  answer  half-drowned  in 
the  storm  ! 

I sit  in  my  grief!  I wait  for  n oraing  in  my  tears  ! 
Rear  the  tomb,  ye  friends  of  the  dead.  Close  it  not 
till  Colma  come.  My'  life  flies  away  like  a dream : 
why  .should  I stay  behind  ? Here  shall  I re.st  with 
my  friends  by  the  stream  of  the  soun.iing  rock.  When 
night  comes  on  the  hill,  when  the  loud  winds  arise, 
my  ghost  shall  stand  in  the  blast,  and  mourn  the 
death  of  my  friends.  The  hunter  shall  hear  from  his 
booth  ; he  shall  fear,  but  love  my  voice ! for  sweet 
shall  my  voice  be  for  my  friends : pleasant  were  her 
friends  to  Colma ! 

Such  was  thy  song,  Minona,  softly  blushing  daughter 
of  Torman.  Our  tears  descended  for  Colma,  and  our 
souls  were  sad!  Ullin  came  with  his  hai'p;  he  gave 
the  song  of  Alpin.  The  voice  of  Alpin  was  pleasant ; 
the  soul  of  Ryno  was  a beam  of  fire ! But  they  had 
rested  in  the  narrow  house  ; their  voice  had  ceased  in 
Selma.  Ullin  had  returned  one  day  from  the  chase 
before  the  heroes  fell.  He  heard  their  strife  on  the 
hill ; their  song  was  soft  but  sad ; They  mourned 
the  fall  of  Morar,  first  of  mortal  men!  His  soul  was 
like  the  soul  of  Fingal ; his  sword  like  the  sword  of 
Oscar.  But  he  fell,  and  his  father  mourned ; his 
sister’s  eves  were  full  of  tears.  Minona’s  eyes  were 

79 


i»uo.M  1727  CYCr/)IVHI)IA  OF  to  178o 


full  of  tears,  the  sister  of  car-borne  Morar.  She  re- 
tired from  the  sono  of  I'llin,  like  the  moon  in  the 
rvest,  when  she  foresees  the  shower,  and  hides  her  fair 
head  in  a cloud.  I touched  the  harp,  with  Ullin  ; 
the  song  of  monrning  rose  ! 

liijiw.  The  w ind  and  the  rain  are  past ; calm  is  the 
noon  o(  da;'.  The  clouds  are  divided  in  heaven.  Over 
I lie  green  hills  Hies  the  incon.stant  sun.  Kcd  through 
the  stony  vale  comes  down  the  .stream  of  the  hill. 
Sweet  are  thy  murmurs,  O stream  1 but  more  sweet  is 
the  voice  1 hear.  It  is  the  voice  of  Alpin,  the  son  of 
S'lng,  mourning  for  the  dead!  lient  is  liis  head  of 
age  ; red  his  tearful  eye.  Alpin,  thou  son  of  song, 
wh;’  alone  on  the  silent  hill?  why  complainest  thou, 
its  a blast  in  the  wood  ; as  a wave  on  the  lonely 
shore? 

Alpin.  My  tears,  O Ryno ! are  for  the  dead;  my 
voice  for  tho.se  that  have  passed  away.  Tall  thou  art 
on  the  hill  ; fair  among  the  sons  of  the  vale.  But 
thou  shalt  fall  like  Morar  ; the  mourner  shall  sit  on 
thy  tomb.  The  hills  shall  know  thee  no  more;  thy 
bow  shall  lie  in  the  hall,  unstrung! 

Thou  wert  swift,  0 Morar!  as  a roe  on  the  desert ; 
terrible  as  a meteor  of  fire.  Thy  wrath  was  as  the 
storm.  Thy  sword  in  battle,  as  lightning  in  the  field. 
Thv  voice  was  a stream  after  rain  ; like  thunder  on 
distant  hills.  Many  fell  by  thy  arm  ; they  were  con- 
sumed in  the  tlamcs  of  thy  wrath.  But  when  thou 
didst  return  from  war,  how  peaceful  was  thy  brow  ! 
Thv  face  was  like  the  sun  after  rain  ; like  the  moon 
in  the  silence  of  night ; calm  as  the  breast  of  the  lake 
when  the  loud  wind  is  laid. 

Narrow  is  thy  dwelling  now!  dark  the  place  of  thine 
abode!  With  three  steps  1 comjiass  thy  grave,  O 
thou  wdio  wast  so  great  before!  Four  stones,  with 
their  heads  of  moss,  are  the  only  memorial  of  thee. 
A tree  with  scarce  a leaf,  long  grass  wdiich  whistles 
in  the  wind,  mark  to  the  hunter’s  eye  the  grave  of 
the  mighty  Morar.  lilorar  ! thou  art  low  indeed. 
Thou  hast  no  mother  to  mourn  thee ; no  maid  with 
her  tears  of  love.  Dead  is  she  that  brought  thee  forth. 
Fallen  is  the  d.aughter  of  Morglan. 

Who  on  his  staff  is  this  ? who  is  this,  whose  head 
is  tvhite  with  age  ? whose  eyes  are  red  with  tears  ? who 
quakes  at  every  step  ? It  is  thy  father,  O Morar ! the 
father  of  no  son  but  thee.  lie  heard  of  thy  fame  in 
war  ; he  heard  of  foes  disperseil  ; he  heard  of  Moral  ’s 
renown  ; why  di<l  he  not  hear  of  his  wound  ? Weep, 
thou  father  of  Morar ! weep  ; hut  thy  son  heareth 
thee  not.  Deep  is  the  sleep  of  the  dead  ; low  their 
pillow  of  dust.  No  more  shall  he  hear  thy  voice ; no 
more  awake  at  thy  call.  When  shall  it  be  morn  in 
the  grave,  to  bid  the  slumberer  awake?  Farewell, 
thou  bravest  of  men ! thou  conqueror  in  the  field  ! 
but  the  field  shall  see  thee  no  more ; nor  the  dark 
wood  be  lightened  with  the  splendour  of  thy  steel. 
Thou  hast  left  no  son.  The  song  shall  preserve  thy 
name.  Future  times  shall  hear  of  thee ; they  shall 
hear  of  the  fallen  Morar! 

The  grief  of  all  arose,  but  most  the  bursting  sigh 
of  Annin,  lie  remembers  the  death  of  his  son,  wdio 
fell  in  the  days  of  his  youth.  Carmor  was  near  the 
hero,  the  chief  of  the  echoing  Galmal.  Why  bursts 
the  sigh  of  Armin,  he  said  ? Is  there  a cause  to  mourn  ? 
The  song  comes,  with  its  music,  to  melt  and  plea.se 
the  soul.  It  is  like  soft  mist,  that,  rising  from  a lake, 
pours  on  the  silent  vale;  the  green  flowers  are  filled 
with  dew',  but  the  sun  returns  in  his  strength,  and  the 
mist  is  gone.  Why  art  thou  sad,  0 Armin  ! chief  of 
sea-surrounded  Gonna  ? 

Sad  I am ! nor  small  is  my  cause  of  wo ! Carmor, 
thou  hast  lost  no  son  ; thou  hast  lost  no  daughter  of 
beauty.  Colgar  the  valiant  lives  ; and  Annira,  fairest 
maid.  The  boughs  of  thy  house  ascend,  0 Carmor! 
but  Armiu  is  the  last  of  his  race.  Dark  is  thy  bed, 
0 Daura!  deep  thy  sleep  in  the  tomb!  When  shalt 


thou  awake  with  thy  songs?  with  all  thy  voice  of 
music  ? 

Arise,  winds  of  autumn,  arise  ; blow  along  the  heath! 
streams  of  the  mountains,  roar!  roar,  tempests,  in  the 
groves  of  my  oaks!  walk  through  broken  clouds,  O 
moon!  show  thy  pale  face  at  intervals!  bring  to  my 
mind  the  night  when  all  my  children  fell ; when 
Arindal  the  mighty  fell  ; when  Daur.a  the  lovely 
failed!  Daur.a,  my  daughter!  thou  wert  fair;  fair 
as  the  moon  on  Fura  ; w'hite  as  the  driven  snow  ; sweet 
as  the  breathing  gale.  Arindal,  thy  bow  was  strong; 
thy  H])ear  was  swift  in  the  field  ; thy  look  was  like 
mist  on  the  wave  ; thy  shield,  a red  cloud  in  a storm. 
.‘\rmar,  renowned  in  war,  came,  and  sought  Daura’s 
love.  He  was  not  long  refused;  fair  was  the  hope  1 
of  their  friends  ! I 

Krath,  son  of  Odgal,  repined  ; his  brother  had  been  | 
slain  by  Armor.  He  came  disguised  like  a son  of  the  I 
sea ; fair  was  his  skiff  on  the  wave ; white  his  locks  I 
of  age;  calm  his  serious  brow.  Fairest  of  women, 
he  .said,  lovely  daughter  of  Armin!  a rock  not  dis-  | 
tant  in  the  sea  bears  a tree  on  its  side ; red  shines  ; 
the  fruit  afar  ! There  Armor  waits  for  Daura.  I I 
come  to  carry  his  love!  She  went;  she  called  on  j 
Armar.  Nought  answered  but  the  son  of  the  rock,  i 
.'Vrmar,  my  love!  my  love!  why  tormentest  thou  me  ! 
with  fear?  hear,  son  of  Arnart,  hear;  it  is  Daura  who  I 
callelh  thee!  Krath  the  traitor  fled  laughing  to  the  | 
land.  She  lifted  up  her  voice;  she  called  for  her  . 
brother  and  her  father.  Arindal!  Armiu!  none  to 
relieve  your  Daura! 

Her  voice  came  over  the  sea.  Arindal  my  son  de-  | 
scended  from  the  hill ; rough  in  the  spoils  of  the 
chase.  His  arrows  rattled  by  his  side;  his  bow  was 
in  his  hand  ; five  dark  gray  dogs  attenil  his  steps.  He  i 
.saw'  fierce  Krath  on  the  shore  ; he  seized  and  bound  i 
him  to  an  oak.  Thick  wind  the  thongs  of  the  hide 
around  his  limbs  ; he  loads  the  wind  with  his  groans.  , 
Arindal  ascends  the  deep  in  his  boat,  to  bring  Daura  I 
to  land.  Armar  camt  in  his  wrath,  and  let  fly  the  ; 
gray-feathered  shaft.  It  sung;  it  sunk  in  thy  heart,  , 
U Arindal,  my  son  ! for  Krath  the  traitor  thou  diedst. 
The  oar  is  stopped  at  once  ; he  jianted  on  the  rock,  I 

and  e.vpircd.  What  is  thy  grief,  0 Daura ! w hen  j 

round  thy  feet  is  poured  thy  brother’s  blood  ! The  ] 
boat  is  broken  in  twain.  Armar  plunges  into  the  sea,  , , 
to  re.scue  his  Daura,  nr  die.  Sudden  a blast  from  the  i I 
hill  came  over  the  waves.  He  sunk,  and  he  rose  no  | 
more.  I 

Alone,  on  the  sea-beat  rock,  my  daughter  was  heard  i 
to  complain.  Frequent  and  loud  were  her  cries. 
What  could  her  father  do?  All  night  I stood  on 
the  shore.  I saw  her  by  the  faint  beam  of  the  moon. 

All  night  I heard  her  cries.  Loud  was  the  wind  ; the 
rain  beat  hard  on  the  hill.  Before  morning  appeared,  | 
her  voice  was  weak  ; it  died  away  like  the  evening  | 
breeze  among  the  grass  of  the  rocks.  Spent  with  grief, 

.she  e.xpircd  ; and  left  thee,  Armin,  alone.  Gone  is 
my  strength  in  war!  fallen  my  pride  among  women! 
When  the  storms  aloft  arise,  when  the  north  lifts 
the  wave  on  high,  1 sit  by  the  .sounding  shore,  and 
look  on  the  fatal  rock.  Often  by  the  .setting  moon 
I see  the  ghosts  of  iny  children.  Half-viewless,  they 
walk  in  mouniful  conference  together.  Will  none 
of  you  speak  in  pity  ? They  do  not  regard  their 
father.  1 am  sad,  0 Carmor  ! nor  small  is  my  cause 
of  wo! 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  bards  in  the  days 
of  song,  when  the  king  heard  the  music  of  harps, 
the  tales  of  other  times  ! The  chiefs  gathered  from 
all  their  hills,  and  heard  the  lovely  sound.  They 
praised  the  voice  of  Cona  ! the  first  among  a thousand 
bards  ! But  age  is  now  on  my  tongue ; my  soul  h.as 
failed  ! I hear,  at  times,  the  ghosts  of  bards,  and 
learn  their  pleasant  song.  But  memory  fails  on  my 
mind.  1 hear  the  call  of  years  1 They  say,  as  they 

ao 


ENGT.ISII  Lm-;UATU1{E. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


pass  aloH",  wliv  iloos  Ossiiin  sin"?  Soon  shall  ho  lie 
In  the  narrow  house,  ami  no  bartl  shall  raise  his  fame! 
Roll  on,  ye  dark-brown  years ; ye  bring  no  joy  on 
Vour  course!  Lot  the  tomb  open  to  Ossian,  for  his 
strength  has  failed.  The  sons  of  song  are  gone  to 
; rest.  My  voice  remains,  like  a blast  that  roars,  lonely, 
j on  a sea-surrounded  rock,  after  the  winds  are  laid. 

I The  dark  moss  whistles  there ; the  distant  mariner 
secs  the  waving  trees! 

1 When  Macplierson  had  not  the  groundwork  of 
Ossian  to  build  upon,  he  was  a very  indifferent 
poet.  The  following,  however,  shows  that,  though 
his  taste  was  defective,  he  had  poetical  fancy  : — 

T/te  Cave. 

[AVritten  in  the  Highlanda] 

The  wind  is  up,  the  field  is  bare. 

Some  hermit  lead  me  to  his  cell, 

Where  Contemplation,  lonely  fair. 

With  blessed  content  has  chose  to  dwell. 

Behold!  it  opens  to  my  sight, 

I Dark  in  the  rock,  beside  the  flood ; 

I Dry  fern  around  obstructs  the  light ; 

The  winds  above  it  move  the  wood. 

Reflected  in  the  lake,  I see 

The  downward  mountains  and  the  skies, 

The  flying  bird,  the  waving  tree, 
i The  goats  that  on  the  hill  arise. 

The  gray-cloaked  herd*  drives  on  the  cow ; 

I The  slow-paced  fowler  w'alks  the  heath ; 

A freckled  pointer  scours  the  brow ; 

A musing  shepherd  stands  beneath. 

Curved  o’er  the  ruin  of  an  oak. 

The  woodman  lifts  his  axe  on  high; 

The  hills  re-echo  to  the  stroke ; 

I I see — I see  the  shivers  fly  ! 

j Some  rural  maid,  with  apron  full, 

I Brings  fuel  to  the  homely  flame ; 

j I see  the  smoky  columns  roll, 

! And,  through  the  chinky  hut,  the  beam. 

Beside  a stone  o’ergrown  with  moss. 

Two  well-met  hunters  talk  at  ease ; 

Three  panting  dogs  beside  repose ; 

One  bleeding  deer  is  stretched  on  grass. 

A lake  at  distance  spreads  to  sight. 

Skirted  with  shady  forests  round ; 

In  midst,  an  island’s  rocky  height 
Sustains  a ruin,  once  renowned. 

I One  tree  bends  o’er  the  naked  walls ; 

! Two  broad-winged  eagles  hover  nigh ; 

By  intervals  a fragment  falls. 

As  blows  the  blast  along  the  sky. 

The  rough-.spun  hinds  the  pinnace  guide 
With  labouring  oars  along  the  flood ; 

I An  angler,  bending  o’er  the  tide, 

I Hangs  from  the  boat  the  insidious  wood. 

I Beside  the  flood,  beneath  the  rocks, 

! On  grassy  bank,  two  lovers  lean ; 

Bend  on  each  other  amorous  looks. 

And  seem  to  laugh  and  kiss  between. 

' The  wind  is  rustling  in  the  oak ; 

! They  seem  to  hear  the  tread  of  feet ; 

1 They  start,  they  rise,  look  round  the  rock ; 

Again  they  smile,  again  they  meet. 

But  see ! the  gray  mist  from  the  lake 
Ascends  upon  the  shady  hills ; 

Dark  storms  the  murmuring  forests  shake. 

Rain  beats  around  a hundred  rills. 

♦ Neat-herd. 


To  Damon’s  homely  hut  I fly ; 

1 see  it  smoking  on  the  plain  ; 

When  storms  are  past  and  fair  the  sky. 

I’ll  often  seek  my  cave  again. 

From  Maepherson’s  manuscripts  at  Belleville 
we  copy  the  following  fragment,  marked.  An  Ad- 
dress to  Venus,  1785: — 

Thrice  blest,  and  more  than  thrice,  the  mom 
Whose  genial  gale  and  purple  light 
Awaked,  then  chased  the  night. 

On  which  the  Queen  of  Love  was  born ! 

Yet  hence  the  sun’s  unhallowed  ray. 

With  native  beams  let  Beauty  glow ; / 

What  need  is  there  of  other  day. 

Than  the  twin-stars  that  light  those  hills  of  snow  ? 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 

The  success  of  M.acpherson’s  Ossian  seems  to  have 
prompted  the  remarkable  forgeries  of  Chatterton — 

The  marvellous  boy. 

The  sleepless  soul  that  perished  in  his  pride.* 

Such  precocity  of  genius  was  never  perhaps  before 
witnessed.  We  have  the  poems  of  Pope  and  Cowley 
written,  one  at  twelve,  and  the  other  at  fifteen,  years 


Thomas  Chatterton. 


of  age,  but  both  were  inferior  to  the  verses  of  Chat- 
terton at  eleven ; and  his  imitations  of  the  antique, 
executed  w'hen  he  was  fifteen  and  sixteen,  exhibit  a 
vigour  of  thought  and  facility  of  versification — to 
say  nothing  of  their  antiquarian  character,  which 
puzzled  the  most  learned  men  of  the  day — that  stamp 
him  a poet  of  the  first  class.  His  education  also  was 
miserably  deficient ; yet  when  a mere  boy,  eleven 
years  of  age,  this  obscure  youth  could  write  as  fol- 
lows : — 

Almighty  Framer  of  the  skies, 

0 let  our  pure  devotion  rise 
Like  incense  in  thy  sight ! 

Wrapt  in  impenetrable  shade. 

The  texture  of  our  souls  was  made. 

Till  thy  command  gave  light, 

* Wordsworth. 

81 


I 


r»OM  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  »o  1780. 


The  8U/\  of  glory  gleamed,  the  ray 
Refini/d  the  darkiien8  into  day, 

Ai.d  bid  the  vapours  fly  : 

Impelled  by  his  eternal  love, 
lie  left  his  palaces  above. 

To  cheer  our  gloomy  sky. 

IIow  shall  we  celebrate  the  day, 

When  God  appeared  in  mortal  clay. 

The  }iiark  of  worldly  scorn. 

When  the  archangel’s  heavenly  lays 
Attemi)ted  the  Redeemer’s  praise. 

And  hailed  Salvation’s  morn? 

A humble  form  the  Ooilhead  wore. 

The  pains  of  poverty  he  bore. 

To  gaudy  pomp  unknown  : 

Though  in  a human  walk  he  trod. 

Still  was  the  man  Almighty  God, 

In  glory  all  his  own. 

Despised,  oppressed,  the  Godhead  bears 
The  torments  of  tliis  vale  of  tears. 

Nor  bids  his  vengeance  rise: 

He  saw  the  creatures  he  had  made 
Revile  his  power,  his  peace  invade. 

He  saw  with  Mercy’s  eyes. 

Thomas  Chatterton  was  born  at  Bristol,  No- 
vember 20,  1752.  His  father,  who  had  taught  the 
Free  School  there,  died  before  his  birth,  and  he 
was  educated  at  a charity  school,  where  nothing 
but  English,  writing,  and  accounts  were  taught. 
Ilis  first  lessons  were  said  to  have  been  from  a black- 
letter  Bible,  which  may  have  had  some  efiect  on 
his  youthful  imagination.  At  the  age  of  fourteen 
he  was  put  apprentice  to  an  attorney,  where  his 
situation  was  irksome  and  uncomfortable,  but  left 
j him  ample  time  to  prosecute  his  private  studies.  He 
was  passionately  devoted  to  poetry,  antiquities,  and 
heraliiry,  and  ambitious  of  distinction.  His  ruling 
passion,  he  says,  was  ‘ unconquerable  pride.’  He 
now  set  himself  to  accomplish  his  various  imposi- 
tions by  pretended  discoveries  of  old  manuscripts. 
In  October  1768  the  new  bridge  at  Bristol  was 
finished ; and  Chatterton  sent  to  a newspaper  in 
the  town  a pretended  account  of  the  ceremonies 
on  opening  the  old  bridge,  introduced  by  a letter 
to  the  printer,  intimating  that  ‘ the  description  of 
the  friars  first  passimj  over  the  old  bridge  was  taken 
from  an  ancient  manuscript.’  To  one  man,  fond 
of  heraldic  honours,  he  gave  a pedigree  reaching  up 
to  the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror ; to  another 
he  presents  an  ancient  poem,  the  ‘ Romaunt  of 
the  Cnv'ghte,’  written  by  one  of  his  ancestors 
450  years  before ; to  a religious  citizen  of  Bristol 
he  gives  an  ancient  fragment  of  a sermon  on  the 
Divinity  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  as  wroten  by  Thomas 
Rowley,  a monk  of  the  fifteenth  century  ; to  another, 
solicitous  of  obtaining  information  about  Bristol,  he 
mikes  the  valuable  present  of  an  account  of  all  the 
churches  of  the  city,  as  they  appeared  three  hundred 
years  before,  and  accompanies  it  with  drawings  and 
descriptions  of  the  castle,  the  whole  pretended  to  be 
drawn  from  writings  of  the  ‘ gode  prieste  Thomas 
Rowley.’  Horace  Walpole  was  engaged  in  writing 
the  History  of  British  Painters,  and  Chatterton  sent 
him  an  account  of  eminent  ‘ Carvellers  and  Peync- 
ters,’  who  once  flourished  in  Bristol.  These,  with 
various  impositions  of  a similar  nature,  duped  the 
citizens  of  Bristol.  Chatterton  had  no  confidant  in 
his  labours ; he  toiled  in  secret,  gratified  only  by 
•the  stoical  pride  of  talent.’  He  frequently  wrote 
by  moonlight,  conceiving  that  the  immediate  pre- 
sence of  that  luminary  added  to  the  inspiration.  His 
Sundays  were  commonly  spent  in  walking  alone  into 
the  country  about  Bristol,  and  drawing  sketches  of 
churches  and  other  objects  which  had  impressed  his 


romantic  imagination.  He  would  also  lie  down  oa 
the  meadows  in  view  of  St  Mary’s  church,  Bristol.  I 
fix  his  eyes  upon  the  .ancient  edifice,  and  seem  as  if  ! 
he  were  in  a kind  of  trance.  He  thus  nursed  the  i 
enthusiasm  which  destroyed  him.  Though  correct  } 
and  orderly  in  his  condu'-t,  Chatterton,  before  he 
was  sixteen,  imbibed  principles  of  infidelity,  and  the  j 
idea  of  suicide  was  familiar  to  his  mind.  It  was,  1 
however,  overruled  for  a time  by  his  passion  for  j 
literary  fame  and  distinction.  It  was  a favourite  i 
maxim  with  him,  that  man  is  equal  to  anything, 
and  that  everything  might  be  achieved  by  diligence  I 
and  abstinence.  His  alleged  di.scoveries  having  I 
attracted  great  attention,  the  youth  stated  that  he  ! 
found  the  manuscripts  in  his  mother’s  house.  ‘ In  ! 
the  muniment  room  of  St  Mary  Redcliffe  church  I 
of  Bristol,  several  chests  had  been  anciently  depo-  | 
sited,  among  which  was  one  called  the  “ Coffre”  of  j 
Mr  Canynge,  an  eminent  merchant  of  Bristol,  who  | 
had  rebuilt  the  church  in  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.  I 
About  the  year  1727  those  chests  had  been  broken 
open  b}'  an  order  frotn  proper  authority : some  an- 
cient deeds  had  been  taken  out,  and  the  remaining 
manuscripts  left  exposed  as  of  no  value.  Chatter- 
ton’s  father,  whose  uncle  was  sexton  of  the  church, 
had  carried  off  great  numbers  of  the  parchments,  and 
had  used  them  as  covers  for  books  in  his  schooL 
Amidst  the  residue  of  his  father’s  ravages.  Chatter-  i 
ton  gave  out  that  he  had  found  many  writings  of  i 
Mr  Canynge,  and  of  Thomas  Rowley  (the  friend  of  | 
Canynge),  a priest  of  the  fifteenth  century.’*  These  ; 
fictitious  poems  were  published  in  the  Town  and  : 
Country  Magazine,  to  which  Chatterton  had  become  | 
a contributor,  and  occasioned  a warm  controversy  | 
among  literary  antiquaries.  Some  of  them  he  had  1 
submitted  to  Horace  Walpole,  who  showed  them  to  | 
Gray  and  Mason  ; but  these  competent  judges  pro-  | 
nounced  them  to  be  forgeries.  After  three  years 
spent  in  the  attorney’s  office,  Chatterton  obtained  1 
his  release  from  his  apprenticeship,  and  went  to 
London,  where  he  engaged  in  various  tasks  for  the  j 
booksellers,  and  wrote  for  the  magazines  and  news-  ! 
papers.  He  obtained  an  introduction  to  Beckford,  ^ 
the  patriotic  and  popular  lord-mayor,  and  his  own  j 
inclinations  led  him  to  espouse  the  opposition  party.  ! 
• But  no  money,’  he  says,  ‘ is  to  be  got  on  that  side 
of  the  question ; interest  is  on  the  other  side.  But 
he  is  a poor  author  who  cannot  write  on  both  sides’ 

He  boasted  that  his  company  was  courted  every-  I 
where,  and  ‘ that  he  would  settle  the  nation  before  I 
he  had  done.’  The  splendid  visions  of  promotion  ■ 
and  consequence,  however,  soon  vanished,  and  even  | 
his  labours  for  tbe  periodical  press  failed  to  afford  ; 
him  the  me.ans  of  comfortable  subsistence.  He  ap-  | 
plied  for  the  appointment  of  a surgeon’s  mate  to 
Africa,  but  was  refused  the  necessary  recommenda- 
tion. This  seems  to  have  been  his  last  hope,  and  he 
made  no  farther  effort  at  literary  composition.  H is  ; 
spirits  had  always  been  unequal,  alternately  gloomy  j 
and  elevated — both  in  extremes ; he  had  cast  off  tlie  | 
restraints  of  religion,  and  had  no  steady  principle  to  ; 
guide  him,  unless  it  was  a strong  affection  for  Ids  j 
mother  and  sister,  to  whom  he  sent  remittances  of  ' 
money,  wldle  his  means  lasted.  Habits  of  intern-  ! 
y)crance,  succeeded  by  fits  of  remorse,  exasperated  I 
ids  constitutional  melancholy ; and  after  bedng  re-  | 
duced  to  actual  want  (though  with  characteristic  | 
jiride  he  rejected  a dinner  offered  him  by  his  land-  j 
iady  the  day  before  his  death),  before  all  ids  papers,  I 
anil  destroyed  himself  by  taking  arsenic,  August  25, 
1770.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  aged  seven- 
teen years  nine  months  and  a few  days.  ‘ No  Eng-  ! 
lish  poet,’  says  Campbell,  ‘ ever  equalled  him  at  the  j 

* Campbell's  Specimens 

82 


1 

roETS.  ^ ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  thomas  cirATTERTON. 

B.ime  age.’  The  remains  of  tlie  unhappy  youth  were 
interred  in  a shell  in  the  hurying-ground  of  Shoe- 
Lane  workhouse.  His  unfinished  papers  he  had  de- 
stroyed before  his  death,  and  his  room,  when  broken 
open,  was  found  covered  with  scraps  of  paj)er.  The 
1 citizens  of  Bristol  have  erected  a monument  to  the 
1 memory  of  their  native  poet. 

! The  poems  of  Chatterton,  published  under  the 

1 name  of  Rowley,  consist  of  the  tragedy  of  Ella, 
the  Execution  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin,  Ode  to  Ella, 
the  Battle  of  Hastings,  the  Tournament,  one  or  two 
DiiUogues,  and  a description  of  Canynge’s  Feast. 
Some  of  them,  as  the  Ode  to  Ella  (which  we  sub- 
join), have  exactly  the  air  of  modern  poetry,  only 
disguised  with  antique  spelling  and  phraseology. 
The  avowed  compositions  of  Chatterton  are  equally 
1 inferior  to  the  forgeries  in  poetical  powers  and  dic- 
tion ; which  is  satisfactorily  accounted  for  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott  by  the  fact,  that  his  whole  powers  and 
energies  must,  at  his  early  age,  have  been  converted 
to  the  acquisition  of  the  obsolete  language  and  pecu- 
liar style  necessary  to  support  the  deep-laid  decep- 
tion. ‘ lie  could  have  had  no  time  for  the  study  of 
our  modern  poets,  their  rules  of  verse,  or  modes  of 
expression ; while  his  whole  foculties  were  intensely 
employed  in  the  Herculean  task  of  creating  the  per- 
son, history,  and  language  of  an  ancient  poet,  which, 
vast  as  these  faculties  were,  were  sufficient  AvhoUy 
to  engross,  though  not  to  overburden  them.’  A 
power  of  picturesque  painting  seems  to  be  Chatter- 
ton’s  most  distinguishing  feature  as  a poet.  The 
heroism  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin,  who 

Summed  the  actions  of  the  day 
Each  night  before  he  slept, 

and  who  bearded  the  tyrant  king  on  his  way  to  the 
scaffold,  is  perhaps  his  most  striking  portrait.  The 
following  description  of  Morning  in  the  tragedy  of 
Ella,  is  in  the  style  of  the  old  poets 
Bright  sun  had  in  his  ruddy  robes  been  dight, 

From  the  red  east  he  flitted  with  his  train  ; 

The  Houris  draw  away  the  gate  of  Night, 

Her  sable  tapestry  was  rent  in  twain  : 

The  dancing  streaks  bedecked  heaven’s  plain. 

And  on  the  dew  did  smile  with  shimmering  eye. 
Like  gouts  of  blood  which  do  black  armour  stain, 
Shining  upon  the  bourn  which  standeth  by; 

The  soldiers  stood  upon  the  hillis  side. 

Like  young  enleaved  trees  which  in  a forest  bide, 

A description  of  Spring  in  the  same  poem — 

The  budding  floweret  blushes  at  the  light. 

The  meads  be  sprinkled  with  the  yellow  hue, 

In  daisied  mantles  is  the  mountain  dight. 

The  fresh  young  cowslip  bendeth  with  the  dew ; 

The  trees  enleafed,  into  heaven  straight. 

When  gentle  winds  do  blow,  to  whistling  din  is 
brought. 

The  evening  comes,  and  brings  the  dews  along. 

The  ruddy  welkin  shineth  to  the  eyne, 

1 Around  the  ale-stake^  minstrels  sing  the  song, 

1 Young  ivy  round  the  door-post  doth  entwine ; 

1 1 lay  me  on  the  grass,  yet  to  my  will 

I Albeit  all  is  fair,  there  lacketh  something  still. 

j ! In  the  epistle  to  Canynge,  Chatterton  has  a striking 
■ censure  of  the  religious  interludes  which  formed 
1 the  early  drama;  but  the  idea,  as  Warton  remarks, 

1 is  the  result  of  that  taste  and  discrimination  which 
1 could  only  belong  to  a more  advanced  period  of  so- 
1 ciety — 

1 Plays  made  from  holy  tales  I hold  unmeet ; 

j . Let  some  great  story  of  a man  be  sung ; 

! W’hen  as  a man  we  God  and  Jesus  treat. 

In  my  poor  mind  we  do  the  Godhead  wrong. 

> The  sign-post  of  an  alehouse. 

The  satirical  and  town  effusions  of  Chatterton 
are  often  in  bad  taste,  yet  display  a wonderful  com- 
mand of  easy  language  and  lively  sportive  allusion. 
They  have  no  traces  of  juvenility,  unless  it  be  in 
adopting  the  vulgar  scandals  of  the  day,  unworthy 
his  original  genius.  In  bis  satire  of  Kew  Gardens 
are  the  following  lines,  .alluding  to  the  poet  laureate 
and  the  proverbial  poverty  of  poets  : — 

Though  sing-song  Whitehead  ushers  in  the  year. 

With  joy  to  Britain’s  king  and  sovereign  dear. 

And,  in  compliance  to  an  ancient  mode. 

Measures  his  syllables  into  an  ode  ; 

Yet  such  the  scurvy  merit  of  his  muse. 

He  bows  to  deans,  and  licks  his  lordship’s  shoes; 

Then  leave  the  wicked  barren  way  of  rhyme. 

Fly  far  from  poverty,  be  wise  in  time : 

Regard  the  office  more,  Parnassus  less. 

Put  your  religion  in  a decent  dress : 

Then  may  j'our  interest  in  the  town  advance, 

Above  the  reach  of  muses  or  romance. 

In  a poem  entitled  The  Prophecy  are  some  vigorous 
stanzas,  in  a different  measure,  and  remarkable  for 
maturity  and  freedom  of  style : — 

This  truth  of  old  was  sorrow’s  friend — 

‘ Times  at  the  worst  will  surely  mend.’ 

The  difficulty’s  then  to  know 
How  long  Oppression’s  clock  can  go ; 

When  Britain’s  sons  may  cease  to  sigh. 

And  hope  that  their  redemption’s  nigh. 

When  vile  Corruption’s  brazen  face 
At  council-board  shall  take  her  place ; 

And  lords-commissioners  resort 
To  welcome  her  at  Britain’s  court ; 

Look  up,  ye  Britons  ! cease  to  sigh. 

For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

See  Pension’s  harbour,  large  and  clear, 

Defended  by  St  Stephen’s  pier ! 

The  entrance  safe,  by  current  led. 

Tiding  round  G — ’s  jetty  head  ; 

Look  up,  ye  Britons  ! cease  to  sigh, 

For  your  redemption  dr.aweth  nigh. 

When  civil  power  shall  snore  at  ease ; 

While  soldiers  fire — to  keep  the  peace; 

When  murders  sanctuary  find. 

And  petticoats  can  Justice  blind  ;• 

Look  up,  ye  Britons ! cease  to  sigh. 

For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

Commerce  o’er  Bondage  will  prevail. 

Free  as  the  wind  that  fills  her  sail. 

When  she  complains  of  vile  restraint. 

And  Power  is  deaf  to  her  complaint; 

Look  up,  ye  Britons  ! cease  to  sigh. 

For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

When  at  Bute’s  feet  poor  Freedom  lies. 

Marked  by  the  priest  for  sacrifice. 

And  doomed  a victim  for  the  sins 
Of  half  the  ouU  .and  all  the  insj 
Look  up,  ye  Britons  I cease  to  sigh. 

For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

When  time  shall  bring  your  wish  about. 

Or,  seven-years  lease,  you  sold,  is  out ; 

No  future  contract  to  fulfil ; 

Your  tenants  holding  at  your  will ; 

Raise  up  your  heads  ! your  idght  demand— 

For  your  redemption’s  in  your  hand. 

Then  is  your  time  to  strike  the  blow. 

And  let  the  slaves  of  Mammon  know, 

Britain’s  true  sons  a bribe  can  scorn. 

And  die  as  free  as  they  were  born. 

Virtue  again  shall  take  her  seat. 

And  your  redemption  stand  complete. 

S3 

- 1 

1 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


The  boy  who  could  thus  write  at  sixteen,  might 
soon  have  proved  a Swift  or  a Dryden.  Yet  in  satire, 
Chatterton  evinced  but  a small  part  of  his  power. 
His  Kowleian  poems  have  a compass  of  invention, 
and  a luxuriance  of  fancy,  that  promised  a great 
chivalrous  or  allegorical  poet  of  the  stamp  of 
Spenser. 

Briatow  Tragedy,  or  the  Death  of  Sir  Charles  Bawdin* 

The  feathered  songster  chanticleer 
Had  wound  his  bugle-horn, 

And  told  the  early  villager 
The  coming  of  the  morn : 

King  Edward  saw  the  ruddy  streaks 
Of  light  eclipse  the  gray. 

And  heard  the  raven’s  croaking  throat, 

Proclaim  the  fated  day. 

‘ Thou’rt  right,’  quoth  he,  ‘ for  by  the  God 
That  sits  enthroned  on  high  1 
Charles  Bawdin,  and  his  fellows  twain. 

To-day  shall  surely  die.’ 

Then  with  a jug  of  nappy  ale 
His  knights  did  on  him  wait ; 

‘ Go  tell  the  traitor,  that  to-day 
He  leaves  this  mortal  state.’ 

Sir  Canterlone  then  bended  low, 

With  heart  brimful  of  wo  ; 

He  journied  to  the  castle-gate. 

And  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 

But  when  he  came,  his  children  twain. 

And  eke  his  loving  wife. 

With  briny  tears  did  wet  the  floor. 

For  good  Sir  Charles’s  life. 

‘ Oh  good  Sir  Charles !’  said  Canterlone, 

‘ Bad  tidings  I do  bring.’ 

‘ Speak  boldly,  man,’  said  brave  Sir  Charles  ; 

‘ What  says  the  traitor  king  V 

‘ I grieve  to  tell : before  yon  sun 
Does  from  the  welkin  fly. 

He  hath  upon  his  honour  sworn, 

That  thou  shalt  surely  die.’ 

‘ We  all  must  die,’  said  brave  Sir  Charles ; 

‘ Of  that  I’m  not  afraid  ; 

What  boots  to  live  a little  space  ? 

Thank  Jesus,  I’m  prepared. 

But  tell  thy  king,  for  mine  he’s  not, 

I’d  sooner  die  to-day. 

Than  live  his  slave,  as  many  are. 

Though  I should  live  for  aye.’ 

Then  Canterlone  he  did  go  out. 

To  tell  the  mayor  straight 
To  get  all  things  in  readiness 
For  good  Sir  Charles’s  fate. 

Then  Mr  Canynge  sought  the  king. 

And  fell  down  on  his  knee  ; 

‘ I’m  come,’  quoth  he,  ‘ unto  your  grace. 

To  move  your  clemency.’ 

‘ Then,’  quoth  the  king,  ‘ your  tale  speak  out. 
You  have  been  much  our  friend ; 

Whatever  your  request  may  be. 

We  will  to  it  attend.’ 

* The  antiquated  orthography  affected  by  Chatterton  being 
evidently  no  advantage  to  his  poems,  hut  rather  an  impedi- 
ment to  their  being  generally  read,  we  dismiss  it  in  t’ais  and 
other  specimens.  The  diction  is,  in  reality,  almost  purely  mo- 
dem, and  Chatterton's  spelling  in  a great  measure  aihitrary, 
BO  that  there  seems  no  longer  any  reason  for  retaining  what 
was  only  designed  at  first  as  a means  of  supporting  a deception. 


‘ My  noble  liege ! all  my  request 
Is  for  a noble  knight. 

Who,  thougli  mayhap  he  has  done  wrong. 
He  thought  it  still  was  right. 

He  has  a spouse  and  children  twain ; 

All  ruined  are  for  aye. 

If  that  you  are  resolved  to  let 
Charles  Bawdin  die  to-day.’ 

‘ Speak  not  of  such  a traitor  vile,’ 

The  king  in  fury  said  ; 

‘ Before  the  evening  star  doth  shine, 
Bawdin  shall  lose  his  head  : 

Justice  does  loudly  for  him  call. 

And  he  shall  have  his  meed : 

Speak,  Mr  Canynge ! what  thing  else 
At  present  do  you  need  1’ 

‘ My  noble  liege  !’  good  Canynge  said, 

‘ Leave  justice  to  our  God, 

And  lay  the  iron  rule  aside ; 

Be  thine  the  olive  rod. 

Was  God  to  search  our  hearts  and  reins. 
The  best  were  sinners  great ; 

Christ’s  vicar  only  knows  no  sin. 

In  all  this  mortal  state. 

Let  mercy  rule  thine  infant  reign, 

’Twill  fix  thy  crown  full  sure ; 

From  race  to  race  thy  family 
All  sovereigns  shall  endure : 

But  if  with  blood  and  slaughter  thou 
Begin  thy  infant  reign. 

Thy  crown  upon  thy  children’s  brows 
Will  never  long  remain.’ 

‘ Canynge,  away ! this  traitor  vile 
Has  scorned  my  power  and  me ; 

How  canst  thou  then  for  such  a man 
Intreat  my  clemency  V 

‘ My  noble  liege ! the  truly  brave 
Will  valorous  actions  prize; 

Respect  a brave  and  noble  mind. 

Although  in  enemies.’ 

‘ Canynge,  away  ! By  God  in  heaven 
That  did  me  being  give, 

I will  not  taste  a bit  of  bread 

Whilst  this  Sir  Charles  doth  live ! 

By  Mary,  and  all  saints  in  heaven, 

This  sun  shall  be  his  last !’ 

Then  Canynge  dropped  a briny  tear. 

And  from  the  presence  passed. 

With  heart  brimful  of  gnawing  grief. 

He  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 

And  sat  him  down  upon  a stool. 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

‘ We  all  must  die,’  said  brave  Sir  Charles ; 

‘ What  boots  it  how  or  when  ? 

Death  is  the  sure,  the  certain  fate. 

Of  all  we  mortal  men. 

Say  why,  my  friend,  thy  honest  soul 
Runs  over  at  thine  eye  ; 

Is  it  for  my  most  welcome  doom 
That  thou  dost  child-like  cry  ?’ 

Saith  godly  Canynge,  ‘ I do  weep. 

That  thou  so  soon  must  die. 

And  leave  thy  sons  and  helple.ss  wife ; 

’Tis  this  that  wets  mine  eye.’ 

‘ Then  dry  the  tears  that  out  thine  eye 
From  godly  fountains  spring ; 

Death  I despise,  and  all  the  power 
Of  Edward,  traitor  king. 


When  through  the  tyrant’s  welcome  means 
I shall  resign  iny  life, 

The  God  I serve  will  soon  provide 
For  both  my  sons  and  wife. 

Before  I saw  the  lightsome  sun. 

This  was  appointed  me  ; 

Shall  mortal  man  repine  or  grudge 
What  God  ordains  to  be  ? 

How  oft  in  battle  have  I stood. 

When  thousands  died  around  ; 

When  smoking  streams  of  crimson  blood 
Imbrued  the  fattened  ground : 

How  did  I know  that  every  dart 
That  cut  the  airy  way, 

Might  not  find  passage  to  my  heart, 

And  close  mine  eyes  for  aye  1 

And  shall  I now,  for  fear  of  death. 

Look  wan  and  be  dismayed  ? 

No ! from  my  heart  fly  childish  fear; 

Be  all  the  man  displayed. 

Ah,  godlike  Henry ! God  forefend. 

And  guard  thee  and  thy  son. 

If  ’tis  his  will ; but  if  ’tis  not. 

Why,  then  his  will  be  done. 

My  honest  friend,  my  fault  has  been 
To  serve  God  and  my  prince ; 

And  that  I no  time-server  am. 

My  death  will  soon  convince. 

In  London  city  was  I bom. 

Of  parents  of  great  note ; 

My  father  did  a noble  arms 
Emblazon  on  his  coat : 

I make  no  doubt  but  he  is  gone 
Where  soon  I hope  to  go. 

Where  we  for  ever  shall  be  blest, 

From  out  the  reach  of  wo. 

He  taught  me  justice  and  the  laws 
With  pity  to  unite  ; 

And  eke  he  taught  me  how  to  know 
The  wrong  cause  from  the  right : 

He  taught  me  with  a prudent  hand 
To  feed  the  hungry  poor. 

Nor  let  my  servants  drive  away 
Th  hungry  from  my  door : 

And  none  can  say  but  all  my  life 
I have  his  wordis  kept ; 

And  summed  the  actions  of  the  day 
Each  night  before  I slept. 

I have  a spouse,  go  ask  of  her 
If  I defiled  her  bed  ? 

I have  a king,  and  none  can  lay 
Black  treason  on  my  head. 

In  Lent,  and  on  the  holy  eve. 

From  flesh  I did  refrain  ; 

Why  should  I then  appear  dismayed 
To  leave  this  world  of  pain  I 
No,  hapless  Henry  ! I rejoice 
I shall  not  see  thy  death ; 

Most  willingly  in  thy  just  cause 
Do  I resign  my  breath. 

Oh,  fickle  people ! ruined  land  ! 

Thou  wilt  ken  peace  no  raoe ; 

While  Richard’s  sons  exalt  themselve*, 

Thy  brooks  with  blood  will  flow. 

Say,  were  ye  tired  of  godly  peace. 

And  godly  Henry’s  reign. 

That  you  did  chop*  your  easy  days 
For  those  of  blood  and  pain  1 

* Exchange. 


What  though  I on  a sledge  be  drawn. 

And  mangled  by  a hind, 

I do  defy  the  traitor’s  power. 

He  cannot  harm  my  mind ; 

What  though,  ujihoisted  on  a pole. 

My  limbs  shall  rot  in  air. 

And  no  rich  monument  of  brass 
Charles  Bawd  in’s  name  shall  bear; 

Yet  in  the  holy  book  above. 

Which  time  can’t  eat  away,  4 
There  with  the  servants  of  the  Lord 
My  name  shall  live  for  aye. 

Then  welcome  death  ! for  life  eteme 
I leave  this  mortal  life ; 

Farewell  vain  world,  and  all  that’s  dear. 
My  sons  and  loving  wife ! 

Now  death  as  welcome  to  me  comes 
As  e’er  the  month  of  May ; 

Nor  would  I even  wish  to  live. 

With  my  dear  wife  to  stay.’ 

Saith  Canynge,  ‘ ’Tis  a goodly  thing 
To  be  prepared  to  die  ; 

And  from  this  world  of  pain  and  grief 
To  God  in  Heaven  to  fly.’ 

And  now  the  bell  began  to  toll. 

And  clarions  to  sound  ; 

Sir  Charles  he  heard  the  horses’  feet 
A-prancing  on  the  ground. 

And  just  before  the  officers 
His  loving  wife  came  in. 

Weeping  unfeigned  tears  of  wo 
With  loud  and  dismal  din. 

‘ Sweet  Florence ! now  I pray  forbear, 

In  quiet  let  me  die  ; 

Pray  God  that  every  Christian  soul 
May  look  on  death  as  I. 

Sweet  Florence ! why  these  briny  tears  t 
They  wash  my  soul  away. 

And  almost  make  me  wish  for  life. 

With  thee,  sweet  dame,  to  stay, 

’Tis  but  a journey  I shall  go 
Unto  the  land  of  bliss ; 

Now,  as  a proof  of  husband’s  love 
Receive  this  holy  kiss.’ 

Then  Florence,  faltering  in  her  say. 
Trembling  these  wordis  spoke : 

‘ Ah,  cruel  Edward  ! bloody  king ! 

My  heart  is  well  nigh  broke. 

Ah,  sweet  Sir  Charles  ! why  wilt  thou  go 
Without  thy  loving  wife  ? 

The  cruel  axe  that  cuts  thy  neck, 

It  eke  shall  end  my  life.’ 

And  now  the  officers  came  iii 
To  bring  Sir  Charles  away. 

Who  turned  to  his  loving  wife. 

And  thus  to  her  did  say : 

‘ I go  to  life,  and  not  to  death. 

Trust  thou  in  God  above. 

And  teach  thy  sons  to  fear  the  Lord, 

And  in  their  hearts  him  love. 

Teach  them  to  run  the  noble  race 
That  I their  father  run, 

Florence  ! should  death  thee  take — adieu! 
Ye  officers  lead  on.’ 

Then  Florence  raved  as  any  mad. 

And  did  her  tresses  tear ; 

* Oh  stay,  my  husband,  lord,  and  life!’ — 

Sir  Charles  then  dropped  a tear. 

8S 


FROM  1727  CYCL0P^:DIA  of  to  1730. 

’Till  tired  out  with  raving  loud, 
She  fell  upon  the  floor; 

Sir  Charles  exerted  all  his  might, 
And  marched  from  out  the  door. 

Whilst  thou,  perhaps,  for  some  few  years, 
Shalt  rule  this  fickle  land. 

To  let  tliem  know  how  wide  the  rule 
’Twlxt  king  and  tyrant  hand. 

Upon  a sledge  he  mounted  then. 
With  looks  full  brave  and  sweet ; 
Looks  that  enshone  no  more  concern 
Than  any  in  the  street. 

Thy  power  unjust,  thou  traitor  slave  I 
Shall  fall  on  thy  own  head’ — 

From  out  of  hearing  of  the  king 

Departed  then  the  sledde.  1 

Before  him  went  the  council-men. 
In  scarlet  robes  and  gold, 

And  tassels  spangling  in  the  sun. 
Much  glorious  to  behold  : 

King  Edward’s  soul  rushed  to  his  face, 
He  tunied  his  head  away. 

And  to  his  brother  Gloucester 
He  Xius  did  speak  and  say : 

The  friars  of  Saint  Augustine  next 
Appeared  to  the  sight. 

All  clad  in  homely  russet  weeds, 
Of  godly  monkish  plight : 

‘ To  him  that  so-much-drcaded  death  ! 

No  ghastly  terrors  bring  ; 1 

Behold  the  man!  he  spake  the  truth;  j 

He’s  greater  than  a king!’ 

In  different  p.arts  a godly  psalm 
Most  sweetly  they  did  chant ; 
Behind  their  back  six  minstrels  came. 
Who  tuned  tiie  strange  bataunt. 

‘ So  let  him  die!’  Duke  Richard  said  ; 

‘ And  may  each  one  our  foes 
Bend  down  their  necks  to  bloody  axe. 
And  feed  the  carrion  crows.’ 

Then  five-and-twenty  archers  came; 

Each  one  the  bow  did  bend, 

From  rescue  of  King  Henry’s  friends 
Sir  Charles  for  to  defend. 

And  now  the  horses  gently  drew 
Sir  Charles  up  the  high  hill ; 
The  axe  did  glister  in  the  sun, 
Ilis  precious  blood  to  spill. 

Bold  as  a lion  came  Sir  Charles, 

Drawn  on  a cloth-laid  sledde. 

By  two  black  steeds  in  traj.pings  white. 
With  plumes  upon  their  head. 

Sir  Charles  did  up  the  scaffold  go, 
As  up  a gilded  car 
Of  victory,  by  valorous  chiefs 
Gained  in  the  bloody  war. 

Behind  him  five-and-twenty  more 
Of  archers  strong  and  stout. 

With  bended  bow  each  one  in  hand. 
Marched  in  goodly  rout. 

And  to  the  people  he  did  say : 
‘ Behold  you  see  me  die. 

For  serving  loyally  my  king. 
My  king  most  rightfully. 

Saint  James’s  friars  marched  next. 
Each  one  his  part  did  chant ; 

Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came. 
Who  tuned  the  strange  bataunt. 

As  long  as  Edward  rules  this  land. 

No  quiet  you  will  know; 

Your  sons  and  husbands  shall  be  slain. 
And  brooks  with  blood  shall  flow. 

Then  came  the  mayor  and  aldermen. 
In  cloth  of  scarlet  decked  ; 

And  their  attending  men  each  one. 
Like  eastern  princes  tricked. 

You  leave  your  good  and  lawful  king. 
When  in  adversity ; 

Like  me,  unto  the  true  cause  stick, 
And  for  the  true  cause  die.’ 

And  after  them  a multitude 
Of  citizens  did  throng  ; 

The  windows  were  all  full  of  heads. 
As  he  did  pass  along. 

Then  he,  with  j)riests,  upon  his  knees, 

A prayer  to  God  did  make. 

Beseeching  him  unto  himself 

His  parting  soul  to  take.  j 

And  when  he  came  to  the  high  cross. 
Sir  Charles  did  turn  and  say, 

‘ 0 thou  tLat  savest  man  from  sin, 
Wash  my  soul  clean  this  day.’ 

Then,  kneeling  down,  he  laid  his  head 

Most  seemly  on  the  block  ; j 

Which  from  his  body  fair  at  once  i 

The  able  headsman  stroke : | 

At  the  great  minster  window  sat 
The  king  in  mickle  state. 

To  see  Charles  Bawdin  go  along 
To  his  most  welcome  fate. 

And  out  the  blood  began  to  flow,  ' 

And  round  the  scaffold  twine ; 1 

And  tears,  enough  to  wash’t  away,  : 

Did  flow  from  each  man’s  eyne.  ! 

Soon  as  the  sledde  drew  nigh  enough. 
That  Edward  he  might  hear. 

The  brave  Sir  Ctiarles  he  did  stand  up. 
And  thus  his  words  declare  : 

The  bloody  axe  his  body  fair  i 

Into  four  partis  cut ; j 

And  every  part,  and  eke  his  head. 

Upon  a pole  was  put.  1 

‘ Tliou  seest  me,  Edward  1 traitor  vile  1 
Exposed  to  infamy ; 

But  be  assured,  disloyal  man, 

I’m  greater  now  than  thee. 

One  part  did  rot  on  Kinwulph-hill,  | 

One  on  the  minster-tower. 

And  one  from  off  the  castle-gate  \ 

The  crowen  did  devour.  I 

By  foul  proceedings,  murder,  blood, 
Thou  wearest  now  a crown  ; 

And  hast  appointed  me  to  die 
By  power  not  thine  own. 

The  other  on  Saint  Paul’s  good  gate,  [ 

A dreary  speetacle  ; • 

His  head  was  placed  on  the  high  cross. 

In  high  street  most  noble. 

Thou  thinkest  I shall  die  to-day ; 

I have  been  dead  till  now, 

\nd  soon  shall  live  to  wear  a crown 
For  aye  upon  my  brow ; 

Thus  was  the  end  of  Bawdin’s  fate; 

God  prosper  long  our  king. 

And  grant  he  may  with  Bawdin’s  soul. 

In  heaven  God’s  mercy  sing! 

86 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


rcSTS. 


WILL'AM  F4LC0NKE. 


{The  Minstrel's  Song  in  Ella.li 

O ! sing  unto  my  roundelay  ; 

0 1 drop  the  briny  tear  with  me  ; 
Dance  no  more  at  holiday, 

Like  a running  river  be  ; 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed. 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night. 
White  his  neck  as  summer  snow. 
Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light. 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below : 
My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed. 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 


The  mystic  mazes  of  thy  will, 

The  shadows  of  celestial  light. 

Are  past  the  power  of  human  skill — 

But  what  the  Eternal  acts  is  right. 

O teach  ma  in  the  trying  hour. 

When  anguish  swells  the  dewy  tear. 

To  still  my  sorrows,  own  thy  power. 

Thy  goodness  love,  thy  justice  fear. 

If  in  this  bosom  aught  but  Thee 

Encroaching  sought  a boundless  sway. 

Omniscience  could  the  danger  see. 

And  Mercy  look  the  cause  away. 

Then  why,  my  soul,  dost  thou  complain  ? 
Why  drooping  seek  the  dark  recess  ? 

Shake  off  the  melancholy  chain. 

For  God  created  all  to  bless. 


Sweet  his  tongue  as  throstle’s  note. 
Quick  in  dance  as  thought  was  he ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 

Oh  ! he  lies  by  the  willow  tree. 

My  love  is  dead. 

Gone  to  his  death-bed. 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Hark  ! the  raven  flaps  his  wing. 

In  the  briered  dell  below  ; 

Hark  ! the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing, 

; To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 

My  love  is  dead, 

i Gone  to  his  death-bed. 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

1 See  ! the  white  moon  shines  on  high ; 

Whiter  is  my  true-love’s  shroud ; 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky. 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 

My  love  is  dead. 

Gone  to  his  death-bed. 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Here,  upon  my  true-love’s  grave, 
j Shall  the  garish  flowers  be  laid. 

Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  sorrows  of  a maid. 

My  love  is  dead. 

Gone  to  his  death-bed. 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

With  my  hands  I’ll  bind  the  briers. 
Bound  his  holy  corse  to  gre 
Elfin-fairy,  light  your  fires. 

Here  my  body  still  shall  be. 

My  love  is  dead. 

Gone  to  his  death-bed. 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Come  with  acorn  cup  and  thorn. 
Drain  my  heart’s  blood  all  away ; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I scorn. 

Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead. 

Gone  to  his  death-bed. 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Water-witches,  crowned  with  reytes,2 
Bear  me  to  your  deadly  tide. 

I die — I come — my  true-love  waits, 
j Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died. 

j Resignation. 

I O God,  whose  thunder  shakes  the  sky, 

j Whose  eye  this  atom  globe  surveys ; 

To  Thee,  my  only  rock,  I fly, 

I Thy  mercy  in  thy  justice  praise. 

Grow.  * Water  flag*. 


But  ah ! my  breast  is  human  still — 

The  rising  sigh,  the  falling  tear. 

My  languid  vitals’  feeble  rill. 

The  sickness  of  my  soul  declare. 

But  yet,  with  fortitude  resigned. 

I’ll  thank  the  inflicter  of  the  blow; 

Forbid  the  sigh,  compose  my  mind. 

Nor  let  the  gush  of  misery  flow. 

The  gloomy  mantle  of  the  night, 
which  on  my  sinking  spirits  steals. 

Will  vanish  at  the  morning  light. 

Which  God,  my  East,  my  Sun,  reveals. 

WII.LIAM  FALCONER. 

The  terrors  and  circumstances  of  a Shipwreck  ha:i 
been  often  described  by  poets,  ancient  and  modern, 
but  never  with  any  attempt  at  professional  accuracy 
or  minuteness  of  detail,  before  the  poem  of  that 
name  by  Falconer.  It  was  reserved  for  a genuine 
sailor  to  disclose,  in  correct  and  harmonious  verse, 
the  ‘ secrets  of  the  deej),’  and  to  enlist  the  sympathies 
of  the  general  reader  in  favour  of  the  daily  life  and 
occupations  of  his  brother  seamen,  and  in  all  the 
movements,  the  equipage,  and  tracery  of  those  mag- 
nificent vessels  which  have  carried  the  British  name 
and  enterprise  to  the  i-emotest  corners  of  the  world. 
Poetical  associations — a feeling  of  boundlessness  and 
sublimity — obviously  belonged  to  the  scene  of  the 
poem — the  ocean ; but  its  interest  soon  wanders  from 
this  source,  and  centres  in  the  stately  ship  and  its 
crew — the  gallant  resistance  which  the  men  made 
to  the  fury  of  the  storm — their  calm  and  deliberate 
courage — the  various  resources  of  their  skill  and 
ingenuity — their  consultations  and  resolutions  as 
the  ship  labours  in  distress — and  the  brave  unselfish 
piety  and  generosity  with  which  they  meet  their  fate, 
when  at  last 

The  crashing  ribs  divide — 

She  loosens,  parts,  and  spreads  in  ruin  o’er  the  tide. 
Such  a subject  Falconer  justly  considered  as  ‘ new 
to  epic  lore,’  but  it  possessed  strong  recommendations 
to  the  British  public,  w’hose  national  pride  and 
honour  are  so  closely  identified  with  the  sea,  and 
so  many  of  whom  have  ‘ some  friend,  some  brother 
there.’ 

William  Falconer  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in 
17.30,  and  was  the  son  of  a poor  barber,  who  had 
two  other  children,  both  of  whom  were  deaf  and 
dumb.  He  went  early  to  sea,  on  board  a Leith  mer- 
chant ship,  and  w’as  afterwards  in  the  royal  navy. 
Before  he  was  eighteen  years  of  age,  he  was  second 
mate  in  the  Britannia,  a vessel  in  the  Levant  trade, 
which  was  shipwrecked  off  Cape  Colonn.o,  as  de- 
scribed in  his  poem.  In  1751  he  w'as  living  in  Edin- 
burgh, where  he  published  his  first  poetical  attempt, 

87 


PROM  1727 


CYCLOPiEDIA  OF 


n monody  on  the  death  of  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales. 
The  choice  of  such  a subject  by  a young  friendless 
Scottisli  sailor,  was  as  singular  as  the  depth  of  grief 
he  describes  in  Ids  poem;  for  Falconer,  on  tliis  occa- 
sion, wished,  with  a zeal  worthy  of  ancient  Pistol, 

To  assist  the  pouring  rains  with  brimful  eyes, 

And  aid  hoarse  howling  Boreas  with  his  sighs ! 

In  17.57  he  was  promoted  to  the  quarter-deck  of  the 
Kamilies,  and  l)eing  now  in  a superior  situation  for 
cultivating  his  taste  for  learning,  he  was  an  assi- 
duous student.  Three  3’ears  afterwards.  Falconer 
suffered  a sectond  shipwreck ; the  Ilamilies  stnick 
on  the  shore  in  the  Channel  while  making  for  Ply- 
mouth, and  of  7.'i4  of  a crew,  the  poet  and  25  others 
oidy  escaped.  In  17G2  appeared  his  poem  of  The 
Shipwreck  (which  he  afterwards  greatly  enlarged 
and  improved),  preceded  by  a dedication  to  the 
Duke  of  York.  Tlie  work  was  eminently  successful, 
and  his  royiil  highness  procured  him  the  appoint- 
ment of  midshipman  on  board  the  Royal  George, 
whence  he  was  subsequently  transferred  to  the 
Glory,  a frigate  of  32  guns,  on  board  which  he 
held  the  situation  of  purser.  After  the  peace,  he 
resided  in  London,  wrote  a poor  satire  on  Wilkes, 
Churchill,  &c.,  and  compiled  a useful  marine  dic- 
tionary. In  Septendrer  1769,  the  poet  again  took 
to  the  sea,  and  sailed  from  England  as  purser  of 
the  Aurora  frigate,  bound  for  India.  The  vessel 
reached  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  in  December,  but 
afterwards  perished  at  sea,  having  foundered,  as  is 
supposed,  in  the  Mosambique  Channel.  No  ‘ tune- 
ful Arion’  was  left  to  commemorate  this  calamity, 
the  poet  having  died  under  the  eircumstances  he 
had  formerly  described  in  the  case  of  his  youthful 
associates  of  the  Britannia. 

‘ The  Shipwreck’  has  the  rare  merit  of  being 
a pleasing  and  interesting  poem,  and  a safe  guide 
to  practical  seamen.  Its  nautical  rules  and  direc- 
tions are  approved  of  by  all  experienced  naval 
officers.  At  first,  the  poet  does  not  seem  to  have 
done  more  than  describe  in  n.autical  phrase  and 
simple  narrative  the  melancholy  disaster  he  had 
witnessed.  The  characters  of  Albert,  Kodmond, 
Palemon,  and  Anna,  were  added  in  the  second  edi- 
tion of  the  work.  By  choosing  the  shipwreck  of 
the  Britannia,  Falconer  imparted  a train  of  inte- 
resting recollections  and  images  to  his  poem.  The 
wreck  occurred  off  Cape  Colonna — one  of  the  fairest 
portions  of  the  beautiful  shores  of  Greece.  ‘ In  all 
Attica,’  says  Lord  Byron,  ‘ if  we  except  Athens 
itself  and  JIarathon,  there  is  no  scene  more  inte- 
resting than  Cape  Colonna.  To  the  antiquary  and 
artist,  sixteen  columns  are  an  inexhaustible  source 
of  observation  and  design ; to  the  philosopher,  the 
supposed  scene  of  some  of  Plato’s  conversations  will 
not  be  unwelcome ; and  the  traveller  will  be  struck 
with  the  beauD'  of  the  prospect  over  “ isles  that 
crown  the  jEgean  deep but  for  an  Englishman, 
Colonna  has  j-et  an  additional  interest,  as  the  actual 
spot  of  Falconer’s  Shipwreck.  Pallas  and  Plato  are 
forgotten  in  the  recollection  of  Falconer  and  Camp- 
beU— 

Here  in  the  dead  of  night  by  Lonna’s  steep. 

The  seaman’s  cry  was  heard  along  the  deej).’  * 
Fiilconer  w-as  not  insensible  to  the  charms  of  these 
historical  and  classic  associations,  and  he  was  still 
more  alive  to  tlie  impressions  of  romantic  scenery 
and  a genial  climate.  Some  of  the  descriptive  and 
episodical  parts  of  the  poem  are,  however,  drawn 
out  to  too  great  a length,  as  they  interrupt  the  nar- 
rative where  its  interest  is  most  engrossing,  besides 
being  occasionally  feeble  and  affected.  The  eha- 

* riea.siires  of  Hope. 


TO  1780. 


racters  of  his  naval  officers  are  finely  discriminated 
Albert,  the  commander,  is  brave,  liberal,  and  just 
softened  and  refined  by  domestic  ties  and  superioi 
information  ; Rodmond,  the  next  in  rank,  is  coarse  i 
and  boisterous,  a hardy  weather-beaten  son  of 
Northumberland,  yet  of  a kind  comiiassionate  na- 
ture, as  is  evinced  by  one  striking  incident : — 

And  now,  while  winged  with  ruin  from  on  high. 

Through  the  rent  cloud  the  ragged  lightnings  fly, 

A flash  quick  glancing  on  the  nerves  of  light. 

Struck  the  pale  helmsman  with  eternal  night  : 

Rodmond,  who  heard  a piteous  groan  behind. 

Touched  with  compassion,  gazed  upon  the  blind  ; 

And  while  around  his  sad  companions  crowd. 

He  guides  the  unhappy  victim  to  a shroud. 

‘ Hie  thee  aloft,  my  gallant  friend,’  he  cries, 

‘ Thy  only  succour  on  the  mast  relies.’ 

Palemon,  ‘charged  with  the  commerce,’  is  perhaps 
too  effeminate  for  the  rough  sea  : he  is  the  lover  of 
the  poem,  and  his  passion  for  Albert’s  daughter  is 
drawn  with  truth  and  delicacy — 

’Twas  genuine  passion.  Nature’s  elde.st  horn. 

The  truth  of  the  whole  poem  is  indeed  one  of  its  i 
greatest  attractions.  We  feel  that  it  is  a passage  of 
real  life  ; and  even  where  the  poet  seems  to  violate 
the  canons  of  taste  and  criticism,  allowance  is  libe- 
rally made  for  the  peculiar  situation  of  the  author,  j 
while  he  rivets  our  attention  to  the  scenes  of  trial  ; 
and  distress  which  he  so  fortunately  survived  to  \ 
describe.  1 i 

I 

I 

[From  the  ShipiorecTc.'\  I 

The  sun’s  bright  orb,  declining  all  serene,  ! 

Now  glanced  obliquely  o’er  the  woodland  scene.  i 

Creation  smiles  around  ; on  every  spray  [ 

The  warbling  birds  exalt  their  evening  lay.  | 

Blithe  skipping  o’er  yon  hill,  the  fleecy  train  ! 

.loin  the  deep  chorus  of  the  lowing  plain  ; f 

The  golden  lime  and  orange  there  were  seen,  ‘ 

On  fragrant  branches  of  perpetual  green.  . 

The  crystal  streams,  that  velvet  meadows  lave,  i 

To  the  green  ocean  roll  with  chiding  wave.  ( j 

The  glassy  ocean  hushed  forgets  to  roar,  ' j 

But  trembling  murmurs  on  the  sandy  shore:  j 

And  lo  ! his  surface,  lovely  to  behold  ! ; 

Glows  in  the  west,  a sea  of  living  gold  ! 

While,  all  above,  a thousand  liveries  gay 
The  skies  with  pomp  ineffable  array. 

Arabian  sweets  perfume  the  happy  plains : 

Above,  beneath,  around  enchantment  reigns! 

While  yet  the  shades,  on  time’s  eternal  scale, 

With  long  vibration  deepen  o’er  the  vale ; 

While  yet  the  songsters  of  the  vocal  grove 
With  dying  numbers  tune  the  soul  to  love. 

With  joyful  eyes  the  attentive  master  sees 
The  auspicious  omens  of  an  eastern  breeze. 

Now  radiant  Vesper  leads  the  starry  train. 

And  night  slow  draws  her  veil  o’er  land  and  main  ; 

Round  the  charged  bowl  the  sailors  form  a ring  ; 

By  turns  recount  the  wondrous  tale,  or  sing ; 

As  love  or  battle,  hardships  of  the  main,  I 

Or  genial  wine,  awake  their  homely  strain  : 

Then  some  the  watch  of  night  alternate  keep,  j 

The  rest  lie  buried  in  oblivious  sleep. 

Deep  midnight  now  involves  the  livid  skies. 

While  infant  breezes  from  the  shore  arise. 

The  W'aning  moon,  behind  a watery  shroud. 
Pale-glimmered  o’er  the  loTig-protracted  cloud. 

A mighty  ring  around  her  silver  throne,  * 

With  parting  meteors  crossed,  portentous  shone. 

This  in  the  troubled  sky  full  oft  prevails  ; 

Oft  deemed  a signal  of  tempestuous  gales. 

88 


POETS. 


WILLIAM  FALCONEB. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


While  young  Arion  sleeps,  before  his  sight 
Tumultuous  swim  the  visions  of  the  night. 

Now  blooming  Anna,  with  her  happy  swain, 
Approached  the  sacred  hymeneal  fane ; 

Anon  tremendous  lightnings  flash  between  ; 

And  funeral  pomp,  and  weeping  loves  are  seen! 

Now  with  I’aleinon  up  a rocky  steep. 

Whose  summit  trembles  o’er  the  roaring  deep. 

With  painful  step  he  climbed  ; while  far  above, 

Sweet  Anna  charmed  them  with  the  voice  of  love. 
Then  sudden  from  the  slippery  height  they  fell, 

^^■hile  dreadful  yawned  beneath  the  jaws  of  hell. 
Amid  this  fearful  trance,  a thundering  sound 
He  hears — and  thrice  the  hollow  decks  rebound. 
Upstarting  from  his  couch,  on  deck  he  sprung; 

Thrice  with  shrill  note  the  boatswain’s  whistle  rung ; 

‘ All  hands  unmoor!’  proclaims  a boistrous  cry  : 

‘ All  hands  unmoor  !’  the  cavern  rocks  reply. 

Roused  from  repose,  aloft  the  sailors  swarm. 

And  with  their  levers  soon  the  windlass  arm. 

The  order  given,  upspringing  with  a bound 

They  lodge  their  bars,  and  wheel  their  engine  round : 

At  every  turn  the  clanging  pauls  resound. 

Uptorn  reluctant  from  its  oozy  cave. 

The  pondrous  anchor  rises  o’er  the  wave. 

Along  their  slippery  masts  the  yards  ascend. 

And  high  in  air  the  canvass  wings  extend : 
Redoubling  cords  the  lofty  canvass  guide, 

And  through  inextricable  mazes  glide. 

The  lunar  rays  with  long  reflection  gleam. 

To  light  the  vessel  o’er  the  silver  stream : 

Along  the  glassy  plain  serene  she  glides. 

While  azure  radiance  trembles  on  her  sides. 

From  east  to  north  the  transient  breezes  play; 

And  in  the  Egyptian  quarter  soon  decay. 

A calm  ensues ; they  dread  the  adjacent  shore; 

The  boats  with  rowers  armed  are  sent  before ; 

With  cordage  fastened  to  the  lofty  prow. 

Aloof  to  sea  the  stately  ship  they  tow. 

The  nervous  crew  their  sweeping  oars  extend ; 

And  pealing  shouts  the  shore  of  Candia  rend. 

Success  attends  their  skill ; the  danger’s  o’er ; 

The  port  is  doubled,  and  beheld  no  more. 

Now  morn,  her  lamp  pale  glimmering  on  the  sight. 
Scattered  before  her  van  reluctant  night. 

She  comes  not  in  refulgent  pomp  arrayed. 

But  sternly  frowning,  wrapt  in  sullen  shade. 

Above  incumbent  vapours,  Ida’s  height. 

Tremendous  rock  ! emerges  on  the  sight. 

North-east  the  guardian  isle  of  Standia  lies. 

And  westward  Freschin’s  woody  capes  arise. 

With  winning  postures,  now  the  wanton  sails 
Spread  all  their  snares  to  charm  the  inconstant  gales. 
The  swelling  stu’n-sails'  now  their  wings  extend. 
Then  stay-sails  sidelong  to  the  breeze  ascend  : 
tVhile  all  to  court  the  wandering  breeze  are  placed  ; 
tt'ith  yards  now  thwarting,  now  obliquely  l)raced. 

The  dim  horizon  lowering  vapours  shroud. 

And  blot  the  sun,  yet  struggling  in  the  cloud  ; 
Through  the  wide  atmosphere,  condensed  with  haze. 
His  glaring  orb  emits  a sanguine  blaze. 

The  pilots  now  tlieir  rules  of  art  apply. 

The  mystic  needle’s  devious  aim  to  ti-y. 

The  compass  placed  to  catch  the  rising  ray ,2 
The  quadrant’s  shadows  studious  they  survey ! 

Along  the  arch  the  gradual  index  slides, 
tN'hile  Phoehus  down  the  vertic  circle  glides. 

Now,  seen  on  ocean’s  utmost  verge  to  swim. 

He  sweeps  it  vibrant  with  his  nether  limb. 

■ Studding-sails  are  long  narrow  sails,  which  are  only  used 
in  fine  weather  and  fair  winds,  on  the  outside  of  the  larger 
square-sails,  otay-sails  are  three-cornered  sails,  which  are 
hoisted  up  on  the  stays,  v/hen  the  wind  crosses  the  ship’s 
course  either  directly  or  obliquely. 

* The  operation  of  taking  the  sun’s  azimuth,  in  order  to  dis- 
cover the  eastern  or  western  variation  of  the  niagnetical  needle. 


Their  sago  experience  thus  ex]dores  the  height. 

And  polar  distance  of  the  source  of  light ; 

Then  through  the  chiliad’s  triple  maze  they  trace 
The  analogy  tliat  proves  the  magnet’s  place. 

The  wayward  steel,  to  truth  thus  reconciled, 

No  more  the  attentive  pilot’s  eye  leguiicd. 

The  natives,  while  the  ship  departs  the  land, 

Ashore  with  admiration  gazing  stand. 

Majestically  slow,  before  the  breeze, 

In  silent  pomp  she  marches  on  the  seas. 

Her  milk-white  bottom  cast  a softer  gleam. 

While  trembling  through  the  green  translucent  stream. 
The  wales,*  tliat  close  above  in  contrast  shone. 

Clasp  tlie  long  fabric  with  a jetty  zone. 

Britannia,  riding  awful  on  the  prow. 

Gazed  o’er  the  vassal-w’ave  that  rolled  below : 
Whei'c’er  she  moved,  the  vassal-waves  were  seen 
To  yield  obsequious,  and  confe.ss  their  queen.  * • 

High  o’er  the  poop,  the  flattering  winds  unfurled 
The  imperial  flag  that  rules  the  watery  world. 
Deep-blushing  armors  all  the  tops  invest ; 

And  warlike  trophies  either  quarter  drest: 

Then  towered  the  ma.sts  ; the  canvass  swelled  on  highj 
And  waving  streamers  floated  in  the  sky. 

Thus  the  rich  vessel  moves  in  trim  array. 

Like  some  fair  virgin  on  her  bridal  day. 

Thus  like  a swan  she  cleaves  the  watery  plain, 

The  pride  and  wonder  of  the  zEgean  main ! 

[The  ship,  having  been  driven  out  of  her  course  from  Candia, 
is  overtaken  by  a storm.] 

As  yet  amid  this  elemental  war. 

That  scatters  desolation  from  afar. 

Nor  toil,  nor  hazard,  nor  distress  appear 
To  sink  the  seamen  with  unmanly  fear. 

Though  their  firm  hearts  no  pageant  honour  boast. 
They  scorn  the  wretch  that  trembles  in  his  post ; 

Who  from  the  face  of  danger  strives  to  turn. 
Indignant  from  the  social  hour  they  spurn. 

Though  now  full  oft  they  felt  the  raging  tide. 

In  proud  rebellion  climb  the  vessel’s  side. 

No  future  ills  unknorvn  their  souls  appal ; 

They  know  no  danger,  or  they  scorn  it  all! 

But  even  the  generous  spirits  of  the  brave, 

Subdued  by  toil,  a friendly  respite  crave ; 

A short  repose  alone  their  thoughts  implore. 

Their  harassed  powers  by  slumber  to  restore. 

Far  other  cares  the  master’s  mind  employ; 
Approaching  perils  all  his  hopes  destroy. 

In  vain  he  spreads  the  graduated  chart. 

And  bounds  the  distance  by  the  rules  of  art ; 

In  vain  athwart  the  mimic  seas  expands 
The  compasses  to  circumjacent  lands. 

Ungrateful  task!  for  no  asylum  traced, 

A passage  opened  from  the  watery  waste. 

Fate  seemed  to  guard  with  adamantine  mound. 

The  path  to  every  friendly  port  around. 

While  Albert  thus,  with  secret  doubts  dismayed, 

The  geometric  distances  surveyed  ; 

On  deck  the  watchful  Rodmond  cries  aloud. 

Secure  your  lives — grasp  every  man  a shroud ! 

Roused  from  his  trance  he  mounts  with  eyes  aghast, 
When  o’er  the  ship  in  undulation  vast, 

A giant  surge  down-rushes  from  on  high. 

And  fore  and  aft  dissevered  ruins  lie.  * * 

* the  torn  vessel  felt  the  enormous  stroke  ; 

The  boats  beneath  the  thundering  deluge  broke ; 

Forth  started  from  their  planks  the  bursting  rings. 
The  extended  cordage  all  asunder  springs. 

The  pilot’s  fair  machinery  strews  the  deck. 

And  cards  and  needles  swim  in  floating  vvTeck. 

■ The  wales  here  alluded  to  are  an  assemblage  of  stroiii 
planks  which  envelope  the  lower  part  of  the  ship’s  side,  where, 
in  they  are  'oroader  and  thicker  than  the  rest,  and  appeas 
somewhat  like  a range  of  hoops,  which  separates  the  bottom 
from  the  upper  works. 

89 


«'«>«  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1780. 

Tlic  balanced  niizen,  rending  to  the  head, 

In  streaming  ruins  from  tlie  margin  fled. 

The  sides  convulsive  shook  on  groaning  beams, 

And,  rent  with  labour,  yawned  the  pitchy  seams. 
'I'hey  sound  the  well,*  and  terrible  to  hearl 
Five  feet  immersed  along  the  line  appear. 

At  either  pump  they  ply  the  clanking  brake,2 
And  turn  by  turn  the  ungrateful  office  take. 
Itodmond,  Avion,  and  Palemon,  here. 

At  this  sad  task  all  diligent  appear. 

As  soma  fair  castle,  shook  by  rude  alarms. 

Opposes  long  the  approach  of  hostile  arms  ; 

Grim  war  around  her  plants  his  black  array. 

And  deal',  and  sorrow  mark  his  horrid  way  ; 

Till  in  some  destined  hour,  against  her  wall. 

In  tenfold  rage  the  fatal  thunders  fall ; 

The  ramparts  crack,  the  solid  bulwarks  rend. 

And  hostile  troops  the  shattered  breach  ascend ; 

Her  valiant  inmates  still  the  foe  retard, 

Re.solved  till  death  their  sacred  charge  to  guard : 

So  the  brave  mariners  their  pumps  attend. 

And  help  incessant  by  rotation  lend  ; 

But  all  in  vain — for  now  the  sounding  cord, 

Updrawm,  an  undiminished  depth  explored. 

Nor  this  severe  distress  is  found  alone  ; 

The  ribs  oppressed  by  ponderous  cannon  groan. 

Deep  rolling  from  the  watery  volume’s  height, 

The  tortured  sides  seem  bursting  with  their  weight. 

So  reels  Pelorus,  with  convulsive  throes. 

When  in  his  veins  the  burning  earthquake  glows  ; 
Hoarse  through  his  entrails  roars  the  infernal  flame  ; 
And  central  thunders  rend  his  groaning  frame; 
Accumulated  mischiefs  thus  arise. 

And  fate  vindictive  all  their  skill  defies  ; 

One  only  remedy  the  season  gave — 

To  plunge  the  nerves  of  battle  in  the  wave. 

From  their  high  platforms  thus  the  artillery  thrown. 
Eased  of  their  load,  the  timbers  less  shall  groan ; 

But  arduous  is  the  task  their  lot  requires; 

A task  that  hovering  fate  alone  inspires ! 

For,  while  intent  the  yawning  decks  to  ease. 

That  ever  and  anon  are  drenched  with  seas. 

Some  fatal  billow,  with  recoiling  sweep. 

May  whirl  the  helpless  wretches  in  the  deep. 

No  season  this  for  counsel  or  delay! 

Too  soon  the  eventful  moments  haste  away ; 

Here  perseverance,  with  each  help  of  art, 

Must  join  the  boldest  efforts  of  the  heart. 

These  only  now  their  misery  can  relieve ; 

These  only  now  a dawn  of  safety  give  ; 

While  o’er  the  quivering  deck,  from  van  to  rear. 

Broad  surges  roll  in  terrible  career ; 

Rodmond,  Arion,  and  a chosen  crew, 

This  office  in  the  face  of  death  pursue. 

The  wheeled  artillery  o'er  the  deck  to  guide, 

Rodmond  descending  claimed  the  weather-side. 
Fearless  of  heart,  the  chief  his  orders  gave. 

Fronting  the  rude  assaults  of  every  wave. 

Like  some  strong  watch-tower  nodding  o’er  the 
deep. 

Whose  rocky  base  the  foaming  waters  sweep. 

Untamed  he  stood  ; the  stern  aerial  war 
Had  marked  his  honest  face  with  many  a scar. 
Meanwhile  Arion,  traversing  the  waist, 3 
The  cordage  of  the  leeward  guns  unbraced. 

And  pointed  crows  beneath  the  metal  placed. 

* The  well  is  an  apartment  in  the  ship’s  hold,  serving  to  in- 
close the  pumps.  It  is  sounded  by  dropping  a graduated  iron 
rod  down  into  it  by  a long  line.  Hence  the  increase  or  diminu- 
tion of  the  ieaks  are  easily  discovered. 

s The  brake  is  the  lever  or  handle  of  the  pump,  by  which  it 
Is  wrought. 

s The  waist  of  a ship  of  this  kind  is  a hollow  space  of  about 
five  feet  in  depth,  contained  between  the  elevations  of  the 
quarter  deck  and  forecastle,  and  havhig  the  upper  deck  for  its 
base  or  platform.  1 

Watching  the  roll,  their  forelocks  they  withdrew. 

And  from  their  beds  the  reeling  cannon  threw ; 

Then,  from  the  windward  battlements  unbound, 
Redmond’s  as.sociates  wheel  the  artillery  round; 
Pointed  with  iron  fang.s,  their  bars  beguile 
The  ponderous  arms  aeross  the  steep  defile ; 

Then  hurled  from  sounding  hinges  o’er  the  side. 
Thundering,  they  plunge  into  the  flashing  tide. 

[The  tempest  increases,  but  the  dismantled  ship  passes  the 
island  of  St  George.] 

But  now  Athenian  mountains  they  descry. 

And  o’er  the  surge  Colonna  frowns  on  high. 

Beside  the  cape’s  projecting  verge  is  placed 
A range  of  columns  long  by  time  defaced  ; 

First  planted  by  devotion  to  sustain, 

In  elder  times,  Tritonia’s  sacred  fane. 

Foams  the  wild  beach  below  with  maddening  rage, 
Where  waves  and  rocks  a dreadful  combat  wage. 

The  sickly  heaven,  fermenting  with  its  freight. 

Still  vomits  o’er  the  main  the  feverish  weight : 

And  now  while  winged  with  ruin  from  on  high. 
Through  the  rent  cloud  the  ragged  lightnings  fly, 

A flash  quick  glancing  on  the  nerves  of  light. 

Struck  the  pale  helmsman  with  eternal  night; 
Rodmond,  who  heard  a piteous  groan  behind. 

Touched  with  compassion,  gazed  upon  the  blind ; 

And  while  around  his  sad  companions  crowd. 

He  guides  the  unhappy  victim  to  the  shroud. 

Hie  thee  aloft,  my  gallant  friend,  he  cries ; 

Thy  only  succour  on  the  mast  relies ! 

The  helm,  bereft  of  half  its  vital  force, 

Now  scarce  subdued  the  wild  unbridled  course  ; 

Quick  to  the  abandoned  wheel  Arion  came. 

The  ship’s  tempestuous  sallies  to  reclaim. 

Amazed  he  saw  her,  o’er  the  sounding  foam 
Upborne,  to  right  and  left  distracted  roam. 

So  gazed  young  Phaeton,  with  pale  dismay. 

When,  mounted  on  the  flaming  car  of  day. 

With  rash  and  impious  hand  the  stripling  tried 
The  immortal  coursers  of  the  sun  to  guide. 

The  vessel,  while  the  dread  event  draws  nigh. 

Seems  more  impatient  o’er  the  waves  to  fly  : 

Fate  spurs  her  on.  Thus,  issuing  from  afar, 

Advances  to  the  sun  some  blazing  star  ; 

And,  as  it  feels  the  attraction’s  kindling  force. 

Springs  onward  with  accelerated  force. 

With  mournful  look  the  seamen  eyed  the  strand, 
Where  death’s  inexorable  jaws  expand  ; 

Swift  from  their  minds  elapsed  all  dangers  past, 

As,  dumb  with  terror,  they  beheld  the  last. 

Now  on  the  trembling  shrouds,  before,  behind. 

In  mute  suspense  they  mount  into  the  wind. 

The  genius  of  the  deep,  on  rapid  wing. 

The  black  eventful  moment  seemed  to  bring. 

The  fatal  sisters,  on  the  surge  before. 

Yoked  their  infernal  horses  to  the  prove. 

The  steersmen  now  received  their  last  command 
To  wheel  the  vessel  sidelong  to  the  strand. 

Twelve  sailors,  on  the  foremast  who  depend. 

High  on  the  platform  of  the  top  ascend  : 

Fatal  retreat ! for  while  the  plunging  prow 
Immerges  headlong  in  the  wave  below, 

Down-pressed  by  watery  weight  the  bowsprit  bends, 

And  from  above  the  stem  deep  crashing  rends. 

Beneath  her  beak  the  floating  ruins  lie  ; 

The  foremast  totters,  unsustained  on  high  ; 

And  now  the  ship,  fore-lifted  by  the  sea,  | 

Hurls  the  tall  fabric  backward  o’er  her  lee : I 

While,  in  the  general  wreck,  the  faithful  stay  ' 

Drags  the  maintop-mast  from  its  post  away.  [ 

Flung  from  the  mast,  the  seamen  strive  in  vain 
Through  hostile  floods  their  vessel  to  regain.  | 

The  waves  they  buffet,  till,  bereft  of  strength,  , 

O’erpowered,  they  yield  to  cruel  fate  at  length. 

90  1 

1 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


KOBEBT  LLOTD. 


POETS. 


The  hostile  waters  close  around  their  head, 

They  sink  for  ever,  numbered  with  the  dead  1 
Those  who  remain  their  fearful  doom  await, 

Nor  longer  mourn  their  lost  companions’  fate. 

The  heart  that  bleeds  with  sorrows  all  its  own, 
Forgets  the  pangs  of  friendship  to  bemoan. 

Albert  and  Rodmond  and  Palemon  here, 

With  young  Arion,  on  the  mast  appear  ; 

Even  they,  amid  the  unspeakable  distress. 

In  every  look  distracting  thoughts  confess  ; 

In  every  vein  the  refluent  blood  congeals, 

And  every  bosom  fatal  terror  feels. 

Inclosed  with  all  the  demons  of  the  main. 

They  viewed  the  adjacent  shore,  but  viewed  in  vain. 
Such  torments  in  the  drear  abodes  of  hell. 

Where  sad  despair  laments  with  rueful  yell ; 

Such  torments  agonize  the  damned  breast. 

While  fancy  views  the  mansions  of  the  blest. 

For  Heaven’s  sweet  help  their  suppliant  cries  implore; 
But  Heaven,  relentless,  deigns  to  help  no  more ! 

And  now,  lashed  on  by  destiny  severe. 

With  horror  fraught  the  dreadful  scene  drew  nearl 
The  ship  hangs  hovering  on  the  verge  of  death. 

Hell  yawns,  rocks  rise,  and  breakers  roar  beneath! 

In  vain,  alas!  the  sacred  shades  of  yore. 

Would  arm  the  mind  with  philosophic  lore  ; 

In  vain  they’d  teach  us,  at  the  latest  breath. 

To  smile  serene  amid  the  pangs  of  death. 

Even  Zeno’s  self,  and  Epictetus  old. 

This  fell  abyss  had  shuddered  to  behold. 

Had  Socrates,  for  godlike  virtue  famed. 

And  wisest  of  the  sons  of  men  proclaimed. 

Beheld  this  scene  of  frenzy  and  distress. 

His  soul  had  trembled  to  its  last  recess! 

O yet  confirm  my  heart,  ye  powers  above. 

This  last  tremendous  shock  of  fate  to  prove ! 

The  tottering  frame  of  reason  yet  sustain  ! 

Nor  let  this  total  ruin  whirl  my  brain ! 

In  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared. 

For  now  the  audacious  seas  insult  the  yard ; 

High  o’er  the  ship  they  throw  a horrid  shade. 

And  o’er  her  burst,  in  terrible  cascade. 

Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  .she  flies. 

Her  shattered  top  half  buried  in  the  skies. 

Then  headlong  plunging  thunders  on  the  ground. 
Earth  groans,  air  trembles,  and  the  deeps  resound! 
Her  giant  bulk  the  dread  concussion  feels. 

And  quivering  with  the  wound,  in  torment  reels  ; 

So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonizing  throes. 

The  bleeding  bull  beneath  the  murderer’s  blows. 
Again  she  plunges  ; hark!  a second  shock 
Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  marble  rock! 

Doivn  on  the  vale  of  death,  with  dismal  cries. 

The  fated  victims  shuddering  roll  their  eyes 
In  wild  despair ; w'hile  yet  another  stroke. 

With  deep  convulsion,  rends  the  solid  oak  : 

Till,  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal  cell 
The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell. 

At  length  asunder  torn  her  frame  divides. 

And  crashing  spreads  in  ruin  o’er  the  tides. 

0 were  it  mine  with  tuneful  Maro’s  art, 

To  wake  to  sympathy  the  feeling  heart ; 

Like  him  the  smooth  and  mournful  verse  to  dress 
In  all  the  pomp  of  exquisite  distress! 

Then,  too  severely  taught  by  cruel  fate 
To  share  in  all  the  perils  I relate. 

Then  might  I with  unrivalled  strains  deplore 
The  impervious  horrors  of  a leeward  shore. 

As  o’er  the  surf  the  bending  mainmast  hung, 

Still  on  the  rigging  thirty  seamen  clung ; 

Some  on  a broken  crag  were  struggling  cast, 

And  there  by  oozy  tangles  grappled  fast ; 

Awhile  they  bore  the  o’erwhelming  billow’s  rage. 
Unequal  combat  with  their  fate  to  wage ; 

Till  all  benumbed  and  feeble,  they  forego 
Their  slippery  hold,  and  sink  to  shades  below ; 


Some,  from  the  main  yard-arm  impetuous  thrown 
On  marble  ridges,  die  without  a groan  ; 

Three  with  I’alemon  on  their  skill  depend. 

And  from  the  wreck  on  oars  and  rafts  descend ; 

Now  on  the  mountain-wave  on  high  they  ride. 

Then  downward  plunge  beneath  the  involving  tide  ; 
Till  one,  who  seems  in  agony  to  strive. 

The  whirling  breakers  heave  on  shore  alive : 

The  rest  a speedier  end  of  anguish  knew. 

And  pressed  the  stony  beach — a lifeless  crew ! 

Next,  O unhappy  chief!  the  eternal  doom 
Of  heaven  decreed  thee  to  the  briny  tomb ; 

What  scenes  of  misery  torment  thy  view  I 
What  painful  struggles  of  thy  dying  crew ! 

Thy  perished  hopes  all  buried  in  the  flood, 

O’erspread  with  corses,  red  with  human  blood ! 

So  pierced  with  anguish  hoary  Priam  gazed. 

When  Troy’s  imperial  domes  in  ruin  blazed; 

AVhile  he,  severest  sorrow  doomed  to  feel. 

Expired  beneath  the  victor’s  murdering  steel — 

Thus  with  his  helpless  partners  to  the  last. 

Sad  refuge  ! Albert  grasps  the  floating  mast. 

His  soul  could  yet  sustain  this  mortal  blow. 

But  droops,  alas  ! beneath  superior  wo  ; 

For  now  strong  nature’s  sympathetic  chain 
Tugs  at  his  yearning  heart  with  powerful  strain ; 

His  faithful  wife,  for  ever  doomed  to  mourn 
For  him,  alas!  who  never  shall  return  ; 

To  black  adversity’s  approach  exposed. 

With  want,  and  hardships  unforeseen  enclosed  • 

His  lovely  daughter,  left  without  a friend 
Her  innocence  to  succour  and  defend. 

By  youth  and  indigence  set  forth  a prey 
To  lawless  guilt,  that  flatters  to  betray— 

While  these  reflections  rack  his  feeling  mind, 
Rodmond,  who  hung  beside,  his  grasp  resigned. 

And,  as  the  tumbling  waters  o’er  him  rolled. 

His  outstretched  arms  the  master’s  legs  infold: 

Sad  Albert  feels  their  dissolution  near. 

And  strives  in  vain  his  fettered  limbs  to  clear. 

For  death  bids  every  clinching  joint  adhere. 

All  faint,  to  heaven  he  throws  his  dying  eyes. 

And  ‘Oh  protect  my  wife  and  child!’  he  cries — 

The  gushing  streams  roll  back  the  unfinished  sound  ; 
He  gasps  ! and  sinks  amid  the  vast  profound. 


BOBERT  LLOYD. 

Robert  Lloyd,  the  friend  of  Cowper  and  Chur- 
chill, was  born  in  London  in  1733.  His  father  was 
under-master  at  Westminster  school.  He  distin- 
guished himself  by  his  talents  at  Cambridge,  but 
was  irregular  in  his  habits.  After  completing  his 
education,  he  became  an  usher  under  his  father. 
The  wearisome  routine  of  this  life  soon  disgusted 
him,  and  he  attempted  to  earn  a subsistence  by  his 
literary  talents.  His  poem  called  The  Actor  attracted 
some  notice,  and  was  the  precursor  of  Churchill’s 
‘Rosciad.’  The  style  is  light  and  easy,  and  the 
observations  generally  correct  and  spirited.  By 
contributing  to  periodical  works  as  an  essayist,  a 
poet,  and  stage  critic,  Lloyd  picked  up  a precarious 
subsistence,  but  his  means  were  thoughtlessly  squan- 
dered in  company  with  Churchill  and  other  wits 
‘ upon  town.’  He  brought  out  two  indifferent  thea- 
trical pieces,  published  his  poems  by  subscription, 
and  edited  the  ‘ St  James’s  Magazine,’  to  which 
Colman,  Bonnel  Thornton,  and  others,  contributed. 
The  magazine  failed,  and  Lloyd  was  cast  into  prison 
for  debt.  Churchill  generously  allowed  him  a guinea 
a-week,  as  well  as  a servant ; and  endeavoured  to 
raise  a subscription  for  the  purpose  of  extricating 
him  from  his  embarrassments.  Churchill  died  in 
November  1764.  ‘Lloyd,’  says  Mr  Southey,  ‘had 
been  apprised  of  his  danger;  but  when  the  news  of 

91 


PROM  1727 


CYCLOPililDrA  OF 


TO  1780, 


Ills  (Iciitli  was  somewhat  abruptly  announced  to  him, 
as  he  was  sitting  at  dinner,  lie  was  seized  with  a 
sudden  siekjiess,  and  saying,  “I  shall  follow  poor 
Charles,”  took  to  his  bed,  from  which  he  never  rose 
again  ; dying,  if  ever  man  died,  of  a broken  heart. 
The  tragedy  did  not  end  here : Churehill’s  favourite 
sister,  who  is  said  to  have  possessed  much  of  her 
brother’s  sense,  and  spirit,  and  genius,  and  to  have 
been  betrothed  to  Lloyd,  attended  him  during  his 
illness ; and,  sinking  under  the  double  loss,  soon 
followed  her  brother  and  her  lover  to  the  grave.’ 
Lloyd,  in  conjunction  with  Cohnan,  parodied  the 
Odes  of  Gray  and  Mason,  and  the  humour  of  their 
burlesques  is  not  tinctured  with  malignity.  Indeed, 
this  unfortunate  young  poet  seems  to  have  been  one 
of  the  gentlest  of  witty  observers  and  lively  sati- 
rists ; he  was  ruined  by  the  friendship  of  Churchill 
and  the  Nonsense  Club,  and  not  by  the  force  of  an 
evil  nature.  The  vivacity  of  his  style  (which  both 
Churchill  and  Cowper  copied)  may  be  seen  from  the 
following  short  extract  on 

[TliC  Miseiies  of  a Poet’s  Life.'] 

The  harlot  muse,  so  passing  gay, 

Bewitches  only  to  betray. 

Though  for  a while  with  easy  air 
She  smooths  the  rugged  brow  of  care, 

And  laps  the  mind  in  flowery  dreams, 

With  Fancy’s  transitory  gleams  ; 

Fond  of  the  nothings  she  bestows. 

We  wake  at  last  to  real  woes. 

Through  every  age,  in  every  place. 

Consider  well  the  poet’s  case ; 

By  turps  protected  and  caressed. 

Defamed,  dependent,  and  distre.ssed. 

The  joke  of  wits,  the  bane  of  slaves. 

The  curse  of  fools,  the  butt  of  knaves ; 

Too  proud  to  stoop  for  servile  ends. 

To  lacquey  rogues  or  flatter  friends  ; 

With  prodigality  to  give. 

Too  careless  of  the  means  to  live; 

The  bubble  fame  intent  to  gain. 

And  yet  too  lazy  to  maintain  ; 

He  quits  the  world  he  never  prized, 

Pitied  by  few,  by  more  despised. 

And,  lost  to  friends,  oppressed  by  foes. 

Sinks  to  the  nothing  whence  he  rose. 

0 glorious  trade  ! for  wit’s  a trade. 

Where  men  are  ruined  more  than  made ! 

Let  crazy  Lee,  neglected  Gay, 

The  shabby  Otway,  Dryden  gray. 

Those  tuneful  servants  of  the  Nine, 

(Not  that  I blend  their  names  with  mine), 

Re])eat  their  lives,  their  works,  their  fame. 

And  teach  the  world  some  useful  shame. 

But  bad  as  the  life  of  a hackney  poet  and  critic 
seems  to  have  been  in  Lloyd’s  estimation,  the 
situation  of  a school-usher  was  as  little  to  his 
mind : — 

[Wretchedness  of  a School-Usher.] 

Were  I at  once  empowered  to  show 
My  utmost  vengeance  on  my  foe. 

To  punish  with  extremes!  rigour, 

I could  inflict  no  penance  bigger. 

Than,  using  him  as  learning’s  tool, 

To  make  him  usher  of  a school. 

For,  not  to  dwell  upon  the  toil 
Of  working  on  a barren  soil. 

And  labouring  with  incessant  pains, 

To  cultivate  a blockhead’s  brains, 

The  duties  there  but  ill  befit 
The  love  of  letters,  arts,  or  wit. 


For  one,  it  hurts  me  to  the  soul. 

To  brook  confinement  or  control ; 

Still  to  be  pinioned  down  to  teach 
The  syntax  and  the  parts  of  speech ; 

Or,  wliat  perhaps  is  drudgery  worse. 

The  links,  and  points,  and  rules  of  verse; 
To  deal  out  authors  by  retail. 

Like  penny  pots  of  Oxford  ale ; 

Oh  ’tis  a service  irksome  more. 

Than  tugging  at  the  slavish  oar ! 

Y et  such  his  task,  a dismal  truth. 

Who  watches  o’er  the  bent  of  youth, 

And  while  a paltry  stipend  earning. 

He  sows  the  richest  seeds  of  learning. 

And  tills  their  minds  with  proper  care. 
And  sees  them  their  due  produce  bear; 
No  joys,  alas!  his  toil  beguile, 

His  own  lies  fallow  all  the  while. 

‘ y et  still  he’s  on  the  road,’  you  say, 

‘ Of  learning.’  Why,  jierhaps  he  may, 
But  turns  like  horses  in  a mill. 

Nor  getting  on,  nor  standing  still ; 

For  little  way  his  learning  reaches. 

Who  reads  no  more  than  what  he  teaches. 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 

A second  Dryden  was  supposed  to  have  arisen  in 
Churchill,  when  he  published  his  satirical  poem,  i 
The  liosciad,  in  17G1.  The  impression  w'as  con- 
tinued by  his  reply  to  the  critical  reviewers,  shortly 
afterwards  ; and  his  Epistle  to  Hogarth,  The  Prophecy 
of  Famine,  Night,  and  passages  in  his  other  poems — 
all  thrown  olF  in  haste  to  serve  the  purpose  of  the 
day — evinced  great  facility  of  versification,  and  a 
breadth  and  boldness  of  personal  invective  that  drew 
instant  attention  to  their  author.  Though  Cowper, 
from  early  predilections,  had  a high  opinion  of  Chur- 
chill, and  thought  he  was  ‘ indeed  a poet,’  we  cannot 
now  consider  the  author  of  the  ‘ Rosciad’  as  more  | 
than  a special  pleader  or  pamphleteer  in  verse.  He  I 
seldom  reaches  the  heart— except  in  some  few  lines  | 
of  penitential  fervour — and  he  never  ascended  to 
the  higher  regions  of  imagination,  then  trod  by  Col- 
lins, Gray,  and  Akenside.  With  the  beauties  of 
external  nature  he  had  not  the  slightest  sympathy. 
He  died  before  he  had  well  attained  the  prime  of  life ; 
yet  there  is  no  youthful  enthusiasm  about  his  works, 
nor  any  indications  that  he  sighed  for  a higher  fame 
than  that  of  being  the  terror  of  actors  and  artists, 
noted  for  his  libertine  eccentricities,  and  distin- 
guished for  his  devotion  to  Wilkes.  That  he  mis- 
applied strong  original  talents  in  following  out  these  ! 
pitiful  or  unworthy  objects  of  his  ambition,  is  unde-  I 
niable ; but  as  a satirical  poet — the  only  character  I 
in  which  he  appears  as  an  author — he  is  immeasur-  | 
ably  inferior  to  Pope  or  Dryden.  The  ‘ fatal  faci-  ! 
lity’  of  his  verse,  and  his  unscrupulous  satire  of  liv- 
ing individuals  and  passing  events,  had,  however,  ) 
the  effect  of  making  all  London  ‘ ring  from  side  j 
to  side’  with  his  applause,  at  a time  when  the  real  | 
poetry  of  the  age  could  hardly  obtain  either  publishers  | 
or  readers.  Excepting  Marlow,  the  dramatic  poet,  i 
scarcely  any  English  author  of  reputation  has  been  ' 
more  unhappy  in  his  life  and  end  than  Charles 
Churchill.  He  was  the  son  of  a clergyman  in  West- 
minster, where  he  was  born  in  1741.  After  attend- 
ing Westminster  school  and  Trinity  college.  Cam-  j 
bridge  (which  he  quitted  abruptly),  he  made  a elan-  | 
destine  marriage  with  a young  lady  in  Westminster,  I 
and  was  assisted  by  his  father,  till  he  was  ordained  ' 
and  settled  in  the  curacy  of  Rainham,  in  Essex.  I 
His  father  died  in  1758,  and  the  poet  was  appointed 
his  successor  in  the  curacy  and  lectureship  of  St  ; 

I John’s  at  Westminster.  This  transition,  which  pro  I 

93 


POETS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  ciuri.es  ciiurcr.i.l. 


miscd  an  accession  of  comfort  and  respectability, 
proved  the  bane  of  poor  Cbnrehill.  He  was  in  liis 
twenty-seventh  year,  and  his  conduct  had  been  up 
to  this  period  irreproachable.  He  now,  however, 
renewed  his  intiniacj’  with  Lloyd  and  other  school 
companions,  and  launched  into  a career  of  dissipa- 
tion and  extravagance.  His  poetry  drew  him  into 
notice ; and  he  not  only  disregarded  his  lectureship, 
but  he  laid  aside  the  clerical  costume,  and  appeared 
in  the  extreme  of  ftishion,  with  a blue  coat,  gold- 
laced  hat,  and  ruffles.  The  dean  of  Westminster  re- 
monstrated with  him  against  this  breach  of  clerical 
propriety,  and  his  animadversions  were  seconded  by 
the  poet’s  parishioners.  Cliurehill  affected  to  ridicule 
this  prudery,  and  Lloyd  made  it  the  subject  of  an 
epigram  : — 

To  Churchill,  the  bard,  cries  the  Westminster  dean, 
Leather  breeches,  white  stockings  ! pray  what  do  you 
mean  1 

1 ’Tis  shameful,  irreverent — you  must  keep  to  church 

I rules. 

I If  wise  ones  I will ; and  if  not  they’re  for  fools. 

If  reason  don’t  bind  me.  I’ll  shake  off  all  fetters. 

To  be  black  and  all  black  I shall  leave  to  my  betters. 

The  dean  and  the  congregation  were,  however,  too 
powerful,  and  Churchill  found  it  necessary  to  resign 
the  lectureship.  His  ready  pen  still  threw  off  at 
will  his  popular  satires,  and  he  plunged  into  the 
grossest  debaucheries.  These  excesses  he  attempted 
to  justify  in  a poetical  epistle  to  Lloyd,  entitled 
‘ Night,’  in  which  he  revenges  himself  on  prudence 
and  the  wmrld  by  railing  at  them  in  good  set  terms. 
‘ This  vindication  proceeded,’  says  his  biographer, 
‘ on  the  exploded  doctrine,  that  the  barefaced  avowal 
of  vice  is  less  culpable  than  the  practice  of  it  under 
a hypocritical  assumption  of  virtue.  The  measure 
of  guilt  in  the  individual  is,  we  conceive,  tolerably 
equal ; but  the  sanction  and  dangerous  examjile 
afforded  in  the  former  case,  renders  it,  in  a public 
point  of  view,  an  evil  of  tenfold  magnitude.’  The 
poet’s  irregularities  affected  his  powers  of  composi-^ 
tion,  and  his  poem  of  The  Ghost,  published  at  this 
time,  was  an  incoherent  and  tiresome  production. 
A greater  evil,  too,  was  his  acquaintance  with 
Wilkes,  unfortunately  equally  conspicuous  for  public 
faction  and  private  debauchery.  Churchill  assisted 
his  new  associate  in  the  North  Briton,  and  received 
the  profit  .arising  from  its  sale.  ‘ This  circumstance 
rendered  him  of  importance  enough  to  be  included 
with  Wilkes  in  the  list  of  those  whom  the  mes- 
sengers had  verbal  instructions  to  apprehend  under 
the  general  warrant  issued  for  that  purpose,  the 
execution  of  which  gave  rise  to  the  most  popular 
and  only  beneficial  part  of  the  Svarm  contest  that 
ensued  with  government.  Churchill  was  with  Wilkes 
at  the  time  the  latter  was  apprehended,  and  himself 
only  escaped  owing  to  the  messenger’s  ignorance  of 
his  person,  and  to  the  presence  of  mind  with  which 
Wilkes  addressed  him  by  the  name  of  Thomson.’  * 
The  poet  now  set  about  his  satire,  the  Propheexj  of 
Famine,  which,  like  Wilkes’s  North  Briton,  was 
specially  directed  against  the  Scottish  nation.  The 
outlawry  of  Wilkes  separated  the  friends,  but  they 
kept  up  a correspondence,  and  Churchill  continued 

* Life  of  ChurchiU  prefixed  to  works.  London : 1804.  When 
Churchill  entered  the  room,  Wilkes  was  in  custody  of  the 
messenger.  * Good  morning,  Mr  Thomson,’  said  Wilkes  to 
him.  * IIow  does  Mrs  Thomson  do  ? Does  she  dine  in  the 
country  V Churchill  toolc  the  l.int  as  readily  as  it  had  been 
given.  lie  replied  that  Mrs  Thomson  W'as  waiting  for  him, 
and  that  he  only  came,  for  a moment,  to  ask  him  how  he  did. 
Then  almost  directly  he  took  his  leave,  hastened  home,  secured 
bia  papers,  retired  into  the  country,  and  eluded  all  search. 


to  be  a keen  political  satirist.  The  excesses  of  his 
daily  life  remained  equally  conspicuous.  Hogarth, 
who  was  opposed  to  Churchill  for  being  a friend 
of  Wilkes,  characteristically  exposed  his  habits 
by  caricaturing  the  satirist  in  the  form  of  a bear 
dressed  canonically,  with  ruffles  at  his  paws,  and 
holding  a pot  of  porter.  Churchill  took  revenge 
in  a fierce  and  sweeping  ‘epistle’  to  Hogarth,  which 
is  said  to  h.ave  caused  him  the  most  exquisite  pain. 
After  separating  from  his  wife,  and  forming  an  un- 
happy connexion  with  another  female,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a Westminster  tradesman,  whom  he  had 
seduced,  Churchill’s  career  drew  to  a sad  and  pre- 
mature close.  In  October  1764  he  went  to  France 
to  pay  a visit  to  his  friend  Wilkes,  and  was  seized 
at  Boulogne  with  a fever,  which  proved  fatal  on  the 
4th  of  November.  With  his  clerical  profession 
Churchill  had  thrown  off  his  belief  in  Christianity, 
and  Mr  Southey  mentions,  that  though  he  made  his 
will  only  the  d.ay  before  his  death,  there  is  in  it  not 
the  slightest  expression  of  religious  faith  or  hope. 
So  highly  popular  and  productive  had  his  satires 
proved,  that  he  was  enabled  to  bequeath  an  annuity 
of  sixty  pounds  to  his  widow,  and  fifty  to  the  more 
unhappy  woman  whom  he  had  seduced,  and  some 
surplus  remained  to  his  sons.  The  poet  was  buried 
at  Dover,  and  some  of  his  gay  associates  placed  over 
his  grave  a stone  on  which  was  engraved  a line  from 
one  of  his  own  poems — 

Life  to  the  last  enjoyed,  here  Churchill  lies. 

Tlie  enjoyment  may  be  doubted,  hardly  less  than 
the  taste  of  the  inscription.  It  is  certain  that 
Churchill  expressed  his  compunction  for  p.arts  of  his 
conduct,  in  verses  that  evidently  came  from  the 
heart : — 

Look  back  ! a thought  which  borders  on  despair, 
Which  human  nature  must,  yet  cannot  bear. 

’Tis  not  the  babbling  of  a busy  world, ' 

M’here  praise  or  censure  are  at  random  hurled. 

Which  can  the  meanest  of  my  thoughts  control, 

Or  shake  one  settled  purpose  of  my  soul ; 

Free  and  at  large  might  their  wild  curses  roam, 

If  all,  if  all,  alas  ! were  well  at  home. 

No  ; ’tis  the  tale,  which  angry  conscience  tells, 

When  she  with  more  than  tragic  horror  swells 
Each  circumstance  of  guilt  ; when  stern,  but  true, 

She  brings  bad  actions  forth  into  review. 

And,  like  the  dread  handwriting  on  the  wall. 

Bids  late  remorse  awake  at  reason’s  call  ; 

Armed  at  all  points,  bids  scorpion  vengeance  pass, 
And  to  the  mind  holds  up  reflection’s  glass — 

The  mind  which  starting  heaves  the  heart-felt  groan. 
And  hates  that  form  she  knows  to  be  her  own. 

The  Conference. 

The  most  ludicrous,  and,  on  the  whole,  the  best  of 
ChurchUl’s  satires,  is  his  Propheaj  of  tumine,  a 
Scots  pastonal,  inscribed  to  Wilkes.  The  Earl  of 
Bute’s  administration  had  directed  the  enmity  of  all 
disappointed  patriots  and  keen  partisans  against  the 
Scottish  nation.  Even  Johnson  and  Junius  des- 
cended to  this  petty  national  prejudice,  and  Churchill 
revelled  in  it  with  such  undisguised  exaggeration 
and  broad  humour,  that  the  most  saturnine  or  sensi- 
tive of  our  countrymen  must  have  laughed  at  its 
absurdity.  This  unique  pastoral  opens  as  follows : — 

Two  boys  whose  birth,  beyond  all  question,  springs 
From  great  and  glorious,  though  forgotten  kings. 
Shepherds  of  Scottish  lineage,  born  and  bred 
On  the  same  bleak  and  barren  mountain’s  head. 

By  niggard  nature  doomed  on  the  same  rocks 
To  spin  out  life,  and  starve  themselves  and  flocks. 
Fresh  as  the  morning,  which,  enrobed  in  misv. 

The  mountain’s  top  with  usual  dulness  kissed, 

13 


PROM  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1780. 


Jockey  and  Sawney  to  their  labours  rose  ; 

Soon  clad  I ween,  where  nature  needs  no  clothes  ; 
Where  from  their  youth  inured  to  winter  skies, 

Dress  and  her  vain  refinements  they  despise. 

Jockey,  whose  manly  high  cheek  bones  to  crown, 
With  freckles  spotted  flamed  the  golden  down. 

With  mcikle  art  could  on  the  bagpipes  play, 

Kven  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  day  ; 

Sawney  as  long  without  remorse  could  bawl 
Home’s  madrigals,  and  ditties  from  Fingal : 

Oft  at  his  strains,  all  natural  though  rude. 

The  llighlaml  lass  forgot  her  want  of  food, 

And,  whilst  she  scratched  her  lover  into  rest, 

Sunk  pleased,  though  hungry,  on  her  Sawney’s  breast. 

Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  no  tree  was  seen, 

Karth,  clad  in  russet,  scorned  the  lively  green  : 

The  plague  of  locusts  they  secure  defy, 

For  in  three  hours  a grasshopper  must  die : 

[ No  living  thing,  whate’er  its  food,  feasts  there, 

I Hut  the  chameleon  who  can  feast  on  air. 

No  birds,  except  as  birds  of  passage  flew; 

No  bee  was  known  to  hum,  no  dove  to  coo  : 

No  streams,  as  amber  smooth,  as  amber  clear, 

, Were  seen  to  glide,  or  heard  to  warble  here : 

Uebellion’s  spring,  which  through  the  country  ran. 
Furnished  with  bitter  draughts  the  steady  clan : 

No  flowers  embalmed  the  air,  but  one  white  rose, 
Which,  on  the  tenth  of  June,”  by  instinct  blows  ; 

I’.v  instinct  blows  at  morn,  and,  when  the  shades 
Of  drizzly  eve  prevail,  by  instinct  fades. 

In  the  same  poem  Churchill  thus  alludes  to  himself: 

Me,  whom  no  muse  of  heavenly  birth  inspires. 

No  judgment  tempers,  when  rash  genius  fires  ; 

Who  boast  no  merit  but  mere  knack  of  rhyme. 

Short  gleams  of  sense  and  satire  out  of  time  ; 

Who  cannot  follow  where  trim  fancy  leads 
Hy  prattling  streams,  o’er  flower-impurpled  meads  ; 
W'ho  often,  but  without  success,  have  prayed 
For  apt  Alliteration’s  artful  aid  ; 

Who  would,  but  cannot,  with  a master’s  skill. 

Coin  fine  new  epithets  which  mean  no  ill ; 

Me,  thus  uncouth,  thus  every  way  unfit 
For  pacing  poesy,  and  ambling  wit, 

Taste  with  contempt  beholds,  nor  deigns  to  place 
Amongst  the  lowest  of  her  favoured  race. 

The  characters  of  Garrick,  &c.,  in  the  Bosciad,  have 
now  ceased  to  interest ; but  some  of  these  rough 
pen-and-ink  sketches  of  Churchill  are  happily  exe- 
cuted. Smollett,  who  he  believed  had  attacked  him 
in  the  Critical  Review,  he  alludes  to  with  mingled 
approbation  and  ridicule — 

Whence  could  arise  this  mighty  critic  spleen. 

The  muse  a trifler,  and  her  theme  so  mean  I 
^Vh.^t  had  I done  that  angry  heaven  should  send 
The  bitterest  foe  where  most  I wished  a friend  ? 

Oft  hath  my  tongue  been  wanton  at  thy  name. 

And  hailed  the  honours  of  thy  matchless  fame. 

For  me  let  hoary  Fielding  bite  the  ground. 

So  nobler  Pickle  stands  superbly  bound  ; 

From  Livy’s  temples  tear  the  historic  croTO, 

Which  with  more  j^istice  blooms  upon  thine  own. 
Compared  with  thee,  be  all  life-vTiters  dumb. 

Hut  he  who  wrote  the  Life  of  Tommy  Thumb. 
Whoever  read  the  Regicide  but  swore 
The  author  wrote  as  man  ne’er  wrote  before  1 
Others  for  plots  and  under  plots  may  call. 

Here’s  the  right  method — have  no  plot  at  all  ! 

I Of  Hogarth— 

In  walks  of  humour,  in  that  cast  of  style. 

Which,  probing  to  the  quick,  yet  makes  us  smile; 

* The  birth-day  of  the  old  Chevalier.  It  used  to  he  a great 
object  with  the  gardener  of  a Scottish  Jacobite  family  of  those 
•lays  to  have  the  Stuart  emblem  in  blow  by  the  tenth  of  June. 


In  comedy,  his  natural  road  to  fame. 

Nor  let  me  call  it  by  a meaner  name, 

Where  a beginning,  middle,  and  an  end 
Are  aptly  joined  ; where  parts  on  parts  depend. 

Each  made  for  each,  as  bodies  for  their  soul. 

So  as  to  form  one  true  and  perfect  whole. 

Where  a plain  story  to  the  eye  is  told, 

Which  we  conceive  the  moment  we  behold, 

Hogarth  unrivalled  stands,  and  shall  engage 
Unrivalled  praise  to  the  most  distant  age. 

In  ‘Night,’  Churchill  thus  gaily  addressed  his  friend 
Lloyd  on  the  proverbial  poverty  of  poets ; — 

AVhat  is’t  to  us,  if  taxes  rise  or  fall  ? 

Thanks  to  our  fortune,  we  pay  none  at  all. 

Let  muckworms,  who  in  dirty  acres  deal, 

Lament  those  hardships  which  we  cannot  feel. 

His  Grace,  who  smarts,  may  bellow  if  he  please. 

Hut  must  I bellow  too,  who  sit  at  ease  1 
By  custom  safe,  the  poet’s  numbers  flow 
Free  as  the  light  and  air  some  years  ago. 

No  statesman  e’er  will  find  it  worth  his  pains 
To  tax  our  labours  and  excise  our  brains. 

Burthens  like  thc.se,  vile  earthly  buildings  bear; 

No  tribute’s  laid  on  castles  in  the  air ! 

The  reputation  of  Churchill  was  also  an  aerial  struc- 
ture. ‘ No  English  poet,’  says  Southey,  ‘ had  ever 
enjoyed  so  excessive  and  so  short  lived  a popularity; 
and  indeed  no  one  seems  more  thoroughly  to  have 
understood  his  own  powers ; there  is  no  indication  | 
in  any  of  his  pieces  that  he  could  have  done  any  j 
thing  better  than  the  thing  he  did.  To  Wilkes  he  | 
said,  that  nothing  came  out  till  he  began  to  be  pleased  j 
with  it  himself ; but,  to  the  public,  he  boasted  of  the 
haste  and  carelessness  with  which  his  verses  were 
poured  forth. 

Had  I the  power,  I could  not  have  the  time, 

While  spirits  flow,  and  life  is  in  her  prime. 

Without  a sin  ’gainst  pleasure,  to  design 
A plan,  to  methodise  each  thought,  each  line,  | 

Highly  to  finish,  and  make  every  grace  ' 

In  itself  charming,  take  new  charms  from  place.  I 
Nothing  of  books,  and  little  known  of  men, 

When  the  mad  fit  comes  on  I seize  the  pen  ; I 

Rough  as  they  run,  the  rapid  thoughts  set  down,  [ 

Rough  as  they  run,  discharge  them  on  the  town.  , 

Popularity  which  is  easily  gained,  is  lost  as  easily ; ' 

such  reputations  resembling  the  lives  of  insects, 
whose  shortness  of  existence  is  compensated  by  its 
proportion  of  enjoyment.  He  perhaps  imagined 
that  his  genius  would  preserve  his  subjects,  as  sjiices 
preserve  a mummy,  and  that  the  individuals  whom 
he  had  eulogised  or  stigmatised  would  go  down  to 
posterity  in  his  versp,  as  an  old  admiral  comes  home 
from  the  West  Indies  in  a puncheon  of  rum  : he  did  ■ 
not  consider  that  the  rum  is  rendered  loathsome,  and  ! 
that  the  spices  with  which  the  Pharaohs  and  Poti- 
phars  were  embalmed,  wasted  their  sweetness  in  the  ! 
catacombs.  But,  in  this  part  of  his  conduct,  there  1 
was  no  want  of  worldly  prudence : he  was  enriching 
himself  by  hasty  writings,  for  which  the  immediate 
sale  was  in  proportion  to  the  bitterness  and  perso- 
nality of  the  satire.’ 

MICHAEL  BRUCE. 

Michael  Bruce — a young  and  lamented  Scottish 
poet  of  rich  promise — was  born  at  Kinnesswood, 
parish  of  Portmoak,  county  of  Kinross,  on  the  27th 
of  March  1746.  His  father  was  a humble  trades- 
man, a weaver,  who  was  burdened  with  a family  of 
eight  children,  of  whom  the  poet  was  the  fifth.  The 
dreariest  poverty  and  obscurity  hung  over  the  poet’s 
infancy,  but  the  elder  Bruce  was  a good  and  pious 

!4 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MICHAEL  BRUCE. 


nimi,  anil  traini'il  all  his  children  to  a knowledge  of 
their  letters,  and  a deep  sense  of  religious  duty.  In 
the  summer  months  Michael  was  put  out  to  herd 
cattle,  llis  education  was  retarded  by  this  employ- 
ment ; but  his  training  as  a poet  was  benefited  by 
solitary  communion  with  nature,  amidst  scenery 
that  overlooked  Lochleven  and  its  fine  old  ruined 
castle.  When  he  had  arrived  at  his  fifteenth  year, 
the  poet  was  judged  fit  for  college,  and  at  this  time 
a relation  of  his  father  died,  leaving  him  a legacy  of 
200  merks  Scots,  or  £1 1,  2s.  2d.  sterling.  This  sum 
the  old  man  piously  devotea  to  the  education  of  his 
favourite  son,  who  proceeded  with  it  to  Edinburgh, 
and  was  enrolled  a student  of  the  university.  Michael 
was  soon  distinguished  for  his  proficiency,  and  for 
his  taste  for  poetry.  Having  been  three  sessions  at 
college,  supported  by  his  parents  and  some  kind 
friends  and  neighbours,  Bruce  engaged  to  teach  a 
school  at  Gairney  Bridge,  where  he  received  for  his 
labours  about  £11  per  annum!  He  afterwards  re- 
moved to  Forest  Hill,  near  Alloa,  where  he  taught 
for  some  time  with  no  better  success.  His  school- 
room was  low-roofcd  and  damp,  and  the  poor  3’outh, 
confined  for  five  or  six  hours  a-day  in  this  unwhole- 
some atmosphere,  depressed  by  poverty  and  disap- 
pointment, soon  lost  health  and  spirits.  He  wrote 
ids  poem  of  Lochleven  at  Forest  Hill,  but  was  at 
length  forced  to  return  to  his  father’s  cottage,  which 
he  never  again  left.  A pulmonary  complaint  had 
settled  on  him,  and  he  was  in  the  last  stage  of 
consumption.  With  death  full  in  his  view,  he  wrote 
his  Ode  to  Spring,  the  finest  of  all  his  productions. 
He  was  pious  and  cheerful  to  the  last,  and  died  on 
the  5th  of  July  1767,  aged  twenty-one  years  and 
three  months.  His  Bible  ivas  found  upon  his  pillow, 
marked  down  at  Jer.  xxii.  10,  ‘ Weep  ye  not  for 
the  dead,  neither  bemoan  him.’  So  blameless  a life 
could  not  indeed  be  contemplated  without  pleasure, 
but  its  premature  termination  must  have  been  a 
heavy  blow  to  his  aged  parents,  who  had  struggled 
in  their  poverty  to  nurture  his  youthful  genius. 


Bruce’s  Monument  In  Portmoak  Churchyard. 

The  poems  of  Bruce  were  first  given  to  the  world 
by  his  college  friend  John  Logan,  in  1770,  who 
warmly  eulogised  the  character  and  talents  of  his 
brother  poet.  They  were  reprinted  in  1784,  and 


afterwards  included  in  Anderson’s  edition  of  the 
poets.  The  late  venerable  and  benevolent  Principal 
Baird,  in  1807,  published  an  edition  by  sub.scription 
for  the  benefit  of  Bruce’s  mother,  then  a widow.  In 
1837,  a complete  edition  of  the  poems  was  brought 
out,  with  a life  of  the  author  from  original  sources, 
by  the  Rev.  William  Mackelvie,  Balgedie,  Kinros.s- 
shire.  In  this  full  and  interesting  memoir  ample 
reparation  is  made  to  the  injured  shade  of  Michael 
Bruce  for  any  neglect  or  injustice  done  to  his  poetical 
fame  by  his  early  friend  Logan.  Had  Bruce  lived, 
it  is  probable  he  would  have  taken  a high  place 
among  our  national  poets.  He  was  gifted  with  the 
requisite  enthusiasm,  fancy,  and  love  of  nature. 
There  was  a moral  beauty  in  his  life  and  character 
which  would  naturally  have  expanded  itself  in 
poetical  composition.  The  pieces  he  has  left  have 
all  the  marks  of  youth  ; a style  only  half-formed 
and  immature,  and  resemblances  to  other  poets,  so 
close  and  frequent,  that  the  reader  is  constantly 
stumbling  on  some  familiar  image  or  expression. 
In  * Lochleven,’  a descriptive  poem  in  blank  verse,  he 
has  taken  Thomson  as  his  model.  The  opening  is 
a paraphrase  of  the  commencement  of  Thomson’s 
Spring,  and  epithets  taken  from  the  Seasons  occur 
throughout  the  whole  poem,  with  traces  of  ^Milton, 
Ossian  &c.  The  following  passage  is  the  most  ori- 
ginal and  pleasing  in  the  poem : — 

[A  Rural  Picture.} 

Now  sober  Industry,  illustrious  power ! 

Hath  raised  the  peaceful  cottage,  calm  abode 
Of  innocence  and  joy  : now,  sweating,  guides 
The  shining  j)loughshare  ; tames  the  stubborn  soil ; 
Leads  the  long  drain  along  the  unfertile  marsh ; 

Bids  the  bleak  hill  with  vernal  verdure  bloom, 

The  haunt  of  flocks ; and  clothes  the  barren  heath 
With  waving  harvests  and  the  golden  grain. 

Fair  from  his  hand  behold  the  village  rise, 

In  rural  pride,  ’mong  intermingled  trees  ! 

Above  whose  aged  tops  the  joyful  swains, 

At  even-tide  descending  from  the  hill. 

With  eye  enamoured,  mark  the  many  wi-eaths 
Of  pillared  smoke,  high  curling  to  the  clouds. 

The  streets  resound  with  Labour’s  various  voice. 

Who  whistles  at  his  work.  Gay  on  the  green. 

Young  blooming  boys,  and  girls  with  golden  hair. 
Trip,  nimble-footed,  wanton  in  their  play. 

The  village  hope.  All  in  a reverend  row. 

Their  gray-haired  grandsires,  sitting  in  the  sun. 
Before  the  gate,  and  leaning  on  the  staff. 

The  well-remembered  stories  of  their  youth 
Recount,  and  shake  their  aged  locks  with  joy. 

How  fair  a prospect  rises  to  the  eye. 

Where  Beauty  vies  in  all  her  vernal  forms. 

For  ever  pleasant,  and  for  ever  new  ! 

Swells  the  exulting  thought,  expands  the  soul. 
Drowning  each  ruder  care  : a blooming  train 
Of  bright  ideas  rushes  on  the  mind. 

Imagination  rouses  at  the  scene ; 

And  backward,  through  the  gloom  of  ages  past. 
Beholds  Arcadia,  like  a rural  queen. 

Encircled  with  her  swains  and  rosy  nymphs. 

The  mazy  dance  conducting  on  the  green. 

Nor  yield  to  old  Arcadia’s  blissful  vales 
Thine,  gentle  Leven  I Green  on  either  hand 
Thy  meadows  spread,  unbroken  of  the  plough. 

With  beauty  all  their  own.  Thy  fields  rejoice 
With  all  the  riches  of  the  golden  year. 

Fat  on  the  plain,  and  mountain’s  sunny  side, 

I.arge  droves  of  oxen,  and  the  fleecy  flocks. 

Feed  undisturbed  ; and  fill  the  echoing  air 
With  music,  grateful  to  the  master’s  car. 

The  traveller  stops,  and  gazes  round  and  rounu 
O’er  all  the  scenes,  that  animate  his  heart 


95 


FROM  1727  CYCLOF^'IDIA  OF  «X)  1780. 


W'itli  mirth  and  music.  Kveri  the  mendicant, 
liowbent  with  age,  that  on  tlie  old  gray  stone, 

Sole  sitting,  suns  him  in  the  public  way. 

Feels  his  heart  leap,  and  to  himself  he  sings. 

'I'lie  conclusion  of  the  poem  gives  us  another  picture 
of  rural  life,  with  a pathetic  glance  at  the  poet’s  own 
condition : — 

[ Virtue  and  Ilappineea  in  the  Country. 

How  blest  the  man  who,  in  these  peaceful  plains. 
Ploughs  his  paternal  field  ; far  from  the  noise. 

The  care,  and  bustle  of  a busy  world! 

All  in  the  sacred,  sweet,  sequestered  vale 
Ot  solitude,  the  secret  primrose-path 
Of  rural  life,  he  dwells  ; and  with  him  dwells 
Peace  and  content,  twins  of  the  sylvan  shade. 

And  all  the  graces  of  the  golden  age. 

Such  is  Agricola,  the  wise,  the  good  ; 

By  nature  formed  for  the  calm  retreat, 

The  silent  path  of  life.  Learned,  but  not  fraught 
AVith  self-importance,  as  the  starched  fool, 

^Vho  challenges  respect  by  solemn  face. 

By  studied  accent,  and  high-sounding  phrase. 
Enamoured  of  the  shade,  but  not  morose, 

Politeness,  raised  in  courts  by  frigid  rules. 

With  him  spontaneous  grows.  Not  books  alone. 

But  man  his  study,  and  the  better  part; 

To  tread  the  ways  of  virtue,  and  to  act 
The  various  scenes  of  life  with  God’s  applause. 

Deep  in  the  bottom  of  the  flowery  vale. 

With  blooming  .sallows  and  the  leafy  twine 
Of  verdant  alders  fenced,  his  dwelling  stands 
Complete  in  rural  elegance.  The  door. 

By  which  the  poor  or  pilgrim  never  pas.sed, 

Still  open,  speaks  the  master’s  bounteous  heart. 

There,  0 how  sweet!  amid  the  fragrant  shrubs. 

At  evening  cool  to  sit ; while,  on  their  boughs, 

The  nested  songsters  twitter  o’er  their  young ; 

And  the  hoarse  low  of  folded  cattle  breaks 
The  silence,  wafted  o’er  the  sleeping  lake. 

Whose  waters  glow  beneath  the  purple  tinge 
Of  western  cloud  ; while  converse  sweet  deceives 
The  stealing  foot  of  time ! Or  where  the  ground, 
Mounded  irregular,  points  out  the  graves 
Of  our  forefathers,  and  the  hallowed  fane. 

Where  swains  assembling  worship,  let  us  walk, 

In  softly-soothing  melancholy  thought. 

As  night’s  seraphic  bard,  immortal  Young, 

Or  sweet-complaining  Gray ; there  see  the  goal 
Of  human  life,  where  drooping,  faint,  and  tired. 

Oft  missed  the  prize,  the  weary  racer  rests. 

Thus  sung  the  youth,  amid  unfertile  wilds 
And  nameless  deserts,  unpoetic  ground! 

Far  from  his  friends  he  strayed,  recording  thus 
The  dear  remembrance  of  his  native  fields. 

To  cheer  the  tedious  night ; while  slow  disease 
Pre3'ed  on  his  pining  vitals,  and  the  blasts 
Of  dark  December  shook  his  humble  cot. 

The  Last  Day  is  another  poem  by  Bruce  in  blank 
verse,  but  is  inferior  to  ‘ Lochleven.’  The  want  of 
originality  is  more  felt  on  a subject  exhausted  by 
Milton,  Young,  and  Blair;  but  even  in  this,  as  in  his 
other  works,  the  warmth  of  feeling  and  graceful 
freedom  of  e.xpression  which  characterise  Bruce  are 
seen  and  felt.  In  poetical  beauty'  and  energy,  as  in 
biographical  interest,  his  latest  effort,  the  Elegy, 
must  ever  rank  the  first  in  his  productions.  With 
some  weak  lines  and  borrow’ed  ideas,  this  poem  has 
an  air  of  strength  and  ripened  maturity  that  power- 
fully impresses  the  reader,  and  leaves  him  to 
wonder  at  the  fortitude  of  the  youth,  who,  in  strains 
of  such  sensibility  and  genius,  could  describe  the 
cheerful  appearances  of  nature,  and  the  certainty  of 
his  own  speedy  dissolution. 


Elegy — Written  in  Sirring. 

’Tis  past:  the  iron  North  has  spent  his  rage  ; 

Stern  Winter  now  resigns  the  lengthening  day; 
The  stormy  bowlings  of  the  winds  assuage. 

And  warm  o’er  ether  western  breezes  play. 

Of  genial  heat  and  cheerful  light  the  source. 

From  southern  climes,  beneath  another  sky. 

The  sun,  returning,  wheels  his  golden  cour.se: 

Before  his  beams  all  noxious  vapours  fly. 

Far  to  the  north  grim  Winter  draws  his  train. 

To  his  own  clime,  to  Zembla’s  frozen  .shore ; 

Where,  throned  on  ice,  he  holds  eternal  reign  ; 

Where  whirlwinds  madden,  and  where  tempests 
roar. 

Loosed  from  the  bands  of  frost,  the  verdant  ground 
Again  puts  on  her  robe  of  cheerful  green. 

Again  puts  forth  her  flowers  ; and  all  around 
Smiling,  the  cheerful  face  of  spring  is  seen. 

Behold  ! the  trees  new  deck  their  withered  boughs  ; 

Their  ample  leaves,  the  hospitable  plane, 

The  taper  elm,  ami  lofty  ash  disclose ; 

The  blooming  hawthorn  variegates  the  scene. 

The  lily  of  the  vale,  of  flowers  the  queen. 

Puts  on  the  robe  she  neither  sewed  nor  spun  ; 

The  birds  on  ground,  or  on  the  branches  green, 

Hop  to  and  fro,  and  glitter  in  the  sun. 

Soon  as  o’er  eastern  hills  the  morning  peers. 

From  her  low  nest  the  tufted  lark  upsprings ; 

And,  cheerful  singing,  up  the  air  she  steers ; 

Still  high  she  mounts,  still  loud  and  sweet  she  sings 

On  the  green  furze,  clothed  o’er  with  golden  blooms 
That  fill  the  air  with  fragrance  all  around. 

The  linnet  sitf,  and  tricks  his  glossy  plumes. 

While  o’er  the  wild  his  broken  notes  resound. 

While  the  sun  journeys  down  the  western  .sky. 

Along  the  green  sward,  marked  with  Roman  mound. 
Beneath  the  blithsome  shepherd’s  watchful  eye. 

The  cheerful  lambkins  dance  and  frisk  around. 

Now  is  the  time  for  those  who  wisdom  love. 

Who  love  to  walk  in  Virtue’s  flowery  road. 

Along  the  lovely  paths  of  spring  to  rove. 

And  follow  Nature  up  to  Nature’s  God. 

Thus  Zoroaster  studied  Nature’s  laws  ; 

Thus  Socrates,  the  wisest  of  mankind  ; 

Thus  heaven-taught  Plato  traced  the  Almighty  cause. 
And  left  the  wondering  multitude  behind. 

Thus  Ashley  gathered  academic  bays ; 

Thus  gentle  Thomson,  as  the  seasons  roll, 

Taught  t£era  to  sing  the  great  Creator’s  praise. 

And  bear  their  poet’s  name  from  pole  to  pole. 

Thus  have  I walked  along  the  dewy  lawn  ; 

My  frequent  foot  the  blooming  wild  hath  worn  ; 
Before  the  lark  I’ve  sung  the  beauteous  dawn. 

And  gathered  health  from  all  the  gales  of  mom. 

And,  even  when  winter  chilled  the  aged  year, 

I wandered  lonely  o’er  the  hoary  plain  : 

Though  frosty  Boreas  warned  me  to  forbear, 

Boreas,  with  all  his  tempests,  warned  in  vain. 

Then,  sleep  my  nights,  and  quiet  blessed  my  days ; 

I feared  no  loss,  my  mind  was  all  my  store ; 

No  anxious  wishes  e’er  disturbed  my  ease  ; 

Heaven  gave  content  and  health — I asked  no  more, 

Now,  Spring  returns:  but  not  to  me  returns 
The  vernal  joy  my  better  years  have  known  ; 

Dim  in  my  breast  life’s  dying  taper  burns. 

And  all  the  joys. of  life  with  health  are  flown. 

96 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  LOOAN. 


POETS. 


Starting  and  shivering  in  the  inconstant  wind, 

Meagre  and  pale,  the  ghost  of  what  1 was. 

Beneath  some  blasted  tree  1 lie  reclined. 

And  count  the  silent  moments  as  they  pass: 

The  winged  moments,  whose  unstaying  speed 
No  art  can  stop,  or  in  their  course  arrest ; 

Whose  flight  shall  shortly  count  me  with  the  dead. 
And  lay  me  down  in  peace  with  them  at  rest. 

Oft  morning  dreams  presage  approaching  fate ; 

And  morning  dreams,  as  poets  tell,  are  true. 

Led  by  pale  ghosts,  I enter  Death’s  dark  gate. 

And  bid  the  realms  of  light  and  life  adieu. 

I hear  the  helpless  wail,  the  shriek  of  wo ; 

I see  the  muddy  wave,  the  dreary  shore. 

The  sluggish  streams  that  slowly  creep  below, 

Which  mortals  visit,  and  return  no  more. 

Farewell,  ye  blooming  fields ! ye  cheerful  plains  ! 

Enough  for  me  the  churchyard’s  lonely  mound. 
Where  melancholy  with  still  silence  reigns. 

And  the  rank  grass  waves  o’er  the  cheerless  ground. 

There  let  me  wander  at  the  shut  of  eve, 

When  sleep  sits  dewy  on  the  labourer’s  eyes ; 

The  world  and  all  its  busy  follies  leave. 

And  talk  with  Wisdom  where  my  Daphnis  lies. 

There  let  me  sleep,  forgotten  in  the  clay. 

When  death  shall  shut  these  weary  aching  eyes ; 
Rest  in  the  hopes  of  an  eternal  day. 

Till  the  long  night  is  gone,  and  the  last  mom  arise. 

JOHN  LOGAN. 

Mr  D’lsraeli,  in  his  ‘ Calamities  of  Authors,’  has 
included  the  name  of  John  Logan  as  one  of  those 
unfortunate  men  of  genius  whose  life  has  been 
marked  by  disappointment  and  misfortune.  He 
ha  1 undoubtedly  formed  to  himself  a high  standard 
of  literary  excellence  and  ambition,  to  which  he 
never  attained;  but  there  is  no  evidence  to  warrant 
the  assertion  that  Logan  died  of  a broken  heart. 
From  one  source  of  depression  and  misery  he  was 
happily  exempt : though  he  died  at  the  early  age 
of  forty,  he  left  behind  him  a sum  of  £600.  Logan 
was  born  at  Soutra,  in  the  parish  of  Fala,  Mid- 
Lothian,  in  1748.  His  father,  a small  farmer,  edu- 
cated him  for  the  church,  and,  after  he  had  obtained 
a license  to  preach,  he  distinguished  himself  so 
much  by  his  pulpit  eloquence,  that  he  was  appointed 
one  of  the  ministers  of  South  Leith.  He  after- 
wards read  a course  of  lectures  on  the  Philosophy 
of  History  in  Edinburgh,  the  substance  of  which  he 
published  in  1781 ; and  next  year  he  gave  to  the 
public  one  of  his  lectures  entire  on  the  Government 
of  Asia.  The  same  year  he  published  his  poems, 
which  were  well  received;  and  in  1783  he  produced 
a tragedy  called  Ruitnimede,  founded  on  the  signing 
of  Magna  Charta.  His  parishioners  were  opposed 
to  such  an  exercise  of  his  talents,  and  unfortunately 
Logan  had  lapsed  into  irregular  and  dissipated 
habits.  The  consequence  was,  that  he  resigned  his 
charge  on  receiving  a small  annuity,  and  proceeded 
to  London,  where  he  resided  till  his  death  in  De- 
cember 1788.  During  his  residence  in  London, 
Logan  was  a contributor  to  the  English  Review, 
and  wrote  a pamphlet  on  the  Charges  Against  War- 
ren Hastings,  which  attracted  some  notice.  Among 
his  manuscripts  were  found  several  unfinished  tra- 
gedies, thirty  lectures  on  Roman  history,  portions 
of  a periodical  work,  and  a collection  of  sermons, 
from  which  two  volumes  were  selected  and  pub- 
lished by  his  executors.  The  sermons  are  warm 


and  passionate,  full  of  piety  and  fervour,  and  must 
have  been  highly  impressive  when  delivered. 

One  act  in  tlie  literary  life  of  Logan  we  have 
already  adverted  to — his  publication  of  the  poem? 
of  Michael  Bruce.  His  conduct  as  an  editor  cannot 
be  justified.  He  left  out  several  pieces  by  Bruce, 
and,  as  he  states  in  his  preface,  ‘ to  make  up  a mis- 
cellany,’ poems  by  different  authors  were  inserted. 
The  best  of  these  he  claimed,  and  published  after- 
wards as  his  own.  The  friends  of  Bruce,  indignant 
at  his  conduct,  have  since  endeavoured  to  snatch 
this  laurel  from  his  brow's,  and  considerable  uncer- 
tainty hangs  over  the  question.  With  respect  to 
the  most  valuable  piece  in  the  collection,  the  Ode 
to  the  Cuckoo — ‘ magical  stanzas,’  says  D’lsraeli, 
and  all  will  echo  the  praise,  ‘of  picture,  melody, 
and  sentiment,’  and  which  Burke  admired  so  much, 
that  on  visiting  Edinburgh,  he  sought  out  Logan 
to  compliment  him — w'ith  respect  to  this  beautiful 
effusion  of  fancy  and  feeling,  the  evidence  seems  to 
be  as  follows : — In  favour  of  Logan,  there  is  the  open 
publication  of  the  ode  under  his  own  name ; the 
fact  of  his  having  shown  it  in  manuscript  to  several 
friends  before  its  publication,  and  declared  it  to  be 
his  composition ; and  that,  during  the  whole  of  his 
life,  his  claim  to  be  the  author  was  not  disputed. 
On  the  other  hand,  in  favour  of  Bruce,  there  is  the 
oral  testimony  of  his  relations  and  friends,  that  they 
always  understood  him  to  be  the  author ; and  the 
written  evidence  of  Dr  Davidson,  Professor  of  Na- 
tural and  Civil  History,  Aberdeen,  that  he  saw  a copy 
of  the  ode  in  the  possession  of  a friend  of  Bruce,  Mr 
Bickerton,  who  assured  him  it  was  in  the  handwrit- 
ing of  Bruce ; that  this  copy  was  signed  ‘ Michael 
Bruce,’  and  below  it  were  written  the  words,  ‘You 
will  think  I might  have  been  better  employed  than 
writing  about  a gowk’ — [Anglice,  cuckoo.]  It  is 
unfavourable  to  the  case  of  Logan,  that  he  retained 
some  of  the  manuscripts  of  Bruce,  and  his  conduct 
throughout  the  whole  affair  was  careless  and  unsa- 
tisfactory. Bruce’s  friends  also  claim  for  him  some 
of  the  hymns  published  by  Logan  as  his  own,  and 
they  show  that  the  unfortunate  young  bard  had 
applied  himself  to  compositions  of  this  kind,  though 
none  appeared  in  his  works  as  published  by  Logan. 
The  truth  here  seems  to  be,  that  Bruce  was  the 
founder,  and  Logan  the  perfecter,  of  tliese  exquisite 
devotional  strains : the  former  supplied  stanzas 
which  the  latter  extended  into  poems,  imi)arting  to 
the  whole  a finished  elegance  and  beauty  of  diction 
which  certainly  Bruce  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
capable  of  giving.  Without  adverting  to  the  dis- 
puted ode,  the  best  of  Logan’s  productions  are  his 
verses  on  a Visit  to  the  Country  in  Autumn,  his  half 
dramatic  poem  of  The  Lovers,  and  his  ballad  stanzas 
on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.  A vein  of  tenderness  and 
moral  sentiment  runs  through  the'  whole,  and  his 
language  is  select  and  poetical.  In  some  lines  Oit 
the  Death  of  a Young  Lady,  we  have  the  following 
true  and  touching  exclamation  : — 

What  tragic  tears  bedew  the  eye ! 

What  deaths  we  suffer  ere  we  die ! 

Our  broken  friendships  we  deplore. 

And  loves  of  youth  that  are  no  more ! 

No  after-friendships  e’er  can  raise 
The  endearments  of  our  early  days. 

And  ne’er  the  heart  such  fondness  prove. 

As  when  it  first  began  to  love. 

To  the  Cuckoo. 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  I 
Thou  messenger  of  Spring ! 

Now  Heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat. 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

49  97 


FROM  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1780. 

What  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear ; 

Hast  thou  a star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year  1 

Delightful  visitant ! with  thee 
I hail  the  time  of  flowers, 

And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 
From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  schoolboy,  wandering  through  the  wood 
To  pull  the  primrose  gay. 

Starts,  the  new  voice  of  spring  to  hear,* 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom. 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale. 

An  annual  guest  in  other  lands. 

Another  Spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird  ! thy  bower  is  ever  green. 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 

Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song. 

No  Winter  in  thy  year ! 

0 could  I fly,  I’d  fly  with  thee  1 
We’d  make,  with  joyful  wing, 

Dur  annual  visit  o’er  the  globe. 

Companions  of  the  Spring. 

[ Written  in  a Visit  to  the  Country  in  Autumn.1 

*Tis  past ! no  more  the  Summer  blooms ! 

Ascending  in  the  rear. 

Behold  congenial  Autumn  comes. 

The  Sabbath  of  the  year ! 

What  time  thy  holy  whispers  breathe. 

The  pensive  evening  shade  beneath. 

And  twilight  consecrates  the  floods ; 

While  nature  strips  her  garment  gay. 

And  wears  the  vesture  of  decay, 

0 let  me  wander  through  the  sounding  woods 

Ah  ! well-known  streams  ! — ah ! wonted  groves. 
Still  pictured  in  my  mind  ! 

Oh ! sacred  scene  of  youthful  loves. 

Whose  image  lives  behind ! 

While  sad  I ponder  on  the  past, 

The  joys  that  must  no  longer  last ; 

The  wild-flower  strown  on  Summer’s  bier. 

The  dying  music  of  the  grove. 

And  the  last  elegies  of  love, 

' Dissolve  the  soul,  and  draw  the  tender  tear ! 

Alas ! the  hospitable  hall. 

Where  youth  and  friendship  played. 

Wide  to  the  winds  a ruined  wall 
Projects  a death-like  shade! 

The  charm  is  vanished  from  the  vales ; 

No  voice  with  virgin-whisper  hails 
A stranger  to  his  native  bowers : 

No  more  Arcadian  mountains  bloom. 

Nor  Enna  valleys  breathe  perfume ; 

The  fancied  Eden  fades  with  all  its  flowers  I 
Companions  of  the  youthful  scene. 

Endeared  from  earliest  days  1 
With  whom  I sported  on  the  green. 

Or  roved  the  woodland  maze  1 

♦ This  lino  originally  stood— 

• Starts  thy  curious  voice  to  hear,' 
which  was  probably  altered  by  Logan  as  defective  in  quantity. 
‘ Curious  may  be  a Scotticism,  but  it  is  felicitous.  It  marks 
the  unusual  resemblance  of  the  note  of  the  cuckoo  to  the 
human  voice,  the  cause  of  ihe  start  and  imitation  which  follow. 
Whereas  the  “ new  voice  of  spring"  is  not  true ; for  many  voices 
in  spring  precede  that  of  the  cuckoo,  and  it  is  not  peculiar  or 
striking,  nor  does  it  connect  either  with  the  start  or  imitation.' 
—Note  bp  Lord  Mackenzie  {son  of  the  * Man  of  Feeling’)  in  Bruce's 
’’oems,  by  Rev.  IT.  Mackelvie. 

Long-exiled  from  your  native  clime. 

Or  by  the  thunder  stroke  of  time 
Snatched  to  the  shadows  of  despair; 

I hear  your  voices  in  the  wind, 

Your  forms  in  every  walk  I find  ; 

I stretch  my  arms  : ye  vanish  into  airl 

My  steps,  when  innocent  and  young. 

These  fairy  paths  pursued  ; 

And  wandering  o’er  the  wild,  I sung 
My  fancies  to  the  wood. 

I mourned  the  linnet-lover’s  fate. 

Or  turtle  from  her  murdered  mate. 

Condemned  the  widowed  hours  to  wail: 

Or  while  the  mournful  vision  rose, 

I sought  to  weep  for  imaged  woes. 

Nor  real  life  believed  a tragic  tale  I 

Alas ! misfortune’s  cloud  unkind 
May  summer  soon  o’ercast ! 

And  cruel  fate’s  untimely  wind 
All  human  beauty  blast ! 

The  wrath  of  nature  smites  our  bowers. 

And  promised  fruits  and  cherished  flowers. 

The  hopes  of  life  in  embryo  sweeps; 

Pale  o’er  the  ruins  of  his  prime, 

And  desolate  before  his  time. 

In  silence  sad  the  mourner  walks  and  weeps  1 

Relentless  power ! whose  fated  stroke 
O’er  wretched  man  prevails  ! 

Ha ! love’s  eternal  chain  is  broke. 

And  friendship’s  covenant  fails! 

Upbraiding  forms  ! a moment’s  ease — 

0 memory ! how  shall  I appease 
The  bleeding  sh.de,  the  unlaid  ghost! 

What  charm  can  bind  the  gushing  eye. 

What  voice  console  the  incessant  sigh. 

And  everlasting  longings  for  the  lost ! 

Yet  not  unwelcome  waves  the  wood 
That  hides  me  in  its  gloom, 

While  lost  in  melancholy  mood 
I muse  upon  the  tomb. 

Their  chequered  leaves  the  branches  shed ; 

Whirling  in  eddies  o’er  my  head. 

They  sadly  sigh  that  Winter’s  near; 

The  warning  voice  I hear  behind. 

That  shakes  the  wood  without  a wind. 

And  solemn  sounds  the  death-bell  of  the  year. 

Nor  will  I court  Lethean  streams. 

The  sorrowing  sense  to  steep ; 

Nor  drink  oblivion  of  the  themes  [ 

On  which  I love  to  weep. 

Belated  oft  by  fabled  rill. 

While  nightly  o’er  the  hallowed  hill 
Aerial  music  seems  to  mourn  ; 

I’ll  listen  Autumn’s  closing  strain ; 

Then  woo  the  walks  of  youth  again. 

And  pour  my  sorrows  o’er  the  untimely  urn  1 

Complaint  of  Nature. 

Few  are  thy  days  and  full  of  wo, 

0 man  of  woman  bom ! 

Thy  doom  is  written,  dust  thou  art. 

And  shalt  to  dust  return. 

Determined  are  the  days  that  fly 
Successive  o’er  thy  head ; 

The  numbered  hour  is  on  the  wing 
That  lays  thee  with  the  dead. 

Alas ! the  little  day  of  life 
Is  shorter  than  a span  ; 

Y et  black  with  thousand  hidden  ills 
To  miserable  man. 

98 

lix-IGLISlI  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  WARTON. 


Gay  is  thy  morning,  flattering  hope 
Thy  sprightly  step  attends ; 

But  soon  the  tempest  howls  behind, 

And  the  dark  night  descends. 

Before  its  splendid  hour  the  cloud 
Comes  o’er  the  beam  of  light ; 

A pilgrim  in  a weary  land, 

Man  tarries  but  a night. 

Behold  ! sad  emblem  of  thy  state, 

The  flowers  that  paint  the  field  ; 

Or  trees  that  crown  the  mountain’s  brow. 
And  boughs  and  blossoms  yield. 

When  chill  the  blast  of  Winter  blows. 
Away  the  Summer  flies. 

The  flowers  resign  their  sunny  robes. 

And  all  their  beauty  dies. 

Nipt  by  the  year  the  forest  fades ; 

And  shaking  to  the  wind. 

The  leaves  toss  to  and  fro,  and  streak 
The  mldemess  behind. 

The  Winter  past,  reviving  flowers 
Anew  shall  paint  the  plain. 

The  woods  shall  hear  the  voice  of  Spring, 
And  flourish  green  again. 

But  man  departs  this  earthly  scene. 

Ah ' never  to  return  ! 

No  second  Spring  shall  e’er  revive 
The  ashes  of  the  urn. 

The  inexorable  doors  of  death 
What  hand  can  e’er  unfold? 

Who  from  the  cerements  of  the  tomb 
Can  raise  the  human  mould  ? 

The  mighty  flood  that  rolls  along 
Its  torrents  to  the  main. 

The  waters  lost  can  ne’er  recall 
From  that  abyss  again. 

The  days,  the  years,  the  ages,  dark 
Descending  down  to  night, 

Can  never,  never  be  redeemed 
Back  to  the  gates  of  light. 

So  man  departs  the  living  scene. 

To  night’s  perpetual  gloom  ; 

The  voice  of  morning  ne’er  shall  break 
The  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 

Where  are  our  fathers ! Whither  gone 
The  mighty  men  of  old  ? 

‘ The  patriarchs,  prophets,  princes,  kings. 

In  sacred  books  enrolled  ? 

Gone  to  the  resting-place  of  man, 

The  everlasting  home. 

Where  ages  past  have  gone  before, 

Where  future  ages  come.’ 

Thus  nature  poured  the  wail  of  wo, 

And  urged  her  earnest  cry ; 

Her  voice,  in  agony  extreme, 

Ascended  to  the  sky. 

The  Almighty  heard  : then  from  his  throne 
In  majesty  he  rose ; 

And  from  the  Heaven,  that  opened  wide, 
His  voice  in  mercy  flows. 

* When  mortal  man  resigns  his  breath. 

And  falls  a clod  of  clay. 

The  soul  immortal  wings  its  flight 
To  never-setting  day. 

Prepared  of  old  for  wicked  men 
The  bed  of  torment  lies ; 

The  just  shall  enter  into  bliss 
Immortal  in  the  skies.’ 


The  above  hymn  has  been  claimed  for  Michael 
Bruce  by  Mr  Mackelvie,  his  biographer,  on  the  faith 
of  ‘internal  evidence,’  because  two  of  the  stanzas 
resemble  a fragment  in  the  handwriting  of  Bruce. 
We  subjoin  the  stanzas  and  the  fragment: — 

When  chill  the  blast  of  winter  blows. 

Away  the  summer  flies. 

The  flowers  resign  their  sunny  robes. 

And  all  their  beauty  dies. 

Nipt  by  the  year  the  forest  fades. 

And,  shaking  to  the  wind. 

The  leaves  toss  to  and  fro,  and  streak 
The  wilderness  behind. 

‘ The  hoar-frost  glitters  on  the  ground,  the  frequent 
leaf  falls  from  the  wood,  and  tosses  to  and  fro  down 
on  the  wind.  The  summer  is  gone  with  all  his 
flowers ; summer,  the  season  of  the  muses ; yet  not 
the  more  cease  I to  wander  where  the  muses  haunt 
near  spring  or  shadowy  grove,  or  sunny  hill.  It 
was  on  a calm  morning,  while  yet  the  darkness 
strove  with  the  doubtful  twilight,  I rose  and  walked 
out  under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn.’ 

If  the  originality  of  a poet  is  to  be  questioned  on 
the  ground  of  such  resemblances  as  the  above,  what 
modern  is  safe?  The  images  in  both  pieces  are 
common  to  all  descriptive  poets.  Bruce’s  Ossianic 
fragment  is  patched  with  expressions  from  Milton, 
which  are  neither  marked  as  quotations  nor  printed 
as  poetry.  The  reader  will  easily  recollect  the  fol- 
lowing : — 

Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I to  wander  where  the  Muses  haunt 
Clear  spring  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill. 

Par.  Lost,  Book  Ui 

Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn. 

We  drove  afield. 

Lycidat. 

THOMAS  WARTON. 

The  Wartons,  like  the  Beaumonts,  were  a poeti- 
cal race.  Thomas,  the  historian  of  English  poetry, 
was  the  second  son  of  Ur  Warton  of  Magdalen 
college,  Oxford,  who  was  twice  chosen  Professor  of 
Poetry  by  his  university,  and  who  wrote  some  pleas- 
ing verses,  half  scholastic  and  half  sentimental.  A 
sonnet  by  the  elder  Warton  is  worthy  being  tran- 
scribed, for  its  strong  family  likeness : — 

[ Written  after  seeing  Windsor  C'ustle.] 

From  beauteous  Windsor’s  high  and  storied  halls. 
Where  Euward’s  chiefs  start  from  the  glowing  walls. 
To  my  low  cot  from  ivory  beds  of  state. 

Pleased  I return  unenvious  of  the  great. 

So  the  bee  ranges  o’er  the  varied  scenes 
Of  corn,  of  heaths,  of  fallows,  and  of  greens. 

Pervades  the  thicket,  soars  above  the  hill. 

Or  murmurs  to  the  meadow’s  murmuring  rill : 

Now  haunts  old  hollowed  oaks,  deserted  cells. 

Now  seeks  the  low  vale  lily’s  silver  bells  ; 

Sips  the  warm  fragrance  of  the  greenhouse  bowers. 

And  tastes  the  myrtle  and  the  citron’s  flo>vers ; 

At  length  returning  to  the  wonted  comb. 

Prefers  to  all  his  little  straw-built  home. 

The  poetry-professor  died  in  1745.  His  tastes,  his 
love  of  poetry,  and  of  the  university,  were  continued 
by  his  son  Thomas,  born  in  1728.  At  sixteen, 
Thomas  Warton  was  entered  of  Trinity  college.  He 
began  early  to  write  verses,  and  his  Pleasures  oj 
Melancholy,  published  wlien  he  was  nineteen,  gave  a 
promise  of  excellence  which  his  riper  productions 
did  not  fuML  Having  taken  his  degree,  Warton 

99 


PROM  1727  CYCLOP^IDIA  OF  to  i78t 


obtaimil  a fellowship,  and  in  1757  was  appointed 
l’rofi;ssor‘of  Poetry.  lie  was  also  curate  of  Wood- 
stock,  and  rector  of  Kiddington,  a small  living  near 
Oxford.  The  even  tenor  of  his  life  was  only  varied 
hv  Ins  occasional  i)ublieations,  one  of  which  was  an 
clahorate  Essay  on  Spenser’s  Faery  Queen.  He  also 
edited  the  minor  poems  of  Milton,  an  edition  whieli 
Leigli  H\int  says  is  a wilderness  of  sweets,  and  is  the 
only  one  in  which  a true  lover  of  the  original  can 
pardon  an  exuberance  of  annotation.  Some  of  the 
notes  are  highly  poetical,  while  others  display  War- 
ton’s  taste  for  antiipiities,  for  architecture,  super- 
stition, and  his  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  old 
Elizaheth.an  writers.  A still  more  important  w'ork, 
the  History  of  English  Poetry,  forms  the  basis  of  his 
reputation.  In  this  history  Warton  poured  out  in 
profusion  the  treasures  of  a full  mind.  His  antiqua- 
rian lore,  his  love  of  antique  manners,  and  his  chi- 
valrous feelings,  found  appropriate  exercise  in  tracing 
the  stream  of  our  poetry  from  its  first  fountain- 
springs,  down  to  the  luxuriant  reign  of  Elizabeth, 
which  he  justly  styled  ‘ the  most  poetical  age  of  our 
annals.’  Pope  and  Gray  had  planned  schemes  of  a 
history  of  English  poetry,  in  which  the  authors  were 
to  he  arranged  according  to  their  style  and  merits. 
Warton  adopted  the  chronological  arrangement,  as 
giving  freer  exertion  for  research,  and  as  enabling 
him  to  exhibit,  without  transposition,  the  gradual 
improvements  of  our  poetry,  and  the  progression  of 
our  language.  The  untiring  industry  and  learning 
of  the  poet-historian  accumulated  a mass  of  ma- 
terials equally  valuable  and  curious.  His  work  is  a 
vast  store-house  of  facts  connected  with  onr  early 
literature ; and  if  he  sometimes  wanders  from  his 
subject,  or  overlays  it  with  extraneous  details,  it 
should  be  remembered,  as  his  latest  editor,  Mr  Price, 
remarks,  that  new  matter  was  constantly  arising, 
and  that  Warton  ‘was  the  first  adventurer  in  the 
extensive  region  through  which  he  journied,  and  into 
which  the  usual  pioneers  of  literature  had  scarcely 
penetrated.’  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Warton’s 
plan  excluded  the  dram.a,  which  forms  so  ricli  a 
source  of  our  early  imaginative  literature;  hut  this 
defect  has  been  partly  supplied  by  Mr  Collier’s 
Annals  of  the  Stage.  On  the  death  of  Whitehead  in 
1785,  Warton  was  appointed  poet-laureate.  His 
learning  gave  dignity  to  an  office  usually  held  in 
small  esteem,  and  xvhich  in  our  day  has  been  wisely 
converted  into  a sinecure.  The  same  j’ear  he  was 
made  Camden  Professor  of  History.  While  pursu- 
ing his  antiquarian  and  literary  researches,  Warton 
was  attacked  with  gout,  and  his  enfeebled  health 
yielded  to  a stroke  of  paralysis  in  1790.  Notwith- 
standing the  classic  stiffness  of  his  poetry,  and  his 
full-blown  academical  honours,  Warton  appears  to 
have  been  an  easy  companionable  man,  who  de- 
lighted to  unbend  in  common  society,  and  especially 
with  boys.  ‘ During  his  visits  to  his  brother.  Dr 

J.  Warton  (master  of  Winchester  school),  the  reve- 
rend professor  became  an  associate  and  confidant  in 
all  the  sports  of  the  schoolboys.  When  engaged 
with  them  in  some  culinary  occupation,  and  wiien 
alarmed  by  the  sudden  approach  of  the  master,  he 
has  been  known  to  hide  himself  in  a dark  corner  of 
the  kitchen ; and  has  been  dragged  from  thence  by 
the  doctor,  who  had  taken  him  for  some  great  boy. 
He  also  used  to  help  the  boys  in  their  exercises, 
generally  putting  in  as  many  faults  as  would  dis- 
guise the  assistance.”’*'  If  there  was  little  dignity  in 
this,  there  was  something  better — a kindliness  of  dis- 
position and  freshness  of  feeling  which  all  would 
wish  to  retain. 

The  poetry  of  Warton  is  deficient  in  natural  ex- 

*  Vide  Campbell’s  Specimens,  second  edition,  p.  620. 


pression  and  general  interest,  but  some  of  his  longer 
pieces,  by  their  m.artial  spirit  and  Gothic  fancy,  are 
calculated  to  awaken  a stirring  and  romantic  enthu- 
siasm. Hazlitt  considered  some  of  his  sonnets  the 
finest  in  the  language,  and  they  seem  to  have  caught 
the  fancy  of  Coleridge  and  Bowles.  The  following 
are  picturesque  and  graceful : — 

Written  in  a BlarJc  Leaf  of  Dugdale’s  Mcmnsticon. 

Deem  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage, 

By  Fancy’s  genuine  feelings  uiibeguiled 
Of  painful  pedantry,  the  poring  child, 

W’ho  turns  of  these  proud  domes  the  historic  pagi , 
Now  sunk  by  Time,  and  Henry’s  fiercer  rage. 

Think’st  thou  the  warbling  muses  never  smiled 
On  his  lone  hours  ? Ingenious  views  engage 
His  thoughts  on  themes  unclassic  falsely  styled, 
Intent.  While  cloistered  piety  displays 
Her  mouldering  roll,  the  piercing  eye  explores 
New  manners,  and  the  pomp  of  elder  days. 

Whence  culls  the  pensive  bard  his  pictured  stores. 
Not  rough  n.or  barren  are  the  winding  ways 
Of  hoar  antiquity,  but  strewn  with  flowers. 

On  Bevisiting  tJie  River  Loddon. 

Ah  ! what  a weary  race  my  feet  have  run 
Since  first  I trod  thy  banks  with  alders  crowned. 

And  thought  my  way  was  all  through  fairy  groui  d. 
Beneath  the  azure  sky  and  golden  sun — 

When  first  my  muse  to  lisp  her  notes  begun  ! 

While  pensive  memory  traces  back  the  round 
Which  fills  the  varied  interval  between  ; 

Much  pleasure,  more  of  sorrow  marks  the  scene. 

Sweet  native  stream  ! those  skies  and  suns  so  pure, 

No  more  return  to  cheer  my  evening  road! 

Yet  still  one  joy  remains,  that  not  obscure 
Nor  useless,  all  my  vacant  days  have  floned 
From  youth’s  gay  dawn  to  manhood’s  prime  mature, 
Nor  with  the  muse’s  laurel  unbestowed. 

On  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’s  Painted  Windoio  at  Orford 

Ye  brawny  Prophets,  that  in  robes  so  rich. 

At  distance  due,  pos.sess  the  crisped  niche  ; 

Ye  rows  of  Patriarchs  that,  sublimely  reared, 

Diffuse  a proud  primeval  length  of  beard  : 

Ye  Saints,  who,  clad  in  crimson’s  bright  array, 

More  pride  than  humble  poverty  display: 

Ye  Virgins  meek,  that  wear  the  palmy  crown 
Of  jiatient  faith,  and  yet  so  fiercely  frown  : 

Ye  Angels,  that  from  clouds  of  gold  recline, 

But  boast  no  semblance  to  a race  divine : 

Ye  tragic  Tales  of  legendary  lore. 

That  draw  devotion’s  ready  tear  no  more ; 

Ye  Martyrdoms  of  unenlightened  days, 

Ye  Miracles  that  now  no  wonder  raise; 

Shapes,  that  with  one  broad  glare  the  gazer  strike. 
Kings,  bishops,  nuns,  apostles,  all  alike  ! 

Ye  Colours,  that  the  univary  sight  amaze. 

And  only  dazzle  in  the  noontide  blaze ! 

No  more  the  sacred  window’s  round  disgrace. 

But  yield  to  Grecian  groups  the  shining  space. 

Lo ! from  the  canvass  Beauty  shifts  her  throne; 

Lo  ! Picture’s  powers  a new  formation  own  ! 

Behold,  she  prints  upon  the  crystal  plain. 

With  her  own  energy,  the  expressive  stain  ! 

The  mighty  Master  spreads  his  mimic  toil 
More  wide,  nor  only  blends  the  breathing  oil ; 

But  calls  the  lineaments  of  life  complete 
From  genial  alchymy’s  creative  heat ; 

Obedient  forms  to  the  bright  fusion  gives. 

While  in  the  warm  enamel  Nature  lives 
Reynolds,  ’tis  thine,  from  the  broad  window’s  height, 
To  add  new  lustre  to  religious  light : 

100 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOSEPH  WARTOH. 


Not  of  its  pomp  to  strip  this  ancient  shrine. 

Rut  hid  that  pomp  with  purer  radiance  shine : 

With  arts  unknown  before,  to  reconcile 
The  willing  Graces  to  the  Gothic  pile. 

Tht  Hamlet. — An  Ode. 

The  hinds  how  blest,  who,  ne’er  beguiled 
To  quit  their  hamlet’s  hawthorn  wild. 

Nor  haunt  the  crowd,  nor  tempt  the  main. 

For  splendid  care,  and  guilty  gain! 

When  morning’s  twilight-tinctured  beam 
Strikes  their  low  thatch  with  slanting  gleam. 

They  rove  abroad  in  ether  blue. 

To  dip  the  scythe  in  fragrant  dew  ; 

The  sheaf  to  bind,  the  beech  to  fell. 

That  nodding  shades  a craggy  dell. 

Midst  gloomy  glades,  in  warbles  clear. 

Wild  nature’s  sweetest  notes  they  hear : 

On  green  untrodden  banks  they  view 
The  hyacinth’s  neglected  hue : 

In  their  lone  haunts,  and  woodland  rounds. 

They  spy  the  squirrel’s  airy  bounds  ; 

And  startle  from  her  ashen  spray. 

Across  the  glen  the  screaming  jay  ; 

Each  native  charm  their  steps  explore 
Of  Solitude’s  sequestered  store. 

For  them  the  moon  with  cloudless  ray 
Mounts  to  illume  their  homeward  way  : 

Their  weary  spirits  to  relieve. 

The  meadows  incense  breathe  at  eve. 

No  riot  mars  the  simple  fare. 

That  o’er  a glimmering  hearth  they  share  : 

But  when  the  curfew’s  measured  roar 
Duly,  the  darkening  valleys  o’er. 

Has  echoed  from  the  distant  town. 

They  wish  no  beds  of  cygnet-down, 

No  trophied  canopies,  to  close 
Their  drooping  eyes  in  quick  repose. 

Their  little  sons,  who  spread  the  bloom 
Of  health  around  the  clay-built  room. 

Or  through  the  primrosed  coppice  stray, 

Or  gambol  in  the  new-mown  hay  ; 

Or  quaintly  braid  the  cowslip-twine, 

Or  drive  afield  the  tardy  kine  ; 

Or  hasten  from  the  sultry  hill, 

To  loiter  at  the  shady  rill  ; 

Or  climb  the  tall  pine’s  gloomy-crest. 

To  rob  the  raven’s  ancient  nest. 

Their  humble  porch  with  honied  flowers. 

The  curling  woodbine’s  shade  embowers  ; 

From  the  small  garden’s  thymy  mound 
Their  bees  in  busy  swarms  resound  : 

Nor  fell  disease  before  his  time. 

Hastes  to  consume  life’s  golden  prime : 

But  when  their  temples  long  have  wore 
The  silver  crown  of  tresses  hoar  ; 

As  studious  still  calm  peace  to  keep, 

Beneath  a flowery  turf  they  sleep. 

j j JOSEPH  WARTON. 

The  elder  brother  of  Thomas  Warton  closely  re- 
I sembled  him  in  character  and  attainments.  He 
! was  born  in  1722,  and  was  the  schoolfellow  of  Col- 
I lins  at  Winchester.  He  was  afterwards  a commoner 
j of  Oriel  college,  Oxford,  and  ordained  on  his  father’s 
I curacy  at  Basingstoke.  He  was  also  rector  of  Tam- 
1 worth.  In  1766  he  was  appointed  head  master  of 
I Winchester  school,  to  which  vi'ere  subsequently 
j added  a prebend  of  St  Paul’s  and  of  Winchester, 
j ■ He  survived  his  brother  ten  years,  dying  in  1800. 

' ' Dr  Joseph  Warton  early  appeared  as  a poet,  but  is 
considered  by  Mr  Campbell  as  inferior  to  his  brother 


in  the  graphic  and  romantic  style  of  composition  at 
which  he  aimed.  His  Ode  to  Fancy  seems,  however, 
to  be  equal  to  all  but  a few  pieces  of  Thomas  War- 
ton’s.  He  was  also  editor  of  an  edition  of  Pope’s 
works,  which  was  favourably  reviewed  by  Johnson. 
Warton  was  long  intimate  with  Johnson,  and  a 
member  of  his  literary  club. 

To  Fancy. 

0 parent  of  each  lovely  muse ! 

Thy  spirit  o’er  my  soul  diffuse. 

O’er  all  my  artless  songs  preside, 

My  footsteps  to  thy  temple  guide. 

To  offer  at  thy  turf-built  shrine 
In  golden  cups  no  costly  wine. 

No  murdered  fatling  of  the  flock. 

But  flowers  and  honey  from  the  rock. 

0 nymph  with  loosely-flowing  hair. 

With  buskined  leg,  and  bosom  bare. 

Thy  waist  with  myrtle-girdle  bound. 

Thy  brows  with  Indian  featliers  crowned. 
Waving  in  thy  snowy  hand 
An  all-commanding  magic  wand. 

Of  power  to  bid  fresh  gardens  grow 
’Mid  cheerless  Lapland’s  barren  snow. 

Whose  rapid  wings  thy  flight  convey 
Through  air,  and  over  earth  and  sea. 

While  the  various  landscape  lies 
Conspicuous  to  thy  piercing  eyes ! 

O lover  of  the  desert,  hail ! 

Say  in  what  deep  and  pathless  vale. 

Or  on  what  hoary  mountain’s  side, 

’Midst  falls  of  water,  you  reside  ; 

’Midst  broken  rocks  a rugged  scene. 

With  green  and  grassy  dales  between  ; 

’Midst  forests  dark  of  aged  oak. 

Ne’er  echoing  with  the  woodman’s  stroke. 
Where  never  human  heart  appeared. 

Nor  e’er  one  straw-roofed  cot  was  reared. 

Where  Nature  seemed  to  sit  alone. 

Majestic  on  a craggy  throne ; 

Tell  me  the  path,  sweet  wanderer  tell. 

To  thy  unknown  sequestered  cell. 

Where  woodbines  cluster  round  the  door. 

Where  shells  and  moss  o’erlay  the  floor. 

And  on  whose  top  a hawthorn  blows, 

Amid  whose  thickly-woven  boughs 
Some  nightingale  .still  builds  her  nest. 

Each  evening  warbling  thee  to  rest ; 

Then  lay  me  by  the  haunted  stream. 

Wrapt  in  some  wild  poetic  dream. 

In  converse  while  methinks  I rove 
W’ith  Spenser  through  a fairy  grove, 

Till  suddenly  awaked,  I hear 
Strange  whispered  music  in  my  ear. 

And  my  glad  soul  in  bliss  is  drowned 
By  the  sweetly-soothing  sound  I 

Me,  goddess,  by  the  right-hand  lead, 
Sometimes  through  the  yellow  mead. 

Where  Joy  and  white-robed  Peace  resort, 

And  Venus  keeps  her  festive  court ; 

Where  Mirth  and  Y outh  each  evening  meet, 
And  lightly  trip  with  nimble  feet. 

Nodding  their  lily-cro\vned  heads. 

Where  Laughter  rose-liped  Hebe  leads  ; 

Where  Echo  walks  steep  hills  among. 

Listening  to  the  shepherd’s  song. 

Yet  not  these  flowery  fields  of  joy 
Can  long  my  pensive  mind  employ  ; 

Haste,  Fancy,  from  these  scenes  of  folly. 

To  meet  the  matron  Melancholy, 

Goddess  of  the  tearful  eye. 

That  loves  to  fold  her  arms  and  sigh  ! 

Let  us  with  silent  footsteps  go 
To  charnels  and  the  house  of  wo. 


101 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  178tf 


To  Gothic  churches,  vaults,  and  tombs. 

Where  each  sad  night  some  virgin  comes, 

With  throbbing  breast,  and  faded  cheek, 

Her  jiromised  bridegroom’s  urn  to  seek; 

Or  to  some  abbey’s  mouldering  towers. 

Where  to  avoid  cold  winter’s  showers. 

The  naked  beggar  shivering  lies. 

Whilst  whistling  tempests  round  her  rise. 

And  trembles  lest  the  tottering  wall 
Should  on  her  sleeping  infants  fall. 

Now  let  us  louder  strike  the  lyre. 

For  my  heart  glows  with  martial  fire ; 

1 feel,  I feel,  with  sudden  heat. 

My  big  tumultuous  bosom  beatl 

The  trumpet’s  clangours  pierce  mine  ear, 

A thousand  widows’  shrieks  I hear ; 

‘ Give  me  another  horse,’  I cry, 

Lo  ! the  base  Gallic  squadrons  fly. 

AVhence  is  this  rage  I What  spirit,  say. 

To  battle  hurries  me  away  1 
’Tis  Fanev,  in  her  fiery  car. 

Transports  me  to  the  thickest  war. 

There  whirls  me  o’er  the  hills  of  slain. 

Where  Tumult  and  Destruction  reign  ; 

M'here,  mad  with  pain,  the  wounded  steed 
Tramples  the  dying  and  the  dead ; 

Where  giant  Terror  stalks  around. 

With  sullen  joy  surveys  the  ground. 

And,  pointing  to  the  ensanguined  field. 

Shakes  his  dreadful  Gorgon  shield  ! 

0 ! guide  me  from  this  horrid  scene 
To  high-arched  walks  and  alleys  green. 

Which  lovely  Laura  seeks,  to  shun 
The  fervours  of  the  mid-day  sun  ! 

The  pangs  of  absence,  0 ! remove. 

For  thou  canst  place  me  near  my  love, 

Canst  fold  in  visionary  bliss. 

And  let  me  think  1 steal  a kiss. 

When  young-eyed  Spring  profusely  throws 
From  her  green  lap  the  pink  and  rose ; 

When  the  soft  turtle  of  the  dale 
To  Summer  tells  her  tender  tale : 

When  Autumn  cooling  caverns  seeks. 

And  stains  with  wine  his  jolly  cheeks; 

When  Winter,  like  poor  pilgrim  old. 

Shakes  his  silver  beard  with  cold ; 

At  every  season  let  my  ear 
Thy  solemn  whispers.  Fancy,  hear. 

THOMAS  BLACKLOCK. 

A blind  descriptive  poet  seems  such  an  anomaly 
in  nature,  that  the  case  of  Dr  Blacklock  has  engaged 
the  attention  of  the  learned  and  curious  in  no  ordi- 
nary degree.  We  read  all  concerning  him  with 
strong  interest,  except  his  poetry,  for  this  is  generally 
tame,  languid,  and  commonplace,  lie  was  an  ami- 
able and  excellent  man,  of  warm  and  generous 
sensibilities,  eager  for  knowledge,  and  proud  to 
communicate  it.  Thomas  Blacklock  was  the  son 
of  a Cumberland  bricklayer,  who  had  settled  in  the 
towm  of  Annan,  Dumfriesshire.  When  about  six 
months  old,  the  child  was  totally  deprived  of  sight 
by  the  small-pox ; but  his  worthy  father,  assisted 
by  his  neighbours,  amused  his  solitary  boyhood  by 
reivding  to  him ; .and  before  he  had  reached  the  age  of 
twenty,  he  was  familiar  with  Spenser,  Milton,  Pope, 
and  Addison.  He  was  enthusiastically  fond  of  poetry, 
particularly  of  the  works  of  Thomson  and  Allan 
Kamsay.  From  these  he  must,  in  a great  degree,  have 
derived  his  images  and  impressions  of  nature  .and 
natural  objects  ; but  in  after-life  the  classic  poets 
were  .added  to  his  store  of  intellectual  enjoyment. 
Ills  father  was  accidentally  killed  when  the  poet 
was  about  the  age  of  nineteen;  but  some  of  his  at- 
tempts at  verse  having  been  seen  by  Dr  Stevensom 


Edinburgh,  this  benevolent  gentleman  took  their 
blind  author  to  the  Scottish  metropolis,  where  he 
was  enrolled  as  a student  of  divinity.  In  1746  he 
published  a Tolumeofhis  poems,  which  was  reprinted  i 
with  additions  in  1754  and  1756.  He  was  licensed 
a preacher  of  the  gospel  in  1759,  and  three  years 
afterwards,  married  the  daughter  of  Mr  Johnston,  a 
surgeon  in  Dumfries.  At  the  same  time,  through 
the  patronage  of  the  Earl  of  Selkirk,  Blacklock 
w'as  appointed  minister  of  Kirkcudbright.  The 
parishioners,  however,  were  ojiposed  both  to  church 
patronage  in  the  abstract,  and  to  this  exercise  of  it 
in  favour  of  a blind  man,  and  the  poet  relinquished 
the  appointment  on  receiving  in  lieu  of  it  a mode- 
rate annuity.  He  now  resided  in  Edinburgh,  and 
took  boarders  into  his  house.  His  family  was  a 
scene  of  peace  and  happiness.  To  liis  literary  pur- 
suits Blacklock  added  a taste  for  music,  and  played 
on  the  flute  and  flageolet.  Latterly,  he  suffered 
from  depression  of  spirits,  and  supposed  that  his 
imaginative  powers  were  failing  him;  yet  the  gene- 
rous ardour  he  evinced  in  1786,  in  the  case  of  Burns, 
shows  no  diminution  of  sensibility  or  taste  in  the 
appreciation  of  genius.  In  one  of  his  later  poems, 
the  blind  bard  thus  pathetically  alludes  to  the  sup- 
posed decay  of  his  faculties : — 

Excursive  on  the  gentle  gales  of  spring. 

He  roved,  whilst  favour  imped  his  timid  wing. 
Exhausted  genius  now  no  more  inspires. 

But  mourns  abortive  hopes  and  faded  fires ; 

The  short-lived  wreath,  which  once  his  temples  graced. 
Fades  at  the  sickly  breath  of  squeamish  taste; 

Whilst  darker  days  his  fainting  flames  immure 
In  cheerless  gloom  and  winter  premature. 

He  died  on  the  7th  of  July  1791,  at  the  age  of 
seventy.  Besides  his  poems,  Blacklock  wrote  some 
sermons  and  theological  treatises,  an  article  on 
Blindness  for  the  Encyclopmdia  Britannica  (which 
is  ingenious  and  elegant),  and  two  dissertations 
entitled  Paraclesis ; or  Consolations  Deduced  from 
Natural  and  Revealed  Religion,  one  of  them  original, 
and  the  other  translated  from  a work  ascribed  to 
Cicero. 

Apart  from  the  circumstances  under  which  they 
were  produced,  the  poems  of  Blacklock  offer  little 
room  or  temptation  to  criticism.  He  has  no  new 
imagery,  no  commanding  power  of  sentiment,  re- 
flection, or  imagination.  Still  he  was  a fluent  and 
correct  versifier,  and  his  familiarity  with  the  visible 
objects  of  nature — with  trees,  streams,  the  rocks, 
and  sky,  and  even  with  different  orders  of  flowers 
and  plants — is  a w'onderful  phenomenon  hi  one  blind 
from  infancy.  He  could  distinguish  colours  by 
touch  ; but  this  could  only  apply  to  objects  at  hand, 
not  to  the  features  of  a landscape,  or  to  the  appear- 
ances of  storm  or  sunshine,  sunrise  or  sunset,  or  the 
variation  in  the  seasons,  all  of  which  he  has  de- 
scribed. Images  of  this  kind  he  had  at  will  Thus, 
he  exclaims — 

Ye  vales,  which  to  the  raptured  eye 
Disclosed  the  flowery  pride  of  May ; 

Ye  circling  hills,  whose  summits  high 
Blushed  with  the  morning’s  earliest  ray 

Or  he  paints  flowers  with  artist-like  precision — 

Let  long-lived  pansies  here  their  scents  bestow, 

The  violet  languish,  and  the  roses  glow  ; 

In  yellow  glory  let  the  crocus  shine. 

Narcissus  here  his  love-sick  head  recline: 

Here  hyacinths  in  purple  sweetness  rise. 

And  tulips  tinged  with  beauty’s  fairest  dyes. 

In  a man  to  whom  all  external  phenomena  were,  and 
had  ever  been,  one  ‘universal  blank,’  this  union  of 
t.aste  and  memory  was  certainly  remarkable.  Poeti- 

102 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  KEATTI&. 


POETS. 


cal  feeling  lie  must  have  inherited  from  nature, 
which  led  him  to  take  pleasure  even  from  his  in- 
fancy in  descriptive  poetry  j and  the  language,  ex- 
pressions, and  pictures  thus  imprinted  on  his  mind 
by  habitual  acquaintance  with  tlie  best  authors,  and 
in  literary  conversation,  seem  to  have  risen  sponta- 
csiously  in  the  moment  of  composition. 

Terrors  of  a Guilty  Conscience, 

Cursed  with  unnumbered  groundless  fears, 

How  pale  yon  shivering  wretch  appears  ! 

For  him  the  daylight  shines  in  vain, 

For  him  the  fields  no  joys  contain  ; 

Nature’s  whole  charms  to  him  are  lost, 

No  more  the  woods  their  music  boast ; 

No  more  the  meads  their  vernal  bloom. 

No  more  the  gales  their  rich  perfume : 
Impending  mists  deform  the  sky. 

And  beauty  withers  in  his  eye. 

In  hopes  his  terrors  to  elude. 

By  day  he  mingles  with  the  crowd, 

Y et  finds  his  soul  to  fears  a prey. 

In  busy  crowds  and  open  day. 

If  night  his  lonely  walks  surprise, 

AVhat  horrid  visions  round  him  rise  ! 

The  blasted  oak  which  meets  his  way. 

Shown  by  the  meteor’s  sudden  ray. 

The  midnight  murderer’s  lone  retreat 
Felt  heaven’s  avengeful  bolt  of  late ; 

The  clashing  chain,  the  groan  profound. 

Loud  from  yon  ruined  tower  resound  ; 

And  now  the  spot  he  seems  to  tread. 

Where  some  self-slaughtered  corse  was  laid ; 

He  feels  fixed  earth  beneath  him  bend. 

Deep  murmurs  from  her  caves  ascend ; 

Till  all  his  soul,  by  fancy  swayed. 

Sees  livid  phantoms  crowd  the  shade. 

Ode  to  Aurora  on  Melissa’s  Birthday. 

A compliment  and  tribute  of  affection  to  the  tender  assi- 
duity of  an  excellent  wife,  which  I have  not  anywhere  seen 
more  happily  conceived  or  more  elegantly  expressed.' — Henry 
llackenzie.'] 

Of  time  and  nature  eldest  bom. 

Emerge,  thou  rosy-fingered  morn  ; 

Emerge,  in  purest  dress  arrayed. 

And  chase  from  heaven  night’s  envious  shade. 

That  1 once  more  may  pleased  survey. 

And  hail  Melissa’s  natal  day. 

Of  time  and  nature  eldest  born. 

Emerge,  thou  rosy-fingered  mom ; 

In  order  at  the  eastern  gate 

The  hours  to  draw  thy  chariot  wait ; 

Whilst  Zephyr  on  his  balmy  wings. 

Mild  nature’s  fragrant  tribute  brings. 

With  odours  sweet  to  strew  thy  way, 

And  grace  the  bland  revolving  day. 

But,  as  thou  lead’st  the  radiant  sphere. 

That  gilds  its  birth  and  marks  the  year. 

And  as  his  stronger  glories  rise, 

Diffused  around  the  expanded  skies. 

Till  clothed  with  beams  serenely  bright. 

All  heaven’s  vast  concave  flames  with  light  ; 

So  when  through  life’s  protracted  day, 

Melissa  still  pursues  her  way. 

Her  virtues  with  thy  splendour  vie. 

Increasing  to  the  mental  eye ; 

Though  less  conspicuous,  not  less  dear, 

Long  may  they  Bion’s  prospect  cheer ; 

So  shall  his  heart  no  more  repine, 

81  ‘ssed  with  her  ravs,  though  robbed  of  thine. 


The  Potirait. 

Straight  is  my  person,  but  of  little  size ; 

Lean  are  my  cheeks,  and  hollow  are  my  eyes : 

My  youthful  down  is,  like  my  talents,  rare  ; 

Politely  distant  stands  each  single  hair. 

My  voice  too  rough  to  charm  a lady’s  ear ; 

So  smooth,  a child  may  listen  without  fear ; 

Not  formed  in  cadence  soft  and  warbling  lays. 

To  soothe  the  fair  through  pleasure’s  wanton  ways. 
My  form  so  fine,  so  regular,  so  new. 

My  port  so  manly,  and  so  fresh  my  hue ; 

Oft,  as  I meet  the  crowd,  they,  laughing,  say, 

‘ See,  see  Memento  Mori  cross  the  way.’ 

The  ravished  Proserpine  at  last,  we  know. 

Grew  fondly  jealous  of  her  sable  beau  ; 

But,  thanks  to  Nature ! none  from  me  need  fly. 

One  heart  the  devil  could  wound — so  cannot  I. 

Yet  though  my  person  fearless  may  be  seen. 

There  is  some  danger  in  my  graceful  mien  : 

For,  as  some  vessel,  tossed  by  wind  and  tide. 

Bounds  o’er  the  waves,  and  rocks  from  side  to  side. 

In  just  vibration  thus  I always  move  : 

This  who  can  view  and  not  be  forced  to  love  1 
Hail,  charming  self!  by  whose  propitious  aid 
My  form  in  all  its  glory  stands  displayed : 

Be  present  still ; with  inspiration  kind. 

Let  the  same  faithful  colours  paint  the  mind. 

Like  all  mankind,  with  vanity  I’m  blessed. 
Conscious  of  wit  I never  yet  possessed. 

To  strong  desires  my  heart  an  easy  prey. 

Oft  feels  their  force,  but  never  owns  their  sway. 

This  hour,  perhaps,  as  death  I hate  my  foe ; 

The  next  I wonder  why  I should  do  so. 

Though  poor,  the  rich  I view  with  careless  eye ; 

Scorn  a vain  oath,  and  hate  a serious  lie. 

I ne’er  for  satire  torture  common  sense  ; 

Nor  show  my  wit  at  God’s  nor  man’s  expense. 
Harmless  I live,  unknowing  and  unknown  ; 

Wish  well  to  all,  and  yet  do  good  to  none. 

Unmerited  contempt  I hate  to  bear ; 

Y et  on  ray  faults,  like  others,  am  severe. 

Dishonest  flames  my  bosom  never  fire ; 

The  bad  I pity,  and  the  good  admire : 

Fond  of  the  Muse,  to  her  devote  my  days. 

And  scribble,  not  for  pudding,  but  for  praise. 

JAMES  BEATTIE. 

James  Beattie  was  the  son  of  a small  farmer  and 
shopkeeper  at  Laurencekirk,  county  of  Kincardine, 
where  he  was  born  October  25,  1735.  His  father 
died  while  he  w'as  a child,  but  an  elder  brother,  see- 
ing signs  of  talent  in  the  bo}',  assisted  him  in  pro- 
curing a good  education  ; and  in  his  fourteenth  year 
he  obtained  a bursary  or  exhibition  (always  indicat- 
ing some  proficiency  in  Latin)  in  hlarischal  college, 
Aberdeen.  His  habits  and  views  were  scholastic, 
and  four  years  afterwards,  Beattie  was  appointed 
schoolmaster  of  the  parish  of  Fordoun.  He  was  now 
situated  .amidst  interesting  and  romantic  scenery, 
which  increased  his  passion  for  nature  and  poetry. 
The  scenes  which  he  afterwards  delineated  in  his 
Minstrel  were  (as  Mr  Southey  has  justly  remarked) 
those  in  which  he  had  grown  up,  and  the  feelings 
and  aspirations  therein  expressed,  were  those  of  his 
own  boyhood  and  youth.  He  became  a poet  at  For- 
doun ; and,  strange  to  say,  his  poetry,  poor  as  it  was, 
procured  his  appointment  as  usher  of  Aberdeen 
grammar  school,  and  subsequently  that  of  professor 
of  natural  philosophy  in  Marischal  college.  This 
distinction  he  obtained  in  his  twenty -fifth  year. 
At  the  same  time,  lie  published  in  London  a collec- 
tion of  his  poems,  with  some  translations.  One  piece. 
Retirement,  displays  poetical  feeling  and  taste ; but 

103 


FROM  1727  CYCLOP-i^ilDIA  OF  to  1780. 


tlie  collection,  as  a whole,  gave  little  indication  of 
‘ The  Minstrel.’  The  poems,  without  the  transla- 
tions, were  reprinted  in  1766,  and  a copy  of  verses 


James  Beattie* 


on  the  Death  of  Churchill  were  added.  The  latter 
are  mean  and  reprehensible  in  spirit,  as  Churchill 
had  expiated  his  early  follies  by  an  untimely  death. 
Beattie  was  a sincere  lover  of  truth  and  virtue,  but 
his  ardour  led  him  at  times  into  intolerance,  and  he 
was  too  fond  of  courting  the  notice  and  approbation 
of  the  great.  In  1770  the  poet  appeared  as  a meta- 
physician, by  his  Essay  on  Truth,  in  which  good 
principles  were  advanced,  though  with  an  unphiloso- 
phical  spirit,  and  in  langu.age  which  suffered  greatly 
from  comparison  with  tliat  of  his  illustrious  oppo- 
nent, David  Hume.  Next  year  Beattie  appeared  in 
his  true  character  as  a poet.  The  first  part  of  ‘ The 
Minstrel’  was  published,  and  was  received  with  uni- 
versal approbation.  Honours  flowed  in  on  the  for- 
tunate author.  He  visited  London,  and  was  ad- 
mitted to  all  its  brilliant  and  distinguished  circles. 
Goldsmith,  Johnson,  Garrick,  and  Reynolds,  were 
numbered  among  his  friends.  On  a second  visit  in 
177.3,  he  had  an  interview  with  the  king  and  queen, 
which  resulted  in  a pension  of  £200  per  annum. 
The  university  of  Oxford  conferred  upon  him  the 
degree  of  LL.D.  and  Reynolds  painted  his  portrait 
in  an  allegorical  picture,  in  which  Beattie  was  seen 
by  the  side  of  an  angel  pushing  down  Prejudice, 
Scepticism,  and  Folly!  Need  we  wonder  that  poor 
Goldsmith  was  envious  of  his  brother  poet?  To  the 
honour  of  Beattie,  it  must  be  recorded,  that  he  de- 
clined entering  the  church  of  England,  in  which 
preferment  was  promised  him,  and  no  doubt  would 
liave  been  readily  granted.  The  second  part  of  the 
‘Minstrel’  was  published  in  1774.  Domestic  circum- 
stances marred  the  felicity  of  Beattie’s  otherwise 
happy  and  prosperous  lot.  His  wife  (the  daughter 
of  Dr  Dun,  Aberdeen)  became  insane,  and  was  ob- 
liged to  be  confined  in  an  asylum.  He  had  two  sons. 
Doth  amiable  and  accomplished  youths.  The  eldest 
lived  till  he  was  twenty-two,  and  was  associated 
with  his  father  in  the  professorship : he  died  in 
1790,  and  the  afflicted  parent  soothed  his  grief  by 
writing  his  life,  and  publishing  some  specimens  of 
his  composition  in  prose  and  verse.  The  second  son 
died  in  1796,  aged  eighteen  ; and  the  only  consola- 
tion of  the  now  lonely  poet  was,  that  he  could  not 
nave  borne  to  see  their  ‘ elegant  minds  mangled 


with  madness’ — an  allusion  to  the  hereditary  in- 
sanity of  their  mother.  By  nature,  Beattie  was  a 
man  of  quick  and  tender  sensibilities.  A fine  land- 
scape or  music  (in  which  he  was  a proficient),  aflected 
him  even  to  tears.  He  had  a sort  of  hysterical 
dread  of  meeting  with  his  metaphysical  opponents, 
which  was  an  unmanly  weakness.  When  he  saw 
Garrick  perform  Macbeth,  he  had  aln)ost  thrown 
himself,  from  nervous  excitement,  over  the  front  of 
the  two-shilling  gallery  ; and  he  seriously  contended 
for  the  grotesque  mixture  of  tragedy  and  comedy  in 
Shakspeare,  as  introduced  by  the  great  dramatist  to 
save  the  auditors  from  ‘ a disordered  head  or  a 
broken  heart!’  This  is  ‘parmaceti  for  an  inward 
bruise’  with  a vengeance!  He  had,  among  his 
other  idiosyncrasies,  a n)orbid  aversion  to  that  cheer- 
ful household  and  rural  sound — the  crowing  of  a 
cock ; and  in  his  ‘ Minstrel,’  he  anathematises  ‘ fell 
chanticleer’  with  burlesque  fury — 

O to  thy  cursed  scream,  discordant  still, 

Let  harmony  aye  shut  her  gentle  ear  : 

Thy  boastful  mirth  let  jealous  rivals  spill. 

Insult  thy  cre.st,  and  glossy  pinions  tear. 

And  ever  in  thy  dreams  the  ruthless  fox  appear. 

Such  an  organisation,  physical  and  moral,  was  ill 
fitted  to  insure  happiness  or  fortitude  in  adversity. 
When  his  second  son  died,  he  said  he  had  dune  with 
the  world.  He  ceased  to  correspond  with  his  friends, 
or  to  continue  his  studies.  Shattered  by  a long 
train  of  nervous  complaints,  in  April  1799  the  poet 
had  a stroke  of  palsy,  and  after  dift'erent  returns  of 
the  same  malady,  which  excluded  him  from  all 
society,  he  died  on  the  18th  of  August  1803. 

In  the  early  training  of  his  eldest  and  beloved  son. 
Dr  Beattie  adopted  an  expedient  of  a romantic  and 
interesting  description.  His  object  was  to  give  him 
the  first  idea  of  a Supreme  Being;  and  his  method, 
as  Dr  Porteous,  bishop  of  London,  remarked,  * had 
all  the  imagination  of  Rousseau,  without  his  folly 
and  extravagance.’ 

‘ He  had,’  says  Beattie,  ‘ reached  his  fifth  (or 
sixth)  year,  knew  the  alphabet,  and  could  read  a 
little ; but  had  received  no  particular  information 
with  respect  to  the  author  of  his  being  because  I 
thought  he  could  not  yet  understand  sui  h informa- 
tion, and  because  I had  learned,  from  my  own  ex- 
perience, that  to  be  made  to  repeat  words  not  un- 
derstood, is  extremely  detrimental  to  the  faculties 
of  a young  mind.  In  a comer  of  a little  garden, 
without  informing  any  person  of  the  circumstance, 
I wrote  in  the  mould,  with  my  finger,  the  three  ini- 
tial letters  of  his  name,  and  sowing  garden  cresses 
in  the  furrows,  covered  up  the  seed,  and  smoothed 
the  ground.  Ten  days  after  he  came  running  to  me, 
and  with  astonishment  in  his  countenance,  tild  me 
that  his  name  was  growing  in  the  garden.  I smiled 
at  the  report,  and  seemed  inclined  to  disregard  it ; 
but  he  insisted  on  my  going  to  see  what  had  hap- 
pened. “Yes,”  said  I carelessly,  on  coming  to  the 
place  ; “ I see  it  is  so ; but  there  is  nothing  in  this 
worth  notice ; it  is  mere  chance,”  and  I went  away. 
He  followed  me,  and  taking  hold  of  my  coat,  saiil  with 
some  earnestness,  “ It  could  not  be  mere  chance,  for 
that  somebody  must  have  contrived  matters  so  iis 
to  produce  it.”  I pretend  not  to  give  his  words  or  my 
own,  for  I have  forgotten  both,  but  I give  the  sub- 
stance of  what  passed  between  us  in  such  language 
as  we  both  understood.  “ So  you  think,”  I said, 
“ that  what  appears  so  regular  as  the  letters  of  your 
name  cannot  be  by  chance?”  “Yes,” said  he  with 
firmness,  “ I think  so !”  “ Look  at  yourself,”  I replied, 
“ and  consider  your  hands  and  fingers,  your  legs  and 
feet,  and  other  limbs  ; are  they  not  regular  in  their 
appearance,  and  useful  to  you?”  He  said  thev  wer(x 

104 


JAMR9  b^ATTIB. 


pom.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


“ Clime  you  then  liither,”  said  I,  “ by  ehanee  ?”  “ No,” 
he  answered,  “ tliat  cannot  be  ; sonietliing  must  liave 
made  me.”  “ And  wlio  is  that  something  ?”  I asked. 
He  said  lie  did  not  know.  (I  took  particular  notice 
that  he  did  not  say,  as  Rousseau  fancies  a child  in 
like  circumstances  would  say,  that  his  parents  made 
him.)  I had  now  gained  the  point  I aimed  at ; and 
saw  that  his  reason  taught  him  (though  he  could 
not  so  e.\prcss  it)  tliat  what  begins  to  be,  must  have 
a cause,  and  that  what  is  formed  with  regularity, 
must  have  an  intelligent  cause.  I therefore  told 
him  the  name  of  the  Great  Being  who  made  him 
and  all  the  world,  concerning  whose  adorable  nature 
I gave  him  such  information  as  I thought  he  could 
in  some  measure  comprehend.  The  lesson  alfected 
him  deeply,  and  he  never  forgot  either  it  or  the 
circumstance  that  introduced  it’ 

‘ The  Minstrel,’  on  which  Beattie’s  fame  now  rests, 
is  a didactic  poem,  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  de- 
signed to  ‘ trace  the  progress  of  a poetical  genius, 
born  in  a rude  age,  from  the  first  dawning  of  fancy 
and  reason  till  that  period  at  which  he  may  be 
supposed  capable  of  appearing  in  the  world  as  a 
minstrel.’  The  idea  was  suggested  by  Percy’s  pre- 
liminary Dissertation  to  his  Reliques — one  other 
benefit  which  that  collection  has  conferred  upon 
the  lovers  of  poetry.  The  character  of  Edwin,  the 
minstrel  (in  which  Beattie  embodied  his  own  early 
feelings  and  poetical  aspirations),  is  very  finely 
drawn.  The  romantic  seclusion  of  his  youth,  and 
his  ardour  for  knowledge,  find  a response  in  all 
young  and  generous  minds ; while  the  calm  philo- 
sophy and  reflection  of  the  poet,  interest  the  more 
mature  and  experienced  reader.  The  poem  was 
left  unfinished,  and  this  is  scarcely  to  be  regretted. 
Beattie  had  not  strength  of  pinion  to  keep  long  on 
the  wing  in  the  same  lofty  region ; and  Edwin  would 
hai  e contracted  some  earthly  taint  in  his  descent. 
Gray  thought  there  was  too  much  description  in 
the  first  part  of  the  ‘ Minstrel,’  but  who  would  ex- 
change it  for  the  philosophy  of  the  second  part? 
The  poet  intended  to  have  carried  his  hero  into  a 
life  of  variety  and  action,  but  he  certainly  would 
not  have  succeeded.  As  it  is,  when  he  finds  it 
necessary  to  continue  Edwin  beyond  the  ‘ flowery 
path’  of  childhood,  and  to  explore  the  shades  of  life, 
he  calls  in  the  aid  of  a hermit,  who  schools  the  young 
enthusiast  on  virtue,  knowledge,  and  the  dignity  of 
man.  The  appearance  of  this  sage  is  happily  de- 
scribed— 

At  early  dawn  the  youth  his  journey  took. 

And  many  a mountain  passed  and  valley  wide. 
Then  reached  the  wild  where,  in  a flowery  nook, 
And  seated  on  a mossy  stone,  he  spied 
An  ancient  man  ; his  harp  lay  him  beside. 

A stag  sprung  from  the  pasture  at  his  call. 

And,  kneeling,  licked  the  withered  hand  that  tied 
A wreath  of  woodbine  round  his  antlers  tall. 

And  hung  his  lofty  neck  with  many  a floweret  small. 

[Opening  of  the  Minstrel.^ 

Ah ! who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 

The  steep  where  Fame’s  proud  temple  shines  afar; 

Ah ! who  can  tell  how  many  a soul  sublime 
Has  felt  the  influence  of  malignant  star, 

And  waged  with  Fortune  an  eternal  war ; 

Checked  by  the  scoff  of  Pride,  by  Envy’s  frown. 

And  Poverty’s  unconquerable  bar. 

In  life’s  low  vale  remote  has  pined  alone. 

Then  dropped  into  the  grave,  unpitied  and  unknown ! 
And  yet  the  languor  of  inglorious  day 
Not  equally  oppressive  is  to  all ; 

Him,  who  ne’er  listened  to  the  voice  of  praise, 

The  silence  of  neglect  can  ne’er  appal. 


There  are,  who,  deaf  to  mad  Ambition’s  call. 

Would  shrink  to  hear  the  obstreperous  trump  of  Fame; 
Supremely  blest,  if  to  their  portion  fall 
Health,  competence,  and  peace.  Nor  higher  aim 
Had  he,  whose  simple  tale  these  artless  lines  proclaim. 
The  rolls  of  fame  I will  not  now  exjilore ; 

Nor  need  I here  describe,  in  learned  lay. 

How  forth  the  Minstrel  fared  in  days  of  yore. 

Right  glad  of  heart,  though  homely  in  array ; 

His  Waving  locks  and  beard  all  hoary  gray  ; 

While  from  his  bending  shoulder,  decent  hung 
His  harp,  the  sole  companion  of  his  way. 

Which  to  the  whistling  wind  responsive  rung : 

And  ever  as  he  went  some  merry  lay  he  sung. 

Fret  not  thyself,  thou  glittering  child  of  pride. 

That  a poor  villager  inspires  my  strain  ; 

With  thee  let  Pageantry  and  Power  abide ; 

The  gentle  Muses  haunt  the  sylvan  reign  ; 

Where  through  wild  groves  at  eve  the  lonely  .swain 
Enraptured  roams,  to  gaze  on  Nature’s  charms. 

They  hate  the  sensual,  and  scorn  the  vain ; 

The  parasite  their  influence  never  warms. 

Nor  him  whose  sordid  soul  the  love  of  gold  alarms. 

Though  richest  hues  the  peacock’s  plumes  adorn, 
y et  horror  screams  from  his  discordant  throat. 

Rise,  sons  of  harmony,  and  hail  the  morn. 

While  warbling  larks  on  russet  pinions  float : 

Or  seek  at  noon  the  woodland  scene  remote. 

Where  the  gray  linnets  carol  from  the  hill, 

0 let  them  ne’er,  with  artificial  note. 

To  please  a tyrant,  strain  the  little  bill,  [wilL 

But  sing  what  Heaven  inspires,  and  wander  where  they 
Liberal,  not  lavi.sh,  is  kind  Nature’s  hand  ; 

Nor  was  perfection  made  for  man  below. 

Yet  all  her  schemes  with  nicest  art  are  planned. 

Good  counteracting  ill,  and  gladness  wo. 

With  gold  and  gems  if  Chilian  mountains  glow; 

If  bleak  and  barren  Scotia’s  hills  arise ; 

There  plague  and  poison,  lust  and  rapine  grow; 

Here  peaceful  are  the  vales,  and  pure  the  skies. 

And  freedom  fires  the  soul,  and  sparkles  in  the  eyes. 
Then  grieve  not  thou,  to  whom  the  indulgent  Muse 
Vouchsafes  a portion  of  celestial  fire  : 

Nor  blame  the  partial  Fates,  if  they  refuse 
The  imperial  banquet  and  the  rich  attire. 

Know  thine  own  worth,  and  reverence  the  lyre. 

Wilt  thou  debase  the  heart  which  God  refined  ? 

No ; let  thy  heaven-taught  soul  to  Heaven  aspire. 

To  fancy,  freedom,  harmony,  resigned  ; 

Ambition’s  grovelling  crew  for  ever  left  behind. 

Canst  thou  forego  the  pure  ethereal  soul. 

In  each  fine  sense  so  exquisitely  keen. 

On  the  dull  couch  of  Luxury  to  loll. 

Stung  with  disease,  and  stupified  with  spleen ; 

Fain  to  implore  the  aid  of  Flattery’s  screen. 

Even  from  thyself  thy  loathsome  heart  to  hide 
(The  mansion  then  no  more  of  joy  serene). 

Where  fear,  distrust,  malevolence  abide. 

And  impotent  desire,  and  disappointed  pride  1 
0 how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 
Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her  votary  yields  ! 

The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding  shore. 

The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture  of  fields ; 

All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds. 

And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even. 

All  that  the  mountain’s  sheltering  bosom  shields. 
And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  heaven, 

0 how  canst  thou  renounce,  and  hope  to  be  forg.  veu ! 
* * * 

There  lived  in  Gothic  days,  as  legends  tell, 

A shepherd-swain,  a man  of  low  degree, 

Who.se  sires,  perchance,  in  Fairyland  might  dwell, 
Sicilian  groves,  or  vales  of  Arcadv : 


FROM  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ^780. 


But  he,  I ween,  was  of  the  north  countrie ; 

A nation  famed  for  song,  and  beauty’s  charms ; 
Zealous,  yet  modest ; innocent,  though  free; 

Patient  of  toil ; serene  amidst  alarms ; 

Inflexible  in  faith ; invincible  in  arms. 

The  shepherd  swain  of  whom  I mention  made, 

On  Scotia’s  mountains  fed  his  little  flock ; 

The  sickle,  scythe,  or  plough  he  never  swayed  ; 

An  honest  heart  was  almost  all  his  stock ; 

His  drink  the  living  water  from  the  rock: 

The  milky  dams  supplied  his  board,  and  lent 
Their  kindly  fleece  to  baffle  winter’s  shock  ; 

And  he,  though  oft  with  dust  and  sweat  besprent. 

Did  guide  and  guard  their  wanderings,  whereso’er 
they  went. 

\_Descripiion  of  Edwin.l 

And  yet  poor  Edwin  was  no  vulgar  boy. 

Deep  thought  oft  seemed  to  fix  his  infant  eye. 
Dainties  he  heeded  not,  nor  gaude,  nor  toy. 

Save  one  short  pipe  of  rudest  minstrelsy  ; 

Silent  when  glad  ; affectionate,  though  shy ; 

And  now  his  look  was  most  demurely  sad. 

And  now  he  laughed  aloud,  yet  none  knew  why. 

The  neighbours  stared  and  sighed,  yet  blessed  the  lad  ; 
Some  deemed  him  wondrous  wise,  and  some  believed 
him  mad. 

But  why  should  I his  childish  feats  display  ? 
Concourse,  and  noise,  and  toil,  he  ever  fled ; 

Nor  cared  to  mingle  in  the  clamorous  fray 
Of  squabbling  imps  ; but  to  the  forest  sped. 

Or  roamed  at  large  the  lonely  mountain’s  head. 

Or  where  the  maze  of  some  bewildered  stream 
To  deep  untrodden  groves  his  footsteps  led. 

There  would  he  wander  wild,  till  Pheebus’  beam. 

Shot  from  the  western  cliff,  released  the  weary  team. 

The  exploit  of  strength,  dexterity,  or  speed. 

To  him  nor  vanity  nor  joy  could  bring: 

His  heart,  from  cruel  sport  estranged,  would  bleed 
To  work  the  wo  of  any  living  thing. 

By  trap  or  net,  by  arrow  or  by  sling ; 

These  he  detested  ; those  he  scorned  to  wield : 

He  wished  to  be  the  guardian,  not  the  king. 

Tyrant  far  less,  or  traitor  of  the  field. 

And  sure  the  sylvan  reign  unbloody  joy  might  yield. 

Lo ! where  the  stripling,  wrapt  in  wonder,  roves 
Beneath  the  precipice  o’erhung  with  pine ; 

And  sees  on  high,  amidst  the  encircling  groves. 

From  cliff  to  cliff  the  foaming  torrents  shine ; 

While  waters,  woods,  and  winds,  in  concert  join. 

And  echo  swells  the  chorus  to  the  skies. 

Would  Edwin  this  majestic  scene  resign 
For  aught  the  huntsman’s  puny  craft  supplies  ? 

Ah,  no ! he  better  knows  great  Nature’s  charms  to 
prize. 

And  oft  he  traced  the  uplands  to  survey. 

When  o’er  the  sky  advanced  the  kindling  dawn, 

The  crimson  cloud,  blue  main,  and  mountain  gray. 
And  lake,  dim-gleaming  on  the  smoky  lawn  : 

Far  to  the  west  the  long  long  vale  withdrawn. 

Where  twilight  loves  to  linger  for  a while  ; 

And  now  he  faintly  kens  the  bounding  fawn. 

And  villager  abroad  at  early  toil : 

But,  lo  ! the  sun  appears  1 and  heaven,  earth,  ocean, 
smile. 

And  oft  the  craggy  cliff  he  loved  to  climb, 

When  all  in  mist  the  world  below  was  lost — 

What  dreadful  pleasure ! there  to  stand  sublime. 

Like  shipwrecked  mariner  on  desert  coast, 

And  view  the  enormous  waste  of  vapour,  tost 


In  billows,  lengthening  to  the  horizon  round. 

Now  scooped  in  gulfs,  with  mountains  now  embo.ssed! 
And  hear  the  voice  of  mirth  and  song  rebound. 
Flocks,  herds,  and  waterfalls,  along  the  hoar  pro- 
found ! 

In  truth  he  was  a strange  and  wayward  wight, 

Fond  of  each  gentle  and  each  dreadful  scene. 

In  darkness  and  in  storm  he  found  delight; 

Nor  less  than  when  on  ocean-wave  serene. 

The  southern  sun  diffused  his  dazzling  shene. 

Even  sad  vicissitude  amused  his  soul ; 

And  if  a sigh  would  sometimes  intervene. 

And  down  his  cheek  a tear  of  pity  roll, 

A sigh,  a tear,  so  sweet,  he  wished  not  to  controL 
* ♦ * 

Oft  when  the  winter  storm  had  ceased  to  rave. 

He  roamed  the  snowy  waste  at  even,  to  view 
The  cloud  stupendous,  from  the  Atlantic  wave 
High-towering,  sail  along  the  horizon  blue  ; 
where,  ’midst  the  changeful  scenery,  ever  new. 

Fancy  a thousand  wondrous  forms  descries, 

More  wildly  great  than  ever  pencil  drew  ; 

Rocks,  torrents,  gulfs,  and  shapes  of  giant  size, 

And  glittering  cliffs  on  cliffs,  and  fiery  ramparts  rise. 

Thence  musing  onward  to  the  sounding  shore, 

The  lone  enthusiast  oft  would  take  his  way. 

Listening,  with  pleasing  dread,  to  the  deep  roar 
Of  the  wide-weltering  waves.  In  black  array 
When  sulphurous  clouds  rolled  on  the  autumnal  day. 
Even  then  he  hastened  from  the  haunt  of  man, 

Along  the  trembling  wilderness  to  stray, 

What  time  the  lightning’s  fierce  career  began. 

And  o’er  heaven’s  rending  arch  the  rattling  thunder 
ran. 

Responsive  to  the  sprightly  pipe,  when  all 
In  sprightly  dance  the  village  youth  were  joined, 
Edwin,  of  melody  aye  held  in  thrall, 

From  the  rude  gambol  far  remote  reclined. 

Soothed  with  the  soft  notes  warbling  in  the  wind. 

Ah  then,  all  jollity  seemed  noise  and  folly  1 
To  the  pure  soul  by  Fancy’s  fire  refined. 

Ah,  what  is  mirth  but  turbulence  unholy, 
when  with  the  charm  compared  of  heavenly  racial* 
choly  1 

Is  there  a heart  that  music  cannot  melt  ? 

Alas  1 how  is  that  rugged  heart  forlorn  ; 

Is  there,  who  ne’er  those  mystic  transports  felt 
Of  solitude  and  melancholy  born  ? 

He  needs  not  woo  the  Muse  ; he  is  her  scorn. 

The  sophist’s  rope  of  cobweb  he  shall  twiae  ; 

Mope  o’er  the  schoolman’s  peevish  rage  ; or  mourn. 
And  delve  for  life  in  Mammon’s  dirty  m.ne ; 

Sneak  with  the  scoundrel  fox,  or  grunt  with  glutton 
swine. 

For  Edwin,  Fate  a nobler  doom  had  planned  ; 

Song  was  his  favourite  and  first  pursuit. 

The  wild  harp  rang  to  his  adventurous  hand. 

And  languished  to  his  breath  the  plaintive  flute. 

His  infant  muse,  though  artless,  was  not  mute. 

Of  elegance  as  yet  he  took  no  care ; ' 

For  this  of  time  and  culture  is  the  fruit ; 

And  Edwin  gained  at  last  this  fruit  so  rare : 

As  in  some  future  verse  I purpose  to  declare. 

Meanwhile,  whate’er  of  beautiful  or  new, 

Sublime,  or  dreadful,  in  earth,  sea,  or  sky, 

By  chance,  or  search,  was  off  ered  to  his  view, 

He  scanned  with  curious  and  romantic  eye. 

Whate’er  of  lore  tradition  could  supply 
From  Gothic  tale,  or  song,  or  fable  old. 

Roused  him,  still  keen  to  listen  and  to  pty. 

At  last,  though  long  by  penury  controlled. 

And  solitude,  his  soul  her  graces  ’gan  unfold. 

106 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  BEATTIB. 


Thus  on  the  chill  Lapponian’s  dreary  land, 

For  many  a long  month  lost  in  snow  profound, 

When  Sol  from  Cancer  sends  the  season  bland. 

And  in  their  northern  cave  the  storms  are  bound  ; 
From  silent  mountains,  straight,  with  startling  sound. 
Torrents  are  hurled  ; green  hills  emerge ; and  lo ! 

The  trees  with  foliage,  cliffs  with  flowers  are  crowned ; 
Pure  rills  through  vales  of  verdure  warbling  go ; 

And  wonder,  love,  and  joy,  the  peasant’s  heart  o’erflow. 

[Morning  Landscape.'] 

Even  now  his  eyes  with  smiles  of  rapture  glow, 

As  on  he  wanders  through  the  scenes  of  morn. 

Where  the  fresh  flowers  in  living  lustre  blow, 

W'here  thousand  pearls  the  dewy  lawns  adorn, 

A thousand  notes  of  joy  in  every  breeze  are  borne. 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? 

The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain  side ; 
The  lowing  herd  ; the  sheepfold’s  simple  bell ; 

The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley  ; echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above ; 

The  holjow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide ; 

The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet’s  lay  of  love. 

And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

The  cottage-curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark  ; 

Crowned  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milkmaid  sings ; 
The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield  ; and,  hark  ! 
Dorvn  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon  rings ; 
Through  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonished  springs  ; 
Slow  tolls  the  village-clock  the  drowsy  hour ; 

The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings ; 

Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower. 

And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower. 

[Life  and  Immortality.] 

0 ye  wild  groves,  0 where  is  now  your  bloom  ! 

(The  Muse  interprets  thus  his  tender  thought) 

Your  flowers,  your  verdure,  and  your  balmy  gloom. 
Of  late  so  grateful  in  the  hour  of  drought  ? 

Why  do  the  birds,  that  song  and  rapture  brought 
To  all  your  bowers,  their  mansions  now  forsake  ? 

Ah  ! why  has  fickle  chance  this  ruin  wrought ! 

For  now  the  storm  howls  mournful  through  the  brake. 
And  the  dead  foliage  flies  in  many  a shapeless  flake. 

Where  now  the  rill,  melodious,  pure,  and  cool. 

And  meads,  with  life,  and  mirth,  and  beauty  crowned? 
Ah  ! see,  the  unsightly  slime,  and  sluggish  pool, 

Have  all  the  solitary  vale  embrowned  ; 

Fled  each  fair  form,  and  mute  each  melting  sound. 
The  raven  croaks  forlorn  on  naked  spray. 

And  hark  : the  river,  bursting  every  mound, 

Down  the  vale  thunders,  and  with  wasteful  sway 
Uproots  the  grove,  and  rolls  the  shattered  rocks  away. 
Yet  such  the  destiny  of  all  on  earth  : 

So  flouri.shes  and  fades  majestic  man. 

Fair  is  the  bud  his  vernal  morn  brings  forth, 

And  fostering  gales  a while  the  nursling  fan. 

O smile,  ye  heaven.s,  serene  ; ye  mildews  wan. 

Ye  blighting  whirlwinds,  .spare  his  balmy  prime. 

Nor  lessen  of  his  life  the  little  span. 

Borne  on  the  swift,  though  silent  wings  of  Time, 

Old  age  comes  on  apace  to  ravage  all  the  clime. 

And  be  it  so.  Let  those  deplore  their  doom 
Whose  hope  still  grovels  in  this  dark  sojourn ; 

But  lofty  souls,  who  look  beyond  the  tomb. 

Can  smile  at  Fate,  and  wonder  how  they  mourn. 

Shall  Spring  to  these  sad  scenes  no  more  return? 

Is  yonder  wave  the  Sun’s  eternal  bed  ? 

Soon  shall  the  orient  with  new  lustre  bum. 

And  Spring  shall  soon  her  vital  influence  shed. 

Again  attune  the  grove,  again  adorn  the  mead. 


Shall  I be  left  forgotten  in  the  dust. 

When  Fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower  revive? 

Shalt  Nature’s  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust. 

Bid  him,  though  doomed  to  perish,  hope  to  live  ? 

Is  it  for  this  fair  Virtue  oft  must  strive 
With  disappointment,  penury,  and  pain  ? 

No : Heaven’s  immortal  spring  shall  yet  arrive. 

And  man’s  majestic  beauty  bloom  again. 

Bright  through  the  eternal  year  of  Love’s  triumphant 
reign. 

Retirement. — 1758. 

When  in  the  crimson  cloud  of  even 
The  lingering  light  decays. 

And  Hesper  on  the  front  of  heaven 
His  glittering  gem  displays ; 

Deep  in  the  silent  vale,  unseen. 

Beside  a lulling  stream, 

A pensive  youth,  of  placid  mien^ 

Indulged  this  tender  theme. 

‘Ye  cliffs,  in  hoary  grandeur  piled 
High  o’er  the  glimmering  dale  ; 

Ye  woods,  along  who.se  windings  wild 
Murmurs  the  solemn  gale  : 

Where  Melancholy  strays  forlorn. 

And  Wo  retires  to  weep. 

What  time  the  wan  moon’s  yellow  horn 
Gleams  on  the  western  deep ; 

To  you,  ye  wastes,  whose  artless  charms 
Ne’er  drew  Ambition’s  eye, 

’Scaped  a tumultuous  world’s  alarms. 

To  your  retreats  I fly. 

Deep  in  your  most  sequestered  bower 
Let  me  at  last  recline. 

Where  Solitude,  mild,  modest  power. 

Leans  on  her  ivied  shrine. 

How  shall  I woo  thee,  matchless  fair  ? 

Thy  heavenly  smile  how  win  ? 

Thy  smile  that  smooths  the  brow  of  Care, 

And  stills  the  storm  within. 

O wilt  thou  to  thy  favourite  grove 
Thine  ardent  votary  bring. 

And  bless  his  hours,  and  bid  them  move 
Serene,  on  silent  wing  ? 

Oft  let  Remembrance  soothe  his  mind 
With  dreams  of  former  days. 

When  in  the  lap  of  Peace  reclined. 

He  framed  his  infant  lays  ; 

When  Fancy  roved  at  large,  nor  Care 
Nor  cold  Distrust  alarmed. 

Nor  Envy,  with  malignant  glare. 

His  simple  youth  had  harmed. 

’Twas  then,  0 Solitude ! to  thee 
His  early  vows  were  paid. 

From  heart  sincere,  and  warm,  and  free. 
Devoted  to  the  shade. 

Ah  why  did  Fate  his  steps  decoy 
In  stormy  paths  to  roam, 

Remote  from  all  congenial  joy ! — 

0 take  the  wanderer  home. 

Thy  shades,  thy  silence  now  be  mine. 

Thy  charms  my  only  theme  ; 

My  haunt  the  hollow  cliff,  whose  pine 
Waves  o’er  the  gloomy  stream. 

Whence  the  scared  owl  on  pinions  gray 
Breaks  from  the  rustling  boughs. 

And  down  the  lone  vale  sails  away 
To  more  profound  repose. 

0,  while  to  thee  the  woodland  pours 
Its  wildly  warbling  song. 

And  balmy  from  the  bank  of  flowers 
The  zephyr  breathes  along ; 

10< 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


ro  1780. 


TKOIff  17‘27 


Let  no  rude  sound  invade  from  far, 

No  vagrant  foot  be  nigh, 

No  ray  from  (irandeur’s  gilded  car 
Flash  on  tlie  startled  eye. 

But  if  some  pilgrim  through  the  glade 
Thy  hallowed  bowers  explore, 

O guard  from  barm  liis  hoary  head, 

And  listen  to  liis  lore; 

For  he  of  joys  divine  shall  tell, 

That  wean  from  earthly  wo. 

And  triumph  o’er  the  mighty  spell 
That  chains  his  heart  below. 

For  me,  no  more  the  path  invites 
Ambition  loves  to  tread  ; 

No  more  I climb  those  toilsome  heights. 

By  guileful  Hope  misled  ; 

Leaps  my  fond  fluttering  heart  no  more 
To  Mirth’s  enlivening  strain  ; 

For  present  pleasure  soon  is  o’er, 

And  all  the  past  is  vain.’ 

The  Hermit. 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still. 

And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove, 

When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
And  nought  but  the  nightingale’s  song  in  the  grove : 
’Twas  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar. 

While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a hermit  began  : 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war. 

He  thought  as  a sage,  though  he  felt  as  a man. 

‘ Ah  ! why,  all  abandoned  to  darlcness  and  wo. 

Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing  fall  ? 

For  spring  shall  return,  and  a lover  bestow. 

And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthral : 

But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay. 

Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee  to  mourn; 

0 soothe  him,  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass  away : 
Full  quickly  they  pass — but  they  never  return. 

Now  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the  sky. 

The  moon  half  extinguished  her  crescent  displays  : 
But  lately  I marked,  when  majestic  on  high 
She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 

Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 
The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendour  again  ; 

But  man’s  faded  glory  what  change  shall  renew? 

Ah  fool ! to  exult  in  a glory  so  vain ! 

’Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more  ; 

1 mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I mourn  not  for  you ; 

For  morn  is  approaching,  your  charms  to  restore. 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glittering  with  dew: 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I mourn ; 

Kind  Nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save. 

But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  um  ! 

0 when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave  ! 

Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betrayed. 
That  leads,  to  bewilder ; and  dazzles,  to  blind  ; 

My  thoughts  wont  to  roam,  from  shade  onward  to 
shade. 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 

“ 0 pity,  great  Father  of  Light,”  then  I cried, 

“ Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander  from  thee; 
Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I relinquish  my  pride : 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst  free  !” 
And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away. 

No  longer  I roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint,  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  mom. 

See  Truth,  Love,  and  Mercy,  in  triumph  descending, 
And  Nature  all  glowing  in  Eden’s  first  bloom  ! 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and  roses  are 
blending. 

And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb.’ 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART. 

Christopher  Smart,  an  unfortunate  and  irre- 
gular man  of  genius,  was  born  in  1722  at  Ship- 
bourne  in  Kent.  liis  father  was  steward  to  Lord  | 
Barnard  (afterwards  Earl  of  Darlington),  and  dying 
when  his  son  was  eleven  years  of  age,  tlie  patronage 
of  Lord  Barnard  was  generously  eontinued  to  his 
family.  Through  the  influence  of  this  nobleman, 

! Christopher  procured  from  the  Duchess  of  Cleve- 
I land  an  allowance  of  £40  per  annum.  He  was  ad- 
mitted of  Pembroke  Hall,  Cambridge,  in  17.39, 

1 elected  a fellow  of  Pembroke  in  1745,  and  took  his 
[ degree  of  M.A.  in  1747.  At  college.  Smart  was 
j remarkable  for  folly  and  extravagance,  and  his 
I distinguished  contemporary  Gray  prophesied  truly 
that  the  result  of  his  conduct  would  be  a jail  or  I 
bedlam.  In  1747,  he  wrote  a comedy  called  a 2'rip 
to  Cambridge,  or  The  Grateful  Fair,  w'hich  was  acted 
in  Pembroke  College  Hall,  the  parlour  of  which  was 
made  the  green-room.  No  remains  of  this  play  have 
been  found,  excepting  a few  songs  and  a mock- 
heroic  soliloquy,  the  latter  containing  the  following 
humorous  simile : — 

Thus  when  a barber  and  a collier  fight. 

The  barber  beats  the  luckless  collier  white; 

The  dusty  collier  heaves  his  ponderous  sack. 

And,  big  with  vengeance,  beats  the  barber  black. 

In  comes  the  brick-dust  man,  with  grime  o’erspread. 
And  beats  the  collier  and  the  barber  red  ; 

Black,  red,  and  white,  in  various  clouds  are  tossed. 

And  in  the  dust  they  raise  the  combatants  are  lost. 

From  the  correspondence  of  Gray,  it  appears  that 
Smart’s  income  at  Cambridge  was  about  £140  per 
annum,  and  of  this  his  creditors  compelled  him  to 
assign  over  to  them  £50  a-year  till  his  debts  were 
paid.  Notwithstanding  his  irregularities.  Smart 
cultivated  his  talents,  and  was  distinguished  both 
for  his  Latin  and  English  verse.  His  manners  were 
agreeable,  though  his  misconduct  appears  to  have 
worn  out  the  indulgence  of  all  his  college  friends. 
Having  written  several  pieces  for  periodicals  pub-  ! 
lished  by  Newberry,  Smart  became  acquainted  ■ 
with  the  bookseller’s  family,  and  married  his  step- 
daughter, Miss  Carnan,  in  the  year  1753.  He  now 
removed  to  London,  and  endeavoured  to  subsist  by 
his  pen.  The  notorious  Sir  John  Hill — whose  w.ars 
with  the  Royal  Society,  with  Fielding,  &c.,  are  well- 
known,  and  who  closed  his  life  by  becoming  a quack  i 
doctor  — having  insidiously  attacked  Smart,  the  j 
latter  replied  by  a spirited  satire  entitled  The  llil-  i 
Had.  Among  his  various  tasks  was  a metrical 
translation  of  the  Fables  of  Pha»drus.  He  also 
translated  the  psalms  and  parables  into  verse,  but 
the  version  is  destitute  of  talent.  He  had,  how-  I 
ever,  in  his  better  days,  translated  with  success,  and 
to  Pope’s  satisfaction,  the  Ode  on  St  Cecilia’s  Day. 

In  1756  Smart  was  one  of  the  conductors  of  a 
monthly  periodical  called  The  Universal  Visiter;  and 
to  assist  him,  Johnson  (who  sincerely  sympathised, 
as  Boswell  relates,  with  Smart’s  unhappy  vacilla- 
tion of  mind)  contributed  a few  essays.  In  1763  we 
find  the  poor  poet  confined  in  a mad-house.  ‘ He 
has  partly  as  much  exercise,’  said  Johnson,  ‘ as  he 
used  to  have,  for  he  digs  in  the  garden.  Indeed, 
before  his  confinement,  he  used  for  exercise  to  walk 
to  the  ale-house  ; but  he  was  carried  back  again.  I ■ 
did  not  think  he  ought  to  be  shut  up.  His  infir-  • 
mities  were  not  noxious  to  society.  He  insisted  on  ^ 
people  praying  with  him  (also  falling  upon  his  I 
knees  and  saying  his  prayers  in  the  street,  or  in  any  ! 
other  unusual  place) ; and  I’d  as  lief  pray  with  Kit  j 
Smart  as  any  one  else.  Another  charge  was,  that  i 

108 


POSTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHBISTOPHSR  SMART. 


he  did  not  love  clean  linen  ; and  I have  no  p.assion 
for  it.’  During  his  confinement,  it  is  said,  writing 
materials  were  denied  him,  and  Smart  used  to  indent 
his  poetical  thoughts  with  a key  on  the  wainscot  of 
his  walls.  A religious  poem,  the  Song  to  David, 
written  at  this  time  in  his  saner  intervals,  pos- 
sesses passages  of  considerable  power  and  sublimity, 
and  must  be  considered  as  one  of  the  greatest 
curiosities  of  our  literature.  What  the  unfortu- 
nate poet  did  not  write  down  (and  the  whole  could 
not  possibly  have  been  committed  to  the  walls  of 
his  apartment)  must  have  been  composed  and  re- 
tained from  memory  alone.  Smart  was  afterwards 
released  from  his  confinement ; but  his  ill  fortune 
(following,  we  suppose,  his  intemperate  habits)  again 
pursued  him.  He  was  committed  to  the  King’s  Bench 
prison  for  debt,  and  died  there,  after  a short  illness, 
in  1770. 

Song  to  David. 

0 thou,  that  sit’st  upon  a throne. 

With  harp  of  high,  majestic  tone, 

To  praise  the  King  of  kings  : 

And  voice  of  heaven,  ascending  swell, 

Which,  while  its  deeper  notes  excel. 

Clear  as  a clarion  rings  : 

To  bless  each  valley,  grove,  and  coast. 

And  charm  the  cherubs  to  the  post 
Of  gratitude  in  throngs  ; 

To  keep  the  days  on  Zion’s  Mount, 

And  send  the  year  to  his  account. 

With  dances  and  with  songs: 

0 servant  of  God’s  holiest  charge. 

The  minister  of  praise  at  large. 

Which  thou  mayst  now  receive  ; 

From  thy  blest  mansion  hail  and  hear. 

From  topmost  eminence  appear 
To  this  the  wreath  I weave. 

Great,  valiant,  pious,  good,  and  clean. 

Sublime,  contemplative,  serene. 

Strong,  constant,  pleasant,  wise! 

Bright  effluence  of  exceeding  grace  ; 

Best  man ! the  swiftness  and  the  race, 

The  peril  and  the  prize  ! 

Great— from  the  lustre  of  his  crorvn. 

From  Samuel’s  horn,  and  God’s  renown. 

Which  is  the  people’s  voice ; 

For  all  the  host,  from  rear  to  van. 

Applauded  and  embraced  the  man — 

The  man  of  God’s  own  choice. 

Valiant — the  word,  and  up  he  rose ; 

The  fight — he  triumphed  o’er  the  foes 
Whom  God’s  just  laws  abhor ; 

And,  armed  in  gallant  faith,  he  took 
Against  the  boaster,  from  the  brook, 

The  weapons  of  the  war. 

Pious — magnificent  and  grand, 

’Twas  he  the  famous  temple  planned, 

(The  seraph  in  his  soul :) 

Foremost  to  give  the  Lord  his  dues. 

Foremost  to  bless  the  welcome  news. 

And  foremost  to  condole. 

Good — from  Jehudah’s  genuine  vein. 

From  God’s  best  nature,  good  in  grain. 

His  aspect  and  his  heart  : 

To  pity,  to  forgive,  to  save. 

Witness  En-gedi’s  conscious  cave. 

And  Shimei’s  blunted  dart. 

Clean — if  perpetual  prayer  be  pure, 

And  love,  which  could  itself  inure 


To  fasting  and  to  fear — 

Clean  in  his  gestures,  hands,  and  feet. 

To  smite  the  lyre,  the  dance  complete. 

To  play  the  sword  and  spear. 

Sublime — injention  ever  young. 

Of  vast  conception,  towering  tongue. 

To  God  the  eternal  theme; 

Notes  from  yon  exaltations  caught. 
Unrivalled  royalty  of  thought. 

O’er  meaner  strains  supreme. 

Contemplative — on  God  to  fix 
His  musings,  and  above  the  six 
The  Sabbath-day  he  blest ; 

’Twas  then  his  thoughts  self-conquest  prune  1, 
And  heavenly  melancholy  tuned. 

To  bless  and  bear  the  rest. 

Serene — to  sow  the  seeds  of  peace. 
Remembering  when  he  watched  the  fleece. 
How  sweetly  Kidron  purled — 

To  further  knowledge,  silence  vice. 

And  plant  perpetual  paradise. 

When  God  had  calmed  the  world. 

Strong — in  the  Lord,  who  could  defy 
Satan,  and  all  his  powers  that  lie 
In  sempiternal  night ; 

And  hell,  and  horror,  and  despair 
Were  as  the  lion  and  the  bear 
To  his  undaunted  might. 

Constant — in  love  to  God,  the  Truth, 

Age,  manhood,  infancy,  and  youth — 

To  Jonathan  his  friend 
Constant,  beyond  the  verge  of  death  ; 

And  Ziba,  and  Mephibosheth, 

His  endless  fame  attend. 

Pleasant — and  various  as  the  year ; 

Man,  soul,  and  angel  without  peer. 

Priest,  champion,  sage,  and  boy ; 

In  armour,  or  in  ephod  clad. 

His  pomp,  his  piety  was  glad  ; 

Majestic  was  his  joy. 

Wise — in  recovery  from  his  fall, 

Whence  rose  his  eminence  o’er  all, 

Of  all  the  most  reviled ; 

The  light  of  Israel  in  his  ways. 

Wise  are  his  precepts,  prayer,  and  praise^ 

And  counsel  to  his  child. 

His  muse,  bright  angel  of  his  verse. 

Gives  balm  for  all  the  thorns  that  pierce. 

For  all  the  pangs  that  rage; 

Blest  light,  still  gaining  on  the  gloom. 

The  more  than  Michal  of  his  bloom. 

The  Abishag  of  his  age. 

He  sang  of  God — the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things — the  stupendous  force 
On  which  all  strength  depends  ; 

From  whose  right  arm,  beneath  whose  eyet. 

All  period,  power,  and  enterprise 
Commences,  reigns,  and  ends. 

Angels — their  ministry  and  meed. 

Which  to  and  fro  with  blessings  speed. 

Or  with  their  citterns  wait ; 

Where  Michael,  with  his  millions,  bows. 
Where  dwells  the  seraph  and  his  spouse. 

The  cherub  and  her  mate. 

Of  man — the  semblance  and  effect 
Of  God  and  love — the  saint  elect 
For  infinite  applause— 

To  rule  the  land,  and  briny  broad. 

To  be  laborious  in  his  laud. 

And  heroes  in  his  cause. 


109 


FROM  17-7 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


'J'lie  world — the  clustering  spheres  he  made, 
The  glorious  light,  the  soothing  shade, 

Dale,  champaign,  grove,  and  hill; 

The  multitudinous  ahyss, 

Where  secrecy  remains  in  bliss. 

And  wisdom  hides  her  skill. 

Trees,  plants,  and  flowers — of  virtuous  root; 
Gem  yielding  blossom,  yielding  fruit. 

Choice  gums  and  precious  balm; 

Bless  ye  the  nosegay  in  the  vale. 

And  with  the  sweetness  of  the  gale 
Enrich  the  thankful  psalm. 

Of  fowl— e’en  every  beak  and  wing 
Which  cheer  the  winter,  hail  the  spring. 
That  live  in  peace,  or  prey ; 

They  that  make  music,  or  that  mock, 

The  quail,  the  brave  domestic  cock. 

The  raven,  swan,  and  jay. 

Of  fishes — every  size  and  shape. 

Which  nature  frames  of  light  escape. 
Devouring  man  to  shun  : 

The  shells  are  in  the  wealthy  deep. 

The  shoals  upon  the  surface  leap, 

And  love  the  glaneing  sun. 

Of  beasts — the  beaver  plods  his  task  ; 

While  the  sleek  tigers  roll  and  bask, 

Nor  yet  the  shades  arouse; 

Her  cave  the  mining  eoney  scoops ; 

Where  o’er  the  mead  the  mountain  stoops. 
The  kids  exult  and  browse. 

Of  gems — their  virtue  and  their  price, 
Which,  hid  in  earth  from  man’s  device. 
Their  darts  of  lustre  sheath  ; 

The  jasper  of  the  master’s  stamp. 

The  topaz  blazing  like  a lamp. 

Among  the  mines  beneath. 

Blest  was  the  tenderness  he  felt. 

When  to  his  graceful  harp  he  knelt, 

And  did  for  audience  call ; 

When  Satan  with  his  hand  he  quelled. 

And  in  serene  suspense  he  held 
The  frantic  throes  of  Saul. 

His  furious  foes  no  more  maligned 
As  he  such  melody  divined. 

And  sense  and  soul  detained  ; 

Now  striking  strong,  now  soothing  soft. 

He  sent  the  godly  sounds  aloft. 

Or  in  delight  refrained. 

When  up  to  heaven  his  thoughts  he  piled, 
From  fervent  lips  fair  Michal  smiled. 

As  blush  to  blush  she  stood ; 

And  chose  herself  the  queen,  and  gave 
Her  utmost  from  her  heart — ‘ so  brave. 

And  plays  his  hymns  so  good.’ 

The  pillars  of  the  Lord  are  seven. 

Which  stand  from  earth  to  topmost  heaven ; 

His  wisdom  drew  the  plan  ; 

His  Word  accomplished  the  design, 
from  brightest  gem  to  deepest  mine. 

From  Christ  enthroned  to  man. 

Alpha,  the  cause  of  causes,  first 
In  station,  fountain,  whence  the  burst 
Of  light  and  blaze  of  day  ; 

Whence  bold  attempt,  and  brave  advance, 
Have  motion,  life,  and  ordinance. 

And  heaven  itself  its  stay. 

Gamma  supports  the  glorious  arch 
On  which  angelic  legions  march. 


And  is  with  sapphires  paved  ; 

Thence  the  fleet  clouds  are  sent  adrift. 

And  thence  the  painted  folds  that  lift 
The  crimson  veil,  are  waved. 

Eta  with  living  sculpture  breathes. 

With  verdant  carvings,  flowery  wreathes 
Of  never-wasting  bloom  ; 

In  strong  relief  his  goodly  base 
All  instruments  of  labour  grace. 

The  trowel,  spade,  and  loom. 

Next  Theta  stands  to  the  supreme — 

Who  formed  in  number,  sign,  and  scheme. 
The  illustrious  lights  that  are ; 

And  one  addressed  his  safiron  robe. 

And  one,  clad  in  a silver  globe. 

Held  rule  with  every  star. 

lota’s  tuned  to  choral  hymns 
Of  those  that  fly,  while  he  that  swims 
In  thankful  safety  lurks ; 

And  foot,  and  chapitre,  and  niche. 

The  various  histories  enrich 
Of  God’s  recorded  works. 

Sigma  presents  the  social  droves 
With  him  that  solitary  roves. 

And  man  of  all  the  chief ; 

Fair  on  whose  face,  and  stately  frame. 

Did  God  impress  his  hallowed  name. 

For  ocular  belief. 

Omega ! greatest  and  the  best. 

Stands  sacred  to  the  day  of  rest. 

For  gratitude  and  thought ; 

Which  blessed  the  world  upon  his  pole. 
And  gave  the  universe  his  goal, 

And  closed  the  infernal  draught. 

0 David,  scholar  of  the  Lord ! 

Such  is  thy  science,  whence  reward. 

And  infinite  degree ; 

0 strength,  0 sweetness,  lasting  ripe  I 
God's  harp  thy  symbol,  and  thy  type 
The  lion  and  the  bee ! 

There  is  but  One  who  ne’er  rebelled. 

But  One  by  passion  unimpelled. 

By  pleasures  unenticed ; 

He  from  himself  his  semblance  sent. 

Grand  object  of  his  own  content. 

And  saw  the  God  in  Christ. 

Tell  them,  I Am,  Jehovah  said 
To  Moses  ; while  earth  heard  in  dread, 

And,  smitten  to  the  heart. 

At  once  above,  beneath,  around, 

All  nature,  without  voice  or  sound. 

Replied,  0 Lord,  Thou  Art. 

Thou  art — to  give  and  to  confirm. 

For  each  his  talent  and  his  term ; 

All  flesh  thy  bounties  share  : 

Thou  shalt  not  call  thy  brother  fool ; 

The  porches  of  the  Christian  school 
Are  meekness,  peace,  and  prayer. 

Open  and  naked  of  offence, 

Man’s  made  of  mercy,  soul,  and  sense: 

God  armed  the  snail  and  wilk  ; 

Be  good  to  him  that  pulls  thy  plough ; 

Due  food  and  care,  due  rest  allow 
For  her  that  yields  thee  milk. 

Rise  up  before  the  hoary  head. 

And  God’s  benign  commandment  dread. 
Which  says  thou  shalt  not  die  : 

‘ Not  as  I will,  but  as  thou  wilt,’ 

Prayed  He,  whose  conscience  knew  no  guilt ; 
With  whose  blessed  pattern  vie. 

no 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


Use  all  thy  passions  1 — love  is  thine, 

And  joy  and  jealousy  divine  ; 

Thine  liope’s  eternal  fort. 

And  care  thy  leisure  to  disturb. 

With  fear  concupiscence  to  curb, 

And  rapture  to  transport. 

,A.ct  simply,  as  occasion  asks  ; 

Put  mellow  wine  in  seasoned  casks  ; 

Till  not  with  ass  and  bull : 

Remember  thy  baptismal  bond ; 

Keep  from  commixtures  foul  and  fond, 

Nor  work  thy  flax  with  wool. 

Distribute  ; pay  the  Lord  his  tithe. 

And  make  the  widow’s  heart-strings  blithe  ; 

Resort  with  those  that  weep: 

As  you  from  all  and  each  expect. 

For  all  and  each  thy  love  direct. 

And  render  as  you  reap. 

The  slander  and  its  bearer  spurn, 

And  propagating  praise  sojourn 
To  make  thy  welcome  last ; 

Turn  from  old  Adam  to  the  New: 

By  hope  futurity  pursue : 

Look  upwards  to  the  past. 

Control  thine  eye,  salute  success. 

Honour  the  wiser,  happier  bless, 

And  for  thy  neighbour  feel ; 

Grutch  not  of  mammon  and  his  leaven, 
W'ork  emulation  up  to  heaven 
By  knowledge  and  by  zeal. 

O David,  highest  in  the  list 
Of  worthies,  on  God’s  ways  insist, 

The  genuine  word  repeat  1 
Vain  are  the  documents  of  men. 

And  vain  the  flourish  of  the  pen 
That  keeps  the  fool’s  conceit. 

Praise  above  all — for  praise  prevails  ; 

Heap  up  the  measure,  load  the  scales. 

And  good  to  goodness  add  : 

The  generous  soul  her  Saviour  aids, 

But  peevish  obloquy  degrades ; 

The  Lord  is  great  and  glad. 

For  Adoration  all  the  ranks 
Of  angels  yield  eternal  thanks. 

And  David  in  the  midst ; 

With  God’s  good  poor,  which,  last  and  least 
In  man’s  esteem,  thou  to  thy  feast, 

0 blessed  bridegroom,  bidst. 

For  Adoration  seasons  change. 

And  order,  truth,  and  beauty  range. 

Adjust,  attract,  and  fill : 

The  grass  the  polyanthus  checks  ; 

And  polished  porphyry  reflects, 

By  the  descending  rill. 

Rich  almonds  colour  to  the  prime 
For  Adoration  ; tendrils  climb. 

And  fruit-trees  pledge  their  gems ; 

And  Ivis,  with  her  gorgeous  vest. 

Builds  for  her  eggs  her  cunning  nest. 

And  bell-flowers  bow  their  stems. 

With  vinous  syrup  cedars  spout ; 

From  rocks  pure  honey  gushing  out. 

For  Adoration  springs : 

All  scenes  of  painting  crowd  the  map 
Of  nature  ; to  the  mermaid’s  pap 
The  scaled  infant  clings. 

The  spotted  ounce  and  playsome  cubs 
Run  rustling  ’mougst  the  flowering  shrubs. 


CURISTOPHEB  SM4BI. 


And  lizards  feed  the  moss  ; 

For  Adoration  beasts  embark. 

While  waves  upholding  halcyon’s  ark 
No  longer  roar  and  toss. 

While  Israel  sits  beneath  his  fig. 

With  coral  root  and  amber  sprig 
The  weaned  adventurer  sports  ; 

Where  to  the  palm  the  jasmine  cleaves. 

For  Adoration  ’mong  the  leaves 
The  gale  his  peace  reports. 

Increasing  days  their  reign  exalt. 

Nor  in  the  pink  and  mottled  vault 
The  opposing  spirits  tilt ; 

And  by  the  coasting  reader  spied. 

The  silverlings  and  crusions  glide 
For  Adoration  gilt. 

For  Adoration  ripening  canes. 

And  cocoa’s  purest  milk  detains 
The  western  pilgrim’s  staff ; 

Where  rain  in  clasping  boughs  enclosed. 
And  vines  with  oranges  disposed. 

Embower  the  social  laugh. 

Now  labour  his  reward  receives. 

For  Adoration  counts  his  sheaves 
To  peace,  her  bounteous  prince  ; 

The  nect’rine  his  strong  tint  imbibes. 

And  apples  of  ten  thousand  tribes. 

And  quick  peculiar  quince. 

The  wealthy  crops  of  whitening  rice 
’Mongst  thyine  woods  and  groves  of  spice 
For  Adoration  grow  ; 

And,  marshalled  in  the  fenced  land. 

The  peaches  and  pomegranates  stand. 
Where  wild  carnations  blow. 

The  laurels  with  the  winter  strive  ; 

The  crocus  burnishes  alive 
Upon  the  snow-clad  earth : 

For  Adoration  myrtles  stay 
To  keep  the  garden  from  dismay. 

And  bless  the  sight  from  dearth. 

The  pheasant  shows  his  pompous  neck  ; 
And  ermine,  jealous  of  a speck. 

With  fear  eludes  offence : 

The  sable,  with  his  glossy  pride. 

For  Adoration  is  descried, 

W'here  frosts  the  wave  condense. 

The  cheerful  holly,  pensive  yew. 

And  holy  thorn,  their  trim  renew  ; 

The  squirrel  hoards  his  nuts  : 

All  creatures  batten  o’er  their  stores. 

And  careful  nature  all  her  doors 
For  Adoration  shuts. 

For  Adoration,  David’s  Psalms 
Lift  up  the  heart  to  deeds  of  alms  ; 

And  he,  who  kneels  and  chants. 

Prevails  his  passions  to  control. 

Finds  meat  and  medicine  to  the  soul. 
Which  for  translation  pants. 

For  Adoration,  beyond  match. 

The  scholar  bulfinch  aims  to  catch 
The  soft  flute’s  ivory  touch  ; 

And,  careless,  on  the  hazel  spray 
The  daring  redbreast  keeps  at  bay 
The  damsel’s  greedy  clutch. 

For  Adoration,  in  the  skies. 

The  Lord’s  philosopher  espies 
The  dog,  the  ram,  and  rose  ; 

The  planets  ring,  Orion’s  sword  ; 

Nor  is  his  greatness  less  adored 
In  the  vile  worm  that  glows. 

.11 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  178ft 


Hanked  arm«,  and  crested  heads  ; 
Beauteous  the  garden’s  umbrage  mild, 
Walk,  water,  meditated  wild. 

Ami  all  the  bloomy  beds. 


For  Adoration,  on  the  strings 

The  western  breezes  work  their  wings. 

The  captive  car  to  soothe — 

Hark  1 ’tis  a voice — how  still,  and  small — 
That  makes  the  cataracts  to  fall. 

Or  bids  the  sea  be  smooth  1 

For  Adoration,  incense  comes 
From  bezoar,  and  Arabian  gums. 

And  from  the  civet’s  fur  : 

But  as  for  prayer,  or  e’er  it  faints, 
h'ar  better  is  the  breath  of  saints 
Than  galbanum  or  myrrh. 

For  Adoration,  from  the  down 
Of  damsons  to  the  anana’s  crown, 

God  sends  to  tempt  the  taste  ; 

And  while  the  luscious  zest  invites 
The  sense,  that  in  the  scene  delights. 
Commands  desire  be  chaste. 

For  Adoration,  all  the  paths 
Of  grace  are  open,  all  the  baths 
Of  purity  refresh  ; ' 

And  all  the  rays  of  glory  beam 
To  deck  the  man  of  God’s  esteem. 

Who  triumphs  o’er  the  flesh. 

For  Adoration,  in  the  dome 
Of  Christ,  the  sparrows  find  a home ; 

And  on  his  olives  perch : 

The  swallow  also  dwells  with  thee, 

0 man  of  God’s  humility. 

Within  his  Saviour’s  Church. 

Sweet  is  the  dew  that  falls  betimes. 

And  drops  upon  the  leafy  limes ; 

Sweet  Hermon’s  fragrant  air: 

Sweet  is  the  lily’s  silver  bell. 

And  sweet  the  wakeful  tapers  smell 
That  watch  for  early  prayer. 

Sweet  the  young  nurse,  with  love  intense. 
Which  smiles  o’er  sleeping  innocence ; 

Sweet  when  the  lost  arrive : 

Sweet  the  musician’s  ardour  beats. 

While  his  vague  mind’s  in  quest  of  sweets. 
The  choicest  flowers  to  hive. 

Sweeter,  in  all  the  strains  of  love. 

The  language  of  thy  turtle-dove. 

Paired  to  thy  swelling  chord  ; 

Sweeter,  with  every  grace  endued. 

The  glory  of  thy  gratitude. 

Respired  unto  the  Lord. 

Strong  is  the  horse  upon  his  speed  ; 

Strong  in  pursuit  the  rapid  glede. 

Which  makes  at  once  his  game  : 

Strong  the  tall  ostrich  on  the  ground  ; 
Strong  through  the  turbulent  profound 
Shoots  xiphias  to  his  aim. 

Strong  is  the  lion — like  a coal 
His  eyeball — like  a bastion’s  mole 
His  chest  against  the  foes  : 

Strong  the  gier-eagle  on  his  sail. 

Strong  against  tide  the  enormous  whale 
Emerges  as  he  goes. 

But  stronger  still  in  earth  and  air. 

And  in  the  sea  the  man  of  prayer. 

And  far  beneath  the  tide  : 

And  in  the  seat  to  faith  assigned. 

Where  ask  is  have,  where  Seek  is  find. 
Where  knock  is  open  wide. 

Beauteous  the  fleet  before  the  gale  ; 
Beauteous  the  multitudes  in  mail. 


Beauteous  the  moon  full  on  the  lawn  ; 

And  beauteous  when  the  veil’s  withdrawn, 

The  virgin  to  her  spouse  : 

Beauteous  the  temple,  decked  and  filled. 

When  to  the  heaven  of  heavens  they  build 
Their  heart-directed  vows. 

Beauteous,  yea  beauteous  more  than  these. 

The  Shepherd  King  upon  his  knees. 

For  his  momentous  trust  ; 

With  wish  of  infinite  conceit. 

For  man,  beast,  mute,  the  small  and  great. 

And  prostrate  dust  to  dust. 

Precious  the  bounteous  widow’s  mite  ; 

And  precious,  for  extreme  delight. 

The  largess  from  the  churl : 

Precious  the  ruby’s  blushing  blaze. 

And  alba’s  blest  imperial  rays. 

And  pure  cerulean  pearl. 

Precious  the  penitential  tear ; 

And  precious  is  the  sigh  sincere  ; 

Acceptable  to  God : 

And  precious  are  the  winning  flowers. 

In  gladsome  Israel’s  feast  of  bowers. 

Bound  on  the  hallowed  sod. 

More  precious  that  diviner  part 
Of  David,  e’en  the  Lord’s  own  heart. 

Great,  beautiful,  and  new : 

In  all  things  where  it  was  intent. 

In  all  extremes,  in  each  event. 

Proof — answering  true  to  true. 

Glorious  the  sun  in  mid  career  ; 

Glorious  the  assembled  fires  appear ; 

Glorious  the  comet’s  train  : 

Glorious  the  trumpet  and  alarm ; 

Glorious  the  Almighty’s  stretched-out  arm  ; 
Glorious  the  enraptured  main : 

Glorious  the  northern  lights  astream  j 
Glorious  the  song,  when  God’s  the  theme  ; 

Glorious  the  thunder’s  roar : 

Glorious  hosannah  from  the  den ; 

Glorious  the  catholic  amen  ; 

Glorious  the  martyr’s  gore : 

Glorious — more  glorious  is  the  crown 
Of  Him  that  brought  salvation  down. 

By  meekness  called  thy  Son  ; 

Thou  that  stupendous  truth  believed. 

And  now  the  matchless  deed’s  achieved. 
Determined,  Dared,  and  Done. 

RICHARD  GLOVER. 

Richard  Glover  (1712-1785),  a London  mer- 
chant, who  sat  several  years  in  parliament  as 
member  for  Weymouth,  was  distinguished  in  pri- 
vate life  for  his  spirit  and  independence.  He  pub- 
lished two  elaborate  poems  in  blank  verse,  Leonidas 
and  The  Athenais,  the  former  bearing  reference 
to  the  memorable  defence  of  Thermopylae,  and 
the  latter  continuing  the  war  between  the  Greeks 
and  Persians.  The  length  of  these  poems,  their 
want  of  sustained  interest,  and  lesser  peculiarities 
not  suited  to  the  existing  poetical  taste,  render 

I them  next  to  unknown  in  the  present  day.  Yet 
there  is  smoothness  and  even  vigour,  a calm  moral 

112 


poBn.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  biciiard  oi,ovp,r. 

diRnity  and  patriotic  elevation  in  ‘ Ia;onidas,’  which 
might  even  yet  find  admirers.  Thomson  is  said 
to  liave  exclaimed,  when  he  heard  of  the  work  of 
Glover,  ‘He  write  an  epic  poem,  whenever  saw  a 
mountain!’  Yet  Thomson  himself,  familiar  as  he 
was  in  his  youth  with  mountain  scenery,  was  tame 
and  commonplace  when  he  ventured  on  classic  or 
epic  subjects.  The  following  passage  is  lofty  and 
energetic  — 

\ Address  of  Leonidas."] 

He  alone 

Remains  unshal  en.  Rising,  he  displays 
His  godlike  presence.  Dignity  and  grace 
Adorn  his  frame,  and  manly  beauty,  joined 
With  strength  Herculean.  On  his  aspect  shines 
Subliinest  virtue  and  desire  of  fame. 

Where  justice  gives  the  laurel ; in  his  eye 
The  inextinguishable  spark,  which  fires 
The  souls  of  patriots  ; while  his  brow  supports 
Undaunted  valour,  and  contempt  of  death. 

Serene  he  rose,  and  thus  addressed  the  throng : 

‘ Why  this  astonishment  on  every  face, 

Ye  men  of  Sparta?  Does  the  name  of  death 
Create  this  fear  and  wonder?  0 my  friends  ! 

M’hy  do  we  labour  through  the  arduous  paths 
Which  lead  to  virtue?  Fruitless  were  the  toil. 

Above  the  reach  of  human  feet  were  placed 
The  distant  summit,  if  the  fear  of  death 
Could  intercept  our  passage.  But  in  vain 
His  blackest  frowns  and  terrors  he  assumes 
To  shake  the  firmness  of  the  mind  which  knows 
That,  wanting  virtue,  life  is  pain  and  wo ; 

That,  wanting  liberty,  even  virtue  mourns. 

And  looks  around  for  happiness  in  vain. 

Then  speak,  0 Sparta ! and  demand  my  life ; 

My  heart,  exulting,  answers  to  thy  call. 

And  smiles  on  glorious  fate.  To  live  with  fame 
The  gods  allow  to  many  ; but  to  die 
With  equal  lustre  is  a blessing  Heaven 
Selects  from  all  the  choicest  boons  of  fate, 

And  with  a sparing  hand  on  few  bestows.’ 

Salvation  thus  to  Sparta  he  proclaimed. 

Joy,  wrapt  awhile  in  admiration,  paused. 

Suspending  praise  ; nor  praise  at  last  resounds 
In  high  acclaim  to  rend  the  arch  of  heaven ; 

A reverential  murmur  breathes  applause. 

The  nature  of  the  poem  affords  scope  for  interesting 
situations  and  descriptions  of  natural  objects  in  a 
romantic  country,  which  Glover  occasionally  avails 
himself  of  with  good  effect.  There  is  great  beauty 
and  classic  elegance  in  this  sketch  of  the  fountain  at 
the  dwelling  of  Oileus  : — 

Beside  the  public  way  an  oval  fount 
Of  marble  sparkled  with  a silver  spray 
Of  falling  rills,  collected  from  above. 

The  army  halted,  and  their  hollow  casques 
Dipped  in  the  limpid  stream.  Behind  it  rose 
An  edifice,  composed  of  native  roots. 

And  oaken  trunks  of  knotted  girth  umvrought. 
IVithin  were  beds  of  moss.  Old  battered  arms 
Hung  from  the  roof.  The  curious  chiefs  approach. 
1’hese  words,  engraven  on  a tablet  rude, 

Megistias  reads  ; the  rest  in  silence  hear: 

‘ Y on  marble  fountain,  by  Oileus  placed. 

To  thirsty  lips  in  living  water  flows ; 

For  weary  steps  he  framed  this  cool  retreat} 

A grateful  offering  here  to  rural  peace. 

His  dinted  shield,  his  helmet  he  resigned. 

0 passenger ! if  bom  to  noble  deeds. 

Thou  would’st  obtain  perpetual  grace  from  Jove, 
Devote  thy  vigour  to  heroic  toils, 

1 nd  thy  decline  to  hospitable  cares, 
dest  here } then  seek  Oileus  in  his  vale.’ 

1 

In  the  ‘ Atlienais’  we  have  a continuation  of  the 
same  classic  story  and  landscape.  Tlie  following  is 
an  e.xquisite  description  of  a night  scene : — 

Silver  Phoebe  spreads 
A light,  reposing  on  the  quiet  lake. 

Save  where  the  snowy  rival  of  her  hue. 

The  gliding  swan,  behind  him  leaves  a trail 
In  luminous  vibration.  Lo  ! an  isle 
Swells  on  the  surface.  Marble  structures  there 
New  gloss  of  beauty  borrow  from  the  moon 
To  deck  the  shore.  Now  silence  gently  yields 
To  measured  strokes  of  oars.  The  orange  groves, 

In  rich  profusion  round  the  fertile  verge. 

Impart  to  fanning  breezes  fresh  perfumes 
Exhaustless,  visiting  the  scene  with  sw'eets. 

Which  soften  even  Briareus;  but  the  son 
Of  Gobiyas,  heavy  with  devouring  care. 

Uncharmed,  unheeding  sits. 

The  scene  presented  by  the  shores  of  Salamis  on 
the  morning  of  the  battle  is  thus  strikingly  depicted. 
The  poet  gives  no  burst  of  enthusiasm  to  kindle  up 
his  page,  and  his  versification  retains  most  of  its 
usual  hardness  and  wan't  of  flow  and  cadence ; yet 
the  assemblage  described  is  so  vast  and  magnificent, 
and  his  enumeration  is  so  varied,  that  the  picture 
carries  with  it  a host  of  spirit-stirring  associations: — 

[The  Ai'mies  at  Salamis.] 

0 sun  ! thou  o’er  Athenian  towers. 

The  citadel  and  fanes  in  ruin  huge. 

Dost,  rising  now,  illuminate  a scone 
More  new,  more  w'ondrous  to  thy  piercing  eye 
Than  ever  time  disclo.sed.  Phaleron’s  wave 
Presents  three  thousand  barks  in  pendants  rich ; 
Spectators,  clustering  like  Hymettian  bees. 

Hang  on  the  burdened  shrouds,  the  bending  yards, 
The  reeling  masts  ; the  whole  Cecropian  strand. 

Far  as  Eleusis,  seat  of  mystic  rites. 

Is  thronged  with  millions,  male  and  female  race, 

Of  Asia  and  of  Libya,  ranked  on  foot. 

On  horses,  camels,  cars.  A?galeos  tall. 

Half  down  his  long  declivity,  wdiere  spreads 
A mossy  level,  on  a throne  of  gold. 

Displays  the  king,  environed  by  his  court, 

In  oriental  pomp ; the  hill  behind 
By  warriors  covered,  like  some  trophy  huge. 

Ascends  in  varied  arms  and  banners  clad  ; 

Below  the  monarch’s  feet  the  immortal  guard. 

Line  under  line,  erect  their  gaudy  spears ; 

The  arrangement,  shelving  downward  to  the  beach, 

Is  edged  by  chosen  horse.  With  blazing  steel 
Of  Attic  arms  encircled,  from  the  deep 
Psyttalia  lifts  her  surface  to  the  sight. 

Like  Ariadne’s  heaven-bespangling  crown, 

A wreath  of  stars  ; beyond,  in  dread  array. 

The  Grecian  fleet,  four  hundred  galleys,  fill 
The  Salaminian  Straits  ; barbarian  prows 
In  two  divisions  point  to  either  mouth 
Six  hundred  brazen  beaks  of  tower-like  ships, 
Unwieldy  bulks  ; the  gently-swelling  soil 
Of  Salamis,  rich  island,  bounds  the  view. 

Along  her  silver-sanded  verge  arrayed. 

The  men-at-arms  exalt  their  naval  spears, 

Of  length  terrific.  All  the  tender  sex. 

Ranked  by  Timothea,  from  a green  ascent, 

Look  down  in  beauteous  order  on  their  sires. 

Their  husbands,  lovers,  brothers,  sons,  prepared 
To  mount  the  rolling  deck.  The  younger  dames 
In  bridal  robes  are  clad  ; the  matrons  sage, 

In  solemn  raiment,  worn  on  sacred  days ; 

But  white  in  vesture,  like  their  maiden  breasts. 
Where  Zephyr  plays,  uplifting  with  his  breath 
The  loosely-waving  folds,  a cho.sen  line 
Of  Attic  graces  in  the  front  is  placed  ; 

From  each  fair  head  the  tresses  fall,  entwined 

113 

FROM  1727  CYCLOPillDIA  OF  to  1780. 

With  newly-fathered  flowerets  ; chaplets  gay 
The  snowy  hand  sustains ; the  native  curls, 
O’ershading  half,  augment  their  powerful  charms ; 
While  Venus,  tempered  by  Minerva,  fills 
Their  eyes  with  ardour,  pointing  every  glance 
To  animate,  not  soften.  From  on  high 
Her  large  controlling  orbs  Timothea  rolls. 

Surpassing  all  in  stature,  not  unlike 
In  majesty  of  shape  the  wife  of  Jove, 

Presiding  o’er  the  empyreal  fair. 

A popular  vitality  has  been  awarded  to  a ballad 
of  Glover’s,  while  his  epics  bave  sunk  into  obli- 
vion : — 

Mark  those  numbers,  pale  and  horrid. 
Who  were  once  my  sailors  bold  ; 

Lo  I each  hangs  his  drooping  forehead. 
While  his  dismal  tale  is  told. 

I,  by  twenty  sail  attended, 

Did  this  Spanish  town  affright ; 

Nothing  then  its  wealth  defended 
But  my  orders — not  to  fight  1 

Oh  ! that  in  this  rolling  ocean 
I had  cast  them  with  disdain. 

And  obeyed  my  heart’s  warm  motion, 
To  have  quelled  the  pride  of  Spain  9 

Admiral  Iloaicr's  Ghost. 

[Written  on  tho  taking  of  Carthagena  from  the  Spaniards, 

1739.] 

For  resistance  I could  fear  none ; 

But  with  twenty  ships  had  done 
What  thou,  brave  and  happy  Vernon, 
Hast  achieved  with  six  alone. 

[The  caj»e  of  ITosier,  which  is  hero  so  pathetically  repre- 
sented, was  briefly  this  : — In  April  1726,  that  commander  was 
sent  witli  a strong  fleet  into  the  Spanish  West  Indies,  to  block 
up  the  galleons  in  the  ports  of  that  country;  or,  should  they 
presume  to  come  out,  to  seize  and  carry  them  into  England. 
He  accordingly  arrived  at  the  Bastimentoa  near  Portobello ; 
but  being  restricted  by  his  orders  from  obeying  the  dictates  of 
his  courage,  lay  inactive  on  that  station  until  he  became  the  jest 
of  the  Spaniards.  He  afterwards  removed  to  Carthagena,  and 
continued  cruising  in  those  seas  until  the  far  greater  part  of 
his  men  perished  deplorably  by  the  diseases  of  that  unhealthy 
climate.  This  brave  man,  seeing  his  best  officers  and  men  thus 
daily  swept  away,  his  ships  exposed  to  inevitable  destruction, 
and  himself  made  the  sport  of  the  enemy,  is  said  to  have  died 
of  a broken  heart.] 

Then  the  Bastimentos  never 
Had  our  foul  dl.shonour  seen, 

Nor  the  seas  the  sad  receiver 
Of  this  gallant  train  had  been. 

Thus,  like  thee,  proud  Spain  dismayiag, 
And  her  galleons  leading  home. 
Though  condemned  for  disobeying, 

I had  met  a traitor’s  doom : 

To  have  fallen,  my  country  crying, 

‘ He  has  played  an  English  part,* 

Had  been  better  far  than  dying 
Of  a grieved  and  broken  hejiit. 

As  near  Portobello  lying 

On  the  gentle-swelling  flood. 

At  midnight,  with  streamers  flying. 
Our  triumphant  navy  rode  ; 

Unrepining  at  thy  glory, 

Thy  successful  arms  we  hail ; 
But  remember  our  sad  story. 

And  let  Hosier’s  wrongs  prevail. 

There  while  Vernon  sat  all  glorious 
From  the  Spaniards’  late  defeat. 
And  his  crews,  with  shouts  victorious. 
Drank  success  to  England’s  fleet : 

Sent  in  this  foul  clime  to  languish. 
Think  what  thousands  fell  in  vain. 
Wasted  with  disease  and  anguish. 
Not  in  glorious  battle  slain. 

On  a sudden,  shrilly  sounding. 

Hideous  yells  and  shrieks  were  heard  ; 
Then,  each  heart  with  fear  confounding, 
A sad  troop  of  ghosts  appeared ; 

Hence  with  all  my  train  attending. 
From  their  oozy  tombs  below. 
Through  the  hoary  foam  ascending. 
Here  I feed  my  constant  wo. 

. All  in  dreary  hammocks  shrouded. 

Which  for  winding-sheets  they  wore. 
And,  with  looks  hy  sorrow  clouded, 
Frowning  on  that  hostile  shore. 

Here  the  Bastimentos  viewing. 

We  recall  our  shameful  doom. 

And,  our  plaintive  cries  renewing. 

Wander  through  the  midnight  gloonu  j 

On  them  gleamed  the  moon’s  wan  lustre. 
When  the  shade  of  Hosier  brave. 

His  pale  bands  were  seen  to  muster. 
Rising  from  their  watery  grave : 

O’er  these  waves  forever  mourning 
Shall  we  roam,  deprived  of  rest. 
If,  to  Britain’s  shores  returning. 
You  neglect  my  just  request; 

O’er  the  glimmering  wave  he  hied  him. 
Where  the  Burford  reared  her  sail. 
With  three  thousand  ghosts  beside  him, 
And  in  groans  did  Vernon  hail. 

After  this  proud  foe  subduing, 

When  your  patriot  friends  you  see, 
Think  on  vengeance  for  my  ruin, 

And  for  England — shamed  in  me. 

Heed,  oh,  heed  our  fatal  story! 

I am  Hosier’s  injured  ghost; 

You  who  now  have  purchased  glory 
At  this  place  where  I was  lost : 

The  poets  who  follow  are  a secondary  class,  few  \ 
of  whom  are  now  noted  for  more  than  one  or  two 
favourite  pieces. 

Though  in  Portobello’s  ruin. 

You  now  triumph  free  from  fears. 

When  you  think  on  my  undoing. 

You  will  mix  your  joys  with  tears. 

See  these  ni  vumful  spectres  sweeping 
Ghastly  o’er  this  hated  wave. 

Whose  wan  cheeks  are  stained  with  weeping ; 
These  were  English  captair.s  brave. 

ROBERT  DODSLEY. 

Robert  Dodsley  (1703-1764)  was  an  able  and 
spirited  publisher  of  his  day,  the  friend  of  literature 
and  of  literary  men.  He  projected  the  Annual  JRe- 
gister,  in  which  Burke  was  engaged,  and  he  was  the 
first  to  collect  and  republish  the  ‘ Old  English  Plays,’ 
which  form  the  foundation  of  our  national  drama. 
Dodsley  wrote  an  excellent  little  moral  treatise,  Tht 

114 

\ roRT3.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  siu  william  jones. 


I r 

' Economy  of  Human  Life,  which  was  attributed  to 
! ’ lOrJ  Ciiesterfield,  and  he  was  autlior  of  some  dra- 


Dodsley’s  House  and  Shop  in  Pall  Mall. 

matic  pieces  and  poetical  effusions.  He  was  always 
attached  to  literature,  and  tliis,  aided  by  his  excel- 
lent conduct,  raised  him  from  the  low  condition  of 
a livery  servant,  to  be  one  of  the  most  influential 
j and  respectable  men  of  the  times  in  which  he  lived. 

j [Sony — The  Parting  Kiss.] 

I One  liiiul  wish  before  we  part, 

Drop  a tear,  and  bid  adieu  : 

Though  we  sever,  ray  fond  heart. 

Till  we  meet,  shall  pant  for  you. 

Y et,  yet  weep  not  so,  my  love, 

Let  me  kiss  that  falling  tear ; 
i Though  my  body  must  remove, 

I All  ray  soul  will  still  be  here. 

i All  my  soul,  and  all  my  heart. 

And  every  wish  shall  pant  for  you  ; 

One  kind  kiss,  then,  ere  we  part. 

Drop  a tear,  and  bid  adieu. 

\ SAMUEL  BISHOP. 

j Samuel  Bishop  (1731-1795)  was  an  English 
I clergyman.  Master  of  Merchant  Tailors’  School, 
1 London,  and  author  of  some  miscellaneous  essays 
and  poems.  The  best  of  his  poetry  was  devoted  to 
the  praise  of  his  wife ; and  few  can  read  such  lines 
as  the  following  without  believing  that  Bishop  ivas 
an  amiable  and  happy  man : — 

To  Mrs  Bishop,  on  the  Anniversary  of  her  Wedding- 
Day,  which  was  also  her  Birth-Day,  with  a Ring. 

I ‘ Thee,  Mary,  with  this  ring  I wed’ — 

j So,  fourteen  years  ago,  I said. 

Behold  another  ring ! — ‘ For  what  V 
‘ To  wed  thee  o’er  again  1’  Why  not ! 


With  that  first  ring  I married  youth, 

Grace,  beauty,  innocence,  and  truth  ; 

Taste  long  admired,  sense  long  revered, 

And  all  my  Molly  then  appeared. 

If  she,  by  merit  since  disclosed, 

Prove  twice  the  woman  I supposed, 

I plead  that  double  merit  now. 

To  justify  a double  vow. 

Here,  then,  to-day  (with  faith  as  sure. 

With  ardour  as  intense,  as  pure, 

As  when,  amidst  the  rites  divine, 

I took  thy  troth,  and  plighted  mine), 

To  thee,  sweet  girl,  my  second  ring 
A token  and  a pledge  1 bring : 

AVith  this  I wed,  till  death  us  part. 

Thy  riper  virtues  to  my  heart ; 

Those  virtues  which,  before  untried, 

The  wife  has  added  to  the  bride ; 

Those  virtues,  whose  progressive  claim. 

Endearing  wedlock’s  very  name. 

My  soul  enjoys,  my  song  approves. 

For  conscience’  sake  as  well  as  love’s. 

And  why  V — They  show  me  every  hour 
Honour’s  high  thought.  Affection’s  power. 
Discretion’s  deed,  sound  .Judgment’s  sentence. 

And  teach  me  all  things — but  repentance. 

SIR  WILLIAM  JONES. 

‘ It  is  not  Sir  William  Jones’s  poetry,’  says  Mr 
Southey,  ‘that  can  perpetuate  his  name.’  'I’liis  is 
true : it  was  as  an  oriental  scholar  and  legislator, 
an  enlightened  lawyer  and  patriot,  that  lie  earned 
his  laurels.  His  profound  learning  and  philological 
researches  (he  was  master  of  twenty-eight  languages) 
were  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  his  contempo- 
raries. Sir  William  was  born  in  London  in  1746. 


Sir  William  Jonea. 

His  father  was  an  eminent  mathematician,  but  died 
w'hen  his  son  was  only  three  years  of  age.  The 
care  of  educating  young  Jones  devolved  upon  Ids 
mother,  who  was  well  qualified  for  the  duty  by  her  | 
virtues  and  extensive  learning.  AA’hen  in  his  fifth  j 
year,  the  imagination  of  the  young  scliolar  was 
caught  by  the  sublime  description  of  the  angel  in 
the  tenth  chapter  of  the  Apocalypse,  and  the  im- 
pression was  never  effaceiL  In  1753  he  was  placed 

Ua 


prom  1727  CYCLOI’7I<;i)IA  OF  to  17Ko 


at  Harrow  sclioo),  where  lie  continued  nearly  ten 
years,  and  became  an  accomplished  and  critical  clas- 
sical scholar.  He  did  not  confine  himself  merely  to 
the  ancient  authors  usually  studied,  hut  added  a 
knowlcdj;e  of  the  Arabic  characters,  and  acquired 
suflicicnt  Hebrew  to  read  the  Psalms.  In  17G4  he 
was  entered  of  University  college,  Oxford.  Here 
his  taste  for  oriental  literature  continued,  and  he 
engaged  a native  of  Aleppo,  whom  he  had  discovered 
in  London,  to  act  as  his  preceptor.  He  also  assidu- 
ously perused  the  Greek  poets  and  historians.  In 
his  nineteenth  year,  Jones  accepted  an  offer  to  be 
private  tutor  to  Lord  Althorp,  afterwards  Earl 
Spencer.  A fellowship  at  Oxford  was  also  cotiferred 
upon  him,  and  thus  the  scholar  was  relieved  from 
the  fear  of  want,  and  enabled  to  pursue  his  favou- 
rite and  unremitting  studies.  An  opportunity  of 
displaying  one  branch  of  his  acquirements  was 
afforded  in  17G8.  The  king  of  Denmark  in  that 
year  visited  England,  and  brought  with  him  an 
eastern  manuscript,  containing  the  life  of  Nadir 
Shah,  which  he  wished  translated  into  French. 
Jones  executed  this  arduous  task,  being,  as  Lord 
Teignmouth,  his  biographer,  remarks,  the  only  ori- 
ental scholar  in  England  adequate  to  the  performance. 
He  still  continued  in  the  noble  family  of  Spencer, 
and  in  1769  accompanied  his  pupil  to  the  continent. 
Next  year,  feeling  anxious  to  attain  an  independent 
station  in  life,  he  entered  himself  a student  of  the 
Temple,  and,  applying  himself  with  his  characteristic 
ardour  to  his  new  profession,  he  contemplated  with 
pleasure  the  ‘ stately  edifice  of  the  laws  of  England,’ 
and  mastered  their  most  important  principles  and 
detaihs.  In  1774  he  published  Commentaries  on 
Asiatic  Poetry,  but  finding  that  jurisprudence  was  a 
jealous  mistress,  and  would  not  admit  the  eastern 
muses  to  participate  in  his  attentions,  he  devoted 
himself  for  some  years  exclusively  to  his  legal 
studies.  A patriotic  feeling  was  mingled  with  this 
resolution.  ‘ Had  I lived  at  Rome  or  Athens,’  he 
said,  ‘ I should  liave  preferred  the  labours,  studies, 
and  dangers  of  their  orators  and  illustrious  citizens 
— connected  as  they  were  with  banishment  and  even 
death — to  tlie  groves  of  the  poets  or  the  gardens  of 
the  philosophers.  Here  I adopt  the  same  resolution. 
The  constitution  of  England  is  in  no  respect  inferior 
to  that  of  Rome  or  Athens.’  Jones  now  practised 
at  the  bar,  and  was  appointed  one  of  the  Commis- 
sioners of  Bankrupts.  In  1778,  he  published  a 
translation  of  the  speeches  of  Isaeus,  in  causes  con- 
cerning the  law  of  succession  to  property  at  Athens, 
to  which  he  added  notes  and  a commentary.  The 
stirring  events  of  the  time  in  which  he  lived  were 
not  beheld  without  strong  interest  by  this  accom- 
jilished  scholar.  He  was  decidedly  opposed  to  the 
American  war  and  to  the  slave  trade,  then  so  pre- 
valent, and  in  1781  he  produced  his  noble  Alcaic 
Ode,  animated  by  the  purest  spirit  of  patriotism, 
and  a high  strain  of  poetical  enthusiasm.  He  also 
joined  in  representing  the  necessity  that  existed  for 
a reform  of  the  electoral  system  in  England.  But 
though  he  made  speeches  and  wrote  pamphlets  in 
favour  of  liberty  and  pure  government,  Jones  was 
no  party  man,  and  was  desirous,  he  said,  of  being 
transported  to  the  distance  of  five  thousand  leagues 
from  all  the  fatal  discord  of  contending  politicians. 
His  wishes  were  soon  accomplished.  He  was  ap- 
pointed one  of  the  judges  of  the  supreme  court  at 
Fort  William,  in  Bengal,  and  the  honour  of  knight- 
hood was  conferred  upon  him.  He  married  the 
daughter  of  Dr  Shipley,  bishop  of  St  Asaph  ; and 
in  April  1783,  la  his  thirty-seventh  year,  he  em- 
barked for  India,  never  to  return.  Sir  William 
Jones  entered  upon  his  judicial  functions  with  all 
the  advantages  of  a high  reputation,  imsullied  in- 


tegrity, disinterested  benevolence,  and  unwearied 
j)erseverance.  In  the  intervals  of  leisure  from 
his  duties,  he  directed  his  attention  to  scientific 
objects,  and  established  a society  in  Calcutta  to  pro- 
mote inquiries  by  the  ingenious,  and  to  concentrate 
the  knowledge  to  be  collected  ih  Asia.  In  1784,  his 
health  being  affected  by  the  climate  and  the  close- 
ness of  his  application,  he  made  a tour  through 
various  parts  of  India,  in  the  course  of  which  he 
wrote  The  Enchanted  Fruit,  or  Hindoo  Wife,  a poeti- 
cal tale,  and  a Treatise  on  the  Gods  of  Greece,  Italy, 
and  India.  He  also  studied  the  Sanscrit  language, 
being  unwilling  to  continue  at  the  mercy  of  tlie 
Pundits,  who  dealt  out  Hindoo  law  as  they  pleased. 
Some  translations  from  oriental  authors,  and  origi- 
nal poems  and  essays,  he  contributed  to  a periodical 
established  at  Calcutta,  entitled  The  Asiatic  Mis- 
cellany. He  meditated  an  epic  poem  on  the  Dis- 
covery of  England  by  Brutus,  to  which  his  knowledge 
of  Hindoo  mythology  suggested  a new  machinery, 
the  agency  of  Hindoo  deities.  To  soften  the  violence 
of  the  fiction  into  harmony  with  jjrobability,  the 
poet  conceived  the  future  eomprehension  of  Ilindo- 
stan  within  the  circle  of  British  dominion,  as  pro- 
spectively visible  in  the  age  of  Brutus,  to  the  guar- 
dian angels  of  the  Indian  iieninsula.  This  gorgeous 
design  he  had  matured  so  far  as  to  write  tlie  argu- 
ments of  the  intended  books  of  his  epic,  but  the 
poem  itself  he  did  not  live  to  attempt.  In  1789  Sir 
William  translated  an  ancient  Indian  drama,  Sacon- 
tala,  or  the  Fatal  Ring,  which  exhibits  a picture  of 
Hindoo  manners  in  the  century  preceding  the  Chris- 
tian era.  He  engaged  to  compile  a digest  of  Hindoo 
and  Mahometan  laws;  and  in  1794  he  translated 
the  Ordinances  of  Menu  or  the  Hindoo  system  of 
duties,  religious  and  civil.  His  motive  to  this  task, 
like  his  inducement  to  the  digest,  was  to  aif  the 
benevolent  intentions  of  our  legislature  in  s"  curing 
to  the  natives,  in  a qualified  degree,  the  administra- 
tion of  justice  by  their  own  laws.  Eager  to  accom- 
plish his  digest.  Sir  William  Jones  remained  in 
India  after  the  delicate  health  of  Lady  Jones  com- 
pelled her  departure  in  December  1793.  He  pro- 
posed to  follow  her  in  the  ensuing  season,  but  in  A[iril 
he  was  seized  with  inflammation  of  the  liver,  which 
terminated  fatally,  after  an  illness  of  one  week,  on  the 
27th  of  April  1794.  Every  honour  was  paid  to  his 
remains,  and  the  East  India  Company  erected  a 
monument  to  his  memory  in  St  Paul’s  Cathedral. 
The  attainments  of  Sir  William  Jones  were  so  pro- 
found and  various,  that  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how 
he  had  comprised  them  in  his  short  life  of  forty- 
eight  years.  As  a linguist  he  has  probably  never 
been  surpassed ; for  his  knowledge  extended  to  a 
critical  study  of  the  literature  and  antiquities  of 
various  nations.  As  a lawyer  he  had  attained  to  a 
high  rank  in  England,  and  he  was  the  Justinian  of 
India.  In  general  science  there  were  few  depart- 
ments of  which  he  was  ignorant:  in  chemistry, 
mathematics,  botany,  and  music,  he  was  equally  pro- 
ficient. ‘He  seems,’  says  his  biographer,  ‘to  have 
acted  on  this  maxim,  that  whatever  had  been  at- 
tained was  attainable  by  him  ; and  he  was  never  ob- 
served to  overlook  or  to  neglect  any  opportunity  of 
adding  to  his  accomplishments  or  to  his  knowledge. 
When  in  India,  his  studies  began  with  the  dawn; 
and  in  seasons  of  intermission  from  professional  duty, 
continued  throughout  the  day  ; meditation  retraced 
and  confirmed  what  reading  had  collected  or  inves- 
tigation discovered.  By  a regular  application  of 
time  to  particular  occupations,  he  pursued  various 
objects  without  confusion ; and  in  undertakings 
which  depended  on  his  individual  perseverance,  he 
was  never  deterred  by  difficulties  from  proceeding  to 
a successful  teraination.’  With  respect  to  the 

116 


i>i>ETs.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  sin  william  jones. 


division  of  his  time.  Sir  Wiiiiam  Jones  had  written 
in  India,  on  a small  piece  of  paper,  the  following 
lines : — 

Sir  Edward  Coke : 

Six  hours  in  sleep,  in  law’s  grave  study  six. 

Four  speud  in  prayer — the  rest  on  nature  fix. 

Rather : 

Seven  hours  to  law,  to  soothing  slumber  seven. 

Ten  to  the  world  allot,  and  all  to  heaven.* 

The  poems  of  Sir  William  Jones  have  been  collected 
and  printed  in  two  small  volumes.  An  early  collec- 
tion w'as  published  by  himself,  dedicated  to  the 
Countess  Spencer,  in  1772.  They  consist  of  a few 
original  pieces  in  English  and  Latin,  and  transla- 
tions from  Petrarch  and  Pindar ; paraphrases  of 
Turkish  and  Chinese  odes,  hymns  on  subjects  of 
Hindoo  mythology,  Indian  Tales,  and  a few  songs 
from  the  Persian.  Of  these  the  beautiful  lyric  from 
Hafiz  is  the  most  valuable.  The  taste  of  Sir  William 
Jones  was  early  turned  towards  eastern  poetry,  in 
which  he  was  captivated  with  new  images,  expres- 
sions, and  allegories,  but  there  is  a want  of  chaste- 
ness and  simplicity  in  most  of  these  productions. 
The  name  of  their  illustrious  author  ‘ reflects  credit,’ 
as  Campbell  remarks,  ‘ on  poetical  biography,  but 
his  secondary  fame  as  a eomposer  shows  that  the 
palm  of  poetry  is  not  likely  to  be  won,  even  by 
great  genius,  without  exclusive  devotion  to  the  pur- 
suit.’ 


An  Ode,  in  Imitation  of  Alcceus. 

What  constitutes  a state  ? 

Not  high-raised  battlement  or  laboured  mound, 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate ; 

Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned ; 

Not  bays  and  broad-armed  ports. 

Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride ; 

Not  starred  and  spangled  courts. 

Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 

No  : men,  high-minded  men. 

With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 
In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 

•\s  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude  ; 

Men  who  their  duties  know. 

But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  maintain. 
Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow. 

And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain : 
These  constitute  a state. 

And  sovereign  Law,  that  state’s  collected  will, 

O’er  thrones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill ; 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown. 

The  fiend  Discretion  like  a vapour  sinks. 

And  e’en  the  all-dazzling  Crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks. 

Such  was  this  heaven-loved  isle. 

Than  Lesbos  fairer,  and  the  Cretan  shore! 

No  more  shall  Freedom  smile  ? 

Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  men  no  more  i 
Since  all  must  life  resign. 

Those  sweet  rewards,  which  decorate  the  brave, 

’Tis  folly  to  decline. 

And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 

* As  respects  sleep,  the  example  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  may  be 
adaed  to  that  of  Sir  William  Jones,  for  the  great  novelist  has 
stated  that  he  reqxiired  seven  hours  of  total  unconsciousness  to 
fit  him  for  the  duties  of  the  day. 


A Persian  Song  of  Ilafiz. 

Sweet  maid,  if  thou  would’st  charm  ray  sight. 
And  bid  these  arms  thy  neck  enfold ; 

That  rosy  cheek,  that  lily  hand. 

Would  give  thy  poet  more  delight 
Than  all  Bocara’s  vaunted  gold. 

Than  all  the  gems  of  Samarcand. 

Boy,  let  yon  liquid  ruby  flow. 

And  bid  thy  pensive  heart  be  glad, 

Whate’er  the  frotvning  zealots  say ; 

Tell  them,  their  Eden  cannot  show 
A stream  so  clear  as  Rocnabad, 

A bower  so  sweet  as  Mosellay. 

O!  when  these  fair  perfidious  maids. 

Whose  eyes  our  secret  haunts  infest. 

Their  dear  destructive  charms  display. 

Each  glance  my  tender  breast  invades. 

And  robs  my  wounded  soul  of  rest. 

As  Tartars  seize  their  destined  prey. 

In  vain  with  love  our  bosoms  glow : 

Can  all  our  tears,  can  all  our  sighs. 

New  lustre  to  those  charms  impart  ? 

Can  cheeks,  where  living  roses  blow. 

Where  nature  spreads  her  richest  dyes. 

Require  the  borrowed  gloss  of  art  ? 

Speak  not  of  fate  : ah  ! change  the  theme 
And  talk  of  odours,  talk  of  wine. 

Talk  of  the  flowers  that  round  us  bloom  , 

’Tis  all  a cloud,  ’tis  all  a dream  ; 

To  love  and  joy  thy  thoughts  confine, 

Nor  hope  to  pierce  the  sacred  gloom. 

Beauty  has  such  resistless  power. 

That  even  the  chaste  Egyptian  dame 
Sighed  for  the  blooming  Hebrew  boy: 

For  her  how  fatal  was  the  hour. 

When  to  the  banks  of  Nilus  came 
A youth  so  lovely  and  so  coy  ! 

But  ah  1 sweet  maid,  my  counsel  hear 
(Youth  should  attend  when  those  adciso 
Whom  long  experience  renders  sage)  : 

While  music  charms  the  ravished  ear ; 

While  sparkling  cups  delight  our  eyes. 

Be  gay,  and  scorn  the  frowms  of  age. 

What  cruel  answer  have  I heard  ? 

And  yet,  by  Heaven,  I love  thee  still : 

Can  aught  be  cruel  from  thy  lip  1 
Yet  say,  how  fell  that  bitter  word 
From  lips  which  streams  of  sweetness  fill. 

Which  nought  but  drops  of  honey  sip  ? 

Go  boldly  forth,  my  simple  lay. 

Whose  accents  flow  with  artless  ease. 

Like  orient  pearls  at  random  strung ; 

Thy  notes  are  sweet,  the  damsels  say ; 

But  oh  ! far  sweeter,  if  they  please 

The  nymph  for  whom  these  notes  are  sung ! 

The  Conclvding  Sentence  of  Berkeley’s  Siris  Imitates 

Before  thy  mystic  altar,  heavenly  Truth, 

I kneel  in  manhood  as  I knelt  in  youth : 

Thus  let  me  kneel,  till  this  dull  form  decay. 

And  life’s  last  shade  be  brightened  by  thy  ray : 
Then  shall  my  soul,  now  lost  in  clouds  below. 

Soar  without  bound,  without  consuming  glow.* 

* The  following  is  the  last  sentthcc  of  the  Siris : — ‘ He  that 
would  make  a real  progress  in  knowledge  must  dedicate  his 
age  as  well  as  youth,  the  latter  growth  as  well  as  the  first 
fruits,  at  the  altar  of  Truth.’ 

117 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TO  1'iat 


Tctrastic — From  ihe  1‘ersian. 

On  parent  knees,  a naked  new-born  child, 

Weepiii"  thou  sat’st  while  all  around  thee  smiled  ; 

So  live,  that  sinking  in  thy  last  long  sleep. 

Calm  thou  mayst  smile,  while  all  around  thee  weep. 

FRANCIS  FAWKES. 

Francis  Fawkes  (1721-1777)  translated  Ana- 
creon, Sappho,  llion,  and  other  classic  poets,  and 
wrote  some  jileasing  original  verses.  lie  was  a 
clergyman,  and  died  vicar  of  Ilayes,  in  Kent.  Fawkes 
enjojfpd  the  friendship  of  Johnson  and  Warton ; 
but,  however  classic  in  his  tastes  and  studies,  he 
seems,  like  Oldys,  to  have  relished  a cup  of  English 
ale.  The  following  song  is  still,  and  will  always  be, 
a favourite ; — 

77ie  Brown  Jug. 

Dear  Tom,  thisbrown  jug  that  now  foams  with  mild  ale, 
(In  which  1 will  drink  to  sweet  Nan  of  the  vale) 

Was  once  Toby  Fillpot,  a thirsty  old  soul. 

As  e’er  drank  a bottle,  or  fathomed  a bowl ; 

In  bousing  about  ’tivas  his  praise  to  excel. 

And  among  jolly  topers  he  bore  olF  the  bell. 

It  chanced  as  in  dog-days  he  sat  at  his  ease. 

In  his  flower-woven  arbour,  as  gay  as  you  please. 

With  a friend  and  a pipe  puffing  sorrows  away. 

And  with  honest  old  stingo  was  soaking  his  clay. 

His  breath-doors  of  life  on  a sudden  were  shut. 

And  he  died  full  as  big  as  a Dorchester  butt. 

His  body  when  long  in  the  ground  it  had  lain. 

And  time  into  clay  had  resolved  it  again, 

A potter  found  out  in  its  covert  so  snug. 

And  with  part  of  fat  Toby  he  formed  this  brown  jug; 
Now  sacred  to  friendship,  and  mirth,  and  mild  ale, 

So  here’s  to  my  lovely  sweet  Nan  of  the  vale  1 

Johnson  acknowledged  that  ‘ Frank  Fawkes  had 
done  the  Odes  of  Anacreon  very  finely.’ 

william  whitehead. 

William  Whitehead  (1715-1785)  succeeded  to 
the  office  of  poet-laureate,  after  it  had  been  re- 
fused by  Gray.  He  was  the  son  of  a baker  in  Cam- 
bridge, and  distinguished  himself  at  Winchester 
school,  on  leaving  which  he  obtained  a scholarship 
at  Clare-hall,  in  the  university  of  his  native  town. 
He  was  afterwards  tutor  to  the  son  of  the  Earl  of 
Jersey.  Whitehead  had  a taste  for  the  drama,  and 
wrote  The  Roman  Father,  and  Creusa,  two  indifferent 
plays.  After  he  had  received  his  appointment  as 
laureate,  he  was  attacked  by  Churchill,  and  a host 
of  inferior  satirists,  but  he  wisely  made  no  replJ^ 
In  the  family  of  Lord  .Jersey  he  enjoyed  comfort 
and  happiness,  till  death,  at  seventy,  put  a period 
to  his  inoffensive  life. 

Variety . 

[This  easy  and  playful  poem  opens  with  the  description  of  a 
rural  pair  of  easy  fortune,  who  live  much  apart  from  society.] 

Two  smiling  springs  had  waked  the  flowers 
That  paint  the  meads,  or  fringe  the  bowers, 

(Ye  lovers,  lend  your  wondering  ears. 

Who  count  by  months,  and  not  by  years). 

Two  smiling  springs  had  chaplets  wove 
To  crotvn  their  solitude,  and  love : 

AVhen,  lo  ! they  find,  they  can’t  tell  how, 

Their  walks  are  not  so  pleasant  now. 

The  seasons  sure  were  changed  ; the  place 
Had,  somehow,  got  a different  face. 


Some  blast  had  struck  the  cheerful  scene ; 
The  lawns,  the  woods  were  not  so  green. 

The  purling  rill,  which  murmured  by. 

And  once  was  liquid  harmony, 

Hccame  a sluggish,  reedy  pool ; 

The  days  grew  hot,  the  evenings  cool. 

The  moon,  with  all  the  starry  reign. 

Were  melancholy’s  silent  train. 

And  then  the  tedious  winter  night — 

They  could  not  read  by  candle-light. 

Full  oft,  unknowing  why  they  did, 

They  called  in  adventitious  aid. 

A faithful  favourite  dog  (’twas  thus 
With  Tobit  and  Telemachut) 

Amused  their  steps  ; and  for  a while 
They  viewed  his  gambols  with  a smile. 

The  kitten,  too,  was  comical. 

She  played  so  oddly  with  her  tail. 

Or  in  the  glass  was  plea.sed  to  find 
Another  cat,  and  peeped  behind. 

A courteous  neighbour  at  the  door. 

Was  deemed  intrusive  noi.se  no  more. 

For  rural  visits,  now  and  then. 

Are  right,  as  men  must  live  with  men. 

Then  cousin  Jenny,  fresh  from  town, 

A new  recruit,  a dear  delight ! 

Made  many  a heavy  hour  go  down. 

At  mom,  at  noon,  at  eve,  at  night : 

Sure  they  could  hear  her  jokes  forever. 

She  was  so  sprightly  and  so  clever! 

Yet  neighbours  were  not  quite  the  thing— 
What  joy,  alas!  could  converse  bring 
With  awkward  creatures  bred  at  home — 

The  dog  grew  dull,  or  troublesome. 

The  cat  had  spoiled  the  kitten’s  merit. 

And,  with  her  youth,  had  lost  her  spirit. 

And  jokes  rejieated  o’er  and  o’er. 

Had  quite  exhausted  Jenny’s  store. 

• — ‘ And  then,  my  dear,  I can’t  abide 
This  always  sauntering  side  by  side.’ 

‘ Enough!’  he  cries,  ‘ the  reason’s  plain : 

For  causes  never  rack  your  brain. 

Our  neighbours  are  like  other  folks  ; 

Skip’s  playful  tricks,  and  Jenny’s  jokes. 

Are  still  delightful,  still  would  please, 

Were  we,  my  dear,  ourselves  at  ease. 

Look  round,  with  an  impartial  eye, 

On  yonder  fields,  on  yonder  sky; 

The  azure  cope,  the  flowers  below. 

With  all  their  wonted  colours  glow  ; 

The  rill  still  murmurs  ; and  the  moon 
Shines,  as  she  did,  a softer  sun. 

No  change  has  made  the  seasons  fail. 

No  comet  bru.shed  us  with  his  tail. 

The  scene’s  the  same,  the  same  the  weather — 
We  lire,  my  dear,  too  mveh  together.' 

Agreed.  A rich  old  uncle  dies. 

And  added  wealth  the  means  supplies. 

With  eager  haste  to  town  they  flew. 

Where  all  must  please,  for  all  was  new.  * * 
Why  should  we  paint,  in  tedious  song. 

How  every  day,  and  all  day  long. 

They  drove  at  first  with  curious  haste 
Through  Lud’s  vast  town ; or,  as  they  passed 
’Midst  risings,  fallings,  and  repairs 
Of  streets  on  streets,  and  squares  on  squares. 
Describe  how  strong  their  wonder  grew 
At  buildings — and  at  builders  too » » * 

When  Night  her  murky  pinions  spread. 

And  sober  folks  retire  to  bed. 

To  every  public  place  they  flew. 

Where  Jenny  told  them  who  was  who. 

Money  was  always  at  command. 

And  tripped  with  pleasure  hand  in  hand. 
Money  was  equipage,  was  show, 

Gallini’s,  Almaek’s,  and  Soho  ; 


118 


POETS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  dr  james  urainosb. 


The  pasie-partout  through  every  vein 
Of  (li.ssipatioii’s  hydra  reign.  * * 

Sufiice  it,  that  by  just  degrees 
They  readied  all  heights,  and  rose  with  ease ; 
(For  beauty  wins  its  way  uncalled. 

And  ready  dupes  are  ne’er  black-balled.) 
Each  gambling  dame  she  knew,  and  he 
Knew  every  shark  of  quality  ; 

From  the  grave  cautious  few  who  live 
On  thoughtless  youth,  and  living  thrive, 

To  the  light  train  who  mimic  France, 

And  the  soft  sons  of  nonchalance. 

While  Jenny,  now  no  more  of  use, 

Excuse  succeeding  to  excuse. 

Grew  piqued,  and  prudently  withdrew 
'I  shilling  whist,  and  chicken  loo. 

Advanced  to  fashion’s  wavering  head. 

They  now,  where  once  they  followed,  led  ; 
Devised  new  systems  of  delight, 

A-bed  an  day,  and  up  all  night. 

In  different  circles  reigned  supreme ; 

Wives  copiei  her,  and  husbands  him ; 

Till  so  divinely  life  ran  on. 

So  separate,  so  quite  bon-ton. 

That,  meeting  in  a public  place. 

They  scarcely  knew  each  other’s  face. 

At  last  they  met,  by  his  desire, 

A tite-d-tite  across  the  fire  ; 

Looked  in  each  other’s  face  awhile. 

With  half  a tear,  and  half  a smile. 

The  ruddy  health,  which  wont  to  grace 
With  manly  glow  his  rural  face. 

Now  scarce  retained  its  faintest  streak. 

So  sallow  was  his  leathern  cheek. 

She,  lank  and  pale,  and  hollow-eyed. 

With  rouge  had  striven  in  vain  to  hide 
What  once  was  beauty,  and  repair 
The  rapine  of  the  midnight  air. 

Silence  is  eloquence,  ’tis  said. 

Both  wished  to  speak,  both  hung  the  head. 
At  length  it  bur.st.  ‘ ’Tis  time,’  he  cries, 

‘ When  tired  of  folly,  to  be  wise. 

Are  you  too  tired  V- — then  checked  a groan. 
She  wept  consent,  and  he  went  on : 

‘ How  delicate  the  married  life  ! 

You  love  your  husband,  I my  wife ; 

Not  even  satiety  could  tame. 

Nor  dissipation  quench  the  flame. 

True  to  the  bias  of  our  kind, 

Tis  happiness  we  wish  to  find. 

In  rural  scenes  retired  we  sought 
In  vain  the  dear,  delicious  draught, 

Though  blest  with  love’s  indulgent  store, 

We  found  we  wanted  something  more. 

Twas  company,  ’twas  friends  to  share 
The  bliss  we  languished  to  declare ; 

’Twas  social  converse,  change  of  scene, 

To  soothe  the  sullen  hour  of  spleen  ; 

Short  absences  to  wake  desire. 

And  sweet  regrets  to  fan  the  fire. 

We  left  the  lonesome  place,  and  found, 

In  dissipation’s  giddy  round, 

A thousand  novelties  to  wake 
The  springs  of  life,  and  not  to  break. 

As,  from  the  nest  not  wandering  far. 

In  light  excursions  through  the  air, 

The  feathered  tenants  of  the  grove 
Around  in  mazy  circles  move, 

Sip  the  cool  springs  that  murmuring  flow. 

Or  taste  the  blossom  on  the  bough  ; 

We  sported  freely  with  the  rest ; 

And  still,  returning  to  the  nest. 

In  easy  mirth  we  chatted  o’er 
The  trifles  of  the  day  before. 

Behold  us  now,  dissolving  quite 
In  the  full  ocean  of  delight ; 

In  pleasures  every  hour  employ. 

Immersed  in  all  the  world  calls  joy ; 

Our  affluence  easing  the  expense 
Of  splendour  and  magnificence ; 

Our  company,  the  exalted  set 

Of  all  that’s  gay,  and  all  that’s  great : 

Nor  happy  yet ! and  where’s  the  wonder ! 

We  live,  my  dear,  too  much  asunder  J' 

The  moral  of  my  tale  is  this ; 

Variety’s  the  soul  of  bliss; 

But  such  variety  alone 
As  makes  our  home  the  more  our  own 
As  from  the  heart’s  impelling  power 
The  life-blood  pours  its  genial  store ; 

Though  taking  each  a various  way. 

The  active  streams  meandering  play 
Through  every  artery,  every  vein. 

All  to  the  heart  return  again  ; 

From  thence  resume  their  new  career, 

But  still  return  and  centre  there ; 

So  real  happiness  below 

Must  from  the  heart  sincerely  flow  ; 

Nor,  listening  to  the  syren’s  song. 

Must  stray  too  far,  or  rest  too  long. 

All  human  pleasures  thither  tend  ; 

Must  there  begin,  and  there  must  end ; 

Must  there  recruit  their  languid  force, 

And  gain  fresh  vigour  from  their  source. 

DR  JAMES  GRAINGER. 

Dr  James  Grainger  (1721-1766)  was,  according 
to  his  own  statement,  seen  by  Mr  Prior,  the  bio- 
grapher of  Goldsmith,  ‘of  a gentleman’s  family  in 
Cumberland.’  He  studied  medicine  in  Edinburgh, 
was  in  the  army,  and,  on  the  peace,  established  him- 
self as  a medical  practitioner  in  London.  His  poem 
of  Solitude  appeared  in  1755,  and  was  praised  by 
Johnson,  who  considered  the  opening  ‘ very  noble.’ 
Grainger  wrote  several  other  pieces,  translated 
Tibullus,  and  was  a critic  in  the  Monthly  Review. 
In  1759  he  went  to  St  Christophers,  in  the  West 
Indies,  commenced  practising  as  a physician,  and 
married  a lady  of  fortune.  During  Ids  residence 
there,  he  wrote  liis  poem  of  the  Sugar-Cane,  which 
Shenstone  thought  capable  of  being  rendered  a good 
poem ; and  the  arguments  in  which,  Southey  says, 
are  ‘ ludicrously  flat  and  formal.’  One  point  is  cer- 
tainly ridiculous  enough  ; ‘ he  very  poetically,’  says 
Campbell,  ‘ dignifies  the  poor  negroes  with  the  name 
of  “ swains.”  ’ Grainger  died  in  the  West  Indies. 

Ode  to  Solitude. 

0 Solitude,  romantic  maid  ! 

Whether  by  nodding  towers  you  tread. 

Or  haunt  the  desert’s  trackless  gloom. 

Or  hover  o’er  the  yawning  tomb. 

Or  climb  the  Andes’  clifted  side. 

Or  by  the  Nile’s  coy  source  abide. 

Or  starting  from  your  half-year’s  sleep. 

From  Hecla  view  the  thawing  deep. 

Or,  at  the  purple  dawn  of  day, 

Tadmor’s  marble  wastes  survey. 

You,  recluse,  again,  I woo. 

And  again  your  steps  pursue- 

Plumed  Conceit  himself  surveying, 

Folly  with  her  shadow  playing. 

Purse-proud,  elbowing  Insolence, 

Bloated  empiric,  puffed  Pretence, 

Noise  that  through  a trumpet  speaks. 

Laughter  in  loud  peals  that  breaks. 

Intrusion  with  a fopling’s  face, 

(Ignorant  of  time  and  place), 

11» 

PROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


SpiirkH  of  fire  Dissension  blowing, 

Ductile,  court-bred  Flattery,  bowing. 
Restraint’s  stiff  neck.  Grimace’s  leer. 
Squint-eyed  Censure’s  artful  sneer. 
Ambition’s  buskins,  steeped  in  blood, 

Fly  thy  presence.  Solitude. 

Sage  Reflection,  bent  with  years. 

Conscious  Virtue  void  of  fears, 

Wuflled  Silence,  wood-nymph  shy, 
Meditation’s  piercing  eye. 

Halcyon  Peace  on  moss  reclined. 

Retrospect  that  scans  the  mind. 

Wrapt  earth-gazing  Reverie, 

Blushing  artless  Modesty, 

Health  that  snuffs  the  morning  air. 
Full-eyed  Tnith  with  bosom  bare. 
Inspiration,  Nature’s  child. 

Seek  the  solitary  wild. 

You,  with  the  tragic  mu.se  retired. 

The  wi.se  Euripides  inspired  ; 

Y ou  taught  the  sadly -pleasing  air 
That  Athens  saved  from  ruins  bare. 

You  gave  the  Cean’s  tears  to  flow. 

And  unlocked  the  springs  of  wo  ; 

You  penned  what  exiled  Naso  thought, 
And  poured  the  melancholy  note. 

With  Petrarch  o’er  Vaucluse  you  strayed. 
When  death  snatched  his  long-loved  maid  ; 
Y ou  taught  the  rocks  her  loss  to  mourn, 

Y e strewed  with  flowers  her  virgin  urn. 

And  late  in  Hagley  you  were  seen. 

With  bloodshot  eyes,  and  sombre  mien; 
Hymen  his  yellow  vestment  tore. 

And  Dirge  a wreath  of  cypress  wore. 

But  chief  your  own  the  solemn  lay 
That  wept  Narchssa  young  and  gay ; 
Darkness  clapped  her  sable  wing. 

While  you  touched  the  mournful  string; 
Anguish  left  the  pathless  wild. 

Grim-faced  Melancholy  smiled. 

Drowsy  Midnight  ceased  to  yawn. 

The  starry  host  put  back  the  dawn  ; 

Aside  their  harps  even  seraphs  flung 
To  hear  thy  sweet  Complaint,  0 Young! 
When  all  nature’s  hushed  asleep. 

Nor  Love  nor  Guilt  their  vigils  keep. 

Soft  you  leave  your  cavemed  den. 

And  wander  o’er  the  works  of  men  ; 

But  when  Phosphor  brings  the  dawn 
By  her  dappled  coursers  drawn, 

Again  you  to  the  wild  retreat 
And  the  early  huntsman  meet. 

Where,  as  you  pensive  pace  along. 

You  catch  the  distant  shepherd’s  song. 

Or  brush  from  herbs  the  pearly  dew. 

Or  the  rising  primrose  view. 

Devotion  lends  her  heaven-plumed  wings, 

Y ou  mount,  and  nature  with  you  sings. 

But  when  mid-day  fervours  glow. 

To  upland  airy  shades  you  go. 

Where  never  sunburnt  woodman  came. 

Nor  sportsman  chased  the  timid  game ; 

And  there  beneath  an  oak  reclined. 

With  drowsy  waterfalls  behind, 

Y ou  sink  to  rest. 

Till  the  tuneful  bird  of  night 

From  the  neighbouring  poplar’s  height. 

Wake  you  with  her  solemn  strain. 

And  teach  pleased  Echo  to  complain. 

With  you  roses  brighter  bloom. 

Sweeter  every  sweet  perfume ; 

Purer  every  fountain  flows. 

Stronger  every  wildling  grows. 

Let  those  toil  for  gold  who  please, 

Or  for  fame  renounce  their  ease. 


What  is  fame  ? an  empty  bubble. 
Gold  ? a transient  shining  trouble. 
Let  them  for  their  country  bleed. 
What  was  Sidney’s,  Raleigh’s  meed! 
Man’s  not  worth  a moment’s  pain, 
Base,  ungrateful,  fickle,  vain. 

Then  let  me,  sequestered  fair. 

To  your  sibyl  grot  repair ; 

On  yon  hanging  cliff  it  stand.s, 
Scooped  by  nature’s  salvage  hands. 
Bosomed  in  the  gloomy  shade 
Of  cypre.ss  not  with  age  decayed. 
Where  the  owl  still-hooting  sits. 
Where  the  bat  incessant  flits, 

There  in  loftier  strains  I’ll  sing 
Whence  the  changing  seasons  spring; 
Tell  how  storms  deform  the  skies. 
Whence  the  waves  subside  and  rise. 
Trace  the  comet’s  blazing  tail. 

Weigh  the  planets  in  a scale ; 

Bend,  great  God,  before  thy  shrine. 
The  bournless  macrocosm’s  thine.  * 


JAMES  MERRICK. 

James  Merrick  (1720-17fifi)  was  a distinguished 
classical  scholar,  and  tutor  to  Lord  North  at  Oxford. 
He  took  orders,  but  was  unable  to  do  duty,  from 
delicate  health.  Merrick  wrote  some  hymns,  ana 
attempted  a version  of  the  psalms,  with  no  great 
success.  We  subjoin  an  amusing  and  instructive 
fable  by  this  worthy  divine  : — 

The  Chameleon. 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 
A proud,  conceited,  talking  .spark. 

With  eyes  that  hardly  served  at  most 
To  guard  their  master  ’gainst  a post  ; 

Yet  round  the  world  the  blade  has  been. 

To  see  whatever  could  be  seen. 

Returning  from  his  finished  tour. 

Grown  ten  times  perter  than  before  ; 

Whatever  word  you  chance  to  drop. 

The  travelled  fool  your  mouth  will  stop: 

‘ Sir,  if  my  judgment  you’ll  allow — 

I’ve  seen — and  sure  I ought  to  know.’ — 

So  begs  you’d  pay  a due  submission, 

And  acquiesce  in  his  decision. 

Two  travellers  of  such  a cast, 

As  o’er  Arabia’s  wilds  they  passed. 

And  on  their  way,  in  friendly  chat. 

Now  talked  of  this,  and  then  of  that  ; 

Discoursed  awhile,  ’mongst  other  matter. 

Of  the  Chameleon’s  form  and  nature. 

‘ A stranger  animal,’  cries  one, 

‘ Sure  never  lived  beneath  the  sun  : 

A lizard’s  body  lean  and  long, 

A fish’s  head,  a serpent’s  tongue. 

Its  foot  with  triple  claw  disjoined  ; 

And  what  a length  of  tail  behind  ! 

How  slow  its  pace  ! and  then  its  hue — 

Who  ever  saw  so  fine  a blue  V 

‘ Hold  there,’  the  other  quick  replies, 

‘ ’Tis  green,  I saw  it  with  these  eyes. 

As  late  with  open  mouth  it  lay. 

And  warmed  it  in  the  sunny  ray  ; 

Stretched  at  its  ease  the  beast  I viewed. 

And  saw  it  eat  the  air  for  food.’ 

‘ I’ve  seen  it,  sir,  as  well  as  you. 

And  must  again  affirm  it  blue  ; 

At  leisure  I the  beast  surveyed 
Extended  in  the  cooling  shade.’ 

‘ ’Tis  green,  ’tis  green,  sir,  I assure  ye.* 

‘ Green  1’  cries  the  other  in  a fury  : 

120 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  CUNNINOHAH. 


‘ Why,  air,  d’ye  think  I’ve  lost  my  eyes  V 
‘ ’Twere  no  great  loss,’  the  friend  replies  ; 

‘ h'or  if  they  always  serve  you  thus, 

You’ll  find  them  but  of  little  use.’ 

So  high  at  last  the  contest  rose. 

From  words  they  almost  came  to  blows ; 

When  luckily  came  by  a third  ; 

To  him  the  question  they  referred  : 

And  begged  he’d  tell  them,  if  he  knew, 
Whether  the  thing  was  green  or  blue. 

‘ Sir's,’  cries  the  umpire,  ‘ cease  your  pother ; 
The  creature’s  neither  one  nor  t’other. 

I caught  the  animal  last  night. 

And  viewed  it  o’er  by  candle-light : 

I marked  it  well,  ’twas  black  as  jet — 

You  stare — but  sirs,  I’ve  got  it  yet. 

And  can  produce  it.’ — ‘ Pray,  sir,  do  ; 

I’ll  lay  my  life  the  thing  is  blue.' 

‘And  I’ll  be  sworn,  that  when  you’ve  seen 
The  reptile,  you’ll  pronounce  him  green.’ 

‘ Well,  then,  at  once  to  ease  the  doubt,’ 
Replies  the  man,  ‘ I’ll  turn  him  out  : 

And  when  before  your  eyes  I’ve  set  him. 

If  you  don’t  find  him  black.  I’ll  eat  him.’ 

He  said  ; and  full  before  their  sight 
Produced  the  beast,  and  lo  !— ’twas  white. 
Both  stared,  the  man  looked  wondrous  wise — 
‘ My  children,’  the  Chameleon  cries, 

(Then  first  the  creature  found  a tongue) 

‘You  all  are  right,  and  all  are  wrong : 

When  next  you  talk  of  what  you  view, 

Think  others  see  as  well  as  you: 

Nor  wonder  if  you  find  that  none 
Prefers  your  eye-sight  to  his  own.’ 


pieces,  of  mediocre  merit.  The  following  seems  to 
have  been  dictated  by  real  feeling,  as  well  as  Quaker 
principle : — 

[Ode  on  Hearing  the  Drumi] 

I hate  that  drum’s  discordant  sound. 

Parading  round,  and  round,  and  round: 

To  thoughtless  youth  it  pleasure  yields, 

And  lures  from  cities  and  from  fields, 

To  sell  their  liberty  for  charms 
Of  tawdry  lace,  and  glittering  arms  ; 

And  when  Ambition’s  voice  commands. 

To  march,  and  fight,  and  fall  in  foreign  lands. 

I hate  that  drum’s  discordant  sound. 

Parading  round,  and  round,  and  round: 

To  me  it  talks  of  ravaged  plains. 

And  burning  towns,  and  ruined  swains. 

And  mangled  limbs,  and  dying  groans. 

And  widows’  tears,  and  orphans’  moans  ; 

And  all  that  misery’s  hand  bestows 
To  fill  the  catalogue  of  human  woes. 

■WILLIAM  OLDTS. 

William  Oldys  (1696-1761)  was  a zealous  lite- 
rary antiquary,  and  Norroy  King-at-Arms.  He 
wrote  a Life  of  Raleigh,  and  assisted  every  author 
or  bookseller  who  required  a leaf  from  his  volumin- 
ous collections.  His  obscure  diligence  amassed  vari- 
ous interesting  particulars  of  literary  history.  The 
following  exquisite  little  Anacreontic  was  from  the 
pen  of  Oldys,  ■who  occasionally  indulged  in  deep 
potations  of  ale,  for  which  he  was  caricatured  by  his 
friend  and  brother  antiquary,  Grose : — 


JOHN  SCOTT. 


John  Scott  (1730-1783)  was  our  only  Quaker 
poet  till  Bernard  Barton  graced  the  order  with  a 
iprig  of  laurel  Scott  was  the  son  of  a draper  in 


Boott’s  Grotto,  Amwell. 


London,  who  retired  to  Amwell.  in  Hertfordshire, 
and  here  the  poet  spent  his  days,  improving  his  gar- 
den and  grounds.  He  published  several  poetical 


Song,  made  Extempore  hy  a Gentleman,  occasioned  hy 
a Ely  Drinking  out  of  his  Cup  of  Ale. 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly. 

Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I ; 

Freely  welcome  to  my  cup, 

Could’st  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up. 

Make  the  most  of  life  you  may. 

Life  is  short,  and  wears  away. 

Both  alike  are  mine  and  thine, 

Hastening  quick  to  their  decline  : 

Thine’s  a summer,  mine  no  more. 

Though  repeated  to  threescore  ; 

Threescore  summers,  when  they’re  gone. 

Will  appear  as  short  as  one.* 

JOHN  CUNNINGHAM. 

John  Cunningham  (1729-1773),  the  son  of  a 
wine-cooper  in  Dublin,  was  a respectable  actor,  and 
performed  several  years  in  Digges’s  company,  Edin- 
burgh. In  his  latter  years  he  resided  in  Newcastle- 
on-Tyne,  in  the  house  of  a ‘ generous  printer,’  whose 
hospitality  for  some  time  supported  the  poet.  Cun- 
ningham’s pieces  are  full  of  pastoral  simplicity  and 
lyrical  melody.  He  aimed  at  nothing  high,  and 
seldom  failed. 

Song — May -Eve,  or  Kate  of  Aberdeen, 

The  silver  moon’s  enamoured  beam, 

Steals  softly  through  the  night. 

To  wanton  with  the  winding  stream. 

And  kiss  reflected  light. 

* Oldys’s  song  was  included  in  a ‘ Select  Coil  x:tion  of  English 
Songs,*  published  by  J.  Johnson  in  1703.  Bums,  the  Scottish 
poet,  had  a copy  of  this  work  (one  of  the  volumes  of  which  is 
now  before  us),  and  we  observe  he  has  honoured  tile  extem- 
pore lyric  of  the  old  antiquary  with  pencil  marks  in  the  mar- 
gin. In  his  Lines  written  in  l'*riars*  Carso  Hermitage,  Bums 
has  echoed  some  of  Oldys’s  thoughts  and  expressions. 


FnoM  1727 


CYCLOP^ilDIA  OF 


To  beds  of  state  po,  balmy  sleep, 

("I'is  where  you’ve  seldom  been,) 

May’s  vi"il  while  the  shepherds  keep 
With  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Upon  the  green  the  virgins  wait, 

In  rosy  chaplets  gay. 

Till  morn  unbars  her  golden  gate. 

And  gives  the  promised  May. 

Methinks  I hear  the  maids  declare, 

The  promised  May,  when  seen. 

Not  half  so  fragrant,  half  so  fair. 

As  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Strike  up  the  tabor’s  boldest  notes. 

We’ll  rouse  the  nodding  grove  ; 

The  nested  birds  shall  raise  their  throats. 

And  hail  the  maid  I love. 

And  see — the  matin  lark  mistakes. 

He  quits  the  tufted  green  : 

Fond  bird ! ’tis  not  the  morning  breaks, 

’Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Now  lightsome  o’er  the  level  mead, 

Where  midnight  fairies  rove. 

Like  them  the  jocund  dance  we’ll  lead. 

Or  tune  the  reed  to  love: 

For  see,  the  rosy  May  draws  nigh  ; 

She  claims  a virgin  queen ; 

And  hark!  the  happy  shepherds  cry, 

’Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Content,  a Pastoral. 

O’er  moorlands  and  mountains,  rude,  barren,  and  bare, 
As  wildered  and  wearied  I roam, 

A gentle  young  shepherdess  sees  my  despair. 

And  leads  me  o’er  lawns  to  her  home. 

Yellow  sheaves  from  rich  Ceres  her  cottage  had 
crowmed. 

Green  rushes  were  strewed  on  her  floor. 

Her  casement  sweet  woodbines  crept  wantonly  round. 
And  decked  the  sod  seats  at  her  door. 

We  sat  ourselves  down  to  a cooling  repast. 

Fresh  fruits,  and  she  culled  me  the  best ; 

While  thrown  from  my  guard  by  some  glances  she 
cast. 

Love  slily  stole  into  my  breast! 

I told  my  soft  wishes ; she  sweetly  replied 
(Ye  virgins,  her  voice  was  divine!) 

Fve  rich  ones  rejected,  and  great  ones  denied. 

But  take  me  fond  shepherd — I’m  thine. 

Her  air  was  so  modest,  her  aspect  so  meek. 

So  simple,  yet  sweet  were  her  charms  ! 

I kissed  the  ripe  roses  that  glowed  on  her  cheek. 

And  locked  the  loved  maid  in  my  arms. 

Now  jocund  together  we  tend  a few  sheep. 

And  if,  by  yon  prattler,  the  stream. 

Reclined  on  her  bosom,  1 sink  into  sleep. 

Her  image  still  softens  my  dream. 

Together  we  range  o’er  the  slow-rising  hills. 

Delighted  with  pastoral  views. 

Or  rest  on  the  rock  whence  the  streamlet  distils. 

And  point  out  new  themes  for  my  muse. 

To  pomp  or  proud  titles  she  ne’er  did  aspire. 

The  damsel’s  of  humble  descent  ; 

The  cottager  Peace  is  well-kno\vn  for  her  sire. 

And  shepherds  have  named  her  Content. 

NATHANIEL  COTTON. 

Nathaniel  Cotton  (1721-1788),  wrote  Visions 
in  Verse,  for  children,  and  a volume  of  poetical 
Miscellanies.  He  followed  the  medical  profession  in 
St  Albans,  and  was  distinguished  for  bis  skill  in  the 


TO  1780. 


treatment  of  cases  of  insanity.  Cowper,  his  patient, 
bears  evidence  to  his  ‘well-known  humanity  and 
sweetness  of  temper.’ 

The  Fireside. 

Dear  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd. 

The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud. 

In  folly’s  maze  advance  ; 

Though  singularity  and  pride 
Be  called  our  choice,  we’ll  step  aside. 

Nor  join  the  giddy  dance. 

From  the  gay  world  we’ll  oft  retire 
To  our  own  family  and  fire. 

Where  love  our  hours  employs ; 

No  noisy  neighbour  enters  here ; 

Nor  intermeddling  stranger  near. 

To  spoil  our  heartfelt  joys. 

If  solid  happiness  we  prize. 

Within  our  breast  this  jewel  lies  ; 

And  they  are  fools  who  roam  : 

The  world  has  nothing  to  bestow ; 

From  our  own  selves  our  joys  must  flow. 

And  that  dear  hut — our  home. 

Of  rest  was  Noah’s  dove  bereft. 

When  with  impatient  wing  she  left 
That  safe  retreat,  the  ark ; 

Giving  her  vain  excursion  o’er. 

The  disappointed  bird  once  more 
Explored  the  sacred  bark. 

Though  fools  spurn  Hymen’s  gentle  powers, 

We,  who  improve  his  golden  hours. 

By  sweet  experience  know. 

That  marriage,  rightly  understood. 

Gives  to  the  tender  and  the  good 
A paradise  below. 

Our  babes  shall  richest  comforts  bring ; 

If  tutored  right,  they’ll  prove  a spring 
Whence  pleasures  ever  rise : 

We’ll  form  their  minds,  with  studious  care^ 

To  all  that’s  manly,  good,  and  fair. 

And  train  them  for  the  skies. 

While  they  our  wisest  hours  engage. 

They’ll  joy  our  youth,  support  our  age. 

And  crown  our  hoary  hairs : 

They’ll  grow  in  virtue  every  day ; 

And  thus  our  fondest  loves  repay. 

And  recompense  our  cares. 

No  borrowed  joys,  they’re  all  our  own. 

While  to  the  world  we  live  unknown. 

Or  by  the  world  forgot : 

Monarchs!  we  envy  not  your  state ; 

We  look  with  pity  on  the  great. 

And  bless  our  humbler  lot. 

Our  portion  is  not  large,  indeed  ; 

But  then  how  little  do  we  need  ! 

For  nature’s  calls  are  few: 

In  this  the  art  of  living  lies. 

To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice. 

And  make  that  little  do. 

We’ll  therefore  relish  with  content 
. Whate’er  kind  Providence  has  sent. 

Nor  aim  beyond  our  power; 

For,  if  our  stock  be  very  small, 

’Tis  prudence  to  enjoy  it  all. 

Nor  lose  the  present  hour 
To  be  resigned  when  ills  betide. 

Patient  when  favours  are  denied. 

And  pleased  with  favours  given  ; 

Dear  Chloe,  this  is  wisdom’s  part ; 

This  is  that  incense  of  the  heart. 

Whose  fragrance  smells  to  heaven. 

122 


POETS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  ciiristopheu  AnsrKT. 

We’ll  ask  no  long  protracted  treat, 

Since  winter-life  is  seldom  sweet ; ' 

Hut  when  our  feast  is  o’er, 

Grateful  from  table  we’ll  arise, 

Nor  grudge  our  sons  with  envious  eyes 
The  relics  of  our  store. 

Thus,  hand  in  hand,  through  life  we’ll  go; 

Its  cheqiua-ed  paths  of  joy  and  wo 

With  cautious  steps  we’ll  tread ; 

Quit  its  vain  scenes  without  a tear. 

Without  a trouble  or  a fear. 

And  mingle  with  the  dead: 

While  conscience,  like  a faithful  friend. 

Shall  through  the  gloomy  vale  attend. 

And  cheer  our  dying  breath  ; 

Shall,  when  all  other  comforts  cease. 

Like  a kind  angel,  whisper  peace. 

And  smooth  the  bed  of  death. 

CHRISTOPHER  ANSTEV. 

Christopher  Anstey  (1724-1805)  was  author  of 
The  New  Bath  Guide,  a light  satirical  and  humorous 
poem,  which  appeared  in  1766,  and  set  an  example 
in  this  description  of  composition,  that  has  since 
been  followed  in  ntunerous  instances,  and  with  great 
success.  Smollett,  in  his  Humphry  Clinker,  pub- 
lished five  years  later,  may  be  almost  said  to  Inave 
reduced  the  ‘ New  Bath  Guide’  to  prose.  IMany  of 
the  characters  and  situations  are  exactly  the  same 
as  those  of  Anstey.  This  poem  seldom  rises  above 
the  tone  of  conversation,  but  is  easy,  sportive,  and 
entertaining.  The  fashionable  Fribbles  of  the  day, 
the  chat,  scandal,  and  amusements  of  those  attend- 
ing the  wells,  and  the  canting  hypocrisy  of  some 
sectarians,  are  depicted,  sometimes  with  indelicacy, 
but  always  with  force  and  liveliness.  Mr  Anstey 
was  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr  Anstey,  rector  of  Brinke- 
ley,  in  Cambridgeshire,  a gentleman  who  possessed 
a considerable  landed  property,  which  tlie  poet  after- 
wards inherited.  lie  was  educated  at  Eton  school, 
and  elected  to  King’s  college,  Cambridge,  and  in 
both  places  he  distinguished  himself  as  a classical 
scholar.  In  consequence  of  his  refus,al  to  deliver 
certain  declamations,  Anstey  quarrelled  ivith  the 
heads  of  the  university,  and  was  denied  the  usual 
degree.  In  the  epilogue  to  the  ‘ New  Bath  Guide,’ 
he  alludes  to  this  circumstance — 

Granta,  sweet  Granta,  where  studious  of  ease. 

Seven  years  did  I sleep,  and  then  .lost  my  degrees. 

He  then  went  into  the  army,  and  married  Miss 
Calvert,  sister  to  his  friend  John  Calvert,  Esq.,  of 
Allbury  Hall,  in  Hertfordshire,  through  whose  in- 
fluence he  was  returned  to  parliament  for  the 
borough  of  Hertford.  He  was  a frequent  resident  in 
the  city  of  Bath,  and  a favourite  in  the  fashionable 
and  literary  coteries  of  the  place.  In  1766  was  pub- 
lished his  celebrated  poem,  which  instantly  became 
popular.  He  wrote  various  other  pieces — A Poem 
on  the  Death  of  the  Marquis  of  Tavistock,  1767  ; An 
Election  Ball,  in  Poetical  Letters  from  Mr  Inkle  at 
Bath  to  his  Wife  at  Gloucester ; a Paraphrase  of  the 
Thirteenth  Chapter  of  the  First  Epistle  to  the  Corin- 
thians; a satire  entitled  The  Priest  Dissected;  Specu- 
lation, or  a Defence  of  Mankind  (1780);  Liberalih/, 
or  Memoirs  of  a Decayed  Macaroni  (1788);  The 
Farmer's  Daughter,  a Poetical  Tale  (1795);  and 
various  other  copies  of  occasional  verses.  Anstey 
also  translated  Gray’s  Elegy  into  Latin  verse,  and 
addressed  an  elegant  Latin  Ode  to  Dr  Jenner. 
While  the  ‘ New  Bath  Guide’  was  ‘ the  only  thing 
in  fashion,’  and  relished  for  its  novel  and  original 
kind  of  humour,  the  other  productions  of  Anstey 

ivere  neglected  by  the  public,  and  have  never  been 
revived.  In  the  enjoyment  of  liis  paternal  estate, 
the  poet,  hoivevcr,  was  iudejiendent  of  the  public 
support,  and  he  took  p.art  in  the  sports  of  the  field 
up  to  his  eightieth  year.  While  on  a visit  to  his 
son-in-law,  Mr  Bosanquet,  at  Harnage,  Wiltshire, 
he  was  taken  ill,  and  died  on  the  3d  of  August  1805. 

The  Public  Breakfast. 

Now  ray  lord  had  the  honour  of  coming  down  post, 

To  pay  his  respects  to  so  famous  a toast ; 

In  hopes  he  her  ladyship’s  favour  might  win, 

By  playing  the  part  of  a host  at  an  inn. 

I’m  sure  he’s  a person  of  great  resolution, 

Though  delicate  nerves,  and  a weak  constitution ; 

For  he  carried  us  all  to  a place  cross  the  river. 

And  vowed  that  the  rooms  were  too  hot  for  his  livei  • 
He  said  it  would  greatly  our  pleasure  promote. 

If  we  all  for  Spring  Gardens  set  out  in  a boat : 

I never  as  yet  could  his  reason  explain. 

Why  we  all  sallied  forth  in  the  wind  and  the  rain  } 
For  sure  such  confusion  was  never  yet  known  ; 

Here  a cap  and  a hat,  there  a cardinal  blown  : 

While  his  lordship, embroidered  and  powdered  all  o’er, 
Was  bowing,  and  handing  the  ladies  ashore : 

How  the  Misses  did  huddle,  and  scuddle,  and  run ; 
One  would  think  to  be  wet  must  be  very  good  fun  ; 
For  by  waggling  their  tails,  they  all  seemed  to  take 
pains 

To  moisten  their  pinions  like  ducks  when  it  rains  ; 
And  ’twas  pretty  to  see,  how  like  birds  of  a feather. 
The  people  of  quality  flocked  all  together  ; 

All  pressing,  addressing,  caressing,  and  fond. 

Just  the  same  as  those  animals  are  in  a pond : 

Y ou’ve  read  all  their  names  in  the  news,  I suppose, 
But,  for  fear  you  have  not,  take  the  list  as  it  goes ; 
There  was  Lady  Grease^vTister, 

And  Madam  Van-Twister, 

Her  ladyship’s  sister : 

Lord  Cram,  and  Lord  Vulture, 

Sir  Brandish  O’Culter, 

W'ith  Marshal  Carouzer, 

And  old  Lady  Mouzer, 

And  the  great  Hanoverian  Baron  Panzmowzer ; 
Besides  many  others  who  all  in  the  rain  went. 

On  purpose  to  honour  this  great  entertainment : 

The  company  made  a most  brilliant  appearance. 

And  ate  bread  and  butter  with  great  perseverance ; 
All  the  chocolate  too,  that  my  lord  set  before  ’em. 
The  ladies  despatched  with  the  utmost  decorum. 

Soft  musical  numbers  were  heard  all  around. 

The  horns  and  the  clarions  echoing  sound. 

Sweet  were  the  strains,  as  odorous  gales  that  blow 
O’er  fragrant  banks,  where  pinks  and  roses  grow. 
The  peer  was  quite  ravished,  while  close  to  his  side 
Sat  Lady  Bunbutter,  in  beautiful  pride ! 

Oft  turning  his  eyes,  he  with  rapture  surveyed 
All  the  powerful  charms  she  so  nobly  displayed  : 

As  when  at  the  feast  of  the  great  Alexander, 
Timotheus,  the  musical  son  of  Thersander, 

Breathed  heavenly  measures. 

* « ♦ 

0 ! had  I a voice  that  was  stronger  than  steel. 
With  twice  fifty  tongues  to  express  what  I feel. 

And  as  many  good  mouths,  yet  I never  could  utter 
All  the  speeches  my  lord  made  to  Lady  Bunbutter! 
So  polite  all  the  time,  that  he  ne’er  touched  a bit. 
While  she  ate  up  his  rolls  and  applauded  his  wit ; 
For  they  tell  me  that  men  of  time  taste,  when  they  treat, 
Should  talk  a great  deal,  but  they  never  should  eat : 
And  if  that  be  the  fashion,  I never  will  give 
Any  grand  entertainment  as  long  as  I live: 

For  I’m  of  opinion,  ’tis  proper  to  cheer 
The  stomach  and  bowels  as  well  as  the  ear. 

Nor  me  did  the  charming  concerto  of  Abel 
Regale  like  the  breakfast  I saw  on  the  tabic : 

123 

FROM  1727  CYCL0P^:DIA  of  to  1780. 


I freely  will  own  I the  muffins  ])icferrcd 
'J'o  !ill  the  genteel  conversation  1 heard. 

K’en  though  I’d  the  honour  of  sitting  between 
My  Lady  StuH’-dainask  and  I’eggy  Moreen, 

Who  both  flew  to  Hath  in  the  nightly  machine. 

Cries  I’eggy,  ‘This  place  is  enchantingly  pretty; 

We  never  can  see  such  a thing  in  the  city. 

You  may  spend  all  your  lifetime  in  Cateaton  Street, 
And  never  so  civil  a gentleman  meet ; 

Y ou  may  talk  what  you  please ; you  may  search  Lon- 
don through  ; 

You  may  go  to  Carlisle’s,  and  to  Almanac’s  too  ; 

And  I’ll  give  you  my  head  if  you  find  such  a host, 
for  coffee,  tea,  chocolate,  butter,  and  toast: 

How  he  welcomes  at  once  all  the  world  and  his  wife, 
And  how  civil  to  folk  he  ne’er  saw  in  his  life  1’ 

‘ These  horns,’  cries  my  lady,  ‘ so  tickle  one’s  ear. 

Lard  ! what  would  1 give  that  Sir  Simon  was  here  1 
To  the  next  public  breakfast  Sir  Simon  shall  go. 

For  I find  here  are  folks  one  may  venture  to  know : 
Sir  Simon  would  gladly  his  lordship  attend, 

And  my  lord  would  be  pileased  with  so  cheerful  a 
friend.’ 

So  when  we  had  wasted  more  bread  at  a breakfast 
Than  the  poor  of  our  parish  have  ate  for  this  week  past, 
I saw,  all  at  once,  a prodigious  great  throng 
Come  bustling,  and  rustling,  and  jostling  along  ; 

For  his  lordship  was  pleased  that  the  company  now 
To  my  Lady  Bunbutter  should  curtsy  and  bow ; 

And  iny  lady  was  pleased  too,  and  seemed  vastly  proud 
At  once  to  receive  all  the  thanks  of  a crowd. 

And  when,  like  Chaldeans,  we  all  had  adored 
This  beautiful  image  set  up  by  my  lord. 

Some  few  insignificant  folk  went  away. 

Just  to  follow  the  employments  and  calls  of  the  day; 
But  those  who  knew  better  their  time  how  to  spend, 
The  fiddling  and  dancing  all  chose  to  attend. 

Miss  Clunch  and  Sir  Toby  performed  a cotillon. 

Just  the  same  as  our  Susan  and  Bob  the  postilion  ; 
All  the  while  her  mamma  was  expressing  her  joy. 
That  her  daughter  the  morning  so  well  could  employ. 
Now,  why  should  the  Muse,  my  dear  mother,  relate 
The  misfortunes  that  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  great  1 
As  homeward  we  came — ’tis  with  sorrow  you’ll  hear 
What  a dreadful  disaster  attended  the  peer; 

For  whether  some  envious  god  had  decreed 
That  a Naiad  should  long  to  ennoble  her  breed ; 

Or  whether  his  lordship  was  charmed  to  behold 
Flis  face  in  the  stream,  like  Narcissus  of  old ; 

In  handing  old  Lady  Comefidget  and  daughter. 

This  obsequious  lord  tumbled  into  the  water; 

But  a nymph  of  the  flood  brought  him  safe  to  the  boat. 
And  I left  all  the  ladies  a-cleaning  his  coat. 


MRS  THRALE. 

Mrs  Thrale  (afterwards  Mrs  Piozzi),  who  lived 
for  many  years  in  terms  of  intimate  friendship  with 
Dr  Johnson,  is  authoress  of  an  interesting  little 
moral  poem.  The  Three  Warnings,  which  is  so 
superior  to  her  other  compositions,  that  it  has  been 
supposed  to  have  been  partly  written,  or  at  least 
corrected,  by  Johnson.  This  lady  w'as  a native  of 
Wales,  being  born  at  Bodville,  in  Caernarvonshire, 
in  1740.  In  1764  she  was  married  to  Mr  Henry 
Thrale,  an  eminent  brewer,  who  had  taste  enough 
to  appreciate  the  rich  and  varied  conversation  of 
Johnson,  and  whose  hospitality  and  wealth  afforded 
the  great  moralist  an  asylum  in  his  house.  After 
the  death  of  this  excellent  man,  his  widow  married 
Signior  Piozzi,  an  Italian  music-master,  a step 
which  Johnson  never  could  forgive.  The  lively 
lady  proceeded  with  her  husband  on  a continental 
tour,  and  they  took  up  their  abode  for  some  time  on 
the  banks  of  the  Arno.  She  afterwards  published 


a volume  of  miscellaneous  pieces,  entitled  The  Flo- 
rence Miscelltiny,  and  afforded  a subject  for  the 
Sivtire  of  Gifford,  whose  ‘Baviad  and  Mmviad’ was 
written  to  lash  the  Della  Cruscan  songsters  with 
whom  Mrs  Piozzi  was  associated.  The  Anecdotes 
and  Letters  of  Dr  Johnson,  by  Mrs  Piozzi,  are  the 
only  valuable  works  which  proceeded  from  her  pen. 
She  was  a minute  and  clever  observer  of  men  and 
manners,  but  deficient  in  judgment,  and  not  parti- 
cular as  to  the  accuracy  of  her  relations.  Mrs 
Piozzi  died  at  Clifton  in  1822. 

T1i£  Three  Warnings. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground ; 

’Twas  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages. 

That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  latter  stages. 

When  pains  grow  sharp,  and  sickness  rages, 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 

This  great  affection  to  believe, 

Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive. 

If  old  assertions  can’t  prevail. 

Be  pleased  to  hear  a modern  tale. 

When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were  gay, 

On  neighbour  Dodson’s  wedding-day. 

Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room. 

And  looking  grave — ‘ You  must,’  says  he, 

‘ Quit  your  sweet  bride,  and  come  with  me.’ 

‘ V/ith  you  ! and  quit  ray  Susan’s  side  2 
With  you  1’  the  hapless  husband  cried  ; 

‘ Young  as  I am,  ’tis  monstrous  hard! 

Besides,  in  truth,  I’m  not  prepared : 

My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go  ; 

This  is  my  wedding-day,  you  know.’ 

What  more  he  urged  I have  not  heard, 

His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger; 

So  death  the  poor  delinquent  spared. 

And  left  to  live  a little  longer. 

Yet  calling  up  a serious  look. 

His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke — 
‘Neighbour,’  he  said,  ‘ farewell ! no  more 
Shall  Death  disturb  your  mirthful  hour : 

And  farther,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name. 

To  give  you  time  for  preparation. 

And  fit  you  for  your  future  station. 

Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have. 

Before  you’re  summoned  to  the  grave ; 

Willing  for  once  ITl  quit  my  prey. 

And  grant  a kind  reprieve  ; 

In  hopes  you’ll  have  no  more  to  say ; 

But,  when  I call  again  this  way. 

Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave.’ 

To  these  conditions  both  consented. 

And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell. 

How  long  he  lived,  how  wise,  how  well. 

How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course. 

And  smoked  his  pipe,  and  stroked  his  horse, 

The  willing  muse  shall  tell : 

He  chaffered,  then  he  bought  and  sold. 

Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old, 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near : 

His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew. 

Many  his  gains,  his  children  few. 

He  passed  his  hours  in  peace. 

But  while  he  viewed  his  wealth  Increase, 

While  thus  along  life’s  dusty  road. 

The  beaten  track  content  he  trod. 

Old  Time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spares. 

Uncalled,  unheeded,  unawares. 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 

124 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ALEXANDIR  BOSS. 


And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood, 

As  nil  alone  he  sate, 

The  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate 
Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half-killed  with  anger  and  surprise, 

‘ So  soon  returned  1’  old  Dodson  cries. 

‘ So  soon  d’ye  call  it  1’  Death  replies : 

‘ Surely,  my  friend,  you’re  but  in  jest  I 
Since  I was  here  before 
’Tis  six-nnd-thirty  years  at  least. 

And  you  are  now  fourscore.’ 

‘ So  much  the  worse,’  the  clo^vn  rejoined  ; 

‘ To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind : 

However,  see  your  search  be  legal; 

And  your  authority — is’t  regal  ? 

F.lse  you  are  come  on  a fool’s  errand, 

M’ith  but  a secretary’s  warrant.* 

Beside,  you  promised  me  Three  Warnings, 

M'hich  1 have  looked  for  nights  and  mornings  ; 

But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease, 

I can  recover  damages.’ 

‘ I know,’  cries  Death,  ‘ that  at  the  best, 

I seldom  am  a welcome  guest ; 

But  don’t  be  captious,  friend,  at  least ; 

I little  thought  you’d  still  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable : 

Y our  years  have  run  to  a great  length ; 

I wish  you  joy,  though,  of  your  strength  1’ 

‘ Hold,’  says  the  farmer,  ‘ not  so  fast ! 

1 have  been  lame  these  four  years  past.’ 

‘ And  no  great  wonder,’  Death  replies : 

‘ However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes  ; 

And  sure  to  see  one’s  loves  and  friends. 

For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends,’ 

‘ Perhaps,’  says  Dodson,  ‘ so  it  might. 

But  latterly  I’ve  lost  my  sight.’ 

‘ This  is  a shocking  tale,  ’tis  true ; 

But  still  there’s  comfort  left  for  you  : 

Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse ; 

1 warrant  you  hear  all  the  news.’ 

‘ There’s  none,’  cries  he  ; ‘ and  if  there  were, 

I’m  grown  so  deaf,  I could  not  hear.’ 

‘ Nay,  then,’  the  spectre  stern  rejoined, 

These  are  unjustifiable  yearnings  ; 

If  you  are  lame,»and  deaf,  and  blind. 

You’ve  had  your  Three  sufficient  Warnings; 

So  come  along,  no  more  we’ll  part ;’ 

He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his  dart. 

And  now  Old  Dodson,  turning  pale. 

Yields  to  his  fate — so  ends  my  tale. 

THOMAS  MOSS. 

The  Rev.  Thomas  Moss,  who  died  in  1808,  minis- 
ter of  Brierly  Hill,  and  of  Trentham,  in  Staffordshire, 
published  anonymously,  in  1769,  a collection  of  mis- 
cellaneous poems,  forming  a thin  quarto,  which  he 
had  printed  at  Wolverhampton.  One  piece  was 
copied  by'  Dodsley  into  his  ‘ Annual  Register,’  and 
from  thence  has  been  transferred  (different  persons 
being  assigned  as  the  author)  into  almost  every 
periodical  and  collection  of  fugitive  verses.  This 
poem  is  entitled  The  Beggar  (sometimes  called  The 
Beggar’s  Petition),  and  contains  much  pathetic  and 
natural  sentiment  finely  expressed. 

The  Beggar. 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a poor  old  man  ! 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him  to  your  door. 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span. 

Oh  1 give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless  your  store. 

* An  allusion  to  the  illegal  warrant  used  against  Wilkes, 
which  was  the  c.ause  of  so  much  contention  in  its  day. 


These  tattered  clothes  my  poverty  bespeak. 

These  hoary  locks  proclaim  my  lengthened  years  ; 
And  many  a furrow  in  my  grief-worn  cheek. 

Has  been  the  channel  to  a stream  of  tears. 

Yon  house,  erected  on  the  rising  ground. 

With  tempting  aspect  drew  me  from  my  road. 

For  plenty  there  a residence  has  found. 

And  grandeur  a magnificent  abode. 

(Hard  is  the  fate  of  the  infirm  and  poor!) 

Here  craving  for  a morsel  of  their  bread, 

A pampered  menial  forced  me  from  the  door, 

To  seek  a sheltei  in  a humbler  shed. 

Oh  1 take  me  to  yo  >r  hospitable  dome. 

Keen  blows  the  wind,  and  piercing  is  the  cold  ! 
Short  is  my  passage  to  the  friendly  tomb. 

For  I am  poor,  and  miserably  old. 

Should  I reveal  the  source  of  every  grief. 

If  soft  humanity  e’er  touched  your  breast. 

Your  hands  would  not  withhold  the  kind  relief. 

And  tears  of  pity  could  not  be  repressed. 

Heaven  sends  misfortunes — why  should  we  repine? 

’Tis  Heaven  has  brought  me  to  the  state  you  see : 
And  your  condition  may  be  soon  like  mine. 

The  child  of  sorrow,  and  of  misery. 

A little  farm  was  my  paternal  lot. 

Then,  like  the  lark,  I sprightly  hailed  the  mom ; 
But  ah  ! oppression  forced  me  from  my  cot ; 

My  cattle  died,  and  blighted  was  my  corn. 

My  daughter — once  the  comfort  of  my  age  1 
Lured  by  a villain  from  her  native  home. 

Is  cast,  abandoned,  on  the  world’s  wide  stage. 

And  doomed  in  scanty  poverty  to  roam. 

My  tender  wife — sweet  soother  of  my  care! 

Struck  with  sad  anguish  at  the  stern  decree. 

Fell — lingering  fell,  a victim  to  despair. 

And  left  the  world  to  wretchedness  and  me. 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a poor  old  man  ! 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him  to  your  door, 
AVhose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span. 

Oh!  give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless  your  store. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 

Though  most  Scottish  authors  at  this  time — as 
Thomson,  Mallet,  Hamilton,  and  Beattie — composed 
in  the  English  language,  a few,  stimulated  by  the 
success  of  Allan  Ramsay,  cultivated  their  native 
tongue  with  considerable  success.  The  popularity 
of  Ramsay’s  ‘Tea-Table  Miscellany’  led  to  other 
collections  and  to  new  contributions  to  Scottish 
song.  In  1751  appeared  ‘Yair’s  Charmer,’  and  in 
1769  David  Herd  published  a more  complete  collec- 
tion of  ‘ Scottish  Songs  and  Ballads,’  which  he  re- 
printed, with  additions,  in  1776. 

ALEXANDER  ROSS. 

Alexander  Ross,  a schoolmaster  in  Lochlee,  in 
Angus,  when  nearly  seventy  years  of  age,  in  1768 
published  at  Aberdeen,  b)'  the  advice  of  Dr  Beattie, 
a volume  entitled  Ilelenore,  or  the  Fortunate  Shep- 
herdess, a Pastoral  Tale  in  the  Scottish  Dialect,  to 
which  are  added  a few  Songs  by  the  Author.  Ross 
was  a good  descriptive  poet,  and  some  of  his  songs 
— as  Woo’d,  and  Married,  and  a’.  The  Rock  and  the 
Wee  Pickle  Tow — are  still  popular  in  Scotland.  Being 
chiefly  written  in  the  Kincardineshire  dialect  (w'hich 
differs  in  many  expressions,  and  in  pronunciation, 
from  the  Lowland  Scotch  of  Burns),  Ross  is  less 
known  out  of  his  native  district  than  he  ought  to 
be.  Beattie  took  a warm  interest  in  the  ‘ good- 

12.5 


PROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


liuin  )\irc(i,  social,  happy  old  man’ — who  was  inde- 
pciulciit  on  £20  a-ycar — and  to  promote  the  sale 
of  his  volnnie.  he  addressed  a letter  and  a poetical 
e[)istle  in  praise  of  it  to  the  Aberdeen  Journal.  The 
c[)istle  is  remarkable  as  Beattie’s  only  attempt  in 
Aberdeenshire  Scotch ; one  verse  of  it  is  equal  to 
Burns : — 

0 bonny  arc  our  greensward  hows, 

Where  through  tlie  birks  the  burnie  rows, 

And  the  bee  bums,  and  the  ox  lows. 

And  saft  winds  rustle. 

And  shejiherd  lads  on  sunny  knowes 
Blaw  the  blytho  whistle. 

Boss  died  in  1784,  at  the  great  age  of  eighty-six. 

IFoo’cZ,  and  Married,  and  o’. 

The  bride  cam’  out  o’  the  byre. 

And,  O,  as  she  dighted  her  cheeks  1 
Sirs,  I’m  to  be  married  the  night. 

And  have  neither  blankets  nor  sheets ; 

Have  neither  blankets  nor  sheet.s. 

Nor  scarce  a coverlet  too  ; 

The  bride  that  has  a’  thing  to  borrow. 

Has  e’en  right  muckle  ado. 

Woo’d,  and  married,  and  a’. 

Married,  and  woo’d,  and  a’  1 
And  was  she  nae  very  weel  off, 

I'hat  was  woo’d,  and  married,  and  a’  ? 

Out  spake  the  bride’s  father. 

As  he  cam’  in  frae  the  pleugh : 

0,  haud  your  tongue  my  dochter. 

And  ye’se  get  gear  enough  ; 

The  stirk  stands  i’  the  tether. 

And  our  braw  bawsint  yade. 

Will  carry  ye  hame  your  corn — 

What  wad  ye  be  at,  ye  jade  ? 

Out  spake  the  bride’s  mither. 

What  deil  needs  a’  this  pride? 

1 had  nae  a plack  in  my  pouch 
That  night  I was  a bride  ; 

My  gown  was  linsy-woolsy. 

And  ne’er  a sark  ava  ; 

And  ye  hae  ribbons  and  buskins, 

Mae  than  ane  or  twa. 

Out  spake  the  bride’s  brither. 

As  he  cam’  in  wi’  the  kye : 

Poor  Willie  wad  ne’er  hae  ta’en  ye. 

Had  he  kent  ye  as  weel  as  I ; 

For  ye’re  baith  proud  and  saucy, 

And  no  for  a poor  man’s  wife ; 

Gin  I canna  get  a better, 

I’se  ne’er  tak  ane  i’  my  life. 

# * •» 


JOHN  LOWE. 

John  Lowe  (1750-1798),  a student  of  divinity', 
son  of  the  gardener  at  Kenmore  in  G.alloway,  was 
author  of  the  fine  pathetic  lyric,  Mary’s  t)ream, 
which  he  wrote  on  the  death  of  a gentleman  named 
Miller,  a surgeon  at  sea,  who  was  attached  to  a 
Miss  M'Ghie,  Airds.  The  poet  was  tutor  in  the 
family  of  the  lady’s  father,  and  was  betrothed  to 
her  sister.  He  emigrated  to  America,  however, 
where  he  married  another  female,  became  dissi- 
pated, and  died  in  great  misery  near  Fredericks- 
burgh.  Though  Lowe  wrote  numerous  other  pieces, 
prompted  by  poetical  feeling  and  the  romantic 
scenery’  of  his  native  glen,  his  ballad  alone  is  worthy 
of  preservation. 


TO  1780. 


Mary's  Dream. 

The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill 
Which  rises  o’er  the  source  of  Dee, 

And  from  the  eastern  summit  shed 
Her  silver  light  on  tower  and  tree; 
When  Mary  laid  her  down  to  sleep. 

Her  thoughts  on  Sandy  far  at  sea, 
When,  soft  and  low,  a voice  was  heard, 
Saying,  ‘ Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  1’ 

She  from  her  pillow  gently  raised 
Her  head,  to  ask  who  there  might  be, 
And  saw  young  Sandy  shivering  stand. 
With  visage  pale,  and  hollow  ee. 

‘ 0 Mary  dear,  cold  is  my  clay  ; 

It  lies  beneath  a stormy  sea. 

Far,  far  from  thee  I sleep  in  death  ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! 

Three  stormy  nights  and  stormy  days 
We  tossed  upon  the  raging  main  ; 

And  long  we  strove  our  bark  to  save. 

But  ail  our  striving  was  in  vain. 

Even  then,  when  horror  chilled  iiiy  blood. 
My  heart  W’as  filled  with  love  for  thee : 
The  storm  is  past,  and  I at  rest ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me ! 

0 maiden  dear,  thyself  prepare  ; 

We  soon  shall  meet  upon  that  shore. 
Where  love  is  free  from  doubt  and  care. 
And  thou  and  I shall  part  no  more  1’ 
Loud  crowed  the  cock,  the  shadow  fled. 

No  more  of  Sandy  could  she  see ; 

But  soft  the  passing  spirit  said, 

‘ Sweet  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  1’ 

LADY  ANNE  BARNARD. 


Lady  Anne  Barnard  was  authoress  of  Aula 
Robin  Gray,  one  of  the  most  perfect,  tender,  and 
afiecting,  of  all  our  ballads  or  talcs  of  humble  life. 


Balcarres  HouBe,  Fifeshire : where  ‘ Auld  Robin  Gray' 
was  composed. 


About  the  year  1771,  Lady  Anne  composed  the 
ballad  to  an  ancient  air.  It  instantly  became  po- 

'2(> 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


rcETS. 


inilar,  but  tbe  lady  kept  tbe  secret  of  its  author- 
ship for  the  long  period  of  fifty  years,  when,  in 
1823,  she  acknowledged  it  in  a letter  to  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  accompanying  the  disclosure  with  a full  ac- 
count of  tlie  circumstances  under  which  it  was 
written.  At  the  same  time  Lady  Anne  sent  two 
continuations  to  the  ballad,  which,  like  all  other 
continuations  (Don  Quixote,  perhaps,  excepted),  are 
greatly  inferior  to  the  original.  Indeed,  the  tale  of 
sorrow  is  so  complete  in  all  its  parts,  that  no  addi- 
tions could  be  made  without  marring  its  simplicity 
or  its  pathos.  Lady  Anne  was  daughter  of  James 
Lindsay,  fifth  Earl  of  Balcarres ; she  was  born  8th 
December  1750,  married  in  1793  to  Sir  Andrew 
Barnard,  librarian  to  George  III.,  and  died,  without 
issue,  on  the  8th  of  May  1825. 

Auld  Robin  Gray. 

Wlien  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  at 
hame. 

And  a’  the  warld  to  sleep  are  gane ; 

The  waes  o’  my  heart  fa’  in  showers  frae  my  ee, 

VV'hen  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  loo’d  me  weel,  and  socht  me  for  his 
bride ; 

But  saving  a croun,  he  had  naething  else  beside : 

To  mak  that  croun  a pund,  young  Jamie  gaed  to  sea ; 
A.nd  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me. 

He  hadna  been  awa  a week  but  only  twa, 

'U'hen  my  mother  she  fell  sick,  and  the  cow  was 
stown  awa ; 

My  father  brak  his  arm,  and  young  Jamie  at  the  sea, 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  cam’  a-courtin’  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother  couldna  spin  ; 
I toiled  day  and  nicht,  but  their  bread  I couldna  win  ; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and,  wi’  tears  in 
his  ee, 

Said,  Jennie,  for  their  sakes.  Oh,  marry  me ! 

My  heart  it  said  nay,  for  I looked  for  Jamie  back  ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was  a 
wreck : 

The  ship  it  was  a wreck — why  didna  Jamie  dee  ? 

Or  why  do  I live  to  say,  Wae’s  me? 

My  father  argued  sair  ; my  mother  didna  speak  ; 

But  she  lookit  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to 
break : 

Sae  they  gied  him  my  hand,  though  my  heart  was  in 
the  sea ; 

And  auld  Robin  Gray  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I hadna  been  a wife  a week  but  only  four. 

When,  sitting  sae  mournfully  at  the  door, 

I saw  my  Jamie’s  wraith,  for  I couldna  think  it  he. 
Till  he  said,  I’m  come  back  for  to  marry  thee. 

Oh,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  did  we  say ; 

We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  we  tore  ourselves  away : 

I wish  I were  dead ! but  I’m  no  like  to  dee ; 

And  why  do  I live  to  say,  Wae’s  me? 

I gang  like  a ghaist,  and  I carena  to  spin  ; 

I daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a sin ; 

But  I’ll  do  my  best  a gude  wife  to  be. 

For  auld  Robin  Gray  is  kind  unto  me. 


MISS  JANE  ELLIOT  AND  MRS  COCKBtJRN. 

Two  versions  of  the  national  ballad,  The  Flowers 
of  the  Forest,  continue  to  divide  the  favour  of  all 
lovers  of  song,  and  both  are  the  composition  of 
ladies.  In  minute  observation  of  domestic  life, 
traits  of  character  and  manners,  and  the  softer  lan- 


MISS ELLIOT  AND  MRS  COCK3UBN. 


guage  of  the  heart,  ladies  have  often  excelled  the 
‘ lords  of  tlie  creation,’  and  in  music  their  triumphs 
are  manifold.  The  first  copy  of  verses,  bewailing 
the  losses  Sustained  at  Flodden,  was  written  by 
Miss  Jane  Elliot  of  Minto,  sister  to  Sir  Gilbert 
Elliot  of  Minto.  The  second  song,  which  appears 
to  be  on  the  same  subject,  but  was  in  reality  occa- 
sioned by  the  bankruptcy  of  a number  of  gentlemen 
in  Selkirkshire,  is  by  Alicia  Rutherford  of  Fernilie, 
who  was  afterwards  married  to  Mr  Patrick  Cock- 
burn,  advocate,  and  died  in  Edinburgh  in  1794. 
We  agree  with  Mr  Allan  Cunningham  in  preferring 
Miss  Elliot’s  song;  but  both  are  beautiful,  and  in 
singing,  the  second  is  the  most  effective. 

The  Flower'S  of  the  Forest, 

[By  Miss  Jane  Elliot.] 

I’ve  heard  the  lilting  at  our  yowe-milking. 

Lasses  a-lilting  before  the  dawn  of  day  ; 

But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede  away. 

At  buchts,  in  the  morning,  nae  blythe  lads  are  scorning. 
The  lasses  are  lonely,  and  dowie,  and  wae ; 

Nae  daflin’,  nae  gabbin’,  but  sighing  and  sabbing. 

Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglen  and  hies  her  away. 

In  hairst,  at  the  .shearing,  nae  youths  now  are  jeering. 
The  bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runkled,  and  gray  ; 

At  fair,  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae  fleeching — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede  away. 

At  e’en,  at  the  gloaming,  nae  swankies  are  roaming, 
’Bout  stacks  wi’  the  lasses  at  bogle  to  play  ; 

But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her  dearie — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede  away. 

Dule  and  wae  for  the  order,  sent  our  lads  to  the  Border  I 
The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the  day ; 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  foucht  aye  the  fore- 
most. 

The  prime  o’  our  land,  aie  cauld  in  the  clay. 

We  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  our  yowe-milking. 
Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae; 

Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede  away. 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest. 

[By  Mrs  Cockbum.] 

I’ve  seen  the  smiling 
Of  Fortune  beguiling  ; 

I’ve  felt  all  its  favours,  and  found  its  decay : 

Sweet  was  its  blessing. 

Kind  its  caressing  ; 

But  now  ’tis  fled — fled  far  away. 

I’ve  seen  the  forest 
Adorned  the  foremost 

With  flowers  of  the  fairest  most  plea.>ant  and  gay  ; 
Sae  bonnie  was  their  blooming  I 
Their  scent  the  air  perfuming  ! 

But  now  they  are  withered  and  weeded  away. 

I’ve  seen  the  morning 
With  gold  the  hills  adorning. 

And  loud  tempest  storming  before  the  mieJ-day. 

I’ve  seen  Tweed’s  silver  streams. 

Shining  in  the  sunny  beams. 

Grow  drumly  and  dark  as  he  rowed  on  his  way. 

Oh,  fickle  Fortune, 

Why  this  cruel  sporting  ? 

Oh,  why  still  perplex  us,  poor  sons  of  a day  ? 

Nae  mair  your  smiles  can  cheer  me, 

Nae  mair  your  frowns  can  fear  me  ; 

For  the  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede  away. 

127 


FROM  1727  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  17PA. 


JOHN  SKINNER. 

Somctliing  of  a national  as  well  as  a patriotic  cha- 
racter may  1)C  claimed  for  the  lively  song  of  TuUoch- 
gnrunt,  the  composition  of  the  Kev.  John  Skinni;r 
(1721-1807),  who  inspired  some  of  the  strains  of 
linrns,  Jind  who  deli{{hted,  in  life  as  in  his  poetry,  to 
dilfuse  feelings  of  kindliness  and  ffood  will  among 
men.  Mr  Skinner  officiated  as  Episcopal  minister 
of  Longside,  Aberdeenshire,  for  sixty-five  years. 
After  the  troubled  period  of  the  liebellion  of  174,5, 
when  the  Episcopal  clergy  of  Scotland  laboured 
under  the  charge  of  disaffection,  Skinner  was  im- 
prisoned six  months  for  |)reaching  to  more  than  four 
persons!  lie  died  in  his  son’s  liouse  at  Aberdeen, 
having  realised  his  wish  of  ‘seeing  once  more  his 
children’s  grandchildren,  and  j)eace  upon  Israel.’ 
Besides  ‘ Tullochgorum,’  and  other  songs,  Skinner 
wrote  an  Ecclesiustical  History  of  Scotland,  and  some 
theological  treatises. 

Tullochgorum. 

Come  gie’s  a sang,  Montgomery  cried, 

And  lay  your  disputes  all  aside  ; 

What  signifies’t  for  folks  to  chide 
I’or  wliat’s  been  done  before  them  1 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree. 

Whig  and  Tory,  Whig  and  Tory, 

Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree 
To  drop  their  Whigmegmorum. 

Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree 

To  spend  tliis  night  with  mirth  and  glee. 

And  cheerfu’  sing  alang  wi’  me 
The  reel  of  Tullochgorum. 

0,  Tullochgorum’s  my  delight  ; 

It  gars  us  a’  in  ane  unite  ; 

And  ony  sumph  that  keeps  up  spite. 

In  conscience  I abhor  him. 

Blithe  and  merry  we’s  be  a’. 

Blithe  and  merry,  blithe  and  merry, 

Blithe  and  merry  we’s  be  a’. 

And  mak’  a cheerfu  quorum. 

Blithe  and  merry  we’s  be  a’. 

As  lang  as  we  hae  breath  to  draw, 

And  dance,  till  we  be  like  to  fa’. 

The  reel  of  Tullochgorum. 

There  need  na  be  sae  great  a phrase 
Wi’  dringing  dull  Italian  lays  ; 

I wadna  gie  our  ain  strathspeys 
For  half  a hundred  score  o’  ’em. 

They’re  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best, 

Diuff  and  dowie,  douff  and  dowie. 

They’re  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best, 

Wi’  a’  their  variorums. 

They’re  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best, 

Their  allegros,  and  a’  the  rest. 

They  canna  please  a Highland  taste, 

Compared  wi’  Tullochgorum. 

Let  warldly  minds  themselves  oppress 
Wi’  fear  of  want,  and  double  cess. 

And  sullen  sots  themselves  distress 
Wi’  keeping  up  decorum. 

Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit. 

Sour  and  sulky,  sour  and  sulky. 

Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit. 

Like  auld  Philosophorum  1 
Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit, 

Wi’  neither  .sense,  nor  mirth,  nor  wit, 

And  canna  rise  to  shake  a fit 
At  the  reel  of  Tullochgorum  1 

May  choicest  blessings  still  attend 
Each  honest-hearted  open  friend  ; 

And  calm  and  quiet  be  his  end. 

And  a’  that’s  good  watch  o’er  him ! 


May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 

Peace  and  plenty,  peace  and  plenty. 

May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot. 

And  daintie.s,  a great  store  o’  ’em  ! 

May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot. 

Unstained  by  any  vicious  blot  ; 

And  may  he  never  want  a groat. 

That’s  fond  of  Tullochgorum. 

But  for  the  discontented  fool. 

Who  wants  to  be  op[>ression’s  tool. 

May  envy  knaw  his  rotten  soul. 

And  discontent  devour  him  ! 

May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 

Uool  and  sorrow,  dool  and  sorrow. 

May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance. 

And  nane  say,  Wae’s  me  for’im! 

May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance. 

And  a’  the  ills  that  come  frae  France, 

Whae’er  he  be  that  winna  dance 
The  reel  of  Tullochgorum  ! 

ROBERT  CRAWFORD. 

Kobert  Crawford,  autlior  of  The  Bush  aboon 
Traquair,  and  the  still  finer  lyric  of  Tweedside,  was 
the  brother  of  Colonel  Crawford  of  Achinames.  lie 
assisted  Allan  Ramsay  in  his  ‘ Tea-Table  Miscel- 
lany,’ and,  according  to  information  obtained  by 
Burns,  was  drowned  in  coming  from  I'rance  in 
the  year  1733.  Crawford  had  genuine  poetical 
fancy  and  expression.  ‘ The  true  muse  of  native 
pastoral,’  says  Allan  Cunningham,  ‘seeks  not  to 
adorn  herself  with  unnatural  ornaments;  her  spirit 
is  in  homely  love  and  fireside  joy  ; tender  and  simple, 
like  the  religion  of  the  land,  she  utters  nothing  out 
of  keeping  with  the  character  of  her  people,  and  the 
aspect  of  the  soil ; and  of  this  spirit,  and  of  this  feel* 
ing,  Crawford  is  a large  partaker.’ 

The  Bush  aboon  Traquair. 

Hear  me,  ye  nymphs,  and  every  swain, 

I’ll  tell  how  Peggy  grieves  me  ; 

Though  thus  1 languish  and  complain, 

Alas ! she  ne’er  believes  me. 

My  vows  and  sighs,  like  silent  air. 

Unheeded,  never  move  her  ; 

At  the  bonnie  Bush  aboon  Traquair, 

’Twas  there  I first  did  love  her. 

That  day  she  smiled  and  made  me  glad. 

No  maid  seemed  ever  kinder  ; 

I thought  myself  the  luckiest  lad. 

So  sweetly  there  to  find  her  ; 

I tried  to  soothe  my  amorous  flame. 

In  words  that  I thought  tender  ; 

If  more  there  pas.sed,  I’m  not  to  blame — 

I meant  not  to  offend  her. 

Yet  now  she  scornful  flees  the  plain. 

The  fields  we  then  frequented  ; 

If  e’er  we  meet  she  shows  disdain. 

She  looks  as  ne’er  acquainted. 

The  bonnie  bush  bloomed  fair  in  May, 

It’s  sweets  I’ll  aye  remember  ; 

But  now  her  frowns  make  it  decay— 

It  fades  as  in  December. 

Ye  rural  powers,  who  hear  my  strains. 

Why  thus  should  Peggy  grieve  me  1 

0 make  her  partner  in  my  pains. 

Then  let  her  smiles  relieve  me  ; 

If  not,  my  love  will  turn  de.spair. 

My  passion  no  more  tender  ; 

I’ll  leave  the  Bush  aboon  Traquair — 

To  lonely  wilds  I’ll  wander. 

128 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  FEROOSSON. 


Thvecdskle. 


What  beauties  docs  Flora  disclose  ! 

How  sweet  are  her  smiles  upon  Twei'd  1 
Yet  Mary’s,  still  sweeter  than  those, 

Both  nature  and  fancy  exceed. 

No  daisy,  nor  sweet  blushing  rose. 

Not  all  the  g!iy  flowers  of  the  field, 

Not  Tweed,  gliding  gently  through  those, 

Such  beauty  and  pleasure  does  yield. 

The  warblers  are  heard  in  the  grove. 

The  linnet,  the  lark,  and  the  thrush ; 

The  blackbird,  and  sweet  cooing  dove. 

With  music  enchant  every  bush. 

Come  let  us  go  forth  to  the  mead  ; 

Let  us  see  how  ‘he  primroses  spring ; 

We’ll  lodge  in  some  village  on  Tweed, 

And  love  while  the  feathered  folk  sing. 

How  does  my  love  pass  the  long  day  t 
Does  Mary  not  tend  a few  sheep  ? 

Do  they  never  carelessly  stray 
While  happily  she  lies  asleep  ? 

Should  Tweed’s  murmurs  lull  her  to  rest. 

Kind  nature  indulging  my  bliss. 

To  ease  the  soft  pains  of  my  breast, 

I’d  steal  an  ambrosial  kiss. 

Tis  she  does  the  virgins  excel ; 

No  beauty  with  her  may  compare  ; 

Love’s  graces  around  her  do  dwell ; 

She’s  fairest  where  thousands  are  fair. 

Say,  charmer,  where  do  thy  flocks  stray  i 
Oh,  tell  me  at  morn  w'here  they  feed? 

Shall  I seek  them  on  sweet-winding  Tay? 

Or  the  pleasanter  banks  of  the  Tweed  ? 

SIR  GILBERT  ELLIOT. 

Sir  Gilbf.rt  Elliot,  author  of  what  Sir  Walter 
Scott  calls  ‘ the  beautiful  pastoral  song,’  beginning 
My  sheep  I neglected,  I broke  my  sheep-hook, 
was  father  of  the  first  Earl  of  !Minto,  and  was  dis- 
tinguished as  a speaker  in  parliament.  He  was  in 
1763  treasurer  of  the  navy,  and  afterwmrds  keeper 
of  the  signet  in  Scotland.  He  died  in  1777.  Mr 
Tytler  of  Woodhouselee  says,  that  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot, 
who  had  been  taught  the  German  flute  in  France, 
was  the  first  who  introduced  that  instrument  into 
Scotland,  about  the  year  1725. 

[^AmyntaJ] 

My  sheep  I neglected,  I broke  my  sheep-hook. 

And  all  the  gay  haunts  of  ray  youth  I forsook  ; 

No  more  for  Amynta  fresh  garlands  1 wove ; 

For  ambition,  1 said,  w'ould  soon  cure  me  of  love. 

Oh,  what  had  my  youth  with  ambition  to  do  ? 

Why  left  1 Amynta?  Why  broke  I my  vow? 

Oh,  give  me  my  sheep,  and  my  sheep-hook  restore, 
-Vnd  I’ll  wander  from  love  and  Amynta  no  more. 

Through  regions  remote  in  vain  do  I rove. 

And  bid  the  wide  ocean  secure  me  from  love! 

Oh,  fool ! to  imagine  that  aught  could  subdue 
A love  so  well-founded,  a passion  so  true ! 

Alas!  ’tis  too  late  at  thy  fate  to  repine  ; 

Poor  shepherd,  Amynta  can  never  be  thine  : 

Thy  tears  are  all  fruitless,  thy  wishes  are  vain, 

The  moments  neglected  return  not  again. 

ROBERT  FERGUSSON. 

Robert  Fergusson  was  the  poet  of  Scottish  city- 
life,  or  rather  the  laureate  of  Edinburgh.  A happy 
talent  of  portraying  the  peculiarities  of  local  man- 

61 


ners,  ii  nice  perception  of  the  ludicrous,  a vein  of 
original  comic  humour,  and  language  at  once  copious 
and  expressive,  form  his  cliief  merits  as  a poet.  He 
had  not  the  invention  or  picturesque  fancy  of  Allan 
Ramsay,  nor  the  energy  and  passion  of  Burns.  His 
mind  was  a liglit  w'arni  soil,  that  threw  up  early  its 
native  products,  sown  by  chance  or  little  exertion ; 
but  it  had  not  strength  and  tenacity  to  nurture  any 
great  or  valuable  production.  A few  short  years, 
however,  comprised  his  si>an  of  literature  and  of  life; 
and  criticism  w'ould  be  ill  employed  in  scrutinising 
with  severity  the  occasional  poems  of  a youth  of 
twenty-three,  written  from  momentary  feelings  and 
impulses,  amidst  professional  drudgerj’  or  midnight 
dissipation.  That  compositions  produced  under  such 
circumstances  should  still  exist  and  be  read  with 
pleasure,  is  sufiicient  to  show  that  Fergusson  must 
have  had  the  eye  and  fancy  of  a true  poet.  His 
observatien.  too,  for  one  so  young,  is  as  remarkable 
as  his  genius:  he  was  an  accurate  painter  of  scenes 
of  real  life  and  traits  of  Scottish  character,  and  his 
pictures  are  valuable  for  their  truth,  as  well  as  for 
their  liveliness  and  humour.  If  his  habits  had  been 
different,  we  might  have  possessed  more  agreeable 
delineations,  but  none  more  graphic  or  faithful. 
Fergusson  was  born  in  Edinburgh  on  the  17th  of 
October  1751.  His  father,  who  was  an  accountant  in 
the  British  Linen  Company’s  bank,  died  early,  but 
the  poet  received  a university  education,  having  ob- 
tained a bursary  in  St  Andrews,  where  he  continued 
from  his  thirteenth  to  his  seventeenth  I'car.  On 
quitting  college,  he  seems  to  have  been  truly  ‘ un- 
fitted with  an  aim,’  and  he  was  glad  to  take  employ- 
ment as  a copying  clerk  in  a lawy'er’s  office.  In 
this  mechanical  and  irksome  duty  his  days  were 
spent.  His  evenings  were  devoted  to  the  tavern, 
where,  over  ‘caller  oysters,’  with  ale  or  whisky,  the 
choice  spirits  of  Edinburgh  used  to  assemble.  Fer- 
gusson had  dangerous  qualifications  for  such  a life. 
His  conversational  powers  were  of  a very  superior 
description,  and  he  could  adapt  them  at  will  to 
humour,  pathos,  or  sarcasm,  as  the  occasion  might 
require.  He  was  well  educated,  had  a fund  of 
youthful  gaiety,  and  sung  Scottish  songs  with  taste 
and  effect.  To  these  qualifications  he  soon  added 
the  reputation  of  a poet.  Ruddiman’s  ‘Weekly 
Magazine’  had  been  commenced  in  1768,  and  was 
the  chosen  receptacle  for  the  floating  literature  of 
that  period  in  Scotland,  particularly  in  Edinburgh. 
During  the  two  last  }’ears  of  his  life,  Fergusson  was 
a constant  contributor  to  this  miscellany,  and  in 
1773  he  collected  and  published  his  pieces  in  one 
volume.  Of  the  success  of  the  publication  in  a 
pecuniary  point  of  view,  we  have  no  information ; 
but  that  it  was  well  received  by  the  jiublic,  there 
can  be  no  doubt,  from  the  popularity  and  fame  of 
its  author.  His  dissipations,  however,  were  always 
on  the  increase.  His  tavern  life  and  boon  com- 
panions were  hastening  him  on  to  a premature  and 
painful  death.  His  reason  first  gave  way,  and  his 
widowed  mother  being  unable  to  maintain  him  at 
home,  he  was  sent  to  an  asylum  for  the  insane.  The 
religious  impressions  of  his  youth  returned  at  times 
to  overwhelm  him  with  dread,  but  his  gentle  and 
affectionate  nature  was  easily  soothed  by  the  atten- 
tions of  his  relatives  and  friends.  His  recovery  was 
anticipated,  but  after  about  two  months’  confine  • 
ment,  he  died  in  his  cell  on  the  16th  of  October 
1774.  His  remains  were  interred  in  the  Canongate 
churchyard,  where  they  lay  unnoticed  for  twelve 
years,  till  Burns  erected  a simple  stone  to  mark  the 
poet’s  grave.  The  heartlessness  of  convivial  friend- 
ships is  well  known  : they  literally  ‘ wither  and  die 
in  a day.’  It  is  related,  however,  that  a youthful 
companion  of  Fergusson,  named  Burnet,  having 

129 


fRo.M  i7->7  (;V(;Lory)iDIA  OF  TO  1780. 


gone  to  the  Kast  and  inaile  some  money,  in- 

vited over  tlie  poet,  sending  at  tiie  same  time  a 
drauglit  for  XlOO  to  defray  Ids  expenses.  Tins  in- 
stance of  generosity  came  too  late  : the  poor  poet 
had  died  before  the  letter  arrived. 


Fergnsson’s  Tomb. 


Fergusson  may  be  considered  the  poetical  pro- 
genitor of  Burns.  Meeting  with  his  poems  in  his 
youth,  the  latter  ‘ strung  his  lyre  anew,’  and  copied 
I the  style  and  subjects  of  his  youthful  prototype. 
The  resemblance,  however,  was  only  temporary  and 
incidental.  Burns  had  a manner  of  his  own,  and 
though  he  sometimes  condescended,  like  Shakspeare, 
to  work  after  inferior  models,  all  that  was  rich  and 
valuable  in  the  composition  was  original  and  un- 
borrowed. lie  had  an  excessive  admiration  for  the 
writings  of  Fergusson,  and  even  preferred  them  to 
those  of  Ramsay,  an  opinion  in  which  few  will  con- 
cur. The  forte  of  Fergusson  Lay,  as  we  have  stated, 
in  his  representations  of  town-life.  The  King's  Birth- 
day, The  Sitting  of  the  Session,  Leith  Races,  &c.,  are 
all  excellent.  Still  better  is  his  feeling  description 
of  the  importance  of  Guid  Braid  Claith,  and  his 
Address  to  the  Tron-Kirk  Bell.  In  these  we  liave  a 
current  of  humorous  observations,  poetical  fancy, 
and  genuine  idiomatic  Scottish  expression.  The 
Farmer's  Ingle  suggested  ‘ The  Cotter’s  Saturday 
Night’  of  Burns,  and  it  is  as  faithful  in  its  descrip- 
tions, though  of  a humbler  class.  Burns  added 
passion,  sentiment,  and  patriotism  to  the  subject : 
Fergusson’s  is  a mere  sketch,  an  inventory  of  a 
farm- house,  unless  we  except  the  concluding  stanza, 
which  speaks  to  the  heart : — 

Peace  to  the  husbandman,  and  a’  his  tribe, 

Whase  care  fells  a’  our  wants  frae  year  to  year ! 

Lang  may  his  sock  and  cou’ter  turn  the  glebe. 

And  banks  of  corn  bend  down  wi’  laded  ear  ! 

May  Scotia’s  simmers  aye  look  gay  and  green  ; 

Her  yellow  hairsts  frae  scowry  blasts  decreed  ! 

May  a’  her  tenants  sit  fu’  snug  and  bien, 

Frae  the  hard  grip  o’  ails  and  poortith  freed — 
And  a lang  lasting  train  o’  peacefu’  hours  succeed  ! 

In  one  department — lyrical  poetry — whence  Bums 
draws  so  much  of  his  glory — Fergusson  does  not 
seem,  though  a singer,  to  have  made  any  efforts  to 
excel.  In  English  poetry  he  utterly  failed,  and  if 
we  consider  him  in  reference  to  his  countrymen, 


Falconer  or  Logan  (lie  received  the  same  education 
as  the  latter),  his  inferior  rank  as  a general  poet 
will  be  apparent. 

Braid  Claith. 

Ye  wha  are  fain  to  hae  your  name 
Wrote  i’  the  boiinie  book  o’  fame. 

Let  merit  iiac  pretension  claim 
To  laurelled  wreath. 

But  hap  ye  weel,  baith  back  and  wame. 

In  guid  braid  claith. 

He  that  some  ells  o’  this  may  fa’. 

And  slae-black  hat  on  pow  like  snaw, 

Bids  bauld  to  bear  the  gree  awa, 

Wi’  a’  this  graith. 

When  beinly  clad  wi’  shell  fu’  braw 
O’  guid  braid  claith. 

Waefucks  for  him  wha  has  nae  feck  o’tf 
For  he’s  a gowk  they’re  sure  to  geek  at ; 

A chiel  that  ne’er  will  be  res]>eckit 
While  he  draws  breath, 

Till  his  four  (jiiarters  are  bedeckit 
Wi’  guid  braid  claith. 

On  Sabbath-days  the  barber  spark. 

When  he  has  done  wi’  scrapin’  wark, 

Wi’  siller  broachie  in  his  sark. 

Gangs  trigly,  faith! 

Or  to  the  Meadows,  or  the  Park, 

In  guid  braid  claith. 

Weel  might  ye  trow,  to  see  them  theip. 

That  they  to  shave  your  haffits  bare. 

Or  curl  and  sleek  a pickle  hair. 

Would  be  right  laith, 

When  pacin’  wi’  a gawsy  air 

In  guid  braid  claith. 

If  ony  mettled  stirrah  green  > 

For  favour  frae  a lady’s  een, 

He  maunna  care  for  bein’  seen 
Before  he  sheath 
His  body  in  a scabbard  clean 

O’  guid  braid  claith. 

For,  gin  he  come  wi’  coat  threadbare, 

A feg  for  him  she  winna  care. 

But  crook  her  bonny  mou  fou  sair. 

And  scauld  him  baith  : 

Wooers  should  aye  their  travel  spare. 

Without  braid  claith. 

Braid  claith  lends  fouk  an  unca  heeze ; 

Maks  mony  kail-worms  butterflees ; 

Gies  mony  a doctor  his  degrees. 

For  little  skaith : 

In  short,  you  may  be  what  you  please, 

Wi’  guid  braid  claith. 

For  though  ye  had  as  wise  a snout  on. 

As  Shakspeare  or  Sir  Isaac  Newton, 

Your  judgment  fouk  would  hae  a doubt  on, 

I’ll  tak  my  aith, 

Till  they  could  see  ye  wi’  a suit  on 
O’  guid  braid  claith. 

To  the  Tron-Kirk  Bell. 

Wanwordy,  crazy,  dinsorae  thing. 

As  e’er  was  framed  to  jow  or  ring ! 

What  gar’d  them  sic  in  steeple  hing. 

They  ken  themsel ; 

But  weel  wat  I,  they  couldna  bring 
Waur  sounds  frae  hoU, 

• * * 

* Desire. 

180 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  FEROUSSOB. 


Fleece-merchants  may  look  bauld,  I trow, 
Sin’  a’  Auld  Reekie’s  ehilder  now 
Maun  stap  their  lugs  wi’  teats  o’  woo, 

Thy  sound  to  bang, 

And  keep  it  frae  gaun  through  and  through 
Wi’  jarrin’  twang. 

Your  noisy  tongue,  there’s  nae  abidin’t ; 
Like  scauldin’  wife’s,  there  is  nae  guidin’t ; 
When  I’m  ’bout  ony  business  eident. 

It’s  sair  to  thole ; 

To  deare  me,  then,  ye  tak  a pride  in’t, 

Wi’  senseless  knoll. 

Oh ! were  I provost  o’  the  town, 

I swear  by  a’  the  powers  aboon, 

I’d  bring  ye  wi’  a reesle  down  ; 

Nor  should  you  think 
(Sae  sair  I’d  crack  and  clour  your  crown) 
Again  to  clink. 

For,  when  I’ve  toom’d  the  meikle  cap. 

And  fain  wald  fa’  owre  in  a nap. 

Troth,  I could  doze  as  sound’s  a tap, 

Were’t  no  for  thee. 

That  gies  the  tither  weary  chap 
To  wauken  me. 

I dreamt  ae  nigh*  I saw  Auld  Nick : 

Quo’  he — ‘ This  bell  o’  mine’s  a trick, 

A wily  piece  o’  politic, 

A cunnin’  snare. 

To  trap  fouk  in  a cloven  stick. 

Ere  they’re  aware. 

As  lang’s  my  dautit  bell  hings  there, 

A’  body  at  the  kirk  will  skair; 

Quo’  they,  if  he  that  preaches  there 
Like  it  can  wound. 

We  downa  care  a single  hair 
For  joyfu’  sound.’ 

If  magistrates  wi’  me  would  ’gree. 

For  aye  tongue-tackit  should  you  be ; 

Nor  fleg  wi’  anti-melody 

Sic  honest  fouk, 

Whase  lugs  were  never  made  to  dree 
Thy  dolefu’  shock. 

But  far  frae  thee  the  bailies  dwell. 

Or  they  would  scunner  at  your  knell ; 

Gie  the  foul  thief  his  riven  bell,  ( 

And  then,  I trow. 

The  byword  bauds,  ‘ The  diel  himsel 
Has  got  his  due.’ 

Scottish  Scenery  and  Music. 

[From  ‘ Hame  Content,  a Satire.’] 

The  Amo  and  the  Tiber  lang 
Hae  run  fell  clear  in  Roman  sang ; 

But,  save  the  reverence  o’  schools. 

They’re  baith  but  lifeless,  dowie  pools. 
Bought  they  compare  wi’  bonnie  IVeed, 

As  clear  as  ony  lammer  bead  ? 

Or  are  their  shores  mair  sweet  and  gay 
Than  Fortha’s  haughs  or  banks  o’  Tay  ? 
Though  there  the  herds  can  jink  the  showers 
’Mang  thriving  vines  and  myrtle  bowers, 
And  blaw  the  reed  to  kittle  strains. 

While  echo’s  tongue  commends  their  pains ; 
Like  ours,  they  canna  warm  the  heart 
Wi’  simple  saft  bewitching  art. 

On  Leader  haughs  and  Y arrow  braes, 
Arcadian  herds  wad  tyne  their  lays. 

To  hear  the  mair  melodious  sounds 
That  live  on  our  poetic  grounds. 

Come,  Fancy ! come,  and  let  us  tread 
The  simmer’s  flowery  velvet  bed. 

And  a’  your  springs  delightful  lowse 
On  Tweeda’s  bank  or  Cowdenknowes. 


That,  ta’en  wi’  thy  enchanting  sang. 

Our  Scottish  lads  may  round  ye  thrang, 

Sae  pleased  they’ll  never  fash  again 
To  court  you  on  Italian  plain  ; 

Soon  will  they  guess  ye  only  wear 
The  simple  garb  o’  nature  here ; 

Mair  comely  far,  and  fair  to  sight. 

When  in  her  easy  deedin’  dight. 

Than  in  disguise  ye  was  before 
On  Tiber’s  or  on  Arno’s  shore. 

0 Bangour  !■  now  the  hills  and  dales 
Nae  mair  gie  back  thy  tender  tales ! 

The  birks  on  Y arrow  now  deplore. 

Thy  mournfu’  muse  has  left  the  shore. 

Near  what  bright  bum  or  crystal  spring. 

Did  you  your  winsome  whistle  hing  ? 

The  muse  shall  there,  wi’  watery  ee, 

Gie  the  dunk  swaird  a tear  for  thee ; 

And  Yarrow’s  genius,  dowie  dame  ! 

Shall  there  forget  her  bluid-stained  stream, 

On  thy  sad  grave  to  seek  repose. 

Who  mourned  her  fate,  condoled  her  woes. 

Cauler  Water. 

When  father  Adie  first  pat  spade  in 
The  bonnie  yard  o’  ancient  Eden, 

His  amry  had  nae  liquor  laid  in 
To  fire  his  mou  ; 

Nor  did  he  thole  his  wife’s  upbraidin’. 

For  bein’  fou. 

A cauler  burn  o’  siller  sheen, 

Ran  cannily  out-owre  the  green  ; 

And  when  our  gutcher’s  drouth  had  been 
To  bide  right  sair. 

He  loutit  down,  and  drank  bedeen 
A dainty  skair. 

His  bairns  had  a’,  before  the  flood, 

A langer  tack  o’  flesh  and  blood. 

And  on  mair  pithy  shanks  they  stood 
Than  Noah’s  line, 

Wha  still  hae  been  a feckless  brood, 

Wi’  drinkin’  wine. 

The  fuddlin’  bardies,  now-a-days, 

Rin  maukin-mad  in  Bacchus’  praise ; 

And  limp  and  stoiter  through  their  lays 
Anacreontic, 

While  each  his  sea  of  wine  displays 
As  big’s  the  Pontic. 

My  Muse  will  no  gang  far  frae  hame. 

Or  scour  a’  airths  to  hound  for  fame ; 

In  troth,  the  jillet  ye  might  blame 
For  thinkin’  on’t. 

When  elthly  she  can  find  the  theme 
O’  aqua  font. 

This  is  the  name  that  doctors  use. 

Their  patients’  noddles  to  confuse  ; 

Wi’  simples  clad  in  terras  abstruse. 

They  labour  still 
In  kittle  words  to  gar  you  roose 
Their  want  o’  skill. 

But  we’ll  hae  nae  sic  clitter-clatter ; 

And,  briefly  to  expound  the  matter. 

It  shall  be  ca’d  guid  cauler  water ; 

Than  whilk,  I trow. 

Few  drugs  in  doctors’  shops  are  better 
For  me  or  you. 

Though  joints  be  stiff  as  ony  mng. 

Your  pith  wi’  pain  be  sairly  dung. 

Be  you  in  cauler  water  flung 
Out-owre  the  lugs, 

’Twill  mak  you  souple,  swack,  and  young, 
Withouten  drugs. 

’ Mr  Hamilton  of  Bangour,  author  of  the  beautiful  ballaa 
‘ The  Braes  of  Yarrow.’  , 

131 


paoM  1727  CYCLOPJ?<ll)I A OF  ro  *700. 


Though  cholic  or  the  heart-scad  tcaze  us ; 

Or  ony  inward  dwaain  should  seize  us; 

It  masters  a’  sic  fell  diseases 

That  would  ye  spulzie, 

And  brings  them  to  a canny  crisis 
Wi’  little  tulzie. 

Were’t  no  for  it,  the  bonnie  lasses 
Wad  glower  nae  mair  in  keekin’-glasses; 

And  soon  tyne  dint  o’  a’  the  graces 
That  aft  conveen 

In  gleefu’  looks,  and  bonnie  faces, 

To  catch  our  een. 

The  fairest,  then,  might  die  a maid, 

And  Cupid  quit  his  shootin’  trade; 

For  wha,  through  clarty  masquerade, 

Could  then  discover 
Whether  the  features  under  shade 
Were  worth  a lover! 

As  simmer  rains  bring  simmer  flowers. 

And  leaves  to  deed  the  birken  bowers, 

Sae  beauty  gets  by  cauler  showers 
Sae  rich  a bloom. 

As  for  estate,  or  heavy  dowers. 

Aft  stands  in  room. 

What  maks  Auld  Reekie’s  dames  sae  fair! 

It  canna  be  the  halesome  air; 

But  cauler  burn,  beyond  compare. 

The  best  o’  onie. 

That  gars  them  a’  sic  graces  skair. 

And  blink  sae  bonnie. 

On  May-day,  in  a fairy  ring. 

We’ve  seen  them  round  St  Anthon’s  spring,' 

Frae  grass  the  cauler  dew-draps  wring 
To  weet  their  een. 

And  water,  clear  as  crystal  spring. 

To  synd  them  clean. 

Oh  may  they  still  pursue  the  way 
To  look  sae  feat,  sae  clean,  sae  gay ! 

Then  shall  their  beauties  glance  like  May  ; 

And,  like  her,  be 
The  goddess  of  the  vocal  spray. 

The  Muse  and  me. 

[A  Sunday  in  Edinburgh.'] 

[From  ‘ Auld  Reekie.*] 

On  Sunday,  here,  an  altered  scene 
O’  men  and  manners  meets  our  een. 

Ane  wad  maist  trow,  some  people  chose 
To  change  their  faces  wi’  their  clo’es. 

And  fain  wad  gar  ilk  neibour  think 
They  thirst  for  guidness  as  for  drink ; 

But  there’s  an  unco  dearth  o’  grace. 

That  has  nae  mansion  but  the  face. 

And  never  can  obtain  a part 
In  benmost  corner  o’  the  heart. 

Why  should  religion  mak  us  sad. 

If  good  frae  virtue’s  to  be  had ! 

Na : rather  gleefu’  turn  your  face. 

Forsake  hypocrisy,  grimace ; 

And  never  hae  it  understood 
Y ou  fleg  mankind  frae  being  good. 

In  afternoon,  a’  brawly  buskit. 

The  joes  and  lasses  loe  to  frisk  it. 

Some  tak  a great  delight  to  place 
The  modest  bon-grace  o>vre  the  face ; 

Though  you  may  see,  if  so  inclined. 

The  turning  o’  the  leg  behind. 

Now,  Comely-Garden  and  the  Park 
Refresh  them,  after  forenoon’s  wark : 

• St  Anthony’s  Well,  a beautiful  small  spring,  on  Artliur’s 
Beat,  near  Edinburgh.  Thither  it  is  still  the  practice  of  young 
Ed  'nburgh  maidens  to  resort  on  May-day. 


Newhaven,  Leith,  or  Canonmills, 

Supply  them  in  their  Sunday’s  gills ; 

Where  writers  aften  spend  their  pence. 

To  stock  their  heads  wi’  drink  and  sense. 

While  danderin  cits  delight  to  stray 
To  Castlehill  or  public  way. 

Where  they  nae  other  purpose  mean. 

Than  that  fool  cause  o’  being  seen. 

Let  me  to  Arthur’s  Seat  pursue, 

V here  bonnie  pastures  meet  the  view. 

And  mony  a wild-lorn  scene  accrues. 

Befitting  Willie  Shakspeare’s  muse. 

If  Fancy  there  would  join  the  thrang. 

The  desert  rocks  and  hills  amang. 

To  echoes  we  should  lilt  and  play. 

And  gle  to  mirth  the  live-lang  day. 

Or  should  some  cankered  biting  shower 
The  day  and  a’  her  sweets  deflower. 

To  Holyrood-house  let  me  stray. 

And  gie  to  musing  a’  the  day ; 

Lamenting  what  auld  Scotland  knew, 

Bein  days  for  ever  frae  her  view. 

O Hamilton,  for  shame  ! the  Muse 
Would  pay  to  thee  her  couthy  vows. 

Gin  ye  wad  tent  the  humble  strain. 

And  gie’s  our  dignity  again! 

For,  oh,  wae’s  me!  the  thistle  springs 
In  domicile  o’  ancient  kings. 

Without  a patriot  to  regret 
Our  palace  and  our  ancient  state. 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  OF  THE  PERIOD  1727 — 1780. 

Ad  A micas. 

[By  Richard  West — written  at  the  age  of  twenty.  This 
amiable  poet  died  in  his  twenty-sixth  year,  1742.] 

Yes,  happy  youths,  on  Camus’  sedgy  side. 

You  feel  each  joy  that  friendship  can  divide; 

Each  realm  of  science  and  of  art  explore. 

And  with  the  ancient  blend  the  modern  lore. 

Studious  alone  to  learn  whate’er  may  tend 
To  raise  the  genius,  or  the  heart  to  mend  ; 

Now  pleased  along  the  cloistered  walk  you  rove. 

And  trace  the  verdant  mazes  of  the  grove. 

Where  social  oft,  and  oft  alone,  ye  choose. 

To  catch  the  zephyr,  and  to  court  the  muse. 
Meantime  at  me  (while  all  devoid  of  art 
These  lines  give  back  the  image  of  my  heart). 

At  me  the  power  that  comes  or  soon  or  late. 

Or  aims,  or  seems  to  aim,  the  dart  of  fate ; 

From  you  remote,  methinks,  alone  I stand. 

Like  some  sad  exile  in  a desert  land ; 

Around  no  friends  their  lenient  care  to  join 
In  mutual  warmth,  and  mix  their  hearts  with  mine 
Or  real  pains,  or  those  which  fancy  raise. 

For  ever  blot  the  sun.shine  of  my  days ; 

To  sickness  still,  and  still  to  grief  a prey. 

Health  turns  from  me  her  rosy  face  away. 

Just  Heaven!  what  sin  ere  life  begins  to  bloom. 
Devotes  my  head  untimely  to  the  tomb ! 

Did  e’er  this  hand  against  a brother’s  life 
Drug  the  dire  bowl,  or  point  the  murderous  knife ! 
Did  e’er  this  tongue  the  slanderer’s  tale  proclaim. 

Or  madly  violate  my  Maker’s  name ! 

Did  e’er  this  heart  betray  a friend  or  foe. 

Or  know  a thought  but  all  the  world  might  know! 

As  yet  just  started  from  the  lists  of  time. 

My  growing  years  have  scarcely  told  their  prime ; 
Useless,  as  yet,  through  life  I’ve  idly  run. 

No  pleasures  tasted,  and  few  duties  done. 

Ah,  who,  ere  autumn’s  mellowing  .suns  appear. 

Would  pluck  the  promise  of  the  vernal  year ; 

Or,  ere  the  grapes  their  purple  hue  betray. 

Tear  the  crude  cluster  from  the  mourning  spray ! 

132 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  HAMMOND. 


Stem  power  of  fate,  whose  ebon  sceptre  rules 
The  Stygian  deserts  and  Cimmerian  pools, 

Forbear,  nor  rashly  smite  my  youthful  heart, 

A victim  yet  unworthy  of  thy  dart ; 

Ah,  stay  till  age  shall  blast  my  withering  face, 

Shake  in  my  head,  and  falter  in  my  pace ; 

Then  aim  the  shaft,  then  meditate  the  blow. 

And  to  the  dead  my  willing  shade  shall  go. 

Row  weak  is  man  to  reason’s  judging  eyel 
Born  in  this  moment,  in  the  next  we  die ; 

Part  mortal  clay,  and  part  ethereal  fire. 

Too  proud  to  creep,  too  humble  to  aspire. 

In  vain  our  plans  of  happiness  we  raise. 

Pain  is  our  lot,  and  patience  is  our  praise ; 

Wealth,  lineage,  honours,  conquest,  or  a throne. 

Are  what  the  wise  would  fear  to  call  their  own. 
Health  is  at  best  a vain  precarious  thing. 

And  fair-faced  youth  is  ever  on  the  wing ; 

’Tis  like  the  stream  beside  whose  watery  bed. 

Some  blooming  plant  exalts  his  flowery  head  ; 

Nursed  by  the  wave  the  spreading  branches  rise. 
Shade  all  the  ground  and  flourish  to  the  skies ; 

The  waves  the  while  beneath  in  secret  flow. 

And  undermine  the  hollow  bank  below ; 

Wide  and  more  wide  the  waters  urge  their  way. 

Bare  all  the  roots,  and  on  their  fibres  prey. 

Too  late  the  plant  bewails  his  foolish  pride. 

And  sinks,  untimely,  in  the  whelming  tide. 

But  why  repine  ? Does  life  deserve  my  sigh ; 

Few  will  lament  my  loss  whene’er  I die. 

For  those  the  wretches  I despise  or  hate, 

I neither  envy  nor  regard  their  fate. 

For  me,  whene’er  all-conquering  death  shall  spread 
His  wings  around  my  unrepining  head, 

I care  not ; though  this  face  be  seen  no  more. 

The  world  will  pass  as  cheerful  as  before ; 

Bright  as  before  the  day-star  will  appear. 

The  fields  as  verdant,  and  the  skies  as  clear ; 

Nor  storms  nor  comets  will  my  doom  declare. 

Nor  signs  on  earth  nor  portents  in  the  air ; 

Unknown  and  silent  will  depart  my  breath. 

Nor  nature  e’er  take  notice  of  my  death. 

Yet  some  there  are  (ere  spent  my  vital  days) 

Within  whose  breasts  my  tomb  I wish  to  raise. 

Loved  in  my  life,  lamented  in  my  end. 

Their  praise  would  crown  me  as  their  precepts  mend : 
To  them  may  these  fond  lines  my  name  endear, 

Not  from  the  Poet  but  the  Friend  sincere. 

Elegy. 

[By  James  Hammond,  bom  1710,  died  1742.  This  seems  to 
be  almost  the  only  tolerable  specimen  of  the  once  admired  and 
highly-famed  love  elegies  of  Hammond.  This  poet,  nephew  to 
Sir  Robert  Walpole,  and  a man  of  fortune,  bestowed  his  affec- 
tions on  a Miss  Dashwood,  whose  agreeable  qualities  and  in- 
exorable rejection  of  his  suit  inspired  the  poetry  by  which  his 
name  has  ^een  handed  do\vn  to  us.  His  verses  are  imitations 
of  Tibullus — smooth,  tame,  and  frigid.  Miss  Dashwood  died 
unmarried— bedchamber-woman  to  ftueen  Charlotte — in  1779. 
In  the  following  elegy  Hammond  imagines  himself  married 
to  his  mistress  (Delia),  and  that,  content  with  each  other,  they 
are  retired  to  the  country.] 

Let  others  boast  their  heaps  of  shining  gold. 

And  view  their  fields,  with  waving  plenty  crowned, 
Whom  neighbouring  foes  in  constant  terror  hold. 

And  trumpets  break  their  slumbers,  never  sound : 

While  calmly  poor,  I trifle  life  away. 

Enjoy  sweet  leisure  by  my  cheerful  fire. 

No  wanton  hope  my  quiet  shall  betray. 

But,  cheaply  blessed.  I’ll  scorn  each  vain  desire. 

With  timely  care  I’ll  sow  my  little  field. 

And  plant  my  orchard  with  its  masters  hand. 

Nor  blush  to  spread  the  hay,  the  hook  to  wield. 

Or  range  my  sheaves  along  the  sunny  land. 


If  late  at  dusk,  while  carelessly  I roam, 

I meet  a strolling  kid,  or  bleating  lamb. 

Under  my  arm  I’ll  bring  the  wanderer  home. 

And  not  a little  chide  its  thoughtless  dam. 

What  joy  to  hear  the  tempest  howl  in  vain. 

And  clasp  a fearful  mistress  to  my  breast  I 
Or,  lulled  to  slumber  by  the  beating  rain, 

Secure  and  happy,  sink  at  last  to  rest ! 

Or,  if  the  sun  in  flaming  Leo  ride. 

By  shady  rivers  indolently  stray. 

And  with  my  Delia,  walking  side  by  side. 

Hear  how  they  murmur  as  they  glide  away  ? 

What  joy  to  wind  along  the  cool  retreat. 

To  stop  and  gaze  on  Delia  as  I go  ? 

To  mingle  sweet  discourse  with  kisses  sweet. 

And  teach  my  lovely  scholar  all  I know  ? 

Thus  pleased  at  heart,  and  not  with  fancy’s  dream, 
In  silent  happiness  I rest  unknown  ; 

Content  with  what  I am,  not  what  I seem, 

I live  for  Delia  and  myself  alone. 

Ah,  foolish  man,  who  thus  of  her  possessed. 

Could  float  and  wander  with  ambition’s  wind. 

And  if  his  outward  trappings  spoke  him  blessed. 
Not  heed  the  sickness  of  his  conscious  mind ! 

With  her  I scorn  the  idle  breath  of  praise, 

Nor  trust  to  happiness  that’s  not  our  own  ; 

The  smile  of  fortune  might  suspicion  raise, 

But  here  I know  that  I am  loved  alone.  * * 

Hers  be  the  care  of  all  my  little  train. 

While  I with  tender  indolence  am  blest. 

The  favourite  subject  of  her  gentle  reign. 

By  love  alone  distinguished  from  the  rest. 

For  her  I’ll  yoke  my  oxen  to  the  plough. 

In  gloomy  forests  tend  iny  lonely  flock; 

For  her  a goat-herd  climb  the  mountain’s  brow, 
And  sleep  extended  on  the  naked  rock ; 

Ah,  what  avails  to  press  the  stately  bed. 

And  far  from  her  ’midst  tasteless  grandeur  weep. 
By  marble  fountains  lay  the  pensive  head. 

And,  while  they  murmur,  strive  in  vain  to  sleep  J 

Delia  alone  can  please,  and  never  tire. 

Exceed  the  paint  of  thought  in  true  delight ; 

With  her,  enjoyment  wakens  new  desire. 

And  equal  rapture  glows  through  every  night . 

Beauty  and  worth  in  her  alike  contend. 

To  charm  the  fancy,  and  to  fix  the  mind  ; 

In  her,  my  wife,  my  mistress,  and  my  friend, 

I taste  the  joys  of  sense  and  reason  joined. 

On  her  I’ll  gaze,  when  others  loves  are  o’er. 

And  dying  press  her  with  my  clay-cold  hand — 
Thou  weep’st  already,  as  I were  no  more. 

Nor  can  that  gentle  breast  the  thought  withstand. 

Oh,  when  I die,  my  latest  moments  spare. 

Nor  let  thy  grief  with  sharper  torments  kill. 
Wound  not  thy  cheeks,  nor  hurt  that  flowing  hair. 
Though  I am  dead,  my  soul  shall  love  thee  still : 

Oh,  quit  the  room,  oh,  quit  the  deathful  bed. 

Or  thou  wilt  die,  so  tender  is  thy  heart ; 

Oh,  leave  me,  Delia,  ere  thou  see  me  dead. 

These  weeping  friends  will  do  thy  mournful  part ! 

Let  them,  extended  on  the  decent  bier. 

Convey  the  corse  in  melancholy  state, 

Through  all  the  village  spread  the  tender  tear. 
While  pitying  maids  our  wondrous  loves  relate. 

133 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


Careless  Content* 


[The  following  and  euba^quent  poems  are  by  John  Il^Tom, 
a native  of  Manchester,  lie  was  well  educated,  but  declined 
to  take  advantage  of  an  o.<Tered  fellowship  in  the  university  of 
Cambridge,  from  a dislike  to  the  clerical  profession,  and  endea- 
voured to  make  a livelihood  by  teaching  short-hand  writing 
in  London.  Ultimately,  he  succeeded  to  some  property,  and 
came  to  the  close  of  his  days  in  aflluence  (17<it),  aged  72.  The 
Fhcebo  of  his  poetry  was  a daughter  of  the  celebrated  Bentley.] 

I am  content,  I do  not  care, 

Wag  as  it  will  the  world  for  me ; 

When  fuss  and  fret  was  all  my  fare, 

It  got  no  ground  as  I could  see : 

So  when  away  my  caring  went, 

1 counted  tost,  and  was  content. 

With  more  of  thanks  and  less  of  thought, 

I strive  to  make  my  matters  meet ; 

To  seek  what  ancient  sages  sought. 

Physic  and  food  in  sour  and  sweet : 

To  take  what  passes  in  good  part. 

And  keep  the  hiccups  from  the  heart. 

With  good  and  gentle  humoured  hearts, 

I choose  to  chat  where’er  I come, 

Whate’er  the  subject  be  that  starts ; 

But  if  I get  among  the  glum, 

I hold  my  tongue  to  tell  the  truth, 

And  keep  my  breath  to  cool  my  broth. 

For  chance  or  change  of  peace  or  pain. 

For  fortune’s  favour  or  her  frown. 

For  lack  or  glut,  for  loss  or  gain, 

I never  dodge,  nor  up  nor  down : 

But  swing  what  way  the  ship  shall  swim. 

Or  tack  about  with  equal  trim. 

I suit  not  where  I shall  not  .speed. 

Nor  trace  the  turn  of  every  tide ; 

If  simple  sense  will  not  succeed, 

I make  no  bustling,  but  abide : 

For  shining  wealth,  or  scaring  wo, 

I force  no  friend,  I fear  no  foe. 

Of  ups  and  downs,  of  ins  and  outs. 

Of  they’re  i’  the  wrong,  and  we’re  i’  the  right, 

I shun  the  rancours  and  the  routs  ; 

And  wishing  well  to  every  wight. 

Whatever  turn  the  matter  takes, 

I deem  it  all  but  ducks  and  drakes. 

With  whom  I feast  I do  not  fawn. 

Nor  if  the  folks  should  flout  me,  faint; 

If  wonted  welcome  be  withdrawn, 

I cook  no  kind  of  a complaint ; 

With  none  disposed  to  disagree. 

But  like  them  best  who  best  like  me. 

Not  that  I rate  myself  the  rule 

How  all  my  betters  should  behave ; 

But  fame  shall  find  me  no  man’s  fool. 

Nor  to  a set  of  men  a slave  : 

I love  a friendship  free  and  frank, 

And  hate  to  hang  upon  a hank. 

Fond  of  a true  and  trusty  tie, 

I never  loose  where’er  I link  ; 

Though  if  a business  budges  by, 

I talk  thereon  just  as  I think  ; 

My  word,  my  work,  my  heart,  my  hand, 

Still  on  a side  together  stand. 

If  names  or  notions  make  a noise. 

Whatever  hap  the  question  hath, 

The  point  impartially  I poise. 

And  read  or  write,  but  without  wrath ; 

♦ One  poem,  entitled  Careless  Content,  is  so  perfectly  in  the 
manner  of  Elizabeth's  age,  that  we  can  hardly  believe  it  to  be 
«n  i mitation,  but  are  almost  disposed  to  think  that  Byrom  had 
transoribed  it  from  some  old  author. — Southev. 


For  should  I burn,  or  break  my  brains. 

Pray,  who  will  pay  me  for  my  pains  I 
1 love  my  neighbour  as  myself. 

Myself  like  him  too,  by  his  leave ; 

Nor  to  his  pleasure,  power,  or  pelf. 

Came  I to  crouch,  as  1 conceive : 

Dame  Nature  doubtle.ss  has  designed 
A man  the  monarch  of  his  mind. 

Now  taste  and  try  this  temper,  sirs. 

Mood  it  and  brood  it  in  your  breast ; 

Or  if  ye  ween,  for  worldly  stirs, 

That  man  does  right  to  mar  his  rest. 

Let  me  be  deft,  and  debonair, 

I am  content,  I do  not  care. 

A Pastoral. 

My  time,  0 ye  Muses,  was  happily  spent. 

When  Phoebe  went  with  me  wherever  I went; 

Ten  thousand  sweet  pleasures  I felt  in  my  breast : 
Sure  never  fond  shepherd  like  Colin  was  blest! 

But  now  she  is  gone,  and  has  left  me  behind. 

What  a marvellous  change  on  a sudden  I find  I 
When  things  were  as  fine  as  could  possibly  be, 

1 thought  ’twas  the  Spring ; but  alas  ! it  was  she. 

With  such  a companion  to  tend  a few  sheep. 

To  rise  up  and  play,  or  to  lie  down  and  sleep ; 

I was  so  good-humoured,  so  cheerful  and  gay. 

My  heart  was  as  light  as  a feather  all  day ; 

But  now  I so  cross  and  so  peevish  am  grown. 

So  strangely  uneasy,  as  never  was  known. 

My  fair  one  is  gone,  and  my  joys  are  all  drowned. 
And  my  heart — I am  sure  it  weighs  more  than  a pound. 

The  fountain  that  wont  to  run  sweetly  along. 

And  dance  to  soft  murmurs  the  pebbles  among ; 

Thou  know’st,  little  Cupid,  if  Phoebe  was  there, 

’Twas  pleasure  to  look  at,  ’twas  music  to  hear : 

But  now  she  is  absent,  I walk  by  its  side. 

And  still,  as  it  murmurs,  do  nothing  but  chide ; 

Must  you  be  so  cheerful,  while  1 go  in  pain  ? 

Peace  there  with  your  bubbling,  and  hear  me  com- 
plain. 

My  lambkins  around  me  would  oftentimes  play. 
And  Phoebe  and  I were  as  joyful  as  they ; 

How  pleasant  their  sporting,  how  happy  their  time. 
When  Spring,  Love,  and  Beauty,  were  all  in  theii 
prime ; 

But  now,  in  their  frolics  when  by  me  they  pass, 

I fling  at  their  fleeces  a handful  of  grass ; 

Be  still,  then,  I cry,  for  it  makes  me  quite  mad. 

To  see  you  so  merry  while  I am  so  sad. 

My  dog  I was  ever  well  pleased  to  see 
Come  wagging  his  tail  to  my  fair  one  and  me  ; 

And  Phoebe  was  pleased  too,  and  to  my  dog  said, 

‘ Come  hither,  poor  fellow ;’  and  patted  his  head. 

But  now,  when  he’s  fawning,  I with  a sour  look 
Cry  ‘ Sirrah  ;’  and  give  him  a blow  with  my  crook : 
And  I’ll  give  him  another;  for  why  should  not  Tray 
Be  as  dull  as  his  master,  when  Phoebe’s  away  ? 

When  walking  with  Phoebe,  what  sights  have  I seen. 
How  fair  was  the  flower,  how  fresh  was  the  green  ! 
What  a lovely  appearance  the  trees  and  the  shade. 
The  corn  fields  and  hedges,  and  every  thing  made! 
But  now  .she  has  left  me,  though  all  are  still  there. 
They  none  of  them  now  so  delightful  appear: 

’Twas  nought  but  the  magic,  I find,  of  her  eyes. 

Made  so  many  beautiful  prospects  arise. 

Sweet  music  went  with  us  both  all  the  wood  through, 
The  lark,  linnet,  throstle,  and  nightingale  too ; 

Winds  over  us  whispered,  flocks  by  us  did  bleqt. 

And  chirp  went  the  grasshopper  under  our  feet. 

But  now  she  is  absent,  though  still  they  sing  on, 

The  woods  are  but  lonely,  the  melody’s  gone : 


K>KTS. 


JAMKS  HAMMOND. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Her  voice  in  tlio  concert,  as  now  I have  found, 
Gave  every  thing  else  its  agreeable  sound. 


Rose,  what  is  become  of  thy  d dicate  hue! 

And  where  is  the  violet’s  beautiful  blue? 

Docs  ought  of  its  sweetness  the  blossom  beguile  ? 

That  meadow,  those  daisies,  why  do  they  not  smile  ? 
Ah ! rivals,  I see  what  it  was  that  you  drest. 

And  made  yourselves  fine  for — a place  in  her  breast : 
You  put  on  your  colours  to  pleasure  her  eye. 

To  be  plucked  by  her  hand,  on  her  bosom  to  die. 

How  slowly  Time  creeps  till  my  Phoebe  return! 
While  amidst  the  soft  zephyr’s  cool  breezes  I burn : 
Methinks,  if  I knew  whereabouts  he  would  tread, 

I could  breathe  on  his  wings,  and  ’twould  melt  down 
the  lead. 

Fly  swifter,  ye  minutes,  bring  hither  my  dear. 

And  rest  so  much  longer  for’t  when  she  is  here. 

Ah  Colin!  old  Time  is  full  of  delay. 

Nor  will  budge  one  foot  faster  for  all  thou  canst  say. 

Will  no  pitying  power,  that  hears  me  complain, 

Or  cure  my  disquiet,  or  soften  my  pain  ? 

To  be  cured,  thou  must,  Colin,  thy  passion  remove ; 
But  what  swain  is  so  silly  to  live  without  love! 

No,  deit}’,  bid  the  dear  nymph  to  return. 

For  ne’er  was  poor  shepherd  so  sadly  forlorn. 

Ah  ! what  shall  I do  ? I shall  die  with  despair  ; 

Take  heed,  all  ye  swains,  how  ye  part  with  your  fair. 

[Ode  to  a Tobacco  Pipe.^ 

\_One  of  six  imitations  of  Encrlish  poets,  written  on  the  sub- 
ject of  tobacco,  by  Isaac  Hawkins  Browne,  a gentleman  of 
fortune,  bom  1705,  died  1760.  The  present  poem  is  the  imita- 
tion of  Ambrose  Philips.] 

Little  tube  of  mighty  power. 

Charmer  of  an  idle  hour, 

Object  of  my  warm  desire. 

Lip  of  wax  and  eye  of  fire  ; 

And  thy  snowy  taper  waist, 

With  my  finger  gently  braced; 

And  thy  pretty  swelling  crest. 

With  my  little  stopper  prest ; 

And  the  sweetest  bliss  of  blisses, 

Breathing  from  thy  balmy  kisses. 

Happy  thrice,  and  thrice  again, 

Happiest  he  of  happy  men  ; 

Who  when  again  the  night  returns. 

When  again  the  taper  burns. 

When  again  the  cricket’s  gay 
(Little  cricket  full  of  play). 

Can  afford  his  tube  to  feed 
With  the  fragrant  Indian  weed: 

Pleasure  for  a nose  divine. 

Incense  of  the  god  of  wine. 

Happy  thrice,  and  thrice  again. 

Happiest  he  of  happy  men. 

[iStmjr — Away  I let  nought  to  Love  Displeasing. 

Away ! let  nought  to  love  displeasing. 

My  Winifreda,  move  your  care ; 

Let  nought  delay  the  heavenly  blessing. 

Nor  squeamish  pride,  nor  gloomy  fear. 

What  though  no  grants  of  royal  donors. 

With  pompous  titles  grace  our  blood ; 

We’ll  shine  in  more  substantial  honours. 

And,  to  be  noble,  we’ll  be  good. 

Our  name  while  virtue  thus  we  tender. 

Will  sweetly  sound  where’er  ’tis  spoke ; 

And  all  the  great  ones,  they  shall  wonder 
How  they  respect  such  little  folk. 

V This  beautiful  piece  has  been  erroneously  ascribed  to  John 
Gilbert  Cooper,  author  of  a volume  of  poems,  and  some  prose 
works,  who  died  in  I76d. 


What  though,  from  fortune’s  lavish  bcunty. 
No  mighty  treasures  we  possess  ; 

We’ll  find,  within  our  i>ittance,  plenty. 

And  be  content  without  excess. 

Still  shall  each  kind  returning  season 
Sufficient  for  our  wishes  give; 

For  we  will  live  a life  of  reason. 

And  that’s  the  only  life  to  live. 

Through  youth  and  age,  in  love  excelling. 
We’ll  hand  in  hand  together  tread  ; 

Sweet-smiling  peace  shall  crown  our  dwelling. 
And  babes,  sweet-smiling  babes,  our  bed. 

How  should  I love  the  pretty  creatures. 

While  round  my  knees  they  fondly  clung  1 

To  see  them  look  their  mother’s  features. 

To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother’s  tongue  1 

And  when  with  envy  Time  tran.sported. 

Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joys  ; 

You’ll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted. 

And  I’ll  go  wooing  in  my'  boys. 


TRAGIC  DRAMATISTS. 

The  tragic  drama  of  this  period  bore  the  impress 
of  the  French  school,  in  which  cold  correctness  or 
turgid  declamation  was  more  regarded  than  the 
natural  delineation  of  character  and  the  fire  of  genius. 
One  improvement  w’as  the  complete  separation  of 
tragedy  and  comedy.  Otway  and  Southerne  had 
marred  the  effect  of  some  of  their  most  pathetic  and 
impressive  dramas,  by  the  intermixture  of  farcical 
and  licentious  scenes  and  characters,  but  they  were 
the  last  who  committed  this  inc jngruity.  Public 
taste  had  become  more  critical,  aided  perhaps  by 
the  papers  of  Addison  in  the  ‘ Spectator,’  and  other 
essayists,  as  w'ell  as  by  the  general  diffusion  of  lite- 
rature and  knowledge.  Great  names  were  now  en- 
listed in  the  service  of  the  stage.  I'asliion  and 
interest  combined  to  draw  fouh  dramatic  talent. 
A writer  for  the  stage,  it  has  been  justly  remarked, 
like  the  public  orator,  has  the  gratification  of  ‘ wit- 
nessing his  own  triumphs ; of  seeing  in  the  plaudits, 
tears,  or  smiles  of  delighted  spe<  tators,  the  strongest 
testimony  to  his  own  powers.’  Tlie  publication  of 
his  play  may  also  insure  him  the  fame  and  profit  of 
authorship.  If  successful  on  the  stage,  the  remu- 
neration was  then  considerable.  Authors  were  ge- 
nerally allowed  the  profits  of  three  nights’  perform- 
ances; and  Goldsmith,  we  find,  tiius  derived  between 
four  and  five  hundred  pounds  b}'  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer.  The  genius  of  Garrick  may  also  be  con- 
sidered as  lending  fiesh  attract,  on  and  popularity 
to  the  stage.  Authors  were  ambitious  of  fame  as 
well  as  profit  by  the  exertions  ot  an  actor  so  well 
fitted  to  portray  the  various  passic  is  and  emotions 
of  human  nature,  and  who  partially  succeeded  in 
recalling  the  English  taste  to  the  genius  of  Shak- 
speare. 

One  of  the  most  successful  and  conspu  uous  of  the 
tragic  dramatists  w'as  the  author  of  the  ‘Night 
Thoughts,’  who,  before  he  entered  the  church,  pro- 
duced three  tragedies,  all  having  one  peculiarity, 
that  they  ended  in  suicide.  The  Revenge,  still  a 
popul.ar  acting  play,  contains,  amidst  some  rant  and 
hyperbole,  passages  of  strong  passion  and  eloquent 
declamation.  Like  Othello,  ‘The  Revenge’ is  founded 
on  jealousy,  and  the  principal  character,  Zanga,  is 
a kloor.  The  latter,  son  of  the  Moorish  king  Ab- 
dallah, is  taken  prisoner  after  a conquest  by  the 
Sp.aniards,  in  which  his  father  fell,  and  is  con 
demned  to  servitude  by  Don  Alonz."'.  In  revenge, 
lie  sows  the  seeds  of  jealousy  in  the  mind  of  his 

135 


fivOm  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1780. 

conqiioror,  Alonzo,  and  glories  in  the  ruin  of  his 
vieliru : — 

Thou  Hcest  a prince,  whose  father  thou  hast  slain, 
Whose  native  country  thou  hast  laid  in  blood, 

VVTiose  sacred  person.  Oh  ! thou  hast  profaned, 

Whose  reign  extinguished — what  was  left  to  me, 

So  higlily  born  ? No  kingdom  but  revenge; 

No  treasure  but  thy  torture  and  thy  groans. 

If  men  should  ask  who  brought  thee  to  thy  end. 

Toll  them  the  Moor,  and  they  will  not  de.“pise  thee. 

If  cold  white  mortals  censure  this  great  deed. 

Warn  them  they  judge  not  of  superior  beings. 

Souls  made  of  fire,  and  children  of  the  sun. 

With  wliom  revenge  is  virtue. 

Dr  Johnson’s  tragedy  of  Irene  was  performed  in 
1749,  but  met  with  little  success,  and  has  never  since 
been  revived.  It  is  cold  and  stately,  containing 
some  admirable  sentiments  and  maxims  of  morality, 
but  destitute  of  elegance,  simplicity,  and  pathos. 
At  the  conclusion  of  the  piece,  the  heroine  was  to 
be  strangled  upon  the  stage,  after  speaking  two  lines 
with  the  bowstring  round  her  neck.  The  audience 
cried  out  ‘Murder!  murder!’  and  compelled  the 
actress  to  go  off  tlie  stage  alive,  in  defiance  of  the 
author.  An  English  audience  could  not,  as  one 
of  Johnson’s  friends  remarked,  bear  to  witness  a 
strangling  scene  on  the  stage,  though  a dramatic 
poet  may  stab  or  slay  by  hundreds.  The  following 
passage  in  ‘Irene’  was  loudly  applauded  : — 

To-morrow ! 

That  fatal  mistress  of  the  young,  the  lazy. 

The  coward  and  the  fool,  condemned  to  lose 
A useless  life  in  waiting  for  to-morrow — 

To  gaze  with  longing  eyes  upon  to-morrow. 

Till  interposing  death  destroys  the  prospect ! 

Strange  ! that  this  general  fraud  from  day  to  day 
Should  fill  the  world  with  wretches  undetected. 

The  soldier  labouring  through  a winter’s  march. 

Still  sees  to-moiTow  dressed  in  robes  of  triumph ; 

Still  to  the  lover’s  long-expecting  arms 
To-morrow  brings  the  visionary  bride. 

But  thou,  too  old  to  bear  another  cheat. 

Learn  that  the  present  hour  alone  is  man’s. 

Five  tragedies  were  produced  by  Thomson  be- 
twixt the  years  1729  and  the  period  of  his  death  : 
these  were  Sophonisba,  Apamemnon,  Edward  and 
Eleonora,  Tancred  and  Siyismunda,  and  Coriolanus. 
None  of  them  can  be  considered  as  worthy  of  the 
author  of  the  Seasons:  they  exhibit  the  defects  of  his 
style  without  its  virtues.  He  wanted  the  plastic 
powers  of  the  dramatist,  and  though  he  could  declaim 
forcibly  on  the  moral  virtues,  and  against  corruption 
and  oppression,  he  could  not  draw  characters  or 
invent  scenes  to  lead  captive  the  feelings  and  ima- 
gination. 

Two  tragedies  of  a similar  kind,  but  more  ani- 
mated in  expression,  were  produced — Gustavus  Vasa 
by  Brooke,  and  Barbarossa  by  Dr  Brown,  The  act- 
ing of  Garrick  mainly  contributed  to  the  success  of 
the  latter,  which  had  a great  run.  The  sentiment 
at  the  conclusion  of  ‘ Barbarossa’  is  finely  ex- 
pressed 

Heaven  but  tries  our  virtue  by  afHiction, 

And  oft  the  cloud  which  wraps  the  present  hour 
Serves  but  to  brighten  all  our  future  days. 

Aaron  Hill  translated  some  of  Voltaire’s  trage- 
dies with  frigid  accuracy,  and  they  were  performed 
with  success.  In  1753,  The  Gamester,  an  affecting 
domestic  tragedy,  was  produced.  Though  wanting 
the  merit  of  ornamented  poetical  language  and  blank 
verse,  the  vivid  picture  drawn  by  the  author  (Ed- 
ward Moore)  of  the  evils  of  gambling,  ending  in  de- 

spair  and  suicide,  and  the  dramatic  art  evinced  in  the 
characters  and  incidents,  drew  loud  applause.  ‘The 
Gamester’  is  still  a popular  play. 

Gamester's  Last  Stake.] 

Beverley.  Why,  there’s  an  end  then.  I have  judged 
deliberately,  and  the  result  is  death.  How  the  self- 
murderer’s  account  may  stand,  I know  not ; but  this 
I know,  the  load  of  hateful  life  oppresses  me  too  much. 
The  horrors  of  my  soul  are  more  than  I can  bear. 
[Ojfcrs  to  kneel].  Father  of  Mercy!  1 cannot  pray; 
despair  has  laid  his  iron  hand  upon  me,  and  sealed 
me  for  perdition.  Conscience  ! conscience ! thy  cla- 
mours are  too  loud : here’s  that  shall  silence  thee. 
[Takes  a phial  of  poison  out  of  his  pocket.]  Thou  art 
most  friendly  to  the  miserable.  Come,  then,  thou 
cordial  for  sick  minds,  come  to  my  heart.  [Drinks 
it.]  Oh,  that  the  grave  would  bury  memory  as  well  as 
body ! for,  if  the  soul  sees  and  feels  the  sufferings  of 
those  dear  ones  it  leaves  behind,  the  Everlasting  has 
no  vengeance  to  torment  it  deeper.  I’ll  think  no 
more  on  it ; reflection  comes  too  late  ; once  there  was 
a time  for  it,  but  now  ’tis  past.  Who’s  there? 

Enter  Jarvis. 

Jar.  One  that  hoped  to  see  you  with  better  looks. 
Why  do  you  turn  so  from  me  ! I have  brought  com- 
fort with  me ; and  see  who  comes  to  give  it  welcome. 

Bev.  My  wife  and  sister ! Why,  ’tis  but  one  pang 
more  then,  and  farewell,  world. 

Enter  Mrs  Bkteblev  and  Charlottb. 

Mrs  B.  Where  is  he?  [Rum  and  embraces  Mm.]  0, 
I have  him  ! I have  him  ! And  now  they  shall  never 
part  us  more.  I have  news,  love,  to  make  you  happy 
for  ever.  Alas  ! he  hears  us  not.  Speak  to  me,  love ; 
I have  no  heart  to  see  you  thus. 

Bev.  This  is  a sad  place. 

Mrs  B.  We  came  to  take  you  from  it ; to  tell  you 
the  world  goes  well  again  ; that  Providence  has  seen 
our  sorrows,  and  sent  the  means  to  help  them  ; your 
uncle  died  yesterday. 

Bev.  My  uncle  ? No,  do  not  say  so.  Oil  am  sick 
at  heart ! 

Mrs  B.  Indeed,  I meant  to  bring  you  comfort. 

Bev.  Tell  me  he  lives,  then  ; if  you  would  bring  me 
comfort,  tell  me  he  lives. 

Mrs  B.  And  if  I did,  I have  no  power  to  raise  tne 
dead.  He  died  yesterday. 

Bev.  And  I am  heir  to  him  ? 

Jar.  To  his  whole  estate,  sir.  But  bear  it  patiently, 
pray  bear  it  patiently. 

Bev.  Well,  well.  [Pausing.]  Why,  fame  says  I 
am  rich  then  ? 

Mrs  B.  And  truly  so.  Why  do  you  look  so  wildly  ? 

Bev.  Do  I ? The  news  was  unexpected.  But  has 
he  left  me  all  ? 

Jar.  All,  all,  sir ; he  could  not  leave  it  from  you. 

Bev.  I am  sorry  for  it. 

Mrs  B.  Why  are  you  disturbed  so  ? 

Bev.  Has  death  no  terrors  in  it ! 

Mrs  B.  Not  an  old  man’s  death ; yet,  if  it  trouble 
you,  I wish  him  living. 

Bev.  And  I,  with  all  my  heart ; for  1 have  a tale 
to  tell,  shall  turn  you  into  stone ; or  if  the  power  of 
speech  remain,  you  shall  kneel  down  and  curse  me. 

Mrs  B.  Alas  ! Why  are  we  to  curse  you  ? I’ll  bless 
you  ever. 

Bev.  No;  I have  deserved  no  blessings.  All  this 
large  fortune,  this  second  bounty  of  heaven,  that  might 
have  healed  our  sorrows,  and  sati.sfied  our  utmost 
hopes,  in  a cursed  hour  I sold  last  night. 

Mrs  B.  Irapos.sible ! 

Bev.  That  devil  Stukely,  with  all  hell  to  aid  him, 
tempted  me  to  the  deed.  To  pay  false  debts  of  honour, 

136 

TRAOIC  HRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDWARD  MOORE. 


ami  to  redeem  past  errors,  I sold  the  reversion,  sold  it 
for  a scanty  sum,  and  lost  it  among  villains. 

Char.  Why,  farewell  all  then. 

Bcv.  Liberty  and  life.  Come,  kneel  and  curse  me. 

M)-3  B.  Then  hear  me,  heaven.  [A'liceij.]  Look  down 
with  mercy  on  his  sorrows  ! Give  softness  to  his  looks, 
and  quiet  to  his  heart ! On  me,  on  me,  if  misery  must 
be  the  lot  of  either,  multiply  misfortunes  ! I’ll  bear 
them  patiently,  so  he  be  hai>py ! These  hands  shall 
te’d  for  his  support ; those  eyes  be  lifted  up  for  hourly 
bleasings  on  him  ; and  every  duty  of  a fond  and  faith- 
ful wife  be  doubly  done  to  cheer  and  comfort  him. 
So  hear  me  ! so  reward  me ! [Rises. 

Bcv.  I would  kneel  too,  but  that  offended  heaven 
would  turn  my  prayers  into  curses ; for  I have  done  a 
deed  to  make  life  horrible  to  you. 

Mrs  B.  What  deed  ? 

Jar.  Ask  him  no  questions,  madam  ; this  last  mis- 
fortune has  hurt  his  brain.  A little  time  will  give 
him  patience. 

Enter  Stukelt. 

Bev.  Why  is  this  villain  here  ? 

Stuh.  To  give  you  liberty  and  safety.  There, 
madam,  is  his  discharge.  [Gives  a paper  to  Charlotte.'] 
The  arrest  last  night  was  meant  in  friendship,  but 
came  too  late. 

Char.  What  mean  you,  sir  ? 

Stvk.  The  arrest  was  too  late,  I say ; I would  have 
kept  his  hands  from  blood  ; but  was  too  late. 

Mrs  B.  His  hands  from  blood  ! Whose  blood? 

Stuk.  From  Lewson’s  blood. 

Cltar.  No,  villain!  Yet  what  of  Lewson ; speak 
quickly. 

Stuk.  You  are  ignorant  then;  I thought  I heard 
the  murderer  at  confession. 

Char.  What  murderer?  And  who  is  murdered? 
Not  Lewson?  Say  he  lives,  and  I will  kneel  and 
worship  you. 

Stuk.  And  so  I would  ; but  that  the  tongues  of  all 
cry  murder.  I came  in  pity,  not  in  malice ; to  save 
the  brother,  not  kill  the  sister.  Your  Lewson’s  dead. 

Char.  0 horrible ! 

Bev.  Silence,  I charge  you.  Proceed,  sir. 

Stuk.  No ; justice  may  stop  the  tale ; and  here’s  an 
evidence. 

Enter  Bates. 

Bates.  The  news,  I see,  has  reached  you.  But  take 
comfort,  madam.  [To  Charlotte.]  There’s  one  with- 
out inquiring  for  you  ; go  to  him,  and  lose  no  time. 

Char.  0 misery!  misery!  [Exit. 

Mrs  B.  Follow  her,  Jarvis  ; if  it  be  true  that  Lew- 
son’s dead,  her  grief  may  kill  her. 

Bates.  Jarvis  must  stay  here,  madam ; I have  some 
questions  for  him. 

Stuk.  Rather  let  him  fly ; his  evidence  may  crush 
his  master. 

Bev.  Why,  ay  ; this  looks  like  management. 

Bates.  He  found  you  quarrelling  with  Lewson  in 
the  street  last  night.  [To  Beverley. 

Mrs  B.  No  ; 1 am  sure  he  did  not. 

Jar.  Or  if  I did 

Mrs  B.  ’Tis  false,  old  man ; they  had  no  quarrel, 
there  was  no  cause  for  quarrel. 

Bex.  Let  him  proceed,  I say.  0 ! I am  sick  ! sick  ! 
Reach  a chair.  [Jarvis  brings  it,  he  sits  down. 

Mrs  B.  You  droop  and  tremble,  love.  Yet  you 
are  innocent.  If  Lewson’s  dead,  you  killed  him  not. 

Enter  Dawsok. 

Stuk.  Who  sent  for  Dawson? 

Bates.  ’Twas  I.  We  have  a witness  too,  you  little 
think  of.  Without  there! 

Stvk.  What  witness  ? 

Bates.  A right  one.  Look  at  him. 


Enter  Charlotte  and  Lewson. 

[Mrs  B.,  on  perceiving  I.eioson,  goes  into  a 
hysteric  laugh,  and  sinks  on  Jarvis. 

Stuk.  Lewson!  0 villains!  villains! 

[ To  Bates  and  Dawson. 
Mrs  B.  Risen  from  the  dead  ! Why,  this  is  unex- 
pected happiness ! 

Char.  Or  is  it  his  ghost?  \To  Stvkely.~\  That  sight 
would  please  you,  sir. 

Jar.  What  riddle  is  this? 

Bev.  Be  qiiick  and  tell  it,  my  minutes  are  but  few. 
Mrs  B.  Alas!  why  so?  You  shall  live  long  and 
happily. 

Lew.  While  shame  and  punishment  shall  rack  that 
viper.  [Points  to  Stukely.]  The  tale  is  short ; 1 was 
too  busy  in  his  secrets,  ai:d  therefore  doomed  to  die. 
Bates,  to  prevent  the  murder,  undertook  it ; I kept 
aloof  to  give  it  credit. 

Char.  And  give  me  pangs  unutterable. 

Lav.  I felt  them  all,  and  would  have  told  you  ; but 
vengeance  wanted  ripening.  The  villain's  scheme  was 
but  half  executed  ; the  arrest  by  Dawson  followed  the 
supposed  murder,  and  now,  depending  on  his  once 
wicked  associates,  he  comes  to  fix  the  guilt  on  Be- 
verley. 

Bates.  Dawson  and  I are  witnesses  of  this. 

Lvio.  And  of  a thousand  frauds;  his  fortune  ruined 
by  sharpers  and  false  dice ; and  Stukely  sole  contriver 
and  possessor  of  all. 

Daw.  Had  he  but  stopped  on  this  side  murder,  we 
had  been  villains  still. 

Lew.  {To  Beverley.]  How  does  my  friend  ? 

Bev.  Why,  well.  Who’s  he  that  asks  me  ? 

Mrs  B.  ’Tis  Lewson,  love.  Why  do  you  look  so  at 
him  ? 

Bev.  [ Wildly.]  They  told  me  he  was  murdered  ! 

Mrs  B.  Ay ; but  he  lives  to  save  us. 

Bev.  Lend  me  your  hand  ; the  room  turns  round. 
Lew.  This  villain  here  disturbs  him.  Remove  him 
from  his  sight ; and  on  your  lives  see  that  you  guard 
him.  [Stukely  is  taken  off  by  Dawson  and  Bates.]  How 
is  it,  sir? 

Bev.  ’Tis  here,  and  here.  {Pointing  to  his  head  and 
heart.']  And  now  it  tears  me ! 

Mrs  B.  You  feel  convulsed,  too.  What  is  it  dis- 
turbs you  ? 

Bcv.  A furnace  rages  in  this  heart.  [Laying  his 
hand  upon  his  heart.]  Down,  restless  flames  ! down  to 
your  native  hell  ; there  you  shall  rack  me  ! Oh,  for  a 
pause  from  pain ! Where  is  my  wife  ? Can  you  for- 
give me,  love  ? 

Mrs  B.  Alas  ! for  what  ? 

Bcv.  For  meanly  dying. 

Mrs  B.  No  ; do  not  say  it. 

Bev.  As  truly  as  mv  soul  must  answer  it.  Had 
Jarvis  staid  this  morning,  all  had  been  well ; but, 
pressed  by  shame,  pent  in  a prison,  and  tonnented 
with  my  pangs  for  you,  driven  to  despair  and  mad- 
ness, I took  the  advantage  of  his  absence,  corrupted 
the  poor  wretch  he  left  to  guard  me,  and  swallowed 
poison. 

Lew.  Oh,  fatal  deed  ! 

Bev.  Ay,  most  accursed.  And  now  I go  to  my  ac- 
count. Bend  me,  and  let  me  kneel.  {They  lift  him 
from  his  chair,  and  support  him  on  his  knees.]  I’ll 
pray  for  you  too.  Thou  Power  that  mad’st  me,  hear 
me.  If,  for  a life  of  frailty,  and  this  too  hasty  deed 
of  death,  thy  justice  doom  me,  here  I acquit  the  sen- 
tence ; but  if,  enthroned  in  mercy  where  thou  sitt’st, 
thy  pity  hast  beheld  me,  send  me  a gleam  of  hope, 
that  in  these  last  and  bitter  moments  my  soul  may 
taste  of  comfort!  And  for  these  mourners  here,  0 
let  their  lives  be  peaceful,  and  their  deaths  happy. 

Mrs  B.  Restore  him,  heaven  ! 0,  sa,ve  him,  save 

him,  or  let  me  die  too  ! 

137 


PROM  1727  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  to  1780. 

Ikv.  No  ; live,  I charge  you.  We  have  a little  one  ; 
thougli  I have  left  him,  you  will  not  leave  him.  To 
LewHon’s  kindness  I bequeath  him.  Is  not  this 
Charlotte!  We  have  lived  in  love,  though  I have 
wronged  you.  Can  you  forgive  me,  Charlotte? 

Char.  Forgive  you  ! 0,  my  poor  brother ! 

Bev.  Lend  me  your  hand,  love.  So  ; raise  me — no  ; 
it  will  not  be  ; iny  life  is  finished.  0 for  a few  short 
moments  to  tell  you  how  my  heart  bleeds  for  you ; 
that  even  now,  thus  dying  as  I am,  dubious  and  fear- 
ful of  a hereafter,  my  bo.som  pang  is  for  your  mise- 
ries. Support  her.  Heaven ! And  now  I go.  0, 
mercy  ! mercy  ! [Dies. 

Lew.  How  is  it,  madam  ? My  poor  Charlotte,  too  ! 

Char.  Her  grief  is  speechless. 

Lexo.  Jarvis,  remove  her  from  this  sight.  [Jarvis 
and  Charlotte  lead  Mrs  Beverley  aside.']  Some  minis- 
tering angel  bring  her  peace.  And  thou,  poor  breath- 
le.ss  corpse,  may  thy  departed  soul  have  found  the  rest 
it  prayed  for.  Save  but  one  error,  and  this  last  fatal 
deed,  thy  life  was  lovely.  Let  frailer  minds  take 
warning ; and  from  example  learn  that  want  of  pru- 
dence is  want  of  virtue.  [Exeunt. 

Of  a more  intellectual  and  scholar-like  cast  were 
the  two  dramas  of  Mason,  Elfrida  and  Caractacus. 
They  were  brought  on  the  stage  by  Colman  (which 
Southey  considers  to  have  been  a bold  experiment  in 
those  diiys  of  sickly  tragedy),  and  were  well  received. 
They  are  now  known  as  dramatic  poems,  not  as  act- 
ing ])lays.  Tlie  most  natural  and  affecting  of  all  the 
tragic  productions  of  the  day,  W'as  the  Douglas  of 
Horae,  founded  on  the  old  ballad  of  Gil  Morrice,  which 
Percy  has  preserved  in  his  Keliques.  ‘Douglas’  was 
rejected  by  Garrick,  and  was  first  performed  in 
Edinburgh  in  1756.  Next  year  Lord  Bute  procured 
its  representation  at  Covent  Garden,  where  it  drew 
tears  and  applause  as  copiously  as  in  Edinburgh. 
The  plot  of  this  drama  is  pathetic  and  interesting. 
The  dialogue  is  sometimes  fiat  and  prosaic,  but 
other  parts  are  written  with  the  liquid  softness  and 
moral  beauty  of  Heywood  or  Dekker.  Maternal 
affection  is  well  depicted  under  novel  and  striking 
circumstances — the  accidental  discovery  of  a lost 
child — ‘ My  beautiful ! my  brave  !’ — and  Mr  Mac- 
kenzie, the  ‘ Man  of  Feeling,’  has  given  as  his  opi- 
nion that  the  chief  scene  between  Lady  Randolph 
and  Old  Norval,  in  which  the  preservation  and 
existence  of  Douglas  is  discovered,  has  no  equal  in 
modern  and  scarcely  a superior  in  the  ancient  drama. 
Douglas  himself,  the  young  hero,  ‘enthusiastic,  ro- 
mantic, desirous  of  honour,  careless  of  life  and  every 
other  advantage  when  glory  lay  in  the  b.alance,’  is 
beautifully  drawn,  and  formed  the  schoolboy  model 
of  most  of  the  Scottish  youth  ‘ si.xty  years  since.’ 
As  a specimen  of  the  style  and  diction  of  Home, 
we  subjoin  part  of  the  discovery  scene.  Lord  Ran- 
dolph is  attacked  by  four  men,  and  rescued  by 
young  Douglas.  An  old  man  is  found  in  the  woods, 
and  is  taken  up  as  one  of  the  assassins,  some  rich 
jewels  being  also  in  his  possession. 

[Discovery  of  her  Son  ly  Lady  Randolph.] 
Prisoner— Lady  Randolph — Anna,  her  maid. 

Lady  R.  Account  for  these ; thine  own  they  cannot 
be : 

For  these,  I say : be  steadfast  to  the  truth ; 

Detected  falsehood  is  most  certain  death. 

[Anna  removes  the  servants  and  returns. 

Pris.  Alas  ! I’m  sore  beset ; let  never  man, 

For  sake  of  lucre,  sin  against  his  soul ! 

Eternal  justice  is  in  this  most  just  1 
I,  guiltless  now,  must  former  guilt  reveal. 

Lady  R.  0,  Anna,  hear ! Once  more  I charge  thee 
speak 

The  truth  direct ; for  these  to  me  foretell 
And  certify  a part  of  thy  narration  ; 

With  which,  if  the  remainder  tallies  not, 

An  instant  and  a dreadful  death  abides  thee. 

Pris.  Then,  thus  adjured.  I’ll  sjieak  to  you  as  just 
As  if  you  were  the  minister  of  heaven, 

Sent  down  to  search  the  secret  sins  of  men. 

Some  eighteen  years  ago,  1 rented  land 
Of  brave  Sir  Malcolm,  then  lialarmo’s  lord ; 

But  falling  to  decay,  his  servants  seized 

All  that  I had,  and  then  turned  me  and  mine 

(Four  helpless  infants  and  their  weeping  mother) 

Out  to  the  mercy  of  the  winter  winds. 

A little  hovel  by  the  river  side 

Received  us  : there  hard  labour,  and  the  skill 

In  fishing,  which  was  formerly  my  sport. 

Supported  life.  Whilst  thus  we  poorly  lived, 

One  stormy  night,  as  I remember  well. 

The  wind  and  rain  beat  hard  upon  our  roof; 

Red  came  the  river  down,  and  loud  and  oft 
The  angry  spirit  of  the  water  shrieked. 

At  the  dead  hour  of  night  was  heard  the  cry 
Of  one  in  jeopardy.  I rose,  and  ran 
To  where  the  circling  eddy  of  a pool. 

Beneath  the  ford,  used  oft  to  bring  within 
My  reach  whatever  floating  thing  the  stream 
Had  caught.  The  voice  was  ceased ; the  person  lost: 
But,  looking  sad  and  earnest  on  the  waters. 

By  the  moon’s  light  I saw,  whirled  round  and  round, 
A basket ; soon  I drew  it  to  the  bank. 

And  nestled  curious  there  an  infant  lay. 

Lady  R.  Was  he  alive  ? 

Pris.  He  was. 

Lady  R.  Inhuman  that  thou  art ! 

How  could’st  thou  kill  what  waves  and  tempests 
spared  ? ^ 

Piis.  I rvas  not  so  inhuman. 

Lady  R.  Didst  thou  not  ? 

Anna.  My  noble  mistress,  you  are  moved  too  much ; 
This  man  has  not  the  aspect  of  stern  murder; 

Let  him  go  on,  and  you,  I hope,  will  hear 
Good  tidings  of  your  kinsman’s  long  lost  child. 

Pris.  The  needy  man  who  has  known  better  days. 
One  whom  distress  has  spited  at  the  world. 

Is  he  whom  tempting  fiends  would  pitch  upon 
To  do  such  deeds,  as  make  the  prosperous  men 
Lift  up  their  hands,  and  wonder  who  could  do  them ; 
And  such  a man  was  I ; a man  declined. 

Who  saw  no  end  of  black  adversity ; 

Yet,  for  the  wealth  of  kingdoms,  I would  not 
Have  touched  that  infant  with  a hand  of  harm. 

Lady  R.  Ha ! dost  thou  say  so  ? Then  perhaps  he 
lives! 

Pris.  Not  many  days  ago  he  was  alive. 

LadxjR.  0,  God  of  heaven  ! Did  hethen  die  so  lately! 
Pns.  I did  not  say  he  died  ; I hope  he  lives. 

Not  many  days  ago  these  eyes  beheld 
Him,  flourishing  in  youth,  and  health,  and  beauty. 
Lady  R.  Where  is  he  now  ? 

Pris.  Alas ! I know  not  where. 

Lady  R.  0,  fate ! I fear  thee  still.  Thou  riddler 
speak 

Direct  and  clear,  else  I will  search  thy  soul. 

Anna.  Permit  me,  ever  honoured!  keen  impatience. 
Though  hard  to  be  restrained,  defeats  itself. 

Pursue  thy  story  with  a faithful  tongue. 

To  the  last  hour  that  thou  didst  keep  the  child. 

Pris.  Fear  not  my  faith,  though  1 must  speak  my 
shame. 

Within  the  cradle  where  the  infant  lay 
Was  stowed  a mighty  store  of  gold  and  jewels ; 
Tempted  by  which,  we  did  resolve  to  hide. 

From  all  the  world,  this  wonderful  event, 

And  like  a peasant  breed  the  noble  child. 

That  none  might  mark  the  change  of  our  estate. 

We  left  the  country,  travelled  to  the  north, 

138 

TRAGIC  PRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Bought  flock.s  and  herds,  and  gradually  brought  forth 
Our  secret  wealth.  But  God’s  all-seeing  eye 
Beheld  our  avarice,  and  sniote  us  sore ; 

For  one  by  one  all  our  own  children  died. 

And  he,  the  stranger,  sole  remained  the  heir 
Of  what  indeed  was  his.  Fain  then  would  I, 

Who  with  a father’s  fondness  loved  the  boy. 

Have  trusted  him,  now  in  the  dawn  of  youth, 

With  his  oivn  secret ; but  my  anxious  wife. 
Foreboding  evil,  never  would  consent. 

Meanwhile  the  stripling  grew  in  years  and  beauty; 
And,  as  we  oft  observed,  he  bore  himself. 

Not  as  the  offspring  of  our  cottage  blood. 

For  nature  will  break  out : mild  with  the  mild, 

But  with  the  froward  he  was  fierce  as  fire. 

And  night  and  day  he  talked  of  war  and  arms. 

I set  myself  against  his  warlike  bent ; 

But  all  in  vain  ; for  when  a desperate  band 

Of  robbers  from  the  savage  mountains  came 

Lady  R.  Eternal  Providence ! What  is  thy  name  ? 
Pria.  My  name  is  Norval ; and  my  name  he 
bears. 

Lady  R.  ’Tis  he,  ’tis  he  himself  ! It  is  my  son  I 
0,  sovereign  mercy ! ’Tw'as  my  child  I saw! 

No  wonder,  Anna,  that  my  bosom  burned. 

Anna.  Just  are  your  transports : ne’er  was  woman’s 
heart 

Proved  with  such  fierce  extremes.  High-fated  dame ! 
But  yet  remember  that  you  are  beheld 
By  servile  eyes  ; your  gestures  may  be  seen 
Impassioned,  strange ; perhaps  your  words  o’erheard. 
Lady  R.  Well  dost  thou  counsel,  Anna ; Heaven  be- 
stow 

On  me  that  wisdom  which  my  state  requires  ! 

Anna.  The  moments  of  deliberation  pass. 

And  soon  you  must  resolve.  This  useful  man 
Must  be  dismissed  in  safety,  ere  my  lord 
Shall  with  his  brave  deliverer  return. 

Pris.  If  I,  amidst  astonishment  and  fear. 

Have  of  your  words  and  gestures  rightly  judged. 

Thou  art  the  daughter  of  my  ancient  master ; 

The  child  I rescued  from  the  flood  is  thine. 

Lady  R.  With  thee  dissimulation  now  were  vain. 

I am  indeed  the  daughter  of  Sir  Malcolm  ; 

The  child  thou  rescuedst  from  the  flood  is  mine. 

Pris.  Blessed  be  the  hour  that  made  me  a poor 
man ! 

My  poverty  hath  saved  my  master’s  house. 

Lady  R.  Thy  words  surprise  me ; sure  thou  dost  not 
feign ! 

The  tear  stands  in  thine  eye : such  love  from  thee 
Sir  Malcolm’s  house  deserved  not,  if  aright 
Thou  told’st  the  story  of  thy  own  distress. 

Pris.  Sir  Malcolm  of  our  barons  was  the  flower ; 
The  fastest  friend,  the  best,  the  kindest  master; 

But  ah  I he  knew  not  of  my  sad  estate. 

After  that  battle,  where  his  gallant  son. 

Your  own  brave  brother,  fell,  the  good  old  lord 
Grew  desperate  and  reckless  of  the  world  ; 

And  never,  as  he  erst  was  wont,  went  forth 
To  overlook  the  conduct  of  his  servants. 

By  them  I was  thrust  out,  and  them  I blame  ; 

May  heaven  so  judge  me  as  I judged  my  master. 

And  God  so  love  me  as  I love  his  race! 

Lady  R.  His  race  shall  yet  reward  thee.  On  thy 
faith 

Depends  the  fate  of  thy  loved  master’s  house. 
Rememberest  thou  a little  lonely  hut. 

That  like  a holy  hermitage  appears 
Among  the  cliffs  of  Carron? 

Pris.  I remember 
The  cottage  of  the  cliffs. 

Lady  R.  ’Tis  that  I mean ; 

There  dwells  a man  of  venerable  age. 

Who  in  my  father’s  service  spent  his  youth : 

Tell  him  1 sent  thee,  and  with  him  remain, 


JOHN  HOMB. 


Till  I shall  call  upon  thee  to  declare. 

Before  the  king  and  nobles,  what  thou  now 
To  me  hast  told.  No  more  but  this,  and  thou 
Shalt  live  in  honour  all  thy  future  days  ; 

Thy  son  so  long  shall  call  thee  father  still. 

And  all  the  land  shall  bless  the  man  who  saved 
The  son  of  Douglas,  and  Sir  Malcolm’s  heir. 

John  Home,  author  of  Doughs,  was  by  birth  con- 
nected with  the  family  of  the  Earl  of  Home ; his 
father  was  town-clerk  of  Leith,  where  the  poet  was 
born  in  1722.  He  entered  the  church,  and  suc- 
ceeded Blair,  author  of  ‘The  Grave,’  as  minister  of 
Athelstaneford.  Previous  to  this,  however,  he  had 
taken  up  arms  as  a volunteer  in  1745  against  the 
Chevalier,  and  after  the  defeat  at  Falkirk,  was  im- 
prisoned in  the  old  castle  of  Doune,  whence  he 
effected  his  escape,  with  some  of  his  associates,  by 
cutting  their  blankets  into  shreds,  and  letting 
themselves  down  on  the  ground.  The  romantic 
poet  soon  found  the  church  as  severe  and  tyran- 
nical as  the  army  of  Charles  Edward.  So  vio- 
lent a storm  was  raised  by  the  fact  that  a Pres- 
byterian minister  had  written  a play,  that  Home 
was  forced  to  succumb  to  the  presbytery,  and  re- 
sign his  living.  Lord  Bute  rewarded  him  with  the 
sinecure  office  of  conservator  of  Scots  privileges  at 
Campvere,  and  on  the  accession  of  George  III.  in 
1760,  when  the  influence  of  Bute  was  paramount, 
the  poet  received  a pension  of  £300  per  annum.  He 
wrote  various  other  tragedies,  which  soon  passed 
into  oblivion  ; but  with  an  income  of  about  £600  per 
annum,  with  an  easy,  cheerful,  and  benevolent  dis- 
position, and  enjoying  the  friendship  of  David 
Hume,  Blair,  Robertson,  and  all  the  most  distin- 
guished for  rank  or  talents,  John  Home’s  life  glided 
on  in  happy  tranquillity.  He  survived  nearly  all 
his  associates,  and  died  in  1808,  aged  eighty-six. 

Among  the  other  tragic  writers  may  be  men- 
tioned Mallet,  whose  drama  of  Elvira  was  highly 
successful,  and  another  drama  by  whom,  Mustapha, 
enjoyed  a factitious  popularity  by  glancing  at  tlie 
characters  of  the  king  and  Sir  Robert  Walpole. 
Glover,  author  of  ‘ Leonidas,’  also  produced  a tragedy, 
Boadicea,  but  it  was  found  deficient  in  interest  for  a 
mixed  audience.  In  this  play,  Davies,  the  bio- 
grapher of  Garrick,  relates  that  Glover  ‘ preserved 
a custom  of  the  Druids,  who  enjoined  the  persons 
who  drank  their  poison  to  turn  their  faces  towards 
the  wind,  in  order  to  facilitate  the  operation  of  the 
potion  !’  Horace  Walpole  was  author  of  a tragedy. 
The  Mysterious  Mother,  which,  though  of  a painful 
and  revolting  nature  as  to  plot  and  incident, 
abounds  in  vigorous  description  and  striking  ima- 
gery. As  Walpole  had  a strong  predilection  for 
Gothic  romance,  and  had  a dramatic  turn  of  mind, 
it  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  did  not  devote  himself 
more  to  the  service  of  the  stage,  in  which  he  would 
have  anticipated  and  rivalled  the  style  of  the  Ger- 
man drama.  The  ‘ Mysterious  Mother’  has  never 
been  ventured  on  the  stage.  The  Grecian  Daughter, 
by  Murphy,  produced  in  1772,  was  a classic  subject, 
treated  in  the  French  style,  but  not  destitute  of 
tenderness. 

[Against  the  Crusades  ) 

I here  attend  him. 

In  expeditions  which  I ne’er  approve  1, 

In  holy  wars.  Your  pardon,  reverend  father. 

I must  declare  I think  such  wars  the  fruit 
Of  idle  courage,  or  mistaken  zeal ; 

Sometimes  of  rapine,  and  religious  rage. 

To  every  mischief  prompt.  * 

* * Sure  I am,  ’tis  madness. 

Inhuman  madness,  thus  from  half  the  world 

13S 


4 


from  1727  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1780 


To  drain  its  blood  and  treasure,  to  neglect 
Mach  art  of  face,  each  care  of  government ; 

Arid  all  for  what  ? liy  spreading  desolation, 

Rapine,  and  slaughter  o’er  the  other  half, 

To  gain  a conquest  we  can  never  hold. 

I venerate  this  land.  Those  sacred  hills. 

Those  vales,  those  cities,  trod  by  saints  and  prophets. 
By  God  himself,  the  scenes  of  heavenly  wonders. 
Inspire  me  willi  a certain  awful  joy. 

But  the  same  God,  my  friend,  pervades,  sustains. 
Surrounds,  and  fills  this  universal  frame ; 

And  every  land,  where  spreads  his  vital  presence, 
llis  all-enlivening  breath,  to  me  is  holy. 

Excuse  me,  Theald,  if  1 go  too  far : 

I meant  alone  to  say,  I think  these  wars 
A kind  of  persecution.  And  when  that — 

That  most  absurd  and  cruel  of  all  vices. 

Is  once  begun,  where  shall  it  find  an  end! 

Each  in  his  turn,  or  has  or  claims  a right 
To  wield  its  dagger,  to  return  its  furies. 

And  first  or  last  they  fall  upon  ourselves. 

Thomson's  Edward  and  Eleonora, 

[Xore.] 

Why  should  we  kill  the  best  of  passions.  Love! 

It  aids  the  hero,  bids  Ambition  rise 
To  nobler  heights,  inspires  immortal  deeds. 

Even  softens  brutes,  and  adds  a grace  to  Virtue. 

Thomson’s  Sophonisba. 

[^Miscalculations  of  Old  Men.] 

Those  old  men,  those  plodding  grave  state  pedants. 
Forget  the  course  of  youth  ; their  crooked  prudence, 
To  baseness  verging  still,  forgets  to  take 
Into  their  fine-spun  schemes  the  generous  heart. 

That,  through  the  cobweb  system  bursting,  lays 
Their  labours  waste. 

Thomson's  Tancred  and  Sigismunda, 

[Awfulness  of  a Scene  of  Pagan  Rites.] 

This  is  the  secret  centre  of  the  isle : 

Here,  Romans,  pause,  and  let  the  eye  of  wonder 
Gaze  on  the  solemn  scene ; behold  yon  oak. 

How  stern  he  frorvns,  and  with  his  broad  brown  arms 
Chills  the  pale  plain  beneath  him : mark  yon  altar. 
The  dark  stream  brawling  round  its  rugged  base ; 
These  cliffs,  these  yawning  caverns,  this  wide  circus. 
Skirted  with  unhewn  stone  ; they  awe  my  soul. 

As  if  the  very  genius  of  the  place 
Himself  appeared,  and  with  terrific  tread 
Stalked  through  his  drear  domain.  And  yet,  my  friends, 
If  shapes  like  his  be  but  the  fancy’s  coinage. 

Surely  there  is  a hidden  power  that  reigns 
'Mid  the  lone  majesty  of  untamed  nature. 

Controlling  sober  reason  ; tell  me  else, 

Why  do  these  haunts  of  barbarous  superstition 
O’ercome  me  thus ! I scorn  them  ; yet  they  awe  me. 

Mason's  Caractacus. 

[Against  Homicide.] 

Think  what  a sea  of  deep  perdition  whelms 
The  wretch’s  trembling  soul,  who  launches  forth 
Unlicensed  to  eternity.  Think,  think. 

And  let  the  thought  restrain  thy  impious  hand. 

The  race  of  man  is  one  vast  marshalled  army. 
Summoned  to  pass  the  spacious  realms  of  Time, 

Their  leader  the  Almighty.  In  that  march 
Ah  1 who  may  quit  his  post ! when  high  in  air 
The  chosen  archangel  rides,  whose  right  hand  wields 
The  imperial  standard  of  Heaven’s  providence. 
Which,  dreadful  sweeping  through  the  vaulted  sky. 
Overshadows  all  creation. 

Mason’s  El/rida. 


[Solitude  on  a Battle  Field.] 

I have  been  led  by  solitary  care 
To  yon  dark  branches,  spreading  o’er  the  brook. 
Which  murmurs  through  the  camp  ; this  mighty  camp. 
Where  once  two  hundred  thousand  sons  of  war. 

With  restless  dins  awaked  the  midnight  hour. 

Now  horrid  stillness  in  the  vacant  tents 
Sits  undisturbed  ; and  these  inces.sant  rills. 

Whose  pebbled  channel  breaks  their  shallow  stream^ 
Fill  with  their  melancholy  sounds  my  ears. 

As  if  I wandered,  like  a lonely  hind. 

O’er  some  dead  fallow,  far  from  all  resort : 

Unless  that  ever  and  anon  a groan 
Bursts  from  a soldier,  pillowed  on  his  shield 
In  torment,  or  expiring  with  his  wounds. 

And  turns  my  fixed  attention  into  horror. 

Glover’s  Boadieea. 

[Foi-giveness.] 

So  prone  to  error  is  our  mortal  frame. 

Time  could  not  step  without  a trace  of  horror. 

If  wary  nature  on  the  human  heart. 

Amid  its  wild  variety  of  passions. 

Had  not  impre.ssed  a soft  and  yielding  sense. 

That  when  offences  give  resentment  birth. 

The  kindly  dews  of  penitence  may  raise 
The  seeds  of  mutual  mercy  and  forgivene.ss. 

Glover’s  Boadieea. 

[Fortitude.] 

But,  prince,  remember  then 
The  vows,  the  noble  uses  of  affliction  ; 

Preserve  the  quick  humanity  it  gives. 

The  pitying,  social  sense  of  human  weakness  ; 

Yet  keep  thy  stubborn  fortitude  entire. 

The  manly  heart  that  to  another’s  wo 
Is  tender,  but  superior  to  its  own. 

Learn  to  submit,  yet  learn  to  conquer  fortune ; 
Attach  thee  firmly  to  the  virtuous  deeds 
And  offices  of  life  ; to  life  itself. 

With  all  its  vain  and  transient  joys,  sit  loose. 

Chief,  let  devotion  to  the  sovereign  mind, 

A steady,  cheerful,  absolute  dependence 
In  his  best,  wisest  government,  possess  thee. 

In  thoughtless  gay  prosperity,  when  all 
Attends  our  wish,  when  nought  is  seen  around  us 
But  kneeling  slavery,  and  obedient  fortune  ; 

Then  are  blind  mortals  apt,  within  themsehes 
To  fly  their  stay,  forgetful  of  the  giver  ; 

But  when  thus  humbled,  Alfred,  as  thou  art. 

When  to  their  feeble  natui-al  powers  reduced, 

’Tis  then  they  feel  this  universal  truth 
That  Heaven  is  all  in  all,  and  man  is  nothing. 

Mallet’s  Alfred. 


COMIC  DRAMATISTS. 

The  comic  muse  was,  during  this  period,  more 
successful  than  her  tragic  sister.  In  the  reign  of 
George  II.,  the  witty  and  artificial  comedies  of 
Vanbrugh  and  Farquliar  began  to  lose  their  ground, 
both  on  account  of  their  licentiousness,  and  the 
formal  system  on  which  they  were  constructed  with 
regard  to  characters  and  expression.  In  their  room, 
Garrick,  Foote,  and  other  writers,  placed  a set  of 
dramatic  compositions,  which,  though  often  of  a 
humble  and  unpretending  character,  exercised  great 
influence  in  introducing  a taste  for  more  natural 
portraitures  and  language ; and  these  again  led  the 
way  to  the  higher  productions,  which  we  are  still 
accustomed  to  refer  to  veneratively,  as  the  legiti- 
mate English  comedies. 

140 


COMIC  DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Amonjist  the  first  five-act  plays  in  which  this 
improvement  was  seen,  was  The  Suspicious  Husband 
of  lloiully,  in  wliich  there  is  but  a slight  dash  of 
the  license  of  Farquhar.  Its  leading  character, 
liiinger,  is  still  a favourite.  George  Colman,  ma- 
nager of  Covent  Garden  theatre,  was  an  excellent 
comic  writer,  and  produced  above  thirty  pieces,  a 
few  of  which  deservedly  keep  possession  of  the  stage. 
Ilis  Jealous  Wife,  founded  on  Fielding’s  ‘Tom  Jones,’ 
has  some  highly  efiective  scenes  and  well-drawn  cha- 
u'ters.  It  was  produced  in  1761 ; five  years  after- 


George  Colman. 


wards,  Colman  joined  with  Garrick  and  brought  out 
The  Clandestine  Marriage,  in  which  the  character  of 
an  aged  beau,  affecting  gaiety  and  youth,  is  strik- 
ingly personified  in  Lord  Ogleby.  Arthur  Murphy 
(1727-1805),  a voluminous  and  miscellaneous  writer, 
added  comedies  as  well  as  tragedies  to  the  stage, 
and  his  Way  to  Keep  Him  is  still  occasional!}'  per- 
formed. Hugh  Kelly,  a scurrilous  newspaper  writer, 
surprised  the  public  by  producing  a comedy.  False 
Delicacy,  which  had  remarkable  success  both  on  the 
fortunes  and  character  of  the  author : the  profits  of 
his  first  third  night  realised  £150 — the  largest  sum 
of  money  he  had  ever  before  seen — ‘ and  from  a low, 
petulant,  absurd,  and  ill-bred  censurer,’  says  Davies, 
‘ Kelly  was  transformed  to  the  humane,  affable, 
good-natured,  well-bred  man.’  The  marked  success 
of  Kelly’s  sentimental  style  gave  the  tone  to  a much 
more  able  dramatist,  Richard  Cumberland  (1732- 
1811).  who,  after  two  or  three  unsuccessful  pieces, 
in  1771  brought  out  The  West  Indian,  one  of  the 
best  stage  plays  which  English  comedy  can  yet 
boast.  The  plot,  incidents,  and  characters  (includ- 
ing the  first  draught  of  an  Irish  gentleman  which  the 
theatre  had  witnessed),  are  all  well  sustained.  Other 
dramas  of  Cumberland,  as  The  Wheel  of  Fortune, 
The  Fashionable  Lover,  &c.,  were  also  acted  with 
applause,  though  now  too  stiff  and  sentimental  for 
our  audiences.  Goldsmith  thought  that  Cumber- 
land had  carried  the  refinement  of  comedy  to  ex- 
cess, and  he  set  himself  to  correct  the  fault.  His 
first  dramatic  performance.  The  Good-Natured  Man, 
presents  one  of  the  happiest  of  his  delineations  in 
the  character  of  Croaker ; but  as  a whole,  the  play 
wants  point  and  sprightliness.  His  second  drama, 


She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  performed  in  1773,  has  all 
the  requisites  for  interesting  and  amusing  an  audi- 
ence ; and  Johnson  said,  ‘ he  knew  of  no  comedy 
for  many  years  that  had  answered  so  much  the 
great  end  of  comedy — making  an  audience  merry.’ 
The  plot  turns  on  w'hat  may  be  termed  a far- 
cical incident — two  parties  mistaking  a gentleman’s 
house  for  an  inn.  But  the  excellent  discrimina- 
tion of  character,  and  the  humour  and  vivacity 
of  the  dialogue  throughout  the  play,  render  this 
piece  one  of  the  richest  contributions  which  have 
been  made  to  modern  comedy.  The  native  plea- 
santry and  originality  of  Goldsmith  were  never 
more  happily  displayed,  and  his  success,  as  Davies 
records,  ‘ revived  fancy,  wit,  gaiety,  humour,  inci- 
dent, and  character,  in  the  place  of  sentiment  and 
moral  preachment.’ 

[A  Deception.'] 

[From  ‘ She  Stoops  to  Conquer.’] 

Landlord  and  Tony  Lumfein. 

Landlord.  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a post-chaise  at 
the  door.  They’ve  lost  their  way  upon  the  forest,  and 
they  are  talking  something  about  Mr  Hardcastle. 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be  the 
gentleman  that’s  coming  down  to  court  my  sister.  Do 
they  seem  to  be  Londoners  ? 

Land.  I believe  they  may.  They  look  woundily  like 
Frenchmen. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and  I’ll 
set  them  right  in  a twinkling.  [Exit  Landlord.] 
Gentlemen,  as  they  mayn’t  be  good  enough  company 
for  you,  step  down  for  a moment,  and  I’ll  be  with  you 
in  the  squeezing  of  a lemon.  [Exeunt  Mob.]  Father- 
in-law  has  been  calling  me  a whelp  and  hound  this 
half-year.  Now,  if  1 pleased,  I could  be  so  revenged 
upon  the  old  grumbletonian.  But  then  I am  afraid 
— afraid  of  what  ? I shall  soon  be  worth  fifteen  hun- 
dred a-year,  and  let  him  frighten  me  out  of  that  if  he 
can. 

Enter  Landlord,  conducting  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Mar.  What  a tedious  uncomfortable  day  have  we 
had  of  it!  We  were  told  it  was  but  forty  miles  across 
the  country,  and  we  have  come  above  threescore. 

Hast.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unaccountable 
reserve  of  yours,  that  would  not  let  us  inquire  more 
frequently  on  the  way. 

Mar.  I on-n,  Hastings,  I am  unwilling  to  lay  my- 
self under  an  obligation  to  every  one  1 meet ; and 
often  stand  the  chance  of  an  unmannerly  answer. 

Hast.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not  likely  to  re- 
ceive any  answer. 

Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen  ; but  I am  toid  you 
have  been  inquiring  for  one  Mr  Hardcastle  in  these 
parts.  Do  you  know  what  part  of  the  country  you  are 
ini 

Hast.  Not  in  the  least,  sir ; but  should  thank  yon 
for  information. 

Tony.  Nor  the  way  you  camel 

Hast.  No,  sir ; but  if  you  can  inform  us 

Tony.  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither  the 
road  you  are  going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the  road 
you  came,  the  first  thing  1 have  to  inform  you  is  that 
— you  have  lost  your  way. 

Mar.  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  that. 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  1 be  so  bold  as  to  ask 
the  place  from  whence  you  came  1 

Mar.  That’s  not  necessary  towards  directing  us 
where  we  are  to  go. 

Tony.  No  offence ; but  question  for  question  is  all 
fair,  you  know.  Pray,  gentlemen,  is  not  this  same 
Hardcastle  a cross-grained,  old-fashioned,  whimsical 
fellow,  with  an  ugly  face,  a daughter,  and  a pretty  son  1 

141 


TKo*  1727  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  to  1780. 

Hast.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman ; but  he  has 
the  family  you  mention. 

Tony.  The  daughter  a tall,  trapesing,  trolloping, 
talkative  maypole  ; the  son  a pretty,  well-bred,  agree- 
able youth,  that  everybody  is  fond  of. 

Mar.  Our  information  differs  in  this : the  daughter 
is  said  to  be  well-bred  and  beautiful ; the  son  an 
awkward  booby,  reared  up  and  spoiled  at  his  mother’s 
apron-string. 

Tony.  He-he-hem.  Then,  gentlemen,  all  I have  to 
tell  you  is,  that  you  won’t  reach  Mr  Ilardcastle’s 
house  this  night,  I believe. 

Hast.  Unfortunate  ! 

Tony.  It’s  a long,  dark,  boggy,  dangerous  way. 
Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the  way  to  Mr  Ilardcastle’s 
[^toinJeing  at  the  Landlord] — Mr  Ilardcastle’s  of  Quag- 
mire-marsh. You  understand  me? 

Land.  Master  Ilardcastle’s  2 Lack-a-daisy  1 my 
masters  you’re  come  a deadly  deal  wrong.  When 
you  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill  you  should  have 
crossed  down  Squash-lane. 

Mar.  Cross  down  Squash-lane  ? 

Land.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  forward  till 
you  came  to  four  roads. 

Mar.  Come  to  where  four  roads  meet  2 

Tmy.  Ay  ; but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only 
one. 

Mar.  0,  sir ! you’re  facetious. 

Tony.  Then,  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to  go 
sideways  till  you  come  upon  Crack-skull  Common  ; 
there  you  must  look  sharp  for  the  track  of  the 
wheel,  and  go  forward  till  you  come  to  Farmer  Mur- 
rain’s bam.  Coming  to  the  farmer’s  bam,  you  are 
to  turn  to  the  right,  and  then  to  the  left,  and  then 
to  the  right  about  again,  till  you  find  out  the  old 
mill 

Mar.  Zounds  ! man,  we  could  as  soon  find  out  the 
longitude  ! 

Hast.  What’s  to  be  done,  Marlow  2 

Mar.  This  house  promises  but  a poor  reception ; 
though  perhaps  the  landlord  can  accommodate  us. 

Land.  Alack,  master!  we  have  but  one  spare  bed 
in  the  whole  house. 

Tony.  And  to  my  knowledge  that’s  taken  up  by 
three  lodgers  already.  [After  a pause,  in  which  the 
rest  seem  disconcerted.]  I have  hit  it : don’t  you  think. 
Stingo,  our  landlady  would  accommodate  the  gentle- 
men by  the  fireside  with  three  chairs  and  a bol- 
ster 2 

Hast.  I hate  sleeping  by  the  fireside. 

Mar.  And  I detest  your  three  chairs  and  a bol- 
ster. 

Tony.  Y ou  do,  do  you  2 Then  let  me  see — what  if 
you  go  on  a mile  farther  to  the  Buck’s  Head,  the  old 
Buck’s  Head  on  the  hill,  one  of  the  best  inns  in  the 
whole  country. 

Hast.  0 ho  I so  we  have  escaped  an  adventure  for 
this  night,  however. 

Land.  [Apart  to  Tony."]  Sure  you  bean’t  sending 
them  to  your  father’s  as  an  inn,  be  you  2 

Tcmy  Mum  I you  fool,  you  ; let  them  find  that  out. 
[To  them.]  You  have  only  to  keep  on  straightfor- 
ward till  you  come  to  a large  house  on  the  road-side  : 
you’ll  see  a pair  of  large  horns  over  the  door ; that’s 
the  sign.  Drive  up  the  yard,  and  call  stoutly  about 
you. 

Hast.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The  servants 
can’t  miss  the  way. 

Tony.  No,  no  : but  I tell  you  though,  the  landlord 
is  rich,  and  going  to  leave  off  business  ; so  he  wants  to 
1.  j thought  a gentleman,  saving  your  presence,  he,  he, 
he!  He’ll  be  for  giving  you  his  company  ; and,  ecod  ! 
if  you  mini  him,  he’ll  persuade  you  that  his  mother 
was  an  alderman,  and  his  aunt  a justice  of  the 
teace. 

Land.  A troublesome  old  blade,  to  be  sure ; but  a 

keeps  as  good  wines  and  beds  as  any  in  the  whole 
county. 

Mar.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  we  shall 
want  no  further  connexion.  We  are  to  turn  to  the 
right,  did  you  say  2 

Tony.  No,  no,  straight  forward.  I’ll  just  step  my- 
self and  show  you  a piece  of  the  way.  [To  the  Land- 
lord.] Mum ! [Exeunt. 

[Arrival  at  the  Supposed  Inn."] 

Enter  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Hast.  After  the  disappointments  of  the  day,  wel- 
come once  more,  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a clean 
room  and  a good  fire.  Upon  my  word  a very  well- 
looking house ; antique,  but  creditable. 

Mar.  The  usual  fate  of  a large  mansion.  Having 
first  ruined  the  master  by  good  house-keeping,  it  has 
at  last  come  to  levy  contributions  as  an  inn. 

Hast.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be  taxed  to 
pay  all  these  fineries.  I have  often  seen  a good  side- 
hoard,  or  a marble  chimney-piece,  though  not  actually 
put  in  the  bill,  inflamfe  the  hill  confoundedly. 

Mar.  Travellers  must  pay  in  all  places ; the  only 
difference  is,  that  in  good  inns  you  pay  dearly  for 
luxuries;  in  bad  inns  you  are  fleeced  and  starved. 

Enter  Hardcastlb. 

Hard.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are  heartily  wel- 
come. Which  is  Mr  Marlow  2 [Mar.  advances.']  Sir, 
you’re  heartily  welcome.  It’s  not  my  way,  you  see, 
to  receive  my  friends  with  my  back  to  the  fire  ! I like 
to  give  them  a hearty  reception,  in  the  old  style,  at 
my  gate ; I like  to  see  their  horses  and  trunks  taken 
care  of. 

Mar.  [Aside.]  He  has  got  our  names  from  the  ser- 
vants already.  [To  Hard.]  We  approve  your  caution 
and  hospitality,  sir.  [To  Hast.]  I have  been  think- 
ing, George,  of  changing  our  travelling  dresses  in  the 
morning ; I am  grown  confoundedly  ashamed  of  mine. 

Hard.  I beg,  Mr  Marlow,  you’ll  use  no  ceremony 
in  this  hou.se. 

Hast.  I fancy,  you’re  right : the  first  blow  is  half 
the  battle.  We  must,  however,  open  the  campaign. 

Hard.  Mr  Marlow — Mr  Hastings — gentlemen — 
pray  be  under  no  restraint  in  this  house.  This  is 
Liberty-hall,  gentlemen ; you  may  do  just  as  you 
please  here. 

Mar.  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  campaign  too 
fiercely  at  first,  we  may  want  ammunition  before  it  is 
over.  We  must  show  our  generalship  by  securing,  if 
necessary,  a retreat. 

Hard.  Y our  talking  of  a retreat,  Mr  Marlow,  puts 
me  in  mind  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  when  he 
went  to  besiege  Denain.  He  first  summoned  the  gar- 
rison— 

Alar.  Ay,  and  we’ll  summon  your  garrison,  old  boy. 

Hard.  He  first  summoned  the  garrison,  which  might 
consist  of  about  five  thousand  men 

Hast.  Marlow,  what’s  o’clock  2 

Hard.  I say  gentlemen,  as  I was  telling  you,  he 
summoned  the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of  about 
five  thousand  men 

Mar.  Five  minutes  to  seven. 

Hard.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five  thousand 
men,  well  appointed  with  stores,  ammunition,  and 
other  implements  of  war.  Now,  says  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  to  George  Brooks,  that  stood  next  to  him 
— ^you  must  have  heard  of  George  Brooks — I’ll  pawn 
my  dukedom,  says  he,  but  I take  that  garrison  with- 
out spilling  a drop  of  blood.  So 

Mar.  What*  My  good  friend,  if  you  give  us  a 
glass  of  punch  in  the  meantime,  it  would  help  us  to 
canr  on  the  siege  with  vigour. 

Hard.  Punch,  sir! — This  is  the  most  unaccountable 
kind  of  modesty  I ever  met  with.  [Aside. 

142 

COMIC  DRAMATISTS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  Oliver  goldsmith. 

Mar.  Y es,  sir,  punch.  A glass  of  warm  punch  after 
our  journey  will  be  comfortable. 

Enter  Servant  with  a tankard. 

This  is  Liberty-hall,  you  know. 

Hard.  Here’s  a cup,  sir. 

Mar.  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty-hall,  will  only 
let  us  have  just  what  he  pleases.  [Aside  to  Hast. 

Hard.  ’^Taking  the  cup.]  I hope  you’ll  find  it  to 
your  mind.  I have  prepared  it  with  my  own  hands, 
and  I believe  you’ll  own  the  ingredients  are  tolerable. 
\^'ill  you  be  so  good  as  to  pledge  me,  sir  ? Here,  Mr 
Marlow,  here  is  to  our  better  acquaintance. 

[Drinks,  and  gives  the  cup  to  Marlow. 

Mar.  A very  impudent  fellow  this  ; but  he’s  a cha- 
racter, and  I’ll  humour  him  a little,  [.dside.]  Sir, 
my  service  to  you. 

Hast.  I see  this  fellow  wants  to  give  us  his  com- 
pany, and  forgets  that  he’s  an  innkeeper  before  he 
has  learned  to  be  a gentleman.  [Aside. 

Mar.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my  old 
friend,  I suppose  you  liave  a good  deal  of  business  in 
this  part  of  the  country.  \Varm  work  now  and  then 
at  elections,  I suppose. 

[Gives  the  tankard  to  Hardcastle. 

Hard.  No,  sir;  I have  long  given  that  work  over. 
Since  our  betters  have  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  elect- 
ing each  other,  there’s  no  business  for  us  that  sell  ale. 

[Gives  the  tankard  to  Hastings. 

Hast.  So,  you  have  no  turn  for  politics,  I find. 

Hard.  Not  in  the  least.  There  was  a time,  indeed, 
I fretted  myself  about  the  mistakes  of  government, 
like  other  people  ; but  finding  myself  every  day  grow 
more  angry,  and  the  government  growing  no  better, 
1 left  it  to  mend  itself.  Since  that,  I no  more 
trouble  my  head  about  who’s  in  or  who’s  out  than  I 
do  about  John  Nokes  or  Tom  Stiles.  So  my  service 
to  you. 

Hast.  So  that,  with  eating  above  stairs  and  drink- 
ing below,  with  receiving  your  friends  within  and 
amusing  them  without,  you  lead  a good,  pleasant, 
bustling  life  of  it. 

Hard.  I do  stir  about  a good  deal,  that’s  certain. 
Half  the  dilFerences  of  the  parish  are  adjusted  in  this 
very  parlour. 

Mar.  [After  drinking.]  And  you  have  an  argument 
in  your  cup,  old  gentleman,  better  than  any  in  West- 
minster-hall. 

Hard.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a little 
philosophy. 

Mar.  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I ever  heard  of  an 
innkeeper’s  philosophy.  [Aside. 

Hast.  So  then,  like  an  experienced  general,  you  at- 
tack them  on  every  quarter.  If  you  find  their  reason 
manageable,  you  attack  them  with  your  philosophy  ; 
if  you  find  they  have  no  reason,  you  attack  them  with 
this.  Here’s  your  health,  my  philosopher.  [Drinks. 

Hard.  Good,  very  good  ; thank  you  ; ha!  ha!  Your 
generalship  puts  me  in  mind  of  Prince  Eugene  when 
he  fought  the  Turks  at  the  battle  of  Belgrade.  You 
shall  hear. 

Mar.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I think  it’s 
almost  time  to  talk  about  supper.  What  has  your 
philosophy  got  in  the  house  for  supper  1 

Hard.  For  supper,  sir?  Was  ever  such  a request 
to  a man  in  his  own  house?  [Aside. 

Mar.  Y es,  sir ; supper,  sir ; I begin  to  feel  an  appe- 
tite. I shall  make  devilish  work  to-night  in  the  lar- 
der, I promise  you. 

Hard.  Such  a brazen  dog  sure  never  my  eyes  be- 
held. [Aside.]  Why  really,  sir,  as  for  supper  I can’t 
well  tell.  My  Dorothy  and  the  cookmaid  settle  these 
things  between  them.  I leave  these  kind  of  things 
entirely  to  them. 

Mar.  Y ou  do,  do  you  ? 

Hard.  Entirely.  By  the  by,  I believe  they  are  in 

actual  consultation  upon  what’s  for  supper  this  mo- 
ment in  the  kitchen. 

Mar.  Then  I beg  they’ll  admit  me  as  one  of  their 
privy-eouncil.  It’s  a way  1 have  got.  When  1 travel, 
I always  choose  to  regulate  my  own  supper.  Let  the 
cook  be  called.  No  offence  1 hope,  sir. 

Hard.  0 no,  sir,  none  in  the  least : yet,  1 don’t 
know  how,  our  Bridget,  the  eookmaid,  is  not  very 
communicative  upon  these  occasions.  Should  we  send 
for  her,  she  might  scold  us  all  out  of  the  house. 

Hast.  Let’s  see  the  list  of  the  larder,  then.  I al- 
ways match  my  appetite  to  my  bill  of  fare. 

Mar.  [To  Hardcastle,  who  looks  at  them  with,  sur- 
prise.] Sir,  he’s  very  right,  and  it’s  my  way  too. 

Hard.  Sir,  you  have  a right  to  command  here. 
Here,  Roger,  bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-night’s 
supper:  1 believe  it’s  draivn  out.  Your  manner,  Mr 
Hastings,  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  uncle.  Colonel 
Wallop.  It  was  a saying  of  his  that  no  man  was 
sure  of  his  supper  till  he  bad  eaten  it. 

[tServant  brings  in  the  bill  of  fare,  and  exit. 

Hast.  All  upon  the  high  ropes  ! His  unele  a colo- 
nel ! We  shall  soon  hear  of  his  mother  being  a justice 
of  peace.  [Aside.]  But  let’s  hear  the  bill  of  fare. 

Mar.  [Penising.]  What’s  here?  For  the  first 
course  ; for  the  second  course ; for  the  dessert.  The 
devil,  sir  ! Do  you  think  we  have  brought  down  the 
whole  Joiners’  Company,  or  the  Corporation  of  Bed- 
ford, to  eat  up  such  a supper?  Two  or  three  little 
things,  clean  and  comfortable,  will  do. 

Hast.  But  let’s  hear  it. 

Mar.  [i?eadingi.]  For  the  first  course  : at  the  top, 
a pig  and  prune  sauce.  * * 

Hard.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that  are  hungry, 
pig,  with  prune  sauce,  is  very  good  eating.  Their  im- 
pudence confounds  me.  [Aside.]  Gentlemen,  you 
are  my  guests,  make  what  alterations  you  please.  Is 
there  any^^ing  else  you  wish  to  retrench  or  alter, 
gentlemen  T 

Mar.  Item : a pork  pie,  a boiled  rabbit  and  sau- 
sages, a florentine,  a shaking-pudding,  and  a dish  of 
tiff — taff — taffety  cream. 

Hast.  Confound  your  made  dishes  ! I shall  be  as 
much  at  a loss  in  this  house  as  at  a green  and  yellow 
dinner  at  the  French  ambassador’s  table.  I’m  for 
plain  eating. 

Hard.  I’m  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I have  nothing 
you  like ; but  if  there  be  any  thing  you  have  a par- 
ticular fancy  to 

Mar.  Why,  really,  sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  so  ex- 
quisite, that  any  one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as  an- 
other. Send  us  what  you  please.  So  much  for  supper  : 
and  now  to  see  that  our  beds  are  aired,  and  properly 
taken  care  of. 

Hard.  I intreat  you’ll  leave  all  that  to  me.  Y ou 
shall  not  stir  a step. 

Mar.  Leave  that  to  you  ! I protest,  sir,  you  must 
excuse  me ; I always  look  to  these  things  myself. 

Hard.  I must  insist,  sir,  you’ll  make  ycurself  easy 
on  that  head. 

Mar.  Y ou  see  I’m  resolved  on  it.  A veiy  trouble- 
some fellow,  as  ever  I met  with.  [Aside. 

Hard.  Well,  sir,  I’m  resolved  at  least  to  attend  you. 
This  may  be  modem  modesty,  but  I never  saw  anything 
look  so  like  old-fashioned  impudence.  [Aside. 

[Exeunt  Mar.  and  Hard. 

Hast.  So,  I find  this  fellow’s  civilities  begin  to  grow 
troublesome.  But  who  can  be  angry  with  those  assi- 
duities which  are  meant  to  please  him?  Ha!  what 
do  I see  ? Miss  Neville,  by  all  that’s  happy ! 

Two  years  after  Goldsmith’s  dramatic  triumph,  a 
still  greater  in  legitimate  comedy  arose  in  the  per- 
son of  that  remarkable  man,  who  survived  down  to 
our  own  day,  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  On 
the  1 7th  of  January  1775,  liis  play  of  The  Rivals  was 

143 

FuoM  17-27  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  to  1780. 

hroiifflit  out  at  Covcnt  Garden.  In  tins  first  effort 
of  Slieridao  (who  was  tlien  in  his  twenty-fourth 
year),  there  is  more  humour  than  wit.  He  had 
copied  some  of  his  eliaraeters  from  ‘ Humphry 
CImUer,’  as  the  testy  hut  generous  Captain  Ahso- 
lute,  evidently  borrowed  from  Matthew  Hramhle, 
and  Mrs  Mahiprop,  whose  mistakes  in  words  are  the 
echoes  of  Mrs  Winifred  Jenkins’s  blunders.  Some 
of  these  are  farcical  enough ; hut  as  Mr  Moore 
observes  (and  no  man  has  made  more  use  of  similes 
than  himself),  the  luckiness  of  Mrs  Malaprop’s 
simile — ‘ as  headstrong  as  an  allegory  on  the  hanks  of 
the  Nile’ — will  he  acknowledged  as  long  as  there  are 
writers  to  he  run  away  with  by  the  w'ilfulness  of 
this  truly  headstrong  species  of  composition.  In 
the  same  year,  St  Patrick's  Day  and  The  Duenna 
were  i)rodueed;  the  hitter  had  a run  of  seventy-five 
nights!  It  certainly  is  greatly  superior  to  ‘The 
Beggar’s  0[iera,’  though  not  so  general  in  its 
satire.  In  1777,  Sheridan  had  other  two  plays.  The 
Trip  to  Scarborough  and  The  School  for  Scandal.  In 
plot,  character,  and  incident,  dialogue,  humour,  and 
wit,  ‘ The  School  for  Scandal’  is  acknowledged  to 
siu-pass  any  comedy  of  modern  times.  It  was  care- 
fully prepared  by  the  author,  who  selected,  arranged, 
and  moulded  his  language  w'ith  consummate  taste, 
so  as  to  form  it  into  a transparent  channel  of  his 
thoughts.  Mr  Moore,  in  his  ‘ Life  of  Sheridan,’ 
gives  some  amusing  instances  of  the  various  forms 
which  a witticism  or  pointed  remark  assumed  before 
its  final  adojition.  As  in  his  first  comedy  Sheridan 
had  taken  hints  from  Smollett;  in  this,  his  last,  he 
had  recourse  to  Smollett’s  rival,  or  rather  twin 
novelist.  Fielding.  The  characters  of  Charles  and 
Joseph  Surface  are  evidently  copies  from  those  of 
Tom  Jones  and  Blifil.  Nor  is  the  moral  of  the  play 
an  improvement  on  that  of  the  novel.  The  care- 
less extravagant  rake  is  generous,  warm-hearted, 
and  fascinating;  seriousness  and  gravity  are  ren- 
dered odious  by  being  united  to  meanness  and  hypo- 
crisy. The  dramatic  art  of  Sheridan  is  evinced  in 
the  ludicrous  incidents  and  situations  with  which 
‘ The  School  for  Scandal’  abounds  : his  genius  shines 
forth  in  its  witty  dialogues.  ‘ The  entire  comedy,’ 
says  Moore,  ‘ is  an  El  Dorado  of  wit,  where  the 
precious  metal  is  thrown  about  by  all  classes  as 
careles.sly  as  if  they  had  not  the  least  idea  of  its 
value.’  This  fault  is  one  not  likely  to  be  often 
committed!  Some  shorter  pieces  were  afterwards 
written  by  Sheridan  : The  Camp,  a musical  opera, 
and  The  Critic,  a witty  afterpiece,  in  the  manner  of 
‘The  Rehearsal’  The  character  of  Sir  Fretful 
Plagiary,  intended,  it  is  said,  for  Cumberland  the 
dramatist,  is  one  of  the  author’s  happiest  efforts ; 
and  the  schemes  and  contrivances  of  Puff  the  ma- 
nager— such  as  making  his  theatrical  clock  strike 
four  in  a morning  scene,  ‘to  beget  an  awful  atten- 
tion’ in  the  audience,  and  to  ‘ save  a description  of 
the  rising  sun,  and  a great  deal  about  gilding  the 
eastern  hemisphere’ — are  a felicitous  combination  of 
humour  and  satire.  The  scene  in  which  Sneer 
mortifies  the  vanity  of  Sir  Fretful,  and  Puff" s de- 
scription of  his  own  mode  of  life  by  his  proficiency 
in  the  art  of  puffing,  are  perhaps  the  best  that  She- 
ridan ever  wrote. 

lA  Sensitive  Author.^ 

[From  ‘ The  Critic.’] 

Enter  Servant  to  Dangle  and  Sneer. 

Servant.  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  sir. 

Dangle  Beg  him  to  walk  up.  [Exit  servant.]  Now, 
Mrs  Dangle,  S^ir  Fretful  Plagiary  is  an  author  to  your 
3wn  taste. 

A/rs  D.  I confe.ss  he  is  a favourite  of  mine,  because 
every  body  else  abuses  him. 

Sneer.  Very  much  to  the  credit  of  your  charity, 
madam,  if  not  of  your  judgment. 

Dan.  But,  egad  ! he  allows  no  merit  to  any  author 
but  himself;  tliat’s  the  truth  on’t,  though  he’s  my 
friend. 

Sneer.  Never.  He  is  as  envious  as  an  old  maid 
verging  on  the  desperation  of  six-and-thirty  ; and  then 
the  insidious  humility  with  which  he  seduces  you  to 
give  a free  opinion  on  any  of  his  works,  can  be  ex- 
ceeded only  by  the  petulant  arrogance  with  which  he 
is  sure  to  reject  your  observations. 

Dan.  Very  true,  egad!  though  he’s  my  friend. 

Sncei'.  Then  his  affected  contempt  of  all  newspaper 
strictures  ; though,  at  the  same  time,  he  is  the  sorest 
man  alive,  and  shrinks  like  scorched  parchment  fi»m 
the  fiery  ordeal  of  true  criticism  : yet  is  he  so  covetous 
of  popularity,  that  he  had  rather  be  abused  than  not 
mentioned  at  all. 

Dan.  There’s  no  denying  it ; though  he’s  my  friend. 

Sneer.  You  have  read  the  tragedy  he  has  just 
finished,  haven’t  you  ? 

Dan.  0 yes  ; he  sent  it  to  me  yesterday. 

Sneer.  Well,  and  you  think  it  execrable,  don’t  you  1 

Dan.  Why,  between  ourselves,  egad  ! I must  own 
— though  he’s  my  friend — that  it  is  one  of  the  most 
— he’s  here! — [Jsii/e] — finished  and  mo.st  admirable 
perform 

Sir  F.  [ WithoiU]  Mr  Sneer  with  him,  did  you  say  ? 

Enter  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary. 

Dan.  Ah,  my  dear  friend  ! Egad  ! we  were  just 
speaking  of  your  tragedy.  Admirable,  Sir  Fretful,  | 
admirable ! 

Sneer.  You  never  did  anything  beyond  it.  Sir  Fret- 
ful ; never  in  your  life. 

Sir  F.  You  make  me  extremely  happy  ; for,  with- 
out a compliment,  my  dear  Sneer,  there  isn’t  a man 
in  the  world  whose  judgment  I value  as  I do  yours; 
and  Mr  Bangle’s. 

Mrs  D.  They  are  only  laughing  at  you.  Sir  Fretful , 
for  it  was  but  just  now  that 

Dan.  Mrs  Dangle  ! — Ah  ! Sir  Fretful,  you  know 
Mrs  Dangle.  My  friend  Sneer  was  rallying  just  now. 

He  knows  how  she  admires  you,  and 

Sir  F.  0 Lord!  I am  sure  hlr  Sneer  has  more 
taste  and  sincerity  than  to A double-faced  fel- 
low! [Aside. 

Dan.  Yes,  yes;  Sneer  will  jest,  but  a better- 
humoured — 

Sir  F.  0!  I know. 

Dan.  He  has  a ready  turn  for  ridicule ; his  wit 
costs  him  nothing. 

Sir  F.  No,  egad!  or  I should  wonder  how  he  came 
by  it.  [Aside. 

Mrs  D.  Because  his  jest  is  always  at  the  expense  of 
his  friend. 

Dan.  But,  Sir  Fretful,  have  you  sent  your  play 
to  the  managers  yet  1 or  can  I be  of  any  service  to 
you  ? 

Sir  F.  No,  no,  I thank  you  ; I believe  the  piece 
had  sufficient  recommendation  with  it.  I thank  you 
though.  I sent  it  to  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden 
theatre  this  morning. 

Sneer.  I should  have  thought  now,  that  it  might 
have  been  cast  (as  the  actors  call  it)  better  at  Drury 
Lane. 

Sir  F.  0 lud  ! no — never  send  a play  there  while  I 
live.  Hark  ye ! [ Whispers  Sneer. 

Sneer.  Writes  himself  I I know  he  does. 

Sir  F.  I say  nothing — 1 take  away  from  no  man’s 
merit — am  hurt  at  no  man’s  good  fortune.  I say  no- 
thing; but  this  I will  say  ; through  all  my  knowledge 
of  life,  I have  observed  that  there  is  not  a passion  so 
strongly  rooted  in  the  human  heart  as  envy  ! 

144 

COMIC  DRAMATISTS. 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


EN(5 r-ISII  LITERATURE. 


Sneer.  I believe  you  have  reason  for  what  you  say, 
iieleed. 

Sir  P.  Resides,  I can  tell  you,  it  Is  not  always  so 
safe  to  leai  e a play  in  the  hands  of  those  who  write 
themselves. 

Sneer.  What ! they  may  steal  from  them ! eh,  my 
dear  Plagiary ! 

Sir  P.  Steal!  to  be  sure  they  may;  and,  egad  I 
serve  your  best  thoughts  as  gipsies  do  stolen  children, 
disfigure  them  to  make  ’em  pass  for  their  own. 

Snetr.  Rut  your  present  w'ork  is  a sacrifice  to  Mel- 
pomene ; and  he,  you  know,  never 

Sir  P.  That’s  no  security.  A dexterous  plagiarist 
may  do  anything.  Why,  sir,  for  aught  I know  he 
might  take  out  some  of  the  best  things  in  my  tragedy 
and  put  them  into  his  own  comedy. 

Siiea'.  That  might  be  done,  I dare  be  sworn. 

Sir  F.  And  then,  if  such  a person  gives  you  the 
least  hint  or  assistance,  he  is  devilish  apt  to  take  the 
merit  of  the  whole. 

Dan.  If  it  succeeds. 

Sir  F.  Ay  ! but  with  regard  to  this  piece,  I think 
I can  hit  that  gentleman,  for  I can  safely  swear  he 
never  read  it. 

Sneer.  I’ll  tell  you  how  you  may  hurt  him  more. 

Sir  F.  How? 

Sttea-.  Swear  he  wrote  it. 

Sir  P.  Plague  on’t  now.  Sneer ; I shall  take  it  ill. 
I believe  you  want  to  take  away  my  character  as  an 
author ! 

Sneer.  Then  I am  sure  you  ought  to  be  very  much 
obliged  to  me. 

Sir  F.  Eh  ? sir  ! 

Dan.  0 ! you  know  he  never  means  what  he  says. 

Sir  F.  Sincerely,  then,  you  do  like  the  piece? 

Sneer.  M'onderfully  ! 

Sir  F.  Rut,  come  now,  there  must  be  something 
that  you  think  might  be  mended,  eh  ? Mr  Dangle,  has 
notliing  struck  you  ? 

Dan.  M'hy,  faith,  it  is  but  an  ungracious  thing  for 
the  most  part  to 

Sir  F.  With  most  authors  it  is  just  so,  indeed  ; they 
are  in  general  strangely  tenacious ; but,  for  my  part, 
1 am  never  so  well  pleased  as  when  a judicious  critic 
points  out  any  defect  to  me  ; for  what  is  the  purpose 
of  showing  a work  to  a friend  if  you  don’t  mean  to 
profit  by  his  opinion  ? 

Sneer.  Very  true.  Why  then,  though  I seriously 
admire  the  piece  upon  the  whole,  yet  there  is  one 
small  objection  which,  if  you’ll  give  me  leave,  I’ll 
mention. 

Sir  P.  Sir,  you  can’t  oblige  me  more. 

Sneer.  I think  it  wants  incident. 

Sir  P.  Good  God!  you  surprise  me  ! wants  incident? 

Sneer.  Yes  ; I oivn  I think  the  incidents  are  too  few. 

Sir  F.  Good  God  ! Relieve  me,  Mr  Sneer,  there  is 
no  person  for  whose  judgment  I have  a more  implicit 
deference ; but  I protest  to  you,  Mr  Sneer,  I am  only 
apprehensive  that  the  incidents  are  too  crowded.  My 
dear  Dangle,  how  does  it  strike  you  ? 

Dan.  Really,  I can’t  agree  with  my  friend  Sneer. 
I think  the  plot  quite  sufficient ; and  the  four  first 
acts  by  many  degrees  the  best  I ever  read  or  saw  in 
j my  life.  If  I might  venture  to  suggest  anything,  it  is 
! that  the  interest  rather  falls  off  in  the  fifth. 

Sir  F.  Rises,  I believe  you  mean,  sir. 

Dan.  No  ; I don’t,  upon  my  word. 

Sir  F.  Yes,  yes,  you  do,  upon  my  soul ; it  certainly 
don’t  fall  off,  I assure  you  ; no,  no,  it  don’t  fall  off. 

Dan.  Now,  Mrs  Dangle,  did’nt  j'ou  say  it  struck 
you  in  the  same  light  ? 

Mrs  D.  No,  indeed,  I did  not.  I did  not  see  a 
fault  in  any  part  of  the  play  from  the  beginning  to 
the  end. 

Sir  F.  Upon  my  soul,  the  women  are  the  best 
judges  after  all! 

62 


Mrs  D.  Or  if  1 made  any  objection,  I am  sure  it 
was  to  nothing  in  the  piece ; but  that  I was  afraid  it 
was,  on  the  whole,  a little  too  long. 

Sir  F.  Pray,  madam,  do  you  speak  as  to  duration 
of  time : or  do  you  mean  that  the  story  is  tediously 
spun  out  ? 

Mrs  D.  0 lud  ! no.  I speak  only  with  reference  to 
the  usual  length  of  acting  plays. 

Sir  F.  Then  I am  very  happy— very  happy  indeed  ; 
because  the  play  is  a short  play,  a remarkably  short 
play.  I should  not  venture  to  differ  with  a lady  on  a 
point  of  taste  ; but  on  these  occasions  the  watch,  you 
know,  is  the  critic. 

Mrs  D.  Then,  I suppose,  it  must  have  been  Mr  1 
Dangle’s  drawling  manner  of  reading  it  to  me. 

Sir  A".  0 ! if  Mr  Dangle  read  it,  that’s  quite  another 
affair  ; but  I assure  you,  Mrs  Dangle,  the  first  evening 
you  can  spare  me  three  hours  and  a half.  I’ll  under-  ' 
take  to  read  you  the  whole  from  beginning  to  end,  with  I 
the  prologue  and  epilogue,  and  allow  time  for  the  | 
music  between  the  acts.  | 

Mrs  D.  I hope  to  see  it  on  the  stage  next.  [Exis.  \ 

Dan.  Well,  Sir  Fretful,  I wish  you  may  be  able  to  | 

get  rid  as  easily  of  the  newspaper  criticisms  as  you  I 
do  of  ours. 

Sir  F.  The  newspapers!  sir,  they  are  the  most 
villanous,  licentious,  abominable,  infernal — not  that 
I ever  read  them  ; no,  I make  it  a rule  never  to  look 
into  a newspaper. 

Dan.  You  are  quite  right;  for  it  certainly  must 
hurt  an  author  of  delicate  feelings  to  see  the  liberties 
they  take. 

Sir  F.  No ; quite  the  contrary ; their  abuse  is,  in 
fact,  the  best  panegyric;  1 like  it  of  all  things.  An 
author’s  reputation  is  only  in  danger  from  their  sup- 
port. 

Sneer.  Why,  that’s  true ; and  that  attack,  now,  on  j 
you  the  other  day | 

Sir  F.  What  ? where  ? j 

Dan.  Ay ! you  mean  in  a paper  of  Thursday ; it 
was  completely  ill-natured  to  be  sure. 

Sir  F.  0!  so  much  the  better;  ha!  ha!  ha!  I 
wouldn’t  have  it  otherwise. 

Dan.  Certainly,  it  is  only  to  be  laughed  at,  for 

Sir  F.  You  don’t  happen  to  recollect  what  the 
fellow  said,  do  you  ? 

Sneer.  Pray,  Dangle ; Sir  Fretful  seems  a little 
anxious 

Sir  F.  0 lud,  no  ! anxious,  not  I,  not  the  least — I 
— but  one  may  as  well  hear,  you  know. 

Dan.  Sneer,  do  you  recollect  ? Make  out  some- 
thing. \_Aside. 

Sneer.  I will.  [To  Dangle.'\  Yes,  yes,  I remember 
perfectly.  ■ 

Sir  F.  Well,  and  pray  now — not  that  it  signifies — 
what  might  the  gentleman  say  ? 

Sneer.  Why,  he  roundly  asserts  that  you  have  not 
the  slightest  invention  or  original  genius  whatever, 
though  you  are  the  greatest  traducer  of  all  other 
authors  living. 

Sir  P.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! very  good. 

Sneer.  That  as  to  comedy,  you  have  not  one  idea  of 
your  own,  he  believes,  even  in  your  commonplace 
book,  where  stray  jokes  and  pilfered  witticisms  are 
kept  with  as  much  method  as  the  ledger  of  the  lost 
and  stolen  office. 

Sir  F.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! very  pleasant. 

Sneer.  Nay,  that  you  are  so  unlucky  as  not  to  have 
the  skill  even  to  steai  with  taste ; but  that  you  glean 
from  the  refuse  of  obscure  volumes,  where  more  judi- 
cious plagiarists  have  been  before  you  ; so  that  the 
body  of  your  work  is  a composition  of  dregs  and  sedi* 
ments,  like  a bad  tavern’s  worst  wine. 

Sir  P.  Ha,  ha ! 

Sneer.  In  your  more  serious  efforts,  he  says,  youi 
bombast  would  be  less  intolerable  if  the  thought! 

145 


PROM  1727 


CYCLOP^IDIA  OF 


TO  178U. 


wore  ever  suited  to  the  expressions  ; but  the  homeli- 
ness of  the  sentiment  stares  through  the  fantastic  in- 
cumbrance of  its  fine  language,  like  a clown  in  one  of 
the  new  uniforms. 

Sir  F.  11a,  hal 

Sneer.  Tliat  your  occasional  tropes  and  flowers  suit 
the  general  coarseness  of  your  style,  as  tambour  sprigs 
would  aground  of  linsey-woolsey;  while  your  iniita- 
tions  of  Shakspeare  resemble  the  mimicry  of  Fal- 
statTs  page,  and  are  about  as  near  the  standard  of  the 
original. 

Sir  F,  Ila  ! 

Sneer.  In  short,  that  even  the  finest  passages  you 
steal  are  of  no  service  to  you  ; for  the  poverty  of  your 
own  language  prevents  their  assimilating,  so  that 
they  lie  on  the  surface  like  lumps  of  marl  on  a barren 
moor,  encumbering  what  it  is  not  in  their  power  to 
fertilize. 

Sir  F.  [^.Aftcr  great  agitation.^  Now,  another  person 
would  be  vexed  at  this. 

Sneer.  Oh!  but  1 wouldn’t  have  told  you,  only  to 
divert  you. 

Sir  F.  1 know  it.  I am  diverted — ha,  ha,  ha!  not 
the  least  invention  ! ha,  ha,  ha ! very  good,  very 
good  ! 

Sneer.  Yes;  no  genius!  ha,  ha,  ha! 

Fan.  A severe  rogue,  ha,  ha,  ha ! — but  you  are 
quite  right.  Sir  Fretful,  never  to  read  such  nonsense. 

Sir  F.  To  be  sure  ; for  if  there  is  anything  to  one’s 
prai.se,  it  is  a foolish  vanity  to  be  gratified  at  it ; and 
if  it  is  abuse,  why  one  is  always  sure  to  hear  of  it 
from  some  good-natured  friend  or  other  1 

[The  Anatom/  of  Character  performed  hy 
I Uncharitableness.'] 

[From  ‘ The  School  for  Scandal.’] 

Mariu  enters  to  Lady  Sneerwem.  and  Joseph  Surface. 

Lady  S.  Maria,  ray  dear,  how  do  you  do  2 What’s 
the  matter  2 

Maria.  Oh ! there  is  that  disagreeable  lover  of 
mine.  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite,  has  just  called  at  my 
guardian’s  with  his  odious  uncle,  Crabtree  ; so  I slipt 
out,  and  ran  hither  to  avoid  them. 

Lady  S.  1s  that  all  2 

Joseph  S.  If  my  brother  Charles  had  been  of  the 
party,  madam,  perhaps  you  would  not  have  been  so 
much  alarmed. 

Lady  S.  Nay,  now  you  are  severe  ; for  I dare  swear 
the  truth  of  the  matter  is,  Maria  heard  you  were  here. 
But,  my  dear,  what  has  Sir  Benjamin  done  that  you 
should  avoid  him  sol 

Maria.  Oh,  he  has  done  nothing — but  ’tis  for  what 
he  has  said  : his  conversation  is  a perpetual  libel  on 
all  his  acquaintance. 

Joseph  8.  Ay,  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  there  is  no  ad- 
I vantage  in  not  knowing  him — for  he’ll  abuse  a stranger 
iust  as  soon  as  his  best  friend  ; and  his  uncle  Crab- 
tree’s as  bad. 

Lady  S.  Nay,  but  we  should  make  allowance.  Sir 
Benjamin  is  a wit  and  a poet. 

Maria.  F'or  my  part,  I own,  madam,  wit  loses  its 
respect  with  me  when  I see  it  in  company  with 
malice.  What  do  you  think,  Mr  Surface! 

Joseph  S.  Certainly,  madam ; to  smile  at  the  jest 
which  plants  a thorn  in  another’s  breast  is  to  become 
a principal  in  the  mischief. 

Lady  S.  Pshaw! — there’s  no  possibility  of  being 
witty  without  a little  ill  nature : the  malice  of  a good 
thing  is  the  barb  that  makes  it  stick.  What’s  your 
opinion,  Mr  Surface  2 

Joseph  S.  To  be  sure,  madam  ; that  conversation, 
where  the  spirit  of  raillery  is  suppressed,  will  ever  ap- 
( oar  tedious  and  insipid. 

Maria.  Well,  I’ll  not  debate  bow  far  scandal  may 


be  allowable ; but  in  a man,  I am  sure,  it  is  always  I 
contemptible.  We  have  pride,  envy,  rivalship,  and  a I 
thousand  little  motives  to  depreciate  each  other;  but 
the  male  slanderer  must  have  the  cowardice  of  a 
woman  before  he  can  traduce  one. 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Madam,  Mrs  Candour  is  below,  and  if  your 
ladyship’s  at  leisure,  will  leave  her  carriage. 

Jjady  S.  Beg  her  to  walk  in.  [Fxit  Servant.]  Now, 
Maria,  however,  here  is  a character  to  your  taste  ; for 
though  Mrs  Candour  is  a little  talkative,  every  body 
allows  her  to  be  the  best  natured  and  best  sort  of 
woman. 

Maria.  Yes — with  a very  gross  aflcctation  of  good 
nature  and  benevolence,  she  does  more  mischief  than 
the  direct  malice  of  old  Crabtree. 

Joseph  S.  1 ’faith  that’s  true.  Lady  Sneerwell : 
whenever  I hear  the  current  running  against  the 
characters  of  my  friend.s,  1 never  think  them  in  such 
danger  as  when  Candour  undertakes  their  defence. 

Lady  S.  Hush  ! — here  she  i.s! 

Enter  Mrs  Candour. 

Mrs  C.  My  dear  Lady  Sneerwell,  how  have  you 
been  this  century  2 Mr  Surface,  what  news  do  you 
hear  2 — though  indeed  it  is  no  matter,  for  1 think  one 
hears  nothing  else  but  .scandal. 

Joseph  S.  Just  so,  indeed,  ma’am. 

Mrs  C.  Oh,  Maria  ! child — what  1 is  the  whole 
affair  off  between  you  and  Charles  2 His  extrava- 
gance, I presume — the  town  talks  of  nothing  else. 

Maria.  I am  very  sorry,  ma’am,  the  town  has  so 
little  to  do. 

Mrs  C.  True,  true,  child  : but  there’s  no  stopping 
people’s  tongues.  I own  I was  hurt  to  hear  it,  as  1 
indeed  was  to  learn,  from  the  same  quarter,  that  your 
guardian,  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Teazle,  have  not  agreed 
lately  as  well  as  could  be  wished. 

Maria.  ’Tis  strangely  impertinent  for  people  to 
busy  themselves  so. 

Mrs  C.  Very  true,  child:  but  what’s  to  be  done! 
People  will  talk — there’s  no  preventing  it.  Why,  it 
was  but  yesterday  I was  told  that  Miss  Gadabout  had 
eloped  with  Sir  Filligree  Flirt.  But  there’s  no  mind- 
ing what  one  hears ; though,  to  be  sure,  1 had  this 
from  very  good  authority. 

Maria.  Such  reports  are  highly  scandalous. 

Mrs  C.  So  they  are,  child — shameful,  shameful ! 
But  the  world  is  so  censorious,  no  character  escapes 
Well,  now,  who  would  have  suspected  your  friend, 
Mi.ss  Prim,  of  an  indiscretion  2 Yet  such  is  the  ill- 
nature  of  people  that  they  say  her  uncle  stopt  her  last 
week,  just  as  she  was  stepping  into  the  York  mail  with 
her  dancing-master. 

Maria.  I’ll  answer  for’t  there  are  no  grounds  for 
that  report. 

Mrs  C.  Ah,  no  foundation  in  the  world,  I dare 
swear  ; no  more,  probably,  than  for  the  story  circulated 
last  month  of  Mrs  Festino’s  affair  with  Colonel  Cas- 
sino ; though,  to  be  sure,  that  matter  was  never 
rightly  cleared  up. 

Joseph  S.  The  license  of  invention  some  people 
take  is  monstrous  indeed. 

Maria.  ’Tis  .so — but,  in  niy  opinion,  those  who  re- 
port such  things  are  equally  culpable. 

Mrs  C.  To  be  sure  they  are  ; tale-bearers  are  as  bad 
as  the  tale-makers — ’tis  an  old  observation,  and  a very 
true  one : but  what’s  to  be  done,  as  I said  before  2 how 
will  you  prevent  people  from  talking  2 To-day  Mrs 
Clackitt  assured  me  Mr  and  Mrs  Honeymoon  were  at 
last  become  mere  man  and  wife,  like  the  rest  of  tlieir 
acquaintance.  * * No,  no ! tale-bearers,  as  I 

said  before,  are  just  as  bad  as  the  tale-makers. 

Joseph  S.  Ah  ! Mrs  Candour,  if  every  body  had 
your  forbearance  and  good-nature  ! 

146 


COMIC  DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITEHATUKE. 


RICHARD  imiNSi.Ey  Sheridan. 


Mrs  C.  1 confess,  Mr  Surface,  I cannot  bear  to  hear 
I people  attacked  behind  their  backs ; and  when  ugly 
ciiTunnstances  come  out  against  our  acquaintance,  I 
I own  1 always  love  to  think  the  best.  By  the  by,  I hope 
I ’tis  not  true  that  your  brother  is  absolutely  ruined  ? 
i Josfpl)  S.  I am  afraid  his  circumstances  are  very 
; bad  inde.  d,  ma’am. 

I Mrs  C.  Ah  ! I heard  so — but  you  must  tell  him  to 
I keep  up  his  spirits  ; everybody  almost  is  in  the  same 
way — Lord  Spindle,  Sir  Thomas  Splint,  and  Mr  Nickit 
— all  up,  I hear,  within  this  week ; so,  if  Charles  is 
undone,  he’ll  find  h.alf  his  acquaintance  ruined  tooj 
and  that,  you  know,  is  a consolation. 

Joseph,  S.  Dv  vbtless,  ma’am — a very  great  one. 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Mr  Crabtree  and  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite. 

[Exit  Servant. 

Lady  S.  So,  Maria,  you  see  your  lover  pursues  you  ; 
positively  you  shan’t  escape. 

Enter  Crabtrek  and  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite. 

Crah.  Lady  Sneerwell,  1 kiss  your  hand.  Mrs  Can- 
dour, I don’t  believe  you  are  acquainted  with  my 
nephew.  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  ? Egad  ! ma’am,  he 
has  a pretty  wit,  and  is  a pretty  poet,  too ; isn’t  he. 
Lady  Sneerwell  ? 

Sir  B.  0 fie,  uncle ! 

Crab.  Nay,  egad,  it’s  true  ; I back  him  at  a rebus 
or  a charade  against  the  best  rhymer  in  the  kingdom. 
Has  your  ladyship  heard  the  epigram  he  wrote  last 
week  on  Lady  Frizzle’s  feather  catching  fire ! Do, 
Benjamin,  repeat  it,  or  the  charade  you  made  last 
night  extempore  at  Mrs  Drowzie’s  .conversazione. 
Come  now  ; your  first  is  the  name  of  a fish,  your 
second  a great  naval  commander,  and 

Sir  B.  Uncle,  now — prithee 

Crab.  I’faith,  ma’am,  ’twould  surprise  you  to  hear 
how  re.ady  he  is  at  these  things. 

Lady  S.  I wonder,  Sir  Benjamin,  you  never  publish 
anything. 

Sir  B.  To  say  truth,  ma’am,  ’tis  very  vulgar  to 
print ; and  as  my  little  productions  are  mostly  satires 
and  lampoons  on  particular  people,  I find  they  circu- 
late more  by  giving  copies  in  confidence  to  the  friends 
of  the  parties.  However,  I have  some  love  elegies, 
which,  when  favoured  with  this  lady’s  smiles,  I mean 
to  give  the  public. 

Crab.  ’Fore  heaven,  ma’am,  they’ll  immortalise 
you ! you  will  be  handed  down  to  posterity,  like  Pe- 
trarch’s Laura,  or  Waller’s  Sacharissa. 

Sir  B.  Yes,  madam,  I think  you  will  like  them, 
when  you  shall  see  them  on  a beautiful  quarto  page, 
where  a neat  rivulet  of  text  shall  murmur  through  a 
meadow  of  margin.  ’Fore  gad  they  will  be  the  most 
elegant  things  of  their  kind  ! 

Crab.  But,  ladies,  that’s  true — have  j'ou  heard  the 
news  1 

Mrs  C.  WTiat,  sir,  do  you  mean  the  report  of 

Crab.  No,  ma’am,  that’s  not  it — Miss  Nicely  is 
going  to  be  married  to  her  own  footman. 

Mrs  C.  Impossible! 

Crab.  Ask  Sir  Benjamin. 

Sir  B.  ’Tis  very  true,  ma’am ; everything  is  fixed, 
and  the  wedding  liveries  bespoke. 

Crab.  Y es  ; and  they  do  say  there  were  very  press- 
ing reasons  for  it. 

Lady  S.  Why,  I have  heard  something  of  this  before. 

Mrs  C.  It  can’t  be  ; and  I wonder  any  one  should 
believe  such  a story  of  so  prudent  a lady  as  Miss 
Nicely. 

Sir  B.  0 lud  ! ma’am,  that’s  the  very  reason  ’twas 
I believed  at  once.  She  has  always  been  so  cautious 
I and  so  reserved  that  everybody  was  sure  there  was 
: some  reason  for  it  at  bottom. 

j Mrs  (7.  Why,  to  be  sure,  a tale  of  scandal  Is  as  fatal 


to  the  credit  of  a prudent  lady  of  her  stamp  as  a fever 
is  generally  to  those  of  the  strongest  constitutions. 

But  there  is  a sort  of  puny  sickly  reputation  that  is 
always  ailing,  yet  will  outlive  the  robuster  characters 
of  a hundred  prudes. 

Sir  B.  True,  madam,  there  are  valetudinarians  in 
reputation  as  well  as  constitution  ; who,  being  con- 
scious of  their  weak  part,  avoid  the  least  breath  of 
air,  and  supply  their  want  of  stamina  by  care  and  cir- 
cumspection. 

Mrs  C.  Well,  but  this  may  be  all  a mistake.  You 
know.  Sir  Benjamin,  very  trilling  circumstances  often 
give  rise  to  the  most  injurious  talcs. 

Crab.  That  they  do.  I’ll  be  sworn,  ma’am.  0 lud  I 
Mr  Surface,  pray  is  it  true  that  your  uncle.  Sir  Oliver, 
is  coming  home  ? 

Joseph  S.  Not  that  I know  of,  indeed,  sir. 

Crab.  He  has  been  in  the  East  Indies  a long  time. 
You  can  scarcely  remember  him,  I believe?  Sad  com- 
fort whenever  he  returns,  to  hear  how  your  brother 
has  gone  on. 

Joseph  S.  Charles  has  been  imprudent,  sir,  to  be 
sure;  but  I hope  no  busy  people  have  already  preju- 
diced Sir  Oliver  against  him.  He  may  reform. 

Sir  B.  To  be  sure  he  may ; for  my  part  I never  be- 
lieved him  to  be  so  utterly  void  of  principle  as  people 
say ; and  though  he  has  lost  all  his  friends,  I am  told 
nobody  is  better  spoken  of  by  the  Jews. 

Crab.  That’s  true,  egad,  nephew.  If  the  Old  Jewry 
was  a ward,  I believe  Charles  would  be  an  alderman  : 
no  man  more  popular  there  ! I hear  he  pays  as  many 
annuities  as  the  Irish  tontine  ; and  that,  whenever  he  i 
is  sick,  they  have  prayers  for  the  recovery  of  his  health 
in  all  the  synagogues. 

Sir  B.  Yet  no  man  lives  in  greater  splendour. 
They  tell  me,  when  he  entertains  his  friends,  he  will 
sit  down  to  dinner  with  a dozen  of  his  own  securities; 
have  a score  of  tradesmen  waiting  in  the  antechamber, 
and  an  officer  behind  every  guest’s  chair. 

Joseph  S.  This  may  be  entertainment  to  you,  gen- 
tlemen ; but  you  pay  very  little  regard  to  the  feelings 
of  a brother. 

Maria.  Their  malice  is  intolerable.  Lady  Sneer- 
well, I must  wish  you  a good  morning  : I’m  not  very 
well.  [Exit  Maria. 

Mrs  C.  0 dear  ! she  changes  colour  very  much. 

Lady  S.  Do,  Mrs  Candour,  follow  her:  she  may 
want  your  assistance. 

Mrs  C.  That  I will,  with  all  my  soul,  ma’am.  Poor 
dear  girl,  who  knows  what  her  situation  may  be  ! 

[Exit  Mrs  Candour. 

Lady  S.  ’Twas  nothing  but  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  hear  Charles  reflected  on,  notwithstanding  their 
difference. 

Sir  B.  The  young  lady’s  penchant  is  obvious 

Crab.  But,  Benjamin,  you  must  not  give  u\  the 
pursuit  for  that ; follow  her,  and  put  her  into  good 
humour.  Repeat  her  some  of  your  own  verses.  Come, 

I’ll  assist  you. 

Sir  B.  Mr  Surface,  I did  not  mean  to  hurt  you ; 
but,  depend  on’t,  your  brother  is  utterly  undone. 

Crab.  0 lud,  ay  1 undone  as  ever  man  was.  Can’t 
raise  a guinea! 

Sir  B.  And  every  thing  sold.  I’m  told,  that  was  I 
moveable. 

Crab.  I have  seen  one  that  was  at  his  house.  Not  I 
a thing  left  but  some  empty  bottles  that  were  over-  \ 
looked,  and  the  family  pictures,  which  I believe  are  | 
framed  in  the  wainscots.  ! 

Sir  B.  And  I’m  very  sorry,  also,  to  hear  some  bad  j 
stories  against  him.  j 

Crab.  Oh!  he  has  done  many  mean  things,  that’s 
certain. 

Sir  B.  But,  however,  as  he  is  your  brother 

Crab.  We’ll  tell  you  all  another  opportunity. 

[ExemU  Crabtree  and  Sir  BmjamiK 

147 


I'KOM  1727 


CYCI.()I'i^;i)IA  OF 


ro  i76u 


J.iulij  S.  lla  ! ha ! ’tis  very  }iard  for  tliem  to  leave  a 
Biihject  tliey  liave  not  quite  run  down. 

Jii.vjili  -S’.  And  I believe  the  abune  was  no  more 
aei;e(  table  to  your  ladyshi])  than  Maria. 

IauUj  -S’.  1 doubt  her  alfectioiiM  are  further  engaged 
tlian  we  imagine.  Hut  the  family  are  to  be  here  tliis 
evening,  so  you  may  as  well  dine  where  you  are,  and 
we  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  observing  farther;  in 
the  meantime  I’ll  go  and  plot  misehief,  and  you  shall 
study  sentiment.  \_Ejxunt. 

In  the  last  year  of  this  period  (1780),  Mrs  Cow- 
1, ky.  a neglected  poetess,  produced  her  lively  comedy, 
'( Ut  HtUes  iSlrntar/cm,  which  is  still  popular  on  the 
stage.  In  theatrical  phrase,  therefore,  we  may  say 
that,  with  respect  to  comedy,  the  season  closed  well, 
anil  was  marked  by  unusual  brilliancy. 

This  period  may  be  said  to  have  given  birth  to 
the  well-known  species  of  sub-comedy  entitled  the 
Farce — a kind  of  entertainment  more  peculiarly 
Knglish  than  comedy  itself,  and  in  which  the  lite- 
rature of  our  country  is  surprisingly  rich.  As  in- 
ferior in  dignity,  it  is  here  jdaced  after  comedy ; but 
there  are  reasons  why  it  might  have  been  placed 
first,  for  some  of  its  luminaries  flourished  early  in  the 
period,  and  by  their  productions  exercised  a con- 
siderable influence  on  the  comedies  which  came  after, 
and  which  have  just  been  enumerated.  Amongst 
the  first  who  shone  in  this  field  was  David  Garrick 


Valet  and  Miss  in  her  Teens,  which  are  still  favou- 
rites. I!ut,  unquestionably,  the  chief  strength  of 
Garrick  lay  in  his  powers  as  an  actor,  by  which  he 


G.irrick’s  Villa,  near  Hampton. 


David  Garrick. 

(1716-1779),  so  eminent  as  an  actor  in  both  tragedy 
and  comedy.  Garrick  was  a native  of  Lichfield, 
and  a pupil  of  Dr  Johnson,  with  whom  he  came  to 
London  to  push  his  fortune.  His  merits  quickly 
raised  him  to  the  head  of  his  profession.  As  the 
manager  of  one  of  the  principal  theatres  for  a long 
course  of  years,  he  banished  from  the  stage  many 
plays  which  had  an  immoral  tendency ; and  his 
personal  character,  though  marked  by  excessive 
vanity  and  other  foibles,  gave  a dignity  and  respec- 
tability to  the  profession  of  an  actor.  As  an  author 
he  was  more  lively  and  various  than  vigorous  or  pro- 
found. He  wrote  some  epigrams,  and  even  ventured 
on  an  ode  or  two ; he  succeeded  in  the  composition  of 
some  dramatic  pieces,  and  the  adaptation  of  others 
fo  tlie  stage.  His  principal  plays  are,  The  Lying 


gave  a popularity  and  importance  to  the  drama 
that  it  had  not  jiossessed  since  its  palmy  days  in 
the  reigns  of  Klizabeth  and  .James.  Sheridan  ho-  I 
nonred  his  memory  with  a florid  sentimental  mo-  I 
nody,  in  which  he  invoked  the  ‘gentle  muse’  to  \ 
‘guard  his  laurelled  shrine’ — 

Ami  with  soft  sighs  disperse  the  irreverent  du.st 
Which  time  may  strew  upon  his  sacred  bust. 

Fielding  was  another  distinguished  writer  in  this 
w'alk,  though  of  all  his  pieces  oidy  one,  Tom  Thumb,  j 
has  been  able  to  keep  possession  of  the  stage.  He  ' 
threw'  off  these  light  plays  to  meet  the  demands  of 
the  town  for  amusement,  and  parry  his  own  clamo- 
rous necessities,  and  they  generally  have  tlie  ap|iear- 
ance  of  much  haste.  Loj<e  a-hi-Mode,  by  Macki.in, 
presented  a humorous  satire  on  the  Scottish  charac- 
ter, which  w’as  followed  up  by  his  more  sarcastic 
comedy  of  The  Man  of  the  World,  performed  in  1781. 
Macklin  w'as  an  actor  by  profession,  remarkable 
for  his  personation  of  Shylock  after  ho  was  ninety 
yc.ars  of  age;  and  his  dramatic  pieces  are  lively  and 
entertaining.  It  must  be  with  some  surjirise  that 
we  find  another  successful  author  in  this  line  in  the 
jierson  of  the  Rev.  Mr  Townley,  master  of  Jlerchant 
'J’ailors’  School : he  was  the  author  of  High  Life 
Below  ,‘<lairs,  a happy  burlesque  on  the  extravagance 
and  affectation  of  servants  in  aping  the  manners  of 
their  masters,  and  which  had  the  effect,  by  a well- 
timed  exposure,  of  correcting  abuses  in  the  domestic 
establishments  of  the  opulent  classes. 

[Scene  from  High  Life  Below  -Stairs.] 

Enter  Sir  Harry’s  Servant, 

Sir  IT.  Ob,  ho!  Are  you  thereabouts  my  lord  duke ! 
"I'liat  may  do  very  well  by  anil  by.  However,  you’ll 
I never  find  me  behind  hand.  [Offers  to  kiss  Kitty. 

148 


COMIC  DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


TOWNLET. 


Did-e.  stand  off ; you  are  a commoner ; nothing 
under  nobility  approaches  Kitty. 

iSir  11.  You  are  so  devilish  proud  of  your  nobility. 
Now,  1 think  we  have  more  true  nobility  than  you. 
Let  me  tell  you,  sir,  a knight  of  the  shire 

Did-e.  A knight  of  the  shire!  Ila,  ha,  ha!  a mighty 
honour,  truly,  to  represent  all  the  fools  in  the  county. 

A'it.  0 lud ! this  is  charming  to  see  two  noblemen 
quarrel. 

Sir  II.  \\’hy,  any  fool  maj'  be  bom  to  a title,  but 
only  a wise  man  can  make  himself  honourable. 

Kit.  Well  said.  Sir  Harry,  that  is  good  morillity. 

Duke.  I hope  you  make  some  difference  between 
hereditary  honours  and  the  huzzas  of  a mob. 

Kit.  Very  smart,  my  lord  ; now.  Sir  Harry. 

Sir  H.  If  you  make  use  of  your  hereditary  honours 
to  screen  you  from  debt 

Duke.  Zounds!  sir,  what  do  you  mean  by  that? 

Kit.  Hold,  hold  ! I shall  have  some  fine  old  noble 
blood  spilt  here.  Ha’  done.  Sir  Harry. 

Sir  II.  Not  I ; why,  he  is  always  valuing  himself 
upon  his  upper  house. 

Duke.  We  have  dignity.  [Sfoio. 

Sir  H.  But  what  becomes  of  your  dignity,  if  we 
refuse  the  supplies  ? [Quick. 

Kit.  Peace,  peace ; here’s  lady  Bab. 

Enter  Lady  Bab's  Servant  in  a chair. 

Dear  La^  Bab ! 

Lady  Bab.  Mrs  Kitty,  your  servant ; I was  afraid 
of  taking  cold,  and  so  ordered  the  chair  down  stairs. 
Well,  and  how  do  you  ? My  lord  duke,  your  servant, 
and  Sir  Harry  too,  yours. 

Duke.  Your  ladyship’s  devoted. 

Lady  B.  I’m  afraid  I have  trespassed  in  point  of 
time,  [ioois  on  her  watch.']  But  I got  into  my 
favourite  author. 

Duke.  Yes,  I found  her  ladyship  at  her  studies  this 
morning  ; some  wicked  poem. 

Lady  B.  Oh,  you  wretch ! I never  read  but  one 
book. 

Kit.  What  is  your  ladyship  so  fond  of? 

Lady  B.  Shikspur.  Did  you  never  read  Shikspur  ? 

Kit.  Shikspur!  Shikspur!  Who  wrote  it?  No,  I 
never  read  Shikspur. 

Lady  B.  Then  you  have  an  immense  pleasure  to  come. 

Kit.  Well,  then.  I’ll  read  it  over  one  afternoon  or 
other.  Here’s  Lady  Charlotte. 

Enter  Lady  Charlotte’s  Maid  in  a chair. 

Dear  Lady  Charlotte ! 

Lady  C.  Oh!  Mrs  Kitty,  I thought  I never  should 
have  reached  your  house.  Such  a fit  of  the  cholic 
seized  me.  Oh  ! Lady  Bab,  how  long  has  your  lady- 
ship been  here  ? My  chairmen  were  such  drones.  My 
loril  duke!  the  pink  of  all  good  breeding. 

Duke.  Oh!  ma’am.  [Bowing. 

Lady  C.  And  Sir  Harry  ! Your  servant.  Sir  Harry. 

[Formally. 

Sir  H.  Madam,  your  servant : I am  sorry  to  hear 
your  ladyship  has  been  ill. 

Lady  0.  You  must  give  me  leave  to  doubt  the 
sincerity  of  that  sorrow,  sir.  Remember  the  Park. 

Sir  H.  The  Park!  I’ll  explain  that  affair,  madam. 

Lady  C.  I want  none  of  your  explanations. 

[Scornfully. 

Sir  H.  Dear  Lady  Charlotte  ! 

Lady  C.  No,  sir;  I have  observed  your  coolness  of 
late,  and  despise  you.  A trumpery  baronet ! 

Sir  H.  I see  how  it  is  ; nothing  will  satisfy  you  but 
nobility.  That  sly  dog,  the  marquis 

Lady  C.  None  of  your  reflections,  sir.  The  marquis 
is  a person  of  honour,  and  above  inquiring  after  a 
lady’s  fortune,  as  you  meanly  did. 

Sir  U.  I — I,  madam?  I scorn  such  a thing.  I 
assure  you,  madam,  I never — that  is  to  say — Egad,  I 


am  confounded.  My  lord  duke,  what  shall  I say  to 
her?  Pray  help  me  out.  [Aside 

Duke.  Ask  her  to  show  her  legs.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 

[Ad(U. 

Enter  Philip  and  Lovel,  laden  with  bottles. 

Phil.  Here,  my  little  peer,  here  is  wine  that  will 
ennoble  your  blood ! Both  your  ladyships’  most 
humble  servant. 

Lov.  [Affecting  to  be  drunk.]  Both  your  ladyships 
most  humble  servant. 

Kit.  Why,  Philip,  you  have  made  the  boy  drunk. 

Phil.  I have  made  him  free  of  the  cellar,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Lov.  Y es,  I am  free ; I am  very  free. 

Phil.  He  has  had  a smack  of  every  sort  of  wine, 
from  humble  port  to  imperial  tokay. 

Lov.  Yes,  1 have  been  drinking  kokay. 

Kit.  Go,  get  you  some  sleep,  child,  that  you  may 
wait  on  his  lordship  by  and  by. 

Lov.  Thank  you,  madam  ; I will  certainly  wait  on 
their  lordships  and  their  ladyships  too. 

[Aside  and  exit. 

Phil.  Well,  ladies,  what  say  you  to  a dance?  and 
then  to  supper. 

Enter  Cook,  Coachman,  Kingston,  and  Clob. 

Come  here  ; where  are  all  our  people  1 I’ll  couple  you. 
My  lord  duke  will  take  Kitty  ; Lady  Bab  will  do  me 
the  honour  of  her  hand ; Sir  Harry  and  Lady  Char- 
lotte ; coachman  and  cook  ; and  the  two  devils  will 
dance  together : ha!  ha!  ha! 

Duke.  With  submission,  the  country  dances  by 
and  by. 

Lady  C.  Ay,  ay  ; French  dances  before  supper,  and 
country  dances  after.  1 beg  the  duke  and  Mrs  Kitty 
may  give  us  a minuet. 

Duke.  Dear  Lady  Charlotte,  consider  my  poor  gout 
Sir  Harry  will  oblige  us.  [<Sir  Harry  bows. 

All.  Minuet,  Sir  Harry  ; minuet.  Sir  Harry. 

Kit.  Marshal  Thingumbob’s  minuet.  [A  minuet  by 
Sir  Harry  and  Kitty  ; aickward  and  conceited. 

Lady  C.  Mrs  Kitty  dances  sweetly. 

Phil.  And  Sir  Harry  delightfully. 

Duke.  Well  enough  for  a commoner. 

Phil.  Come,  now  to  supper.  A gentleman  and  a 
lady.  [They  sit  down.]  Here  is  claret,  burgundy, 
and  champaign,  and  a bottle  of  tokay  for  the  ladie.s. 
There  are  tickets  on  every  bottle : if  any  gentleman 
chooses  port 

Duke.  Port!  ’Tis  only  fit  for  a dram. 

Kit.  Lady  Bab,  what  shall  I send  you  ? Lady 
Charlotte,  pray  be  free  ; the  more  free  the  more 
welcome,  as  they  say  in  my  country.  The  gentle- 
men will  be  so  good  as  to  take  care  of  themselves. 

[A  pause. 

Duke.  Lady  Charlotte,  ‘ Hob  or  nob  !’ 

Lady  C.  Done,  my  lord,  in  burgundy  if  you  please. 

Duke.  Here’s  your  sweetheart  and  mine,  and  the 
friends  of  the  company.  [They  drink.  A pause. 

Phil.  Come,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  a bumper  all 
round  ; I have  a health  for  you.  ‘ Here  is  to  the 
amendment  of  our  masters  and  mistresses.’ 

All.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! [Loud  laugh.  A pause. 

Kit.  Ladies,  pray  what  is  your  opinion  of  a single 
gentleman’s  service  ? 

Lady  C.  Do  you  mean  an  old  single  gentleman  ? 

All.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! [Loud  laugh, 

Phil.  My  lord  duke,  your  toast. 

Duke.  Lady  Betty. 

Phil.  Oh  no,  a health  and  a sentiment. 

Duke.  Let  us  have  a song.  Sir  Harry,  your  song. 

Sir  II.  Would  you  have  it?  Well  then,  Mrs  Kitty, 
we  must  call  upon  you  : will  you  honour  my 
muse  ? 

All.  A song,  a song;  ay,  ay.  Sir  Harry’s  song  ; Si» 
Harry’s  song. 

149 


1-ftOM  1727 


CYCLOP^IDIA  OF 


Duke.  A song  to  be  sure,  but  first,  preludio.  [A'issc* 
Kiltu.]  I’ray,  gentlemen,  jmt  it  about. 

[A'mes  round.  Kiiifinton  kisses  Cloe  heartily. 

Sir  II.  See  how  the  devils  kiss  ! 

Kit.  I am  really  hoarse;  but  hem — I must  clear 
up  my  pipes,  hem!  'J'his  is  Sir  Harry’s  song;  being 
a new  one,  entitled  and  called  the  ‘ Fellow  Servant, 
or  All  in  a bivery.’ 

Phil.  How  do  you  like  it,  my  lord  duke? 

Duke.  It  is  a vile  composition. 

Phil.  How  so? 

Duke.  O,  very  low  ! — Very  low  indeed  ! 

Sir  II.  Can  you  make  a better? 

Duke.  I hope  so. 

Sir  II.  That  is  very  conceited. 

Ihike.  What  is  conceited,  you  scoundrel? 

Sir  II.  .Scoundrel!  You  are  a rascal;  I’ll  pull  you 
by  the  nose.  \_All  rise. 

Iluke.  Lookye,  friend  ; don’t  give  yourself  airs,  and 
make  a disturbance  among  the  ladies.  If  you  are  a 
gentleman,  name  your  weapons. 

Sir  II.  \Veapons  ! — what  you  will — pistols. 

Duke.  Done,  behind  jMontague  House. 

Sir  II.  Done,  with  seconds. 

Duke.  Done. 

PhU.  Oh,  for  shame,  gentlemen.  My  lord  duke! 
Sir  Harry — the  ladies! — fie!  [Duke  and  Sir  Harry 
affect  to  sing.  A violent  knocking.  Kitty  faints.']  What 
the  devil  can  th.at  be,  Kitty? 

Kit.  Who  can  it  possibly  be  ? 

Phil.  Kingston,  run  up  stairs  and  peep.  [Exit  King- 
ston.] It  sounds  like  my  master’s  rap:  pray  heaven  it 
is  not  he ! 


But  by  far  the  greatest  of  this  class  of  authors 
remains  to  be  mentioned.  Samuel  Foote  (1721- 
1777)  was  born  of  a good  family,  and  educated  at 


Samuel  Foote. 


Oxford ; but,  squandering  away  his  fortune,  was 
forced  to  become  an  actor  and  dramatic  writer.  In 
powers  of  mimicry,  in  wit,  and  in  humour,  he  seems 
to  have  gone  far  beyond  all  the  men  of  his  own  time, 
and  it  may  be  questioned  if  three  such  men  have 
come  under  public  notice  in  England.  Samuel  .John- 
son, though  he  disliked  the  man  for  his  easy  morals 
and  his  making  the  burlesquing  of  private  characters 


TO  1780. 


a profession,  was  forced  to  admit  tlie  amazing  | 
powers  and  fascinations  of  his  conversation.  It  was  i 
in  1747  that  Foote  commenced  a class  of  new  enter-  1 
tainments  in  the  Ilaymarkct  theatre,  in  which  he 
was  himself  the  sole  stage  figure,  and  which  proved 
highly  attractive  by  the  many  droll  and  whimsical  j 
portraits  of  character  which  they  presented,  many  ; 
of  these  being  transcripts  or  caricatures  of  persons  I 
well  known.  The  Diversions  of  the  Alorning,  The  I 
Auction  of  Pictures,  and  The  Englishman  in  Paris,  \ 
were  the  names  of  some  of  these  pieces.  Of  the  re-  i 
gular  farces  of  Foote,  which  were  somewhat  later  j 
in  j)roduction.  The  Minor — an  unjustifiable  attack  \ 
upon  the  Metliodists — was  the  most  successful.  It 
was  followed  by  The  Mayor  of  Gnrratt.  a coarse  but 
humorous  sketch,  including  two  characters,  in  Major  | 
Sturgeon,  the  city  militia  officer,  and  Jerry  Sneak, 
which  can  never  be  completely  obsolete.  His  plays 
are  twenty  in  number,  and  he  boasted,  at  the  close 
of  his  life,  that  he  had  added  sixteen  decidedly  new 
characters  to  the  English  stage. 

[Tuft  Hunting.] 

[From  ‘ The  Lame  Lover.’] 

Charlotte  and  Serjeant  Circuit. 

Charlotte.  Sir,  I have  other  proofs  of  your  hero’s 
vanity  not  inferior  to  that  I have  mentioned. 

Serjeant.  Cite  them. 

Char.  The  paltry  ambition  of  levying  and  follow- 
ing titles. 

Serj.  Titles  ! I don’t  understand  you. 

Char.  I mean  the  poverty  of  fastening  in  public 
upon  men  of  distinction,  for  no  other  reason  but  be- 
cause of  their  rank ; adhering  to  Sir  .lohn  till  the 
baronet  is  superseded  by  my  lord  ; quitting  the  puny 
peer  for  an  earl ; and  sacrificing  all  three  to  a duke. 

Serj.  Keeping  good  company  I — a laudable  ambition ! 
Char.  True,  sir,  if  the  virtues  that  procured  the 
father  a peerage  could  with  that  be  entailed  on  the  son. 

Seij.  Have  a care,  hussy  ; there  are  severe  laws 
against  speaking  evil  of  dignities. 

Char.  Sir ! 

Serj.  Scandalum  magnatum  is  a statute  must  not 
be  trifled  with  : why,  you  are  not  one  of  those  vulgar 
sluts  that  think  a man  the  worse  for  being  a lord  ? ; 

Char.  No,  sir;  I am  contented  with  only  not  think-  ( 
ing  him  the  better.  \ 

Seij.  For  all  this,  I believe,  hussy,  a right  honour-  | 
able  proposal  would  soon  make  you  alter  your  mind. 

Char.  Not  unless  the  proposer  had  other  qualities 
than  what  he  possesses  by  patent.  Besides,  sir,  you 
know  Sir  Luke  is  a devotee  to  the  bottle. 

Seij.  Not  a wdiit  the  less  honest  for  that. 

Char.  It  occasions  one  evil  at  least ; that  when  j 
under  its  influence  he  generally  reveals  all,  some-  | 
times  more  than  he  knows.  | 

Seij.  Proofs  of  an  open  temper,  you  baggage  ; but,  | j 
come,  come,  all  these  are  but  trifling  objections.  j 

Char.  You  mean,  sir,  they  prove  the  object  a trifle,  i 
Seij.  Why,  you  pert  jade,  do  you  play  on  my  words?  j 

I say  Sir  Luke  is 1 1 

Char.  Nobody.  | 

Serj.  Nobody ! how  the  deuce  do  you  make  that  j 
out?  He  is  neither  a person  attainted  nor  outlawed,  ! 
may  in  any  of  his  majesty’s  courts  sue  or  be  sued,  ; 
appear  by  attorney  or  in  propria  persona,  can  acquire, 
buy,  procure,  purchase,  possess,  and  inherit,  not  only 
personalities,  such  as  goods  and  chattels,  but  even 
realities,  as  all  lands,  tenements,  and  hereditaments, 
whatsoever  and  wheresoever. 

Char.  But,  sir 

Seij.  Nay,  further,  child,  he  may  sell,  give,  bestow, 
bequeath,  devise,  demise,  lease,  or  to  farm  let,  ditto 

lands,  or  to  any  person  whomsoever — and 

Char.  Without  doubt,  sir;  but  there  are,  notwith- 

IfiO 


COMIC  DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  FOOTK. 


standing,  in  tliis  town  a great  number  of  nobodies, 
not  described  by  Lord  Coke. 

Kir  Luke  Limp  makes  his  appenrnneo,  and  after  a short  dia- 
logue, enter  a Servant  and  deiivers  a card  to  Sir  Luke. 

Sir  Lid-e.  [Tirarf.'--.]  ‘ Sir  Gregory  Goose  desires  the 

honour  of  Sir  Luke  Limp’s  company  to  dine.  An 
answer  is  desired.’  Gadso!  a little  unlucky;  I have 
been  engaged  for  these  three  weeks. 

Serj.  What ! I find  Sir  Gregory  is  returned  for  the 
corporation  of  Flcecem. 

Sir  Lul-e.  Is  he  so  ? Oh,  oh  ! that  alters  the  case. 
George,  give  my  comidiments  to  Sir  Gregory,  iJid  I’ll 
certainly  come  and  dine  there.  Order  Joe  to  run  to 
Alderman  Inkle’s  in  Threadneedle  Street  ; sorry  can’t 
wait  ui>on  him,  but  confined  to  bed  two  days  with  the 
new  influenza.  [Exit  Servant. 

Char,  y ou  make  light.  Sir  Luke,  of  these  sort  of 
engagements. 

Sir  Luke.  What  can  a man  do?  The.se  fellows 
(when  one  has  the  misfortune  to  meet  them)  take 
scandalous  advantage  : when  will  you  do  me  the 
honour,  praj , Sir  Luke,  to  take  a hit  of  mutton  with 
me  ? Do  you  name  the  d.ay  ? They  are  as  bad  as  a 
beggar  who  attack.s  your  coach  at  the  mounting  of  a 
hill ; there  is  no  getting  rid  of  them  without  a penny 
to  one,  and  a promise  to  t’other. 

Say.  True ; and  then  for  such  a time  too — three 
weeks  ! I wonder  they  expect  folks  to  remember.  It 
is  like  a retainer  in  Michaelmas  term  for  the  summer 
assizes. 

Sir  Luke.  Not  but  upon  these  occasions  no  man 
In  England  is  more  punctual  than 

Enter  a Servant,  who  gives  Sir  Luke  a letter. 

From  whom  ? 

Serv.  Earl  of  Brentford.  The  servant  waits  for  an 
answer. 

Sir  Luke.  Answer ! By  your  leave,  Mr  Serjeant 
and  Charlotte.  [iJcaifs.]  ‘ Taste  for  music — Mons. 
Duport- — fail— dinner  upon  table  at  five.’  Gadso! 
I hope  Sir  Gregory’s  servant  an’t  gone. 

Serv.  Immediately  upon  receiving  the  answer. 

Sir  Luke.  Run  after  him  as  fast  as  you  can — tell 
him  quite  in  despair — recollect  an  engagement  that 
can’t  in  nature  be  missed,  and  return  in  an  instant. 

[Exit  Servant. 

Char.  You  see,  sir,  the  knight  must  give  way  for 
my  lord. 

Sir  Luke.  No,  faith,  it  is  not  that,  my  dear  Char- 
lotte ; you  saw  that  was  quite  an  extempore  business. 
No,  hang  it,  no,  it  is  not  for  the  title ; but,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  Brentford  has  more  wit  than  any  man 
in  the  world  : it  is  tliat  makes  me  fond  of  his  house. 

Char.  By  the  choice  of  his  company  he  gives  an 
unanswerable  instance  of  that. 

Sir  Luke.  Y ou  are  right,  my  dear  girl.  But  now 
to  give  you  a proof  of  his  wit : you  know  Brentford’s 
finances  are  a little  out  of  repair,  which  procures  him 
some  visits  that  he  would  very  gladly  excuse. 

Serj.  WTiat  need  he  fear?  His  person  is  sacred; 
for  by  the  tenth  of  William  and  Mary 

Sir  Luke.  He  know’s  that  well  enough ; but  for  all 
that 

Serj  Indeed,  by  a late  act  of  his  own  hou.se  (which 
does  them  infinite  honour),  his  goods  or  chattels  may 
be 

Sir  Luke.  Seized  upon  when  they  can  find  them  ; 
but  lie  lives  in  ready  furnished  lodgings,  and  hires  his 
coach  by  the  month. 

Setj.  Nay,  if  the  sheriff  return  ‘non  inventus.’ 

Sir  Luke.  A plague  o’  your  law ; you  make  me  lose 
sight  of  my  story.  One  morning  a Welsh  coach- 
maker  came  with  his  bill  to  my  lord,  whose  name  was 
unluckily  Lloyd.  My  lord  had  the  man  up.  You 
•re  called,  I think,  Mr  Lloyd  ? At  your  lordship’s 


service,  my  lord.  What,  Lloyd  with  an  L!  It  was 
with  an  L,  indeed,  my  lord.  Beciiuse  in  your  part  of 
the  world  I have  heard  that  Lloyd  and  Klloyd  were 
synonymous,  the  very  same  nami!;i.  Very  often  in- 
deed, my  lord.  But  you  always  spell  yours  with  an 
L ? Always.  That,  Mr  Lloyd,  is  a little  unlucky  ; 
for  you  must  know  I am  now  paying  my  debts  alpha- 
betically, and  in  four  or  five  yea.m  you  migat  have 
come  in  with  an  F ; but  I am  afraid  I can  give  you 
no  hopes  for  your  L.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Enter  a Servant. 

Serv.  There  was  no  overtaking  the  servant. 

Sir  Ijuke.  That  is  unlucky  : tell  my  lord  I’ll  attend 
him.  I’ll  call  on  Sir  Gregory  myself.  [Exit  Seni. 

Serj.  Why,  you  won’t  leave  us,  Sir  Luke  ? 

Sir  Luke.  Pardon,  dear  Serjeant  and  Charlotte, 
have  a thousand  things  to  do  for  half  a million  of 
people,  positively  ; promised  to  procure  a husband  for 
Lady  Cicely  Sulky,  and  match  a coach-horse  for  Bri- 
gadier Whip;  after  that,  must  run  into  the  city  to 
borrow  a thousand  for  young  At-all  at  Alniack’s  ; send 
a Cheshire  cheese  by  the  stage  to  Sir  Timothy  Tankard 
in  Suffolk  ; and  get  at  the  Herald’s  office  a coat  of 
arms  to  clap  on  the  coach  of  Billy'  Bengal,  a nabob 
newly  arrived  ; so  you  see  I have  not  a moment  to 
lose. 

Serj.  True,  true. 

Sir  Luke.  At  your  toilet  to-morrow  you  may 

[Enter  a Servant  abruptly,  and  runs  against  Sirlmke.] 
Can’t  you  see  where  you  are  running,  you  rascal. 

Serv.  Sir,  his  grace  the  Duke  of 

Sir  Luke.  Grace  ! — Where  is  he  ? Where 

Sa'V.  In  his  coach  at  the  door.  If  you  an’t  better 
engaged,  would  be  glad  of  your  company  to  go  into 
the  city,  and  take  a dinner  at  Dolly’s. 

Sir  Luke.  In  his  own  coach,  did  you  say  ? 

Serv.  Y es,  sir. 

Sir  Luke.  With  the  coronets — or 

Serv.  I believe  so. 

Sir  Luke.  There’s  no  resisting  of  that.  Bid  Joe 
run  to  Sir  Gregory  Goose’s. 

Serv.  He  is  already  gone  to  Alderman  Inkle’s. 

Sir  Luke.  Then  do  you  step  to  the  knight — hey! 
— no — you  must  go  to  my  lord’s — hold,  hold,  no — I 
have  it — step  first  to  .Sir  Greg’s,  then  pop  in  at  Lord 
Brentford’s,  just  as  the  company  are  going  to  dinner. 

Serv.  What  shall  I say  to  Sir  Gregory  ? 

Sir  Luke.  Anything — what  1 told  you  before. 

Serv.  And  what  to  my  lord  ? 

Sir  Luke.  What ! — Why,  toll  him  that  my  uncle 
from  Epsom — no — that  won’t  do,  for  he  knows  I don’t 
care  a farthing  for  him — hey  ! Why,  tell  him — hold, 
I have  it.  Tell  him  that  as  I was  going  into  my 
chair  to  obey  his  commands,  I was  arrested  by  a couple 
of  bailiffs,  forced  into  a hackney  coach,  and  carried 
into  the  Pied  Bull  in  the  borough  ; I beg  ten  thou- 
sand pardons  for  making  his  grace  wait,  hut  his  grace 
knows  my  misfor [Exeunt  Sir  Luke  and  Serv. 

Char.  Well,  sir,  what  d’ye  think  of  th»  proofs?  I 
flatter  myself  I have  pretty  well  established  my  la-se. 

Serj.  Why,  hussy,  you  have  hit  upon  points ; but 
then  they  are  but  trifling  flaws,  they  don’t,  vitiate  the 
title  ; that  stands  unimpeached. 

The  popularity  of  ‘ The  Beggar’s  Opera’  being 
partly  owing  to  the  excellent  music  which  accom- 
panied the  piece,  we  find  in  this  period  a number 
of  comic  operas,  in  which  songs  and  dialogue  alter- 
nate. Sheridan’s  unexampled  success  has  been 
already  mentioned.  The  Devil  to  Pay,  by  C.  Coffev, 
was  long  a favourite,  chiefly  for  the  female  charac- 
ter, Nell,  which  m.ade  tlie  fortune  of  several  actresses 
and  among  the  best  pieces  of  this  description  ara 
those  by  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  whose  operas.  The 


I-ROM  17J7  CYCLOril^DIA  OF  to  178it. 

Padtoch,  Imvc  in  a Vilhuje.,  Lionel  Clarissa,  &e.,  j>re- 
sc’Mt  ii  pluiising  union  of  lyricul  ctiarms  witli  tliose  of 
(Iriiniiitio  incident  and  dialof'iie.  Charles  Diiidin 
was  antlior  and  composer  of  a multitude  of  ir.usical 
operas  and  otlier  dramatic  trifles:  Ids  Qaalter,  pro- 
duced in  1777,  is  distinguished  for  its  excellent  music. 

PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS. 

An  attempt  was  made  at  tliis  period  to  revive  the 
style  of  periodical  literature,  whieh  had  proved  so 
successful  in  the  hands  of  Addison  and  Steele. 
After  tlie  eessation  of  ‘ 'I’he  Guardian,’  there  was  a 
long  interval,  during  which  perioilical  writing  was 
confined  to  party  politics.  An  effi)rt  was  made  to 
coniK'ct  it  again  witli  literature  hy  Dr  Johnson,  who 
published  the  first  paper  of  The  Rambler  on  the 
20tli  of  March  17:>0,  an<l  it  was  continued  twice 
a-week,  witliout  interrui)tion,  till  tlie  14th  of  March 
1752.  Johnson  received  only  four  contributions 
(one  from  liichardson  the  novelist)  during  the  whole 
cour.se  of  the  publication,  ami,  consequently,  the 
work  bore  the  stamp  of  but  one  mind,  and  that 
mind  cast  in  a pecidiar  mould.  The  light  graces  and 
genialities  of  Steele  were  wanting,  and  sketches 
of  the  fashions  and  frivolities  of  the  times,  which 
had  contributed  so  much  to  the  popularity  of  the 
former  essayists,  found  no  place  in  the  grave  and 
gloomy  pages  of  ‘ I’he  Rambler.’  The  serious  and 
somewhat  pedantic  style  of  the  work  was  ill-cal- 
culated for  general  readers,  and  it  was  no  favourite 
with  the  public.  Johnson,  when  he  collected  these 
essays,  revised  and  corrected  them  with  great  care, 
but  even  then  they  appeared  heavy  and  cumbrous ; 
his  attempts  at  humour  were  not  happy,  and  the 
female  characters  introduced  were  all,  as  Garrick 
remarked,  Johnsons  in  pctticoat.s.  They  all  speak  the 
same  measured  lofty  style,  and  resemble  figures  in 
sculpture  rather  than  real  life.  The  author’s  use  of 
hard  words  was  a common  complaint;  but  it  is 
somewhat  curious  to  find,  among  the  words  ob- 
jected to  in  ‘ The  Rambler,’  resuscitation,  narcotic, 
fatuity,  and  germination,  which  have  now  become  of 
daily  use,  and  carry  with  them  no  appearance  of 
pedantry.  The  turgid  style  of  .Johnson,  however, 
often  rose  into  passages  of  grandeur  and  beauty;  his 
imagery  is  striking  and  original,  and  his  inculcation 
of  moral  and  rehgious  duty  was  earnest  and  impres- 
sive. Goldsmith  declared  that  a system  of  morals 
might  be  drawn  from  these  essays.  No  other  Eng- 
lish writer  of  that  day  could  have  moralised  in  sueh 
a dignified  strain  as  in  the  following  passages : — 

On  useful  knowledge : — ‘ To  lessen  that  disdain 
with  which  scholars  iire  inclined  to  look  on  the  com- 
mon business  of  the  world,  and  the  unwillingness 
with  which  they  condescend  to  learn  what  is  not 
to  be  found  in  any  system  of  philosophy,  it  may  be 
necessary  to  consider,  that  though  admiration  is  e.x- 
cited  by  abstruse  researches  and  remote  discoveries, 
yet  pleasure  is  not  given,  nor  affection  conciliated, 
but  by  softer  accomplishments,  and  qualities  more 
easily'  communicable  to  those  about  us.  He  that 
can  only  eonverse  upon  questions  about  which  only 
a small  part  of  mankind  has  knowledge  suflScient  to 
make  them  curious,  must  lose  his  days  in  unsocial 
silence,  and  live  in  the  crowd  of  life  without  a com- 
panion. He  that  can  only  be  useful  on  great  occ.a- 
sions  m.ay  die  without  exercising  his  abilities,  and 
stand  a helpless  spectator  of  a thousand  vexations 
which  fret  away  happine.ss,  and  which  nothing  is  re- 
quired to  remove  but  a little  dexterity  of  conduct 
and  readiness  of  expedients. 

No  degree  of  knowledge  attainable  by  man  is  .able 
to  set  him  at ' vc  the  want  of  hourly  a.ssistance,  or 
'o  extinguish  I'lc  di:sirt  of  fond  eutiearments  and 

1 

tender  officiousness ; and,  therefore,  no  one  should 
think  it  unnecessary  to  learn  those  arts  by  which 
friendship  may  he  gained.  Kindness  is  preserved 
by  a constant  reciprocation  of  benefits  or  interchange 
of  pleasures ; but  such  benefits  oidy  can  be  bestowed 
as  others  are  capable  to  receive,  and  such  plea- 
sures only  imparted  :vs  others  are  qualified  to  enjoy. 

Ry  this  descent  from  the  pinnacles  of  art,  no  honour 
will  be  lost ; for  the  eondeseensions  of  learning  are 
always  overpaid  by  gnititude.  An  elevated  genius 
employed  in  little  things,  appears,  to  use  the  simile 
of  Longinus,  like  the  sun  in  his  evening  declination; 
he  remits  his  splendour  hut  retains  his  magnitude, 
and  pleases  more  though  he  dazzles  less.’ 

On  revenge : — ‘ A wise  man  will  make  haste  to 
forgive,  because  he  knows  the  true  value  of  time 
and  will  not  suffer  it  to  pass  away  in  unnecessary 
pain.  He  that  willingly  suffers  the  corrosions  of  in- 
veterate hatred,  and  gives  up  his  days  and  nights  to 
the  gloom  and  malice  and  perturbations  of  strata- 
gem, cannot  surely  be  said  to  consult  his  ease.  Re- 
sentment is  a union  of  sorrow  with  malignity ; a 
combination  of  a passion  which  all  endeavour  to 
avoid,  with  a passion  which  ali  concur  to  detest. 
The  man  wdio  retires  to  meditate  mischief,  and  to 
exasperate  bis  own  rage ; whose  thoughts  are  em- 
jiloyed  only’  on  means  of  distress  and  contrivances  of 
ruin ; whose  mind  never  pauses  from  the  remem- 
brance of  his  own  sufferings,  but  to  induige  some 
hope  of  enjoying  the  calamities  of  another,  may 
justly  be  numbered  among  the  most  miserable  of 
human  beings,  among  those  who  are  guilty  without 
reward,  who  have  neither  the  gladness  of  prosperity 
nor  the  calm  of  innocence. 

Whoever  considers  the  weakness  both  of  himself 
and  others,  will  not  long  want  persuasives  to  for- 
giveness. We  know  not  to  what  degree  of  malignity 
any  injury  is  to  be  imputed ; or  how  much  its  guilt, 
if  we  were  to  inspect  the  mind  of  him  that  com- 
mitted it,  would  be  extenuated  by  mistake,  preci- 
pitance, or  negligence ; we  cannot  be  certain  how 
much  more  we  feel  than  was  intended  to  heinfiieted, 
or  how  much  we  increase  the  mischief  to  our- 
selves by  voluntary  aggravations.  We  may  charge 
to  design  the  effects  of  accident ; we  may  think  the 
blow  violent  only  because  we  have  made  ourselves 
delicate  and  tender ; we  are  on  every  side  in  danger 
of  error  and  of  guilt,  which  we  are  certain  to  avoid 
only'  by  speedy  forgivenes.s. 

From  this  pacific  and  harmless  temper,  thus  pro- 
pitious to  otliers  and  ourselves,  to  domestic  tran- 
quillity and  to  social  happiness,  no  man  is  withheld 
but  by  pride,  by  the  fear  of  being  insulted  by  his 
adversary,  or  despised  by  the  world.  It  may  be  laid 
down  as  an  unfailing  and  universal  axiom,  that  “ all 
pride  is  abject  and  mean.”  It  is  always  an  ignorant, 
lazy,  or  cowardly'  acquiescence  in  a false  api)earance 
of  excellence,  and  i)roceeds  not  from  consciousness 
of  our  attainments,  but  insensibility  of  our  wants. 

Nothing  can  be  great  which  is  not  right.  Nothing 
which  reason  condemns  can  be  suitable  to  the  dig- 
nity of  the  human  mind.  To  be  driven  by  externa! 
motives  from  the  path  whieh  our  own  heart  approves, 
to  give  way  to  anything  but  conviction,  to  suffer 
the  opinion  of  others  to  rule  our  choice  or  overpower 
our  resolves,  is  to  submit  tamely  to  the  lowest  and 
most  ignominious  slavery,  and  to  resign  the  right  of 
directing  our  own  lives. 

The  utmost  excellence  at  which  humanity  c.an 
arrive  is  a constant  and  determinate  jmrsuit  of  1 
virtue  without  regard  to  jircsent  dangers  or  advan- 
tages; a continual  reference  of  every  action  to  the  | 
divine  will;  a haliitiial  ;i;ipeal  tiv  everlasting  jus- 
tice; and  an  ii'’vaili'd  (K  vrtion  of  the  intellectual 
eye  to  the  reward  wliieb  i,en.ever;ince  only  can  ol>- 

15-J 

PF.RIOniCAL  ESSAYISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


tain.  Rut  that  pride  wliicli  manj',  wlio  presume  to 
boast  of  jrenerous  sentiments,  allow  to  regulate  tlieir 
nicasurcs,  lias  notliinn;  nobler  in  view  than  the  ap- 
probation of  men  ; of  being:s  whose  superiority  we 
are  under  no  obligation  to  acknowledge,  and  who, 
when  we  have  courted  them  with  the  utmost 
assiduity,  can  confer  no  valuable  or  permanent  re- 
ward ; of  beings  who  ignorantly  judge  of  what  they 
do  not  understand,  or  partially  determine  what  they 
have  never  examined  ; and  whose  sentence  is  there- 
fore of  no  weight,  till  it  has  received  the  ratification 
of  our  own  conscience. 

lie  that  can  descend  to  bribe  suffrages  like  these 
at  the  price  of  his  innocence  ; he  that  can  suffer  the 
delight  of  such  acclamations  to  withhold  his  atten- 
tion from  tlie  commands  of  the  uuiversid  sovereign, 
has  little  reason  to  congratulate  himself  upon  the 
greatness  of  his  mind ; whenever  he  awakes  to 
seriousness  and  reflection,  he  must  become  despicable 
in  his  own  eyes,  and  shrink  with  shame  from  the 
remembrance  of  his  cowardice  and  folly. 

Of  him  that  hopes  to  be  forgiven,  it  is  indispen- 
sably required  that  he  forgive.  It  is  therefore  super- 
fluous to  urge  any  other  motive.  On  this  great 
duty  eternity  is  suspended ; and  to  him  that  refuses 
to  practise  it,  the  throne  of  mercy  is  inaccessible, 
and  the  Saviour  of  tlie  world  has  been  born  in  vain.’ 

A still  finer  specimen  of  Johnson’s  style  is  af- 
forded in  an  essay  on  retirement  from  the  world : — 

‘ On  him,’  says  the  moralist,  ‘ that  appears  to 
pass  through  things  temporal  with  no  other  care 
than  not  to  lose  finally  the  things  eternal,  I look 
with  such  veneration  as  inclines  me  to  approve  his 
conduct  in  the  whole,  without  a minute  examina- 
tion of  its  parts  ; yet  I could  never  forbear  to  wish, 
that  while  Vice  is  every  day  multiplying  seduce- 
nients,  and  stalking  forth  with  more  hardened  effron- 
tery, Virtue  would  not  withdraw  the  influence  of 
her  presence,  or  forbear  to  assert  her  natural  dignity 
by  open  and  undaunted  perseverance  in  the  right. 
Piety  practised  in  solitude,  like  the  flower  that 
blooms  in  the  desert,  may  give  its  fragrance  to  the 
winds  of  heaven,  and  delight  those  unbodied  spirits 
that  survey  the  works  of  God  and  the  actions  of 
men  ; but  it  bestows  no  assistance  upon  earthly  be- 
ings, and,  however  free  from  t.aints  of  impurity,  yet 
wants  the  sacred  splendour  of  beneficence.’ 

These  sentences  show  the  stately  artificial  style 
of  Johnson,  which,  when  supported  by  profound 
thought,  or  pointed  morality,  as  in  the  foregoing  ex- 
tracts, appears  to  groat  advantage,  but  is  unsuited 
to  ordinary  topics  of  life  and  conversation.  Hence, 
he  shines  more  in  his  colloquial  displays,  as  recorded 
by  Boswell,  where  much  of  this  extraneous  pomp 
was  left  off,  while  all  the  point  and  vigour  of  his 
understanding,  and  the  powers  of  wit  and  imagi- 
nation, were  retained.  He  is,  in  fact,  a greater  man 
in  the  pages  of  his  biographer  than  in  his  own 
works:  the  intellectual  gladiator  of  the  club  evinced 
a more  powerful,  ready,  and  various  mind,  than  he 
could  embody  in  his  deliberate  writings  in  the  closet. 
Goldsmith  was  directly  the  reverse : he  could  argue 
best,  as  he  said,  with  the  pen  in  his  hand. 

[Tale  of  Anningait  and  Ajut.^ 

[From  ‘ The  Rambler.'] 

Of  the  happiness  and  misery  of  our  present  state, 
part  arises  from  our  sensations,  and  part  from  our 
opinions  ; part  is  distributed  by  nature,  and  part  is  in 
a great  measure  apportioned  by  ourselves.  Positive 
pleasure  we  cannot  always  obtain,  and  positive  pain 
we  often  cannot  remove.  No  man  can  give  to  his  oto 
plantations  the  fragrance  of  the  Indian  groves  ; nor 
will  any  precepts  of  philosophy  enable  him  to  withdraw 


his  attention  from  wounds  or  diseases.  Rut  the  nega- 
tive infelicity  which  proceeds,  not  from  the  pressure  of 
sufferings,  but  the  absence  of  enjoyiueuts,  will  always 
yield  to  the  remedies  of  reason. 

One  of  the  great  arts  of  escaping  superfluous  un- 
easiness, is  to  free  our  minds  from  the  habit  of  com- 
paring our  condition  with  that  of  others  on  whom  the 
blessings  of  life  are  more  bountifully  bestowed,  or  with 
imaginary  states  of  delight  and  security,  perhaps  un- 
attainable by  mortals.  Few  are  placed  in  a situation 
so  gloomy  and  distres.sful  as  not  to  .see  every  day 
beings  yet  more  forlorn  and  miserable,  from  whom 
they  may  learn  to  rejoice  in  their  ~'vn  lot. 

No  inconvenience  is  less  superable  by  art  or  diligence 
than  the  inclemency  of  climates,  and  therefore  none 
affords  more  proper  exercise  for  this  philosophical  ab- 
straction. A native  of  England,  pinched  with  the  frosts 
of  December,  may  lessen  his  affection  for  his  own 
country  by  suffering  his  imagination  to  wander  in  the 
vales  of  Asia,  and  sport  among  woods  that  are  always 
green,  and  streams  that  always  murmur  ; but  if  he 
turns  his  thoughts  towards  the  polar  regions,  and  con- 
siders the  nations  to  whom  a great  portion  of  the  year 
is  darkness,  and  who  are  condemned  to  pass  weeks 
and  months  amidst  mountains  of  snow,  he  will  soon 
recover  his  tranquillity  ; and  while  he  stirs  his  fire, 
or  throws  his  cloak  about  him,  reflect  how  much  he 
owes  to  providence  that  he  is  not  placed  in  Greenland 
or  Siberia. 

The  barrenness  of  the  earth,  and  the  severity  of  the 
skies  in  these  dreary  countries,  are  such  as  might  be 
expected  to  confine  the  mind  wholly  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  necessity  and  distress,  so  that  the  care  of  escap- 
ing death  from  cold  and  hunger  should  leave  no  room 
for  those  passions  which,  in  lands  of  plenty,  influence 
conduct,  or  diversify  characters  ; the  summer  should 
be  spent  only  in  providing  for  the  winter,  and  the  win- 
ter in  longing  for  the  summer. 

Yet  learned  curiosity  is  known  to  have  found  its 
way  into  those  abodes  of  poverty  and  gloom  : Lapland 
and  Iceland  have  their  historians,  their  critics,  and 
their  poets  ; and  Love,  that  extends  his  dominion 
wherever  humanity  can  be  found,  perhaps  exerts  the 
same  power  in  the  Greenlander’s  hut  as  in  the  palaces 
of  eastern  monarchs. 

In  one  of  the  large  caves  to  which  the  families  of 
Greenland  retire  together,  to  pass  the  cold  months, 
and  which  may  be  termed  their  villages  or  cities,  a 
youth  and  maid,  who  came  from  different  parts  of  the 
country,  were  so  much  distinguished  for  their  beauty, 
that  they  were  called  by  the  rest  of  the  inhabitants, 
Anningait  and  Ajut,  from  a supposed  resemblance  to 
their  ancestors  of  the  same  names,  who  had  been  trans- 
formed of  old  into  the  sun  and  moon. 

Anningait  for  some  time  heard  the  praises  of  Ajut 
with  little  emotion,  but  at  last,  by  frequent  interviews, 
became  sensible  of  her  charms,  and  first  made  a disco- 
very .if  his  affection  by  inviting  her  with  her  parents 
to  a least,  where  he  placed  before  Ajut  the  tail  of  a 
whale.  Ajut  seemed  not  much  delighted  by  this  gal- 
lantly ; yet,  however,  from  that  time  was  observed 
rarely  to  appear  but  in  a vest  made  of  the  skin  of  a 
white  deer ; she  used  frequently  to  renew  the  black 
dye  upon  her  hands  and  forehead,  to  adorn  her  sleeves 
with  coral  and  shells,  and  to  braid  her  hair  with  great 
exactness. 

The  elegance  of  her  dress,  and  the  judicious  di.spo- 
sition  of  her  ornaments,  had  such  an  effect  upon  An- 
ningait that  he  could  no  longer  be  restrained  from  a 
declaration  of  his  love.  He  therefore  composed  a 
poem  in  her  praise,  in  which,  among  other  heroic  and 
tender  sentiments,  he  protested  that  ‘ She  was  beauti- 
ful as  the  vernal  willow,  and  fragrant  as  thyme  upon 
the  mountains  ; that  her  fingers  were  white  as  the 
teeth  of  the  morse,  and  her  smile  grateful  as  the  dis- 
solution of  the  ice  ; that  he  would  pursue  her,  though 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TO  . 780. 


FROM  17-7 


bIic  Kliould  jiass  the  biiows  of  the  midland  cliffs,  or 
Book  sholtcr  in  the  caves  of  the  caBteni  cannibals  ; 
that  he  would  tear  her  from  the  embraces  of  the  genius 
of  the  rocks,  snatch  her  from  the  jiaws  of  Amaroc,  and 
rescue  her  from  the  ravine  of  llafgufa.’  He  concluded 
with  a wish,  that,  ‘whoever  shall  attempt  to  hinder 
his  union  with  Ajut,  might  be  buried  without  his  bow, 
and  that  in  the  land  of  souls  his  skull  might  serve  for 
no  other  use  than  to  catch  the  drojipings  of  the  starry 
lamps.’ 

Tills  ode  being  universally  applauded,  it  was  ex- 
pected that  AJut  would  soon  yield  to  such  fervour 
and  accomplishments  ; iut  Ajut,  with  the  natural 
haughtiness  of  beauty,  cxp.'ctcd  all  the  forms  of  court- 
ship ; and  before  she  would  confess  herself  conquered, 
the  sun  returned,  the  ice  broke,  and  the  season  of 
labour  called  all  to  their  employments. 

Anningait  and  Ajut  for  a tiii.c  always  went  out  in 
the  same  boat,  and  divided  whatever  was  caught. 
Anningait,  in  the  sight  of  his  rnistrc.ss,  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity of  signalising  his  courage  ; he  attacked  the 
sea-horses  on  the  ice  ; pursued  the  seals  into  the 
water  ; and  leaped  upon  the  back  of  the  whale  while 
he  was  yet  .struggling  with  the  remains  of  life.  Nor 
was  his  diligence  less  to  accumulate  all  that  could  be 
necessary  to  make  winter  comfortable  ; he  dried  the 
roe  of  fishes,  and  the  flesh  of  seals  ; he  entrapped  deer 
and  foxes,  and  dressed  their  skins  to  .adorn  his  bride  ; 
he  feasted  her  with  eggs  from  the  rocks,  and  strewed 
her  tent  with  flowers. 

It  happened  that  a tempest  drove  the  fish  to  a dis- 
tant part  of  the  coast  before  Anningait  had  completed 
his  store  ; he  therefore  intreated  Ajut  that  she  would 
at  last  grant  him  her  hand,  and  accompany  him  to 
that  part  of  the  country  whither  he  was  now  sum- 
moned by  necessity.  Ajut  thought  him  not  yet  en- 
titled to  such  conde.scension,  but  proposed,  as  a trial 
of  his  constancy,  that  he  should  return  at  the  end  of 
summer  to  the  cavern  where  their  acquaintance  com- 
menced, and  there  expect  the  reward  of  his  assiduities. 

‘0  virgin,  beautiful  as  the  sun  shining  on  the  water, 
consider,’  said  Anningait,  ‘ what  thou  hast  required. 
IIow  easily  may  my  return  be  precluded  by  a sudden 
frost  or  unexpected  fogs  ; then  must  the  night  be 
passed  without  my  Ajut.  We  live  not,  my  fair,  in  those 
fabled  countries  which  lying  strangers  so  wantonly 
describe ; where  the  whole  year  is  divided  into  short 
davs  and  nights  ; where  the  same  habitation  serves  for 
summer  and  winter;  where  they  raise  houses  in  rows 
above  the  ground,  dwell  together  from  year  to  year, 
with  flocks  of  tame  animals  grazing  in  the  fields  about 
them  ; can  travel  at  any  time  from  one  pliice  to  an- 
other, through  -ways  inclosed  with  trees,  or  over  walls 
raised  upon  the  inland  waters  ; and  direct  their  course 
through  wide  countries,  by  the  sight  of  green  hills  or 
scattered  buildings.  Even  in  summer  we  have  no 
means  of  crossing  the  mountains,  whose  snows  are 
never  dissolved  ; nor  can  remove  to  any  distant  resi- 
dence, but  in  our  boats  coasting  the  bays.  Consider, 
Ajut  ; a few  summer  days  and  a few  winter-nights 
and  the  life  of  man  is  at  an  end.  Night  is  the  time 
of  ease  and  festivity,  of  revels  and  gaiety  ; but  what 
will  be  the  flaming  lamp,  the  delicious  seal,  or  the 
soft  oil,  without  the  smile  of  Ajut !’ 

The  eloquence  of  Anningait  was  vain  ; the  maid 
eontlnued  inexorable,  and  they  parted  with  ardent 
promises  to  meet  again  before  the  night  of  winter. 

Anningait,  however  discomposed  by  the  dilatory 
coyness  of  Ajut,  was  yet  resolved  to  omit  no  tokens 
of  amorous  respect  ; and  therefore  presented  her  at 
his  departure  with  the  skins  of  seven  white  fawns,  of 
five  swans,  and  eleven  seals,  with  three  marble  lamps, 
ten  vessels  of  seal  oil,  and  a large  kettle  of  bra,ss, 
which  he  had  purchased  from  a ship  at  the  price  of 
naif  a whale  and  two  horns  of  sea-unicorns. 

Ajut  was  BO  much  affected  by  the  fondness  of  her 


lover,  or  so  much  overpowered  by  his  magnificence, 
that  she  followed  him  to  the  sea-side ; and  when  she 
saw  him  enter  the  boat,  wished  aloud  that  he  might 
return  with  plenty  of  skins  and  oil  ; that  neither  the 
mermaids  miglit  snatch  him  into  the  deeps,  nor  the 
spiritB  of  the  rocks  confine  him  in  their  caverns. 

She  stood  a while  to  gaze  upon  the  departing  vessel, 
and  then  returning  to  her  hut,  silent  and  dejected, 
laid  aside  from  that  hour  her  white  deer  skin,  suf- 
fered her  hair  to  spread  unbraided  on  her  shoulders, 
and  forbore  to  mix  in  the  dances  of  the  maidens.  She 
endeavoured  to  divert  her  thought  by  continual  ap- 
plication to  feminine  employments,  gathered  moss  for 
the  winter  lamps,  and  dried  grass  to  line  the  boots  of 
Anningait.  Of  the  skins  which  he  had  bestowed  upon 
her,  she  made  a fi.shing-coat,  a small  boat,  and  tent, 
all  of  exqui.site  manufacture  ; and  while  she  was  thus 
busied,  solaced  her  labours  with  a song,  in  which  she 
prayed  ‘ that  her  lover  might  have  hands  stronger 
than  the  paws  of  the  bear,  and  feet  swifter  than  the 
feet  of  the  rein-deer ; that  his  dart  might  never  err, 
and  that  his  boat  might  never  leak  ; that  he  might 
never  stumble  on  the  ice,  nor  faint  in  the  water;  that 
the  seal  might  rush  on  his  harpoon,  and  the  wounded 
whale  might  dash  the  waves,  in  vain.’ 

The  large  boats  in  which  the  Greenlanders  transport 
their  families  are  always  rowed  by  women  ; for  a man 
will  not  deba.se  himself  by  work  which  requires  neither 
skill  nor  courage.  Anningait  was  therefore  exposed 
by  idleness  to  the  ravages  of  passion.  lie  went  thrice 
to  the  stem  of  the  boat  with  an  intent  to  leap  into 
the  water  and  swim  back  to  his  mistre.ss ; but  re- 
collecting the  misery  which  they  must  endure  in  the 
winter,  without  oil  for  the  lamp,  or  skins  for  the  bed, 
he  resolved  to  employ  the  weeks  of  absence  in  provi- 
sion for  a night  of  plenty  and  felicity,  lie  then  com- 
posed his  emotions  as  he  could,  and  expressed  in  wild 
numbers  and  uncouth  images  his  hopes,  his  sorrows, 
and  his  fears.  ‘ 0 life,’  says  he,  ‘ frail  and  uncertain! 
where  shall  wretched  man  find  thy  re.semblance  but 
in  ice  floating  on  the  ocean  ? It  towers  on  high,  it 
sparkles  from  afar,  while  the  storms  drive  and  the 
waters  beat  it,  the  sun  melts  it  above  and  the  rocks 
shatter  it  below.  What  art  thou,  deceitful  pleasure  ! 
but  a sudden  blaze  streaming  from  the  north,  whici 
plays  a moment  on  the  eye,  mocks  the  traveller  with 
the  hopes  of  light,  and  tlien  vanishes  for  ever!  What, 
love,  art  thou  but  a whirlpool,  which  we  approach 
without  knowledge  of  our  danger,  drawm  on  by  imper- 
ceptible degrees  till  we  have  lost  all  power  of  resist- 
ance and  escape  1 Till  I fixed  my  eyes  on  the  graces 
of  Ajut,  while  I had  yet  not  called  her  to  the  ban- 
quet, I was  careless  as  the  sleeping  morse,  I was  merry 
as  the  singers  in  the  stars.  ^\’hy,  Ajut,  did  I gaze 
upon  thy  graces?  Why,  my  fair,  did  1 call  thee  tc 
the  banquet?  Yet,  be  faithful,  my  love,  remember 
Anningait,  and  meet  my  return  with  the  smile  of 
virginity.  I will  chase  the  deer,  I will  subdue  the 
whale,  resistless  as  the  frost  of  darkness,  and  un- 
wearied as  the  summer  sun.  In  .a  few  weeks  1 shall 
return  prosperous  and  wealthy ; then  shall  the  roe-fish 
and  the  porpoise  feast  thy  kindred  ; the  fox  and  hare 
shall  cover  thy' couch  ; the  tough  hide  of  the  seal  shall 
shelter  thee  from  cold ; and  the  fat  of  the  whale  illu- 
minate thy  dwelling.’ 

Anningait  having  with  these  sentiments  consoled 
his  grief  and  animated  his  industry,  found  that  they 
had  now  coasted  the  headland,  and  saw  the  whales 
spouting  at  a distance.  He  therefore  jilaced  himself 
in  his  fishirg-boat,  called  his  associates  to  their  seve- 
ral employments,  plied  his  oar  and  haipoon  with  in- 
credible courage  and  dexterity  ; and,  by  dividing  his 
time  between  the  chase  and  fishery,  suspended  the 
miseries  of  absence  and  suspicion. 

Ajut,  in  the  meantime,  notwithstanding  her  ne- 
glected dress,  happened,  as  she  was  drying  some  skins 

154 


PF.uioDic.vL  ESSAYISTS.  KNGLISII  LITERATURK.  joiin  hawkkswouth. 


in  the  sun,  to  catch  the  eye  of  Norngsuk,  on  his  return 
from  hunting.  N orngsuk  was  of  birth  truly  illu.striou3. 
llis  mother  had  died  in  childbirth,  and  his  father, 
the  most  expert  fi  her  of  Greenland,  had  perished  by 
too  close  pursuit  of  the  whale.  llis  dignity  was 
equalled  by  his  riches  ; he  was  master  of  four  men’s 
and  two  women’s  boats,  had  ninety  tubs  of  oil  in  his 
winter  habitation,  and  five-and-twenty  seals  buried 
I in  the  snow  against  tlie  .season  of  darkness.  When 
he  .saw  the  beauty  of  .\jut,  ho  immediately  threw  over 
her  the  skin  of  a deer  that  he  had  taken,  and  soon 
after  iircsented  her  with  a branch  of  coral.  Ajut  re- 
fused his  gifts,  and  determined  to  admit  no  lover  in 
the  place  of  .Vuningait. 

Norngsuk,  thus  rejected,  had  recourse  to  stratagem. 
He  knew  that  .-Vjut  would  consult  an  Angekkok,  or 
diviner,  concerning  the  fate  of  her  lover,  and  the  feli- 
city of  her  future  life.  He  therefore  applied  himself 
to  the  most  celebrated  Angekkok  of  that  part  of  the 
country,  and  by  a present  of  two  seals  and  a marble 
kettle,. obtained  a promise  that  when  Ajut  should 
consult  him,  he  would  declare  that  her  lover  was  in 
the  land  of  souls.  Ajut,  in  a short  time,  brought  him 
a coat  made  by  herself,  and  inquired  what  events 
were  to  befiill  lier,  with  assurances  of  a much  larger 
reward  at  tlie  return  of  Anningait  if  the  prediction 
should  flatter  her  desires.  The  Angekkok  knew  the 
way  to  riches,  and  foretold  that  Anningait,  having 
alre.ady  caught  two  whales,  would  soon  return  home 
with  a large  boat  laden  with  jirovisions. 

This  prognostication  she  was  ordered  to  keep  secret ; 
and  Norngsuk,  depending  upon  his  artifice,  renewed 
his  addresses  with  greater  confidence  ; but  finding  his 
suit  still  unsuccessful,  applied  himself  to  her  parents 
with  gifts  and  promises.  The  wealth  of  Greenland 
is  too  powerful  for  the  virtue  of  a Greenlander  ; they 
forgot  the  merit  and  the  presents  of  Anninsait,  and 
decreed  Ajut  to  the  embraces  of  Norngsuk.  She 
entreated;  she  remonstrated;  she  wept  and  raved; 
but  finding  riches  irresi.stible,  fled  away  into  the  up- 
lands, and  lived  in  a cave  upon  such  berries  as  she 
could  gather,  and  the  birds  or  hares  which  she  had 
the  fortune  to  insnare,  taking  care,  at  an  hour  when 
she  was  not  likely  to  be  found,  to  view  the  sea  every 
day,  that  her  lover  might  not  miss  her  at  his  re- 
turn. 

At  last  she  saw  the  great  boat  in  which  Anningait 
had  departed,  stealing  slow  and  heavy  laden  along 
the  coast.  She  ran  with  all  the  impatience  of  affec- 
tion to  catch  her  lover  in  her  arms,  and  relate  her  con- 
stancy and  sufferings.  When  the  company  reached 
the  land,  they  informed  her  that  Anningait,  after  the 
fishery  was  ended,  being  unable  to  support  the  slow 
passage  of  the  vessel  of  carriage,  had  set  out  before 
them  in  his  fisliing-boat,  and  they  expected  at  their 
arrival  to  have  found  him  on  shore. 

Ajut,  distracted  at  this  intelligence,  was  about  to  fly 
into  the  hills,  without  knowing  why,  though  she  was 
now  in  the  hands  of  her  parents,  who  forced  her  back 
to  their  own  hut,  and  endeavoured  to  comfort  her; 
but  when  at  last  they  retired  to  rest,  Ajut  went  down 
to  the  beach,  where,  finding  a fishing-boat,  she  entered 
it  without  hesitation,  and  telling  those  who  wondered 
at  her  rashness  that  she  was  going  in  search  of  Annin- 
gait, rowed  away  with  great  swiftness,  and  was  seen 
no  more. 

The  fate  of  these  lovers  gave  occasion  to  various 
fictions  and  conjectures.  Some  are  of  opinion  that 
they  were  changed  into  stars ; others  imagine  that 
Anningait  was  seized  in  his  passage  by  the  genius  of 
the  rocks,  and  that  Ajut  was  transformed  into  a mer- 
maid, and  still  continues  to  seek  her  lover  in  the  de- 
serts of  the  sea.  But  the  general  persuasion  is,  that 
they  are  both  in  that  part  of  the  land  of  souls  where 
the  sun  never  sets,  where  oil  is  always  fresh,  and  pro- 
visions always  warm.  The  virgins  sometimes  throw  a 


thimble  and  a needle  into  the  bay  from  which  the 
liapless  maid  departed  ; and  when  a Greenlander 
would  praise  any  couple  for  virtuous  affection,  he 
declares  that  they  love  like  Anningait  and  Ajut. 

The  Adventurer,  by  Dr  Ilawkesworth,  succeeded 
‘ The  Rambler,’  and  was  published  twice  a- week  from 
1752  to  1754.  John  Hawkeswoiith  (1715-1773) 
rose  from  being  a w'atchinaker  to  considerable  lite- 
rary eminence  by  his  talents  and  learning.  He 
was  employed  to  write  the  narrative  of  Captain 
Cook’s  discoveries  in  the  Pacific  ocean,  by  xvhich  he 
realised  a large  sum  of  money,  and  he  made  an  ex- 
cellent translation  of  Telemachus.  With  the  aid  of 
I)r  Johnson,  Warton,  and  others,  he  carried  on  ‘The 
Adventurer’  with  considerable  success.  It  was  more 
various  than  ‘The  Rambler’ — more  in  the  style  of 
light  reading.  Hawkesworth,  however,  was  an  imi- 
tator of  Johnson,  and  the  conclusion  of  ‘The  Ad- 
venturer’ has  the  Johnsonian  swell  and  cast  of  ima- 
gination : — 

‘ The  hour  is  hastening  in  which  whatever  praise 
or  censure  I have  acquired  by  these  compositions,  if 
they  are  remembered  at  all,  will  be  remembered  with 
equal  indifference,  and  the  tenor  of  them  only  will 
afford  me  comfort.  Time,  who  is  impatient  to  date 
my  last  paper,  will  shortly  moulder  the  liand  that  is 
now  writing  it  in  the  dust,  and  still  this  breast  that 
now  throbs  at  the  reflection  : but  let  not  this  be  read 
as  something  that  relates  only  to  another  ; for  a few 
years  only  can  divide  the  eye  that  is  now  reading 
from  the  hand  that  has  written.  This  awful  truth, 
however  obvious,  and  however  reiterated,  is  yet  fre- 
quently forgotten  ; for  surely,  if  we  did  not  lose  our 
remembrance,  or  at  least  our  sensibility,  that  view 
would  always  predominate  in  our  lives  which  alone 
can  afford  us  comfort  when  we  die.’ 


Hawkesworth’s  Monument,  Bromley. 

The  World  was  the  next  periodical  of  this  class. 
It  was  edited  by  Dr  Moore,  author  of  the  tragedy 
of  ‘ The  Gamester,’  and  other  works,  and  w'as  dis- 
tinguished by  contributions  from  Horace  Walpole, 
Lord  Lyttelton,  Soame  Jenyns,  and  the  Earl  of 
Chesterfield.  ‘The  World  has  the  merit  of  being  very 
readable : its  contents  are  more  lively  than  any  of 

ISS 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


I's  pl'clil’ccssors,  iiml  it  is  a better  pieture  of  the 
tiTiie-i.  It  was  puljlislied  w'eekly,  from  January  175.3 
to  December  1750,  and  reached  a sale  of  2500 
a- week. 

Another  weekly  miscellany • of  the  same  kind, 
The  Cunnolssciir,  was  commenced  by  George  Col- 
man  and  liomiel  Thornton — two  professed  wits,  who 
■wrote  in  mdson,  so  that,  as  they  state,  ‘ almost  every 
single  pai)cr  is  the  joint  product  of  both.’  Cowper  the 
poet  contrihuted  a few  essays  to  ‘ The  Connoisseur,’ 
short  hut  lively,  and  in  that  easy  style  which  marks 
his  correspondence.  One  of  them  is  on  the  subject 
of  ‘ Conversation,’  and  he  afterwards  extended  it 
into  an  admirable  poem.  From  another,  on  country 
ehurches,  we  give  an  extract  which  seems  like  a leaf 
from  the  note-hook  of  Washington  Irving  : — 

‘ It  is  a difficult  matter  to  decide  which  is  looked 
upon  as  the  greatest  man  in  a country  church — the 
parson  or  his  clerk.  The  latter  is  most  certainly 
held  in  higher  veneration,  when  the  former  happens 
to  be  only  a poor  curate,  who  rides  post  every  Sab- 
bath from  village  to  village,  and  mounts  and  dis- 
mounts at  the  church  door.  The  clerk’s  office  is  not 
only  to  tag  the  prayers  with  an  amen,  or  usher  in 
the  sermon  with  a stave  : but  he  is  also  the  univer- 
sal father  to  give  away  the  brides,  and  the  standing 
godfather  to  all  the  new-born  bantlings.  But  in 
many  places  there  is  a still  greater  man  belonging 
to  the  church  than  either  the  parson  or  the  clerk 
himself.  The  person  I mean  is  the  squire  ; who, 
like  the  king,  may  be  styled  head  of  the  church  in 
his  own  parish.  If  the  benefice  be  in  his  own  gift, 
the  vicar  is  his  creature,  and  of  consequence  entirely 
at  his  devotion  ; or  if  the  care  of  the  churcli  be  left 
to  a curate,  the  Sunday  fees  of  roast-beef  and  plum- 
pudding, and  a liberty  to  shoot  in  the  manor,  will 
bring  him  as  much  under  the  squire’s  command  as 
his  dogs  and  horses.  For  this  reason  the  bell  is 
often  kept  tolling  and  the  people  waiting  in  the 
churchyard  an  hour  longer  than  the  usual  time ; 
nor  must  the  service  begin  till  the  squire  has  strutted 
up  the  aisle  and  seated  himself  in  the  great  pew  in 
the  chancel.  The  length  of  the  sermon  is  also  mea- 
sured by  the  will  of  the  squire,  as  formerly  by  the 
hour-glass ; and  I know  one  parish  where  the 
preacher  has  always  the  complaisance  to  conclude 
his  discourse,  however  abruptly,  the  minute  that 
the  squire  gives  the  signal  by  rising  up  after  his 
nap.’ 

‘The  Connoisseur’  was  in  existence  from  January 
1754  to  September  1756. 

In  April  1758,  Johnson  (who  thought  there  was 
‘no  matter’  in  ‘The  Connoisseur,’  and  who  had  a 
very  poor  opinion  of  ‘The  World’)  entered  again 
into  this  arena  of  light  literature,  and  commenced 
his  Idler.  The  example  of  his  more  mercurial  pre- 
decessors had  some  effect  on  the  moralist,  for  ‘The 
Idler’  is  more  gay  and  spirited  than  ‘ The  Rambler.’ 
It  lived  through  103  numbers,  twelve  of  which  were 
contributed  by  his  friends  Thomas  Warton,  Langton. 
and  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  ‘The  Idler’  was  the  last 
experiment  on  the  public  taste  in  England  of  perio- 
dical essays  published  separately.  In  the  ‘ Town 
and  Country  Magazine,’  and  other  monthly  miscel- 
lanies, essays  were  given  along  with  other  contribu- 
tions, and  it  was  thus  that  Goldsmith  published  his 
compositions  of  this  sort,  as  well  as  his  Chinese 
Letters.  Henceforward,  politics  engaged  the  public 
attention  in  a strong  degree,  and  monopolised  the 
weekly  press  of  London. 

In  Scotland,  after  an  interval  of  twenty  years. 
The  Mirror,  a series  of  periodical  essays,  made  its 
appearance,  and  was  continued  weekly  from  January 
1779  to  the  end  of  May  1780.  Five  years  after- 
wards The  Lounger  was  commenced  and  continued 


about  two  years,  the  number  of  ess.ays  being  101. 
Both  of  these  publications  were  sup])orted  by  the 
same  author.s,  namely,  Mr  Henry  Alaekenzie  (the 
Man  of  Feeling),  Mr  (afterwards  Lord)  Craig,  Mr 
(afterwards  Lord)  Cullen,  Mr  (afterwards  Lord) 
Bannatyne,  Lord  Hailes,  Professor  Richard.son  of 
Glasgow,  Lord  Wedderburn,  Mr  (afterwards  Lord) 
Abercromby,  Mr  Fra.ser  Tytler,  Baron  Hume,  &c. 
A few  papers  were  suiiplied  by  volimteers,  but  the 
regular  contributors  were  this  band  of  friendly  law- 
yers, whose  literary  talents  were  of  no  cotnnr.on 
order.  Mr  Mackenzie  acted  as  editor  of  the  niistel- 
lanies,  and  published  in  them  some  of  his  most 
admired  minor  productions,  containing  pathos,  sen- 
timent, and  a vein  of  delicate  irony  and  humour. 

[Story  of  La  Roche.'] 

[From  ‘ The  Mirror.’*] 

More  than  forty  years  ago,  an  English  philosopher, 
whose  works  have  since  been  read  and  admired  by  all 
Europe,  resided  at  a little  town  in  France.  Some 
disappointments  in  his  native  country  had  first  driven 
him  abroad,  and  he  was  afterwards  induced  to  remain 
there,  from  having  found,  in  this  retreat,  where  the 
connexions  even  of  nation  and  language  were  avoided, 
a perfect  .seclusion  and  retirement  highly  favourable 
to  the  develo])inent  of  abstract  subjects,  in  wliich  he 
excelled  all  the  writers  of  his  time. 

Perhaps  in  the  structure  of  such  a mind  as  Mr ’s, 

the  finer  and  more  delicate  sensibilities  are  seldom 
known  to  have  place  ; or,  if  originally  implanted  there, 
are  in  a great  measure  extinguished  by  the  exertions 
of  intense  study  and  profound  investigation.  Hence 
the  idea  of  philosojdiy  and  unfeelingne.ss  being  united 
has  become  proverbial,  and  in  common  language  the 
former  word  is  often  used  to  express  the  latter.  Our 
philosopher  h.as  been  censured  by  some  as  deficient  in 
warmth  and  feeling  ; but  the  mildne.ss  of  his  manners 
has  been  allowed  by  all ; and  it  is  certain  that,  it  he 
was  not  easily  melted  into  compassion,  it  was  at  least 
not  difficult  to  awaken  his  benevolence. 

One  morning,  while  he  sat  busied  in  those  specula- 
tions which  afterwards  astonished  the  world,  .an  old 
female  domestic,  who  served  him  for  a housekeeper, 
brought  him  word  that  an  elderly  gentleman  and  his 
daughter  had  arrived  in  the  village  the  preceding 
evening  on  their  way  to  some  dist.ant  country,  and 
that  the  father  had  been  suddenly  seized  in  the  night 
with  a dangerous  disorder,  which  the  people  of  the 
inn  where  they  lodged  feared  would  prove  mortal  ; 
that  she  had  been  sent  for  as  having  some  knowledge 
in  medicine,  the  village  surgeon  being  then  absent ; 
and  that  it  was  truly  piteous  to  see  the  good  old  man, 
who  seemed  not  so  much  afflicted  by  his  own  distre.ss 
as  by  that  which  it  caused  to  his  daughter.  Her 
master  laid  aside  the  volume  in  his  hand,  and  bi'oke 
off  the  chain  of  ideas  it  had  inspired.  His  night-gown 
was  exchanged  for  <a  coat,  and  he  followed  his  gouver- 
nante  to  the  sick  man’s  apartment. 

’Twas  the  best  in  the  little  inn  where  they  lay,  but 

a paltry  one  notwithstanding.  Mr was  obliged 

to  stoop  as  he  entered  it.  It  was  flooreil  with  earth, 
and  above  were  the  joi.sts,  not  plastered,  and  hung 
with  cobwebs.  On  a flock-bed,  at  one  end,  lay  the 
old  man  he  came  to  visit;  at  the  foot  of  it  .sat  his 
daughter.  She  was  dressed  in  a clean  white  bed- 
gown ; her  dark  locks  hung  loosely  over  it  as  she  bent 
forward,  watching  the  languid  looks  of  her  father. 
Mr  and  his  hou.sekeeper  h.ad  stood  some  mo- 

ments in  the  room  without  the  young  lady’s  being 
sensible  of  their  entering  it.  ‘ Mademoi.selle  !’  .said 
the  old  woman  at  last  in  a soft  tone.  She  turned,  and 


* This  fine  tale  is  by  TTenry  Mackenzie, 
the  philosopher  was  intended  for  Uumc. 


The  character  of 
156 


i 


PKlllonilM.  KSS.V^  ISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HENRY  MACkfillZIE. 


Rli  nvt'il  ono  of  tlie  finost  fiu-es  in  the  world.  It  was 
touched,  not  sjxiiled  with  sorrow  ; and  when  she  per- 
ceivoii  a stranger,  wliom  the  old  woman  now  intro- 
duced to  her,  a blush  at  first,  and  then  the  "entle 
oei'enionial  of  native  politeness  which  the  afiliction 
of  the  time  tempered,  hut  did  not  e.xtinguish,  crossed 
it  for  a moment,  and  changed  its  expression.  ’Twas 
sweetness  all,  however,  and  our  philosopher  felt  it 
strongly.  It  was  not  a time  for  words  ; he  offered  his 
si-rvices  in  a few  sincere  ones.  ‘ Monsieur  lies  mise- 
rably ill  here,’  said  the  gouvernante  ; ‘ if  he  could 
possibly  be  moved  anywhere.’  ‘ If  he  could  be  moved 
to  our  house,’  said  her  master,  lie  had  a spare  bed 
for  !V  friend,  and  there  was  a garret  room  unoccupied, 
next  to  the  gouvernante’s.  It  was  contrived  accord- 
ingly. The  scruples  of  the  stranger,  who  could  look 
scruples  though  lie  could  not  speak  them,  were  over- 
come, and  the  bashful  reluctance  of  his  daughter  gave 
way  to  her  belief  of  its  use  to  her  father.  The  sick 
man  was  wrapt  in  blankets  and  carried  across  the 
street  to  the  Knglish  gentlemaa’s.  The  old  woman 
helped  his  daughter  to  nurse  him  there.  The  surgeon, 
who  ari'ived  soon  after,  jrrescribed  a little,  and  nature 
did  much  for  him  ; in  a week  he  was  able  to  thank 
his  benefactor. 

By  this  time  his  host  had  learned  the  name  and 
character  of  his  guest.  He  was  .a  Protestant  clergy- 
man of  Switzerland,  called  Ha  Koche,  a widower,  who 
had  lately  buried  his  wife  after  a long  and  lingering 
illness,  for  which  travelling  had  been  prescribed,  and 
was  now  returning  homo,  after  an  ineffectual  and 
melancholy  iourney,  with  his  only  child,  the  daughter 
we  have  mentioned. 

He  was  a devout  man,  as  became  his  profession. 
He  possessed  devotion  in  all  its  warmth,  but  with 
none  of  its  asperity  ; I mean  that  asperity  which  men, 

called  devout,  sometimes  indulge  in.  Mr , though 

he  felt  no  devotion,  never  quarrelled  with  it  in  others. 
His  gouvernante  joined  the  old  man  and  his  daughter 
in  the  pr.ayers  and  thanksgivings  w'hich  they  put  up 
on  his  recovery  ; for  she,  too,  was  a heretic  in  the 
phrase  of  the  village.  The  philosopher  walked  out, 
with  his  long  staff  and  his  dog,  and  left  them  to  their 
prayers  and  thanksgivings.  ‘ My  master,’  said  the 
old  woman,  ‘ alas!  he  is  not  a Christian,  but  he  is  the 
best  of  unbelievers.’  ‘ Not  a Christian  1’  exclaimed 
^I.ademoiselle  La  Roche ; ‘ yet  he  saved  my  father ! 
Heaven  bless  him  for’t ; I would  he  were  a Christian!’ 
‘ There  is  a pride  in  human  knowledge,  my  child,’ 
said  her  father,  ‘ which  often  blinds  men  to  the  sub- 
lime truths  of  revelation  ; hence  opposers  of  Chris- 
tianity are  found  among  men  of  virtuous  lives,  as  well 
as  among  those  of  di.ssipated  and  licentious  charac- 
ters. Nay,  sometimes  I have  known  the  latter  more 
easily  converted  to  the  true  faith  than  the  former, 
because  the  fume  of  passion  is  more  easily  dissipated 
than  the  mist  of  false  theory  and  delusive  specula- 
tion.’ ‘ But  Mr ,’  said  his  daughter;  ‘alas!  my 

father,  he  shall  be  a Christian  before  he  dies.’  She 
was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  their  landlord.  He 
took  her  hand  with  an  air  of  kindness ; she  drew  it 
away  from  him  in  silence,  threw  down  her  eyes  to  the 
ground,  and  left  the  room.  ‘ I have  been  thanking 
God,’  said  the  good  La  Roche,  ‘ for  my  recovery.’ 
‘ That  is  right,’  replied  his  landlord.  ‘ 1 would  not 
wi.sh,’  continued  the  old  man  hesitatingly,  ‘ to  think 
otherwise ; did  I not  look  up  with  gratitude  to  that 
Being,  I should  barely  be  satisfied  with  my  recovery  as 
a continuation  of  life,  which,  it  may  be,  is  not  a real 
good.  Alas  ! I may  live  to  wish  1 had  died,  that  you 
had  left  me  to  die,  sir,  instead  of  kindly  relieving  me 

(he  chrsped  Mr ’s  hand);  but  when  I look  on  this 

renovated  being  as  the  gift  of  the  Almighty,  I feel  a 
far  different  sentiment ; my  heart  dilates  with  grati- 
tude and  love  to  him ; it  is  prepared  for  doing  his 
wiR,  not  as  a duty,  but  as  a pleasure ; and  regards 


every  breach  of  it,  not  with  disiipprobation,  but  with 
horror.’  ‘ You  say  right,  my  dear  sir,’  replied  the 
])hilosopher ; ‘but  you  are  not  yet  re-establis!ied 
enough  to  talk  much  ; you  must  take  care  of  your 
health,  and  neither  study  nor  preach  for  some  time. 

I have  been  thinking  over  a scheme  that  struck  me 
to-day  when  you  mentioned  your  intended  departure. 

1 never  was  in  Switzerland  ; I have  a great  mind  to 
accompany  your  daughter  and  you  into  that  country. 

I will  help  to  take  care  of  you  by  the  road  ; for,  as  I 
was  3'our  first  physician,  I hold  myself  responsible  for 
your  cure.’  La  Roche’s  eyes  glistene.l  at  the  pro- 
posal ; his  daughter  was  called  in  and  told  of  it.  She 
was  equally  pleased  with  her  father ; for  they  really 
loved  their  landlord' — not  perhaps  the  less  for  his 
infidelity  ; at  least  that  circumstance  mixed  a sort  of 
pity  with  their  regard  for  him  : their  souls  were  not 
of  a mould  for  harsher  feelings ; hatred  never  dwelt 
in  them. 

They  travelled  by  short  stages ; for  the  philosopher 
was  as  good  as  his  word,  in  taking  care  that  the  old 
man  should  not  be  fatigued.  The  party  had  time  to 
be  well  acquainted  with  one  another,  and  their  friend- 
ship was  increased  by  acquaintance.  La  Roche  found 
a degree  of  simplicity  and  gentleness  in  his  com- 
panion which  is  not  alwaj's  annexed  to  the  character 
of  a learned  or  a wise  man.  lli.s  daughter,  who  was 
prepared  to  be  afraid  of  him,  was  equally  undeceived. 
She  found  in  him  nothing  of  that  self-importance 
which  superior  parts,  or  great  cultivation  of  them,  is  _ 
apt  to  confer.  He  talked  of  everything  but  pliilo- 
.sophy  or  religion  ; he  seemed  to  enjoy  every  pleasure 
and  amusement  of  ordinary  life,  and  to  be  interested 
in  the  most  common  topics  of  discourse:  when  his 
knowledge  or  learning  at  any  time  appeared,  it  was 
delivered  with  the  utmost  plainness,  and  without  the 
least  shadow  of  dogmatism.  On  his  part  he  was 
charmed  with  the  society  of  the  good  clergyman  and 
his  lovely  daughter.  He  found  in  them  the  guileless 
manner  of  the  earliest  times,  with  the  culture  and  ac- 
complishment of  the  most  refined  ones.  Every  better 
feeling  warm  and  vivid  ; every  ungentle  one  repressed 
or  overcome.  He  was  not  addicted  to  love ; but  he 
felt  himself  happy  in  being  the  friend  of  Mademoiselle 
La  Roche,  and  sometimes  envied  her  father  the  pos- 
session of  such  a child. 

After  a journey  of  eleven  days,  they  arrived  at  the 
dwelling  of  La  Roche.  It  was  situated  in  one  of  those 
valleys  of  the  canton  of  Berne,  where  nature  seems  to 
repose,  as  it  were,  in  quiet,  and  h.as  enclosed  her  re- 
treat with  mountains  inaccessible.  A stream,  that 
spent  its  fury  in  the  hills  above,  ran  in  front  of  the 
house,  and  a broken  waterfall  was  seen  through  the 
wood  that  covered  its  sides  ; below,  it  circled  round  a 
tufted  plain,  and  formed  a little  lake  in  front  of  a 
village,  at  the  end  of  which  appeared  the  .spire  of  La 
Roche’s  church,  rising  above  a clump  of  beeches.  Mr 

enjoyed  the  beauty  of  the  scene ; but  to  his 

companions  it  recalled  the  memory  of  a wife  and 
parent  they  had  lost.  The  old  man’s  sorrow  was 
silent — his  daughter  sobbed  and  wept.  Her  father 
took  her  hand,  kissed  it  twice,  pressed  it  to  his 
bosom,  threw  up  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  having  wiped 
off  a tear  that  was  just  about  to  drop  from  each,  began 
to  point  out  to  his  guest  some  of  the  most  striking 
objects  which  the  prospect  afforded.  The  philo.sopher 
interpreted  all  this  ; and  he  could  but  slightly  censure 
the  creed  from  which  it  arose. 

They  had  not  been  long  arrived,  when  a number  of 
La  Roche’s  parishioners,  w’ho  had  heard  of  his  return, 
came  to  the  house  to  see  and  welcome  him.  The 
honest  folks  were  awkward  but  sincere  in  their  pro- 
fessions of  regard.  They  made  some  attempts  at 
condolence ; it  was  too  delicate  for  their  handling, 
but  La  Roche  took  it  in  good  ]>art.  ‘ It  has  pleased 
God,’  said  he ; and  they  saw  he  had  settled  the  matter 

157 


FROM  1727  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1780. 

witli  liimsclf.  I’liilosophy  could  not  have  done  so 
much  with  a thousand  words. 

It  was  now  evenin",  and  the  good  peasants  were 
about  to  depart,  wlicn  a clock  was  heard  to  strike 
seven,  and  the  hour  was  followed  by  a particular 
chime.  The  country  folks  who  had  come  to  welcome 
their  pastor,  turned  their  looks  towards  him  at  the 
sound  ; he  explained  their  meaning  to  his  guest. 
‘ That  is  the  signal,’  said  he,  ‘ for  our  evening  exercise  ; 
this  is  one  of  the  nights  of  the  week  in  which  some 
of  my  parishioners  arc  wont  to  join  in  it;  a little 
rustic  saloon  serves  for  the  chapel  of  our  family,  and 
such  of  the  good  people  as  are  with  us.  If  you  choose 
rather  to  walk  out,  1 will  furnish  you  with  an  at- 
tendant ; or  here  are  a few  olil  books  that  may  afford 
you  some  entertainment  within.’  ‘ l$y  no  means,’  an- 
swered the  philosopher,  ‘ I will  attend  Mademoiselle 
at  her  devotions.’  ‘ She  is  our  organist,’  said  La 
Roche  ; ‘ our  neighhourhood  is  the  country  of  musical 
mechanism,  and  I have  a small  organ  fitted  up  for 
the  purpose  of  assisting  our  singing.’  ‘ ’Tis  an  addi- 
tional inducement,’  replied  the  other,  and  they  walked 
into  the  room  together.  At  the  end  stood  the  organ 
mentioned  hy  La  Roche ; before  it  was  a curtain, 
which  his  daughter  drew  aside,  .and  placing  herself  on 
a seat  within,  and  <lrawing  the  curtain  close,  so  as  to 
save  her  the  awkwardness  of  an  exhibition,  began  a 
voluntary,  solemn  and  beautiful  in  the  highest  degree. 

Mr was  no  musician,  hut  he  was  not  altogether 

insensible  to  music ; this  fastened  on  his  mind  more 
strongly,  from  its  beauty  being  unexpected.  The 
solemn  prelude  introduced  a hymn,  in  which  such  of 
the  audience  as  could  sing  immediately  joined  ; the 
words  were  mostly  taken  from  holy  writ ; it  spoke  the 
praises  of  Ood,  and  his  care  of  good  men.  Something 
was  said  of  the  death  of  the  just,  of  such  as  die  in  the 
Lord.  The  organ  was  touched  with  a hand  less  firm ; 
it  paused,  it  ceased,  and  the  sobbing  of  Mademoiselle 
La  Koche  was  heard  in  its  ste.ad.  Her  father  gave  a 
sign  for  stopjiing  the  psalmody,  and  rose  to  pray.  lie 
was  discomposed  at  first,  and  his  voice  faltered  as  he 
spoke  ; but  his  heart  was  in  his  words,  and  his  warmth 
overcame  his  embarrassment.  lie  addressed  a Being 
whom  he  loved,  and  he  spoke  for  those  he  loved.  His 
parishioners  catched  the  ardour  of  the  good  old  man  ; 
even  the  philosopher  felt  himself  moved,  and  forgot 
for  a moment  to  think  whj- he  should  not. ' La  Roche’s 
religion  tvas  that  of  sentiment,  not  theory,  and  his 
guest  was  averse  from  disputation  ; their  discourse, 
therefore,  did  not  lead  to  questions  concerning  the 
belief  of  either ; yet  would  the  old  m.an  sometimes 
speak  of  his,  from  the  fulness  of  a heart  impressed 
with  its  force,  and  wishing  to  spread  the  pleasure  he 
enjoyed  in  it.  The  ideas  of  his  God  .and  his  Saviour 
were  so  congenial  to  his  mind  that  every  emotion  of 
it  naturally  aw.aked  them.  A philosopher  might 
have  called  him  an  enthusiast ; but  if  he  possessed 
the  fervour  of  enthusi.asts,  he  was  guiltless  of  their 
bigotry.  ‘ Our  father  which  art  in  heaven  1’  might 
the  good  man  say,  for  he  felt  it,  and  all  mankind 
were  his  brethren. 

‘ You  regret,  my  friend,’  said  he  to  Mr , ‘ when 

my  daughter  and  I talk  of  the  exquisite  pleasure  de- 
rived from  music,  you  regret  your  want  of  musical 
powers  and  musical  feelings ; it  is  a department  of 
soul,  you  say,  which  nature  has  almost  denied  you, 
wdiich  from  the  effects  you  see  it  have  on  others  you 
are  sure  must  be  highly  delightful.  Why  should  not 
the  same  thing  be  said  of  religion  ? Trust  me,  I feel 
it  in  the  s.ame  way — an  energy,  an  inspiration,  which 
I would  not  lose  for  all  the  blessings  of  sense,  or  en- 
joyments of  the  world  ; yet,  .so  far  from  lessening  my 
relish  of  the  pleasures  of  life,  methinks  I feel  it 
heighten  them  all.  The  thought  of  receiving  it  from 
God  adds  the  blessing  of  sentiment  to  that  of  sensa- 
tion ic  every  good  thing  I possess ; and  when  calami- 

tics  overtake  me — and  I have  had  my  share — it  con- 
fers a dignity  on  my  affliction,  so  lifts  me  above  the 
world.  Man,  I know,  is  but  a worm,  yet  methinks  I 
am  then  allied  to  God  !’  It  would  have  been  inhuman 
in  our  philosopher  to  have  clouded,  even  with  a doubt, 
the  sunshine  of  this  belief. 

His  discourse,  indeed,  was  very  remote  from  meta- 
physical disquisition,  or  religious  controversy.  Of  all 
men  1 ever  knew,  his  ordinary  conversation  was  the 
least  tinctured  with  pedantry,  or  liable  to  disserta- 
tion. With  La  Roche  and  his  daughter  it  was  per- 
fectly famili.ar.  The  country  around  them,  the  man- 
ners of  the  village,  the  compari.son  of  both  with  those 
of  England,  remarks  on  the  works  of  favourite  authors, 
on  the  sentiments  they  conveyed,  and  the  passions 
they  excited,  with  many  other  topics  in  which  there 
was  an  equality  or  alternate  advantage  among  the 
speakers,  were  the  subjects  they  talked  on.  Their 
hours  too  of  riding  and  walking  were  many,  in  which 

Mr  , as  a stranger,  was  shown  the  remarkable 

scenes  and  curiosities  of  the  country.  They  would 
sometimes  make  little  expeditions  to  contemplate,  in 
different  attitudes,  those  astonishing  mountains,  the 
cliffs  of  which,  covered  with  eternal  snows,  and  some- 
times shooting  into  fantastic  .shapes,  form  the  termi- 
nation of  most  of  the  Swiss  prospects.  Our  philo.sopher 
asked  many  questions  as  to  their  natural  history  and 
productions.  La  Roche  observed  the  sublimity  of  the 
ideas  which  the  view  of  their  stupendous  summits, 
inacces.sible  to  mortal  foot,  was  calculated  to  inspire, 
which  naturally,  said  he,  leads  the  mind  to  that  i 
Being  by  whom  their  foundations  were  laid.  ‘ They  | 
are  not  seen  in  Flander.s,’  said  Mademoiselle  with  a 

sigh.  ‘ That’s  an  odd  remark,’  said  Mr , smiling. 

She  blushed,  and  he  inquired  no  farther. 

’Twas  with  regret  he  left  a society  in  which  he 
found  himself  so  happy  ; but  he  settled  with  La  Roche 
ami  his  daughter  a plan  of  correspondence  ; and  they 
took  his  promise,  th.at  if  ever  he  came  within  fifty 
le.agues  of  tlieir  dwelling,  he  should  travel  those  fifty 
leagues  to  visit  them. 

About  three  years  after,  our  philosopher  was  on  a 
visit  at  Geneva ; the  promise  he  made  to  La  Roche 
and  his  daughter  on  his  former  visit  was  recalled  to 
his  mind  by  a view  of  that  range  of  mountains,  on  a 
part  of  which  they  had  often  looked  together.  There  | 
was  a reproach,  too,  conTe}’ed  along  with  the  recollec- 
tion, for  his  having  failed  to  write  to  either  for  several 
months  past.  The  truth  was,  that  indolence  was  the 
habit  most  natural  to  him,  from  which  he  was  not 
easily  roused  by  the  claims  of  correspondence  either 
of  his  friends  or  of  his  enemies  ; when  the  latter  drew 
their  pens  in  controversy,  they  were  often  unanswered 
as  well  as  the  former.  While  he  was  hesitating  about 
a visit  to  La  Roche,  which  he  wished  to  make,  but 
found  the  effort  rather  too  much  for  him,  he  received 
a letter  from  the  old  man,  which  had  been  forwarded 
to  him  from  Paris,  where  he  had  then  his  fixed  resi- 
dence. It  contained  a gentle  complaint  of  Mr ’s 

w.ant  of  punctuality,  but  an  assurance  of  continued 
gratitude  for  his  former  good  offices ; and  as  a friend 
whom  the  writer  considered  interested  in  his  family, 
it  informed  him  of  the  approaching  nuptials  of  Made- 
moiselle La  Roche  with  a young  man,  a relation  of 
her  own,  and  formerly  a pupil  of  her  father’s,  of  the 
most  amiable  dispositions,  and  respectable  character. 
Attached  from  their  earliest  years,  they  had  been 
sep.arated  by  his  joining  one  of  the  subsidiary  regi- 
ments of  the  canton,  then  in  the  service  of  a foreign 
power.  In  this  situation  he  had  distinguished  him- 
self as  much  for  courage  and  military  skill  as  for  the 
other  endowments  which  he  had  cultivated  at  home. 
The  term  of  his  service  was  now  expired,  and  they  ex- 
pected him  to  return  in  a feiv  weeks,  when  the  old 
man  hoped,  as  he  expressed  it  in  his  letter,  to  join 
their  hands,  and  see  them  happy  before  he  died. 

153 

PRRIODICAL  KSSATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HENRY  MACKENZIE 


Our  philosopher  felt  himself  interested  in  this  event ; 
bu*  he  was  not,  perhaps,  altogether  so  happy  in  the 
tidings  of  Mademoiselle  La  Uoche’s  marriage  as  her 
father  supposed  him.  Not  that  he  was  ever  a lover  of 
the  lady’s  ; but  he  thought  her  one  of  the  most  amiable 
women  he  had  seen,  and  there  was  something  in  the 
idea  of  her  being  another’s  for  ever,  that  struck  him, 
he  knew  not  why,  like  a disappointment.  After  some 
little  speculation  on  the  matter,  however,  he  could 
look  on  it  as  a thing  fitting,  if  not  quite  agreeable, 
and  determined  on  this  visit  to  see  his  old  friend  and 
his  daughter  happy. 

On  the  last  day  of  his  journey,  different  accidents 
had  retarded  his  progress  : he  was  benighted  before 
he  reached  the  quarter  in  which  La  Roche  resided. 
His  guide,  however,  was  well  acquainted  with  the  road, 
and  he  found  himself  at  last  in  view  of  the  lake, 
which  I have  before  described,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  La  Roche’s  dwelling.  A light  gleamed  on  the 
water,  that  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  house ; it 
moved  slowly  along  as  he  proceeded  up  the  side  of 
the  lake,  and  at  last  he  saw  it  glimmer  through  the 
trees,  and  stop  at  some  distance  from  the  place  where 
he  then  was.  He  supposed  it  some  piece  of  bridal 
merriment,  and  pushed  on  his  horse  that  he  might  be 
a spectator  of  the  scene ; but  he  was  a good  deal 
shocked,  on  approaching  the  spot,  to  find  it  proceed 
from  the  torch  of  a person  clothed  in  the  dress  of  an 
attendant  on  a funeral,  and  accompanied  by  several 
others,  who,  like  him,  seemed  to  have  been  employed 
in  the  rites  of  sepulture. 

On  Mr ’s  making  inquiry  who  was  the  person 

they  had  been  burying,  one  of  them,  with  an  accent 
more  mournful  than  is  common  to  their  profession, 
answered,  ‘then  you  knew  not  Mademoiselle,  sir?  you 
never  beheld  a lovelier.’  ‘ La  Roche!’  e.xclaimed  he, 
in  reply.  ‘Alas!  it  was  she  indeed!’  The  appear- 
ance of  surprise  and  grief  which  his  countenance  as- 
sumed attracted  the  notice  of  the  peasant  with  whom 
he  talked.  He  came  up  closer  to  Mr ; ‘ I per- 

ceive, sir,  you  were  acquainted  with  Mademoiselle  La 
Roche.’  ‘ Acquainted  with  her ! Good  God  ! when — 
how  -where  did  she  die?  Where  is  her  father?’ 
‘ She  died,  sir,  of  heart-break,  I believe ; the  young 
gentleman  to  whom  she  was  soon  to  have  been  mar- 
ried, was  killed  in  a duel  by  a French  officer,  his  in- 
timate companion,  and  to  whom,  before  their  quarrel, 
he  had  often  done  the  greatest  fiivours.  Her  worthy 
father  bears  her  death  as  he  has  often  told  us  a Chris- 
tian should  ; he  is  even  so  composed  as  to  be  now  in 
his  pulpit,  ready  to  deliver  a few  exhortations  to  his 
parishioners,  as  is  the  custom  with  us  on  such  occa- 
sions : follow  me,  sir,  and  you  shall  hear  him.’  He 
followed  the  man  without  answering. 

The  church  was  dimly  lighted,  except  near  the 
pulpit,  where  the  venerable  La  Roche  was  seated. 
His  people  were  now  lifting  up  their  voices  in  a 
psalm  to  that  Being  whom  their  pastor  had  taught 
them  ever  to  bless  and  to  revere.  La  Roche  sat,  his 
figure  bending  gently  forward,  his  eyes  half-closed, 
lifted  up  in  silent  devotion,  A lamp  placed  near  him 
threw  its  light  strong  on  his  head,  and  marked  the 
shadowy  lines  of  age  across  the  paleness  of  his  brow, 
thinly  covered  with  gray  hairs.  The  music  ceased : 
La  Roche  sat  for  a moment,  and  nature  wrung  a few 
tears  from  him.  His  people  were  loud  in  their  grief. 

Mr was  not  less  affected  than  they.  La  Roche 

arose:  ‘Father  of  mercie.s,’  said  he,  ‘forgive  these 
tears ; assist  thy  servant  to  lift  up  his  soul  to  thee  ; to 
lift  to  thee  the  souls  of  thy  people.  My  friends,  it  is 
good  so  to  do,  at  all  seasons  it  is  good ; but  in  the 
days  of  our  distress,  what  a privilege  it  is ! Well 
saith  the  sacred  book,  “ Trust  in  the  Lord ; at  all 
times  trust  in  the  Lord.”  When  every  other  support 
fails  us,  when  the  fountains  of  worldly  comfort  are 
dried  up,  let  us  then  seek  those  Rving  waters  which 


flow  from  the  throne  of  God.  ’Tis  only  from  the  be- 
lief of  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of  a Supreme  Being 
that  our  calamities  can  be  borne  in  that  manner  which 
becomes  a man.  Human  wisdom  is  here  of  little  use ; 
for,  in  proportion  as  it  bestows  comfort,  it  represses 
feeling,  without  which  we  may  cease  to  be  hurt  by 
calamity,  but  we  shall  also  cease  to  enjoy  happiness. 
I will  not  bid  you  be  insensible,  my  friends — I cannot, 
I cannot,  if  I would  (his  tears  flowed  afresh) — I feel 
too  much  myself,  and  I am  not  ashamed  of  my  feel- 
ings ; hut  therefore  may  I the  more  willingly  be 
heard ; therefore  have  I prayed  God  to  give  me 
strength  to  speak  to  you,  to  direct  you  to  him,  not  with 
empty  words,  but  with  these  tears  ; not  from  specu- 
lation, but  from  experience ; that  while  you  see  me 
suffer,  you  may  know  also  my  consolation. 

Y ou  behold  the  mourner  of  his  only  child,  the  last 
earthly  stay  and  blessing  of  his  declining  years ! 
Such  a child  too  ! It  becomes  not  me  to  speak  of  her 
virtues  ; yet  it  is  but  gratitude  to  mention  them,  be- 
cause they  were  exerted  towards  myself.  Not  many 
daj’s  ago  you  saw  her  young,  beautiful,  virtuous,  and 
happy : ye  who  are  parents  will  judge  of  my  felicity 
then — ye  will  judge  of  my  affliction  now.  But  1 look 
towards  him  who  struck  me  ; I see  the  hand  of  a 
father  amidst  the  chastenings  of  my  God.  Oh  ! could 
I make  you  feel  what  it  is  to  pour  out  the  heart  when 
it  is  pressed  down  with  many  sorrows,  to  pour  it  out 
with  confidence  to  him,  in  whose  hands  are  life  and 
death,  on  whose  power  awaits  all  that  the  first  enjoys, 
and  in  contemplation  of  whom  disappears  all  that  the 
last  can  inflict.  For  we  are  not  as  those  who  die 
without  hope ; we  know  that  our  Redeemer  liveth — 
that  we  shall  live  with  him,  with  our  friends  his  ser- 
vants, in  that  blessed  land  where  sorrow  is  unknown, 
and  happiness  is  endless  as  it  is  perfect.  Go,  then, 
mourn  not  for  me ; I have  not  lost  my  child  : but  a 
little  while  and  we  shall  meet  again,  never  to  be 
separated.  But  ye  are  also  my  children  : would  ye  that 
I should  not  grieve  without  comfort  ? So  live  as  she 
lived  ; that  when  your  death  cometh,  it  may  be  the 
death  of  the  righteous,  and  your  latter  end  like 
his.’ 

Such  was  the  exhortation  of  La  Roche ; his  audience 
answered  it  with  their  tears.  The  good  old  man  had 
dried  up  his  at  the  altar  of  the  Lord  ; his  countenance 
had  lost  its  sadness,  and  assumed  the  glow  of  faith 

and  of  hope.  Mr followed  him  into  his  house. 

The  inspiration  of  the  pulpit  was  past ; at  sight  of 
him  the  scene  they  had  last  met  in  ru.shed  again  on 
his  mind  ; La  Roche  threw  his  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  watered  it  with  his  tears.  The  other  was  equ.ally 
affected  ; they  went  together  in  silence  into  the  par- 
lour where  the  evening  service  was  wont  to  be  per- 
formed. The  curtains  of  the  organ  were  open  ; La 
Roche  started  back  at  the  sight.  ‘ Oh ! my  friend,’ 

said  he,  and  his  tears  burst  forth  again.  Mr had 

now  recollected  himself ; he  stept  forward  and  drew 
the  curtains  close ; the  old  man  wiped  off’  his  tears, 
and  taking  his  friend’s  hand,  ‘ You  see  my  weakness,’ 
said  he ; ‘ ’tis  the  weakness  of  humanity ; but  my 
comfort  is  not  therefore  lost.’  ‘ I heard  you,’  said  the 
other,  ‘ in  the  pulpit ; I rejoice  that  such  consolation  is 
yours.’  ‘It  is,  my  friend,’  said  he,  ‘and  I trust  I 
shall  ever  hold  it  fast.  If  there  are  any  who  doubt 
our  faith,  let  them  think  of  what  importance  religion 
is  to  calamity,  and  forbear  to  weaken  its  force  ; if  they 
cannot  restore  our  happiness,  let  them  not  take  away 
the  solace  of  our  affliction.’ 

Mr  ’s  heart  was  smitten ; and  I have  heard 

him  long  after  confess  that  there  were  moments  when 
the  remembrance  overcame  him  even  to  weakness ; 
when,  amidst  all  the  pleasures  of  philosophical  dis- 
covery, and  the  pride  of  literary  fame,  he  recalled  to 
his  mind  the  venerable  figure  of  the  good  La  Roche, 
and  wished  that  he  had  never  doubted. 


159 


KKOM  17-27  CYCI.OPiTiDIA  OF  to  1780. 


NOVELISTS. 

The  decline  of  the  trapic  drama  was  aceompanied 
hy  a similar  decline  of  the  heroic  romances,  both 
heinp  in  some  measure  the  creation  of  an  imapimi- 
tive  and  ehivalrou.s  aiiirit.  As  France  had  been  the 
country  in  whieli  tlie  early  romance,  metrical  or 
prosaic,  flourislied  in  greatest  perfection,  it  was  from 
tlie  same  nation  tliat  the  second  class  of  prose  fic- 
tions, tile  lieroic  romance.s,  also  took  its  rise.  'J'he 
lieroes  were  no  longer  Arthur  or  Charlemagne,  but 
a sort  of  pastoral  lovers,  like  the  characters  of  ,Sir 
I’liiiii)  Sidney’s  ‘ Arcadia,’  wlio  blended  modern  with 
chivalrous  manners,  and  talked  in  a style  of  conven- 
tional propriety  and  decorum.  This  spurious  off- 
sjiring  of  romance  was  begun  in  the  seventeenth 
ceuturv  hy  an  author  named  llonore  d’Urfe,  who 
was  followed  by  (tomberville,  Calprenede,  and  Ma- 
dame Scudery.  D'Urfe  had,  episodicallj',  and  under 
borrowed  names,  given  an  account  of  the  gallantries 
of  Henry  IV.’scourt,  which  rendered  his  style  more 
piquant  and  attractive;  but  generally,  this  species  of 
composition  was  harmless  and  insipid,  and  its  pro- 
ductions of  intolerable  length.  The  ‘ Grand  Cyrus’ 
filled  ten  volumes!  Admired  as  they  were  in  their 
own  day,  the  heroic  romances  could  not  long  escape 
being  burlesqued.  The  poet  Searron,  about  the  time 
of  our  commonwealth,  attempted  this  in  a work 
which  he  enlitleil  the  ‘ Comique  Itoman,’  or  ‘Comic 
]iomanc“  ’ which  detailed  a long  series  of  adventures, 
iS  low  as  those  of  Cyrus  were  elevated,  and  in  a style 
Df  wit  and  drollery  of  which  there  is  hardly  any 
other  example.  This  work,  though  designed  only 
as  a ludicrous  imitation  of  another  class  of  fictions, 
bei'ame  the  first  of  a cl.iss  of  its  ow-n,  and  found  fol- 
lowers in  Kngland  long  before  w-e  had  any  writers 
of  the  ])ure  novel.  Mrs  Aphra  Behn  amused  the 
public  during  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  by  writing 
tales  of  personal  adventure  similar  to  those  of  Scar- 
ron,  which  are  almost  the  earliest  specimens  of  prose 
fiction  that  we  posses.s.  She  w-as  followed  hy  Jlrs 
Manic}',  whose  works  are  equally  humorous,  and 
equally  licentious.  The  fictions  of  Idaniel  Uefoe, 
which  have  been  adverted  to  in  the  preceding  sec- 
tion, are  an  improvement  upon  these  tales,  being 
much  more  pure,  while  they,  at  the  same  time,  con- 
tain more  interesting  pictures  of  character  and  situa- 
tion. Other  models  were  jiresented  in  the  early 
part  of  the  century  by  the  French  novelist  Le  Sage, 
whose  ‘ Gil  Bias,’  and  ‘ Devil  on  Two  Sticks,’  imi- 
tating in  their  turn  the  fictions  of  certain  Spanish 
writers,  consist  of  humorous  and  satirical  pictures 
of  modern  manners,  connected  by  a thread  of  adven- 
ture. In  England,  the  first  pictures  of  real  life  in 
prose  fiction  were  given  by  Defoe,  who,  in  his  graphic 
details,  and  personal  adventures,  all  impressed  with 
the  strongest  appearances  of  truth  or  imibability, 
has  never,  in  his  own  walk,  been  excelled.  That 
walk,  however,  was  limited:  of  genuine  humour  or 
variety  of  ehar,acter  he  had  no  conception ; and  he 
paid  little  attention  to  the  arrangement  of  his  plot. 
The  gr.adual  improvement  in  the  tone  and  manners 
of  society,  the  complicated  relations  of  life,  the  grow- 
ing contrast  between  town  and  country  manners, 
and  all  the  artificial  distinctions  that  crowd  in  with 
commerce,  wealth,  and  luxury,  banished  the  heroic 
romance,  and  gave  rise  to  the  novel,  in  which  the 
passion  of  love  still  maintained  its  place,  but  was 
surrounded  by  events  and  ehar.acters,  such  as  are 
witnessed  in  ordinary  life,  under  various  aspects  and 
modifications.  The  three  great  founders  of  this 
improved  species  of  composition — this  new  theatre 
of  living  ,and  breathing  cluaracters — were  Iliclnard- 
son.  Fielding,  and  Smollett,  who  even  yet,  after  the 


lapse  of  more  than  a century,  have  had  no  superiors, 
and  only  one  equal. 

SAMUEL  BICnARDSON. 

Samuel  Biciiaudson  was  born  in  Derbyshire  in 
1689,  and  was  the  son  of  a joiner,  who  could  not 
affiird  to  give  his  son  more  than  the  ordinary  ele- 
ments of  education.  When  fifteen  years  of  age,  he 
was  put  apprentice  to  a printer  in  London;  and  by 
good  conduct  rose  to  be  master  of  an  extensive  busi- 
ness of  his  own,  and  printer  of  the  Journals  of  the 
House  of  Commons.  In  1754  he  was  chosen  master 
of  the  Stationers’  Company,  and  in  1760  he  pur- 
chased a moiety  of  the  patent  of  printer  to  the  king, 
which  greatly  increased  his  emoluments.  He  was 
a prosperous  and  liberal  man — mild  in  his  manners 
and  dispositions — and  seems  to  have  had  only  one 
marked  foible — excessive  v.anity.  From  a very  early 
period  of  his  life,  Richardson  was  a fluent  letter- 
writer:  at  thirteen  he  was  the  confldtint  of  three 
young  women,  whose  love  correspondence  he  carried 
on  without  any  one  knowing  that  he  was  secretary 
to  the  others.  Two  London  publishers  having  urged 


Richardson’s  House,  Parson’s  Green. 


him,  when  he  was  .above  the  age  of  fifty,  to  write 
them  a book  of  famili:ir  letters  on  the  useful  con- 
cerns of  life,  he  set  about  the  composition  of  his 
Pamela,  as  a warning  to  young  people,  and  with  a 
hope  that  it  would  ‘ turn  them  into  a course  of  re.ad- 
ing  different  from  the  pomp  and  panule  of  romance 
writing.’  It  was  written  in  about  three  months, 
and  published  in  the  year  1741,  with  such  success, 
that  five  editions  were  exhausted  iu  the  course  of 
one  year.  ‘ It  requires  a re.ader,’  says  Sir  Widter 
Scott,  ‘to  be  in  some  degree  acquainted  with  the 
huge  folios  of  inanity,  over  which  our  ancestors 
yawned  themselves  to  sleep,  ore  he  can  estimate  the 
delight  they  must  have  experienced  from  this  unex- 
pected return  to  truth  and  nature.’  ‘ Pamela’  be- 
came the  rage  of  the  town : ladies  carried  the 
volumes  with  them  to  Kanelagh  garden.s,  and  held 
them  up  to  one  another  iu  triumph.  Pope  ]>raised 
the  novel  as  likely  to  do  more  good  than  twenty 
volumes  of  sermons;  and  Dr  Sherlock  recommended 
it  from  the  pulpit!  In  1749  appeared  Riehiirdson’s 
second  and  greatest  work.  The  History  of  Clarissa 
Jlarluwe:  and  in  175.8  his  novel,  designed  to  repre- 

160 


(lOVF.LISTS. 


ENGUSri  LITERATURE. 


HENRY  riELDtNO. 


sont  tbc'  be;m  ideal  of  a genticii'an  and  Christian, 
The  llistoiy  of  Sir  Chntles  GratuUson.  The  almost 
] unexampled  success  and  popularity  of  Richardson’s 
life  and  writinjjs  were  to  himself  distnrheil  ami 
I clouded  by  nervous  attacks,  which  rendered  him 
I delicate  and  feeble  in  health.  He  was  flattered  and 
I soothed  by  a number  of  female  friends,  in  whose 
I society  he  spent  most  of  his  time,  and  after  reachin<f 
j the  i!:(K)iilv  age  of  seventv-two,  he  died  on  the  4th  of 
I July  17Ci. 

The  works  of  Richardson  are  .all  pictures  of  the 
■ heart.  No  man  understood  human  nature  better, 

' or  could  draw  with  greater  distinctness  the  minute 
I shades  of  feeling  .and  sentiment,  or  the  final  results 
j of  our  passions.  He  wrote  his  novels,  it  is  s.aid,  in 
I Ills  back-shop,  in  the  intervals  of  business;  and  must 
i have  derived  exquisite  pleasure  from  the  moral 
I anatomy  in  w'hich  he  was  silently  engaged — con- 
: ducting  his  characters  through  the  scenes  of  his 
i ideal  world,  and  giving  expression  to  all  the  feelings, 
i ; motives,  and  impulses,  of  which  our  nature  is  sus- 
j ceptible.  He  was  happiest  in  female  ch.ar.acters. 
1 ! JInch  of  his  time  had  been  spent  with  the  gentler 
! sex,  and  his  own  retired  habits  and  nervous  sensibi- 
I lity  approximated  to  feminine  softness.  He  well 
I repaid  the  sex  for  all  their  attentions  by  his  cha- 
racter of  Clarissa,  one  of  the  noblest  tributes  ever 
I paid  to  female  virtue  and  honour.  The  moral  ele- 
vation of  this  heroine,  the  saintly  purity  which  she 
I preserves  amidst  scenes  of  the  deepest  depravity  and 
I the  most  seductive  gaiety,  and  the  never-failing 
sweetness  and  benevolence  of  her  temper,  render 
; Clarissa  one  of  the  brightest  triumphs  of  the  whole 
I range  of  imaginative  literature.  Perhaps  the  climax 
I of  her  distress  is  too  overwhelming — too  oppressive 
i to  the  feelings — but  it  is  a healthy  sorrow.  We  see 
' the  full  r.adiance  of  virtue ; and  no  reader  ever  rose 
from  the  perusal  of  those  tragic  scenes  without  feel- 
ing his  moral  nature  renovated,  and  his  detest.ation 
of  vice  increased. 

‘ Pamela’  is  a work  of  much  humbler  pretensions 
than  ‘ Clarissa  Harlowe it  is  like  the  domestic 
tragedy  of  Lillo  compared  with  Lear  or  Macbeth. 
A simple  country  girl,  whom  her  master  .attempts 
to  seduce,  and  afterwards  marries,  can  be  no  very 
I dignified  heroine.  But  the  excellences  of  Richard- 
j son  are  strikingly  apparent  in  this  his  first  novel. 

1 His  power  of  circumstantial  painting  is  evinced  in 
the  multitude  of  small  details  which  he  brings  to 
bear  on  his  story — the  very  wardrobe  of  poor  Pamela, 
her  gown  of  sad-coloured  stuff,  and  her  round-eared 
c.aps — her  various  attempts  at  escape,  and  the  con- 
veyance of  her  letters — the  hateful  character  of  Mrs 
Jewkes.  and  the  fluctu.ating  passions  of  her  master, 
before  the  better  part  of  his  nature  obtains  the  as- 
cendency— these  are  all  touched  with  the  hand  of  a 
master.  The  seductive  scenes  are  too  highly  coloured 
for  modern  taste,  and  Pamela  is  deficient  in  natu- 
ral dignity ; she  is  too  c.alculating,  too  t.ame  and 
submissive ; but  while  engaged  with  the  tale,  we 
think  only  of  her  general  innocence  and  artlessness ; 
of  her  sad  trials  and  afflictions,  down  to  her  last  con- 
finement, when  she  hid  her  papers  in  the  rose-bush 
in  the  garden,  and  sat  by  the  side  of  the  pond  in 
I utter  despair,  half-meditating  suicide.  The  eleva- 
I tion  of  this  innocent  and  lovely  young  creature  to  be 
the  bride  of  her  master  is  an  act  of  justice ; but 
after  .all,  we  feel  she  was  too  good  for  him,  and  wish 
she  had  eff’ected  her  escape,  and  been  afterwards 
united  to  some  great  and  wealthy  nobleman  who 
had  never  condescended  to  oppress  the  poor  and  un- 
fortunate. The  moral  of  the  tale  would  also  have 
been  improved  by  some  such  termination.  Esquire 

B should  have  been  mortified,  and  waiting  maids 

taught  not  to  tolerate  liberties  from  their  young 

' 53 


masters,  bec.ausc,  like  Pamela,  they  may  rise  to  ob- 
tain tlieir  hand  in  marriage. 

‘ Sir  Charles  Grandison’  is  inferior  in  gener.al  in- 
terest, as  well  as  truth,  to  either  of  Richardson’s 
other  novels.  'I’he  ‘ good  man’  and  perfect  gentle- 
man, perplexed  by  the  love  of  two  ladies  whom  he 
regarded  witli  equal  .affection,  is  an  anomaly  in  na- 
ture with  which  we  cannot  sympathise.  The  hero 
of  ‘ Clarissa,’  Lovelace,  being  a splendid  and  ac- 
complished, a gay  and  smiling  villain,  Richardson 
wished  to  make  Sir  Charles  in  all  respects  the  very  i 
opposite:  he  has  given  him  too  little  passion  and  ' 
too  much  perfection  for  frail  Immanity.  In  this  novel, 
however,  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  all  our  1 
author’s  deline.ations — the  m.adness  of  Clementina.  : 
Shakspeare  himself  has  scarcely  drawn  a more  affect-  i 
ing  or  h.arrowing  picture  of  high-  souled  suffering  and  I 
blighting  calamity,  'fhe  same  accumulation  of  de-  . 
tails  as  in  ‘ Clariss.a,’  all  tending  to  heighten  the 
effect  and  produce  the  catastropl\e,  hurry  on  the  ! 
reader  with  breathless  anxiety,  till  he  has  learned  | 
the  last  sad  event,  and  is  plunged  in  unavailing  grief,  ' 
This  is  no  exaggerated  account  of  the  sensations  pro- 
duced by  Richardson’s  pathetic  scenes.  He  is  one  of 
the  most  powerful  and  tr.agic  of  novelists ; and  that 
he  is  so,  in  spite  of  much  tediousness  of  description, 
much  repetition  and  prolixity  of  narrative,  is  the 
best  testimony  to  his  art  and  genius.  The  extreme 
length  of  our  author’s  novels,  the  epistolary  style  in 
which  they  are  all  written,  and  the  number  of  mi- 
nute and  apparently  unimportant  circumstances 
with  which  they  abound,  added  to  the  more  ener- 
getic character  of  our  subsequent  literature,  have 
tended  to  cast  Richardson’s  novels  into  the  shade. 
Even  Lord  Byron  could  not,  he  said,  read  ‘ Clarissa.’ 
We  admit  that  it  requires  some  resolution  to  get 
through  a fictitious  work  of  eight  volumes  ; but 
having  once  begun,  most  readers  will  find  it  difficult  ! 
to  leave  off"  the  perus.al  of  these  works.  They  are 
eminently  original,  which  is  always  a powerful  re- 
commendation. They  show  .an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  human  heart,  and  an  absolute  command 
over  the  p.assions ; they  are,  in  fact,  romances  of  the 
he.art,  embellished  by  sentiment,  and  as  such  possess 
a deep  and  enchaining  interest,  and  a power  of  excit- 
ing virtuous  emotions,  which  blind  us  to  blemishes 
in  style  and  composition,  and  to  those  errors  in  taste 
and  manners  which  are  more  easily  ridiculed  than 
avoided  in  works  so  voluminous  confined  to  domestic 
portraiture. 

HENRY  FIELDING. 

Coleridge  has  said,  that  to  take  up  Fielding  atiei 
Richardson  is  like  emerging  from  a sick  room  heated 
by  stoves  into  an  open  lawn  on  a breezy  day  in  May, 

We  have  felt  the  agreeableness  of  the  transition : 
from  excited  sensibilities  and  overpowering  pathos, 
to  light  humour,  lively  description,  and  keen  yet 
sportive  satire,  must  .alw.ays  be  a pleasant  change. 
The  feeling,  however,  does  not  derogate  from  the 
power  of  Richardson  as  a novelist.  The  same  sen- 
sation may  be  experienced  by  turning  from  Lear  to 
Falstaff,  from  tr.agedy  to  comedy.  The  feelings  can- 
not remain  in  a state  of  constant  tension,  but  seek 
relief  in  variety.  Perhaps  Richardson  stretches 
them  too  violently  and  too  continuously ; his  por- 
traits are  in  classes,  full  charged  with  the  peculiari- 
ties of  their  master.  Fielding  has  a broader  canvass, 
more  light  than  shade,  a clear  and  genial  atmo- 
sphere, and  groups  of  characters  finely  and  natu- 
rally diversified.  Johnson  considered  him  barren 
compared  with  Richardson,  because  Johnson  loved 
strong  moral  painting,  and  had  little  sympathy  for 
wit  that  was  not  strictly  idlied  to  virtue.  Richardson, 

161 


ynoM  1727  (;Yf:i,()Pyh';i)IA  OF  to  170f.. 


ti)(),  was  a pious  rospootablu  man,  for  wlioni  the  eritie 
cntcrtaineii  ^^reat  regard,  and  to  whom  he  was  under 
ol)li^ations.  Fielilinj;  was  a thoujihtless  man  of 
fasliion — a rake  who  liail  dissipated  his  fortune,  and 
passed  from  high  to  low  life  without  dignity  or  re- 
speet ; and  who  had  commenced  author  without  any 
higher  motive  than  to  make  money,  and  confer 
amusement.  Amide  success  crowned  him  in  the 
latter  department ! The  inimitahle  character  of 
I’arson  Adams,  the  humour  of  road-side  adventures 
anil  alehouse  dialogues,  Towwouse  and  his  termagant 
wife,  I’arson  Trulliher,  Squire  Western,  the  faitliful 
Partridge,  and  a host  of  ludicrous  and  witty  scenes, 
and  cliaraeters,  and  situations,  all  rise  up  at  the  very 
mention  of  tlie  name  of  Fielding ! If  Kiehardson 
‘ made  the  passions  move  at  tlie  command  of  virtue,’ 
Fielding  bends  them  at  will  to  mirth  and  enjoyment. 
He  is  tile  prince  of  novelists — luddiiig  the  novel  to 
iiu'lude  wit,  love,  satire,  humour,  observation,  genu- 
ine pictures  of  human  nature  without  romance,  and 
the  most  perfect  art  in  tlie  arrangement  of  his  plot 
and  incidents. 

Hknky  Fiki.dinc  was  of  higli  birth:  his  father 
(a  grandson  of  the  11  ol  if  Dadiigli)  was  a general 
in  the  army,  and  his  inotln.  r toe  daughter  of  a judge. 


Henry  Fielding. 


! He  was  bom  at  Sharpham  Park,  Somersetshire, 
April  22,  1707.  The  general  had  a large  family, 
i and  was  a had  economist,  and  Henry  was  early  fanii- 
: liar  with  enibarrassnients.  lie  was  educated  at  Eton, 

and  afterwards  studied  the  law  for  two  years  at  Ley- 
den. In  his  twentieth  year  his  studies  were  stopped, 
‘ money-bound,’  as  a kindred  genius,  Sheridan,  used 
to  say,  and  the  youth  returned  to  England.  His 
father  promised  him  £200  per  annum,  but  this,  the 
son  remarked,  ‘ any  one  might  pay  who  would  !’ 
The  same  sum  came  to  him  in  a few'  years  by'  the 
death  of  his  mother,  from  whom  he  inherited  a small 
estate  of  that  amount  per  annum.  He  also  obtained 
£1500  by  Ids  marriage  w-ith  Miss  Cradoek,  a lady 
of  great  beauty  and  worth,  who  resided  in  Salis- 
bury. Having  previously  subsisted  by  writing  for 
the'stage,  in  which  he  had  little  success.  Fielding 
gladly  retired  with  his  wife  to  the  country.  Here, 
however,  he  lived  extravagantly ; kept  a pack  of 
hounds,  and  a retinue  of  servants,  and  feasted  all 


the  squires  in  his  neighlamrliood.  In  three  years  be 
was  again  i>emdless.  He  then  renewed  his  legal 
studies,  and  qualified  himself  for  the  bar.  His  prac- 
tice, however,  was  insufiieient  for  the  support  of  his 
family,  and  he  continued  to  write  pieces  for  the  j 
stage,  and  pamphlets  to  suit  the  topics  of  the  day. 

In  polities  he  was  an  anti -Jacobite,  and  a steady 
supporter  of  the  Hanoverian  sueccssioTi.  In  1742  | 

ajipeared  his  novel  of  Juneph  A/nlmwii,  which  at  once  ' 
stamped  him  as  a master,  uniting  to  genuine  English  j 
humour  the  spirit  of  Cervantes  and  the  mock  heroic 
of  Searron.  There  was  a wicked  wit  in  the  choice 
of  his  subject.  To  ridicule  iliehardson’s  ‘ I’amela,’ 
Fielding  made  his  hero  a brother  of  that  renowned 
and  ])opular  lady  ; he  quizzed  Gammar  Andrews  and 
his  wife,  the  rustic  parents  of  Pamela,  and  in  con- 
trast to  the  style  of  Richardson’s  work,  he  made  his 
hero  and  his  friend  Parson  Adams,  models  of  virtue 
and  excellence,  and  his  leading  female  characters 
(Lady  Booby  and  Mrs  Slipslop)  of  frail  morals.  Even 
Pamela  is  brought  down  from  her  high  standing  of 
moral  perfection,  and  is  represented  as  Mrs  Booby, 
witli  the  airs  of  an  upstart,  whom  the  parson  is  com- 
pelled to  reprove  for  laugliing  in  church.  Richard- 
son’s vanity  was  deeply  wounded  by  this  insult,  and 
he  never  forgave  tlie  desecration  of  his  favourite 
jiroduction.  The  ridicule  was  certainly  unju.stifi- 
able  ; hut,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  remarked,  ‘ how 
can  w'e  wi.sh  that  undone  without  which  Parson 
Adams  would  not  have  existed  ?’  The  burlesque 
portion  of  tlie  work  would  not  have  caused  its  exten 
sive  and  abiding  po])ularity.  It  heightened  its  hu- 
mour, and  may  have  contributed  at  first  to  the  num- 
ber of  its  readers,  but  ‘ Joseph  Andrews’  possessed 
strong  and  original  claims  to  public  favour,  and  has 
found  countless  admirers  among  persons  who  knew 
nothing  of  ‘ Pamela.’  Setting  aside  some  eiiliemerai 
essays  and  light  pieces,  Fielding’s  next  works  were 
A Joxirni’>)  from  thin  World  to  the  Next,  and  The  His- 
tory of  Jonathan  Wild.  A vein  of  keen  satire  runs 
through  the  latter,  but  the  hero  and  his  companions 
are  such  callous  rogues,  and  unsentimental  ruffians, 
that  we  cannot  take  pleasure  in  their  dexterity  and  j 
success.  The  ordinary  of  Newgate,  who  adminis- 
ters consolation  to  Wild  before  Ids  execution,  is  the 
best  character  in  the  novel.  The  ordinary  jireferred 
a howl  of  punch  to  any  otlier  liquor,  as  it  is  nowliere 
spoken  against  in  Scripture ; and  his  ghostly  admo- 
nitions to  the  malefactor  are  in  harmony  with  this 
predilection.  In  1749  Fielding  was  appointed  one 
of  the  justices  of  Westminster  and  Middlesex,  for 
which  he  was  indebted  to  tlie  services  of  Lyttel- 
ton. He  was  a zealous  and  active  magistrate  ; but 
the  office  of  a trading  justice,  paid  by  fees,  was  as 
unworthy  the  genius  of  Fielding  as  Burns’s  provi- 
sion as  an  exciseman.  It  appears,  from  a statement 
made  by  himself,  that  this  appointment  did  not 
bring  him  in,  ‘of  the  dirtiest  money  upon  earth.’ 
£300  a-year.  In  the  midst  of  his  official  drudgery 
and  too  frequent  dissipations,  our  author  produced 
Tom  Jones,  unquestionably  the  first  of  English  novels. 

He  received  £600  for  the  copyright,  and  such  was 
its  success,  that  Milhar  the  publisher  presented  £100 
more  to  the  author.  In  1751  appeared  foi  i 

which  he  received  £1000.  Jolinson  was  a great  I 
admirer  of  this  novel,  and  read  it  through  without  I 
stopping.  Its  domestic  scenes  moved  him  more  I 
deeply  than  heroic  or  ambitious  adventures ; hut  the  I 
conjugal  tenderness  and  affection  of  Amelia  arc  hut 
ill  requited  by  the  conduct  of  Booth,  her  husband, 
who  has  the  vices  without  the  palliation  of  youth  pos- 
sessed by  Tom  Jones,  independently  of  his  ties  as  a 
husband  and  father.  The  character  of  Amelia  was 
drawn  for  Fielding’s  wife,  even  down  to  the  accident 
which  disfigured  her  beauty;  and  the  frailties  of 

1C2 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


IIKNRY  FIELDtNG. 


Pootli  are  saiil  to  liave  shadowed  fortli  some  of  the 
author’s  own  hackslidiiiRS  and  experiences.  Tlie 
lady  whose  amiable  qualities  he  delighted  to  recount, 
ami  wliom  he  passionately  loved,  died  while  they 
struggled  on  in  their  worldly  dithculties.  lie  was 
almost  broken-hearted  for  her  loss,  and  found  no 
relief,  it  is  said,  but  in  weeping,  in  concert  with  her 
servant  maid,  ‘ for  the  angel  they  mutually  regretted.’ 
This  made  the  maid  his  habitual  contidential  asso- 
ciate, anil  in  process  of  time  he  began  to  think  he 
could  not  give  his  children  a tenderer  mother,  or 
secure  for  himself  a more  faithful  housekeeper  and 
nurse.  The  maid  accordingly  became  mistress  of 
his  household,  and  her  conduct  as  liis  wife  fully  jus- 
tified his  good  opinion.  If  there  is  little  of  romance, 
there  is  sound  sense,  affection,  and  gratitude  in  tliis 
step  of  Fielding,  but  it  is  probable  the  noble  families 
to  whom  he  was  allied  might  regard  it  as  a stain  on 
his  e.scutcheon.  ‘Amelia’  was  the  last  work  of  fic- 
tion that  Fielding  gave  to  the  world.  His  last  pub- 
lic act  was  an  undertaking  to  extirpate  several  gangs 
of  thieves  and  highwaymen  that  then  infested  Lon- 
don. The  government  employed  him  in  this  some- 
what perilous  enterprise,  placing  a sum  of  £600  at 
his  disposal,  and  he  was  completely  successful.  The 
vigour  and  sagacity  of  his  mind  still  remained,  but 
Fielding  was  paying,  by  a jiremature  old  age  and 
decrepitude,  for  the  follies  and  excesses  of  his  youth. 
A complication  of  disorders  weighed  down  his  latter 
days,  the  most  formidable  of  which  was  dropsy.  As 
a last  resource  he  was  advised  to  try  the  effect  of  a 
milder  climate,  and  departed  for  Lisbon  in  the  spring 
of  1754.  Nothing  can  be  more  touching  than  the 
description  ho  has  given  in  his  posthumous  work, 
A Voyage  to  Lisbon,  of  this  parting  scene  : — 

‘ W ednesday,  Jane  26,  1754. — On  this  day  the 
most  melancholy  sun  I had  ever  beheld  arose,  and 
found  me  awake  at  my  house  at  Fordhook.  By  the 
light  of  this  sun  I was,  in  my  owm  opinion,  last  to 
beliold  and  take  leave  of  some  of  those  creatures  on 
whom  I doted  with  a mother-like  fondness,  guided  by 
nature  and  passion,  and  uncured  and  unhardened  by 
all  the  doctrine  of  that  philosophical  school  where  I 
had  learned  to  bear  pains  and  to  despise  death. 

In  this  situation,  as  I could  not  conquer  nature,  I 
submitted  entirely  to  her,  and  she  made  as  great  a 
fool  of  me  as  she  had  ever  done  of  any  woman  what- 
soever : under  pretence  of  giving  me  leave  to  enjoy, 
she  drew  me  in  to  suffer,  the  company  of  my  little  ones 
during  eight  hours ; and  I doubt  whether  in  that  time 
I did  not  undergo  more  than  in  all  my  distemper. 

At  twelve  precisely  my  coach  was  at  the  door,  which 
■was  no  sooner  told  me,  than  I kissed  my  children 
round,  and  went  into  it  with  some  little  resolution. 
My  wife,  who  behaved  more  like  a heroine  and 
philosopher,  though  at  the  same  time  the  tenderest 
mother  in  the  world,  and  my  eldest  daughter,  fol- 
lowed me ; some  friends  went  with  us,  and  others 
here  took  their  leave ; and  I heard  my  behaviour 
applauded,  with  many  murmurs  and  praises  to  which 
I well  knew  I had  no  title ; as  all  other  such  philo- 
sophers may,  if  they  have  any  modesty,  confess  on 
the  like  occasions.’ 

The  great  novelist  reached  Lisbon,  and  resided  in 
that  gcnHal  climate  for  about  two  months.  His 
health,  however,  gradually  declined,  and  he  died  on 
the  8th  of  October  1754.  It  is  pleasing  to  record 
that  his  family,  about  which  he  evinced  so  much 
tender  solicitude  in  his  last  days,  were  sheltered  from 
want  by  his  brother  and  a private  friend,  Ralph 
Allen,  Esq.,  whose  character  for  worth  and  benevo- 
lence he  had  drawn  in  Allworthy,  in  ‘ Tom  Jones.’ 

Let  humble  Allen,  with  an  awkward  shame. 

Do  good  by  ste.alth,  ai  d blush  to  find  it  fame. 

Pope. 


The  English  factory  at  Lisbon  erected  a monument 
over  his  remains. 

The  irregularities  of  Fielding’s  life  (however  dearly 
he  may  have  paid  for  fame)  contributed  to  his  riches 
as  .an  author.  He  had  surveyed  liuman  nature  in 
v.arious  aspects,  and  experienced  its  storms  and  sun- 
shine. His  kinswoman.  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Mon- 
tagu, assigns  to  him  an  enviable  vivacity  of  tem- 
perament, though  it  is  at  the  expense  of  Ids  morality. 
‘His  happy  constitution,’  she  says, ‘even  when  he 
h.ad,  with  great  pains,  half  demolished  it,  made  him 
forget  every  evil  when  he  w.as  before  a venison- 
pasty,  or  over  a flask  of  champagne ; and  1 am  per- 
suaded he  has  known  more  happy  moments  than 
any  prince  upon  earth.  His  natural  spirits  gave 
him  rapture  with  his  cook-maid,  and  cheerfulness 
when  he  was  starving  in  a garret.’  Fielding’s  expe- 
rience as  a Middlesex  justice  was  unfavourable  to 
his  personal  respectability;  but  it  must  also  have 
brought  him  into  cont.actwith  scenes  and  characters 
well  fitted  for  his  graphic  delineations.  On  the 
other  h.and,  his  birth  and  education  as  a gentleman, 
and  his  brief  trial  of  the  life  of  a rural  squire,  im- 
mersed in  sports  and  pleasure,  furnished  materials 
for  a Squire  Western,  an  Allworthy,  and  other 
country  characters,  down  to  black  George  the  game- 
keeper; while,  as  a man  of  wit  and  fashion  on  the 
town,  and  a gay  dramatist,  he  must  have  known 
various  prototypes  of  Lord  Fellamar  and  his  other 
city  portraits.  The  profligacy  of  Lady  Bcllaston, 
and  tile  meanness  of  Tom  Jones  in  accepting  support 
from  such  a source,  are,  we  hope,  circumstances 
which  have  rarely  occurred  even  in  fashionable  life. 
The  tone  of  mor.ality  is  never  very  high  in  Field- 
ing, but  the  ca.se  we  have  cited  is  his  lowest  descent. 

Though  written  amidst  discouraging  circum 
stances  and  irksome  duties,  ‘Tom  Jones’ bears  no 
marks  of  haste.  The  author  committed  some  errors 
as  to  time  and  place,  but  his  fable  is  constructed 
with  historical  exactness  and  precision,  and  is  a 
finished  model  of  the  comic  romance.  ‘ Since  the 
days  of  Homer,’  says  Dr  Beattie,*  ‘ the  world  has 
not  seen  a more  artful  epic  fable.  The  characters 
and  adventures  are  wonderfully  diversified  ; yet  the 
circumstances  are  all  so  natural,  and  rise  so  easily 
from  one  another,  and  co-operate  with  so  much  re- 
gularity in  bringing,  or  even  while  they  seem  to  re- 
tard the  c.atastrophe,  that  the  curiosity  of  the  reader 
is  always  kept  awake,  and,  instead  of  flagging,  grows 
more  and  more  impatient  as  the  story  advances,  till 
at  last  it  becomes  downright  anxiety.  And  when 
we  get  to  the  end,  and  look  back  on  the  whole  con- 
trivance, we  are  amazed  to  find  that  of  so  many  in- 
cidents there  shonld  be  so  few  superfluous  ; that  in 
such  a variety  of  fiction  there  should  be  so  great  a 
probability,  and  that  so  complex  a tale  should  be  so 
perspicuously  conducted,  and  with  perfect  unity  of 
design.’  The  only  digression  from  the  main  story 
which  is  felt  to  be  tedious  is  the  episode  of  the  Man  of 
the  Hill.  In  ‘ Don  Qni.xote’  and  ‘ Gil  Bias’  we  are  re- 
conciled to  such  interpolations  by  the  air  of  romance 
which  pervades  the  whole,  and  which  seems  indige- 
nous to  the  soil  of  Spain.  In  Cervantes,  too,  these 
digressions  are  sometimes  highly  poetical  and  strik- 
ing tales.  But  in  the  plain  life-like  scenes  of  ‘ Tom 
Jones’ — English  life  in  the  eighteenth  century,  in  the 
county  of  Somerset — such  a tedious  ‘ hermit  of  the 
vale’  is  felt  to  be  an  unnatural  incumbrance.  Fkld- 
ing  had  little  of  the  poetic.al  or  imaginative  faculty. 
His  study  hay  in  real  life  and  everyd.ay  scenes,  which 
he  depicted  with  a truth  and  freshness,  a buoyancy 
and  vigour,  and  such  an  exuberance  of  practical 

* Byron  has  styled  Fielding  ‘ the  prose  Homer  of  human 
nature.’ 

163 


FUOM  1727 


cyclopaedia  of 


TO  1780.  ! 


kii()wU'(l}{Ci  easy  satire,  and  lively  faney,  that  in  his 
OH  M (lei)artrnent  he  stands  unrivalled.  Others  have 
had  holder  invention,  a higher  east  of  thought,  more 
poetical  imagery,  and  i)rofounder  passion  (for  Field- 
ing has  little  pathos  or  sentiment),  hut  in  the  perfect 
Tiatnre  of  his  eharaeders,  especially  in  low  life,  and 
in  th(“  j)erfeet  skill  with  which  he  comhined  and 
wrought  up  his  comic  powers,  seasoning  the  whole 
with  wit  and  wisdom,  tlie  ripened  fruit  of  genius  and 
long  experience,  this  great  English  author  is  still 
unapproached. 

A passage  from  Fielding  or  Smollett  can  convey 
no  more  idea  of  the  work  from  which  it  is  taken,  or 
the  manner  of  the  author,  than  a single  stone  or 
hriek  would  of  the  architecture  of  a house.  W'c  are 
tempted,  however,  to  extract  the  account  of  Par- 
tridge’s impressions  on  first  visiting  a playhouse, 
when  he  witnessed  the  rejjresentation  of  Hamlet. 
The  faithful  attendant  of  'I’om  .Jones  was  half- 
harher  and  lialf-schoohnaster,  shrewd,  yet  simple  as 

a eh '111. 

[Partridr/e  at  the  PlayhouseJ] 

In  the  first  row,  then,  of  the  first  gallery,  did  Mr 
Jones,  Mrs  Miller,  her  youngest  daughter,  and  P.ar- 
tridge,  take  their  i)laces.  Partridge  iininediately  de- 
clared it  was  the  finest  place  he  had  ever  been  in. 
When  the  first  music  was  played,  he  said,  ‘ It  was  a 
wonder  how  so  many  fiddlers  could  play  at  one  time 
without  putting  one  another  out.’  While  the  fellow 
was  lighting  the  upper  candles,  he  cried  out  to  Mrs 
Miller,  ‘ Look,  look,  madam,  the  very  picture  of  the 
man  in  the  end  of  the  common-prayer  book,  before 
the  gunpowder  treason  service.’  Nor  could  he  help 
observing,  with  a sigh,  when  all  the  candles  were 
lighted,  ‘ That  here  were  candles  enough  burnt  in  one 
night  to  keep  an  honest  poor  family  for  a whole 
twelvemonth.’ 

.As  soon  as  the  play,  which  was  Hamlet,  Prince  of 
Denmark,  began,  I’artridge  was  all  attention,  nor  did 
he  break  silence  till  the  entrance  of  the  ghost  ; upon 
which  he  asked  Jones,  ‘ What  man  that  was  in  the 
strange  dress ; something,’  said  he,  ‘ like  what  1 have 
seen  in  a picture.  Sure  it  is  not  armour,  is  it?’  .lones 
answered,  ‘ That  is  the  ghost.’  To  which  Partridge 
replied,  with  a smile,  ‘ Persuade  me  to  that,  sir,  if  you 
can.  Though  I can’t  say  I ever  actually  saw  a ghost 
in  my  life,  yet  I am  certain  I should  know  one  if  I 
saw  him  better  than  that  comes  to.  No,  no,  sir  ; 
ghosts  don’t  appear  in  such  dresses  as  that  neither.’ 
In  this  mistake,  winch  caused  much  laughter  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Partridge,  he  was  suftered  to  con- 
tinue till  the  scene  between  the  ghost  and  Hamlet, 
when  Partridge  gave  that  credit  to  Mr  Garrick  which 
he  had  denied  to  Jones,  and  fell  into  .so  violent  a 
trembling  that  his  knees  knocked  against  each  other. 
Jones  asked  him  what  was  the  matter,  and  whether 
lie  was  afraid  of  the  tvarrior  upon  the  stage  ? ‘ 0 la  ! 

sir,’  said  he,  ‘ I perceive  now  it  is  what  you  told  me. 
1 am  not  afraid  of  anything,  for  I know  it  is  but  a 
play  ; and  if  it  was  really  a ghost,  it  could  do  one 
no  h.arm  at  such  a distance,  and  in  so  much  company  ; 
and  yet  if  I was  frightened,  I am  not  the  only  person.’ 
‘ JJ'hy,  who,’  cries  Jones,  ‘ dost  thou  take  to  be  such  a 
coward  here  besides  thyself?’  ‘ Nay,  you  may  call  me 
coward  if  you  will ; but  if  th.at  little  man  there  upon 
the  stage  is  not  frightened,  I never  saw  any  man 
frightened  in  ray  life.  Ay,  ay ; go  along  with  you  ! 
Ay,  to  be  sure  ! Who’s  fool  then  ? Will  you  ? Lud 
have  mercy  upon  such  foolhardiness  1 Whatever 
happens  it  is  good  enough  for  you.  Follow  you  ! Pd 
follow  the  devil  as  soon.  Nay,  perhaps  it  is  the  devil 
■ — for  they  say  he  can  put  on  what  likeness  he  pleases. 
Oh!  here  he  is  again.  No  farther!  No,  you  have  gone 
far  enough  already ; farther  than  I’d  have  gone  for 


all  the  king’s  dominions.’  Jones  offered  to  speak, 
but  Partridge  cried,  ‘ Hush,  hush,  dear  sir,  don’t  you 
hear  him?’  And  during  the  whole  speech  of  the 
ghost,  he  sat  with  his  eyes  fixeil  partly  on  the  ghost, 
and  [lartly  on  Hamlet,  and  with  his  mouth  open  ; the 
same  ]>assions  which  succeeded  each  other  in  Hamlet 
succeeding  likewise  in  him. 

When  the  scene  was  over,  .Jones  said,  ‘ Why,  Par- 
tridge, you  exceed  my  expectations.  You  enjoy  the 
])lay  more  than  I conceived  possible.’  ‘ Nay,  sir,’ 
answered  Partridge,  ‘ if  you  are  not  afraid  of  the 
devil,  I can’t  help  it ; but,  to  be  sure,  it  is  natural  to 
be  surprised  at  such  things,  though  1 know  there  is 
nothing  in  them  : not  that  it  was  the  ghost  that  sur- 
prised me  neither ; for  1 should  have  known  that  to 
have  been  only  a man  in  a strange  dress ; but  when  I 
saw  the  little  man  so  frightened  himself,  it  was  that 
which  took  hold  of  me.’  ‘ And  dost  thou  imagine 
then.  Partridge,’  cries  Jones,  ‘ that  he  was  really 
frightened  ?’  ‘ Nay,  sir,’  said  Partridge,  ‘ did  not  you 

your.self  observe  afterwards,  when  he  found  it  was  his 
own  father’s  s])irit,  and  how  he  was  murdered  in  the 
garden,  how  his  fear  forsook  him  by  degrees,  'ind  he 
was  struck  dumb  with  sorrow,  as  it  were,  ju.st  .as  I 
should  have  been,  had  it  been  my  own  case.  But 
hush  ! 0 la ! what  noise  is  that?  There  he  is  again. 
Well,  to  be  certain,  though  I know  there  is  nothing 
at  all  in  it,  I am  glad  I am  not  down  yonder  where 
tho.se  men  are.’  'I  hen  turning  his  eyes  again  upon 
Hamlet,  ‘ Ay,  you  m.ay  draw  your  sword  ; what  signi- 
fies <a  sword  against  the  power  of  the  devil?’ 

During  the  second  act.  Partridge  made  very  few 
rem.arks.  He  greatly  admired  the  fineness  of  the 
drc.sses  ; nor  could  he  help  observing  upon  the  king’s 
counten.ance.  ‘IVell,’  said  he,  ‘ how  people  maybe 
deceived  by  faces?  Nulla  fidea  front i is,  I find,  a true 
.saying.  Who  would  think,  by  looking  in  the  king’s 
face,  that  he  h.ad  ever  committed  a murder?’  He 
then  inquired  after  the  ghost ; but  Jones,  who  intended 
he  should  be  surprised,  gave  him  no  other  satisf.iction 
than  ‘ that  he  might  possibly  .see  him  again  soon,  and 
in  a ffash  of  fire.’ 

Partridge  sat  in  fearful  expectation  of  this;  and 
now,  when  the  ghost  made  his  next  appearance.  Par- 
tridge cried  out,  ‘ There,  sir,  now  ; what  .say  you  now? 
is  he  frightened  now  or  no?  As  much  frightened  as 
you  think  me,  and,  to  be  sure,  nobody  can  helj)  some 
fears,  I would  not  be  in  so  bad  a condition  a.s — what’s 
his  name  ? — Squire  Hamlet  is  there,  for  all  the  world. 
Bless  me!  what’s  become  of  the  spirit?  As  1 am  a 
living  soul,  1 thought  I saw  him  sink  into  the  earth.’ 

‘ Indeed  you  saw  right,’  answered  Jones.  ‘ IVell, 
well,’  cries  Partridge,  ‘ I know  it  is  only  a play  ; and 
bcside.s,  if  there  was  anything  in  all  this,  Aladam 
Miller  would  not  laugh  so;  for  as  to  you,  sir,  you 
would  not  be  afraid,  I believe,  if  the  devil  was  here 
in  person.  There,  there  ; ay,  no  wonder  you  are  in 
such  a passion  ; shake  the  vile  wicked  wretch  to  jiieces. 

If  she  was  my  own  mother  I should  serve  her  so.  To 
be  sure  all  duty  to  a mother  is  forfeited  by  such 
wicked  doings.  Ay,  go  about  your  business ; I hate 
the  sight  of  you.’ 

Our  critic  was  now  pretty  silent  till  the  play  which 
Hamlet  introduces  before  the  king.  This  he  did  not 
at  first  understand,  till  Jones  exjdained  it  to  him  ; 
but  he  no  sooner  entered  into  the  spirit  of  it,  than  he 
began  to  bless  himself  that  he  had  never  committed 
murder.  Then  turning  to  Mrs  Miller,  he  asked  her  | 
‘ If  she  did  not  imagine  the  king  looked  as  if  he  was  j 
touched  ; though  he  is,’  said  he,  ‘ a good  actor,  and 
doth  all  he  can  to  hide  it.  AVell,  I would  not  have 
so  much  to  answer  for  as  that  wicked  man  there  hath, 
to  sit  upon  a much  higher  chair  than  he  sits  u]ion. 

No  wonder  he  run  away  ; for  your  sake  I’ll  never  trust 
an  innocent  face  again.’ 

The  grave-digging  scene  next  engaged  the  atten 

1()4 


KOVKLISTS. 


TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT. 


ENGIJSII  LITERATURE. 


tion  of  I’artridpe,  who  expressed  much  surprise  at  tlie 
number  of  skulls  thrown  upon  the  stage.  To  which 
Jones  answered,  ‘That  it  was  one  of  the  most  famous 
burial-places  about  town.’  ‘ No  wonder,  then,’  cries 
I’artridge,  ‘that  the  place  is  haunted.  Rut  I never 
saw  in  my  life  a worse  grave-digger.  I had  a sexton 
when  I was  clerk  that  should  have  dug  three  graves 
while  he  is  digging  one.  The  fellow  handles  a spade 
as  if  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  had  one  in  his 
hand.  Ay,  ay,  you  may  sing.  You  had  rather  sing 
than  work.  1 believe.’  Upon  Hamlet’s  taking  up  the 
skull,  he  cried  out,  ‘ Well ! it  is  strange  to  see  how 
fearless  some  men  are  : I never  could  bring  my.self  to 
touch  anything  belonging  to  a dead  man  on  any  ac- 
count. He  seemed  frightened  enough  too  at  the  ghost, 
1 thought.  Nemo  omnibus  horis  sajiit.’ 

Little  more  worth  remembering  occurred  during 
the  play ; at  the  end  of  which  Jones  asked  him 
‘ Which  of  the  jilayers  ho  had  liked  best  V To  this 
he  answered,  with  some  appearance  of  indignation  at 
the  question,  ‘ The  king,  without  doubt.’  ‘ Indeed, 
hlr  Partridge,’  s.ays  Mrs  Miller  ; ‘you  are  not  of  the 
same  opinion  with  the  town  ; for  they  are  all  agreed 
that  Hamlet  is  acted  by  the  best  player  who  ever  was 
on  the  stage.’  ‘ He  the  best  player  1’  cries  Partridge, 
with  a contemptuous  sneer  ; ‘ Why,  I could  act  as 
well  as  he  myself.  I am  sure  if  I had  seen  a ghost,  I 
should  have  looked  in  the  very  same  manner,  and 
done  just  as  he  did.  And  then,  to  be  sure,  in  that 
Scene,  as  you  called  it,  between  him  and  his  mother, 
.vnere  vou  to'd  me  he  acted  so  fine,  wdiy.  Lord  help 
me,  any  man,  that  is  any  good  man,  that  had  such  a 
mother,  would  have  done  exactly  the  same.  I know 
you  are  only  joking  with  me ; hut,  indeed,  madam, 
though  I was  never  at  a play  in  London,  yet  I 
have  seen  acting  before  in  the  country;  and  the  king 
for  ray  money ; he  speaks  all  his  words  distinctly, 
half  as  loud  again  as  the  other.  Anybody  may  see 
he  is  an  actor.’ 

While  Mrs  Miller  was  thus  engaged  in  conversa- 
tion with  Partridge,  a lady  came  up  to  Mr  Jones, 
whom  he  immediately  knew  to  be  Mrs  Fitzpatrick. 
She  said  she  had  seen  him  from  the  other  part  of  the 
gallery,  and  had  taken  that  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  him,  as  she  had  something  to  say  which  might  be 
of  great  service  to  himself.  She  then  acquainted  him 
with  her  lodgings,  and  made  him  an  appointment  the 
next  day  in  the  morning ; which,  upon  recollection, 
she  presently  changed  to  the  afternoon  ; at  which  time 
Jones  piomised  to  attend  her. 

Thus  ended  the  adventure  at  the  playhouse,  where 
Partridge  had  afforded  great  mirth,  not  only  to  Jones 
and  Mrs  Miller,  but  to  all  who  sat  within  hearing, 
who  were  more  attentive  to  what  he  said  than  to  any- 
thing that  pas.sed  on  the  stage.  He  durst  not  go  to  bed 
all  that  night  for  fear  of  the  ghost ; and  for  many  nights 
after  sweated  tw'o  or  three  hours  before  he  went  to 
sleep  with  the  same  apprehensions,  and  waked  several 
times  in  great  horrors,  crying  out,  ‘ Lord  have  mercy 
upon  us  ! there  it  is.’ 

I TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT. 

Six  j^ears  after  the  publication  of  ‘Joseph  An- 
drews,’ and  before  • Tom  Jones  ’ had  been  produced, 
a third  novelist  had  taken  the  field,  different  in 
many  respects  from  either  Richardson  or  Fielding, 
but  like  them  devoted  to  that  class  of  fictitious  com- 
position founded  on  truth  and  nature.  We  have 
previously  noticed  the  circumstances  of  Smollett’s 
life.  A young  unfriended  Scotsman,  he  went  to 
London  eager  for  distinction  as  a dramatic  writer. 
In  this  his  failure  was  more  signal  than  the  want  of 
I success  which  had  attended  Fielding’s  theatrical 
' productions.  Smollett,  however,  was  of  a dauntless 
I 'utrepid  spirit,  and  when  he  again  resumed  his  pen. 


his  efforts  were  crowned  with  the  most  gratifying 
success.  He  had  adopted  Le  Sage  as  his  model,  but 
his  characters,  his  scenes,  his  opinions,  and  jireju- 
dices,  were  all  decidedly  Britisli.  The  novels  of 
Smollett  w'ere  produced  in  the  following  order: — 
1748,  Roderick  Random;  17.51,  Perenrinp  Richie; 
1754,  Ferdinand  Count  Fal/wm  ; 1762,  Sir  Lauticelot 
Greaves;  1771,  The  Eapeditiun  of  Uvmphnj  Clinker. 
F'rom  the  date  of  his  first  to  that  of  his  latest  pro- 
duction, Smollett  had  ini[)roved  in  taste  and  judg- 
ment, but  his  powers  of  invention,  his  native  humour, 


Tobia.s  George  Smollett. 


and  his  knowledge  of  life  and  character,  are  as  con 
spicuous  in  ‘ Roderick  Random’  as  in  any  of  his 
works.  His  'Tom  Bowling  is  his  most  perfect  sea 
character,  though  in  ‘Peregrine  Pickle’  he  has  pre- 
served the  same  general  features,  with  additional 
colouring,  and  .a  greater  variety  of  ludicrous  inci- 
dents. 'The  adventures  of  Roderick  are  such  as 
might  naturally  have  occurred  to  .any  young  Scots- 
man of  the  day  in  quest  of  fortune.  Scene  follow  a 
scene  with  astonishing  rapidity  : at  one  time  his 
hero  basks  in  prosperity,  in  another  he  is  plunged 
in  utter  destitution.  lie  is  led  into  different  coun- 
tries, whose  national  peculiarities  are  described, 
and  into  society  of  various  descriptions,  with  w'its. 
sharpers,  courtiers,  courtesans,  and  men  of  all  grades. 
In  this  tour  of  the  w'orld  and  of  human  life,  the 
reader  is  amazed  at  the  careless  profusion,  the  in- 
exhaustible humour,  of  an  author  w'ho  pours  out  his 
materials  with  such  prodigality  and  facility.  The 
patient  skill  and  taste  ofF’ielding  are  nowhere  found 
in  Smollett ; there  is  no  elaboration  of  character ; no 
careful  preparation  of  incidents  ; no  unity  of  design. 
Roderick  Random  is  hurried  on  without  any  fixed 
or  definite  purpose ; he  is  the  child  of  impulse ; and 
though  there  is  a dash  of  generosity  and  good  humour 
in  his  character,  he  is  equall}'  conspicuous  for  reck- 
less libertinism  and  mischief — more  prone  to  selfish- 
ness and  revenge  than  to  friendship  or  gratitude. 
'There  is  an  inherent  and  radical  meanness  in  his 
conduct  towards  his  humble  friend  Strap,  with  whom 
he  begins  life,  and  to  whom  he  is  so  much  indebted 
both  in  purse  and  person.  'Tom  Jones  is  always 
kind  and  liberal  to  his  attendant  Partridge,  but  Strap 
is  bullied  and  fleeced  by  Roderick  Random  ; dia^ 

165 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPiEPIA  OF 


TO  17SD 


owMc<l  or  (k-spiscd  as  suits  the  interest  or  passion  of 
tile  nioincot ; and  at  last,  coiitrarv  to  all  notions  of 
Scotcli  spirit  and  morality,  Ids  faithful  services  and 
uiiswervinfj  attachment  are  rewarded  by  his  rcceiv- 
iiifr  and  aceeptiiif;  the  hand  of  a prostitute,  and  an 
eleemosynary  jirovision  less  than  the  sacrifices  he 
had  made,  or  what  a careful  Scot  miyht  attain  to 
hy  honest  independent  exertion.  The  imperfect 
moral  sense  thus  manifested  hy  Smollett  is  also 
evinced  hy  the  coarse  and  licentious  passages  which 
disfigure  the  novel.  Making  all  allowance  for  the 
manners  of  the  times,  this  grossness  is  indefensible; 
and  we  must  regret  that  our  author  had  not  a higher 
and  more  sentimental  estimate  of  the  female  cha- 
racter. In  this  he  was  inferior  to  Kichardson,  who 
studied  and  reverenced  the  purity  of  the  female 
heart,  and  to  Fielding,  whose  taste  and  early  position 
in  society  preserved  him  from  some  of  the  grosser 
faults  of  his  rival  novelist.  The  charm  of  ‘ Iloderick 
Random,’  then,  consists  not  in  plot  or  well- sustained 
characters  (aihnirahle  as  is  the  sketch  of  Tom  Bowl- 
ing), but  in  its  broad  humour  and  comic  incidents, 
which,  even  when  most  farcical,  seldom  appear  im- 
prohahle,  and  are  never  tiresome. 

‘ I’eregrine  Tickle’  is  formed  of  the  same  materials, 
c.ast  in  a larger  mould.  The  hero  is  equally  unscru- 
j inilous  with  Roderick  Random — perhaps  more  deli- 
I I'crately  profligate  (as  in  the  attempted  seduction  of 
Amanda,  and  in  his  treatment  of  Emilia),  but  the 
comic  powers  of  the  author  are  more  widely  and 
variously  displayed.  They  seem  like  clouds 

For  ever  flushing  round  a summer  sky. 

All  is  change,  brilliancy,  heaped-up  plenty,  and  un- 
limited power — the  ricdi  coin  and  mintage  of  genius. 
The  want  of  decent  drapery  is  unfortunately  too  ap- 
parent. Smollett  never  had  much  regard  for  the 
proprieties  of  life — those  ‘minor  morals,’  as  Goldsmith 
lias  happily  termed  them — but  where  shall  we  find 
a more  attractive  gallery  of  jiortraits,  or  a series  of 
more  laughable  incidents?  Prominent  in  the  group 
is  the  one-eyed  naval  veteran  Commodore  Trunnion, 
a humourist  in  Smollett's  happiest  manner.  Ilis 
keeping  garrison  in  his  house  as  on  board  ship,  mak- 
ing his  servants  sleej)  in  hammocks  and  turn  out  to 
watch,  is  a characteristic  though  overcharged  trait 
of  the  old  naval  commander.  The  circumstances 
I of  his  marriage,  when  he  proceeded  to  church  on  a 
hunter,  which  he  steered  according  to  the  compass, 
instead  of  keeping  the  road,  and  his  detention  while 
he  tacked  about  rather  than  go  ‘ right  in  the  wind’s 
eye,’  are  equally  ludicrous.  Lieutcuant  Hatchway, 
and  Pipes  the  boatswain,  .are  foils  to  the  eccentric 
commodore;  but  the  taciturnity  of  Pipes,  and  his 
ingenuity  in  the  affair  of  the  love-letter,  .are  good 
distinctive  features  of  his  own.  The  humours  of 
the  poet,  painter,  and  physiiaan,  when  Pickle  pur- 
sues his  mischievous  frolics  and  gallantries  in  i'rance, 
are  also  admirable  specimens  of  laughable  carica- 
ture. In  London,  the  adventures  are  not  so  amus- 
ing. I’eregri lie  richly  merited  his  confinement  in 
the  Fleet  by  his  brutal  conduct,  while  Cadwallader, 
the  misanthrope,  is  more  tedious  than  Fielding’s 
' Jlan  of  the  Hill.  The  Memoirs  of  a Lady  of  Qna- 
I lity  (though  a true  tale,  for  inserting  which  Smollett 

was  bribed  by  a sum  of  money)  are  disgraceful 
without  being  interesting.  On  the  whole,  the  vices 
I and  virtues  of  Smollett’s  style  are  equally  seen  in 
‘I’eregrine  Piedde,’  and  seen  in  full  perspective. 

I Ferdinand  Count  Fathom  is  more  of  a romance, 
with  little  of  national  character  or  manners.  The 
portra.ture  of  a complete  villain,  proceeding  step 
by  step  to  rob  his  benefactors  and  pillage  mankind, 
cannot  be  considcrcrl  instructive  or  entertaining. 
The  first  atrocities  of  I'crdiuaud,  and  his  intrigue 


with  his  female  associate  Teresa,  are  coarse  and  j 
disgusting.  When  he  extends  his  operations,  and  j 
flies  at  higher  game,  the  chase  becomes  more  ani-  | 
mated.  His  adventures  at  gambling  tables  and 
hotels,  .and  his  exi)loits  as  a pliysician,  afford  scope 
for  the  author’s  satirical  genius.  But  the  most  | 
powerful  passages  in  the  novel  are  those  which  re-  | 
count  Ferdinand’s  seduction  of  Celinda,  the  story 
of  Monimia,  and  the  descrijjtion  of  the  tempest  in  | 
the  forest,  from  which  he  took  shelter  in  a rob- 
ber’s hut.  In  this  lonely  dwelling,  the  gang  being  | 
absent.  Fathom  was  relieved  by  a withered  beldame,  j 
who  conveyed  him  to  a rude  aj)artment  to  sleep 
in.  Here  he  found  the  dead  body  of  a man,  still 
warm,  who  had  been  lately  stabbed  and  concealed  , 
beneath  some  straw,  and  the  account  of  his  sensa- 
tions during  the  night,  the  horrid  device  by  which 
he  saved  his  life  (lifting  up  the  dead  body,  and 
putting  it  in  his  own  place  in  the  bed),  and  his 
escape,  guided  by  the  old  hag  whom  he  comiielled 
to  accompany  him  through  tlie  forest,  arc  related 
with  the  intensity  and  power  of  a tragic  poet.  There  i 
is  a vein  of  poetical  imagination,  also,  in  the  means 
by  which  Fathom  accomplishes  the  ruin  of  Celinda,  I 
working  on  her  superstitious  fears  and  timidity 
by  placing  an  Haolian  harp,  then  .almost  an  unknown  | 
instrument,  in  the  casement  of  a window  adjoining  j 
her  bedroom.  ‘ The  strings,’  says  Smollett,  with 
poetical  inflation,  ‘no  sooner  felt  the  impression  of  | 
the  balmy  zephyr,  than  they  began  to  pour  forth  a i 
stream  of  melody  more  ravishingly  delightful  than  | : 
the  song  of  Philomel,  the  warbling  brook,  and  all  ■ 
the  concert  of  the  wood.  The  soft  and  tender  notes  ; ; 
of  peace  and  love  were  swelled  up  with  the  most  I j 
delicate  and  insensible  transition  into  a loud  hymn 
of  triumidi  and  exultation,  joined  by  the  deep-toned  j 
organ,  and  a full  choir  of  voices,  which  gradually 
decayed  upon  the  ear,  until  it  died  away  ir.  distant 
sound,  as  if  a flight  of  angels  had  raised  the  song 
in  their  ascent  to  heaven.’  The  remorse  of  Celinda 
is  depicted  with  equ.al  tenderness.  ‘ The  seeds  of  ! 
virtue,’  remarks  the  novelist,  ‘ are  seldom  destroyed  I 
at  once.  Even  amidst  the  rank  productions  of  vice,  : 
they  re-germinate  to  a sort  of  imperfeet  veget.ation,  > 
like  some  scattered  hyacinths  shooting  up  among  ' 

the  weeds  of  a ruined  garden,  that  testify  the  for-  i 

mer  culture  and  amenity  of  the  soil.’  In  descrip- 
tions of  this  kind,  Smollett  evinces  a grace  and  ' 

pathos  which  I’iclding  did  not  possess.  We  trace  1 1 

the  mind  of  the  poet  in  such  conceptions,  and  in  ^ ^ 
the  language  in  which  they  are  expressed.  Few  \ ( 
readers  of  ‘Peregrine  Pickle’  can  forget  the  allu-  I; 
sion,  so  beautiful  and  pathetic,  to  the  Scottish  i I 
Jacobites  at  Boulogne,  ‘ exiled  from  their  native  1 1 
homes  in  consequence  of  their  adherence  to  an  un-  1 1 
fortunate  and  ruined  eause,’  who  went  daily  to  the  i 
sea-side  in  order  to  indulge  their  longing  eyes  with  i ■ 
a prospect  of  the  white  cliffs  of  Albion,  which  they  1 j 
could  never  more  approach.  I ■ 

Sir  Launcelot  Greaves  is  a sort  of  travesty  of  I 
Don  Quixote,  in  which  the  absurdity  of  the  idea  is  1 1 
relieved  hy  the  humour  of  some  of  the  cbar,acters  1 1 
and  conversations.  Butler’s  Presbyteri.an  Knight  j | 
going  ‘ ,a- coloneJIiug  ’ as  a redresser  of  wrongs  in  j 
merry  England,  is  ridiculous  enough  ; but  the  chi 
valry  of  Sir  Launcelot  and  his  attendant.  Captain  , 
Crowe,  outrages  all  sense  and  probability.  Seeing  j 
that  his  strength  hay  in  humorous  exaggeration, 
Smollett  sought  for  scenes  of  bro.ad  mirth.  He  fails  ] 
as  often  as  he  succeeds  in  this  work,  and  an  author 
of  such  strong  original  powers  slundd  have  been  | 
above  playing  Pantaloon  even  to  Cerv.antes.  ' 

Humphry  Clinker  is  the  most  easy,  natural,  and  j 
delightful  of  all  the  novels  of  Smoih;tt.  His  love  , 
of  boyish  mischief,  tricks,  and  frolics,  had  not  whollv 

16t: 


ENCJLISII  Ll  l 


imnioil  out,  for  we  have  several  sucli  undignified 
pranks  in  this  work;  but  tlie  narrative  is  replete 
vitli  grave,  eanstiiv,  and  humorous  observation,  and 
possesses  throughout  a tone  of  manly  feeling  and 
iK-nevolence,  and  fine  discrimination  of  character. 
Matthew  Uramble  is  Roderick  Random  grown  old, 
somawliat  cynical  by  experience  of  the  world,  but 
vastly  improved  in  taste.  Smollett  may  have  caught 
the  idea,  as  he  took  some  of  the  incidents  of  the 
family  tour,  from  ‘ Anstey’s  New  Bath  Guide;’  but 
the  staple  of  the  work  is  emphaticiilly  his  own.  In 
the  light  sketching  of  scenery,  the  quick  succession 
of  incidents,  the  romance  of  Lismahago’s  adventures 
among  the  American  Indians,  and  the  humour  of 
the  serving-men  and  maids,  he  seems  to  come  into 
closer  comj>etition  with  Le  Sage  or  Cervantes  than 
in  any  of  his  other  works.  The  conversion  of 
Humphry  may  have  been  suggested  by  Anstey,  but 
the  bad  spelling  of  Tabitha  and  Mrs  Winifred  Jen- 
kins is  an  original  device  of  Smollett,  which  aids 


Smollett's  House,  Chelsea. 


in  the  subordinate  effects  of  the  domestic  drama. 
Lismahago’s  love  of  disputation,  his  jealous  sense 
of  honour,  and  his  national  pride — characteristics 
of  a poor  Scottish  officer,  whose  wealth  and  dignity 
lay  in  his  sword — seem  also  purely  original,  and 
are  highly  diverting.  The  old  lieutenant,  as  Mat- 
I thew  Bramble  says,  is  like  a crab-apple  in  a hedge, 
which  we  are  tempted  to  eat  for  its  flavour,  even 
while  repelled  by  its  austerity.  The  descriptions 
of  rural  scenery,  society,  and  manners  in  England 
and  Scotland,  given  under  different  aspects  by  the 
different  letter-writers,  are  clear  and  sparkling — 
full  of  fancy  and  sound  sense.  Of  the  episodical 
part,  the  storj'  of  Mr  Baynard  and  his  vain  and 
stately  wife  seems  painfully  true;  and  the  incident 
witnessed  in  a small  town  near  Lanark,  where  a 
successful  soldier  returns,  after  an  absence  of  eigh- 
teen years,  and  finds  his  father  at  work  paving  the 
street,  can  hardly  be  read  without  tears.  This 
affecting  story  is  subjoined. 

[Scene  at  Lanark. 

We  set  out  from  Glasgow,  by  the  way  of  Lanark,  the 
county  town  of  Clydesdale,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
which  tlie  whole  river  Clyde,  rushing  down  a steep 


TERATURF..  touias  geouge  smom.ett. 


rock,  forms  a very  noble  and  stupendous  cascade. 
Next  (lay  we  were  obliged  to  halt  in  a small  borough, 
until  the  carriage,  which  liad  received  some  damage, 
should  be  repaired  ; and  here  we  met  with  ai>  inci- 
dent wliich  warmly  interested  the  benevolent  s|iirit 
of  Mr  Bramble.  As  we  stood  at  the  window  of  an 
inn  th.at  fronted  the  public  prison,  a person  arrived  on 
horseback,  genteely  though  plainly  dressed  in  a blue 
frock,  with  his  own  hair  cut  short,  and  a gold-laced 
hat  upon  his  head.  Alighting,  and  giving  his  horse 
to  tlie  landlord,  he  advanced  to  an  old  man  who  was 
at  work  in  paving  the  street,  and  accosted  him  in  these 
words — ‘This  is  hard  work  for  such  an  old  man  as 
you.’  So  saying,  he  took  the  instrument  out  of  liis 
liand,  and  began  to  thump  the  pavement.  After  a 
few  strokes,  ‘ Have  you  never  a son,’  said  he,  ‘ to  case 
you  of  this  labour*’  ‘Yes,  an’  please  your  honour,’ 
replied  the  senior,  ‘ I have  three  hopeful  lads,  but  at 
pre.sent  they  are  out  of  the  way.’  ‘ Honour  not  me,’ 
cried  the  stranger  ; ‘ it  more  becomes  me  to  honour 
your  gray  hairs.  Where  are  those  sons  you  talk  of  ?’ 
The  ancient  paviour  said,  his  eldest  son  was  a cap- 
tian  in  the  East  Indies,  and  the  youngest  had  lately 
enlisted  as  a soldier,  in  hopes  of  prospering  like  his 
brother.  The  gentleman  desiring  to  know  what  was 
become  of  the  second,  he  wiped  his  eyes,  and  owned 
he  had  taken  upon  him  his  old  father’s  debts,  for 
which  he  was  now  in  the  prison  hard  by. 

The  traveller  made  three  quick  steps  towards  the 
jail  ; then  turning  short,  ‘ Tell  me,’  said  he,  ‘ has 
that  unnatural  captain  sent  you  nothing  to  relieve 
your  distresses  ?’  ‘ Call  him  not  unnatural,’  replied  the 
other,  ‘ God’s  blessing  be  upon  him  ! he  sent  me  a 
great  deal  of  money,  but  I made  a bad  use  of  it  ; I 
lost  it  by  being  security  for  a gentleman  that  was  my 
landlord,  and  was  stripped  of  all  I had  in  the  world  be- 
sides.’ At  that  instant  a young  man,  thrusting  out 
his  head  and  neck  between  two  iron  bars  in  the  prison- 
window,  exclaimed,  ‘Father!  father!  if  my  brother 
William  is  in  life,  that’s  he.’  ‘ I am ! I am !’  cried 
the  stranger,  olasping  the  old  man  in  his  arms,  and 
shedding  a flood  of  tears,  ‘ I am  your  son  Willy,  sure 
enough  !’  Before  the  fatlier,  who  was  quite  confounded, 
could  make  any  return  to  this  tenderness,  a decent 
old  woman,  bolting  out  from  the  door  of  a poor  habi- 
tation, cried,  ‘ ^Vhere  is  my  bairn  ? where  is  my  dear 
Willy  ?’  The  captain  no  sooner  beheld  her  than  he 
quitted  his  father,  and  ran  into  her  embrace. 

I can  assure  you,  my  uncle  who  saw  and  heard 
everything  that  passed,  was  as  much  moved  as  any 
one  of  the  parties  concerned  in  this  pathetic  recogni- 
tion. He  sobbed,  and  wept,  and  clapp>  d his  hands, 
and  hollowed,  and  finally  ran  down  into  the  street. 
By  this  time  the  captain  had  retired  with  his  parents, 
and  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  place  were  assem- 
bled at  the  door.  Mr  Bramble,  nevertheless,  pressed 
through  the  crowd,  and  entering  the  house,  ‘Captain,’ 
said  he,  ‘ I beg  the  favour  of  your  acquaintance.  1 
would  have  travelled  a hundred  miles  to  see  this  af- 
fecting scene  ; and  I shall  think  myself  happy  if  you 
and  your  parents  will  dine  with  me  at  the  public 
house.’  The  captain  thanked  him  for  his  kiml  invi- 
tation, which,  he  said,  he  would  accept  with  pleasure  ; 
but  in  the  meantime  he  could  not  think  of  eating  or 
drinking  while  his  poor  brother  was  in  trouble.  He 
forthwith  deposited  a sum  equal  to  the  debt  in  tlie 
hands  of  the  magistrate,  who  ventured  to  set  his  bro 
ther  at  liberty  without  further  proce.ss ; and  then  the 
whole  family  repaired  to  the  inn  with  mj'  uncle, 
attended  by  the  crowd,  the  individuals  of  which 
shook  their  townsman  b3'  the  hand,  while  he  re- 
turned their  carcs.ses  without  the  lea.it  sign  of  j.ride  oi 
affectation. 

Tliis  honest  favourite  of  fortune,  whose  name  na.- 
Brown,  told  my  uncle  that  he  had  been  lued  a wea- 
ver, and  about  eighteen  years  ago  had,  from  a spirii 

167 


FROM  )7-’7  (;YCIX)1M‘:I)IA  OF  toUHO. 

of  iillcijL'.ss  iuiil  ili.ssi)iaUoii,  enlisted  as  a soldier  in  the 
service  of  the  Hast  India  Company  ; that  in  the  course 
of  duty  he  Iiad  the  good  fortune  to  attract  the  notice 
and  approbation  of  l<ord  Clive,  wlio  preferred  liim 
from  one  step  to  anotlier  till  he  had  attained  tlie  rank 
of  captain  and  paymaster  to  the  regiment,  in  vvliich 
capacities  lie  had  lionestly  amassed  above  twelve 
thousand  pounds,  and  at  the  peace  resigned  his  com- 
mission. lie  had  sent  several  remittances  to  his 
father,  who  received  the  first  only,  consisting  of  one 
hundred  pounds  ; the  second  had  fallen  into  tlio 
hands  of  a bankrupt;  and  the  third  had  been  con- 
signed to  a gentleman  in  Scotland,  who  died  before 
it  arrived,  so  that  it  still  remained  to  be  accounted 
for  by  his  e.xccutors.  He  now  iiresentcd  the  old  man 
with  fifty  ]iounds  for  his  i>resent  occasions,  over  and 
above  bank  notes  for  one  hundred,  which  he  had  depo- 
sited for  his  brother’s  release.  He  brought  along  with 
him  a ileed,  ready  executed,  by  which  he  settled  a 
perpetuity  of  fourscore  pounds  upon  his  parents,  to 
be  inherited  by  the  other  two  sons  after  their  decease. 
He  ]iromised  to  jiurchase  a commission  for  his  youngest 
brother ; to  take  the  other  as  his  own  ])artner  in  a 
niiinufacture  which  he  intends  to  set  uii  to  give  em- 
ployment and  bread  to  the  industrious  ; and  to  give 
file  hundred  pounds,  by  way  of  dower  to  his  sister, 
who  had  married  a farmer  in  low  circumstances, 
finally,  he  gave  fifty  pounds  to  the  poor  of  the  town 
where  he  wiis  born,  and  feasted  all  the  inhabitants 
without  e.xception. 

My  uncle  was  .so  charmed  with  the  character  of 
Captain  Hrown,  that  he  drank  his  health  three  times 
successively  at  dinner.  He  said  he  was  jiruud  of  his 
acquaintance;  that  he  was  an  honour  to  his  country, 
and  had  in  some  measure  redeemed  human  nature 
from  the  reproach  of  [iride,  selfishness,  and  ingratitude. 
For  my  part  1 was  as  much  pleaseil  with  the  modesty 
as  with  the  filial  virtue  of  this  honest  soldier,  who 
assumed  no  merit  from  his  success,  and  said  very 
little  of  his  own  tran.saction.s,  though  the  answers  he 
made  to  our  inquiries  were  equally  sensible  and  laco- 
nic. Mrs  Tabitha  behaved  very  graciously  to  him, 
until  she  understood  that  he  was  going  to  make  a ten- 
der of  his  hand  to  a person  of  low  estate,  who  had 
been  his  sweetheart  while  he  worked  as  a journeyman 
weaver.  Our  aunt  was  no  sooner  made  acquainted 
with  this  design,  than  she  starched  up  her  beh.aviour 
with  a double  portion  of  reserve ; and  wl’.en  the  com- 
pany broke  up,  she  observed,  with  a toss  of  her  nose, 
that  Brown  was  a civil  fellow  enough,  considering  the 
lowness  of  his  origin  ; but  that  fortune,  though  she 
had  mended  his  circumstances,  was  incapable  to  raise 
his  ideas,  which  were  still  humble  and  plebeian.’*’ 

[Feast  ill  the  Manner  of  the  Anclents.'\ 

[From  ‘ Peregrine  Pickle.’] 

Our  young  gentleman,  by  his  insinuating  behaviour, 
acquired  the  full  confidence  of  the  doctor,  who  invited 
him  to  an  entertainment,  which  he  intended  to  j)re- 
pare  in  the  manner  of  the  ancients.  Pickle,  struck 
with  this  idea,  eagerly  embraced  the  propo.sal,  which 
he  honoured  with  many  encomiums,  as  a plan  in  all 
respects  worthy  of  his  genius  and  apprehension  ; and 
the  day  was  appointed  at  some  distance  of  time,  that 
the  treater  might  have  leisure  to  compose  certain 
pickles  and  confections,  which  were  not  to  be  found 
among  the  culinary  preparations  of  these  degenerate 
days. 

With  a view  of  rendering  the  physician’s  taste 
more  conspicuous,  and  extracting  from  it  the  more 
diversion.  Peregrine  propo.sed  that  .some  foreigners 
should  partake  of  the  banquet;  and  the  task  being 

* This  is  a true  story,  the  only  alteration  being  in  the  name 
'f  the  iiero,  which,  in  reality,  w:is  White.— ,Er>. 

1 ^ 

left  to  his  care  and  discretion,  he  actually  bespoke 
the  comiiany  of  a French  marijuis,  an  Italian  count, 
and  a Herman  baron,  whom  he  knew  to  be  egregious 
coxcombs,  and  therefore  more  likely  to  enhance  the 
joy  of  the  entertainment. 

Accordingly,  the  hour  being  arrived,  he  conducted 
them  to  the  hotel  where  the  i>hysician  lodged,  after 
having  regaled  their  expectations  with  an  elegant 
meal  in  the  genuine  old  Homan  taste ; and  they  were 
received  by  Mr  Pallet,  who  did  the  honours  of  the 
house  while  his  friend  superintemlcd  the  cook  below. 
By  this  communicative  painter,  the  guests  under.-tood 
that  the  doctor  had  met  with  numerous  difficultie.s 
in  the  execution  of  his  design  ; that  no  fewer  than 
five  cooks  had  been  dismissed,  becau.se  they  could  not 
jirev.ail  upon  their  own  consciences  to  obey  his  direc- 
tions in  things  that  were  contrary  to  the  jucsent 
I>ractice  of  their  art ; and  that,  although  he  had  at 
last  engageil  a person,  by  an  extraordinary  iiremlum, 
to  coinjily  with  his  orders,  the  fellow  Wius  so  astonished, 
mortified,  and  incen.sed  at  the  commands  he  had 
received,  that  his  hair  stood  on  end,  and  he  begged 
on  his  knees  to  be  released  from  the  agreement  he 
had  made;  but  finding  that  his  emjiloyer  insisted 
upon  the  performance  of  his  contract,  and  threatened 
to  introduce  him  to  the  commissaire  if  he  .shoiild 
Hindi  from  the  bargain,  he  had,  in  the  discharge  of 
his  otfico,  wept,  sung,  cursed,  and  capered,  for  two 
whole  hours  without  intermission. 

tt'hile  the  company  listened  to  this  odd  informa- 
tion, by  which  they  were  prepossessed  with  strange 
notions  of  the  dinner,  their  ears  were  invaded  by  a 
piteous  voice,  that  exclaimed  in  French,  ‘ For  the  love 
of  Hod  ! dear  sir,  for  the  sake  of  all  the  .saints,  .spare 
me  the  mortification  of  the  honey  and  oil!’  Their 
ears  still  vibrated  with  the  sound,  when  the  doctor 
entering,  was  by  Peregrine  made  acquainted  with  the 
strangers,  to  w’hom  he,  in  the  transports  of  his  wrath, 
could  not  help  complaining  of  the  want  of  complai- 
sance he  had  found  in  the  Parisian  vulgar,  by  which 
his  phan  had  been  almost  entirely  ruined  and  .set  aside. 
'J'he  FTench  marquis,  who  thought  the  honour  of  his 
nation  was  concerned  at  this  declaration,  jirofessed  his 
sorrow  for  what  had  happened,  so  contrary  to  the  esta- 
blished character  of  the  peojile,  and  undertook  to  see 
the  delinquents  severely  ]iunished,  provided  he  could 
be  informed  of  their  names  or  ])laces  of  abode.  The 
mutual  compliments  that  [>assed  on  this  occasion  were 
scarce  finishe<l,  when  a .servant,  coming  into  the  room, 
announced  dinner;  and  the  entertainer  led  the  way  into 
another  apartment,  where  they  found  a long  table,  or 
rather  two  boards  joined  together,  and  furnished  with 
a variety  of  dishes,  the  steams  of  which  had  such  evi- 
dent effect  upon  the  nerves  of  the  company  that  the 
marquis  made  frightful  grimaces,  under  pretence  of 
taking  snulf ; the  1 talian’s  eye.s  watered,  the  German’s 
visage  underwent  .several  distortions  of  feature;  our 
hero  found  means  to  exclude  the  odour  from  his  sen.se 
of  smelling  by  breathing  only  through  his  mouth  ; 
and  the  poor  painter,  running  into  another  room, 
]jlugged  his  nostrils  with  tobacco.  The  doctor  him- 
self, who  was  the  only  person  then  present  whose  or- 
gans were  not  discomposed,  pointing  to  a couple  of 
couches  placed  on  each  side  of  the  table,  told  his 
guests  that  he  was  sorry  he  could  not  jirocure  the 
exact  triclinia  of  the  ancient.s,  which  were  somewhat 
difi'erent  from  these  conveniences,  and  desired  they 
would  have  the  goodness  to  repose  themselves  w ithout 
ceremony,  each  in  his  respective  couchette,  while  he 
and  his  friend  Mr  Pallet  would  place  themselves  up- 
right at  the  end.s,  that  they  might  have  the  ])leiusure 
of  .serving  those  that  lay  along.  This  disposition,  of 
which  the  strangers  had  no  previous  idea,  disconcerted 
and  perplexed  them  in  a most  ridiculous  manner  ; the 
mayquis  and  baron  stood  bowing  to  each  other  on 
pretence  of  di.sputing  the  lower  seat,  but,  in  reality, 

](>» 

NOVELISTS. 


EX(JI.1SH  LITKUATUKK.  tobias  ghorge  smollktt. 


ivith  a view  of  profiting  by  the  example  of  each  other, 
for  neither  of  them  understood  the  manner  in  which 
they  w-ere  to  loll  ; and  Peregrine,  who  enjoyed  their 
confusion,  handed  the  count  to  the  other  side,  where, 
with  the  most  mischievous  politeness,  he  insisted  upon 
his  taking  jiossession  of  the  upper  place. 

In  this  disagreeable  and  ludicrous  suspense,  they 
continued  acting  a pantomime  of  gesticulations,  until 
the  doctor  e.arnestly  entreated  them  to  waive  all  com- 
I pliment  and  form,  lest  the  dinner  should  be  spoiled 
1 before  the  ceremonial  could  be  adjusted.  Thus  con- 
! jured.  Peregrine  took  the  lower  couch  on  the  left-hand 
I side,  laying  himself  gently  down,  with  his  face  toivards 
I the  table.  The  marquis,  in  imitation  of  this  pattern 
I (though  he  would  have  much  rather  fasted  three  days 
I than  run  the  risk  of  discomposing  his  dress  by  such  an 
atti(ude),  stretched  himself  upon  the  opposite  place, 

I recli  ling  upon  his  elbow  in  a most  painful  and  awk- 
I ward  situation,  with  his  head  raised  above  the  end  of 
the  ( ouch,  that  the  economy  of  his  hair  might  not 
suffer  by  the  projection  of  his  body.  The  Italian, 
being  a thin  limber  creature,  planted  himself  next  to 
Pickle,  without  sustaining  any  misfortune  but  that 
of  his  stocking  being  torn  by  a ragged  nail  of  the  seat, 
as  he  raised  his  legs  on  a level  with  the  rest  of  his 
limbs.  But  the  baron,  who  was  neither  so  wieldy  nor 
supple  in  his  joints  as  his  companions,  flounced  him- 
self down  with  such  precipitation,  that  his  feet,  sud- 
denly tilting  up,  came  in  furious  contact  ivith  the 
head  of  the  marquis,  and  demolished  every  curl  in  a 
twinkling,  while  his  own  skull,  at  the  same  instant, 
descended  upon  the  side  of  his  couch  with  such  vio- 
lence, that  his  periwig  was  struck  off,  and  the  whole 
room  filled  with  pulvilio. 

The  drollery  of  distress  that  attended  this  disaster 
entirely  vanquished  the  affected  gravity  of  our  young 
gentleman,  who  was  obliged  to  suppress  his  laughter 
by  cramming  his  handkerchief  in  his  mouth  ; for  the 
bareheaded  German  asked  pardon  with  such  ridicu- 
lous confusion,  and  the  marquis  admitted  his  apology 
with  such  rueful  complaisance,  as  were  sufficient  to 
awake  the  mirth  of  a Quietist. 

This  misfortune  being  repaired,  as  well  as  the  cir- 
cumst.ances  of  the  occasion  would  permit,  and  every 
one  settled  according  to  the  arrangement  already  de- 
scribed, the  doctor  graciously  undertook  to  give  some 
account  of  the  dishes  as  they  occurred,  that  the  com- 
pany might  be  directed  in  their  choice ; and,  with  an 
air  of  infinite  satisfaction,  thus  began  : — ‘ This  here, 
gentlemen,  is  a boiled  goose,  served  up  in  a sauce 
composed  of  pepper,  lovage,  coriander,  mint,  rue,  an- 
chovies, and  oil ! I wish,  for  your  sakes,  gentlemen, 
it  was  one  of  the  geese  of  Ferrara,  so  much  celebrated 
among  the  ancients  for  the  magnitude  of  their  livers, 
one  of  which  is  saiil  to  have  weighed  upwards  of  two 
pounds ; with  this  food,  exquisite  as  it  was,  did  the 
tyrant  Ileliogabalus  regale  his  hounds.  But  I beg 
pardon,  I had  almost  forgot  the  soup,  which  I hear 
is  so  necessary  an  article  at  all  tables  in  France.  At 
each  end  there  are  dishes  of  the  salacacabia  of  the 
Piomans  ; one  is  made  of  parsley,  pennyroyal,  cheese, 
pinetops,  honey,  vinegar,  brine,  eggs,  cucumbers, 
onions,  and  hen  livers ; the  other  is  much  the  same 
as  the  soup-maigre  of  this  country.  Then  there  is  a 
loin  of  boiled  veal  w’ith  fennel  and  caraway  seed,  on 
a pottage  composed  of  pickle,  oil,  honey,  and  flour, 
and  a curious  hashis  of  the  lights,  liver,  and  blood  of 
a hare,  together  with  a dish  of  roasted  pigeons.  Mon- 
sieur le  Baron,  shall  I help  you  to  a plate  of  this 
soup  !’  The  German,  who  did  not  at  all  disapprove  of 
the  ingredients,  assented  to  the  proposal,  and  seemed 
to  relish  the  composition ; while  the  marquis,  being 
asked  by  the  painter  which  of  the  silly-kickabys  he 
chose,  was,  in  consequence  of  his  desire,  accommodated 
with  a portion  of  the  poup-maigre  ; and  the  count,  in 
lieu  of  spoon  meat,  of  which  he  said  he  was  no  great 


admirer,  supplied  himself  with  a pigeon,  therein  con- 
forming to  the  choice  of  our  young  gentleman,  whose 
example  he  determined  to  follow  through  the  whole 
course  of  the  entertainment. 

The  Frenchman  having  swallowed  the  first  spoonful, 
made  a full  pause  ; his  throat  .swelled  as  if  an  egg  had 
stuck  in  his  gullet,  his  eyes  rolled,  and  his  mouth  un- 
derwent a series  of  involuntary  contractions  and  dila- 
tations. Pallet,  who  looked  steadfastly  at  this  con- 
noisseur, with  a view  of  consulting  his  taste  before 
he  himself  would  venture  upon  the  soup,  began  to  be 
disturbed  at  these  emotions,  and  observed,  with  some 
concern,  that  the  poor  gentleman  seemed  to  be  going 
into  a fit ; when  Peregrine  assured  him  that  these 
were  symptoms  of  ecstacy,  and,  for  further  confir- 
mation, asked  the  marquis  how  he  found  the  .soup. 
It  was  with  infinite  difficulty  that  his  complaisance 
could  so  far  master  his  disgust  as  to  enable  him  to 
answer,  ‘Altogether  excellent,  upon  my  honour!’  And 
the  painter,  being  certified  of  his  approbation,  lifted 
the  spoon  to  his  mouth  without  scruple  ; but  far  from 
justifying  the  eulogium  of  his  taster,  when  this  pre- 
cious composition  diffused  itself  upon  his  palate,  he 
seemed  to  be  deprived  of  all  sense  and  motion,  and 
sat  like  the  leaden  statue  of  some  river  god,  with  the 
liquor  flowing  out  at  both  sides  of  the  mouth. 

The  doctor,  alarmed  at  this  indecent  phenomenon, 
earnestly  inquired  into  the  cau.se  of  it ; and  when 
Pallet  recovered  his  recollection,  and  swore  that  he 
would  rather  swallow  porridge  made  of  burning  brim- 
stone than  such  an  infernal  mess  as  that  which  he 
h.ad  tasted,  the  physician,  in  his  own  vindication, 
assured  the  company  that,  except  the  usual  ingredi- 
ents, he  had  mixed  nothing  in  the  .soup  but  some  sal- 
amoniao,  instead  of  the  ancient  nicrum,  which  could 
not  now  be  procured ; and  appealed  to  the  marquis 
whether  such  a succedaneum  was  not  an  improvement 
on  the  whole.  The  unfortunate  petit-maitre,  driven 
to  the  extremity  of  his  condescension,  acknowledged 
it  to  be  a masterly  refinement ; and  deeming  himself 
obliged,  in  point  of  honour,  to  evince  his  sentiments 
by  his  practice,  forced  a few  more  mouthfuls  of  this 
disagreeable  potion  down  his  throat,  till  his  stomach 
was  so  much  offended  that  he  was  compelled  to  start 
up  of  a sudden,  and  in  the  hurry  of  his  elevation 
overturned  his  plate  into  the  bosom  of  the  baron. 
The  emergency  of  his  occasions  would  not  permit  him 
to  stay  and  make  apologies  for  this  abrupt  behaviour, 
so  that  he  flew  into  another  apartment,  where  Pickle 
found  him  puking  and  crossing  himself  with  great 
devotion  ; and  a chair  at  his  desire  being  brought  to 
the  door,  he  slipped  into  it  more  dead  than  alive, 
conjuring  his  friend  Pickle  to  make  his  peace  with 
the  company,  and  in  particular  excuse  him  to  the 
baron,  on  account  of  the  violent  fit  of  illness  with 
which  he  had  been  seized.  It  was  not  without  reason 
that  he  employed  a mediator ; for  when  our  hero  re- 
turned to  the  dining-room,  the  German  had  got  up, 
and  was  under  the  hands  of  his  own  lacquey,  who  wiped 
the  grease  from  a rich  embroidered  waistcoat,  while 
he,  almost  frantic  with  his  misfortune,  stamped  upon 
the  ground,  and  in  high  Dutch  cursed  the  unlucky 
banquet,  and  the  impertinent  entertainer,  who  all 
this  time,  with  great  deliberation,  consoled  him  for 
the  disaster,  by  assuring  him  that  the  damage  might 
be  repaired  with  some  oil  of  turpentine  and  a hot 
iron.  Peregrine,  who  could  scarce  refrain  from  laugh- 
ing in  his  face,  appeased  his  indignation  by  telling 
him  how  much  the  whole  company,  and  e.specially 
the  marquis,  was  mortified  at  the  accident ; and  the 
unhappy  salacacabia  being  removed,  the  places  were 
filled  with  two  pies,  one  of  dormice  liquored  with 
sirup  of  white  poppies,  which  the  doctor  had  substi- 
tuted in  the  room  of  toasted  poppy-seed,  formerly 
eaten  with  honey  as  a dessert ; and  the  other  com- 
posed of  a hock  of  pork  baked  in  honey. 

169 


! FROM  1727  CYCLOPi?^DIA  OF  to  1780. 

j Pallet,  hearing  the  first  of  these  dishes  described, 

; lifted  up  his  hands  and  eyes,  and  witli  signs  of  loath- 
ing and  amazement,  pronounced,  ‘ A pie  made  of  dor- 
mice and  sirup  of  pojipies : Lord  in  heaven!  what 
beastly  fellows  those  Romans  were !’  His  friend 
checked  liim  for  his  irreverent  exclamation  with  a 
severe  look,  and  recommended  the  veal,  of  which  he 
himself  cheerfully  ate  with  such  encomiums  to  the 
1 company  that  the  baron  resolved  to  imitate  his  ex- 
, ample,  after  having  called  for  a bumper  of  Burgundy, 
I which  the  physician,  for  his  sake,  wished  to  have  been 
the  true  wine  of  Falernum.  The  painter,  seeing  no- 
1 thing  else  upon  the  table  which  he  would  venture  to 
touch,  made  a merit  of  necessity,  and  had  recourse  to 
the  veal  also ; although  he  could  not  help  saying, 
that  he  would  not  give  one  slice  of  the  roast  beef  of 
Old  England  for  all  the  dainties  of  a Roman  em- 
peror’s table.  But  all  the  doctor’s  invitations  and 
assurances  could  not  prevail  upon  his  guests  to  honour 
the  hashis  and  the  goose ; and  that  course  was  suc- 
ceeded by  another,  in  which  he  told  them  were  divers 
of  those  dishes  which  among  the  ancients  had  ob- 
tained the  appellation  of  puUtdcs,  or  magnificent. 
‘ That  which  smokes  in  the  middle,’  said  he,  ‘ is  a 
sow’s  stomach,  filled  with  a composition  of  minced 
pork,  hog’s  brains,  eggs,  pepper,  cloves,  garlic,  anni- 
seed,  rue,  ginger,  oil,  wine,  and  pickle.  On  the  right- 
hand  side  are  the  teats  and  belly  of  a sow,  just  far- 
rowed, fried  with  sweet  wine,  oil,  flour,  lovage,  and 
pepper.  On  the  left  is  a fricassee  of  snails,  fed  or 
rather  purged  with  milk.  At  that  end,  next  Mr  Pal- 
let, are  fritters  of  pompions,  lovage,  origanum,  and 
oil ; and  here  are  a couple  of  pullets,  roasted  and 
stuffed  in  the  manner  of  Apicius.’ 

The  painter,  who  had  by  wry  faces  testified  his  ab- 
horrence of  the  sow’s  stomach,  which  he  compared  to 
a bagpipe,  and  the  .snails  which  had  undergone  pur- 
gation, no  sooner  heard  him  mention  the  roasted  pul- 
lets, than  he  eagerly  solicited  a wing  of  the  fowl ; 
upon  which  the  doctor  desired  he  would  take  the 
trouble  of  cutting  them  up,  and  accordingly  sent  them 
round,  while  Mr  Pallet  tucked  the  tablecloth  under 
his  chin,  and  brandished  his  knife  and  fork  with  sin- 
gular address ; but  scarce  were  they  set  down  before 
him,  when  the  tears  ran  dorni  his  cheeks,  and  he 
called  aloud,  in  a manifest  disorder,  ‘Zounds!  this  is 
the  essence  of  a whole  bed  of  garlic !’  That  he  might 
not,  however,  disappoint  or  disgrace  the  entertainer, 
he  applied  his  instruments  to  one  of  the  birds  ; and 
when  he  opened  up  the  cavity,  was  assaulted  by  such 
an  irruption  of  intolerable  smells,  that,  without  stay- 
ing to  disengage  himself  from  the  cloth,  he  sprung 
away  with  an  exclamation  of  ‘ Lord  Jesus !’  and  in- 
volved the  whole  table  in  havoc,  ruin,  and  confu- 
sion. 

Before  Pickle  could  accomplish  his  escape,  he  was 
sauced  with  a sirup  of  the  dormice  pie,  which  went 
to  pieces  in  the  general  wreck : and  as  for  the  Italian 
count,  he  was  overwhelmed  by  the  sow’s  stomach, 
which,  bursting  in  the  fall,  discharged  its  contents 
upon  Ills  leg  and  thigh,  and  scalded  him  so  miserably 
that  he  shrieked  with  anguish,  and  grinned  with  a 
most  ghastly  and  horrible  aspect. 

The  baron,  who  sat  secure  without  the  vortex  of  this 
tumult,  was  not  at  all  displeased  at  seeing  his  com- 
panions involved  in  such  a calamity  as  that  which  he 
had  already  shared  ; but  the  doctor  was  confounded 
with  shame  and  vexation.  After  having  prc.scribed 
an  application  of  oil  to  the  count’s  leg,  he  expressed 
his  sorrow  for  the  misadventure,  which  he  openly 
ascribed  to  want  of  taste  and  prudence  in  the  painter, 
who  did  not  think  proper  to  return  and  make  an 
apology  in  person  ; and  protested  that  there  was  no- 
thing in  the  fowls  which  could  give  offence  to  a sen- 
sible nose,  the  stuffing  being  a mixture  of  pepper, 
lovage,  and  assafoetida,  and  the  sauce  consisting  of 

wine  and  herring-pickle,  which  he  had  used  instead 
of  the  celebrated  garum  of  the  Romans;  that  famous 
jiickle  having  been  prepared  sometimes  of  the  scombri, 
which  were  a sort  of  tunny  fish,  and  sometimes  of  the 
silurus  or  shad  fish  ; nay,  he  observed,  that  there  was 
a third  kind  called  garum  hoemation,  made  of  the 
guts,  gills,  and  blood  of  the  thynnus. 

The  physician,  finding  it  would  be  impracticable  to 
re-establish  the  order  of  the  banf|uet  by  presenting 
again  the  dishes  which  had  been  discomposed,  ordered 
everything  to  be  removed,  a clean  cloth  to  be  laid, 
and  the  dessert  to  be  brought  in. 

Meanwhile  he  regi'etted  his  incapacity  to  give  them 
a specimen  of  the  aliens  or  fish-meals  of  the  ancients  ; 
such  as  the  jus  diabaton,  the  conger  eel,  which,  in 
Galen’s  opinion,  is  hard  of  digestion  ; the  cornuta  or 
gurnard,  described  by  Pliny  in  his  Natural  History, 
who  says  the  honis  of  many  of  them  were  a foot  and 
a half  in  length  ; the  mullet  and  lamprey,  that  were 
in  the  highest  estimation  of  old,  of  which  last  Julius 
Cmsar  borrowed  six  thousand  for  one  triumphal  sup- 
per. He  observed  that  the  manner  of  dressing  thenr 
was  described  by  Horace,  in  the  account  he  gives  o\ 
the  entertainment  to  which  Maecenas  was  invited  by 
the  epicure  Nasiedenus, 

Affertur  squillos  inter  Murena  natantes,  &c. 

and  told  them,  th.at  they  were  commonly  eaten  with 
the  thus  Syriacum,  a certain  anodyne  and  astringent 
seed,  which  qualified  the  purgative  nature  of  the  fish. 
J’inally,  this  learned  physician  gave  them  to  under- 
stand, that  though  this  was  reckoned  a luxurious 
dish  in  the  zenith  of  the  Roman  taste,  it  was  by  no 
means  comparable  in  point  of  expense  to  some  pre- 
parations in  vogue  about  the  time  of  that  absurd 
voluptuary  Heliogabalus,  who  ordered  the  brains  of 
six  hundred  ostriches  to  be  compounded  in  one  mess. 

By  this  time  the  dessert  appeared,  and  the  company 
were  not  a little  rejoiced  to  see  plain  olives  in  salt 
and  water  ; but  what  the  master  of  the  feast  valued 
himself  upon,  was  a sort  of  jelly,  which  he  affirmed  to 
be  preferable  to  the  hypotrimma  of  Hesychius,  being  a 
mixture  of  vinegar,  pickle,  and  honey,  boiled  to  a 
proper  consistence,  and  candied  assafoetida,  which  he 
asserted,  in  contradiction  to  Auraelbergius  and  Lister, 
was  no  other  than  the  laser  Syriacum,  so  precious  as 
to  be  sold  among  the  ancients  to  the  weight  of  a sil- 
ver penny.  The  gentlemen  took  his  word  for  the  ex- 
cellency of  this  gum,  but  contented  themselves  with 
the  olives,  which  gave  such  an  agreeable  relish  to  the 
wine  that  they  seemed  very  well  disposed  to  console 
themselves  for  the  disgraces  they  had  endured ; and 
Pickle,  unwilling  to  lose  the  least  circumstance  of 
entertainment  that  could  be  enjoyed  in  their  company, 
went  in  quest  of  the  painter,  who  remained  in  his 
penitentials  in  another  apartment,  and  could  not  be 
persuaded  to  re-enter  the  banqueting  room,  until 
Peregrine  undertook  to  procure  his  pardon  from  those 
whom  he  had  injured.  Having  assured  him  of  this 
indulgence,  our  young  gentleman  led  him  in  like  a 
criminal,  bowing  on  all  hands  with  an  air  of  humility 
and  contrition ; and  particularly  addressing  himself 
to  the  count,  to  whom  he  swore  in  English  he  had 
no  intent  to  affront  man,  woman,  or  child,  but  was 
fain  to  make  the  best  of  his  way,  that  he  might  not 
give  the  honourable  company  cause  of  offence  by 
obeying  the  dictates  of  nature  in  their  presence. 

When  Pickle  interpreted  this  apology  to  the  Italian, 
Pallet  was  forgiven  in  very  polite  terms,  and  even  re- 
ceived into  favour  by  his  friend  the  doctor  in  conse- 
quence of  our  hero’s  interce-ssion  ; so  that  all  the 
guests  forgot  their  chagrin,  and  paid  their  respects  so  | 
piously  to  the  bottle,  that  in  a short  time  the  cham-  j 
paigne  produced  very  evident  effects  in  the  behaviour  | 
of  all  present. 

iro 

1 

ENGLISH  LITEUATUUE. 


LAURF.NCE  STERM*. 


I.AURENCE  STERNE. 


Noxt  in  order  of  time  and  genius,  and  not  inferior 
in  eoneeption  of  r’-eli  eccentric  comic  character,  was 
tlie  witty,  iiathctic,  and  sentimental  autlior  of  Tris- 
tram Shamil/.  Sterne  was  an  original  writer,  though 
a jilagiarist  of  tlionghts  and  illustrations.  Urotiier 
Shandy,  my  Uncle  Toby,  Trim,  the  Widow  Wad- 
man,  and  ])r  Slot),  will  go  down  to  posterity  with 
the  kindred  creations  of  Cervantes.  This  idol  of 
Ills  own  day  is  now,  liowever,  but  little  read,  except 
in  ]iassages  of  pure  sentiment.  Ilis  broad  humour 
is  not  relished  ; his  oddities  have  not  the  gloss  of 
novelty ; his  indecencies  startle  the  prudish  and 
correct.  The  readers  of  this  busy  age  will  not  hunt 
for  his  beauties  amidst  the  blank  and  marbled  leaves 
— the  pages  of  no-meaning — the  quiiint  erudition, 
• , lien  from  forgotten  folios — the  abrupt  transitions 
and  discursive  flights  in  which  his  Shakspeare.an 
touches  of  character,  and  his  gems  of  fancy,  judg- 
ment, and  feeling,  lie  hid  and  embedded.  His  spark- 
ling polished  diction  luas  even  an  air  of  false  glitter, 
yet  it  is  the  weapon  of  a master — of  one  who  can 
stir  the  heart  to  tears  as  well  as  laughter.  The 
want  of  simplicity  .and  decency  is  his  greatest  fault. 
His  whim  and  caprice,  which  he  partly  imitated 
from  llabelais,  and  partly  assumed  for  effect,  come 
in  sometimes  with  intrusive  awkwardness  to  mar 
the  touches  of  true  genius,  and  the  kindlings  of  en- 
thusiasm. He  took  as  much  pains  to  spoil  his  own 
natural  powers  by  affectation,  as  Lady  Mary  says 
Fielding  did  to  destroy  his  fine  constitution. 

The  life  of  Laurence  Sterne  was  as  little  in 
keeping  as  his  writings.  A clergyman,  he  was  dis- 
solute and  licentious ; a sentimentiilist,  who  had, 
with  his  pen,  tears  for  all  animate  and  inanimate 
nature,  he  was  hardhearted  and  selfish  in  his  con- 
duct, Had  he  kept  to  his  living  in  the  country, 
going  his  daily  round  of  pastoral  duties,  he  would 
have  been  a better  and  wiser  man.  ‘ He  degene- 
rated in  London,’  s.ays  David  Garrick,  ‘like  an  ill- 
transplanted  shrub : the  incense  of  the  great  spoiled 
his  head,  and  their  ragouts  his  stomach.  He  grew 
sickly  and  proud — an  invalid  in  body  and  mind.’ 
Hard  is  the  life  of  a wit  when  united  to  a suscep- 
tible temperament,  and  the  cares  and  sensibilities  of 
an  author!  Sterne  was  the  son  of  an  Irish  lieu- 
tenant, and  was  born  at  Clonmel,  November  24, 
1713.  He  was  educated  by  a relation,  a cousin,  and 
took  his  degree  of  M.A.  at  Cambridge  in  1740. 
Having  entered  into  orders,  his  uncle.  Dr  Sterne,  a 
rich  pluralist,  presented  him  with  the  living  of  Sut- 
ton, to  which  was  afterwards  added  a prebend  of 
York.  He  married  a York  lady,  and  derived  from 
the  connexion  another  living  in  that  county,  the 
rectory  of  Stillington.  He  lived  nearly  twenty 
years  at  Sutton,  reading,  painting,  fiddling,  and 
shooting,  with  occasional  quarrels  with  his  brethren 
)f  the  cloth,  with  whom  he  was  no  favourite.  He 
I left  Yorkshire  for  London  in  1759,  to  publish  the 
two  first  volumes  of  ‘ Tristram  Shandy.  ’ Two 
others  were  published  in  1761,  and  the  same  num- 
ber in  1762.  He  now  took  a tour  to  Fnance,  which 
enriched  some  of  his  subsequent  volumes  of  ‘ Tris- 
tram’ with  his  exquisite  sketches  of  peasants  and 
vine-dressers,  the  muleteer,  the  abbess  and  Mar- 
garita, Maria  at  Moulines — and  not  forgetting  the 
poor  ass  with  his  heavy  panniers  at  Lyons.  In 
1764  he  took  another  continental  tour,  and  pene- 
trated into  It.aly,  to  which  we  are  indebted  for  his 
Sentimental  Journey.  The  latter  work  he  composed 
on  his  return  at  Coxwould,  the  living  of  which  h.ad 
been  presented  to  him,  on  the  first  publication  of 
‘ Tristram,’  by  Lord  Falconbridge.  Having  com- 


pleted the  first  p.art  of  his  ‘ Journey,’  Sterne  went 
to  London  to  see  it  published,  and  died  in  lodgings 
in  Bond  Street,  March  18,  1768.  There  was  nobody 
but  a hired  nurse  by  his  death-bed.  He  had  wished 
to  die  in  an  inn,  where  the  few  cold  offices  he 
wanted  would  be  purchased  with  a few  guineas,  and 
paid  to  him  with  an  undisturbed  but  punctual  at- 
tention. His  wish  was  realised  almost  to  the  letter. 

No  one  reads  Sterne  for  the  story  : his  great  work 
is  but  a bundle  of  episodes  and  digressions,  strung 
together  without  any  attempt  at  order.  The  reader 
must  ‘give  up  the  reins  of  his  imagination  into  his 
author’s  hand — be  pleased  he  knows  not  wh}',  and 
cares  not  wherefore.’  Through  the  whole  novel, 
however,  over  its  mists  and  absurdities,  shines  his 
little  family  band  of  friends  and  relatives — that  ini- 
mitable group  of  originals  and  humorists — which 
stand  out  from  the  canvass  with  the  force  and  dis- 
tinctness of  reality.  This  distinctness  and  separate 
identity  is  a proof  of  what  Coleridge  has  termed 
the  peculiar  power  of  Sterne,  of  seizing  on  ,and 
bringing  forward  those  points  on  which  every  man 
is  a humorist,  and  of  the  msisterly  manner  in  which 
he  hiis  brought  out  the  characteristics  of  two  beings 
of  the  most  opposite  natures — the  elder  Shandy  <and 
Toby — and  surrounded  them  with  a gremp  of  fol- 
lowers, sketched  with  equal  life  and  individuality; 
in  the  Corporal,  the  obstetric  Dr  Slop;  Yorick,  the 
lively  ,and  careless  parson;  the  Widow  AVadman 
and  Sus.annah.  During  the  intervals  of  the  publi- 
cation of  ‘ Tristram,’  Sterne  ventured  before  the 
public  some  volumes  of  Sermons,  with  his  own  comic 
figure,  from  a painting  by  Keynolds,  at  the  head  of 
them.  The  ‘ Sermons,’  according  to  the  just  opinion 
of  Gray  the  poet,  show  a strong  imagination  and  a 
sensible  heart ; ‘ but,’  he  adds,  ‘ you  see  the  author 
often  tottering  on  the  verge  of  laughter,  and  ready 
to  throw  his  periwig  in  the  face  of  the  audience.’ 
The  affected  pauses  and  abrupt  transitions  which 
disfigure  ‘ Tristram’  are  not  banished  from  the  ‘ Ser- 
mons,’ but  there  is,  of  course,  more  connection  and 
coherency  in  the  subject.  The  ‘ Sentimental  Jour- 
ney’ is  also  more  regular  than  ‘ Tristram’  in  its  plan 
and  details ; but,  beautiful  as  some  of  its  descriptions 
are,  we  want  the  oddities  of  Shandy,  and  the  ever- 
pleasing  good  nature  and  simplicity  of  Uncle  Toby. 
Sterne  himself  is  the  only  chanacter.  The  pathetic 
j)ass.ages  are  rather  overstrained,  but  still  finely 
conceived,  and  often  expressed  in  his  most  felicitous 
manner.  That  ‘ gentle  spirit  of  sweetest  humour, 
who  erst  didst  sit  upon  the  easy  pen  of  his  beloved 
Cerv.antes,  turning  the  twilight  of  his  prison  into 
noonday  brightness,’  was  seldom  .absent  long  from 
the  invocations  of  his  English  imitator,  even  when 
he  mounted  his  wildest  hobby,  and  dabbled  in  the 
mire  of  sensuality. 

Of  the  sentimental  style  of  Sterne  (his  humour  is 
too  subtle  and  ethereal  to  be  compressed  into  oui 
limits)  a few  specimens  are  added. 

The  Story  of  Le  Fexn-e. 

[From  ‘ Tristram  Sh.andy.  j 

It  was  some  time  in  the  summer  of  that  year  In 
which  Dendermond  was  taken  by  the  allies,  which 
was  about  seven  years  before  my  father  came  into 
the  country,  and  about  as  many,  after  the  time,  that 
my  uncle  Toby  and  Trim  had  privately  decamped 
from  my  father’s  house  in  town,  in  order  to  lay  some 
of  the  finest  sieges  to  some  of  the  fine.st  fortified  cities 
in  Europe,  when  my  uncle  Toby  was  one  evening 
getting  his  supper,  with  Trim  sitting  behind  him  at 
a small  sideboard,  I say  sitting,  for  in  consideratiou 
of  the  corporal’s  lame  knee  (which  sometimes  gave 
him  exquisite  pain),  when  my  uncle  Toby  dined  or 

m 


►ROM  1727 


tYCLOPiEDIA  OF 


TO  178f-. 


sui)pc'l  iiloiie,  he  would  never  suffer  the  corporal  to 
Btand  ; and  tlie  i)Oor  fellow’s  veneration  for  his  master 
was  Hiieh,  that,  with  a proper  artillery,  my  uncle  Toby 
could  have  taken  Dendermond  Itself  with  less  trouble 
than  he  was  able  to  point  over  him  ; for 

many  a time,  when  my  uncle  Toby  supposed  the  eor- 
])oral’s  leg  was  at  rest,  he  would  look  back  and  detect 
him  standing  behind  him  with  the  most  dutiful 
respect.  This  bred  more  little  squabbles  betwixt 
them  than  all  other  causes  for  five-and-twenty  years 
together;  but  this  is  neither  here  nor  there — why  do 
I mention  it!  Ask  my  pen — it  governs  me — I govern 
not  it. 

lie  was  one  evening  sitting  thus  at  his  supper, 
when  the  lamllord  of  a little  inn  in  the  village  came 
into  the  parlour  witlr  an  empty  phial  in  his  hand,  to 
beg  a glass  or  two  of  sack.  ’Tis  for  a ])oor  gentleman 
■ — 1 think  of  the  army,  said  the  landlord,  who  has 
been  taken  ill  at  my  house  four  days  ago,  and  has 
never  held  up  his  head  since,  or  had  a aesire  to  taste 
anything,  till  just  now,  that  he  has  a fancy  for  a glass 
of  sack  and  a thin  toast  ; 1 think,  says  he,  taking  his 
hand  from  his  forehead,  it  would  comfort  me.  If  I 
could  neither  beg,  borrow,  nor  buy  such  a thing,  added 
the  landlord,  1 would  almost  steal  it  for  the  poor 
gentleman,  he  is  so  ill.  I hope  in  God  he  will  still 
mend,  continued  he  ; we  are  all  of  us  concerned  for 
him. 

Thou  art  a good-natured  soul,  I will  an.swer  for 
thee,  cried  my  uncle  Toby  ; and  thou  shalt  drink  the 
poor  gentleman’s  health  in  a glass  of  sack  thyself ; 
and  take  a couple  of  bottles  with  my  service,  and  tell 
him  he  is  heartily  welcome  to  them,  and  to  a dozen 
more  if  they  will  do  him  good. 

Though  I am  persuaded,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  as 
the  landlord  shut  the  door,  he  is  a very  compas- 
sionate fellow.  Trim,  yet  I cannot  help  entertaining  a 
high  opinion  of  his  guest  too  ; there  must  be  some- 
thing more  than  common  in  him  that  in  so  short  a 
time  should  win  so  much  upon  the  affections  of  his 
host.  And  of  his  whole  family,  added  the  corporal  ; 
for  they  are  all  concerned  for  him.  Step  after  him, 
said  my  uncle  Toby  ; do,  Trim  ; and  ask  if  he  knows 
his  name. 

I have  quite  forgot  it,  truly,  said  the  landlord, 
coming  back  into  the  parlour  with  the  corporal ; but 
I can  ask  his  son  again,  lias  he  a son  with  him, 
then  ! said  my  uncle  Toby.  A boy,  replied  the  land- 
lord, of  about  eleven  or  twelve  years  of  age  ; but  the 
poor  creature  has  tasted  almost  as  little  as  his  father ; 
he  docs  nothing  but  mourn  and  lament  for  him  night 
and  day.  lie  has  not  stirred  from  the  bedside  these 
two  days. 

My  uncle  Toby  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and 
thrust  his  plate  from  before  him,  as  the  landlord  gave 
him  the  account ; and  Trim,  without  being  ordered, 
took  it  away,  without  saying  one  word,  and  in  a few 
minutes  after  brought  him  his  pipe  and  tobacco. 

Stay  in  the  room  a little,  said  my  uncle  Toby. 
Trim  ! said  my  uncle  Toby,  after  he  lighted  his  pipe, 
and  smoked  about  a dozen  whiffs.  Trim  came  in 
front  of  his  master,  and  made  his  bow.  My  uncle 
Toby  smoked  on,  and  said  no  more.  Corporal!  said 
my  uncle  Toby.  The  corporal  made  his  bow.  iVIy 
uncle  Toby  proceeded  no  further,  but  finished  his 
pipe. 

Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  I have  a project  in  my 
head,  as  it  is  a bad  night,  of  wrapping  myself  up  w.arm 
in  my  roquelaure,  and  paying  a visit  to  this  poor 
gentleman.  Your  honour’s  roquelaure,  replied  the  cor- 
poral, has  not  once  been  had  on  since  the  night  before 
your  honour  received  your  wound,  when  we  mounted 
guard  in  the  trenches  before  the  gate  of  St  Nicholas. 
And  besides,  it  is  .so  cold  and  rainy  a night,  that 
what  with  the  roquelaure,  and  what  with  the  weatlicr, 
'twill  be  enough  to  give  your  honour'  your  death,  and 


bring  on  your  honour’s  torment  in  your  groin.  I fear 
so,  replied  my  uncle  Toby  ; but  I am  not  at  rest  in 
my  mind.  Trim,  since  the  account  the  landlord  has 
given  I2ie.  I wish  1 Inid  not  known  so  much  of  this 
affair,  added  my  uncle  Toby,  or  that  I had  known 
more  of  it.  I low  shall  we  manage  it?  Leave  it,  an’t 
]>lease  your  honour,  to  me,  quoth  the  corporal.  I’ll 
take  my  hat  and  stick  and  go  to  the  hou.se  and  recon- 
noitre, and  act  accordingly;  and  I will  bring  your 
honour  a full  account  in  an  hour.  Thou  shalt  go. 
Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby;  and  here’s  a shilling  for 
thee  to  drink  with  his  servjmt.  I shall  get  it  all  out 
of  him,  said  the  corporal,  shutting  the  door. 

My  uncle  Toby  filled  his  second  Jiipe  ; and  had  it 
not  been  that  he  now  and  then  wandere<l  from  the 
point,  with  considering  whether  it  was  not  full  as  well 
to  have  the  curtain  of  the  tennaile  a straight  lino  as 
a crooked  one,  he  might  be  said  to  have  thought  of 
nothing  else  but  poor  Le  I’cvre  and  his  boy  the  whole 
time  he  smoked  it. 

It  was  not  till  my  uncle  Toby  had  knocked  the 
ashes  out  of  his  third  J>ipe  that  Corporal  Trim  re- 
turned from  the  inn,  and  gave  him  the  followin.' 
account.  I despaired  at  fu'st,  said  the  corponil,  of 
being  able  to  bring  back  your  honour  any  kind  of 
intelligence  concerning  tke  poor  sick  lieutenant.  Is 
he  in  the  iirmy,  then?  said  my  uncle  Toby.  He  is, 
said  the  corporal.  And  in  what  regiment ! said  my 
uncle  Toby.  I’ll  tell  your  honour,  replied  the  cor- 
l)0ral,  everything  straightforwards  as  I lejirned  it. 
Then,  Trim,  I’ll  fill  another  pipe,  said  my  uncle 
Toby,  and  not  interrupt  thee  till  thou  hast  done;  .so 
sit  down  at  thy  ease.  Trim,  in  the  window'  seat,  and 
begin  thy  story  again.  The  corporal  made  his  old 
bow,  which  generally  spoke  as  plain  as  a bow  could 
speak  it — Your  honour  is  good.  And  having  done 
that,  he  sat  down,  as  he  was  ordered  ; and  begun  the 
story  to  my  uncle  Toby  over  again  in  pretty  near  the 
same  word.s. 

I despaired  at  first,  .said  the  corporal,  of  being  able 
to  bring  back  any  intelligence  to  your  honour  about 
the  lieutenant  and  his  son  ; for  when  I asked  where 
his  servant  was,  from  whom  I made  myself  sure  of 
knowing  everything  which  was  proper  to  be  asked — 
That’s  .a  right  distinction.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby — 

I was  answered,  an’  please  your  honour,  that  he  had 
no  servant  with  him  ; that  he  had  come  to  the  inn 
with  hired  horses,  which,  upon  finding  himself  unable 
to  proceed  (to  join,  1 suppose,  the  regiment),  he  had 
dismissed  the  morning  after  he  eame.  If  I get  better, 
niy  dear,  said  he,  as  he  gave  his  ])urse  to  his  son  to 
pay  the  man,  we  can  hire  horses  from  hence.  Hut, 
alas ! the  poor  gentleman  will  never  get  from  hence, 
said  the  landlady  to  me  ; for  I heard  the  deathwatch 
all  night  long:  and  when  he  dies,  the  youth,  his  son, 
will  eertainly  die  with  him  ; for  he  is  broken-hearted 
already. 

I was  hearing  this  account,  continued  the  corporal, 
when  the  youth  came  into  the  kitchen,  to  order  the 
thin  toast  the  landlord  spoke  of.  But  I will  do  it  for 
my  father  myself,  said  the  youth.  Pray,  let  me  save 
you  the  trouble,  young  gentleman,  said  I,  taking  up 
a fork  for  the  purpo.se,  and  offering  him  my  chair  to 
sit  down  upon  by  the  fire  whilst  I did  it.  I believe,  sir, 
said  he,  very  modestly,  1 can  pleas?  him  best  myself. 

I .am  sure,  said  I,  his  honour  will  not  like  the  to.ast 
the  worse  for  being  toasted  by  an  old  soldier.  The 
youth  took  hold  of  my  hand,  and  insttuitly  burst  into 
tears.  Poor  youth  ! said  my  uncle  Toby  ; he  luis  hecn 
bred  up  from  an  infant  in  the  army,  and  the  name  of 
a soldier.  Trim,  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  name  of 
a friend  ; I wish  I had  him  here. 

I never,  in  the  longest  march,  said  the  corporal  had 
so  great  a mind  to  ii'y  dinner,  its  I had  to  cry  witli 
him  fi>r  comiiany.  What  cnubl  be  the  mtitter  with 
me,  an’  please  your  honour!  Noth  ng  in  the  world, 

172 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LAUnENCK  SrF.RNE. 


NOVEI.ISTS. 


Trim,  saiil  m_v  uik-1o  Toliy,  Mowing  his  nose  ; but  tliat 

I thou  art  a good-naluml  lellow. 

j Wlum  I gave  him  tlie  toast,  continued  the  corporal, 

1 thought  it  was  proper  to  tell  him  1 was  Captain 
Shandv’s  servant,  and  that  your  honour,  though  a 
stranger,  was  e.xtrcinely  concerned  for  his  father;  and 
that,  if  there  was  anything  in  your  house  or  cellar — 
And  thou  might’st  have  added  my  purse  too,  said  my 
uncle  Toby — he  was  heartily  welcome  to  it.  He 
rmule  a very  low  bow,  which  was  meant  to  your 
honour ; but  no  answer,  for  his  heart  was  full ; so  he 
went  up  stairs  with  the  toast.  1 warrant  you,  my 
dear,  said  I,  as  I opened  the  kitchen  door,  your  father 
will  be  well  again.  Mr  Yorick’s  curate  was  .smoking 
n pipe  by  the  kitchen  fire,  but  said  not  a word,  good 
or  had,  to  comfort  the  youth.  I thought  it  wrong, 
added  the  corporal.  1 think  so  too,  said  my  uncle 
Toby. 

When  the  lieutenant  had  taken  his  glass  of  sack 
and  toast,  he  felt  himself  a little  revived,  and  sent 
down  into  the  kitchen  to  let  me  know  that  in  about 
ten  minutes  he  should  be  glad  if  I would  step  up 
stairs.  I believe,  said  the  landlord,  ho  is  going  to  say 
his  jirayers,  for  there  was  a book  laid  upon  the  chair 
bv  his  bedside,  and  as  1 shut  the  door,  I saw  his  son 
take  up  a cushion. 

1 thought,  said  the  curate,  that  you  gentlemen 
of  the  army,  !Mr  Trim,  never  said  your  prayers  at 
all.  1 heard  the  poor  gentleman  say  his  prayers  last 
night,  said  the  landlady,  very  devoutly,  and  with 
my  own  ears,  or  1 could  not  have  believed  it.  Are 
you  sure  of  it?  rejilied  the  curate.  A soldier,  an’ 
jdease  your  reverence,  said  1,  prays  as  often  of  his 
own  accord  as  a parson  ; and  when  he  ’’s  fighting  for 
his  king,  and  for  his  owm  life,  and  for  his  honour  too, 
he  has  the  most  reason  to  pray  to  God  of  any  one  in 
the  whole  world.  ’Twas  well  said  of  thee.  Trim,  said 
my  uncle  Toby.  But  when  a soldier,  said  I,  an’ 
please  your  reverence,  has  been  standing  for  twelve 
hours  together  in  the  trenches  up  to  his  knees  in  cold 
water,  or  engaged,  said  I,  for  months  together  in  long 
and  dangerous  marches  ; harassed,  perhaps,  in  his  rear 
to-daj’ ; harassing  others  to-morrow  ; detached  here  ; 
countermanded  there ; resting  this  night  out  upon  his 
arms  ; beat  up  in  his  shirt  the  next ; benumbed  in  his 
joints  ; perhaps  without  straw  in  his  tent  to  kneel  on  ; 
must  say  his  prayers  how  and  when  he  can.  I believe, 
said  I — for  I was  piqued,  quoth  the  corporal,  for  the 
reputation  of  the  army— I believe,  an’  please  your 
reverence,  said  I,  that  when  a soldier  gets  time  to 
pray,  he  prays  as  heartily  as  a parson,  though  not 
with  all  his  fuss  and  hypocrisy.  Thou  shouldst  not 
have  said  that.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby ; for  God 
only  know's  who  is  a hypocrite  and  who  is  not.  At 
the  great  and  general  review  of  us  all,  corporal,  at  the 
day  of  judgment,  and  not  till  then,  it  will  be  seen 
who  has  done  their  duties  in  this  world  and  who  has 
not ; and  we  shall  be  advanced.  Trim,  accordingly. 
I hope  we  shall,  said  Trim.  It  is  in  the  Scripture, 
said  my  uncle  Toby  ; and  I will  show  it  thee  to-mor- 
row. in  the  meantime,  we  may  depend  upon  it. 
Trim,  for  our  comfort,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  that  God 
Almighty  is  so  good  and  just  a governor  of  the  world, 
that  if  we  have  but  done  our  duties  in  it,  it  will  never 
be  inquired  into  vwiiether  we  have  done  them  in  a red 
voat  or  a black  one.  I hope  not,  said  the  corporal. 
But  go  on.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  with  thy  story. 

When  I went  up,  continued  the  corporal,  into  the 
lieutenant’s  room,  which  I did  not  do  till  the  expira- 
tion of  the  ten  minutes,  he  was  lying  in  his  b*"!  with 
his  head  raised  upon  his  hand,  with  his  elbow  upon  the 
pillow,  and  a clean  white  cambric  handkerchief  beside 
t.  'file  youth  was  just  stooping  down  to  take  up  the 
cushion,  upon  which  I supposed  he  nad  been  kneeling; 
the  book  was  laid  upon  the  bed  ; and  as  he  rose,  in 
taking  up  the  cushion  with  hand,  he  reached  out 


his  other  to  take  it  away  at  the  same  time.  Let  it 
remain  there,  my  dear,  said  the  lieutenant. 

He  did  not  olFer  to  speak  to  me  till  I had  walked 
up  clo.se  to  his  bedside.  If  you  are  Captain  Shandy’s 
servant,  said  he,  you  must  prc.sent  my  thanks  to  your 
m.aster,  with  my  little  boy’s  thanks  along  with  them, 
for  his  courtesy  to  me.  If  he  was  of  Levens’s,  said  the 
lieutenant.  I told  him  your  honour  was.  Then,  said 
he,  I served  three  campaigns  with  him  in  Flanders, 
and  remember  him  ; but  ’tis  most  likely,  as  1 had  not 
the  honour  of  any  acquaintance  with  him,  that  he 
knows  nothing  of  me.  You  will  tell  him,  however, 
that  the  person  his  good-nature  has  laid  under  obli- 
g.ations  to  him  is  one  Le  Fevre,  a lieutenant  in 
Angus’s.  But  he  knows  me  not,  said  he,  a second 
time,  musing.  Possibly  he  may  my  story,  added  he. 
Pray,  tell  the  captain,  I was  the  ensign  at  Breda 
whose  wife  was  most  unfortunately  killed  with  a 
musket  shot  as  she  lay  in  my  arms  in  my  tent.  I 
remember  the  story,  an’t  please  your  honour,  said  I, 
very  well.  Do  you  so  ? said  he,  wiping  his  eyes  with 
his  handkerchief,  then  well  m.ay  I.  In  saying  this, 
he  drew  a little  ring  out  of  his  bosom,  which  .seemed 
tied  with  a black  ribband  about  his  neck,  and  kissed 
it  twice.  Here,  Billy,  said  he.  The  boy  flew  across 
the  room  to  the  bedside,  and  falling  down  upon  his 
knee,  took  the  ring  in  his  hand,  and  kissed  it  too ; 
then  kissed  his  father,  and  sat  down  upon  the  bed  and 
wept. 

I wi.sh,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  with  a deep  sigh — I 
wish.  Trim,  I was  asleep.  Your  honour,  replied  the 
corporal,  is  too  much  concerned.  Shall  I pour  your 
honour  out  a glass  of  sack  to  your  pipe  2 Do,  Trim, 
said  my  uncle  Toby. 

I remember,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  sighing  again,  the 
story  of  the  ensign  and  his  wife,  with  a circumstance 
his  modesty  omitted ; and  particularly  well  that  he, 
.as  well  as  she,  upon  some  account  or  other,  I forget 
what,  was  universally  pitied  by  the  whole  regiment ; 
but  finish  the  story  thou  art  upon.  ’Tis  finished 
already,  said  the  corporal,  for  I could  stay  no  longer; 
so  wished  his  honour  a good  night.  Young  Le  Fevre 
rose  from  off  the  bed,  and  saw  me  to  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs ; and  as  we  went  down  together,  told  me 
they  had  come  from  Ireland,  and  were  on  their  route 
to  join  the  regiment  in  F'landers.  But,  alas  ! said  the 
corporal,  the  lieutenant’s  last  day’s  march  is  over. 
Then  what  is  to  become  of  his  poor  boy*  cried  my 
uncle  Toby. 

It  was  to  my  uncle  Toby’s  eternal  honour — though 
I tell  it  only  for  the  sake  of  those,  who,  when  cooped 
in  betwixt  a natural  and  a positive  law,  know  not  for 
their  souls  which  way  in  the  world  to  turn  themselves 
— that,  notwithstanding  my  uncle  Toby  was  warmly 
engaged  at  that  time  in  carrying  on  the  siege  of  Den- 
derraond,  parallel  with  the  allie.s,  who  pre.ssed  theirs 
on  .so  vigorously  that  they  scarce  allowed  him  time  to 
get  his  dinner — that  nevertheless  he  gave  up  Dender- 
inond,  though  he  had  already  made  a lodgment  upon 
the  counterscarp — and  bent  his  whole  thoughts  to- 
wards the  private  distresses  at  the  inn  ; and  except 
that  he  ordered  the  garden  gate  to  be  bolted  up,  by 
which  he  might  be  said  to  have  turned  the  siege  ot 
Dendermond  into  a blockade,  he  left  Dendermond  to 
itself,  to  be  relieved  or  not  by  the  French  king  as  the 
French  king  thought  good,  and  only  considered  how 
he  himself  should  relieve  the  poor  lieutenant  and  his 
son.  That  kind  Being,  who  i.s  a friend  to  the  friend- 
less, shall  recompense  thee  for  this. 

Thou  hast  left  this  matter  short,  said  my  uncle 
Toby  to  the  corporal,  as  he  was  putting  him  to  bed  ; 
and  I will  tell  thee  in  what.  Trim.  In  the  first  place, 
when  thou  mad.st  an  offer  of  my  services  to  Le  Fevre 
■ — as  sickness  and  travelling  are  both  expensive,  ard 
thou  knowest  he  was  but  a poor  lieutenant,  with  a 
son  to  subsist  as  well  as  himself  out  of  his  pay — tha' 

173 


FROM  1727 


CV(M.Or/h;i)IA  OK 


TO  1780. 


thou  didst  not  make  an  offer  to  liim  of  iny  i)urso  ; 
heeaiise.  liad  he  stood  in  need,  tiiou  knowest,  'J'rim, 
he  iiad  i)ecn  as  weicoine  to  it  as  myself.  Yoiir  honour 
knows,  said  tlie  corporal,  I liad  no  orders.  True, 
<luotli  my  uncle  Toby,  thou  didst  very  right.  Trim,  as 
a soldier,  hut  certainly  very  wrong  ns  a man. 

In  the  second  place,  for  which  indeed  thou  hast  the 
same  cx(aisc,  continued  my  uncle  Toby,  when  thou 
offeredst  him  whatever  was  in  my  house,  thou  shouldst 
have  offered  him  my  house  too.  A sick  brother  officer 
should  have  the  best  quarters.  Trim  ; and  if  we  had 
him  with  us,  we  could  tend  and  look  to  him.  Thou 
art  an  excellent  nurse  thyself.  Trim;  and  what  with 
thy  care  of  him,  and  the  obi  woman’s,  and  his  boy’s, 
and  mine  together,  we  might  recruit  him  again  at  once, 
I and  set  him  u])on  his  legs.  In  a fortnight  or  three 
I weeks,  added  my  uncle  Toby,  smiling,  he  might  march, 
lie  will  never  march,  an’  please  your  honour,  in  this 
world,  said  the  corporal.  He  wall  march,  said  my 
uncle  Toby,  rising  up  from  the  side  of  the  bed  with 
one  shoe  off.  An’  please  your  honour,  said  the  cor- 
poral, he  will  never  march  but  to  his  grave.  He  .shall 
inarch,  cried  my  uncle  Toby,  marching  the  foot  which 
had  a shoe  on,  though  without  advancing  an  inch — 
he  shall  march  to  his  regiment.  He  cannot  stand  it, 
said  the  corporal.  He  shall  be  supported,  .said  my 
uncle  Toby.  He’ll  drop  at  last,  said  the  corporal; 
and  what  will  become  of  his  boy  ? He  shall  not  drop, 
said  my  uncle  Toby,  firmly.  A-well-o’-day,  do  what 
we  c.an  for  him,  said  Trim,  maintaining  his  point,  the 
poor  soul  will  die.  He  shall  not  die,  by  G — , cried 
my  uncle  Toby.  The  Accusing  Spirit,  which  flew  up 
to  heaven’s  chancery  with  the  oath,  blushed  as  he 
^ave  it  in  ; and  the  Recording  Angel,  as  he  wrote  it 
down,  dropped  a tear  upon  the  word,  and  blotted  it 
out  for  ever. 

kly  uncle  Toby  went  to  his  bureau  ; put  his  purse 
into  his  breeches  pocket ; and  having  ordered  the  cor- 
poral to  go  early  in  the  morning  for  a physician,  he 
went  to  bed,  and  fell  asleep. 

The  sun  looked  bright  the  morning  after  to  every 
eye  in  the  village  but  Le  Fevre’s  and  his  afflicted 
son’s.  The  hand  of  death  pressed  heavy  upon  his 
eyelids,  and  hardly  could  the  wheel  at  the  cistern 
turn  round  its  circle,  when  my  undo  Toby,  who  had 
rose  up  an  hour  before  his  wonted  time,  entered  the 
lieutenant’s  room,  and  without  preface  or  apology 
sat  himself  down  upon  the  chair  by  the  bedside  ; and 
independently  of  all  modes  and  customs,  opened  the 
curtain  in  the  m.anner  an  old  friend  and  brother  officer 
would  have  done  it,  and  asked  him  how  he  did — how 
he  had  rested  in  the  night — what  was  his  complaint 
—where  was  his  pain — and  what  he  could  do  to  help 
him.  And  without  giving  him  time  to  answer  any 
one  of  the  inquiries,  went  on  and  told  him  of  the 
little  plan  which  he  had  been  concerting  with  the  cor- 
poral the  night  before  for  him.  You  shall  go  home 
directly,  Le  Fevre,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  to  my  house, 
and  we’ll  send  for  a doctor  to  see  what’s  the  matter ; 
and  we’ll  have  an  apothecary,  and  the  corporal  shall 
be  your  nurse,  and  I’ll  be  your  servant,  Le  Fevre. 

There  was  a frankness  in  my  uncle  Toby — not  the 
effect  of  familiarity,  but  the  cause  of  it — which  let 
you  at  once  into  his  soul,  and  showed  you  the  good- 
ness of  his  nature ; to  this  there  was  something  in  his 
looks,  and  voice,  and  manner  superadded,  which  eter- 
nally beckoned  to  the  unfortunate  to  come  and  take 
shelter  under  him  ; so  that  before  my  uncle  Toby  had 
half  finished  the  kind  offers  he  was  making  to  the 
father,  had  the  son  insensibly  pressed  up  close  to  his 
knees,  and  had  taken  hold  of  the  breast  of  his  coat, 
and  was  jmlling  it  towards  him.  The  blood  and 
spirits  of  Le  Fevre,  which  were  waxing  cobl  and  slow 
within  him,  and  were  retreating  to  their  last  citadel, 
the  heart,  rallied  back;  the  film  forsook  his  eyes  for  a 
moment ; he  looked  up  wishfully  in  ray  uncle  Toby’s 


face,  then  cast  a look  upon  his  boy ; and  that  liga- 
ment, fine  as  it  was,  was  never  broken.  Nature  in- 
stantly ebbed  again  ; the  film  returned  to  its  place; 
the  pulse  fluttered — sto[>ped — went  on — throbbed — 
stopped  again — moved — stoj)ped.  .Shall  1 go  on?  No. 

[ The  Starllnr/ — Captirity.^ 

[From  the  * Bentirnental  Journey.’] 

And  as  for  the  Rastile,  the  terror  is  in  the  word. 
Make  the  moat  of  it  you  ean,  said  I to  myself,  the 
Rastile  is  but  another  word  for  a tower,  and  a tower  is 
but  another  word  for  a house  you  can’t  get  out  of. 
Mercy  on  the  gouty  ! for  they  are  in  it  twice  a-year ; 
but  with  nine  livres  a day,  and  pen,  and  ink,  and 
paper,  and  patience,  albeit  a man  can’t  get  out,  he 
may  do  very  well  within,  at  least  for  a month  or  six 
weeks  ; at  the  end  of  which,  if  he  is  a harmless  fellow, 
his  innocence  appears,  and  he  comes  out  a better  and 
wiser  man  than  he  went  in. 

I had  some  occasion  (I  forget  what)  to  step  into  the 
court -yard  as  1 settled  this  account ; and  remember  I 
walked  down  stairs  in  no  small  triumph  with  the  con- 
ceit of  my  reasoning.  Reshrew  the  sombre  pencil  ! 
said  I vauntingly,  for  I envy  not  its  powers  wliich 
paints  the  evils  of  life  with  so  hard  and  deadly  a 
colouring.  The  mind  sits  terrified  at  the  objects  she 
has  magnified  herself  and  blackened  : reduce  them  to 
their  proper  size  and  hue,  she  overlooks  them.  ’Tis 
true,  said  I,  correcting  the  proposition,  the  Rastile  is 
not  an  evil  to  be  despised  ; but  strip  it  of  its  towers,  | 
fill  u;>  the  fosse,  unbarricade  the  doors,  call  it  simply 
a confinement,  and  suppose  ’tis  some  tyrant  of  a dis-  ' 
temper  and  not  of  a man  which  holds  you  in  it,  the 
evil  vanishes,  and  you  bear  the  other  half  without  com- 
plaint. I was  interrupted  in  the  heyday  of  this  soli- 
loquy with  a voice  which  I took  to  be  of  a child,  which 
complained  ‘ it  could  not  get  out.’  I looked  up  and 
down  the  passage,  and  seeing  neither  man,  woman,  nor 
child,  I went  out  without  further  attention.  In  my 
return  back  through  the  passage,  I heard  the  same 
words  repeated  twice  over ; and  looking  up,  I saw  it 
was  a starling  hung  in  a little  cage  ; ‘ I can’t  get  out, 

I can’t  get  out,’  said  the  starling.  I stood  looking  at 
the  bird  ; and  to  every  person  who  came  through  the 
passage,  it  ran  fluttering  to  the  side  towards  which 
they  approached  it,  with  the  same  lamentation  of  its 
captivity — ‘ I can’t  get  out,’  .said  the  starling.  God 
help  thee!  said  I,  but  I’ll  let  thee  out,  cost  what  it  , 
will ; so  I turned  about  the  cage  to  get  the  door.  It 
was  twisted  and  double  twisted  so  fast  with  wire  i 
there  was  no  getting  it  open  without  pulling  the  cage 
to  pieces.  I took  both  hands  to  it.  The  bird  flew  to 
the  jilace  where  I was  attempting  his  deliverance,  and 
thrusting  his  head  through  the  trellis,  pre.ssed  his  I 
breast  against  it  as  if  imp.atient ; I fear,  poor  crea-  | 
ture,  said  I,  I cannot  set  thee  at  liberty.  ‘ No,’  said  j 
the  starling,  ‘ 1 can’t  get  out ; I can’t  get  out,’  said  i 
the  starling.  I vow  I never  had  my  aflections  more  | 
tenderly  awakened  ; or  do  I remember  an  incident  in  i 
my  life  where  the  dissipated  spirits,  to  which  ray  { 
reason  had  been  a bubble,  were  so  sudilenly  called  ' 
home.  Mechanical  as  the  notes  were,  yet  so  true  in  [ 
tune  to  nature  were  they  chanted,  that  in  one  moment 
they  overthrew  all  my  .systematic  reasonings  upon  the 
Rastile ; and  I heavily  walked  up  stairs,  un.saying 
everv  word  I had  said  in  going  down  them. 

Disguise  thyself  as  thou  wilt,  still  Slavery,  said 
I,  still  thou  art  a bitter  draught ; and  though  thou- 
sands in  all  ages  have  been  made  to  drinlc  of  thee, 
thou  art  no  less  bitter  on  that  account.  ’Tis  thou, 
thrice  sweet  ami  gracious  goddess,  addressing  myself 
to  Libert}',  whom  all  in  public  or  in  private  worship, 
whose  taste  is  grateful,  and  ever  will  be  so,  till  nature 
herself  shall  charig'e  ; no  tint  of  words  can  spot  thv 
snowv  mantle,  or  cheinic  power  turn  thy  sceptre  into 

174 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LI 


iron  ; with  thee  to  smile  upon  him  as  lie  eats  his 
crust,  the  swain  is  happier  than  his  monarch,  from 
whose  court  thou  art cxileJ.  Gracious  Heaven!  cried 
I,  kneeling  down  upon  the  hast  step  but  one  in  my 
ascent,  grant  me  but  health,  thou  great  bestower  of  it, 
and  give  me  but  this  fair  goddess  as  my  companion, 
and  sliower  down  thy  mitres,  if  it  seem  good  unto  thy 
divine  providence,  upon  those  heads  which  are  aching 
for  them. 

The  bird  in  his  cage  jiursued  me  into  my  room.  I 
sat  down  close  to  my  table,  and  leaning  my  head  upon 
my  hand,  1 began  to  figure  to  myself  the  miseries  of 
confinement.  1 was  in  a right  frame  for  it,  and  so  I 
gave  full  scope  to  my  imagination.  1 was  going  to 
begin  with  the  millions  of  my  fellow-creatures  born  to 
no  inheritance  but  slavery ; but  finding,  however  af- 
fecting the  picture  was,  that  I could  not  bring  it  near 
me,  and  that  the  multitude  of  sad  groups  in  it  did  but 
distract  me,  I took  a single  captive,  and  having  first 
shut  him  up  in  his  dungeon,  I then  looked  through 
the  twilight  of  his  grated  door  to  take  his  picture.  I 
beheld  his  body  half- wasted  away  with  long  expecta- 
tion and  confinement,  and  felt  what  kind  of  sickness 
of  the  heart  it  was  which  arises  from  hope  deferred. 
Upon  looking  nearer,  I saw  him  pale  and  feverish  ; in 
thirty  years  the  western  breeze  had  not  once  fanned 
his  blood  ; he  had  seen  no  sun,  no  moon,  in  all  that 
time,  nor  had  the  voice  of  friend  or  kinsman  breathed 
through  his  lattice ; his  children — but  here  my  heart 
I began  to  bleed,  and  I was  forced  to  go  on  with  another 
j part  of  the  portrait.  He  was  sitting  upon  the  ground 
\ upon  a little  straw,  in  the  furthest  comer  of  his 
j dungeon,  which  was  alternately  his  chair  and  bed : 

I a little  calendar  of  small  sticks  lay  at  the  head, 
j notched  all  over  with  the  dismal  days  and  nights  he 
I had  passed  there  ; he  had  one  of  these  little  sticks  in 
his  hand,  and  with  a rusty  nail  he  was  etching  another 
day  of  misery  to  add  to  the  heap.  As  1 darkened  the 
little  light  he  had,  he  lifted  up  a hopeless  eye  towards 
the  door,  then  cast  it  down,  shook  his  head,  and  went 
on  with  his  work  of  affliction.  I heard  his  chains 
upon  his  legs,  as  he  turned  his  body  to  lay  his  little 
stick  upon  the  bundle.  He  gave  a deep  sigh : I saw 
the  iron  enter  into  his  soul.  I burst  into  tears ; I 
could  not  sustain  the  picture  of  confinement  which 
my  fancy  had  drawn. 

lA  French  Peasant's  Supper."] 

A shoe  coming  loose  from  the  fore-foot  of  the  thill- 
horse,  at  the  beginning  of  the  ascent  of  Mount  Taurira, 
the  postilion  dismounted,  twisted  the  shoe  off,  and  put 
it  in  his  pocket.  As  the  ascent  was  of  five  or  six  miles, 
and  that  horse  our  main  dependence,  I made  a point 
of  having  the  shoe  fastened  on  again  as  well  as  we 
could  ; but  the  postilion  had  thrown  away  the  nails, 
and  the  hammer  in  the  chaise-box  being  of  no  great 
use  without  them,  I submitted  to  go  on.  He  had  not 
mounted  half  a mile  higher,  when,  coming  to  a flinty 
piece  of  road,  the  poor  devil  lost  a second  shoe,  and 
from  off  his  other  fore-foot.  I then  got  out  of  the 
chaise  in  good  earnest ; and  seeing  a house  about  a 
quarter  of  a mile  to  the  left  hand,  with  a great  deal 
to  do  I prevailed  upon  the  postilion  to  turn  up  to  it. 
Tiie  look  of  the  house,  and  of  everything  about  it,  as 
we  drew  nearer,  soon  reconciled  me  to  the  disaster.  It 
was  a little  farm-house,  surrounded  with  about  twenty 
acres  of  vineyard,  about  as  much  com  ; and  close  to 
the  house  on  one  side  was  a potagerie  of  an  acre  and 
a-half,  full  of  everything  which  could  make  plenty  in 
a French  peasant’s  house  ; and  on  the  other  side  was  a 
little  wood,  which  furnished  wherewithal  to  dress  it. 
It  was  about  eight  in  the  evening  when  I got  to  the 
house  ; so  I left  the  postilion  to  manage  his  point  as 
he  could,  and  for  mine,  I walked  directly  into  the 
house. 


TEllATURE.  Dn  savuel  Johnson. 


The  family  consisted  of  an  old  grayheaded  man  and 
his  wife,  with  five  or  six  sons  and  sons-in-law  and 
their  several  wives,  and  a joyous  genealogy  out  of 
them.  They  were  all  sitting  down  together  to  their 
lentil-soup;  a large  wheaten  loaf  was  in  the  middle 
of  the  table ; and  a flagon  of  wine  at  each  end  of  it 
promised  joy  through  the  stages  of  the  rejiast ; ’twas 
a feast  of  love.  The  old  man  rose  up  to  meet  me,  and 
with  a respectful  cordiality  would  have  me  sit  down 
at  the  table ; my  heart  was  set  down  the  moment  1 
entered  the  room,  so  I sat  down  at  once  like  a son  of 
the  family  ; and  to  invest  myself  in  the  character  as 
speedily  as  1 could,  I instantly  borrowed  the  old  man’s 
knife,  and  taking  up  the  loaf,  cut  myself  a hearty 
luncheon  ; and  as  I did  it,  I saw  a testimony  in  every 
eye,  not  only  of  an  honest  welcome,  but  of  a welcome 
mixed  with  thanks  that  I had  not  seemed  to  doubt  it. 
Was  it  this,  or  tell  me  Nature  what  else  it  was,  that 
made  this  morsel  so  sweet ; and  to  what  magic  I owe 
it,  that  the  draught  I took  of  their  flagon  was  so  de- 
licious with  it,  that  they  remain  upon  iny  palate  to 
this  hour?  If  the  supper  was  to  my  taste,  the  grace 
which  followed  it  was  much  more  so. 

When  supper  was  c ver,  the  old  man  gave  a knock 
upon  the  table  with  the  haft  of  his  knife,  to  bid  them 
prepare  for  the  dance.  The  moment  the  signal  was 
given,  the  women  and  girls  ran  all  together  into  a 
back  apartment  to  tie  up  their  hair,  and  the  young 
men  to  the  door  to  wash  their  faces  and  change  their 
sabots ; and  in  three  minutes  every  soul  was  ready, 
upon  a little  esplanade  before  the  house,  to  begin. 
The  old  man  and  his  wife  came  out  last,  and  placing 
me  betwixt  them,  sat  down  upon  a sofa  of  turf  by  the 
door.  The  old  man  had  some  fifty  years  ago  been  no 
mean  performer  upon  the  vielle ; and  at  the  age  he 
was  then  of,  touched  it  well  enough  for  the  purpose. 
His  wife  sung  now  and  then  a little  to  the  tune,  then 
intermitted,  and  joined  her  old  man  again  as  their 
children  and  grandchildren  danced  before  them. 

It  was  not  till  the  middle  of  the  second  dance, 
when,  for  some  pauses  in  the  movement,  wherein  they 
all  seemed  to  look  up,  I fancied  I could  distinguish 
an  elevation  of  spirit  different  from  that  which  is  the 
cause  or  the  effect  of  simple  jollity.  In  a word,  I 
thought  I beheld  Religion  mixing  in  the  dance ; but 
as  I had  never  seen  her  so  engaged,  I should  have 
looked  upon  it  now  as  one  of  the  illu.sions  of  an  ima- 
gination which  is  eternally  misleading  me,  had  not 
the  old  man,  as  soon  as  the  dance  ended,  said  that 
this  was  their  constant  way ; and  that  all  his  life 
long  he  had  made  it  a rule,  after  supper  was  over, 
to  call  out  his  family  to  dance  and  rejoice  ; believing, 
he  said,  that  a cheerful  and  contented  mind  was  the 
best  sort  of  thanks  to  Heaven  that  an  illiterate  pea- 
sant could  pay.  Or  a learned  prelate  either,  said  I. 

DR  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

In  1759  Dr  Johnson  published  his  morai  tale  of 
Rassclas,  which  he  wrote  in  the  nights  of  one  week 
to  defray  the  expenses  of  his  mother’s  funeral.  The 
scene  is  laid  in  the  east,  but  the  author  makes  no 
attempt  to  portray  the  minutite  of  eastern  manners. 
It  is  in  fact  a series  of  essays  on  various  subjects  of 
morality  and  religion — on  the  efficacy  of  pilgrim- 
ages, the  state  of  departed  souls,  the  probability  of 
the  re-appearance  of  the  dead,  the  dangers  of  soli- 
tude, &c.,  on  all  which  the  philosopher  and  pri  ice  of 
Abyssinia  talk  exactly  as  Johnson  talked  for  more 
than  twenty  years  in  his  house  at  Bolt  Court,  or  in  the 
club.  Toung  said  ‘Rasselas’  was  a ‘mass  of  sense,’ 
and  its  moral  precepts  are  certainly  conveyed  in 
striking  and  happy  language.  The  mad  astrono- 
mer, who  imagined  that  he  possessed  the  regulation 
of  the  w'eather  and  the  distribution  of  the  seasons,  is 
an  original  character  in  romance,  and  the  happy 

175 


FROM  1727  CYCLOP7EDIA  OF  to  1780. 


vallc-y,  ill  wliicli  ‘ llasscl.as’  resides,  is  sketehed  witli 
I poetical  feeliiif'.  'J'lie  liabitiial  imdanelioly  of  Jidm- 
Bon  is  apparent  in  this  work — as  wlien  he  nobly 
apostropliises  the  river  Nile — ‘ Answer,  great  Fa- 
tlier  of  waters  ! tium  that  rollest  tliy  floods  through 
eighty  nations,  to  tlie  invocations  of  the  daughter  of 
tliy  native  king.  Tell  me  if  thou  waterest,  through 
all  thy  course,  a single  habitation  from  which  thou 
(lost  not  hear  the  murmurs  of  complaint.’  When 
Johnson  afterwards  penned  his  depreciatory  criti- 
cism of  Gray,  and  upbraided  him  for  ai>ostrophising 
the  Thames,  adding  coarsely,  ‘Father  Thames  has 
no  better  means  of  knowing  than  himself,’  he  forgot 
that  he  had  written  ‘liasselas.’ 

CIIAIU.es  JOHNSTONE. 

Tn  1700  The  Adventures  of  a Guinea,  by  Charees 
Johnstone,  .amused  the  towm  by  its  sketches  of 
contemporary  satire.  A second  edition  was  pub- 
lished the  same  year,  and  a third  in  1761,  when  the 
nuthor  considerably  augmented  the  work.  John- 
stone published  other  novels,  which  are  now  utterly 
forgotten.  He  went  to  India  in  1782,  and  was  a jiro- 
prietor  of  one  of  the  Bengal  newspapers.  lie  died 
in  1800.  As  Dr  Johnson  (to  whom  the  manuscript 
was  shown  by  the  bookseller)  advised  the  publica- 
tion of  ‘ The  Adventures  of  a Guinea,’  and  as  it  e.x- 
perienced  considerable  success,  the  novel  may  be 
presumed  to  have  possessed  superior  merit.  It  e.xhi- 
bits  a variety  of  incidents,  related  in  the  style  of  Le 
Sage  and  Smollett,  hut  the  satirical  portraits  are  over- 
charged, anil  the  author,  like  Juvena.,  was  too  fond  of 
lashing  anil  exaggerating  the  vices  of  his  age.  One 
of  the  critics  of  the  novel  says,  ‘ it  leads  us  along  all 
the'gloomy,  and  foul,  and  noisome  passages  of  life, 
and  we  escape  from  it  with  the  feeling  of  relief  with 
which  we  would  emerge  from  a vault  in  which  the 
air  was  loaded  with  noxious  vapours.’  To  such 
satirists  who  only  paint 

The  baser  sides  of  literature  and  life, 

may  bo  contrasted  the  healthy  tone  of  feeling  evinced 
by  Fielding  and  Smollett,  and  the  playful  sarcastic 
wit  of  Sterne. 

HORACE  WALPOLE. 

In  1764  Horace  Walpole  revived  the  Gothic 
romance  in  his  interesting  little  story,  The  Castle  of 
OtroHto,  Avhich  he  at  first  published  anonymously,  as 
a work  found  in  the  library  of  an  ancient  Catholic 


family  in  the  north  of  Engl.and,  and  printed  at  Naples 
in  the  black  letter  in  1 529.  ‘ I wished  it  to  be  believed 
ancient,’  he  said,  ‘ and  almost  everybody  was  im- 
posed upon.’  The  tale  was  so  well  received  by  the 
public,  that  a second  edition  was  soon  called  for,  to 
wliicli  tlie  author  prefixed  his  name.  Though  de- 
signed to  blend  the  two  kinds  of  romance — the  an- 
cient. in  which  all  was  imagination  and  improb.abi- 
hty,  and  the  modern,  in  which  mature  is  copied,  the 
[leciiliar  taste  of  Walpole,  who  loved  to  ‘gaze  on 
Gothic  toys  through  Gothic  glass,’  and  the  nature  of 
his  subject,  led  him  to  give  the  preponderance  to  the 
antique.  The  ancient  romances  have  nothing  more 
incredible  than  a sword  which  required  a hundred 
men  to  lift  it;  a helmet,  that  by  its  own  weight 
forces  a passage  through  a court-yard  into  an 
\rcncd  vault,  big  enough  for  a man  to  go  through;  a 


picture  that  walks  out  of  its  frame,  or  a skeleton'* 
ghost  ill  a hermit’s  cowl.  Where  Walpole  has  iiii- 
[iroved  on  the  incredible  and  mysterious,  is  in  his 
dialogues  and  style,  whi(!h  are  pure  and  dramatic  in 
effect,  and  in  the  more  delicate  and  picturesque  tone 
which  he  has  given  to  chivalrous  manners.  Wal- 
pole was  the  third  son  of  the  Whig  minister.  Sir 
llobert  Wal[)ole;  was  born  in  1717,  became  fourth 
Karl  of  Orford  1791,  and  died  in  1797  ; having  not 
only  outlived  most  of  his  illustrious  contemporaries, 
but  recorded  their  weaknesses  and  failings,  their 
private  history  and  peculiarities,  in  his  uiirivalle(j 
correspondence. 


Strawberry  Hill,  near  Twickenham  ; the  residence 
of  Horace  Walpole. 


In  the  spring  of  1766  c.ame  out  a tale  of  about 
equal  dimensions  with  Walpole’s  Gothic  story,  but 
as  different  in  its  nature  as  an  English  cottage  or 
villa,  with  its  honey-suckle  hedge,  wall-roses,  neat 
garden,  and  general  air  of  beauty  and  comfort,  is 
from  a gloomy  feudal  tower,  with  its  dark  walls, 
moat,  and  draMbridge.  We  allude  to  Gold.smith’s 
Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Though  written  two  years 
before,  and  sold  for  sixty  guineas,  the  bookseller  had 
kept  it  back,  doubtful  of  success,  till  the  publication 
of  The  Traveller  had  given  Goldsmith  a name.  Its 
reception  by  the  public  must  have  been  an  agreeable 
surprise.  The  first  edition  was  puldished  on  the 
27th  of  March,  a second  was  called  for  in  May,  and 
a third  in  August  of  the  same  year.  AVhat  reader 
could  be  insensible  to  the  charms  of  a work  so  full 
of  kindliness,  benevolence,  taste,  and  genius  ? By 
that  species  of  ment.al  chemistry  which  he  under- 
stood as  well  as  Sterne,  Goldsmith  extracted  the 
essence  of  character,  separating  from  it  what  was 
trite  and  worthless,  and  presenting  in  incredibly 
small  space  a tinisbed  representation,  bland,  humo- 
rous, siniide,  absurd,  or  elevated,  as  the  story  might 
require.  The  passions  were  equally  at  his  iiidding 
within  that  confined  sphere  to  which  he  limited 
their  range;  and  a life  of  observation  and  reading 
(though  foolish  in  action)  supplied  him  with  a preg- 
nancy of  thought  and  illustration,  the  full  value  of 

176 


HOTKtlSTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HENRY  MACKENZIE. 


which  is  scarcely  appreciated  on  account  of  tlie  ex- 
treme simplicity  of  the  language.  Among  tlie  in- 
cidental remarks  in  the  volume,  for  example,  are 
some  on  the  state  of  the  criminal  law  of  England, 
w'lich  show  how  completely  Goldsmith  had  autici- 


Oliver  Goldsmith. 


pated  and  directed  (in  better  language  than  any 
senator  has  since  employed  on  the  subject)  all  that 
parliament  has  effected  in  the  reformation  of  our 
criminal  code.  These  short,  philosophical,  and  critical 
dissertations,  always  arise  naturally  out  of  the  pro- 
gress of  the  tale.  The  character  of  the  vicar  gives 
the  chief  interest  to  the  family  group,  though  the 
peculiarities  of  Mrs  Primrose,  as  her  boasted  skill  in 
housewifery,  her  motlierly  vanity  and  desire  to  ap- 
pear genteel,  are  finely  brought  out,  and  reproduced 
in  her  daughters.  The  vicar’s  support  of  the 
Whistonian  theory  as  to  marriage,  that  it  was  un- 
lawful for  a priest  of  the  church  of  England,  after 
the  death  of  his  first  wife,  to  take  a second,  to 
illustrate  which  he  had  his  wife’s  epitaph  written 
and  placed  over  the  chimney-piece,  is  a touch  of 
humour  and  individuality  that  has  never  been 
excelled.  Another  weakness  of  the  worthy  vicar 
was  the  literary  vanity  which,  notwithstanding  his 
real  learning,  led  him  to  be  imposed  upon  by  Jen- 
kinson  in  the  affair  of  the  cosmogony  ; but  these 
drawbacks  only  serve  to  endear  him  more  closely 
to  his  readers ; and  when  distress  falls  upon  the 
virtuous  houseliold,  the  noble  fortitude  and  resigna- 
tion of  the  principal  sufferer,  and  the  eflBcacy  of  his 
example,  form  one  of  the  most  affecting  and  even 
sublime  moral  pictures.  The  numberless  little  traits 
of  character,  patlietic  and  lively  incidents,  and 
sketches  of  manners — as  the  family  of  the  Flam- 
boroughs,  the  quiet  pedantry  and  simplicity  of 
Moses,  with  his  bargain  of  the  shagreen  spectacles ; 
the  family  picture,  in  which  Mrs  Primrose  was 
painted  as  Venus,  and  the  vicar,  in  gown  and  band, 
presenting  to  her  his  books  on  the  Whistonian  con- 
troversy, and  which  picture,  when  completed,  was 
too  large  for  the  house,  and  like  Robinson  Crusoe’s 
longboat,  could  not  be  removed— all  mark  the  per- 
fect art  as  well  as  nature  of  this  domestic  novel. 
That  Goldsmith  derived  many  of  his  incidents  from 
actual  occurrences  which  he  had  witnessed,  is  gene- 
rally admitted.  The  story  of  George  Primrose,  parti- 
cularly his  gojng  to  Amsterdam  to  teach  the  Dutch- 

Si 


men  English,  without  recollecting  that  he  shoidd  first 
know  something  of  Dutch  himself,  seems  an  exact 
transcript  of  the  author’s  early  adventures  and 
blundering  simplicity.  Though  Goldsmith  carefully 
corrected  tlie  language  of  his  miniature  romance  in 
the  different  editions,  he  did  not  meddle  with  the  in- 
cidents, so  that  some  improbabilities  remain.  These, 
however,  have  no  effect  on  the  reader,  in  diminish- 
ing for  a moment  the  interest  of  the  work,  which 
must  .always  be  considered  one  of  the  most  chaste 
and  beautiful  offerings  which  the  genius  of  fiction 
ever  presented  at  the  shrine  of  virtue. 

In  the  same  year  with  the  ‘Vicar  of  Wakefield,’ 
a domestic  novel,  in  five  volumes,  The  Fool  of  Quality,  j 
was  published  by  a countryman  of  Goldsmith, 
Henry  Brooke  (1706-1783),  who  was  the  author  of 
several  dramatic  pieces,  and  of  a poem  on  Universal 
Beauty,  which  anticipated  the  style  of  Darwin’s 
‘ Botanic  Garden.’  The  poetry  and  prose  of  Brooke 
have  both  fallen  into  obscurity,  but  his  novel  was 
popular  in  its  day,  and  contains  several  pleasing  and 
instructive  sketches,  chiefly  designed  for  the  young. 

HENRY  MACKENZIE. 

The  most  successful  imitator  of  Sterne  in  senti- 
ment, pathos,  and  style ; his  superior  in  taste  and 
delicacy,  but  greatly  inferior  to  him  in  originality, 
force,  and  humour,  was  Henry  Mackenzie,  long 
the  ornament  of  the  literary  circles  of  Edinburgh. 

If  Mackenzie  was  inferior  to  his  prototype  in  the 
essentials  of  genius,  he  enjoyed  an  exemption  from 
its  follies  and  sufferings,  and  passed  a tranquil  and 
prosperous  life,  which  was  prolonged  to  far  beyond 
the  Psalmist’s  cycle  of  threescore  and  ten.  Mr 
Mackenzie  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  August  1745, 
and  was  the  son  of  Dr  Joshua  Mackenzie,  a respect- 
able physician.  He  was  educated  at  the  High-schooi 
and  university  of  Edinburgh,  and  afterwards  studied 
the  law  in  his  native  city.  Tlie  legal  department  i 
selected  by  Mackenzie  was  the  business  of  the  Ex-  i 

chequer  court,  and  to  improve  him  in  tliis  he  went  ! 
to  London  in  1765,  and  studied  the  English  Ex-  | 
chequer  practice.  Returning  to  Edinburgh,  he 
mixed  in  its  hterary  circles,  which  then  numbered  ; 
the  great  names  of  Hume,  Robertson,  Adam  Smith,  ' 
Blair,  &c.  In  1771  appeared  his  novel,  The  Man  \ 
of  Feeling,  which  was  afterwards  followed  by  The  | 
Man  of  the  World,  and  Julia  de  Itoubigne.  He  was,  ! 
as  we  have  previously  stated,  the  principal  contri- 
butor to  the  ‘ Mirror’  and  ‘ Lounger,’  and  he  wrote  ' 
some  dram.atic  pieces,  which  were  brouglit  out  at 
Edinburgh  with  but  indifferent  success.  The  style 
and  diction  of  Mackenzie  are  always  choice,  elegant, 
and  expressive,  but  he  wanted  power.  It  may  seem 
strange  that  a novelist  so  eminently  sentimental 
and  refined  should  have  ventured  to  write  on  poli- 
tical subjects,  but  Mackenzie  supported  the  govern- 
ment of  Mr  Pitt  with  some  pamphlets  written 
with  great  acuteness  and  discrimination.  In  re.al 
life  the  novelist  was  shrewd  and  practical : he  had 
early  exhausted  his  vein  of  romance,  and  was  an 
active  man  of  business.  In  1804  the  government 
appointed  him  to  the  office  of  comptroller  of  taxes 
for  Scotland,  which  entailed  upon  him  considerable 
labour  and  drudgery,  but  was  highly  lucrative.  In 
this  situation,  with  a numerous  family  (Mr  Mac- 
kenzie had  married  Miss  Penuel  Grant,  daughter  of 
Sir  Ludovic  Grant,  of  Grant),  enjoying  the  society 
of  his  friends  and  his  favourite  sports  of  the  field, 
writing  occasionally  on  subjects  of  taste  and  litera- 
ture— ^for  he  said,  ‘ the  old  stump  would  still  occa- 
sionally send  forth  a few  green  shoots’ — the  Man 
of  Feeling  lived  to  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-six,  ' 
and  died  on  the  14th  of  January  1831.  ! 

17’  ! 


FROM  1727  CYCLOl’JKDIA  OF  to  1780. 

Tlie  first  novel  of  Mackenzie  is  the  best  of  his 
works,  unless  we  excejit  some  of  his  short  contribu- 
tions to  the  ‘ Mirror’  ami  ‘ Lounger’  (as  the  tale  of  La 
Hoche),  which  fully  supported  his  fame,  'fhere  is 
no  regular  story  in  ‘ The  Man  of  Feeling,’  but  the 
character  of  Harley,  his  purity  of  mind,  and  his 
bashfulness,  caused  by  excessive  delicacy,  interest 
the  reader  from  the  commencement  of  the  tale.  His 
adventures  in  London,  the  talk  of  club  and  park 
frequenters,  his  visit  to  bedlam,  and  his  relief  of  the 
old  soldier,  Atkins,  and  his  daughter,  though  partly 
formed  on  the  affected  sentimental  style  of  the 
inferior  romances,  evince  a facility  in  moral  and 
pathetic  painting  that  was  then  only  surpassed  by 
Richardson.  His  humour  is  chaste  and  natural. 
Harley  fails,  as  might  be  expected  from  his  diffident 
and  retiring  character,  in  securing  the  patronage  of 
the  great  in  London,  and  he  returns  to  the  coun- 
try, meeting  with  .some  adventures  by  the  way 
that  illustrate  his  fine  sensibility  and  benevolence. 
Though  bashful,  Harley  is  not  effeminate,  and  there 
are  bursts  of  manly  feeling  and  generous  sentiment 
throughout  the  work,  which  at  once  elevate  the 
character  of  the  hero,  and  relieve  the  prevailing 
tone  of  pathos  in  the  novel.  ‘ The  Man  of  the 
World’  has  less  of  the  discursive  manner  of  Sterne, 
but  the  character  of  Sir  'riiomas  Sindall — the  Love- 
lace of  the  novel — seems  forced  and  unnatural.  His 
plots  against  the  family  of  Annesly,  and  his  at- 
tempted seduction  of  Lucy  (after  an  interval  of 
some  eighteen  or  twenty  years),  show  a deliberate 
villany  and  disregard  of  public  opinion,  which,  con- 
sidering his  rank  and  position  in  the  world,  appears 
1 improbable.  His  death-bed  sensibility  and  penitence 
I are  undoubtedly  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest  of  his 
character.  The  adventures  of  young  Annesly  among 
the  Indians  are  interesting  and  romantic,  and  are 
described  with  much  spirit : his  narrative,  indeed, 
is  one  of  the  freest  and  boldest  of  Mackenzie’s 
sketches.  ‘ Julia  de  Roubigne’  is  still  more  melan- 
choly than  ‘ The  Man  of  the  World.’  It  has  no 
gorgeous  descriptions  or  imaginative  splendour  to 
relieve  the  misery  and  desolation  which  overtake  a 
group  of  innocent  beings,  whom  for  their  virtues  the 
reader  would  wish  to  see  happy.  It  is  a domestic 
tragedy  of  the  deepest  kind,  without  much  discri- 
mination of  character  or  skill  in  the  plot,  and 
oppressive  from  its  scenes  of  unmerited  and  unmi- 
tigated distress.  We  wake  from  the  perusal  of  the 
tale  as  from  a painful  dream,  conscious  that  it  has 
no  reality,  and  thankful  that  its  morbid  excitement 
is  over.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  in  this  novel 
Mackenzie  was  one  of  the  first  to  denounce  the 
system  of  slave-labour  in  the  West  Indies. 

‘ I have  often  been  tempted  to  doubt,’  says  one  of 
' the  characters  in  Julia  de  Roubigne.  ‘whether 
1 there  is  not  an  error  in  the  whole  plan  of  negro 
servitude ; and  whether  whites  or  creoles  born  in 
the  West  Indies,  or  perhaps  cattle,  after  the  man- 
ner of  European  husbandry,  would  not  do  the  busi- 
ness better  and  cheaper  than  the  slaves  do.  The 
money  which  the  tatter  cost  at  first,  the  sickness 
(often  owing  to  despondency  of  mind)  to  which  they 
are  liable  after  their  arrival,  and  the  proportion  that 
die  in  consequence  of  it,  make  the  machine,  if  it 
may  be  so  called,  of  a plantation,  extremely  expen- 
sive in  its  operations.  In  the  list  of  slaves  belong- 
ing to  a wealthy  planter,  it  would  astonish  you  to 
see  the  number  unfit  for  service,  pining  under 
disease,  a burden  on  their  master.  I am  only  talking 
as  a merchant ; but  as  a man — good  heavens ! when 
I think  of  the  many  thousands  of  my  fellow-crea- 
tures groaning  under  servitude  and  misery  ! — great 
God  ! hast  thou  peopled  those  regiops  of  thy  world 
fi'r  the  purpose  of  casting  out  their  inhabitants  to 

chains  and  torture ? No;  tliou  gavest  them  a land 
teeming  with  g(xal  things,  and  ligbtedst  up  thy  sun 
to  bring  forth  si)ontaneous  plenty  ; but  the  refine- 
ments of  man,  ever  at  war  with  thy  works,  have 
change<i  this  scene  of  j>rofusion  and  luxuriance  into 
a theatre  of  rapine,  of  slavery,  and  of  murder  ! 

Forgive  the  warmth  of  this  apostrophe  ! Here  it 
would  not  be  understood ; even  my  uncle,  whose 
heart  is  far  from  a liard  one,  would  smile  at  my 
romance,  and  tell  me  that  tilings  must  be  so.  Habit, 
the  tyrant  of  nature  and  of  reason,  is  deaf  to  the 
voice  of  either ; here  she  stitles  humanity  and  de- 
bases the  species — for  the  master  of  slaves  has  sel- 
dom the  soul  of  a man.’ 

We  add  a siiecimen  of  the  humorous  and  the 
pathetic  manner  of  Mackenzie  from  ‘ The  Man  of 
Feeling.’ 

[Harley  Sets  Out  on  his  Journey — 7%e  lieyyar  and 
his  Doy.'] 

He  had  taken  leave  of  his  aunt  on  the  eve  of  his 
intended  departure  ; but  the  good  lady’s  affection 
for  her  nephew  interrupted  her  sleep,  and  early  as  it 
was,  next  inoniing  wiien  Harley  came  down  stairs  to 
set  out,  he  found  her  in  the  parlour  with  a tear  on 
her  cheek,  and  her  caudle-cup  in  her  hand.  She 
knew  enough  of  physic  to  pre.scribe  against  going 
abroad  of  a morning  with  an  empty  stomach.  She 
gave  her  blessing  with  the  draught ; her  instructions  | 
she  had  delivered  the  night  before.  They  consisted  ' 
mostly  of  negatives ; for  London,  in  her  idea,  was  so  i 
replete  with  temptations,  that  it  needed  the  whole  j 
armour  of  her  friendly  cautions  to  repel  their  attacks.  [ 

Peter  stood  at  the  door.  We  have  mentioned  this  1 
faithful  fellow  formerly.  Harley’s  father  had  taken  I 
him  up  an  orphan,  and  saved  him  from  being  cast 
on  the  parish  ; and  he  had  ever  since  remained  in 
the  service  of  him  and  of  his  son.  Harley  shook  him  j 
by  the  hand  as  he  passed,  smiling,  as  if  he  had  said, 

‘ I will  not  weep.’  He  sprung  hastily  into  the  chaise  | 
that  waited  for  him  ; Peter  folded  up  the  step.  ‘ hly  | 
dear  master,’  said  he,  shaking  the  .solitary  lock  that 
hung  on  either  side  of  his  head,  ‘ I have  been  told  as 
how  London  is  a sad  place.’  He  was  choked  with 
the  thought,  and  his  benediction  could  not  be  heard. 
But  it  .shall  be  heard,  honest  Peter ! where  these  tears 
will  add  to  its  energy. 

In  a few  hours  Harley  reached  the  inn  where  he 
proposed  breakfasting ; but  the  fulness  of  his  heart 
would  not  suffer  him  to  eat  a morsel.  He  walked  | 
out  on  the  road,  and  gaining  a little  height,  stood  | 
gazing  on  the  quarter  he  had  left.  He  looked  for  his 
wonted  prospect,  his  fields,  his  woods,  and  his  liills : 1 

they  were  lost  in  the  distant  clouds ! He  pencilled 
them  on  the  clouds,  and  bade  them  farewell  with  a 
sigh  ! 

He  sat  down  on  a large  stone  to  take  out  a little 
pebble  from  his  shoe,  when  he  saw,  at  some  distance, 
a beggar  approaching  him.  He  had  on  a loose  sort  of 
coat,  mended  with  different-coloured  rags,  amongst 
which  the  blue  and  the  russet  were  the  predominant. 

He  had  a short  knotty  stick  in  his  hand,  and  on  the 
top  of  it  was  stuck  a ram’s  horn  ; his  knees  (though 
he  was  no  pilgrim)  had  worn  the  stuff  of  his  breeches  ; 
he  wore  no  shoes,  and  his  stockings  had  entirely  lost 
that  part  of  them  which  should  have  covered  his  feet  1 
and  ankles.  In  his  face,  however,  was  the  plump  | 
appearance  of  good  humour  : he  walked  a good  round 
pace,  and  a crooked-legged  dog  trotted  at  his  heels. 

‘ Our  delicacies,’  said  Harley  to  himself,  ‘ are  fan- 
tastic : they  are  not  in  nature!  that  beggar  walks 
over  the  sharpest  of  these  stones  barefooted,  while 
1 have  lost  the  most  delightful  dream  in  the  world 
from  the  smallest  of  them  happening  to  get  into 
my  shoe.’  The  beggar  had  by  this  time  come  up, 

178 

- ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ . ■ ■ 

KOTEUSTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HENRY  MACKENZJH. 


and,  pulling  off  a piece  of  hat,  asked  charity  of 
Harley;  the  dog  began  to  beg  too.  It  was  iinpos- 
I Bible  to  resist  both  ; and,  in  truth,  the  want  of  shoes 

' and  stockings  had  made  both  unnecessary,  for  Har- 

ley had  destined  sixpence  for  him  before.  The 
^ beggar,  on  receiving  it,  poured  forth  blessings  with- 
' out  number ; and,  with  a sort  of  smile  on  his  coun- 

. tcnancc,  said  to  Harley,  ‘ that  if  he  wanted  his  for- 
tune told ’ Harley  turned  his  eye  briskly  on  the 

beggar : it  was  an  unpromising  look  for  the  subject 
I of  a prediction,  and  silenced  the  prophet  imme- 
■ diately.  ‘ I would  much  rather  learn,’  said  Harley, 

I ‘ what  it  is  in  your  power  to  tell  me : your  trade  must 

I be  an  entertaining  one : sit  down  on  this  stone,  and 
! let  me  know  something  of  your  profession ; I have 

I often  thought  of  turning  fortune-teller  for  a week  or 

I I two  myself.’ 

I ‘ Master,’  replied  the  beggar,  ‘ I like  your  frankness 

I much  ; God  knows  I had  the  humour  of  plain  dealing 

j in  me  from  a child  ; but  there  is  no  doing  with  it  in 

I I this  world  ; we  must  live  as  we  can,  and  lying  is,  as 
I you  call  it,  my  profession : but  I was  in  some  sort 

forced  to  the  trade,  for  I dealt  once  in  telling  truth. 
I was  a labourer,  sir,  and  gained  as  much  as  to 
make  me  live : I never  laid  by  indeed  ; for  I was 
reckoned  a piece  of  a wag,  and  your  wags,  I take  it, 
are  seldom  rich,  Mr  Harley.’  ‘ So,’  said  Harley,  ‘ you 
seem  to  know  rne.’  ‘ Ay,  there  are  few  folks  in  the 
countrj'  that  I don’t  know  something  of ; how  should 
I tell  fortunes  else  V ‘ True  ; but  to  go  on  with  your 
j story  : you  were  a labourer,  you  say,  and  a wag  ; your 

; industry,  1 suppose,  you  left  with  your  old  trade  ; but 

I yoi  r humour  you  preserve  to  be  of  use  to  you  in  your 

new.’ 

‘What  signifies  sadness,  sir?  a man  grows  lean 
on’t : but  I was  brought  to  my  idleness  by  degrees ; 
first  I could  not  work,  and  it  went  against  my  stomach 
to  work  ever  after.  I was  seized  with  a jail  fever  at 
the  time  of  the  assizes  being  in  the  county  where  I 
I lived  ; for  I was  always  curious  to  get  acquainted  with 

! the  felons,  because  they  are  commonly  fellows  of  much 

j mirth  and  little  thought,  qualities  I had  ever  an 

j esteem  for.  In  the  height  of  this  fever,  Mr  Harley, 

the  house  where  I lay  took  fire,  and  burnt  to  the 
ground ; I was  carried  out  in  that  condition,  and  lay 
all  the  rest  of  my  illness  in  a barn.  1 got  the  better 
of  my  disease,  however,  but  I was  so  weak  that  I spit 
blood  whenever  I attempted  to  work.  I had  no  rela- 
I tion  living  that  1 knew  of,  and  I never  kept  a friend 
above  a week  when  I was  able  to  joke ; I seldom  re- 
mained above  six  months  in  a parish,  so  that  I might 
have  died  before  1 had  found  a settlement  in  any : 
thus  I was  forced  to  beg  my  bread,  and  a sorry  trade 
I found  it,  Mr  Harley.  I told  all  my  misfortunes 
I truly,  but  they  were  seldom  believed ; and  the  few 
i who  gave  me  a halfpenny  as  they  passed,  did  it  with 
I a shake  of  the  head,  and  an  injunction  not  to  trouble 
! them  with  a long  story.  In  short,  1 found  that  people 
I do  not  care  to  give  alms  without  some  security  for 
j their  money ; a wooden  leg  or  a withered  arm  is  a sort 
! 1 of  draught  upon  heaven  for  those  who  choose  to  have 
I their  money  placed  to  account  there ; so  I changed 
; my  plan,  and,  instead  of  telling  my  own  misfortunes, 
began  to  prophesy  happiness  to  others.  This  I found 
by  much  the  better  way  : folks  will  always  listen  when 
the  tale  is  their  own  ; and  of  many  who  say  they  do 
not  believe  in  fortune-telling,  I have  known  few  on 
! whom  it  had  not  a very  sensible  effect.  I pick  up  the 
I names  of  their  acquaintance;  amours  and  little 
I squabbles  are  easily  gleaned  among  servants  and 
neighbours ; and  indeed  people  themselves  are  the 
best  intelligencers  in  the  world  for  our  purpose ; they 
I dare  not  puzzle  us  for  their  own  sakes,  for  every  one 
j is  anxious  to  hear  what  they  wish  to  believe;  and 
they  who  repeat  it,  to  laugh  at  it  when  they  have 
I done,  are  generally  more  serious  than  their  hearers 


are  apt  to  imagine.  With  a tolerable  goo<l  memory 
and  some  share  of  cunning,  with  the  help  of  walking 
a-nights  over  heaths  and  churchyards,  with  this,  and 
showing  the  tricks  of  that  there  dog,  whom  I stole 
from  the  sergeant  of  a marching  regiment  (and,  by  the 
way,  he  can  steal  too  ui)on  occasion),  1 make  shift  to 
pick  up  a livelihood.  My  trade,  indeed,  is  none  of  the 
honestest ; yet  people  are  not  much  cheated  neither, 
who  give  a few  halfpence  for  a prospect  of  happi- 
ness, which  I have  heard  some  persons  say  is  all  a man 
can  arrive  at  in  this  world.  But  I must  bid  you  good 
day,  sir ; for  I have  three  miles  to  walk  before  noon, 
to  inform  some  boarding-.school  young  ladies  whether 
their  husbands  are  to  be  peers  of  the  realm  or  cap- 
tains in  the  army ; a question  which  1 promised  to 
answer  them  by  that  time.’ 

Harley  had  drawn  a shilling  from  his  pocket ; but 
Virtue  bade  him  consider  on  whom  he  was  going  to 
bestow  it.  Virtue  held  back  his  arm  ; but  a milder 
form,  a younger  sister  of  Virtue’s,  not  so  severe  as 
Virtue,  nor  so  serious  as  Pity,  smiled  upon  him ; his 
fingers  lost  their  compression  ; nor  did  Virtue  offer  to 
catch  the  money  as  it  fell.  It  had  no  sooner  reached 
the  ground,  than  the  watchful  cur  (a  trick  he  had 
been  taught)  snapped  it  up ; and,  contrary  to  the 
most  approved  method  of  stewardship,  delivered  it 
immediately  into  the  hands  of  his  master. 

[The  Death  of  Harley  ] 

Harley  was  one  of  those  few  friends  whom  the  ma- 
levolence of  fortune  had  yet  left  me ; I could  not, 
therefore,  but  be  sensibly  concerned  for  his  present 
indisposition  ; there  seldom  passed  a day  on  which  I 
did  not  make  inquiry  about  him. 

The  physician  who  attended  him  had  informed  me 
the  evening  before,  that  he  thought  him  considerably 
better  than  he  had  been  for  some  time  past.  I called 
next  morning  to  be  confirmed  in  a piece  of  intelli- 
gence so  welcome  to  me. 

When  I entered  his  apartment,  I found  him  sitting 
on  a couch,  leaning  on  his  hand,  with  his  eye  turned 
upwards  in  the  attitude  of  thoughtful  inspiration. 
His  look  had  always  an  open  benignity,  which  com- 
manded’e.steem ; there  was  now  something  more — a 
gentle  triumph  in  it. 

He  rose,  and  met  me  with  his  usual  kindness. 
When  I gave  him  the  good  accounts  1 had  had  from 
his  physician,  ‘ I am  foolish  enough,’  said  he,  ‘ to  rely 
but  little  in  this  instance  to  physic.  My  presentiment 
maybe  false  ; but  I think  1 feel  myself  approaching  to 
my  end  by  steps  so  ea.sy  that  they  woo  me  to  approaeh 
it.  There  is  a certain  dignity  in  retiring  from  life  at 
a time  when  the  infirmities  of  age  have  not  sapped 
our  faculties.  This  world,  my  dear  Charles,  was  a 
scene  in  which  I never  much  delighted.  I was  not 
formed  for  the  bustle  of  the  busy  nor  the  dissipation 
of  the  gay ; a thousand  things  occurred  where  I 
blushed  for  the  impropriety  of  my  conduct  when  I 
thought  on  the  world,  though  my  reason  told  me  1 
should  have  blushed  to  have  done  otherwise.  It  was 
a scene  of  dissimulation,  of  restraint,  of  disappoint- 
ment. I leave  it  to  enter  on  that  state  which  I have 
learned  to  believe  is  replete  with  the  genuine  happi- 
ness attendant  upon  virtue.  I look  back  on  the  tenor 
of  my  life  with  the  consciousness  of  few  great  offences 
to  account  for.  There  are  blemishes,  I confess,  which 
deform  in  some  degree  the  picture ; but  I know  the 
benignity  of  the  Supreme  Being,  and  rejoice  at  the 
thoughts  of  its  exertion  in  my  favour.  My  mind 
expands  at  the  thought  I shall  enter  ini  > the  society 
of  the  blessed,  wise  as  angels,  with  the  simplicity  of 
children.’ 

He  had  by  this  time  clasped  my  hand,  and  found 
it  wet  by  a tear  which  had  just  fallen  upon  it.  His 
eye  began  to  moisten  too — we  sat  for  some  t;  n.s  silent. 

179 


FROM  1727  CYCLOI’TKDIA  OF  ro  1780, 

At  lust,  witli  an  attenii)t  at  a look  of  more  composure, 

‘ There  are  some  retnembraiiceH,’  said  Harley,  ‘ which 
rise  involuntarily  on  my  heart,  and  make  me  almost 
wish  to  live.  I have  been  blessed  with  a few  friends 
who  redeem  my  opinion  of  ma^ikind.  1 recollect  with 
the  tenderest  emotion  the  ftrnes  of  pleasure  I have 
passed  among  them  ; but  we  shall  meet  again,  my 
friend,  never  to  be  separated.  There  are  some  feel- 
ings wliich  perhaps  are  too  tender  to  be  suflered  by 
the  world.  The  worhl  is  in  general  selfish,  interested, 
and  unthinking,  and  throws  the  imputation  of  ro- 
mance or  melancholy  on  every  temper  more  suscep- 
tible than  its  own.  1 cannot  think  but  in  those 
regions  which  1 contemplate,  if  there  is  anything  of 
mortality  left  about  us,  that  these  feelings  will  sub- 
sist ; they  are  called — perhaps  they  are — weaknesses 
here  ; but  tliere  may  be  some  better  modifications  of 
them  in  heaven,  which  may  deserve  the  name  of  vir- 
tues.’ He  sighed  as  he  spoke  these  last  words.  He 
had  .scarcely  finished  them  when  the  door  opened,  and 
his  aunt  ajtpeared  leading  in  Miss  Walton.  ‘ My 
dear,’  says  she,  ‘ here  is  bliss  Walton,  who  has  been  so 
kiinl  as  to  come  and  inquire  for  you  herself.’  1 could 
observe  a transient  glow  upon  his  face.  He  rose  from 
his  seat.  ‘ If  to  know  Miss  Walton’s  goodness,’ 
said  he,  ‘ be  a title  to  deserve  it,  I have  some  claim.’ 
She  begged  him  to  resume  his  seat,  and  placed  her- 
self on  the  sofa  be.side  him.  I took  my  leave.  Mrs 
Margery  accompanied  me  to  the  door.  He  was  left 
with  Miss  Walton  alone.  She  inquired  anxiously 
about  his  health.  ‘ 1 believe,’  said  he,  ‘ from  the 
accounts  which  my  physicians  unwillingly  give  me, 
that  they  have  no  great  hoj>es  of  my  recovery.’  She 
started  as  he  spoke ; but  recollecting  herself  im- 
mediately, endeavoured  to  flatter  him  into  a belief 
that  his  apprehensions  were  groundless.  ‘ I know,’ 
said  he,  ‘ that  it  is  usual  with  persons  at  my  time  of 
life  to  have  these  hopes  which  your  kindness  sug- 
gests, but  I would  not  wish  to  be  deceived.  To  meet 
death  as  becomes  a man  is  a privilege  bestowed  on 
few.  I would  endeavour  to  make  it  mine ; nor  do  I 
think  that  I can  ever  be  better  prepared  for  it  than 
now ; it  is  that  chiefly  which  determines  the  fitness 
of  its  approach.’  ‘ Those  sentiments,’  answered  bliss 
Walton,  ‘areju-st;  but  your  good  sense,  Mr  Harley, 
will  own  that  life  has  its  proper  value.  As  the  pro- 
vince of  virtue,  life  is  ennobled ; as  such,  it  is  'to 
be  desired.  To  virtue  has  the  Supreme  Director  of  all 
things  assigned  rewards  enough  even  here  to  fix  its 
attachment.’ 

The  subject  began  to  overpower  her.  Harley  lifted 
his  eyes  from  the  gi'ound,  ‘ There  are,’  said  he,  in  a 
very  low  voice,  ‘ there  are  attachments.  Miss  Wal- 
ton.’ His  glance  met  hers.  They  both  betrayed  a 
confusion,  and  were  both  instantly  withdrawn.  He 
paused  some  moments : ‘ I am  in  such  a state  as  calls 
for  sincerity,  let  that  also  excuse  it — it  is  perhaps 
the  last  time  we  shall  ever  meet.  I feel  something 
particularly  solemn  in  the  acknowledgment,  yet  my 
heart  swells  to  make  it,  awed  as  it  is  by  a sense  of  my 
presumption,  by  a sense  of  your  perfections.’  He 
paused  again.  ‘ Let  it  not  offend  you  to  know  their 
power  over  one  so  unworthy.  It  will,  I believe,  soon 
cease  to  beat,  even  with  that  feeling  which  it  shall  lose 
the  latest.  To  love  bliss  Walton  could  not  be  a crime  ; 
if  to  declare  it  is  one,  the  expiation  will  be  made.’ 
Her  tears  were  now  flowing  without  control.  ‘ I.ct 
me  entreat  you,’  said  she,  ‘ to  have  better  hopes.  Let 
not  life  be  so  indifferent  to  you,  if  my  wishes  can 
put  any  value  on  it.  I will  not  pretend  to  misun- 
derstand you — I know  your  worth — I have  known 
it  long  — I have  esteemed  it.  What  would  you 
have  me  say?  I have  loved  it  as  it  deserved.’  He 
seized  her  hand,  a languid  colour  reddened  his 
cheek,  a smile  brightened  faintly  in  his  eye.  As  he 
gazed  or>  her  it  grew  dim,  it  fixed,  it  closed.  He 

sighed,  and  fell  back  on  his  seat.  Miss  Walton 
screamed  at  the  sight.  His  aunt  and  the  servants 
rushed  into  the  room.  They  found  them  lying  mo- 
tionless together.  His  physician  happened  to  call  at 
that  instant.  Every  art  was  tried  to  recover  them. 
With  Miss  Walton  they  succeeded,  but  Harley  was 
gone  for  ever! 

I entered  the  room  where  his  body  lay  ; I approached 
it  with  reverence,  not  fear.  I looked  ; the  recollec- 
tion of  the  past  crowded  upon  me.  I saw  that  form 
which,  but  a little  before,  was  animated  with  a soul 
which  did  honour  to  humanity,  stretched  without 
sense  or  feeling  before  me.  ’Tis  a connexion  we  can- 
not easily  forget.  I took  his  hand  in  mine ; I repeated  | 
his  name  involuntarily ; I felt  a pulse  in  every  vein 
at  the  sound.  I looked  earnestly  in  his  face ; his  eye 
was  closed,  his  lip  pale  and  motionless.  There  is  an 
enthusiasm  in  sorrow  that  forgets  impossibility ; I 
wondered  that  it  was  so.  The  sight  drew  a juayer 
from  my  heart ; it  was  the  voice  of  frailty  and  of 
man  ! The  confusion  of  my  mind  began  to  subside 
into  thought ; I had  time  to  weep  1 

I turned  with  the  last  farewell  upon  my  lijis,  whet 
I observed  old  Edwards  standing  behind  me.  1 looked 
him  full  in  the  face,  but  his  eye  was  fixed  on  another 
object.  He  pressed  betw'een  me  and  the  bed,  and 
stood  gazing  on  the  breathless  remains  of  his  bene- 
factor. I spoke  to  him  I know  not’what ; but  he 
took  no  notice  of  what  I said,  and  remained  in  the 
same  attitude  as  before.  He  stood  some  minutes  in 
that  posture,  then  turned  and  walked  towards  the 
door.  He  paused  as  he  went ; he  returned  a second 
time ; I could  observe  his  lips  move  as  he  looked  ; 
but  the  voice  they  would  have  uttered  was  lost.  He 
attempted  going  again ; and  a third  time  he  returned  | 
as  before.  I saw  him  wipe  his  cheek  ; then,  covering  i 
his  face  with  his  hands,  his  breast  heaving  with  the  I 
most  convulsive  throbs,  he  flung  out  of  the  room. 

He  had  hinted  that  he  should  like  to  be  buried  in  | 
a certain  spot  near  the  grave  of  his  mother.  This  is  | 
a weakness,  but  it  is  universally  incident  to  huina-  1 
nity ; it  is  at  least  a memorial  for  those  who  survive. 
For  some,  indeed,  a slender  memorial  will  serve;  and  1 
the  soft  affections,  when  they  are  busy  that  way,  will  I 
build  their  structures  were  it  but  on  the  paring  of  j 
a nail.  1 

He  was  buried  in  the  place  he  had  desired.  It  was  [ 
shaded  by  an  old  tree,  the  only  one  in  the  churchyard, 
in  which  was  a cavity  worn  by  time.  I have  sat  with 
him  in  it,  and  counted  the  tombs.  The  last  time  we 
passed  there,  methought  he  looked  wistfully  on  the 
tree ; there  was  a branch  of  it  that  bent  towards  us, 
waving  in  the  wind  ; he  waved  his  hand,  as  if  he 
mimicked  its  motion.  There  was  something  predic- 
tive in  his  look  ! perhaps  it  is  foolish  to  remark  it, 
but  there  are  times  and  places  when  I am  a child  at 
those  things. 

I sometimes  visit  his  grave ; I sit  in  the  hollow  of 
the  tree.  It  is  worth  a thousand  homilies  ; every 
noble  feeling  rises  within  me!  Every  beat  of  my 
heart  awakens  a virtue ; but  it  will  make  you  hate 
the  world.  No  ; there  is  such  an  air  of  gentleness 
around  that  I can  hate  nothing;  but  as  to  the  world, 

I pity  the  men  of  it. 

The  last  of  our  novel  writers  of  this  period  was 
Miss  Clara  Heeve,  the  daughter  of  a clergyman  at 
ipswdeh,  where  she  died  in  1803,  aged  seventy- 
eight.  An  early  admiration  of  Horace  M'alpole’s 
romance,  ‘The  Castle  of  Otranto,’  induced  Miss 
Keeve  to  imitate  it  in  a Gothic  story,  entitled  The 
Old  English  Baron,  which  was  published  in  1777. 

In  some  respects  the  lady  has  the  advantage  of 
Walpole;  her  supernatural  machinery  is  better  ma- 
naged, so  as  to  jiroduce  mysteriousness  and  effect ; 
but  her  style  has  not  the  point  or  elegance  of  that 

180 

HISTORIANS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  dr  conyers  midileton. 

of  her  jirototypc.  Miss  Reeve  wrote  several  other 
novels,  ‘ all  marked,’  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘by  e.x- 
cellent  good  sense,  pure  morality,  and  a competent 
command  of  those  qualities  which  constitute  a good 
romance.’  They  have  failed,  however,  to  keep  pos- 
session of  public  favour,  and  the  fame  of  the  author 
rests  on  her  ‘ Old  English  Baron,’  which  is  now 
generally  printed  along  with  the  story  of  Walpole. 

HISTORIANS. 

1 A spirit  of  philosophical  inquiry  and  reflection, 

j united  to  the  graces  of  literary  composition,  can 
hardly  be  said  to  have  been  presented  by  any  Eng- 
lish historian  before  the  appearance  of  that  illus- 
! trious  triumvirate — Hume,  Robertson,  and  Gibbon. 

I The  e.orly  annalists  of  Britain  recorded  mere  fables 
[ and  superstitions,  with  a slight  admixture  of  truth. 

1 The  classic  pen  of  Buchanan  was  guided  by  party 
rancour,  undignified  by  research.  Even  Milton, 
when  he  set  himself  to  compose  a history  of  his 
native  country,  included  the  fables  of  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth.  The  history  of  the  Long  Parliament 
Dy  ilay  is  a valuable  fragment,  and  the  works  of 
Clarendon  and  Burnet  are  interesting  though  pre- 
judiced pictures  of  the  times.  A taste  for  our  na- 
tional annals  soon  began  to  call  for  more  extensive 
compilations;  and  in  1706  a ‘Complete  History  of 
England’  was  published,  containing  a collection  of 
various  works  previous  to  the  time  of  Charles  I., 

1 and  a continuation  by  White  Kennet,  bishop  of 
1 Peterborough.  M.  Rapin,  a French  Protestant 
1 (1661-1725),  who  had  come  over  to  England  with 

the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  resided  here  several 
years,  seems  to  have  been  interested  in  our  affairs  ; 
for,  on  retiring  to  the  Hague,  he  there  composed  a 
voluminous  history  of  England,  in  French,  which 
was  speedily  translated,  and  enjoyed  great  popu- 
larity. The  work  of  Rapin  is  still  considered  valu- 
j able,  and  it  possesses  a property  which  no  English 
[ author  has  yet  been  able  to  confer  on  a similar  nar- 
ration, that  of  impartiality ; but  it  wants  literary 
1 attractions.  A more  laborious,  exact,  and  original 
historian,  appeared  in  Thomas  Carte  (1686-1754), 

1 who  meditated  a complete  domestic  or  civil  history 
! of  England,  for  which  he  had  made  large  collections, 
encouraged  by  public  subscriptions.  His  work  was 
projected  in  1743,  and  four  years  afterwards  the 
first  volume  appeared.  Unfortunately  Carte  made 
allusion  to  a case,  which  he  said  had  come  under  his 
own  observation,  of  a person  who  had  been  cured  of 
the  king’s  evil  by  the  Pretender,  then  in  exile  in 
France ; and  this  Jacobite  sally  proved  the  ruin  of 
his  work.  Subscribers  withdrew  their  names,  and 
the  historian  was  ‘left  forlorn  and  abandoned  amid 
j his  extensive  collections.’  A second  and  third 
1 volume,  however,  were  published  by  the  indefati- 
I gable  collector,  and  a fourth,  which  he  left  incom- 
j plete,  was  published  after  his  death.  Carte  w'as 
1 author  also  of  a Life  of  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  remark  ■ 
j able  for  the  fulness  of  its  information,  but  disfigured 
! by  his  Jacobite  predilections. 

\ The  Roman  History  by  Hooke  also  belongs  to  this 

j period.  It  eommences  with  the  building  of  Rome, 
and  is  continued  to  the  downfall  of  the  common- 
! wealth.  Hooke  was  patronised  by  Pope  (to  whom 
' he  dedicated  his  first  volume),  and  he  produced  a 
; usefid  work,  w'hich  still  maintains  its  place.  The 
first  volume  of  this  history  was  published  in  1733, 

: but  it  was  not  completed  till  1771. 

! DR  CONYERS  MIDDLETON 

1 

1 In  1741  Dr  Conyers  Middleton  (1683-1750), 

; an  English  clergyman,  and  librarian  of  the  public 
library  at  Cambridge,  produced  his  historical  Life 

of  Cicero,  in  tw'o  volumes.  Reviewing  the  whole  of 
the  eelebrated  orator’s  public  career,  and  the  princi- 
pal transactions  of  his  times — mixing  up  questions 
of  philosophy,  government,  and  politics,  with  the 
details  of  biograjihy,  Middleton  compiled  a highly 
interesting  work,  full  of  varied  and  important  infor- 
mation, and  wTitten  with  great  eare  and  taste.  An 
admiration  of  the  rounded  style  and  flowing  periods 
of  Cicero  seems  to  have  produeed  in  his  biographer 
a desire  to  attain  to  similar  excellence ; and  perhaps 
no  author,  prior  to  Johnson’s  great  works,  wrote 
English  with  the  same  careful  finish  and  sustained 
dignity.  The  graees  of  Addison  were  wanting,  but 
certainly  no  historical  writings  of  the  day  were  at 
all  comparable  to  Middleton’s  memoir.  One  or  two 
sentenees  from  his  summary  of  Cicero’s  character 
will  exemplify  the  author’s  style : — 

He  (Cicero)  made  a just  distinction  between  bear- 
ing what  we  cannot  help,  and  approving  what  we  ought 
to  condemn  ; and  submitted,  therefore,  yet  never  con- 
sented to  those  usurpations ; and  when  he  was  forced 
to  comply  with  them,  did  it  always  with  a reluctance 
that  he  expresses  very  keenly  in  his  letters  to  his 
friends.  But  whenever  that  force  was  r-nioved,  and 
he  was  at  liberty  to  pursue  his  principles  and  act 
without  control,  as  in  his  consulship,  in  his  province, 
and  after  Caesar’s  death — the  only  periods  of  his  life 
in  which  he  was  truly  master  of  himself — there  we  see 
him  shilling  out  in  his  genuine  character  of  an  excel- 
lent citizen,  a great  magistrate,  a glorious  patriot ; 
there  we  could  see  the  man  who  could  declare  of  him- 
self with  truth,  in  an  appeal  to  Atticus,  as  to  the  best 
witness  of  his  conscience,  that  he  had  always  done  the 
greatest  services  to  his  country  when  it  was  in  his 
power ; or  when  it  was  not,  had  never  harboured  a 
thought  of  it  but  what  was  divine.  If  we  must  needs 
compare  him,  therefore,  with  Cato,  as  some  writers 
affect  to  do,  it  is  certain  that  if  Cato’s  virtue  seem 
more  splendid  in  theory,  Cicero’s  will  be  found  supe- 
rior in  practice  ; the  one  was  romantic,  the  other  was 
natural ; the  one  drawn  from  the  refinements  of  the 
schools,  the  other  from  nature  and  social  life  ; the  one 
always  unsuccessful,  often  hurtful ; the  other  always 
beneficial,  often  salutary  to  the  republic. 

To  conclude : Cicero’s  death,  though  violent,  cannot 
be  called  untimely,  but  was  the  proper  end  of  such  a 
life  ; which  must  also  have  been  rendered  less  glorious 
if  it  had  owed  its  preservation  to  Antony.  It  was, 
t'..erefore,  not  only  what  he  expected,  but,  in  the  cir- 
cumstances to  which  he  was  reduced,  what  he  seems 
even  to  have  wished.  For  he,  who  before  had  been  timid 
in  dangers,  and  desponding  in  distress,  yet,  from  the 
time  of  Ceesar’s  death,  roused  by  the  desperate  state 
of  the  republic,  assumed  the  fortitude  of  a hero  ; dis- 
carded all  fear ; despised  all  danger ; and  when  he 
could  not  free  his  country  from  a tyranny,  provoked 
the  tyrants  to  take  that  life  which  he  no  longer  cared 
to  preserve.  Thus,  like  a great  actor  on  the  stage,  he 
reserved  himself,  as  it  were,  for  the  last  act  ; and  after 
he  had  played  his  part  with  dignity,  resolved  to  finish 
it  with  glory. 

Or  the  character  of  Julius  Caesar — 

Ccesar  was  endowed  with  every  great  and  noble 
quality  that  could  exalt  human  nature,  and  give  a 
man  the  a.scendant  in  society  : formed  to  excel  in 
peace,  as  well  as  in  war ; provident  in  counsel ; fear- 
less in  action  ; and  executing  what  he  had  resolved 
with  amazing  celerity ; generous  beyond  measure  to 
his  friends ; placable  to  his  enemies ; and  for  parts, 
learning,  eloquence,  scarce  inferior  to  any  man.  His 
orations  were  admired  for  two  qualities  whifti  are 
seldom  found  together — strength  and  eleganoe.  Cicero 
ranks  him  among  the  greatest  orators  that  Rome  ever 
bred  ; and  Quintilian  says,  that  he  spoke  with  t'le 

FROM  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1780. 


bame  force  witli  whicli  lie  fought;  ami  if  he  had  de- 
voted hiiiiHolf  to  the  bar,  would  have  been  the  only 
tiiaii  eapalde  of  rivalling  Cicero.  Nor  was  he  a master 
only  of  the  politer  arts  ; hut  conversant  also  with  the 
most  abstruse  and  critical  parts  of  learning;  and, 
among  other  works  which  he  published,  addressed 
two  books  to  Cicero  on  the  analogy  of  language,  or 
the  art  of  speaking  .and  writing  correctly.  He  was  a 
most  liberal  jiatron  of  wit  and  learning  wheresoever 
they  were  found  ; and  out  of  his  love  of  those  talents, 
would  readily  pardon  tho.se  who  had  employed  them 
against  himself ; rightly  judging  that  by  making 
‘uch  men  his  friends,  he  should  draw  praises  from  the 
same  fountain  from  which  he  had  been  aspersed.  His 
capital  passioT/S  were  ambition  and  love  of  pleasure, 
which  he  indulg'id  in  their  turns  to  the  greatest  ex- 
cess ; yet  the  lirst  was  always  predominant,  to  which 
he  could  easily  sacritice  all  the  charms  of  the  second, 
and  draw  pleasure  even  from  toils  and  dangers  w'hen 
they  ministered  to  Ids  glory,  for  he  thought  Tyranny, 
as  Cicero  says,  the  greatest  of  goddesses  ; and  had  fre- 
quently in  his  month  a verse  of  Euripides,  which 
expressed  the  image  of  his  soul,  that,  if  right  and 
justice  were  ever  to  be  violated,  they  were  to  be  vio- 
lated for  th"  sake  of  reigning.  This  was  the  chief  end 
and  purpose  o,'  his  life  ; the  sxheme  that  he  had  formed 
from  his  early  youth  ; so  that,  as  Cato  truly  declared 
of  him,  he  came  with  sobriety  and  meditation  to  the 
subversion  of  the- republic.  He  used  to  say  that  there 
j were  two  things  necessary  to  acquire  and  to  support 
I power  — soldiers  and  money ; which  yet  depended 
mutually  u])on  each  other.  \Vith  money,  therefore, 
he  provided  .soldiers,  and  with  soldiers  extorted 
money  ; and  w.as  of  all  men  the  most  rapacious  in 
plumlering  both  friends  and  foes,  sparing  neither 
prince,  nor  state,  nor  temple,  nor  even  private  per- 
sons who  were  known  to  possess  any  share  of  treasure. 

I His  great  abilities  would  neces.sarily  have  made  him 
one  of  the  first  citizens  of  Rome  ; but  disdaining  the 
condition  of  a suljject,  he  could  never  rest  till  he 
I made  himself  a monarch.  In  acting  this  last  part, 
his  usual  prudence  seemed  to  fail  him,  as  if  the  height 
to  which  he  w.as  mounted  had  turned  his  head  and 
made  him  giddy ; for,  by  a vain  ostentation  of  his 
power,  he  destroyed  the  stability  of  it ; and  as  men 
shorten  life  by  living  too  fast,  so,  by  an  intempe- 
rance of  reigning,  he  brought  his  reign  to  a violent 
end. 

DAVID  H0»IE. 

Relying  on  the  valuable  collections  of  Carte ; ani- 
mated by  a strong  love  of  literary  fame,  which  he 
avowed  to  be  his  ruling  passion  ; desirous  also  of 
combating  the  popular  prejudices  in  favour  of  Eliza- 
beth and  against  the  Stuarts ; and  master  of  a style 
singularly  fascinating,  simple,  and  graceful,  the  cele- 
bra^ed  David  Hume  left  his  ]ihilosophical  studies 
to  embark  in  historical  composition.  This  eminent 
person  was  a native  of  Scotland,  born  of  a good 
famil}-,  being  the  second  son  of  Joseph  Home  (the 
historian  first  spedt  the  name  Hume),  laird  of  Nine- 
wells,  near  Dunse,  in  Berwickshire.  David  was 
horn  in  Edinburgh  on  the  26th  of  April  1711.  After 
attending  the  university  of  Edirh.  ”gh,  his  friends 
were  anxious  that  he  should  comni, ..  ■>  the  study  of 
the  law,  but  a love  of  literature  rendered  him  averse 
to  this  profession.  An  attempt  was  then  made  to 
establish  him  in  business,  and  he  was  placed  in  a 
mercantile  house  in  Bristol.  This  employment  was 
found  equally  uncongenial,  and  Hume  removed  to 
France,  where  he  passed  some  years  in  literary  re- 
tirement, living  with  the  utmost  frugality  and  care 
on  the  small  allowance  made  him  by  his  family.  He 
returned  in  17.87  to  publish  his  first  philosophical 
work,  the  Treatise  on  Human  Nature,  which  he  ac- 


knowledges ‘ fell  dead-born  from  the  press.’  A 
third  part  appeared  in  1740;  and  in  1742  he  pro- 
duced two  volumes,  entitled  Essays  Mora!  and  Phi- 
losophical. Some  of  these  miscellaneous  productions 
are  remarkable  for  research  and  discrimination,  and 
for  elegance  of  style.  In  1745  he  undertook  the 
charge  of  the  Marquis  of  Annandale,  a young  noble- 
man of  deranged  intellects  ; and  in  this  humiliating 
employment  the  philosopher  continued  about  a 
twelvemonth.  He  next  made  an  unsuccessful  at- 
tempt to  be  appointed  professor  of  moral  philosophy 
in  his  native  university,  after  which  he  fortunately 
obtained  the  situation  of  secretary  to  Lieutenant- 
General  St  Clair,  who  was  first  appointed  to  the 
command  of  an  expedition  against  Canada,  and  after-  i 
wards  ambassador  to  the  courts  of  Vienna  and  ! | 
Turin.  In  the  latter,  Hume  enjoyed  congenial  and  j 
refined  society.  Having  remodelled  his  ‘ Treatise  on  1 


David  Hume. 


Human  Nature,’  he  repubhshed  it  in  1751  under  the 
title  of  an  Inquiry  Concerning  the  Principles  of  Morals,  i 

Next  year  he  issued  two  volumes  of  Political  DLs-  j 

courses,  and,  with  a view  to  the  promotion  of  his  i 

studies,  assumed  gratuitously  the  oflSce  of  librarian 
to  the  Faculty  of  Advocates.  He  now  struck  into  the  ! 

path  of  historical  writing.  In  1754  appeared  the  ^ 

first  volume  of  his  History  of  Great  Britain,  contain-  j 

ing  the  reigns  of  James  I.  and  Charles  I.  It  was  j 

assailed  by  the  Whigs  with  unusual  bitterness,  and 
Hume  was  so  disappointed,  partly  from  the  attacks  | 
on  him,  and  partly  because  of  the  slow  sale  of  the  i 
work,  that  he  intended  retiring  to  France,  changing  1 
his  name,  and  never  more  returning  to  his  native  ! 
country.  The  breaking  out  of  the  war  with  France  : 
prevented  this  step,  but  we  suspect  the  complacency 
of  Hume  and  his  love  of  Scotland  would  otherwise  | 
have  frustrated  his  intention.  A second  volume  of  | 
the  history  was  published,  with  more  success,  in 
1757  ; a third  and  fourth  in  1759  ; and  the  two  last 
in  1762.  The  work  became  highly  popular ; edition 
followed  edition ; and  by  universal  consent  Hume  j 

was  placed  at  the  head  of  English  historians.  In  ' 

176.3  our  author  accompanied  the  Earl  of  Hertford  i 
on  his  embassy  to  Paris,  where  he  was  received  with  i 
marked  distinction.  In  1766  he  returned  to  Scot- 
land, but  was  induced  next  year  to  accept  the  situa- 

182 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATUEE. 


DAVID  HUMS. 


tion  of  under  secretary  of  state,  which  he  held  for 
two  years.  With  a revenue  of  £1000  a-year  (whicli 
he  considered  opidence),  the  historian  retired  to  his 
native  city,  wliere  he  continued  to  reside,  in  habits 
of  intimacy  with  his  literary  friends,  till  his  death,  on 
the  25th  of  August  1776.  His  easy  good-humoured 
disjKisition,  his  literary  fame,  his  extensive  know- 
ledge and  respectable  rank  in  society,  rendered  his 
company  always  agreeable  and  interesting,  even  to 
those  who  were  most  decidedly  ojiposed  to  the  tone 
of  scepticism  which  pervades  all  his  writings.  His 
opinions  were  never  obtruded  on  his  friends:  he 
thrcw  out  dogmas  for  the  learned,  not  food  for  the 
multitude. 

The  history  of  Hume  is  not  a work  of  high  au- 
thority, but  it  is  one  of  the  most  easy,  elegant, 
and  interesting  narratives  in  the  language.  The 
striking  parts  of  his  subject  are  related  with  a pic- 
turesque and  dramatic  force ; and  his  dissertations 
on  the  state  of  parties  and  the  tendency  of  particu- 
lar events,  are  remarkable  for  the  philosophical  tone 
in  which  they  are  conceived  and  written.  He  was 
too  indolent  to  be  exact ; too  indifferent  to  sympa- 
thise heartily  with  any  political  party ; too  sceptical 
on  matters  of  religion  to  appreciiite  justly  the  full 
force  of  religious  principles  in  directing  the  course 
of  public  events.  An  enemy  to  all  turbulence  and 
enthusiasm,  he  naturally  leaned  to  the  side  of  settled 
government,  even  when  it  was  united  to  arbitrary 
power ; and  though  he  could  ‘ shed  a generous  tear 
\ for  the  fate  of  Charles  I.  and  the  Earl  of  Strafford,’ 

; the  struggles  of  his  poor  countrymen  for  conscience’ 

i s.ake  against  the  tyranny  of  the  Stuarts,  excited 

■ with  him  no  other  feelings  than  those  of  ridicule 

I or  contempt.  He  could  even  forget  the  merits 

I and  exaggerate  the  faults  of  the  accomplished  and 

i chivalrous  Raleigh,  to  shelter  the  sordid  injustice 

! of  a weak  and  contemptible  sovereign.  No  hatred 

i of  oppression  burns  through  his  pages.  The  care- 

j less  epicurean  repose  of  the  philosopher  was  not 

: disturbed  by  any  visions  of  liberty,  or  any  ardent 

i aspirations  for  the  improvement  of  mankind.  Yet 

Hume  was  not  a slavish  worshipper  of  power. 
In  his  personal  character  he  was  liberal  and  inde- 

■ pendent : ‘ he  had  early  in  life,’  says  Sir  James 
[ Mackintosh,  ‘ conceived  an  antipathy  to  the  Cal- 
j vinistic  divines,  and  his  temperament  led  him  at 

all  times  to  regard  with  disgust  and  derision  that 
religious  enthusiasm  or  bigotry  with  which  the 
spirit  of  English  freedom  was,  in  his  opinion,  inse- 
parably associated : his  intellect  was  also  perhaps 
too  active  and  original  to  submit  with  sufficient 
patience  to  the  preparatory  toils  and  long  suspended 
judgment  of  a historian,  and  led  him  to  form  pre- 
mature conclusions  and  precipitate  theories,  which 
it  then  became  the  pride  of  his  ingenuity  to  justify.’ 
A love  of  paradox  undoubtedly  led  to  his  formation 
of  the  theory  that  the  English  government  was 
I purely  despotic  and  absolute  before  the  accession  of 

[ the  Stuarts.  A love  of  effect,  no  less  than  his  con- 

j stitutional  indolence,  may  have  betrayed  the  his- 

j torian  into  inconsistencies,  and  prompted  some  of 

his  exaggeration  and  high  colouring  relative  to  the 
I unfortunate  Charles  L,  his  trial  and  execution. 

I Thus,  in  one  page  we  are  informed  that  ‘ the  height 

of  all  iniquity  and  fanatical  extravagance  yet  re- 
mained— the  public  trial  and  execution  of  the  so- 
( vereign.’  Three  pages  farther  on,  the  historian 
j remarks — ‘ The  pomp,  the  dignity,  the  ceremony  of 

this  transaction,  corresponded  to  the  greatest  con- 
ception that  is  suggested  in  the  annals  of  human- 
kind ; the  delegates  of  a great  people  sitting  in  judg- 
ment upon  their  supreme  magistrate,  and  trying 
him  for  his  misgovernment  and  breach  of  trust.’ 
With  similar  inconsistency  he  in  one  part  admits, 


and  in  another  denies,  that  Charles  was  insincere  in 
dealing  with  his  opponents.  To  illustrate  his  theory 
of  the  sudden  elevation  of  Cromwell  into  importance, 
the  historian  states  that  about  the  meeting  of  parlia- 
ment in  1040,  the  name  of  Oliver  is  not  to  be  found 
oftener  than  twice  upon  any  committee,  whereas  the 
journals  of  the  House  of  Commons  show  that  before 
the  time  specified,  Cromwell  was  in  forty-five  com- 
mittees, and  twelve  special  messages  to  the  Lords. 
Careless  as  to  facts  of  this  kind  (hundreds  of  which 
errors  have  been  pointed  out),  we  must  look  at  the 
general  character  of  Hume’s  history ; at  its  clear 
and  admirable  narrative ; the  philosophic  composure 
and  dignity  of  its  style;  the  sagacity  with  which 
the  views  of  conflicting  sects  and  parties  are  esti- 
mated and  developed ; the  large  admissions  which 
the  author  makes  to  his  opponents;  and  the  high 
importance  he  everywhere  assigns  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  letters,  and  the  interests  of  learning  and 
literature.  Judged  by  this  elevated  standard,  the 
work  of  Hume  must  ever  be  regarded  as  an  honour 
to  British  literature.  It  differs  as  widely  from  the 
previous  annals  and  compilations  as  a finished  por- 
trait by  Reynolds  differs  from  the  rude  draughts 
of  a country  artist.  The  latter  may  be  the  more 
faithful  external  likeness,  but  is  wanting  in  all  that 
gives  grace  and  sentiment,  sweetness  or  loftiness,  to 
the  general  composition. 

[State  of  Parties  at  the  Reformation  in  EnglandJ] 

The  friends  of  the  Reformation  asserted  that  nothing 
could  be  more  absurd  than  to  conceal,  in  an  unknown 
tongue,  the  word  of  God  itself,  and  thus  to  counter- 
act the  will  of  heaven,  which,  for  the  purpose  of  uni- 
versal salvation,  had  published  that  salutary  doctrine 
to  all  nations  ; that  if  this  jiractice  were  not  very  ab- 
surd, the  artifice  at  least  was  very  gross,  and  proved  a 
consciousness  that  the  glosses  and  traditions  of  the 
clergy  stood  in  direct  opposition  to  the  original  text 
dictated  by  Supreme  Intelligence  ; that  it  was  now 
necessary  for  the  people,  so  long  abused  by  interested 
pretensions,  to  see  with  their  ovm  eyes,  and  to  examine 
whether  the  claims  of  the  ecclesiastics  w’ere  founded 
on  that  charter  which  was  on  all  hands  acknowledged 
to  he  derived  from  heaven  ; and  that,  as  a spirit  of 
research  and  curiosity  was  happily  revived,  and  men 
were  now  obliged  to  make  a choice  among  the  con- 
tending doctrines  of  dift'erent  sects,  the  proper  mate- 
rials for  decision,  and,  above  all,  the  Holy  Scriptures, 
should  he  set  before  them  ; and  the  revealed  will  of 
God,  which  the  change  of  language  had  somewhat 
obscured,  be  again  by  their  means  revealed  to  man- 
kind. 

The  favourers  of  the  ancient  religion  maintained, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  the  pretence  of  making  the 
people  see  with  their  own  eyes  was  a mere  cheat,  and 
was  itself  a very  gross  artifice,  by  which  the  new 
preachers  hoped  to  obtain  the  guidance  of  them,  and 
to  seduce  them  from  those  pastors  whom  the  laws  of 
ancient  establishments,  whom  Heaven  itself,  had  ap- 
pointed for  their  spiritual  direction  ; that  the  people 
were,  by  their  ignorance,  their  stupidity,  their  neces- 
sary avocations,  totally  unqualified  to  choose  their 
owTi  principles  ; and  it  was  a mockery  to  set  materials 
before  them  of  which  they  could  not  possibly  make 
any  proper  use  ; that  even  in  the  affairs  of  common 
life,  and  in  their  temporal  concerns,  which  lay  more 
within  the  compas-s  of  human  reason,  the  laws  had  in 
a great  measure  deprived  them  of  the  right  of  private 
judgment,  and  had,  happily  for  their  own  and  the 
public  interest,  regulated  their  conduct  and  behaviour ; 
that  theological  que.stions  were  placed  far  beyond  the 
sphere  of  vulgar  comprehension  ; and  ecclesiastics 
themselves,  though  assisted  by  all  the  advantages  of 
education,  erudition,  and  an  assiduous  study  of  the 

183 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  i780 


Bciciice,  could  not  be  fully  assured  of  a just  decision  ; 
except  by  the  promise  made  them  in  Scripture,  that 
God  would  be  ever  present  with  his  church,  and  that 
the  gates  of  hell  should  not  prevail  against  her  ; that 
the  gross  errors  adopted  by  the  wisest  heathens  prove 
how  unfit  men  were  to  grope  their  own  way  through 
this  ])rofound  darkness  ; nor  would  the  Scriptures,  if 
trusted  to  every  man’s  judgment,  be  able  to  remedy, 
on  the  contrary,  they  would  much  augment  those  fatal 
illusions  ; that  Sacred  Writ  itself  was  involved  in  so 
much  obscurity,  gave  rise  to  so  many  difficulties,  con- 
tained so  many  appearing  contradictions,  that  it  was 
the  most  dangerous  weapon  that  could  be  intrusted  into 
the  hands  of  the  ignorant  and  giddy  multitude  ; that 
the  jioctical  style  in  which  a great  part  of  it  was  com- 
posed, at  the  same  time  that  it  occasioned  uncertainty 
in  the  sense  by  its  multiplied  tropes  and  figures,  was 
sufficient  to  kindle  the  zeal  of  fanaticism,  and  thereby 
throw  civil  society  into  the  most  furious  combustion  ; 
that  a thousand  sects  must  arise,  which  would  pretend, 
each  of  them,  to  ilerive  its  tenets  from  the  Scrijitures  ; 
ami  would  be  able,  by  specious  arguments,  to  seduce 
silly  women  and  ignorant  mechanics  into  a belief  of 
the  most  monstrous  principles  ; and  that  if  ever  this 
disorder,  dangerous  to  the  magistrate  himself,  re- 
ceived a remedy,  it  must  be  from  the  tacit  acquies- 
cence of  the  people  in  some  new  authority  ; and  it 
was  evidently  better,  without  further  contest  or  in- 
quiry, to  adhere  peaceably  to  ancient,  and  therefore 
the  more  secure,  establishments. 

[Tlie  Middle  Ayea — Progress  of  Freedom.'] 

Those  who  cast  their  eye  on  the  general  revolutions 
of  society,  will  find  that,  as  almost  all  improvements 
of  the  human  mind  had  reached  nearly  to  their  state 
of  perfection  about  the  age  of  Augustus,  there  was  a 
sensible  decline  from  that  point  or  period  ; and  men 
thenceforth  gradually  relapsed  into  ignorance  and 
barbarism.  The  unlimited  extent  of  the  Roman  em- 
pire, and  the  consequent  despotism  of  its  monarchs, 
extinguished  all  emulation,  debased  the  generous 
spirits  of  men,  and  depressed  the  noble  flame  by  which 
all  the  refined  arts  must  be  cherished  and  enlivened. 
The  military  government  which  soon  succeeded,  ren- 
dered even  the  lives  and  properties  of  men  insecure 
and  precarious  ; and  proved  destructive  to  those  vulgar 
and  more  necessary  arts  of  agriculture,  manufactures, 
and  commerce  ; and  in  the  end,  to  the  military  art 
and  genius  itself,  by  which  alone  the  immense  fiibric 
of  the  empire  could  be  suj>ported.  The  irruption  of  the 
barbarous  nations  which  soon  followed,  overwhelmed 
all  human  knowledge,  which  was  already  far  in  its 
decline  ; and  men  sunk  every  age  deeper  into  igno- 
rance, stupidity,  and  superstition  ; till  the  light  of 
ancient  science  and  history  had  very  nearly  suffered  a 
total  extinction  in  all  the  European  nations. 

But  there  is  a point  of  depression  as  well  as  of  ex- 
altation, from  which  human  affairs  naturally  return 
in  a contrary  direction,  and  beyond  which  they  sel- 
dom pass,  either  in  their  advancement  or  decline. 
The  period  in  which  the  people  of  Christendom  were 
the  lowest  sunk  in  ignorance,  and  consequently  in  dis- 
orders of  every  kind,  may  justly  be  fixed  at  the 
eleventh  century,  about  the  age  of  William  the  Con- 
queror ; and  from  that  era  the  sun  of  science,  begin- 
ning to  re-ascend,  threw  out  many  gleams  of  light, 
which  preceded  the  full  morning  when  letters  were 
revived  in  the  fifteenth  century.  The  Danes  and 
other  northern  people  who  had  so  long  infested  all 
the  coasts,  and  even  the  inland  parts  of  Europe,  by 
their  depredations,  having  now  learned  the  arts  of 
tillage  and  agriculture,  found  a certain  subsistence  at 
home,  and  were  no  longer  tempted  to  desert  their  in- 
dustry in  order  to  seek  a precarious  livelihood  by 
rapine  and  by  the  plunder  of  their  neighbours.  The 


feudal  governments  also,  among  the  more  southern 
nations,  were  reduced  to  a kind  of  system  ; and  though 
that  strange  species  of  civil  i>olity  was  ill  fitted  to  in- 
sure either  liberty  or  tranquillity,  it  was  preferable  to 
the  universal  license  and  disorder  which  had  every 
where  preceded  it. 

It  may  appear  strange  that  the  progress  of  the  arts, 
which  seems,  among  the  Greeks  and  Roman.s,  to  have 
daily  incrca-sed  the  number  of  slaves,  should  in  later 
times  have  proved  so  general  a source  of  liberty  ; but 
this  difference  in  the  events  proceeded  from  a great 
difference  in  the  circumstances  which  attended  those 
institutions.  The  ancient  barons,  obliged  to  maintain 
themselves  continually  in  a military  posture,  and 
little  emulous  of  eloquence  or  splendour,  employed 
not  their  villains  as  domestic  servants,  much  less  as 
manufacturers  ; but  composed  their  retinue  of  free- 
men, whose  military  spirit  rendered  the  chieftain  for- 
midable to  his  neighbours,  and  who  were  ready  to 
attend  him  in  every  warlike  enterpri.se.  The  villains 
were  entirely  occupied  in  the  cultivation  of  their 
master’s  land,  and  paid  their  rents  either  in  com  and 
cattle,  and  other  produce  of  the  farm,  or  in  servile 
offices,  which  they  performed  about  the  baron’s  family, 
and  upon  the  farms  which  he  retained  in  his  own  pos- 
session. In  proportion  as  agriculture  improved  and 
money  increased,  it  was  found  that  these  services, 
though  extremely  burdensome  to  the  villain,  were 
of  little  advantage  to  the  master  ; and  that  the 
produce  of  a large  estate  could  be  much  more  conve- 
niently disposed  of  by  the  peasants  themselves,  who 
raised  it,  than  by  the  landlord  or  his  bailiff,  who  were 
formerly  accustomed  to  receive  it.  A commutation 
was  therefore  made  of  rents  for  services,  and  of  money 
rents  for  those  in  kind  ; and  as  men,  in  a subsequent 
age,  discovered  that  farms  were  better  cultivated 
where  the  farmer  enjoyed  a security  in  his  possession, 
the  practice  of  granting  leases  to  the  peasant  began  to 
prevail,  which  entirely  broke  the  bonds  of  servitude, 
already  much  relaxed  from  the  former  practices. 
After  this  manner  villanage  went  gradually  into  dis- 
use throughout  the  more  civilised  parts  of  Europe : 
the  interest  of  the  master  as  well  as  that  of  the  slave 
concurred  in  this  alteration.  The  late.st  laws  which 
we  find  in  England  for  enforcing  or  regulating  this 
species  of  servitude,  were  enacted  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
VII.  And  though  the  ancient  statutes  on  this  head 
remain  unrepealed  by  parliament,  it  appears  that, 
before  the  end  of  Elizabeth,  the  distinction  of  villain 
and  freeman  was  totally  though  insensibly  abolished, 
and  that  no  person  remained  in  the  state  to  whom  the 
former  laws  could  be  applied. 

Thus  personal  freedom  became  almost  general  in 
Europe ; an  advantage  which  paved  the  way  for  the 
increase  of  political  or  civil  liberty,  and  which,  even 
where  it  was  not  attended  with  this  salutary  effect, 
served  to  give  the  members  of  the  community  some  of 
the  most  considerable  advantages  of  it. 

\^Death  and  Character  of  Queen  Elizabeth.] 

Some  inci<lents  happened  which  revived  her  tender- 
ness for  Essex,  and  filled  her  with  the  deepest  sorrow 
for  the  consent  which  she  had  unwarily  given  to  his 
execution. 

The  Earl  of  Essex,  after  his  return  from  the  fortu- 
nate expedition  against  Cadiz,  observing  the  increase 
of  the  queen’s  fond  attachment  towards  him,  took 
occasion  to  regret  that  the  necessity  of  her  service  | 
required  him  often  to  be  absent  from  her  person,  and  i 
expo.sed  him  to  all  those  ill  offices  which  his  enemies,  , 
more  assiduous  in  their  attendance,  could  employ 
against  him.  She  was  moved  with  this  tender  jea- 
lousy ; and  making  him  the  present  of  a ring,  desired 
him  to  keep  that  pledge  of  her  affection,  and  assured 
him  that  into  whatever  disgrace  he  should  fall,  what- 

184 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DAVID  IIOMB. 


ever  prejudicc.s  she  might  be  induced  to  entertain 
against  liim,  yet  if  he  sent  her  that  ring,  she  would 
immediately,  upon  sight  of  it,  recall  her  former  tender- 
ness, would  afford  him  a patient  hearing,  and  would 
lend  a favourable  car  to  his  apology.  Essex,  not- 
withstanding all  his  misfortunes,  reserved  this  pre- 
cious gift  to  the  last  extremity  ; but  after  his  trial 
and  condemnation,  he  resolved  to  try  the  experiment, 
and  he  committed  the  ring  to  the  Countess  of  Notting- 
ham, whom  ho  desired  to  deliver  it  to  the  queen.  The 
countess  was  prevailed  on  by'  her  husband,  the  mortal 
enemy  of  Essex,  not  to  execute  the  commission  ; and 
Elizabeth,  who  still  expected  that  her  favourite  would 
make  this  last  appeal  to  her  tenderness,  and  who 
ascribed  the  neglect  of  it  to  his  invincible  obstinacy, 
was,  after  much  delay  and  many  internal  combats, 
puslied  by  resentment  and  policy  to  sign  the  warrant 
for  his  execution.  The  Countess  of  Nottingham  fall- 
ing into  sickness,  and  affected  with  the  near  approach 
of  death,  was  seized  with  remorse  for  her  conduct ; and 
having  obtained  a visit  from  the  queen,  she  craved 
her  pardon,  and  revealed  to  her  the  fatal  secret.  The 
queen,  astonished  with  this  incident,  burst  into  a 
furious  passion  ; she  shook  the  dying  countess  in  her 
bed  ; and  crying  to  her  that  God  might  pardon  her, 
but  she  never  could,  she  broke  from  her,  and  thence- 
forth resigned  herself  over  to  the  deepest  and  most 
incurable  melancholy.  She  rejected  all  consolation  : 
he  even  refused  food  and  sustenance ; and,  throwing 
nerself  on  the  floor,  she  remained  sullen  and  immov- 
able, feeding  her  thoughts  on  her  afflictions,  and  de- 
claring life  and  existence  an  insufferable  burden  to 
her.  Few  words  she  uttered ; and  they  were  all  ex- 
pressive of  some  inward  grief  which  she  cared  not  to 
reveal : but  sighs  and  groans  were  the  chief  vent  which 
she  gave  to  her  despondency,  and  which,  though  they 
discovered  her  sorrows,  were  never  able  to  ease  or  as- 
suage them.  Ten  days  and  nights  she  lay  upon  the 
carpet,  leaning  on  cushions  which  her  maids  brought 
her;  and  her  physicians  could  not  persuade  her  to 
allow  herself  to  be  put  to  bed,  much  less  to  make  trial 
of  any  remedies  which  they  prescribed  to  her.  Her 
anxious  mind  at  last  had  so  long  preyed  on  her  frail 
body,  that  her  end  was  visibly  approaching ; and  the 
council  being  assembled,  sent  the  keeper,  admiral, 
and  secretary',  to  know  her  will  with  regard  to  her 
successor.  She  answered  with  a faint  voice  that  as 
she  had  held  a regal  sceptre,  she  desired  no  other  than 
a royal  successor.  Cecil  requesting  her  to  explain 
herself  more  particularly,  she  subjoined  that  she 
would  have  a king  to  succeed  her ; and  who  should 
that  be  but  her  nearest  kinsman,  the  king  of  Scots  1 
Being  then  advised  by  the  archbishop  of  Canterbury 
to  fix  her  thoughts  upon  God,  she  replied  that  she  did 
80,  nor  did  her  mind  in  the  least  wander  from  him. 
Her  voice  soon  after  left  her ; her  senses  failed  ; she 
fell  into  a lethargic  slumber,  which  continued  some 
hours,  and  she  expired  gently,  without  farther  strug- 
gle or  convulsion  (March  24),  in  the  seventieth  y'ear 
of  her  age  and  forty-fifth  of  her  reign. 

So  dark  a cloud  overcast  the  evening  of  that  day, 
which  had  shone  out  with  a mighty  lustre  in  the  eyes 
of  all  Europe.  There  are  few  great  personages  in  his- 
tory who  have  been  more  exposed  to  the  calumny  of 
enemies  and  the  adulation  of  friends  than  Queen 
Elizabeth ; and  yet  there  is  scarcely  any  whose  repu- 
tation has  been  more  certainly  determined  by  the 
unanimous  consent  of  posterity.  The  unusual  length 
of  her  administration,  and  the  strong  features  of  her 
character,  were  able  to  overcome  all  prejudices;  and 
obliging  her  detractors  to  abate  much  of  their  invec- 
tives, and  her  admirers  somewhat  of  their  panegyrics, 
have  at  last,  in  spite  of  political  factions,  and  what 
is  more,  of  religious  animosities,  produced  a uniform 
judgment  with  regard  to  her  conduct.  Her  vigour, 
her  constancy,  her  magnanimity,  her  penetration,  vi- 


gilance, and  address,  are  allowed  to  merit  the  highest 
])raiscs,  and  appear  not  to  have  been  surjiassed  by  any 
per.son  that  ever  tilled  a throne  : a conduct  less  rigo- 
rous, less  imperious,  more  sincere,  more  indulgent  to 
her  people,  would  have  been  requisite  to  form  a per- 
fect character.  By  the  force  of  her  mind  she  con- 
trolled all  her  more  active  and  .stronger  qualities,  and 
prevented  them  from  running  into  excess : her  hero- 
ism was  exempt  from  temerity,  her  frugality  from 
avarice,  her  friendship  from  partiality,  her  active 
temper  from  turbulency  and  a vain  ambition ; she 
guarded  not  herself  with  equal  care  or  equal  success 
from  lesser  infirmities ; the  rivalship  of  beauty,  the 
desire  of  admiration,  the  jealousy  of  love,  and  the 
sallies  of  anger. 

Her  singular  talents  for  government  were  founded 
equally  on  her  temper  and  on  her  capacity.  Endowed 
with  a great  command  over  herself,  she  soon  obtained 
an  uncontrolled  ascendant  over  her  people ; and  while 
she  merited  all  their  esteem  by  her  real  virtues,  she 
also  engaged  their  affections  by  her  pretended  ones. 
Few  sovereigns  of  England  succeeded  to  the  throne  in 
more  difficult  circumstances  ; and  none  ever  conducted 
the  government  with  such  uniform  success  and  feli- 
city. Though  unacquainted  with  the  practice  of  tole- 
ration— the  true  secret  for  managing  religious  factions 
. — she  preserved  her  people,  by  her  superior  prudence, 
from  those  confusions  in  which  theological  controversy 
had  involved  all  the  neighbouring  nations ; and 
though  her  enemies  were  the  most  powerful  princes 
of  Europe,  the  most  active,  the  most  enterprising,  the 
least  scrupulous,  she  was  able  by  her  vigour  to  make 
deep  impressions  on  their  states;  her  own  greatness 
meanwhile  remained  untouched  and  unimpaired. 

The  wise  ministers  and  brave  warriors  who  flourish- 
ed under  her  reign,  share  the  praise  of  her  success ; 
but  instead  of  lessening  the  applause  due  to  her,  they 
make  great  addition  to  it.  They  owed,  all  of  them, 
their  advancement  to  her  choice  ; they  were  supported 
by  her  constancy,  and  with  all  their  abilities,  they 
were  never  able  to  acquire  any  undue  ascendant  over 
her.  In  her  family,  in  her  court,  in  her  kingdom,  she 
remained  equally  mistress : the  force  of  the  tender 
passions  was  great  over  her,  but  the  force  of  her  mind 
was  still  superior  ; and  the  combat  w'hich  her  victory 
visibly  cost  her,  serves  only  to  display  the  firmness  of 
her  resolution,  and  the  loftiness  of  her  ambitious  sen- 
timents. 

The  fame  of  this  princess,  though  it  has  surmounted 
the  prejudices  both  of  faction  and  bigotry, yet  lies  still 
exposed  to  another  prejudice,  w'hich  is  more  duralde 
because  more  natural,  and  which,  according  to  the 
different  views  in  which  we  survey  her,  is  capable 
either  of  exalting  beyond  measure  or  diminishing  the 
lustre  of  her  character.  This  prejudice  is  founded  on 
the  consideration  of  her  sex.  When  we  contemplAie 
her  as  a woman,  we  are  apt  to  be  struck  with  the 
highest  admiration  of  her  great  qualities  and  exten- 
sive capacity ; but  we  are  also  apt  to  require  some 
more  softness  of  disposition,  some  greater  lenity  of 
temper,  some  of  those  amiable  weaknesses  by  which 
her  sex  is  distinguished.  But  the  true  method  of 
estimating  her  merit  is  to  lay  aside  all  these  consi- 
derations, and  consider  her  merely  as  a rational  being 
placed  in  authority,  and  intrusted  with  the  govern- 
ment of  mankind.  We  may  find  it  difficult  to  recon- 
cile our  fancy  to  her  as  a wife  or  a mistress  ; but  hei 
qualities  as  a sovereign,  though  with  some  consider- 
able exceptions,  arc  the  object  of  undisputed  applause 
and  approbation. 

DR  WnXIAM  ROBERTSON . 

Dr  William  Robertson  was  born  at  Borthwiek, 
county  of  Edinburgh,  in  the  year  1721.  His  fathe* 
was  a clergyman,  minister  of  Borthwiek,  and  after* 

185 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPiliDIA  OF 


TO  1780 


v'iinls  of  the  Greyfriars  churcli,  Edinburgh  : the 
son  was  also  educated  for  the  church,  lii  174.3 
he  was  appointed  minister  of  Gladsniuir,  in  Had- 
dingtonshire, whence  he  removed,  in  1758,  to  be 
iiu'umbcnt  of  Lady  Yester’s  parish  in  Edinburgh. 
He  had  distinguished  himself  by  his  talents  in  the 


Dr  William  Robertson. 

General  Assembly;  but  it  was  not  till  1759  that  he 
became  known  as  a historian.  In  that  year  he 
published  his  History  of  Scotland  during  the  lieigns 
of  Queen  Mary  and  of  King  James  VI.,  till  his 
Accession  to  the  Crown  of  England,  by  which  his  for- 
tune was  benefited  to  the  extent  of  £600,  and  his 
fame  was  by  one  effort  placed  on  an  imperishable 
basis.  No  first  work  was  ever  more  successful.  The 
author  was  congratulated  by  all  who  were  illustrious 
for  their  rank  or  talents.  He  tvas  appointed  chaplain 
of  Stirling  castle ; in  two  years  afterwards  he  was 
nominated  one  of  his  majesty’s  chaplains  in  ordinary 
for  Scotland ; and  he  w’as  successively  made  prin- 
cipal of  the  university  of  Edinburgh,  and  historio- 
grapher for  Scotland,  with  a salary  of  £200  per 
annum.  Stimulated  by  such  success,  as  welt  as  by 
a love  of  composition.  Dr  Robertson  continued  his 
studies,  and  in  1769  he  produced  his  History  of  the 
lieign  of  Charles  V.,  in  three  volumes,  quarto,  for 
which  he  received  from  the  booksellers  the  princely 
sum  of  £4500.  It  was  equally  well  received  with 
his  former  work.  In  1777  he  published  his  History 
of  America,  and  in  1791  his  Historical  Disquisition 
on  Ancient  India,  a slight  work,  to  which  he  had 
been  led  by  Major  Rennet’s  Memoirs  of  a Map  of 
Hindostan.  For  many  years  Dr  Robertson  was 
leader  of  the  moderate  party  in  the  church  of  Scot- 
land, in  which  capacity  he  is  said  to  have  evinced 
in  the  General  Assembly  a readiness  and  eloquence 
in  debate  which  his  friend  Gibbon  might  have 
envied  in  the  House  of  Commons.  After  a gradual 
decay  of  his  powers,  this  accomplished  historian 
died  on  the  11th  of  June  1793,  in  the  seventy-first 
year  of  his  age. 

The  ‘History  of  Scotland’ possesses  the  interest 
and  something  of  the  character  of  a memoir  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots.  This  unfortunate  princess  forms 
the  attraction  of  the  work ; and  though  Robertson 
is  not  among  the  number  of  her  indiscriminate 
idmirers  and  apol  igists,  he  labours  (with  more  of 


the  art  of  the  writer  to  produce  a romantic  and  in- 
teresting narrative,  than  with  the  zeal  of  the  philo- 
sopher to  establish  truth)  to  awaken  the  sympathies 
of  the  reader  strongly  in  her  behalf.  The  luminous 
historical  views  and  retrospects  in  which  this  histo- 
rian excels,  were  indicated  in  his  introductory  chap- 
ter on  Scottish  history,  prior  to  the  birth  of  Mary. 
Though  a brief  and  rapid  summary,  this  chapter  is 
finely  written,  and  is  remarkable  equally  for  ele- 
gance and  pcrspimiity.  The  style  of  Robertson 
seems  to  have  surprised  his  contemporaries ; and 
Horace  Walpole,  in  a letter  to  the  autlior,  expresses 
the  feeling  with  his  usual  point  and  vivacity.  ‘Be- 
fore I read  your  history,  I should  probably  have 
been  glad  to  dictate  to  you,  and  (I  will  venture  to 
say  it — it  satirises  nobody  but  myself)  should  have 
thought  I did  honour  to  an  obscure  Scotch  clergy- 
man by  directing  his  studies  by  my  superior  lights 
and  abilities.  How  you  have  saved  me,  sir,  from 
making  a ridiculous  figure,  by  making  so  great  a 
one  yourself!  But  could  I suspect  that  a man  I 
believe  much  younger,  and  whose  dialect  I scarce 
understood,  and  who  came  to  me  with  all  the  diffi- 
dence and  modesty  of  a very  middling  author,  and 
who  I was  told  had  passed  his  life  in  a small  living 
near  Edinburgh — could  I then  suspect  that  he  had 
not  only  written  what  all  the  world  now  allows  the 
best  modern  history,  but  that  he  had  written  it  in 
the  purest  English,  and  with  as  much  seeming  know- 
ledge of  men  and  courts  as  if  he  had  passed  all  his 
life  in  important  embassies  ?’  This  is  delicate  though 
somewhat  overstrained  flattery.  Two  of  the  quarto 
volumes  of  Hume’s  history  had  then  been  published, 
and  his  inimitable  essays  were  also  before  the  world, 
showing  that  in  mere  style  a Scotchman  could  carry 
off  the  palm  for  ease  and  elegance.  Robertson  is 
more  uniform  and  measured  than  Hume.  He  has 
few  salient  points,  and  no  careless  beauties.  His 
style  is  a full  and  equable  stream,  that  rolls  every- 
where the  same,  without  lapsing  into  irregularity, 
or  overflowing  its  prescribed  course.  It  wants  spirit 
and  variety.  Of  grandeur  or  dignity  there  is  no 
deficiency  ; and  when  the  subject  awakens  a train 
of  lofty  or  phOosophical  ideas,  the  manner  of  the 
historian  is  in  fine  accordance  with  his  matter. 
When  he  sums  up  the  character  of  a sovereign,  or 
traces  the  progress  of  society  and  the  influence  of 
laws  and  government,  we  recognise  the  mind  and 
language  of  a master  in  historical  composition.  The 
artificial  graces  of  his  style  are  also  finely  displayed 
in  scenes  of  tenderness  and  pathos,  or  in  picturesque 
description.  His  account  of  the  beauty  and  suffer- 
ings of  Mary,  or  of  the  voyage  of  Columbus,  when 
the  first  glimpses  of  the  new  world  broke  upon  the 
adventurers,  possesses  almost  enough  of  imagination 
to  rank  it  with  poetry.  The  whole  of  the  ‘ History 
of  America’  is  indeed  full  of  the  strongest  interest. 
The  discovery  of  so  vast  a portion  of  the  globe,  the 
luxuriance  of  its  soil,  the  primitive  manners  of  its 
natives,  the  pomp,  magnificence,  and  cruelty  of  its 
conquerors,  all  form  a series  of  historical  pictures 
and  images  that  powerfully  affect  the  mind.  No 
history  of  America  can  ever  supplant  the  work  of 
Robertson,  for  his  materials  are  so  well  arranged, 
his  information  so  varied,  his  philosophical  reflec- 
tions so  just  and  striking,  and  his  narrative  so 
graceful,  that  nothing  could  be  added  but  mere 
details  destitute  of  any  interest.  His  ‘ History  of 
the  Reign  of  Ch.arles  V.’  wants  this  natural  romance, 
but  the  knowledge  displayed  by  the  historian,  and 
the  enlarged  and  liberal  spirit  of  his  philosophical 
inquiries,  are  scarcely  less  worthy  of  commendation. 
The  first  volume,  which  describes  the  state  of 
Europe  previous  to  the  si.xteenth  century,  contain* 
the  result  of  much  study  and  research,  expressed  is 

186 


niSTCRIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  WILLIAIH  ROBERTSO.M. 


lanyuajie  often  eloquent,  and  generally  pleasing  and 
han  lonious.  If  tlie  * pomp  and  strut’  which  Cowper 
the  poet  imputes  to  Robertson  be  sometimes  ap- 
parent in  the  orderly  succession  of  well-balanced 
and  equally  flowing  periods,  it  must  be  acknow- 
ledged that  there  is  also  much  real  dignity  and 
power,  springing  from  the  true  elevation  of  intellec- 
tual and  moral  character. 

A late  acute  critic,  Mr  Gifford,  has  thus  discri- 
minated between  the  styles  of  llume  and  Robertson : 
‘ Hume,  the  most  contracted  in  his  subject,  is  the 
most  finished  in  execution ; the  nameless  number- 
less graces  of  his  style ; the  apparent  absence  of 
elaboration,  yet  the  real  effect  produced  by  efforts 
the  most  elaborate  ; the  simplicity  of  his  sentences, 
the  perspicuity  of  his  ideas,  the  purity  of  his  ex- 
pression, entitle  him  to  the  name  and  to  the  praises 
of  another  Xenophon.  Robertson  never  attained  to 
the  same  graceful  ease,  or  the  same  unbounded 
variety  of  expression.  With  a fine  ear  and  exact 
judgment  in  the  construction  of  his  sentences,  and 
with  an  absence  of  Scotticisms,  truly  wonderful  in 
one  who  had  never  ceased  to  converse  wdth  Scots- 
men, there  is  in  the  sentences  of  this  historian 
something  resembling  the  pace  of  an  animal  disci- 
plined by  assiduous  practice  to  the  curb,  and  never 
moving  but  in  conformity  to  the  rules  of  the  manege. 
The  taste  of  Hume  was  Greek — Attic  Greek  : he 
had,  as  far  as  the  genius  of  the  two  languages  would 
permit,  collected  the  very  juice  and  flavour  of  their 
style,  and  transfused  it  into  his  own.  Robertson, 
we  suspect,  though  a good,  was  never  a profound 
scholar  : from  the  peculiar  nature  of  his  education, 
Riid  his  early  engagement  in  the  duties  of  his  pro- 
fession, he  had  little  leisure  to  be  learned.  Both,  in 
their  several  waj's,  were  men  of  the  world ; but 
Hume,  polished  by  long  intercourse  with  the  best 
society  in  France,  as  well  as  his  own  country,  trans- 
ferred some  portion  of  easy  high-breeding  from  his 
manners  to  his  writings ; while  his  friend,  though 
no  man  was  ever  more  completely  emancipated  from 
the  bigotry  of  a Scots  minister,  or  from  the  pedantry 
of  the  head  of  a college,  in  his  intercourse  (which 
he  assiduously  courted)  with  the  great,  did  not  catch 
that  last  grace  and  polish  which  intercourse  with- 
out equality  will  never  produce,  and  which,  for  that 
reason,  mere  sfavans  rarely  acquire  from  society 
more  liberal  or  more  dignified  than  what  is  found  in 
their  own  rank.’ 

[Character  of  Mary  Queen  of  S’cots.] 

To  all  the  charms  of  beauty  and  the  utmost  ele- 
gance of  external  form,  she  added  those  accomplish- 
ments which  render  their  impression  irresistible. 
Polite,  affable,  insinuating,  sprightly,  and  capable  of 
speaking  and  of  writing  with  equal  ease  and  dignity. 
Sudden,  however,  and  violent  in  all  her  attachments, 
because  her  heart  was  warm  and  unsuspicious.  Im- 
patient of  contradiction,  because  she  had  been  accus- 
j tomed  from  her  infancy  to  be  treated  as  a queen.  No 
I stranger,  on  some  occasions,  to  dissimulation,  which, 
in  that  perfidious  court  where  she  received  her  edu- 
cation, was  reckoned  among  the  necessary  arts  of 
I government.  Not  insensible  of  flattery,  or  uncon- 
I scious  of  that  pleasure  with  which  almost  every  woman 

beholds  the  influence  of  her  own  beauty.  Formed 
with  the  qualities  which  we  love,  not  with  the  talents 
that  we  admire,  she  was  an  agreeable  woman  rather 
I than  an  illustrious  queen.  The  vivacity  of  her  spirit, 
not  sufficiently  tempered  with  sound  judgment,  and 
' the  warmth  of  her  heart,  which  was  not  at  all  times 
I under  the  restraint  of  discretion,  betrayed  her  both 
I into  errors  and  into  crimes.  To  say  that  she  was 
I always  unfortunate  will  not  account  for  that  long  and 


almost  uninterrupted  succession  of  calamities  which 
befell  her ; we  must  likewise  add  that  she  was  often 
imprudent.  Her  passion  for  Darnley  was  rash,  youth- 
ful, and  excessive.  And  thougli  the  sudden  transition 
to  the  opposite  extreme  was  the  natural  effect  of  her 
ill-requited  love,  and  of  his  ingratitude,  insolence, 
and  brutality,  yet  neither  these  nor  Bothwell’s  artful 
address  and  important  services  can  justify  her  attach- 
ment to  that  nobleman.  Even  the  manners  of  the 
age,  licentious  as  they  were,  are  no  apology  for  this 
unhappy  passion  ; nor  can  they  induce  us  to  look  on 
that  tragical  and  infamous  scene  which  followed  upon 
it  with  less  abhorrence.  Humanity  will  draw  a veil 
over  this  part  of  her  character  which  it  cannot  ap- 
prove, and  may,  perhaps,  prompt  some  to  impute  her 
actions  to  her  situation  more  than  to  her  dispositions, 
and  to  lament  the  unhappiness  of  the  former  rather 
than  accuse  the  perverseness  of  the  latter.  Mary’s  suf- 
ferings exceed,  both  in  degree  and  in  duration,  those 
tragical  distresses  which  fancy  has  feigned  to  excite 
sorrow  and  commiseration  ; and  while  we  survey  them, 
we  are  apt  altogether  to  forget  her  frailties  ; we  think 
of  her  faults  with  less  indignation,  and  approve  of  our 
tears  as  if  they  were  shed  for  a person  who  had  at- 
tained much  nearer  to  pure  virtue. 

With  regard  to  the  queen’s  person,  a circumstance 
not  to  be  omitted  in  writing  the  history  of  a female 
reign,  all  contemporary  authors  agree  in  ascribing  to 
Mary  the  utmost  beauty  of  countenance  and  elegance 
of  shape  of  which  the  human  form  is  capable.  Her 
hair  was  black,  though,  according  to  the  fashion  of 
that  age,  she  frequently  wore  borrowed  locks,  and  of 
different  colours.  Her  eyes  were  a dark  gray,  her 
complexion  was  exquisitely  fine,  and  her  hands  and 
arms  remarkably  delicate,  both  as  to  shape  and  colour. 
Her  stature  was  of  a height  that  rose  to  the  majestic. 
She  danced,  she  walked,  and  rode  with  equal  grace. 
Her  taste  for  music  was  just,  and  she  both  sung  and 
played  upon  the  lute  with  uncommon  skill.  Towards 
the  end  of  her  life  she  began  to  grow  fat,  and  her 
long  confinement  and  the  coldness  of  the  houses  in 
which  she  had  been  imprisoned,  brought  on  a rheu- 
matism, which  deprived  her  of  the  use  of  her  limbs. 
‘No  man,’  says  Brantome,  ‘ever  beheld  her  person 
without  admiration  and  love,  or  will  read  her  history 
without  sorrow.’ 

[Martin  Luther.^ 

[From  the  ‘ History  of  Charles  V.’] 

While  appearances  of  danger  daily  increased,  and 
the  tempest  which  had  been  so  long  a gathering  was 
ready  to  break  forth  in  all  its  violence  against  the 
Protestant  church,  Luther  was  saved,  by  a seasonable 
death,  from  feeling  or  beholding  its  destructive  rage. 
Having  gone,  though  in  a declining  state  of  health, 
and  during  a rigorous  season,  to  his  native  city  of 
Eysleben,  in  order  to  compose,  by  his  authority,  a 
dissension  among  the  counts  of  Mansfield,  he  was 
seized  with  a violent  inflammation  in  his  stomach, 
which  in  a few  days  put  an  end  to  his  life,  in  the 
sixty-third  year  of  his  age.  As  he  was  raised  up  by 
providence  to  be  the  author  of  one  of  the  greatest  and 
most  interesting  revolutions  recorded  in  history,  there 
is  not  any  person,  perhaps,  whose  character  has  been 
drawn  with  such  opposite  colours.  In  his  own  age, 
one  party,  struck  with  horror  and  inflamed  with  rage, 
when  they  saw  with  what  a daring  hand  he  over- 
turned everything  which  they  held  to  be  sacred,  or 
valued  as  beneficial,  imputed  to  him  not  only  all 
the  defects  and  vices  of  a man,  but  the  qualities  of  a 
demon.  The  other,  warmed  with  the  admiration  and 
gratitude  which  they  thought  he  merited  as  the  re- 
storer of  light  and  liberty  to  the  Christian  church, 
ascribed  to  him  perfections  above  the  condition  of 
humanity,  and  viewed  all  his  actions  with  a venera- 

187 


•ROM  1727  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  to  1780. 


tion  bordering  on  that  which  should  be  paid  only  to 
those  who  are  guided  by  the  immediate  inspiration  of 
heaven.  It  is  liis  own  conduct,  not  the  undistinguish- 
ing censure  or  tlie  exaggerated  praise  of  his  contem- 
poraries, that  ought  to  regulate  the  opinions  of  the 
present  age  concerning  him.  Zeal  for  what  he  re- 
garded as  truth,  undaunted  intrcj)idity  to  maintain 
his  own  system,  abilities,  both  natural  and  acquired, 
to  defend  his  principles,  and  unwearied  industry  in 
propagating  them,  are  virtues  which  shine  so  conspi- 
cuously in  every  part  of  his  behaviour,  that  even  his 
enemies  must  allow  him  to  have  possessed  them  in  an 
eminent  degree.  To  these  may  be  added,  with  equal 
justice,  such  purity  and  even  austerity  of  manners  as 
became  one  who  assumed  the  character  of  a reformer; 
such  sanctity  of  life  as  suited  the  doctrine  which  he 
delivered  ; ami  such  perfect  disinterestedness  as  affords 
no  slight  presumption  of  his  sincerity.  Superior  to 
all  selfish  considerations,  a stranger  to  the  elegancies 
of  life,  and  desjusing  its  pleasures,  he  left  the  honours 
and  emoluments  of  the  church  to  his  disciples,  re- 
maining satisfied  himself  in  his  original  state  of  pro- 
fessor in  the  university,  and  pastor  of  the  town  of 
Wittemberg,  with  the  moderate  appointments  annexed 
to  these  offices.  II  is  extraordinary  qualities  were 
alloyed  with  no  inconsiderable  mixture  of  human 
frailty  and  human  passions.  These,  however,  were  of 
such  a nature,  that  they  cannot  be  imputed  to  male- 
volence or  corruption  of  heart,  but  seem  to  have  taken 
their  rise  from  the  same  source  with  many  of  his  vir- 
tues. His  mind,  forcible  and  vehement  in  all  its 
operations,  roused  by  great  objects,  or  agitated  by 
violent  passions,  broke  out,  on  many  occasions,  with 
an  impetuosity  which  astonishes  men  of  feebler  spirits, 
or  such  as  are  placed  in  a more  tranquil  situation. 
By  carrying  some  praiseworthy  dispositions  to  excess, 
he  bordered  sometimes  on  what  was  culpable,  and  was 
often  betrayed  into  actions  which  exposed  him  to  cen- 
sure. His  confidence  that  his  own  opinions  were  well- 
founded,  approached  to  arrogance ; his  courage  in 
asserting  them,  to  rashness ; his  firmness  in  adhering 
to  them,  to  obstinacy  ; and  his  zeal  in  confuting  his 
adversaries,  to  rage  and  scurrility.  Accustomed  him- 
self to  consider  everything  as  subordinate  to  truth,  he 
expected  the  same  deference  for  it  from  other  men ; 
and  without  making  any  allowances  for  their  timidity 
or  prejudices,  he  poured  forth  against  such  as  disap- 
pointed him,  in  this  particular,  a torrent  of  invective 
mingled  with  contempt.  Regardless  of  any  distinc- 
tion of  rank  or  character  when  his  doctrines  were 
attacked,  he  chastised  all  his  adversaries  indiscrimi- 
nately with  the  same  rough  hand  ; neither  the  royal 
dignity  of  Henry  VHII.,  nor  the  eminent  learning  and 
abilities  of  Erasmus,  screened  them  from  the  same 
gross  abuse  with  which  he  treated  Tetzel  or  Eccius. 

But  these  indecencies,  of  which  Luther  was  guilty, 
must  not  be  imputed  wholly  to  the  violence  of  his 
temper.  They  ought  to  be  charged  in  part  on  the 
manners  of  the  age.  Among  a rude  people,  unac- 
quainted with  those  maxims  which,  by  putting  con- 
tinual restraint  on  the  passions  of  individuals,  have 
polished  society  and  rendered  it  agreeable,  disputes 
of  every  kind  were  managed  with  heat,  and  strong 
emotions  were  uttered  in  their  natural  language  with- 
out reserve  or  delicacy.  At  the  same  time  the  works 
of  learned  men  were  all  composed  iniLatin,  and  they 
were  not  only  authorised,  by  the  example  of  eminent 
writers  in  that  language,  to  use  their  antagonists  with 
the  most  illiberal  scurrility ; but  in  a dead  tongue, 
indecencies  of  every  kind  appear  less  shocking  than 
in  a living  language,  whose  idioms  and  phrases  seem 
gross,  because  they  are  familiar. 

In  passing  judgment  upon  the  characters  of  men, 
we  ought  to  try  them  by  the  principles  and  maxims 
of  their  own  age,  not  by  those  of  another  ; for  al- 
though virtue  smd  vice  are  at  all  times  the  same, 


manners  and  customs  vary  conti)uially.  Some  parts 
of  Luther’s  behaviour,  which  appear  to  us  most  c ilp-  I 
able,  gave  no  disgust  to  his  contemporaries.  It  was  ! 
even  by  some  of  those  qualities,  whicli  we  are  now  apt  j 
to  blame,  that  he  was  fitted  for  accomidishuig  the  I 
great  work  which  he  undertook.  To  rouse  mankind, 
when  sunk  in  ignorance  or  superstition,  and  to  en- 
counter the  rage  of  bigotry  armed  with  i>ower,  required 
the  utmost  vehemence  of  zeal,  as  well  as  a temper 
daring  to  excess.  A gentle  call  would  neither  have 
reached  nor  have  excited  those  to  whom  it  ^vus  ad- 
dressed. A spirit  more  amiable,  but  less  vigorous 
than  Luther’s,  would  have  shrunk  back  from  the 
dangers  which  he  braved  and  surmounted. 

[Discovery  of  America.^ 

Next  morning,  being  Friday  the  third  day  of  August, 
in  the  year  1482,  Columbus  set  sail,  a little  before 
sunrise,  in  presence  of  a vast  crowd  of  spectators, 
who  sent  up  their  supplications  to  heaven  for  the 
prosperous  issue  of  the  voyage,  which  they  wished 
rather  than  expected.  Columbus  steered  directly  for 
the  Canary  Islands,  aiid  arrived  there  without  any 
occurrence  that  would  have  deserved  notice  on  any 
other  occasion.  But  in  a voyage  of  such  expectation 
and  importance,  every  circumstance  was  the  object  of 
attention.  * * 

Upon  the  1st  of  October  they  were,  according  to 
the  admiral’s  reckoning,  seven  hundred  and  seventy 
leagues  to  the  west  of  the  Canaries ; but,  lest  his  men 
should  be  intimidated  by  the  prodigious  length  of  the 
navigation,  he  gave  out  that  they  had  f)roceeded  only 
five  hundred  and  eighty-four  leagues ; and,  fortu- 
nately for  Columbus,  neither  his  own  pilot  nor  those 
of  the  other  ships  had  skill  sufficient  to  correct  this 
error  and  discover  the  deceit.  They  had  now  been 
above  three  weeks  at  sea ; they  had  proceeded  far  be- 
yond what  former  navigators  had  attempted  or  deemed 
possible ; all  their  p)rognostics  of  discover^',  drawn 
from  the  flight  of  birds  and  other  circumstances,  had 
proved  fallacious;  the  appearances  of  land,  with  which 
their  own  credulity  or  the  artifice  of  their  commander 
had  from  time  to  time  flattered  and  amused  them, 
had  been  altogether  illusive,  and  their  prospect  of  \ 
success  seemed  now  to  be  as  distant  as  ever.  These 
reflections  occurred  often  to  men  who  had  no  other 
object  or  occupation  than  to  reason  and  discourse  con-  : 
corning  the  intention  and  circumstances  of  their  ex- 
pedition. They  made  impression  at  first  upon  the  j 
ignorant  and  timid,  and  extending  by  degrees  to  such  ; 
as  were  better  informed  or  more  resolute,  the  con-  | 
tagion  spread  at  length  from  ship  to  sliip.  From 
secret  whispers  or  murmurings  they  proceeded  to  open 
cabals  and  public  complaints.  They  taxeil  their 
sovereign  with  inconsiderate  credulity,  in  paying  such 
regard  to  the  vain  promises  and  rash  conjectures  of 
an  indigent  foreigner,  as  to  hazard  the  lives  of  so  | 
many  of  her  owm  subjects  in  prosecuting  a chimerical  : 
scheme.  They  affirmed  that  they  had  fully  peiformed 
their  duty  by  venturing  so  far  in  an  unknown  and 
hopeless  course,  and  couhl  incur  no  blame  for  refusing 
to  follow  any  longer  a desperate  adventurer  to  certain 
destruction.  They  contended  that  it  was  necessary 
to  think  of  returning  to  Spain  while  their  crazy 
vessels  were  still  in  a condition  to  kecji  the  sea,  but 
expressed  their  fears  that  the  attempt  would  prove 
vain,  as  the  wind,  which  had  hitherto  been  so  favour- 
able to  their  course,  must  render  it  impossible  to  sail  I 
in  the  opposite  direction.  All  agreed  that  Columbus 
should  be  compelled  by  force  to  adopt  a measure  on 
which  their  common  safety  depended.  Some  of  the 
more  audacious  proposed,  as  the  most  expeditious  and 
certain  method  for  getting  rid  at  once  of  his  remon- 
strances, to  throw  him  into  the  sea,  being  persuaded 
that,  upon  their  return  to  Spain,  the  death  of  an  un- 

188 


HlSrOUI.VNS. 


EXGUSH  LITERATURE. 


DR  K'lLLIAM  ROBERTSOK. 


snccps>fiil  pro'cctor  wouKl  excite  little  concern,  and 
be  inquired  ii.  with  no  curio.sity. 

Columbus  was  fully  sensible  of  bis  perilous  situa- 
tion. He  had  observed,  with  great  uneasiness,  the  fatal 
I operation  of  ignorance  and  of  fear  in  producing  dis- 
I atiection  among  his  crew,  and  saw  that  it  was  now 
I ready  to  burst  out  into  open  mutiny.  He  retained, 
j however,  perfect  presence  of  mind.  He  affected  to 
I seem  ignorant  of  their  machinations.  Notwithstand- 
j ing  the  agitation  and  solicitude  of  his  own  mind,  he 
■ appeared  with  a cheerful  countenance,  like  a man 
satislied  with  the  progress  he  had  made,  and  confident 
i of  success.  Sometimes  he  employed  all  the  arts  of 
I insinuation  to  soothe  his  men.  Sometimes  he  endea- 
: voured  to  work  upon  their  ambition  or  avarice  bv' 

] magnificent  descriptions  of  the  fame  and  wealth  which 
I they  were  about  to  acquire.  On  other  occasions  he 
I assumed  a tone  of  authority,  and  threatened  them 
with  vengeance  from  their  sovereign  if,  by  their  das- 
tardly behaviour,  they  should  defeat  this  noble  effort 
to  pnmote  the  glory  of  God,  and  to  exalt  the  Spanish 
name  above  that  of  every  other  nation.  Even  with 
seditious  sailors,  the  words  of  a man  whom  they  had 
been  accustomed  to  reverence,  were  weighty  and  per- 
suasive, and  not  only  restrained  them  from  those 
violent  excesses  which  they  meditated,  but  prevailed 
with  them  to  accompany  their  admiral  for  some  time 
longer. 

As  they  proceeded,  the  indications  of  approaching 
land  seemed  to  be  more  certain,  and  excited  hope  in 
proportion.  The  birds  began  to  appear  in  flocks, 
making  towards  the  south-west.  Columbus,  in  imi- 
tation of  the  Portuguese  navigators,  who  had  been 
guided  in  several  of  their  discoveries  b^’  the  motion 
of  birds,  altered  his  course  from  due  west  tow?.rds  that 
quarter  whither  they  pointed  their  flight.  But,  after 
holding  on  for  several  days  in  this  new  direction 
without  any  better  success  than  formerly,  having  seen 
no  object  during  thirty  days  but  the  sea  and  the  sky, 
the  hopes  of  his  companions  subsided  faster  than  they 
had  risen  ; their  fears  revived  with  additional  force  ; 
impatience,  rage,  and  despair  appeared  in  every  coun- 
tenance. All  sense  of  subordination  was  lost.  The 
officers,  who  had  hitherto  concurred  with  Columbus  in 
opinion,  and  supported  his  authority,  now  took  part 
with  the  private  men  ; they  assembled  tumultuously 
on  the  deck,  expostulated  with  their  commander, 
mingled  threats  with  their  expostulations,  and  re- 
quired him  instantly  to  tack  about  and  return  to 
Europe.  Columbus  perceived  that  it  would  be  of  no 
avail  to  have  recourse  to  any  of  his  former  arts,  which, 
having  been  tried  so  often,  had  lost  their  effect ; and 
that  it  was  impossible  to  rekindle  any  zeal  for  the 
success  of  the  expedition  among  men  in  whose  breasts 
fear  had  extinguished  every  generous  sentiment.  He 
saw  that  it  was  no  less  vain  to  think  of  employing 
either  gentle  or  severe  measures  to  quell  a mutiny  so 
general  and  so  violent.  It  was  necessary,  on  all  these 
accounts,  to  soothe  passions  which  he  could  no  longer 
command,  and  to  give  way  to  a torrent  too  impetuous 
to  be  checked.  He  promised  solemnly  to  his  men 
that  he  would  comply  with  their  request,  provided 
they  would  accompany  him  and  obey  his  command 
for  three  days  longer,  and  if,  during  that  time, 
land  were  not  discovered,  he  would  then  abandon  the 
enterprise,  and  direct  his  course  towards  Spain. 

Enraged  as  the  sailors  were,  and  impatient  to  turn 
their  faces  again  towards  their  native  country,  this 
proposition  did  not  appear  to  them  unreasonable  ; nor 
did  Columbus  hazard  much  in  confining  himself  to  a 
term  so  short.  The  presages  of  discovering  land  were 
now  so  numerous  and  promising  that  he  deemed  them 
infallible.  For  some  days  the  sounding  line  reached 
the  bottom,  and  the  soil  which  it  brought  up  indicated 
land  to  be  at  no  great  distance.  The  flocks  of  birds 
increased,  and  were  composed  not  only  of  sea-fowl, 


but  of  such  land  birds  ns  could  not  be  supposed  to 
fly  far  from  the  shore.  The  crew  of  the  I’inta  ob- 
served a cane  floating,  which  .seemed  to  have  been 
newly  cut,  and  likewise  a piece  of  timber  artificially 
carved.  The  sailors  aboard  the  Nigna  took  up  the 
branch  of  a tree  with  red  berries  perfectly  fresh.  The 
clouds  around  the  setting  sun  assumed  a new  appear- 
ance ; the  air  was  more  mild  and  warm,  and  during 
night  the  wind  became  unequal  and  variable.  From 
all  these  symptoms  Columbus  was  so  confident  of 
being  near  land,  that  on  the  evening  of  the  eleventh 
of  October,  after  public  prayers  for  success,  he  ordered 
the  sails  to  be  furled,  and  the  ships  to  lie  to,  keeping 
strict  watch  lest  they  should  be  driven  ashore  in  the 
night.  During  this  interval  of  suspense  and  expecta- 
tion, no  man  shut  his  eyes,  all  kept  upon  deck,  gazing 
intently  towards  that  quarter  where  they  expected  to 
discover  the  land,  which  had  so  long  been  the  object 
of  their  wishes. 

About  two  hours  before  midnight,  Columbus,  stand- 
ing on  the  forecastle,  observed  a light  at  a distance, 
and  privately  pointed  it  out  to  Pedro  Guttierez,  a 
page  of  the  queen’s  wardrobe.  Guttierez  perceived  it, 
and  calling  to  Salcedo,  comptroller  of  the  fleet,  all 
three  saw  it  in  motion,  as  if  it  were  carried  from  place 
to  place.  A little  after  midnight,  the  joyful  sound  of 
land/  land!  was  heard  from  the  Pinta,  which  kept 
always  a-head  of  the  other  ships.  But  having  been 
so  often  deceived  by  fallacious  appearances,  every 
man  was  now  become  slow  of  belief,  and  waited  in  all 
the  anguish  of  uncertainty  and  impatience  for  the 
return  of  day.  As  soon  as  morning  dawned,  all 
doubts  and  fears  were  dispelled.  From  every  ship  an 
island  was  seen  about  two  leagues  to  the  north,  whose 
flat  and  verdant  fields,  well  stored  with  wood,  and 
watered  with  many  rivulets,  presented  the  aspect  of  a 
delightful  country.  The  crew  of  the  Pinta  instantly 
began  the  Tc  Beurn,  as  a hymn  of  thanksgiving  to 
God,  and  were  joined  by  those  of  the  other  ships  with 
tears  of  joy  and  transports  of  congratulation.  This 
office  of  gratitude  to  Heaven  was  followed  by  an  act 
of  justice  to  their  commander.  They  threw  themselves 
at  the  feet  of  Columbus,  with  feelings  of  self-con- 
demnation, mingled  with  reverence.  They  implored 
him  to  pardon  their  ignorance,  incredulity,  and  in- 
solence, which  had  created  him  so  much  unnecessary 
disquiet,  and  had  so  often  obstructed  the  prosecution 
of  his  well-concerted  plan  ; and  passing,  in  the  warmth 
of  their  admiration,  from  one  extreme  to  another, 
they  now  pronounced  the  man  whom  they  had  so 
lately  reviled  and  threatened,  to  be  a person  inspired 
by  Heaven  with  sagacity  and  fortitude  more  than 
human,  in  order  to  accomplish  a design  so  far  beyond 
the  ideas  and  conception  of  all  former  ages. 

As  soon  as  the  sun  arose,  all  their  boats  were 
manned  and  armed.  They  rowed  towards  the  island 
with  their  colours  displayed,  with  warlike  music,  and 
other  martial  pomp.  As  they  approached  the  coast, 
they  saw  it  covered  with  a multitude  of  people,  whom 
the  novelty  of  the  spectacle  had  drawn  together,  whose 
attitudes  and  gestures  expressed  wonder  and  astonish- 
ment at  the  strange  objects  which  presented  them- 
selves to  their  view.  Columbus  was  the  first  European 
who  set  foot  on  the  new  world  w'hich  he  had  dis- 
covered. He  landed  in  a rich  dress,  and  with  a naked 
sword  in  his  hand.  His  men  followed,  and,  kneeling 
down,  they  all  kissed  the  ground  which  they  had  so 
long  desired  to  see.  They  next  erected  a crucifix, 
and  prostrating  themselves  before  it,  returned  thanks 
to  God  for  conducting  their  voyage  to  such  a happy 
issue.  They  then  took  solemn  possession  of  the 
country  for  the  crown  of  Castile  and  Leon,  with  all 
the  fonnalities  which  the  Portuguese  were  accustomed 
to  observe  in  acts  (I  this  kind  in  their  new  disco- 
veries. 

The  Spaniards,  while  thus  empltyed,  were  sur- 

189 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPi^^DIA  OF 


TO  1786. 


-(niiided  by  many  of  the  natives,  who  gazed  in  silent 
admiration  upon  actions  which  they  could  not  com- 
])rehciid,  and  of  which  they  did  not  foresee  the  conse- 
quences. The  dress  of  the  Spaniards,  the  whiteness  of 
their  skins,  their  beards,  their  arms,  appeared  strange 
and  surjirising.  The  vast  machines  in  which  they  had 
traversed  the  ocean,  that  seemed  to  move  upon  the 
the  wat(:rs  w ith  wings,  and  uttered  a dreadful  sound 
resembling  thunder,  accompanied  with  lightning  and 
smoke,  struck  them  with  such  terror  that  they  began 
to  respect  their  new  guests  as  a superior  order  of 
beings,  and  concluded  that  they  were  children  of  the 
sun,  wlio  had  descended  to  visit  the  earth. 

The  Europeans  were  hardly  less  amazed  at  the 
scene  now  before  them.  Every  herb  and  shrub  and 
' tree  was  diiferent  from  those  which  flourished  in 

I Europe.  The  soil  seemed  to  be  rich,  but  bore  few 

marks  of  cultivation.  The  climate,  even  to  the 
Spani.ards,  felt  warm,  though  extremely  delightful. 
The  inhabitants  appeared  in  the  simple  innocence  of 
nature,  entirely  naked.  Their  black  hair,  long  and 
uncurled,  floated  upon  their  shoulders,  or  was  bound 
in  tresses  on  their  heads.  They  had  no  beards,  and 
every  part  of  their  bodies  was  perfectly  smooth. 
Their  complexion  was  of  a dusty  copper  colour,  their 
features  singular  rather  than  disagreeable,  their  aspect 
gentle  and  timid.  Though  not  tall,  they  were  well- 
shaped and  active.  Their  faces,  and  several  parts  of 
their  bodies,  were  fantastically  painted  with  glaring 
colours.  They  were  shy  at  first  through  fear,  but  soon 
became  familiar  with  the  Spaniards,  and  with  tran- 
sports of  joy  received  from  them  hawk-bells,  glass 
beads,  or  other  baubles  ; in  return  for  which  they 
gave  such  provisions  as  they  had,  and  some  cotton 
yarn,  the  only  commodity  of  value  which  they  could 
produce.  Towards  evening,  Columbus  returned  to  his 
ship,  accompanied  by  many  of  the  islanders  in  their 
boats,  which  they  called  canoes,  and  though  rudely 
formed  out  of  the  trunk  of  a single  tree,  they  rowed 
them  with  aurjirising  dexterity.  Thus,  in  the  first 
interview  between  the  inhabitants  of  the  old  and  new 
worlds,  everything  was  conducted  amicably  and  to 
their  mutual  satisfaction.  The  former,  enlightened 
and  ambitious,  formed  already  vast  ideas  with  respect 
to  the  advantages  which  they  might  derive  from  the 
regions  that  began  to  open  to  their  view.  The  latter, 
simple  aud  undisceruing,  had  no  foresight  of  the  cala- 
mities and  desolation  which  were  approaching  their 
country  ! 

[ChivalryJ^ 

Among  uncivilised  nations,  there  is  but  one  profes- 
sion honourable — that  of  arms.  All  the  ingenuity  and 
vigour  of  the  human  mind  are  exerted  in  acquiring 
military  skill  or  address.  The  functions  of  peace  are 
few  and  simple,  and  require  no  particular  course  of 
education  or  of  study  as  a preparation  for  discharging 
them.  This  was  the  state  of  Europe  during  several 
centuries.  Every  gentleman,  born  a soldier,  scorned 
any  other  occupation.  He  was  taught  no  science  but 
that  of  war ; even  his  exercises  and  pastimes  were 
feats  of  martial  prowess.  Nor  did  the  judicial  cha- 
racter, which  persons  of  noble  birth  were  alone  entitled 
to  assume,  demand  any  degree  of  knowledge  beyond 
that  which  such  untutored  soldiers  possessed.  To 
recollect  a few  traditionary  customs  w'hich  time  had 
confirmed  and  rendered  respectable,  to  mark  out  the 
lists  of  battle  with  due  formality,  to  observe  the  issue 
of  the  combat,  and  to  pronounce  whether  it  had  been 
conducted  according  to  the  laws  of  arms,  included 
every  thing  that  a baron,  who  acted  as  a judge,  found 
it  necessary  to  understand. 

But  when  the  forms  of  legal  proceedings  were  fixed, 
when  the  rules  of  decision  were  committed  to  writing 
ind  collected  into  a body,  law  became  a science,  the 


knowledge  of  which  required  a regular  course  of  study,  ' 
together  with  long  attention  to  the  practice  of  courts. 
Martial  and  illiterate  nobles  had  neither  leisure  nor 
inclination  to  undertake  a task  so  laborious,  as  well 
as  so  foreign  from  all  the  occupations  which  they 
deemed  entertaining  or  suitable  to  their  rank.  They 
gradually  relinquished  their  places  in  courts  of  jus- 
tice, where  their  ignorance  exposed  them  to  contempt. 
They  became  weary  of  attending  to  the  discussion  of 
cases  which  grew  too  intricate  for  them  to  compre- 
hend. Not  only  the  judicial  determination  of  points, 
which  were  the  subject  of  controversy,  but  the  conduct 
of  all  legal  business  and  transactions,  was  committed 
to  persons  trained  by  previous  study  and  application 
to  the  knowledge  of  law.  An  order  of  men,  to  whom 
their  fellow-citizens  had  daily  recourse  for  advice, 
and  to  whom  they  looked  up  for  decision  in  their 
most  important  concerns,  naturally  acquired  consi- 
deration and  influence  in  society.  They  were  advanced 
to  honours  which  had  been  considered  hitherto  as  the 
peculiar  rewards  of  military  virtue.  They  were  in- 
trusted with  offices  of  the  highest  dignity  and  most 
extensive  power.  Thus,  another  profession  than  that 
of  arms  came  to  be  introduced  among  the  laity,  and 
was  reputed  honourable.  The  functions  of  civil  lifs 
were  attended  to.  The  talents  requisite  for  discharg- 
ing them  were  cultivated.  A new  road  was  opened 
to  wealth  and  eminence.  The  arts  and  virtues  of 
peace  were  placed  in  their  proper  rank,  and  received  ' 
their  due  recompense.  ^ 

While  improvements,  so  important  with  respect  to  j 
the  state  of  society  and  the  administration  of  justice,  [ 
gradually  made  progress  in  Europe,  sentiments  more 
liberal  and  generous  had  begun  to  animate  the  nobles. 
These  were  inspired  by  the  spirit  of  chivalry,  which, 
though  considered  commonly  as  a wild  institution, 
the  effect  of  caj>rice,  and  the  source  of  extravagance, 
arose  naturally  from  the  state  of  society  at  that  period, 
and  had  a very  serious  influence  in  refining  the  man- 
ners of  the  European  nations.  The  feudal  state  was 
a state  of  almost  perpetual  war,  rapine,  and  anarchy  ; 
during  which  the  weak  and  unarmed  were  exposed  to 
insults  or  injuries.  The  power  of  the  sovereign  was 
too  limited  to  prevent  these  wrongs,  and  the  admi- 
nistration of  justice  too  feeble  to  redress  them.  The  j 
most  effectual  protection  against  violence  and  oppres- 
sion was  often  found  to  be  that  which  the  valour  and  ; 
generosity  of  private  persons  afforded.  The  same  ) 
spirit  of  enterprise  which  had  prompted  so  many  j 
gentlemen  to  take  arms  in  defence  of  the  oppressed  ' 
pilgrims  in  Palestine,  incited  others  to  declare  them-  j 
selves  the  patrons  and  avengers  of  injured  innocence  i 
at  home.  When  the  final  reduction  of  the  Holy  Land,  ! 
under  the  dominion  of  infidels,  put  an  end  to  these  I 
foreign  expeditions,  the  latter  was  the  only  employ- 
ment left  for  the  activity  and  courage  of  adventurers.  I 
To  check  the  insolence  of  overgrown  oppressors  ; to  I 
rescue  the  helpless  from  captivity ; to  protect  or  to  I 
avenge  women,  orphans,  and  ecclesiastics,  who  could 
not  bear  arms  in  their  own  defence  ; to  redress  wrongs 
and  remove  grievances  ; were  deemed  acts  of  the  high- 
est prowess  and  merit.  Valour,  humanity,  courtesy, 
justice,  honour,  were  the  characteristic  qualities  of 
chivalry.  To  these  were  added  religion,  which  mingled 
itself  with  every  passion  and  institution  during  the 
middle  ages,  and  by  infusing  a large  proportion  of 
enthusiastic  zeal,  gave  them  such  force  as  carried 
them  to  romantic  excess.  Men  were  trained  to  knight- 
hood by  a long  previous  discipline ; they  were  ad- 
mitted into  the  order  by  solemnities  no  less  devout 
than  pompous  ; every  person  of  noble  birth  courted 
that  honour ; it  was  deernod  a distinction  .superior  to 
royalty  ; and  monarchs  were  proud  to  receive  it  from 
the  hands  of  private  gentlemen. 

This  singular  institution,  in  which  valour,  gallantry, 
and  religion,  were  so  strangely  blended,  was  wonder- 

1.00 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


fully  adapted  to  the  taste  and  genius  of  martial 
nobles  ; and  its  effects  were  soon  visible  in  their  man- 
ners. War  was  carried  on  with  less  ferocity  when 
humanity  came  to  be  deemed  the  ornament  of  knight- 
hood no  less  than  courage.  More  gentle  and  polished 
manners  were  introduced  when  courtesy  was  recom- 
mended as  the  most  amiable  of  knightly  virtues. 
Violence  and  oppression  decreased  when  it  was 
reckoned  meritorious  to  check  and  to  punish  them. 
A scrupulous  adherence  to  truth,  with  the  most  re- 
ligious attention  to  fulfil  every  engagement,  became 
the  di.stinguishing  characteristic  of  a gentleman,  be- 
cause chivalry  was  regarded  as  the  school  of  honour, 
and  Inculcated  the  most  delicate  sensibility  with 
respect  to  those  points.  The  admiration  of  these  qua- 
lities, together  with  the  high  distinctions  and  pre- 
rogatives conferred  on  knighthood  in  every  part  of 
Europe,  inspired  persons  of  noble  birth  on  some  occa- 
sions with  a species  of  military  fanaticism,  and  led 
them  to  extravagant  enterprises.  But  they  deeply 
imprinted  on  their  minds  the  principles  of  generosity 
and  honour.  These  were  strengthened  by  everything 
that  can  affect  the  senses  or  touch  the  heart.  The  wild 
exploits  of  those  romantic  knights  who  sallied  forth  in 
quest  of  adventures  are  well  known,  and  have  been 
treated  with  proper  ridicule.  The  political  and  per- 
manent effects  of  the  spirit  of  chivalry  have  been  less 
observed.  Perhaps  the  humanity  which  accompanies 
all  the  operations  of  war,  the  refinements  of  gallantry, 
and  the  point  of  honour — the  three  chief  circum- 
stances which  distinguish  modem  from  ancient  man- 
ners— may  be  ascribed  in  a great  measure  to  this  in- 
stitution, which  has  appeared  whimsical  to  superficial 
observers,  but  by  its  effects  has  proved  of  great 
benefit  to  mankind.  The  sentiments  which  chivalry 
inspired  had  a wonderful  influence  on  manners  and 
conduct  during  the  twelfth,  thirteenth,  fourteenth, 
and  flfteenth  centuries.  They  were  so  deeply  rooted, 
that  they  continued  to  operate  after  the  vigour  and 
reputation  of  the  institution  itself  began  to  decline. 

[C7iorac<ers  of  Francis  I.  and  the  Emperor  Charles  V.] 

During  twenty-eight  years  an  avowed  rivalship  sub- 
sisted between  Francis  I.  and  the  Emperor  Charles  V., 
which  involved  not  only  their  own  dominions,  but 
the  greatest  part  of  Europe,  in  wars  which  were  pro- 
secuted with  more  violent  animosity,  and  drawn  out 
to  a greater  length,  than  had  been  known  in  any 
former  period.  Many  circumstances  contributed  to 
this.  Their  animosity  was  founded  in  opposition  of 
intere.st,  heightened  by  personal  emulation,  and  exas- 
perated, not  only  by  mutual  injuries,  but  by  reciprocal 
insults.  At  the  same  time,  whatever  advantage  one 
seemed  to  possess  towards  gaining  the  ascendant,  was 
wonderfully  balanced  by  some  favourable  circumstance 
peculiar  to  the  other. 

The  emperor’s  dominions  were  of  greater  extent ; 
the  French  king’s  lay  more  compact.  Francis  go- 
verned his  kingdom  with  absolute  power;  that  of 
Charles  was  limited,  but  he  supplied  the  want  of 
authority  by  address.  The  troops  of  the  former  were 
more  impetuous  and  enterprising ; those  of  the  latter 
better  disciplined,  and  more  patient  of  fatigue.  The 
talents  and  abilities  of  the  two  monarchs  were  as 
different  as  the  advantages  which  they  possessed,  and 
contributed  no  less  to  prolong  the  contest  between 
them.  Francis  took  his  resolutions  suddenly,  prose- 
cuted them  at  first  with  warmth,  and  pushed  them 
into  execution  with  a most  adventurous  courage ; but 
being  destitute  of  the  perseverance  necessary  to  sur- 
mount ditficulties,  he  often  abandoned  his  designs,  or 
relaxed  the  vigour  of  pursuit  from  impatience,  and 
sometimes  from  levity.  Charles  deliberated  long,  and 
determined  with  coolness;  but  having  once  fixed  his 
plan,  he  adh  ■ -ed  to  it  with  inflexible  obstinacy,  and 


DR  WILLIAM  ROIfERTSOIt. 


neither  danger  nor  discouragement  could  turn  him 
aside  from  the  execution  of  it.  Tlie  success  of  their 
enterprises  was  suitable  to  the  diversity  of  their  cha- 
racters, and  was  uniformly  influenced  by  it.  Francis, 
by  his  impetuous  activity,  often  disconcerted  the 
emperor’s  best  laid  schemes ; Charles,  by  a more  calm 
but  steady  prosecution  of  his  designs,  checked  the 
rapidity  of  his  rival’s  career,  and  bafiled  or  repulsed 
his  most  vigorous  efforts.  The  former,  at  the  opening 
of  a war  or  of  a campaign,  broke  in  upon  the  enemy 
with  the  violence  of  a torrent,  and  carried  all  before 
him  ; the  latter,  waiting  until  he  saw  the  force  of  his 
rival  beginning  to  abate,  recovered  in  the  end  not  only 
all  that  he  had  lost,  but  made  new  acquisitions.  Few 
of  the  French  monarch’s  attempts  towards  conquest, 
whatever  promising  aspect  they  might  wear  at  first,  I 
were  conducted  to  a happy  issue  ; many  of  the  emperor’s 
enterprises,  even  after  they  appeared  desperate  and  im- 
practicable, terminated  in  the  most  prosperous  manner 

The  success  of  Hume  and  Robertson  extended  the 
demand  for  historical  composition ; and  before  ad- 
verting to  their  great  rival  Gibbon,  we  may  glance 
at  some  of  the  subordinate  labourers  in  the  same 
field.  In  the  year  1758,  Dr  Smollett  published,  in 
four  volumes  quarto,  his  Complete  History  of  England, 
deduced  from  the  Descent  of  Julius  Ccesar  to  the  Treaty 
of  Aix  la  Chapelle,  1748.  In  extent  and  complete- 
ness of  design,  this  history  approaches  nearest  ts 
the  works  of  the  historical  masters  ; but  its  execu- 
tion is  unequal,  and  it  abounds  in  errors  and  incon- 
sistences. It  w-as  rapidly  composed ; and  though 
Smollett  was  too  fluent  and  practised  a writer  to 
fail  in  narrative  (his  account  of  the  rebellion  in 
1745-6,  and  his  observations  on  the  act  for  the  re- 
lief of  debtors  in  1759,  are  excellent  specimens  of  his 
best  Style  and  his  benevolence  of  character),  he 
could  not,  without  adequate  s;udy  and  preparation, 
succeed  in  so  important  an  undertaking.  Smollett 
afterwards  continued  his  work  to  the  year  1765. 
The  portion  from  the  Revolution  of  1688  to  the 
death  of  George  II.  is  usually  printed  as  a continua- 
tion to  Hume. 

The  views  which  Dr  Robertson  had  taken  of  the 
reign  and  character  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  were 
combated  by  William  Tytler  of  Woodhouselee 
(1711-1792),  who,  in  1759,  published  an  Inquiry,  His- 
torical and  Critical,  into  the  Evidence  against  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots,  and  an  Examination  of  the  Histories 
of  Dr  Robertson  and  Mr  Hume  with  respect  to  that 
Evidence.  The  work  of  Mr  Tytler  is  acute  and 
learned ; it  procured  for  the  author  the  approbation 
and  esteem  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  his  times  ; 
but,  judged  by  the  higher  standards  which  now 
exist,  it  must  be  pronounced  to  be  partial  and 
inconclusive.  Mr  Tytler  published  the  ‘ Poetical 
Remains  of  James  I.,  King  of  Scotland,’  with  a 
dissertation  on  the  life  and  writings  of  the  royal 
poet,  honourable  to  his  literary  taste  and  research. 

About  the  year  1 7 60,  the  London  booksellers  com- 
pleted a compilation  which  had,  for  a long  period, 
employed  several  professional  authors — a ‘Universal 
History,’  a large  and  valuable  work,  seven  volumes 
being  devoted  to  ancient  and  sixteen  to  modern 
history.  The  writers  were  Archibald  Bower 
(1686-1766),  a native  of  Dundee,  who  was  e>iucated 
at  the  Jesuit’s  College  of  St  Omer,  but  afterwards 
fled  to  England  and  embraced  the  Protestant  faith  : 
he  was  author  of  a History  of  the  Popes.  Dr  John 
Campbell  (1709-1775),  a son  of  Campbell  of  Glen- 
lyon  in  Perthshire,  wrote  the  Military  History  of  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene,  Lives  of  the 
Admirals,  a considerable  portion  of  the  Biographia 
Britannica,  a History  of  Europe,  a Political  Survey  of 
Britain,  &c.  Campbell  was  a candid  and  intelligent 

191 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPi^DIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


man,  acaiuaintod  with  Dr  Johnson  and  most  of  the 
cini\ient  men  of  his  day.  William  Gutiiiuk  (1708- 
1770),  a native  of  Brechin,  was  an  indefatigable 
writer,  author  of  a llislon/  of  England,  a ll'nitory  of 
l^cotlund,  a (rcographical  Grammar,  &c.  Gkokgk 
Salk  ( 1 080- 1 7.')0)  translated  the  Koran,  and  was  one 
of  the  founders  of  a society  for  the  encouragement 
of  learidng.  Gkorok  I’.salmanazaii  (1079-170.'i), 
a native  of  France,  deceived  the  world  for  sometime 
by  ])retendiiig  to  he  a native  of  the  island  of  For- 
mosa, to  sujiport  which  he  invented  an  alphabet  and 
grammar.  He  afterwards  became  a hack  author, 
WHS  sincerely  penitent,  and  was  reverenced  by  John- 
son for  his  piety.  When  the  ‘ Universal  History’ 
was  completed.  Goldsmith  wrote  a preface  to  it,  for 
which  he  received  three  guineas! 

In  17G.‘l  Goldsmith  published  a History  of  England, 
in  a Series  of  Letters  from  a Nobleman  to  his  Son,  in 
two  small  volumes.  The  deceptive  title  had  the 
desired  attraction  ; the  letters  were  variously  attri- 
bute<l  to  Lords  Chesterfield,  Orrery,  and  Lyttelton, 
and  in  purity  and  grace  of  style  surpassed  the  writ- 
ings of  any  of  the  reinited  authors.  The  success  of 
this  comiiilation  afterwards  led  Goldsmith  to  comj)ile 
a more  extended  history  of  England,  and  abridg- 
ments of  Grecian  and  Roman  history.  Even  in 
this  subordinate  walk,  to  which  nothing  but  neces- 
sity compelled  him.  Goldsmith  was  superior  to  all 
his  contemporaries. 

Lord  Lyttelton  afterwards  came  forward  himself 
as  a historian,  though  of  but  a limited  period.  His 
History  of  the  Reign  of  Henry  II.,  on  wdiich  he  had 
bestoweci  years  of  study,  is  a valuable  repertory  of 
facts,  but  a dry  and  uninteresting  composition.  Of 
a similar  character  are  the  Historical  Memoirs  and 
Lives  (Queen  Elizabeth,  R.aleigh,  Henry  Prince  of 
Wales,  &c.),  written  by  Dr  Thomas  Birch,  one  of 
the  secretaries  of  the  Royal  Societ}'.  Birch  was  a 
diligent  explorer  of  records  and  public  papers : he 
threw  light  on  history,  but  was  devoid  of  taste  and 
arrangement.  These  works  drew  attention  to  the 
materials  that  existed  for  a history  of  domestic  man- 
ners, always  more  interesting  than  state  diplomacy 
or  wars,  and  Dr  Robf.rt  Henry  (1718-1790)  entered 
upon  a History  of  Great  Britain,  in  which  particular 
attention  was  to  be  given  to  this  department.  For 
nearly  thirty  years  Henry  laboured  at  his  work : 
the  first  volume  was  published  in  1771,  and  four 
others  at  intervals  between  that  time  and  1785.  A 
contemporary.  Dr  Gilbert  Stuart,  a man  not  devoid 
of  talents,  but  rancorous  and  malignant  in  an  emi- 
nent degree,  attempted,  by  a system  of  ceaseless 
persecution,  to  destroy'  the  character  and  reputation 
of  Henry,  but  his  work  reahsed  to  its  author  the 
large  sum  of  £3300,  and  was  rewarded  with  a pen- 
sion from  the  crown  of  £100  per  annum.  Henry’s 
work  does  not  come  farther  down  than  the  reign 
of  Henry  VHI.  In  our  own  days,  the  plan  of  a 
history  with  copious  information  as  to  manners, 
arts,  and  improvements — where  fuU  prominence  is 
given  to  the  progress  of  civilisation  and  the  domestic 
life  of  our  ancestors — has  been  admirably'  realised  in 
the  ‘ Pictorial  History  of  England,’  published  by  Mr 
Charles  Knight.  Of  Dr  Henry,  we  may  add  that 
he  was  a native  of  St  Kinians,  in  Stirlingshire,  was 
bred  to  the  church,  and  was  latterly  one  of  the 
ministers  of  Edinburgh,  where  he  had  the  honour 
of  filling  the  chair  as  Moderator  of  the  General 
Assembly. 

Dr  Gilbert  Stuart  (1742-1786),  a native  of 
Edinburgh  (to  whom  we  have  alluded  in  connexion 
with  Henry),  wrote  various  historical  works,  a His- 
tory of  Scotland,  a Dissertation  on  the  British  Consti- 
tution, a History  of  the  Reformation,  Sec.  His  style  is 
Horid  and  high-sounding,  not  wanting  in  elegance, 


hut  disfigured  by  affectation,  and  still  more  by  the 
violent  prejudices  of  its  vindictive  and  unprincipled 
author. 

Histories  of  Ireland,  evincing  antiquarian  research, 
were  published,  the  first  in  17G3-7  by  Dr  Warner, 
and  another  in  1773  by  Dr  Leland,  the  translator 
of  our  best  English  version  of  Demosthenes.  A re- 
view of  Celtic  and  Roman  antiquities  was  in  1771-5' 
Iiresented  by  John  Whittaker,  grafted  u])on  his 
H istory  of  Manchester ; and  the  same  autlior  after- 
wards wrote  a violent  and  prejudiced  Vindication  of 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  The  IRogra/ihical  History  of 
England  by  Granger,  and  Orme’s  History  of  the 
British  Transactions  in  Hindostan,  winch  appeared 
at  tins  time,  are  also  valuable  work.s.  In  1775, 
MAcriiERSON,  tran.slator  of  Ossian,  puldished  a His- 
tory of  Great  Britain,  from  the  Restoration  to  the 
Acce.ssion  of  the  House  of  Hanover,  accompanied  by 
original  papers.  The  object  of  Maepherson  was  to 
support  the  Tory  party,  and  to  detract  from  the 
purity  and  patriotism  of  those  who  had  ])lanned  and 
effected  the  Revolution  of  1688.  Tlie  secret  history 
brought  to  light  by  his  original  papers  (which  were 
undoubtedly  genuine)  certainly  disclosed  a degree 
of  selfishness  and  intrigue  for  which  the  puldic  were 
not  prepared.  In  this  task,  the  historian  (if  i\Iac- 
pherson  be  entitled  to  the  venerable  name)  had  the 
use  of  Carte’s  collections,  for  which  he  paid  £200, 
and  he  received  no  less  than  £3000  for  the  copyright 
of  his  work.  The  Annals  of  Scotland,  from  Malcolm 
HI.  to  Robert  L,  were  published  in  1776  by  Sir 
David  Dalrymple,  Lord  Hailes.  In  1779  the  same 
author  produced  a continuation  to  the  accession  of 
the  house  of  Stuart.  These  works  were  invaluable 
at  the  time,  and  have  since  formed  an  excellent 
quarry  for  the  historian.  Lord  Hailes  was  born  in 
Edinburgh  in  1726,  the  son  of  Sir  James  Dalrymple 
of  Hailes,  Bart.  He  distinguished  himself  at  the 
Scottish  bar,  and  was  appointed  one  of  the  judges  of 
the  Court  of  Session  in  1766.  He  was  the  author 
of  various  legal  and  antiquarian  treatises ; of  the 
Remains  of  Christian  Antiquity,  containing  transla- 
tions from  the  fiithers,  &c. ; and  of  an  inquiry  into 
the  secondary  causes  assigned  by  Gibbon  the  histo- 
rian for  the  rapid  growth  of  Christianity.  Lord 
Hailes  ivas  a man  of  great  erudition,  an  able  lawyer, 
and  upright  judge.  He  died  in  1792.  In  1776 
Robert  Watson,  professor  of  rhetoric  and  after- 
wards principal  of  one  of  the  colleges  of  St  Andrews, 
wrote  a History  of  Philip  II.  of  Spain  as  a continua- 
tion to  Robertson,  and  left  unfinished  a History  of 
Philip  III.,  which  was  completed  by  Dr  William 
Thomson,  and  published  in  1783.  In  1779,  the  two 
first  volumes  of  a History  of  Modern  Europe,  by  Dr 
William  Russell  (1741-1793),  were  published  with 
distinguished  success,  and  three  others  were  added 
in  1784,  bringing  down  the  history  to  the  year  1763. 
Continuations  to  this  valuable  compendium  have 
been  made  by  Dr  Coote  and  others,  and  it  continues 
to  be  a standard  work.  Russell  was  a native  of  Sel- 
kirkshire, and  fought  his  way  to  learning  and  dis- 
tinction in  the  midst  of  considerable  difficulties.  The 
vast  number  of  historical  works  jnihlished  about 
this  time  shows  how  eagerly  this  noble  branch  of 
study  was  cultivated,  both  by  authors  and  the  pub- 
lic. No  department  of  literary  labour  .seems  then  to 
have  been  so  lucrative,  or  so  sure  of  leading  to  dis- 
tinction. But  our  greatest  name  yet  remains  behind. 

EDWARD  GIBBON. 

The  historian  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire  was  by  birth,  education,  and  manners,  dis- 
tinctively an  English  gentleman.  He  was  born  at 
Putney,  in  Surrey,  April  27,  1737.  His  father  was 

192 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDWAUD  GinilOR. 


! ' of  an  ancient  family  settled  at  Boriton,  near  IVters- 
j field,  llanipshire.  ()f  delicate  liealtli,  young;  Edw.ard 
' GtnnoN  was  ])rivatcly  educated,  and  at  the  age  of 

I fifteen  he  was  placed  at  Magdalen  college,  0.\ford. 

' He  was  almost  from  infancy  a close  student,  but 

his  indiscriminate  appetite  for  books  ‘ subsided  by 
i degrees  in  the  historic  line.’  He  arrived  at  0.x- 
I , ford,  he  says,  with  a stock  of  erudition  that  might 
: have  piuzled  a doctor,  and  a degree  of  ignorance 

I I of  whi(  h a schoolboy  would  have  been  ashamed. 

I ' He  spent  fourteen  months  at  college  idly  and  un- 
] ; profitably,  as  he  himself  states ; and,  .studying  the 
' works  of  Bossuet  and  Parsons  the  .Jesuit,  he  became 
j a convert  to  the  Roman  Catholic  religion.  He  went 

! to  London,  and  at  the  feet  of  a priest,  on  the  8th  of 
j|  June  1753,  he  ‘solemnly,  though  privately,  abjured 

I the  errors  of  heresy.’  His  father,  in  order  to  reclaim 
i ■ him,  placed  him  for  some  years  at  L.ausanne,  in 

I I Switzerland,  under  the  charge  of  M.  Pavilliard,  a 
i I Calvinist  clergyman,  whose  judicious  conduct  pre- 
vailed upon  his  pupil  to  return  to  the  bosom  of  the 

I Protestant  church.  On  Christmas  day,  1754,  he 
received  the  sacrament  in  the  Protestant  church  at 
i Lausanne.  ‘ It  was  here,’  says  the  historian,  ‘ that 
I suspended  my  religious  inquiries,  acquiescing  with 
^ implicit  belief  in  the  tenets  and  mysteries  which 
, are  adopted  by  the  general  consent  of  Catholics  and 

I Protestants.’  At  Lausanne  a regular  and  severe 

system  ol  study  perfected  Gibbon  in  the  Latin  and 


Edward  Gibbon. 


■ French  languages,  and  in  a general  knowledge  of 

1 literature.  In  1758  he  returned  to  England,  and 

three  years  afterwards  appeared  as  an  author  in  a 
slight  French  treatise,  an  Essay  on  the  Study  of 
Literature.  He  accepted  the  commission  of  captain 
1 in  the  Hampshire  militia;  and  though  his  studies 
were  interrupted,  ‘ the  discipline  and  evolutions  of 
a modern  battle,’  he  remarks,  ‘ gave  him  a clearer 
notion  of  the  phalanx  and  the  legion,  and  the  cap- 
tain of  the  Hampshire  grenadiers  was  not  useless  to 
the  historian  of  the  Roman  empire.’  On  the  peace 
of  1762,  Gibbon  was  released  from  his  military 
duties,  and  paid  a visit  to  France  and  Italy.  He 
55 


had  long  been  meditating  some  historical  work,  and 
whilst  at  Rome,  October  15,  1764,  his  choice  was 
determined  by  .an  incident  of  a striking  and  romantic 
nature.  ‘As  I sat  musing,’  he  says,  ‘amidst  the 
ruins  of  the  Capitol,  while  the  barefooted  friars 
were  singing  vespers  in  the  temple  of  Jupiter,  the 
idea  of  writing  the  decline  and  fall  of  the  city  first 
started  to  my  mind.’  Many  years,  however,  elapsed 
before  he  realised  his  intentions.  On  returning  to 
England  in  1765,  he  .seems  to  have  heen  fashionable 
and  idle;  his  father  died  in  1770,  and  he  then  began 
to  form  the  yilan  of  an  independent  life.  The  estate 
left  him  by  his  father  was  much  involved  in  debt, 
and  he  determined  on  quitting  the  country  and  re- 
siding permanently  in  London.  He  then  under- 
took the  composition  of  the  first  volume  of  his  his- 
tory. ‘ At  the  outset,’  he  remarks,  ‘ all  was  dark 
and  doubtful ; even  the  title  of  the  w’ork,  the  true 
era  of  the  decline  and  fall  of  the  empire,  the  limits 
of  the  introduction,  the  division  of  the  chapters, 
and  the  order  of  the  narr.ative ; and  I was  often 
tempted  to  east  away  the  Labour  of  seven  years. 
The  style  of  an  author  should  be  the  image  of 
his  mind,  but  the  choice  and  command  of  lai  guage 
is  the  fruit  of  exercise.  Many  experiments  were 
m.ade  before  I could  hit  the  middle  tone  between  a 
dull  tone  and  a rhetorical  declamation  : three  times 
did  I compose  the  first  chapter,  .and  twdee  the  second 
and  third,  before  I w.as  tolerably  s.atisfied  with  their 
effect.  In  the  remainder  of  the  way,  I advanced 
with  a more  equal  and  easy  pace.’ 

In  1774  he  w.as  returned  for  the  borough  of  Lisk- 
eard,  and  sat  in  parliament  eight  sessions  during  the 
memorable  contest  between  Great  Britain  and  Ame- 
rica. Prudence,  he  says,  condemned  him  to  acquiesce 
in  the  humble  station  of  a mute ; the  great  spc.ikers 
filled  him  with  despair,  the  had  ones  with  terror. 
Gibbon,  however,  supported  by  his  vote  the  adminis- 
tr.ation  of  Lord  North,  and  was  by  this  nobleman  ap- 
pointed one  of  the  lords  commissioners  of  trade  and 
plantations.  In  1776  the  first  quarto  volume  of  his 
history  was  given  to  the  world.  Its  .success  was 
almost  unprecedented  for  a grave  historical  rvork  : 

‘ the  first  impression  was  exhausted  in  a few  d.ays ; 
a second  and  third  edition  was  sc.arcely  adequate  to 
the  demand ; and  the  bookseller’s  property  was 
twice  invaded  by  the  pirates  of  Dublin  : the  h)ok 
was  on  every  table,  and  almost  on  every  toilette.’ 
His  brother  historians,  Robertson  and  Hume,  gene- 
rously greeted  him  with  warm  .applause.  ‘ Whether  | 
I consider  the  dignity  of  your  style,’  says  Hume, 

‘ the  depth  of  your  matter,  or  the  extensiveness  of 
your  learning,  I must  regard  the  work  as  equally 
the  object  of  esteem.’  There  was  another  bond  of 
sympathy  between  the  English  and  the  Scottish 
historian  : Gibbon  had  insidiously,  though  too  un- 
equivocally, evinced  his  adoption  of  infidel  prin- 
ciples. ‘ The  various  modes  of  worship  wdiich  pre 
vailed  in  the  Roman  world  were  all,’  he  remarks, 

‘ considered  by  the  people  as  equally  true,  by  the 
philosopher  as  equally  false,  and  by  the  magistrate 
as  equally  useful.’  Some  feeling  of  this  kind  con- 
stituted the  whole  of  Gibbon’s  religious  belief : the 
philosophers  of  France  had  triumphed  over  the 
lessons  of  the  Calvinist  minister  of  Lausanne,  and 
the  historian  seems  never  to  have  returned  to  the 
faith  and  the  humility  of  the  Christi.an.  In  the 
fifteenth  and  sixteenth  chapters  of  his  work  he  gave 
an  account  of  the  growth  and  progress  of  Chris* 
tianity,  which  he  accounted  for  solely  by  secondary 
causes,  without  reference  to  its  divine  origin.  A 
number  of  .answers  were  written  to  these  memorable 
chapters,  the  only  one  of  which  that  has  kept  pos- 
session of  the  public  is  the  reply  by  Dr  Watson, 
bishop  of  Llandaff.  entitled  ‘ An  Apology  for  Chria- 

193 


piioM  1727 


CYCI,()Pyi:!)IA  OF 


TO  1780, 


tiaiiity.’  (Jilibon’s  metliod  of  attackiiif;  our  faith  has 
been  well  deseribed  by  Ford  Hyron,  as 

Sai)])iii}'  a solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer, 

The  lord  of  irony,  that  master  spell. 

Ik  .owliere  openly  avows  his  disbelief.  By  tacitly 
sin.dng  the  early  and  astonishing  sjjread  of  Chris- 
tianity during  the  time  of  the  Apostles,  and  dwell- 
ing with  exaggerated  colouring  and  nuuuteness  on 
the  errors  and  corruption  by  which  it  afterwards 
became  debased,  the  historian  in  cflect  conveys  an 
impression  that  its  divine  origin  is  but  a poetical 
fable,  like  the  golden  ago  of  the  poets,  or  the  mystic 
absurdities  of  Mohammedanism.  The  Christian  faith 
was  a bold  and  successful  innovation,  and  Gibbon 
hated  all  innovation.s.  In  his  after  life,  he  was  in 
favour  of  retaining  even  tlie  Impiisition,  with  its 
tortures  and  its  tyranny,  because  it  was  an  ancient 
institution!  Besides  the  ‘solemn  sneer’  of  Gibbon, 
there  is  another  cardinal  defect  in  his  account  of  the 
progress  of  the  Christian  faith,  which  has  been  thus 
ably  pointed  out  by  the  Uev.  II.  II.  Mihnan: — 
‘Christianity  alone  receives  no  embellisliment  from 
the  magic  of  Gibbon’s  bmguage;  his  imagination  is 
dead  to  its  moral  dignity  ; it  is  kej)t  down  by  a 
general  tone  of  jealous  disparagement,  or  neutralised 
by  a painfully  elaborate  e.xposition  of  its  darker  and 
degenerate  periods.  There  are  occasions,  indeed, 
when  its  pure  and  exalted  humanity,  when  its  mani- 
festly beneficial  influence  can  compel  even  him,  as 
it  were,  to  fairness,  and  kimlle  his  unguarded  elo- 
quence to  its  usual  fervour  ; but  in  general  he  soon 
relapses  into  a frigid  apathy  ; affects  an  ostenta 
I tiously  severe  impartiality ; notes  all  the  faults  of 
I Christians  in  every  age  with  bitter  and  almost 
malignant  sarcasm  ; reluctantly,  and  with  exception 
and  reservation,  admits  their  claim  to  admiration. 
This  inextricable  bias  appears  even  to  influence  his 
manner  of  composition.  While  all  the  other  assail- 
ants of  the  Homan  empire,  whether  warlike  or  re- 
ligious, the  Goth,  the  Ilun,  tlie  Arab,  the  Tartar, 
Alaricand  Attila,  Mahomet,  and  Zingis,  and  Tamer- 
lane, are  each  introduced  ujwn  the  scene  almost  with 
dramatic  animation — their  progress  related  in  a full, 
complete,  and  unbroken  narrative — the  triumph  of 
Christianity  alone  takes  the  form  of  a cold  and 
critical  disquisition.  'The  successes  of  barbarous  en- 
ergy and  brute  force  call  forth  all  the  consummate 
skill  of  composition,  while  the  moral  triumphs  of 
Christian  benevolence,  the  tranquil  heroism  of  en- 
durance, the  blameless  purity,  the  contempt  of  guilty 
fame,  and  of  honours  destructive  to  the  human  race, 
which,  had  they  assumed  the  proud  name  of  philo- 
sophy, would  have  been  blazoned  in  his  brightest 
words,  because  they  own  religion  as  their  principle, 
sink  into  narrow  asceticism.  'The  glories  of  Chris- 
tianity, in  short,  touch  on  no  chord  in  the  heart  of 
I the  writer  ; his  imagination  remains  unkiudled  ; his 
words,  though  they  maintain  their  stately  and  mea- 
sured march,  have  become  cool,  argumentative,  and 
inanimate.’  The  second  and  third  volumes  of  the 
history  did  not  appear  till  1781.  After  their  publi- 
cation, finding  it  necessary  to  retrench  his  expen- 
diture, and  being  disai>pointed  of  a lucrative  place 
which  he  had  hoped  for  from  ministerial  patron- 
age, he  resolved  to  retire  to  Lausanne,  where  he 
was  offered  a residence  by  a friend  of  his  youth, 
M.  Deyverdun,  Here  he  lived  very  happily  for 
about  four  years,  devoting  his  mornings  to  com- 
position, and  his  evenings  to  the  eidightened  and 
polished  society  which  had  gathered  in  that  situa- 
tion. The  history  was  completed  at  the  time  and 
in  the  circumstances  which  he  has  thus  stated : — 

‘ It  was  on  the  day  or  rather  night  of  the  27th  of 
Iiine  1787,  between  the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve. 


that  I wrote  the  l ist  lines  of  the  last  page  in  a 
summer-lum.se  in  iny  garden.  After  laying  down 
my  pen,  1 took  several  turns  in  a berceau,  or  covered 


Residence  of  Gibbon  at  Lausanne. 


walk  of  acacias,  which  commands  a prospect  of  the  j 
country,  the  lake,  and  the  mountains.  The  air  was 
temperate,  the  sky  was  serene,  the  silver  orb  of  the  j 
moon  was  reflected  from  the  waters,  and  all  nature 
was  silent.  I will  not  dissemble  the  first  emotions  | 
of  joy  on  the  recovery  of  my  freedom,  anil  pcrha[is  ' 
the  establishment  of  my  fame.  But  my  pride  was  [ 
soon  humbled,  and  a sober  melancholy  was  spread  ■ 
over  my  mind  by  the  idea  that  I had  taken  an  ever-  j 
lasting  leave  of  an  old  and  agreeable  companion.  i 
and  that  whatsoever  might  be  tlie  future  date  of  j 
my  history,  the  life  of  the  historian  must  be  short  I 
and  precarious.’*  The  historian  adds  two  facts 
which  have  seldom  occurred  in  the  composition  of 
six  or  even  five  quartos  ; his  first  rough  manuscript, 
without  an  intermediate  copy,  was  sent  to  the  pres.s, 
and  not  a sheet  was  seen  by  any  person  but  the 
author  and  the  printer.  His  lofty  style,  like  that  of 
Johnson,  was,  in  fact,  ‘the  image  of  his  mind.’ 

Gibbon  went  to  London  to  superintend  the  publi- 
cation of  his  three  last  volumes,  and  afterwards  - 
returned  to  Lausanne,  where  he  resided  till  179.’i. 

The  French  Revolution  had  imbittered  and  divided  i 
the  society  of  Lausanne ; some  of  his  friends  were 
dead,  and  he  anxiously  wished  himself  again  in 
England.  At  this  time  the  lady  of  his  most  intimate 
friend.  Lord  Sheffield,  died,  and  he  hastened  to  ad- 
minister eonsolation  : he  arrived  at  Lord  Sheffield’s 
house  in  London  in  June  1793.  'The  health  of  the 
historian  had,  however,  been  indifferent  for  some 
time,  owing  to  a long-settled  comjilaint ; and,  ex- 
hausted by  surgical  operations,  he  died  without 
pain,  and  apparently  without  any  sense  of  his  dan- 
ger, on  the  16th  of  January  1794. 

In  most  of  the  essential  qualifications  of  a his- 
torian, Gibbon  was  equal  to  either  Hume  or  Robert- 
son. In  some  he  was  superior.  He  had  greater  | 

* ‘ The  garden  and  summer-house  where  he  composed  are  ; 
neglected,  and  the  last  utterly  decayed,  but  they  still  show  it  I 
as  his  “ cabinet,*’  and  seem  perfectly  aware  of  his  memory. — 
Byron's  LctUrs. 


194 


HISTOniANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


EDWARD  GIBDOn, 


depth  aiul  viirioty  of  loiiriiiiig,  ami  a more  perfect 
conimaml  of  his  intellectual  treasures.  It  was  not 
, nterelv  with  the  main  stream  of  Roman  history  that 
he  was  familiar.  All  its  accessaries  and  tributaries 
— the  art  of  war.  philosophy,  theology,  jurisprudence, 
geography  (down  to  its  minutest  point),  every  shade 
! of  manners,  opinions,  and  public  character,  in  Roman 
and  contemporaneous  history,  he  had  studied  with 
j Laborious  diligence  and  complete  success.  Hume 
was  elaborate,  but  it  was  only  with  respect  to  style. 

I Errors  in  fact  and  theory  were  perpetuated  through 

' every  edition,  while  the  author  v.ms  purifying  his 

I periods  and  weeding  out  Scotticisms.  The  labour 

I of  Gibbon  was  directed  to  higher  objects — to  the 

! accumulation  of  facts,  and  the  collation  of  ancient 

I authors.  His  style,  once  fixed,  remained  unaltered. 

I In  erudition  and  comprehensiveness  of  intellect, 

I Gibbon  may  therefore  be  pronounced  the  first  of 

I English  historians.  The  vast  r.ange  of  his  subject, 

1 and  the  tone  of  dignity  which  he  preserves  through- 

] out  the  whole  of  his  capacious  circuit,  also  give  him 

i a superiority  over  his  illustrious  rivals.  In  concen- 

trating his  information,  and  presenting  it  in  a clear 
and  lucid  order,  he  is  no  less  remarkable,  while  his 
vivid  imagination,  quickening  and  adorning  his 
varied  knowledge,  is  fully  equal  to  his  other  powers. 
He  identifies  himself  with  whatever  he  describes, 
and  paints  local  scenery,  national  costume  or  man- 
ners, with  all  the  force  and  animation  of  a native 
Dr  eye-witness.  These  solid  and  bright  acquirements 
of  the  historian  were  not,  however,  without  their 
drawbacks.  Ilis  mind  was  more  material  or  sen- 
su,al  than  philosophical — more  fond  of  splendour 
and  display  than  of  the  beauty  of  virtue  or  the 
grandeur  of  moral  heroism.  His  taste  was  vitiated 
i and  impure,  so  that  his  style  is  not  only  deficient  in 
chaste  simplicity,  but  is  disfigured  by  olfensive 
pruriency  and  occasional  grossness.  His  lofty  ornate 
diction  fatigues  by  its  uniform  pomp  and  dignity, 
notwithstanding  the  graces  and  splendour  of  his 
anim.ated  narrative.  Deficient  in  depth  of  moral 
feeling  and  elevation  of  sentiment.  Gibbon  seldom 
touches  the  heart  or  inspires  true  enthusiasm. 
The  re.ader  admires  his  glittering  sentences,  his 
tournaments,  and  battle-pieces,  his  polished  irony 
and  masterly  sketches  of  character ; he  marvels 
at  his  ine.xhaustible  learning,  and  is  fascinated 
i by  his  pictures  of  military  conquest  and  Asiatic 
luxury,  but  he  still  feels,  that,  as  in  the  state  of 
ancient  Rome  itself,  the  seeds  of  ruin  are  developed 
amidst  flattering  appearances : ‘ the  florid  bloom 
but  ill  conceals  the  fatal  malady  which  preys  upon 
the  vitals.’*  The  want  of  one  great  harmonising 
spirit  of  humanity  and  genuine  philosophy  to  give 
unity  to  the  splendid  mass,  becomes  painfully  visible 
on  a calm  review  of  the  entire  work.  After  one 
attentive  study  of  Gibbon,  when  the  mind  has  be- 
come saturated  with  his  style  and  manner,  we  sel- 
dom recur  to  his  pages  excepting  for  some  particu- 
lar fact  or  description.  Such  is  the  importance  of 
simplicity  and  purity  in  a voluminous  narrative, 
that  this  great  historian  is  seldom  read  but  as  a 
study,  while  Hume  and  Robertson  are  always  per- 
used as  a pleasure. 

The  work  of  Gibbon  has  been  translated  into 
French,  with  notes  by  M.  Guizot,  the  distinguished 
philosopher  and  statesman.  The  remarks  of  Guizot, 
with  those  of  Wenck,  a German  commentator,  and 
numerous  original  illustrations  and  corrections,  are 
embodied  in  a fine  edition  by  Mr  Milman,  in  twelve 
' volumes,  published  by  Mr  Murray,  London,  in  1838. 

I M.  Guizot  has  thus  recorded  his  own  impressions  on 
i reading  Gibbon’s  history : — ‘ After  a first  rapid 

* Hall  on  the  Causes  of  the  Present  Discontents. 


perusal,  which  allowed  me  to  feel  nothing  but  the 
interest  of  a narrative,  alw.ays  animated,  and,  not- 
withstanding its  extent  and  the  variety  of  objects 
which  it  makes  to  pass  before  the  view,  alw,ays 
perspicuous,  I entered  upon  a minute  examination 
of  the  details  of  which  it  was  composed,  and  the 
opinion  which  I then  formed  was,  I confess,  sin- 
gularly severe.  I discovered,  in  certain  chapters, 
errors  which  appeared  to  me  sufficiently  important 
and  numerous  to  make  me  believe  that  they  had 
been  written  with  extreme  negligence  ; in  others,  I 
was  struck  with  a certain  tinge  of  partiality  and 
prejudice,  wdiich  imparted  to  the  exposition  of  the 
facts  that  w'ant  of  truth  and  justice  which  the  Eng- 
lish express  by  their  happy  term,  misrepresentation. 
Some  imperfect  quotations,  some  passages  omitted 
unintentionally  or  designedly,  have  cast  a suspicion 
on  the  honesty  of  the  author  ; and  his  violation  of 
the  first  law  of  history — increased  to  my  eyes  by 
the  prolonged  attention  with  which  I occupied 
myself  with  every  phrase,  every  note,  every  reflec- 
tion— caused  me  to  form  on  the  whole  work  a judg- 
ment far  too  rigorous.  After  having  finished  my 
labours,  I allowed  some  time  to  elapse  before  I re- 
viewed the  whole.  A second  attentive  and  regular 
perusal  of  the  entire  work,  of  the  notes  of  the  author, 
and  of  those  which  I had  thought  it  right  to  subjoin, 
showed  me  how  much  I had  exaggerated  the  im- 
portance of  the  reproaches  which  Gibbon  really 
deserved : I w'as  struck  wdth  the  same  errors,  the 
same  partiality  on  certain  subjects  ; but  I had  been 
far  from  doing  adequate  justice  to  the  immensity 
of  his  researches,  the  variety  of  his  knowledge,  and, 
above  all,  to  that  truly  philosophical  discrimination 
(justesse  d’esprif)  which  judges  the  past  as  it  would 
judge  the  present ; which  does  not  permit  itself  to 
be  blinded  by  the  clouds  which  time  gathers  around 
the  dead,  and  which  prevent  us  from  seeing  that 
under  the  toga  as  under  the  modern  dress,  in  the 
senate  as  in  our  councils,  men  were  what  they  still 
are,  and  that  events  took  place  eighteen  centuries 
ago  as  they  take  place  in  our  days.  I then  felt 
that  his  book,  in  spite  of  its  faults,  will  always  be 
a noble  work  ; and  that  we  may  correct  his  errors, 
and  combat  his  prejudices,  without  ceasing  to  admit 
that  few  men  have  combined,  if  we  are  not  to  say 
in  so  high  a degree,  at  least  in  a manner  so  complete 
and  so  well  regulated,  the  necessary  qualifications 
for  a writer  of  history.’ 

\_Opinion  of  ike  Ancient  Philosopher's  on  the  Immortality 
of  the  jS'ouL] 

The  writings  of  Cicero  represent  in  the  most  lively 
colours  the  ignorance,  the  errors,  and  the  uncertainty 
of  the  ancient  philosophers  with  regard  to  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul.  When  they  are  desirous  of  arming 
their  disciples  against  the  fear  of  death,  they  incul- 
cate, as  an  obvious  though  melancholy  position,  that 
the  fatal  stroke  of  our  dissolution  releases  us  from  the 
calamities  of  life  ; and  that  those  can  no  longer  suffer 
who  no  longer  exist.  Yet  there  were  a few  sages  of 
Greece  and  Rome  who  had  conceived  a more  exalted, 
and  in  some  respects  a juster  idea  of  human  nature  ; 
though,  it  must  be  confessed,  that  in  the  sublime  in- 
quiry, their  reason  had  often  been  guided  by  their 
imagination,  and  that  their  imagination  had  been 
prompted  by  their  vanity.  When  they  viewed  with 
complacency  the  extent  of  their  own  mental  powers , 
when  they  exercised  the  various  faculties  of  memory, 
of  fancy,  and  of  judgment,  in  the  most  profound 
speculations,  or  the  most  important  labours ; and  when 
they  reflected  on  the  desire  of  fame,  which  trainsported 
them  into  future  ages,  far  beyond  the  bounds  of  death 
and  of  the  grave ; they  were  unwilling  to  confound 


1 

FROM  1727  CYCLOPiKDrA  OF  to  1780. 

thomselve.s  with  the  beasts  of  the  field,  or  to  sujipose 
tliat  a being,  for  whose  dignity  they  entertained  the 
:nost  sincere  admiration,  couhl  he  limited  to  a spot 
of  earth,  and  to  a few  years  of  duration.  With  this 
favourable  prepossession,  they  summoned  to  their  aid 
the  science,  or  rather  the  language,  of  metaphysics. 
'J'hey  soon  discovered,  that  as  none  of  the  properties 
of  matter  will  ai)ply  to  the  oi)crations  of  the  mind, 
the  human  soul  must  consequently  be  a substance 
distinct  from  the  body — i)Ure,  simple,  and  spiritual, 
incapable  of  dissolution,  and  susceptible  of  a much 
higher  degree  of  virtue  and  hap[)incss  after  the  release 
from  its  corporeal  iirison.  Krom  these  specious  and 
noble  principles,  the  [)hilosophers  who  trod  in  the 
footsteps  of  Plato  deduced  a very  unjustifiable  conclu- 
sion, since  they  as.sertcd  not  only  the  future  immor- 
tality, but  the  past  eternity  of  the  human  soul,  which 
they  were  too  ajit  to  consider  as  a portion  of  the  infi- 
nite and  self-existing  spirit,  which  pervades  and  sus- 
tains the  univer.se.  A doctrine  thus  removed  beyond 
the  .senses  and  the  experience  of  mankind  might  serve 
to  amuse  the  leisure  of  a philosophic  mind  ; or,  in  the 
silence  of  solitude,  it  might  sometimes  impart  a ray 
of  comfort  to  desponding  virtue  ; but  the  faint  impres- 
sion M'hich  had  been  received  in  the  school  was  soon 
obliterated  by  the  commerce  and  business  of  active 
life.  We  are  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the  eminent 
persons  who  flourished  in  the  age  of  Cicero,  and  of  the 
first  Csesars,  with  their  actions,  their  characters,  and 
their  motives,  to  be  assured  that  their  conduct  in  this 
life  was  never  regulated  by  any  serious  conviction  of 
the  rewards  or  punishments  of  a future  state.*  At 
the  bar  and  in  the  senate  of  Rome  the  ablest  orators 
were  not  apprehensive  of  giving  offence  to  their  hear- 
ers by  exposing  that  doctrine  as  an  idle  and  extra- 
vagant opinion,  which  was  rejected  with  contempt 
by  every  man  of  a liberal  education  and  under- 
standing. 

Since,  therefore,  the  most  sublime  efforts  of  philo- 
sophy can  extend  no  farther  than  feebly  to  point  out 
the  desire,  the  hope,  or  at  most  the  probability,  of  a 
future  state,  there  is  nothing  except  a divine  reve- 
lation that  can  ascertain  the  existence  and  de.scribe 
the  condition  of  the  invisible  country  which  is  des- 
tined to  receive  the  souls  of  men  after  their  separation 
from  the  body. 

[?7ie  City  of  Bagdad — Magnificence  of  the  Caliphs.'] 

Almansor,  the  brother  and  successor  of  Saffah,  laid 
the  foundations  of  Bagdad  (a.d.  762),  the  imperial 
seat  of  his  posterity  during  a reign  of  five  hundredyears. 
The  chosen  spot  is  on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Tigi-is, 
about  fifteen  miles  above  the  ruins  of  Modain : the 

* This  passage  of  Gibbon  is  finely  illustrated  in  Ilall’s 
Funeral  Sermon  for  Dr  Ryland  : — 

‘ If  the  mere  conception  of  the  reunion  of  good  men  in  a 
future  state  infused  a momentary  rapture  into  the  mind  of 
Tally  ; if  an  airy  speculation,  for  there  is  reason  to  fear  it  had 
little  hold  on  his  convictions,  could  inspire  him  with  such  de- 
light, what  may  we  be  expected  to  feel  who  are  assured  of  such 
an  event  by  the  true  sayings  of  God ! How  should  we  rejoice  in 
the  prospect,  the  certainty  rather,  of  spending  a blissfid  eter- 
nity rvith  those  whom  we  loved  on  earth,  of  seeing  them 
emerge  from  the  ruins  of  the  tomb,  and  the  deeper  ruins  of 
the  fall,  not  only  uninjured,  but  refined  and  perfected,  “ with 
every  tear  wiped  from  their  eyes,”  standing  before  the  throne  of 
God  and  the  Lamb,  “ in  white  robes,  and  palms  in  their  hands, 
crying  with  a loud  voice.  Salvation  to  God  that  sitteth  upon  the 
throne,  and  to  the  Lamb , for  ever  and  ever ! ” AVhat  delight  will 
it  afford  to  renew  the  sweet  counsel  we  have  taken  together, 
to  recoimt  the  toils  of  combat  and  the  labour  of  the  way,  and 
to  approach  not  the  house  but  the  throne  of  God  in  company, 
in  order  to  join  in  the  sjanphony  of  heavenly  voices,  and  lose 
ourselves  amidst  the  splendours  and  fruitions  of  the  beatific 
fisioa.* 

double  wall  was  of  a circular  form  ; and  such  was  the 
rapid  increase  of  a capital  now  dwindled  to  aprovimial 
town,  that  the  funeral  of  a popular  saint  might  be 
attended  by  eight  hundred  tbousand  men  and  sixty 
thousand  women  of  Bagdad  and  the  adjacetit  villages. 

In  thi.s  city  of  peace,  amidst  the  riches  of  the  east, 
the  Abbassides  soon  disdained  the  abstinence  and 
frugality  of  the  first  caliphs,  and  a.spircd  to  emu- 
late the  magnificence  of  the  Persian  kings.  After  his 
wars  .and  buildings,  Alman.sor  left  behind  him  in  gold 
and  silver  about  thirty  millions  sterling ; and  this 
treasure  was  exhausted  in  a few  years  by  the  vices  or 
virtues  of  his  children.  Ills  son  Mahadi,  in  a single 
pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  expended  six  millions  of  dinars 
of  gold.  A pious  and  charitable  motive  may  sanctify 
the  foundation  of  cisterns  and  caravanseras,  winch  he 
distributed  along  a measured  road  of  seven  hundred 
miles ; but  his  train  of  camels,  laden  with  snow, 
could  serve  only  to  astonish  the  natives  of  Arabia, 
and  to  refresh  the  fruits  and  liquors  of  the  royal  ban- 
quet. The  courtiers  would  surely  praise  the  liberality 
of  his  grandson  Almaraon,  who  gave  away  four-fifths 
of  the  income  of  a province — a sum  of  two  millions 
four  hundred  thousand  gold  dinans — before  he  drew 
his  foot  from  the  stirrup.  At  the  nuptials  of  the  same 
prince,  a thousand  pearls  of  the  largest  size  were 
showered  on  the  head  of  the  bride,  and  a lottery  of 
lands  and  houses  displayed  the  capricious  bounty  of 
fortune.  The  glories  of  the  court  were  brightened 
rather  than  impaired  in  the  decline  of  the  empire, 
and  a Greek  ambassador  might  admire  or  pity  the 
magnificence  of  the  feeble  Moctader.  ‘ The  caliph’s 
whole  army,’  say’s  the  historian  Abulfeda,  ‘ both  horse 
and  foot,  was  under  arms,  which  together  made  a 
body  of  one  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  men.  Ills 
state-officers,  the  favourite  slaves,  stood  near  him  in 
splendid  apparel,  their  belts  glittering  with  gold  and 
gems.  Near  them  were  seven  thousand  eunuchs,  four 
thousand  of  them  white,  the  remainder  black.  The 
porters  or  doorkeepers  were  in  number  seven  hundred. 
Barges  and  boats,  with  the  most  superb  decorations, 
were  seen  swimming  upon  the  Tigris.  Nor  was  the 
place  itself  less  splendid,  in  which  were  hung  up 
thirty-eight  thousand  pieces  of  tapestry,  Gvelve  thou- 
sand five  hundred  of  which  were  of  silk  embroidered  j 
with  gold.  The  carpets  on  the  floor  were  twenty-two  j 
thousand.  A hundred  lions  were  brought  out,  with 
a keeper  to  each  lion.  Among  the  other  spectacles  of 
rare  and  stupendous  luxury,  was  a tree  of  gold  and 
silver  spreading  into  eighteen  large  branches,  on 
which,  and  on  the  lesser  boughs,  sat  a variety  of  birds 
made  of  the  same  precious  metals,  as  well  as  the 
leaves  of  the  tree.  While  the  machinery  affected 
spontaneous  motions,  the  several  birds  warbled  their 
natural  harmony.  Through  this  scene  of  magnificence 
the  Greek  ambassador  was  led  by  the  visier  to  the  foot 
of  the  caliph’s  throne.’  In  the  west,  the  Ommiades 
of  Spain  supported,  with  equal  pomp,  the  title  of 
commander  of  the  faithful.  Three  miles  from  Cor- 
dova, in  honour  of  his  favourite  sultana,  the  third  and 
greatest  of  the  Abdalrahmans  constructed  the  city, 
palace,  and  gardens  of  Zebra.  Twenty-five  years,  and 
above  three  millions  sterling,  were  employed  by  the 
founder:  his  liberal  taste  invited  the  arti.sts  of  Con- 
st.aiitinoj)le.  the  most  skilful  sculptors  and  architects 
of  the  age ; and  the  buildings  were  sustained  or 
adorned  by  twelve  hundred  columns  of  Sp.anish  and 
African,  of  Greek  and  Italian  marble.  The  hall  ri 
audience  was  incrusted  with  gold  and  pearls,  and  a 
great  bason  in  the 'centre  was  surrounded  with  the 
curious  and  costly  figures  of  birds  and  quadrupeds. 

In  a lofty  pavilion  of  the  gardens,  one  of  these  basons 
and  fountains,  so  delightful  in  a sultry  climate,  was 
replenished  not  with  water  but  with  the  purest  quick- 
silver. The  seraglio  of  Abdalrahman,  his  wives,  con- 
cubines, and  black  eunuchs,  amounted  to  six  thousand 

196 

HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATUEE. 


EDWARD  GIBBON. 


three  hundred  persons ; and  he  was  attended  to  the 
I field  by  a "uard  of  twelve  thousand  horse,  whose  belts 
j and  seiniitars  were  studded  with  gold. 

In  a private  condition,  our  desires  are  perpetually 
rc])rcssed  by  poverty  and  subordination  ; but  the  lives 
and  labours  of  millions  are  devoted  to  the  service  of 
a despotic  prince,  whose  laws  are  blindly  obeyed,  and 
whose  wishes  are  instantly  gratified.  Our  imagina- 
tion is  dazzled  by  the  splendid  picture  ; and  what- 
ever may  be  the  cool  dictates  of  reason,  there  are  few 
among  us  who  would  obstinately  refuse  a trial  of  the 
comforts  and  the  cares  of  royalty.  It  may  therefore 
be  of  some  use  to  borrow  the  experience  of  the  same 
Abdalrahman,  whose  magnificence  has  perhaps  excited 
our  admiration  and  envy,  and  to  transcribe  an  authen- 
tic memorial  which  was  found  in  the  closet  of  the  de- 
I ceased  caliph.  ‘ I have  now  reigned  above  fifty  years 
in  victory  or  peace  ; beloved  by  my  subjects,  dreaded 
by  my  enemies,  and  respected  by  ray  allies.  Riches 
and  honours,  power  and  pleasure,  have  waited  on  my 
call,  nor  docs  any  earthly  blessing  appear  to  have 
been  wanting  to  my  felicity.  In  this  situation  I 
have  diligently  numbered  the  days  of  pure  and  genu- 
ine happiness  which  have  fallen  to  my  lot : they 
amount  to  fourteen.  0 man  1 place  not  thy  confi- 
dence in  this  present  world.’ 

\Conqwst  oj  Jerusalem  hy  the  Crusaders,  a.  d.  1099.] 

Jerusalem  has  derived  some  reputation  from  the 
number  and  importance  of  her  memorable  sieges.  It 
was  not  till  after  a long  and  obstinate  contest  that 
Babylon  and  Rome  could  prevail  against  the  obsti- 
nacy of  the  people,  the  craggy  ground  that  might 
supersede  the  necessity  of  fortifications,  and  the  walls 
and  towers  that  would  have  fortified  the  most  acces- 
sible plain.  These  obstacles  were  diminished  in  the 
age  of  the  crusades.  The  bulwarks  had  been  com- 
pletely destroyed  and  imperfectly  restored  : the  Jews, 
their  nation  and  worship,  were  for  ever  banished  ; but 
nature  is  less  changeable  than  man,  and  the  site  of 
Jeru.salcm,  though  somewhat  softened  and  somewhat 
removed,  was  still  strong  against  the  assaults  of  an 
enemy.  By  the  experience  of  a recent  siege,  and  a 
three  years’  pos.session,  the  Saracens  of  Egj’pt  had  been 
taught  to  discern,  and  in  some  degree  to  remedy,  the 
defects  of  a place  which  religion  as  well  as  honour 
forbade  them  to  resign.  Aladin  or  Iftikhar,  the 
caliph’s  lieutenant,  was  intrusted  with  the  defence ; 
his  policy  strove  to  restrain  the  native  Christians  by 
the  dread  of  their  own  ruin  and  that  of  the  holy 
sepulchre ; to  animate  the  Moslems  by  the  assurance 
of  temporal  and  eternal  rewards.  His  garrison  is  said 
to  have  consisted  of  forty  thousand  Turks  and  Ara- 
bians ; and  if  he  could  muster  twenty  thousand  of 
the  inhabitants,  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  besieged 
were  more  numerous  than  the  besieging  army.  Had 
the  diminished  strength  and  numbers  of  the  Latins 
I allowed  them  to  grasp  the  whole  circumference  of 

I four  thousand  yards  (about  two  English  miles  and  a 

half),  to  whal  useful  purpose  should  they  have  de- 
scended into  the  valley  of  Ben  Himraon  and  torrent 
of  Cedron,  or  approached  the  precipices  of  the  south 
I and  cast,  from  whence  they  had  nothing  either  to 

hope  or  fear?  Their  siege  was  more  reasonably 
i directed  against  the  northern  and  western  sides  of 

1 the  city.  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  erected  his  standard 

on  the  first  swell  of  Mount  Calvary ; to  the  left,  as 
I far  as  St  Stephen’s  gate,  the  line  of  attack  was  con- 

, tinned  by  Tancred  and  the  two  Roberts ; and  Count 

j Raymond  established  his  quarters  from  the  citadel  to 

! the  foot  of  Mount  Sion,  which  was  no  longer  included 

I within  the  precincts  of  the  city.  On  the  fifth  day, 

I the  crusaders  made  a general  assault,  in  the  fanatic 

lupe  of  battering  down  the  walls  without  engines,  and 
1 cf  scaling  them  without  ladders.  By  the  dint  of 


brutal  force,  they  burst  the  first  barrier,  but  they  were 
driven  back  with  shame  and  slaughter  to  the  camp : 
the  influence  of  vision  and  prophecy  was  deadened  by 
the  too  frequent  abuse  of  those  pious  stratagems,  and 
time  and  labour  were  found  to  be  the  only  means  of 
victory.  The  time  of  thdsiege  was  indeed  fulfilled  in 
forty  days,  but  they  were  forty  days  of  calamity  and 
anguish.  A repetition  of  the  old  complaint  of  famine 
may  be  imputed  in  some  degree  to  the  voracious  or  dis- 
orderly appetite  of  the  Franks,  but  the  stony  soil  of 
Jerusalem  is  almost  destitute  of  water;  the  scanty 
springs  and  hasty  torrents  were  dry  in  the  summer  sea- 
son ; nor  was  the  thirst  of  the  besiegers  relieved,  as  in 
the  city,  by  the  artificial  supply  of  cisterns  and  aque- 
ducts. The  circumjacent  country  is  equally  destitute 
of  trees  for  the  uses  of  shade  or  building,  but  some 
large  beams  were  discovered  in  a cave  by  the  cru- 
saders : a wood  near  Sichem,  the  enchanted  grove  of 
Tasso,  was  cut  dowm  : the  necessary  timber  was  tran- 
sported to  the  camp  by  the  vigour  and  dexterity  cf 
Tancred ; and  the  engines  were  framed  by  some  Ge- 
noese artists,  who  had  fortunately  landed  in  the  har- 
bour of  Jaffa.  Tw’o  movable  turrets  were  constructed 
at  the  expense  and  in  the  stations  of  the  Duke  of  Lor- 
raine and  the  Count  of  Tholouse,  and  rolled  forwards 
with  devout  labour,  not  to  the  most  accessible  but 
to  the  most  neglected  parts  of  the  fortification.  Ray- 
mond’s tower  was  reduced  to  ashes  by  the  fire  of  the 
besieged,  but  his  colleague  was  more  vigilant  and 
successful ; the  enemies  were  driven  by  his  archers 
from  the  rampart ; the  drawbridge  was  let  down  ; and 
on  a Friday,  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  the  day  and 
hour  of  the  Passion,  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  stood  vic- 
torious on  the  walls  of  Jerusalem.  His  exaiu{)le  was 
followed  on  every  side  by  the  emulation  of  valour ; 
and  about  four  hundred  and  sixty  years  after  the  con- 
quest of  Omar,  the  holy  city  was  rescued  from  the 
Mohammedan  yoke.  In  the  pillage  of  public  and  pri- 
vate wealth,  the  adventurers  had'agreed  to  respect  the 
exclusive  property  of  the  first  occupant ; and  the 
spoils  of  the  great  mosque — seventy  lamps  and  massy 
vases  of  gold  and  silver — rewarded  the  diligence  and 
displayed  the  generosity  of  Tancred.  A bloody  sacri- 
fice was  offered  by  his  mistaken  votaries  to  the  God 
of  the  Christians : resistance  might  provoke,  but 
neither  age  nor  sex  could  mollify  their  implacable 
rage ; they  indulged  themselves  three  days  in  a pro- 
miscuous massacre,  and  the  infection  of  the  dead 
bodies  produced  an  epidemical  disease.  After  seventy 
thousand  Moslems  had  been  put  to  the  sword,  and  the 
harmless  Jews  had  been  burnt  in  their  synagogue, 
they  could  still  reserve  a multitude  of  captives  whom 
interest  or  lassitude  persuaded  them  to  spare.  Of 
these  savage  heroes  of  the  cross,  Tancred  alone  be- 
trayed some  sentiments  of  compassion  ; yet  we  may 
praise  the  more  selfish  lenity  of  Raymond,  who  granted 
a capitulation  and  safe  conduct  to  the  garrison  of  the 
citadel.  The  holy  sepulchre  was  now  free  ; and  the 
bloody  victors  prepared  to  accomplish  their  vow. 
Bareheaded  and  barefoot,  with  contrite  hearts,  and  in 
a humble  posture,  they  ascended  the  hill  of  Calvary 
amidst  the  loud  anthems  of  the  clergy ; kissed  the 
stone  which  had  covered  the  Saviour  of  the  world, 
and  bedewed  with  tears  of  joy  and  penitence  the 
monument  of  their  redemption. 

[Appearance  and  Character  of  Mahomet.'\ 

According  to  the  tradition  of  his  companions,  Ma- 
homet was  distinguished  by  the  beauty  of  his  person- 
al! outward  gift  which  is  seldom  despised,  except  by 
those  to  whom  it  has  bee  i refused.  Before  he  spoke, 
the  orator  engaged  on  his  side  the  affections  of  a pub- 
lic or  private  audience.  They  applauded  his  com- 
manding presence,  his  majestic  aspect,  his  piercing 
eye,  his  gracious  smile,  his  flowing  beard,  his  counte- 

.97 


FROM  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1780. 

nance  tliat  painted  every  sensation  of  the  soul,  and 
his  gestures  that  enforced  eaeh  expression  of  the 
tongue.  In  the  familiar  offices  of  life  he  scrupulously 
adhered  to  the  grave  and  ceremonious  politeness  of 
his  country  : his  respectful  attention  to  the  rich  and 
powerful  was  dignified  by  hib  condescension  and  affa- 
bility to  the  poorest  citizens  of  Mecca  ; the  frankness 
of  his  manner  concealed  the  artifice  of  his  views  ; and 
the  habits  of  courtesy  were  imputed  to  personal  friend- 
ship or  universal  benevolence.  His  memory  was  capa- 
cious and  retentive,  his  wit  ea.sy  and  social,  his  ima- 
gination sublime,  his  judgment  clear,  rapid,  and 
decisive.  He  possessed  the  courage  both  of  thought 
and  action  ; and  although  his  designs  might  gradu- 
ally expand  with  his  success,  the  first  idea  which  he 
entertained  of  his  divine  mission  bears  the  stamp  of 
an  original  and  superior  genius.  The  son  of  Abdallah 
was  educated  in  the  bosom  of  the  noblest  race,  in  the 
use  of  the  purest  dialect  of  Arabia  ; and  the  fluency 
of  his  speech  was  corrected  and  enhanced  by  the  prac- 
tice of  discreet  and  seasonable  silence.  With  the.se 
powers  of  eloquence,  Mahomet  was  an  illiterate  bar- 
barian ; his  youth  had  never  been  instructed  in  the 
arts  of  reading  and  writing  ; the  common  ignorance 
exempted  him  from  shame  or  reproach,  but  he  was 
reduced  to  a narrow  circle  of  existence,  and  deprived 
of  those  faithful  mirrors  which  reflect  to  our  mind  the 
minds  of  .sages  and  heroes.  Yet  the  book  of  nature 
and  of  man  w’as  open  to  his  view  ; and  some  fancy  has 
been  indulged  in  the  political  and  philosophical  ob- 
servations which  are  ascribed  to  the  Arabian  traveller. 
He  compares  the  nations  and  religions  of  the  earth  ; 
discovers  the  weakness  of  the  Persian  and  Roman 
monarchies  ; beholds  with  pity  and  indignation  the 
degeneracy  of  the  times  ; and  resolves  to  unite,  under 
one  God  and  one  king,  the  invincible  spirit  and  primi- 
tive virtues  of  the  Arabs.  Our  more  accurate  inquiry 
will  suggest,  that  instead  of  visiting  the  courts,  the 
camp.s,  the  temples  of  the  east,  the  two  journeys  of 
Mahomet  into  Syria  were  confined  to  the  fairs  of 
Rostra  and  Damascus  ; that  he  was  only  thirteen  years 
of  age  when  he  accompanied  the  caravan  of  his  uncle, 
and  that  his  duty  compelled  him  to  return  as  soon  as 
he  had  disposed  of  the  merchandi.se  of  Cadijah.  In 
these  hasty  and  superficial  excursions,  the  eye  of 
genius  might  discern  some  objects  invisible  to  his 
grosser  companions  ; some  seeds  of  knowledge  might 
be  cast  upon  a fruitful  soil  ; but  his  ignorance  of  the 
Syriac  language  must  have  checked  his  curiosity,  and 
I cannot  perceive  in  the  life  or  writings  of  Mahomet 
that  his  prospect  was  far  extended  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  Arabian  world.  From  every  region  of  that 
solitary  world  the  pilgrims  of  Mecca  were  annually 
assembled,  by  the  calls  of  devotion  and  commerce : 
in  the  free  concourse  of  multitudes,  a simple  citizen, 
in  his  native  tongue,  might  study  the  political  state 
and  character  of  the  tribes,  the  theory  and  practice  of 
the  Jews  and  Christians.  Some  useful  strangers  might 
be  tempted  or  forced  to  implore  the  rites  of  hospi- 
tality ; and  the  enemies  of  Mahomet  have  named  the 
Jew,  the  Persian,  and  the  Syrian  monk,  whom  they 
accuse  of  lending  their  secret  aid  to  the  composition 
of  the  Koran.  Conversation  enriches  the  understand- 
ing, but  solitude  is  the  school  of  genius  ; and  the  uni- 
formity of  a work  denotes  the  hand  of  a single  artist. 
From  his  earliest  youth  Mahomet  was  addicted  to 
religious  contemplation  : each  year,  during  the  month 
of  Ramadan,  he  withdrew  from  the  world  and  from 
the  arms  of  Cadijah  : in  the  cave  of  Hera,  three  miles 
from  Mecca,  he  consulted  the  spirit  of  fraud  or  enthu- 
siasm, whose  abode  is  not  In  the  heavens  but  in  the 
mind  of  the  prophet.  The  faith  which,  under  the 
name  o^  Islam,  he  preached  to  his  family  and  nation, 
is  compounded  of  an  eternal  truth  and  a necessary 
fiction— that  there  is  only  one  God,  and  that  Mahomet 
is  the  apostle  of  God. 

f Term  of  the  Conquest  of  Timour,  or  Tamerlane;  his  i 
Triumjih  at  Samarcand;  his  Death  on  the  Road  to  ' 
China  (a.  d.  1405) ; Character  and  Merits  of  Tiniosir.'\ 

From  the  Irtish  and  Volga  to  the  Persian  Gulf,  , 
and  from  the  Ganges  to  Damascus  and  the  Archipe-  ! 
lago,  Asia  was  in  the  hand  of  Timour  ; his  armies 
were  invincible,  his  ambition  was  boundless,  am'  his  ! 
zeal  might  aspire  to  conquer  and  convert  the  Cl.i.s  \ 
tian  kingdoms  of  the  west,  which  already  trembled  at  | 
his  name.  He  touched  the  utmost  verge  of  the  land  ; 
but  an  insuperable  though  narrow  sea  rolled  between 
the  two  continents  of  Europe  and  Asia,  and  the  lord  ' 
of  so  many  tomans,  or  myriads  of  horse,  was  not  master 
of  a single  galley.  The  two  passages  of  the  Bosphorus  i 
and  Helle.spont,  of  Constantinople  and  Gallipoli,  were 
possessed,  the  one  by  the  Christians,  the  other  by  the  1 
Turks.  On  this  great  occasion  they  forgot  the  diffe-  j 
rcnce  of  religion,  to  act  with  union  and  firmness  in  : 
the  common  cause : the  double  straits  were  guarded  ! 
with  ships  and  fortifications ; and  they  sei)arately  | 
withheld  the  transports,  whicli  Timour  demanded  of  [ 
either  nation,  under  the  pretence  of  attacking  their  i 
enemy.  At  the  same  time  they  soothed  his  pride  | 
with  tributary  gifts  and  suppliant  embassies,  and 
prudently  tempted  him  to  retreat  with  the  honours  of 
victory.  Soliman,  the  son  of  Bajazet,  implored  his 
clemency  for  his  father  and  himself ; accejded,  by  a 
red  patent,  the  investiture  of  the  kingdom  of  Romania, 
which  he  already  held  by  the  sword  ; and  reiterated 
his  ardent  wish,  of  casting  himself  in  person  at  the 
feet  of  the  king  of  the  world.  The  Greek  emperor 
(either  John  or  Manuel)  submitted  to  pay  the  same 
tribute  which  he  had  stipulated  with  the  Turkish 
sultan,  and  ratified  the  treaty  by  an  oath  of  allegiance, 
from  which  he  could  absolve  his  conscience  so  soon  as 
the  Mogul  arms  had  retired  from  Anatolia.  But  the 
fears  and  fancy  of  nations  ascribed  to  the  ambitious 
Tamerlane  a new  design  of  vast  and  romantic  com- 
pass— a design  of  subduing  Egypt  and  Africa,  march- 
ing from  the  Nile  to  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  entering 
Europe  by  the  straits  of  Gibraltar,  and,  after  im- 
posing his  yoke  on  the  kingdoms  of  Christendom,  of 
returning  home  by  the  deserts  of  Russia  and  Tartary. 
This  remote  and  perhaps  imaginary  danger  was  averted 
by  the  submission  of  the  sultan  of  Egypt ; the  honours 
of  the  prayer  and  the  coin  attested  at  Cairo  the  su- 
premacy of  Timour ; and  a rare  gift  of  a giraffe,  or 
camelopard,  and  nine  ostriches,  represented  at  Samar- 
caiid  the  tribute  of  the  African  world.  Our  imagina- 
tion is  not  less  astonished  by  the  portrait  of  a Mogul 
who,  in  his  camp  before  Smyrna,  meditates  and  al- 
most accomplishes  the  invasion  of  the  Chinese  empire. 
Timour  was  urged  to  this  enterprise  by  national 
honour  and  religious  zeal.  The  torrents  which  he  had 
shed  of  Mussulman  blood  could  be  exjuated  only  by 
an  equal  destruction  of  the  infidels ; and  as  he  now 
stood  at  the  gates  of  paradise,  he  might  best  secure 
his  glorious  entrance  by  demolishing  the  idols  of  Chin.a, 
founding  mosques  in  every  city,  and  establishing  the 
profession  of  faith  in  one  God  and  his  prophet  Ma- 
homet. The  recent  expulsion  of  the  house  of  Zingis 
was  an  insult  on  the  Mogul  name ; and  the  disorders 
of  the  empire  afforded  the  fairest  opportunity  for  re- 
venge. The  illustrious  Hongvou,  founder  of  the 
dynasty  of  Ming,  died  four  years  before  the  battle  of 
Angora ; and  his  grandson,  a weak  and  unfortunate  ' 
youth,  was  burnt  in  his  palace,  after  a million  of 
Chinese  had  perished  in  the  civil  war.  Before  he 
evacuated  Anatolia,  Timour  de.spatched  beyond  the  ! 
Silioon  a numerous  army,  or  rather  colony,  of  his  old  , 
and  new  subjects,  to  open  the  road,  to  subdue  the 
pagan  Calmucks  and  Mungals,  and  to  found  cities 
and  magazines  in  the  desert ; and  by  the  diligence  of 
his  lieutenant,  he  soon  received  a perfect  map  and 
descrii>tion  of  the  unknown  regions,  from  the  .source 

198 

niSTORTANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDWARD  GIISBOS 


! 


{ 

1 

i 

i 

i 

i 

( 


1 

( 


( 

! 


! 


of  the  Irtish  to  the  wall  of  China.  During  these  pre- 
parations, the  emperor  achieved  the  final  conquest  of 
Georgia,  passed  the  winter  on  the  hanks  of  the 
.Praxes,  appeased  the  troubles  of  Persia,  and  slowly 
returned  to  his  capital,  after  a campaign  of  four  years 
and  nine  months. 

On  the  throne  of  Samarcand,  he  displayed  in  a 
short  repose  his  magnificence  and  power ; listened  to 
the  complaints  of  the  people,  distributed  a just  mea- 
sure of  rewards  and  punishments,  employed  his  riches 
in  the  architecture  of  palaces  and  temples,  and  gave 
audience  to  the  ambassadors  of  Egypt,  Arabia,  India, 
Tartary,  Russia,  and  Spain,  the  last  of  whom  pre- 
sented a suit  of  tapestry  which  eclipsed  the  pencil  of 
the  oriental  artists.  The  marriage  of  six  of  the  em- 
peror’s grandsons  was  esteemed  an  act  of  religion  as 
well  os  of  paternal  tenderness  ; and  the  pomp  of  the 
ancient  caliphs  was  revived  in  their  nuptials.  They 
were  celebrated  in  the  gardens  of  Canighul,  decorated 
with  innumerable  tents  and  pavilions,  which  displayed 
the  luxury  of  a great  city  and  the  .spoils  of  a victo- 
rious camp.  Whole  forests  were  cut  down  to  supply 
fuel  for  the  kitchens  ; the  plain  was  spread  with  pyra- 
mids of  meat  and  vases  of  every  liquor,  to  which 
thousands  of  guests  were  courteously  invited  ; the 
orders  of  the  state,  and  the  nations  of  the  earth,  were 
marshalled  at  the  royal  banquet ; nor  were  the  am- 
bassadors of  Europe  (says  the  haughty  Persian)  ex- 
cluded from  the  feast ; since  even  the  casses,  the 
smallest  of  fish,  find  their  place  in  the  ocean.  The 
public  joy  was  testified  by  illuminations  and  mas- 
querades ; the  trades  of  Samarcand  passed  in  review ; 
and  every  trade  was  emulous  to  execute  some  quaint 
device,  some  marvellous  pageant,  with  the  materials 
of  their  peculiar  art.  After  the  marriage-contracts 
had  been  ratified  by  the  cadhis,  the  bridegrooms  and 
their  brides  retired  to  the  nuptial  chambers  ; nine 
times,  according  to  the  Asiatic  fashion,  they  were 
dressed  and  undressed  ; and  at  each  change  of  apparel, 
pearls  and  rubies  were  showered  on  their  heads,  and 
contemptuously  abandoned  to  their  attendants.  A 
general  indulgence  was  proclaimed  ; every  law  was 
relaxed,' every  pleasure  was  allowed  ; the  people  were 
free,  the  sovereign  was  idle  ; and  the  historian  of 
Timour  may  remark,  that,  after  devoting  fifty  years 
to  the  attainment  of  empire,  the  only  happy  period 
of  his  life  was  the  two  months  in  which  he  ceased  to 
exercise  his  power.  But  he  was  soon  awakened  to 
the  cares  of  government  and  war.  The  standard 
was  unfurled  for  the  invasion  of  China ; the  emirs 
made  their  report  of  two  hundred  thousand,  the  select 
and  veteran  soldiers  of  Iran  and  Touran  ; their  bag- 
gage and  provisions  were  transported  by  five  hundred 
great  wagons,  and  an  immense  train  of  horses  and 
camels ; and  the  troops  might  prepare  for  a long 
absence,  since  more  than  six  months  were  employed 
in  the  tranquil  journey  of  a caravan  from  Samarcand 
to  Pekin.  Neither  age  nor  the  severity  of  the  winter 
could  retard  the  impatience  of  Timour ; he  mounted 
on  Iiorseback,  passed  the  Sihoon  on  the  ice,  marched 
seventy-six  parasangs  (three  hundred  miles)  from  his 
capital,  and  pitched  his  last  camp  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Otrar,  where  he  was  expected  by  the  angel  of 
death.  Fatigue,  and  the  indiscreet  use  of  iced  water, 
accelerated  the  progress  of  his  fever;  and  the  con- 
queror of  Asia  expired  in  the  seventieth  year  of  his 
age,  thirty-five  years  after  he  had  ascended  the  throne 
of  Zagatai.  His  designs  were  lost ; his  armies  were 
disbanded ; China  was  saved ; and  fourteen  years 
after  his  decease,  the  most  powerful  of  his  children 
sent  an  embassy  of  friendship  and  commerce  to  the 
court  of  Pekin, 

The  fame  of  Timour  has  pervaded  the  east  and 
west ; his  posterity  is  still  invested  with  the  imperial 
title ; and  the  admiration  of  his  subjects,  who  revered 
him  almost  as  a deity,  may  be  justified  in  some  de- 


gree by  the  praise  or  confession  of  his  bitterest  enemies. 
Although  he  was  lame  of  a hand  and  foot,  his  form 
and  stature  were  not  unworthy  of  his  rank  ; and  his 
vigorous  health,  so  essential  to  himself  and  to  the 
world,  was  corroborated  by  temperance  and  exercise. 
In  his  familiar  discourse  he  was  grave  and  modest, 
and  if  he  was  ignoi-ant  of  the  Arabic  language,  he 
spoke  with  fluency  and  elegance  the  Persian  and 
Turkish  idioms.  It  was  his  delight  to  converse  with 
the  learned  on  topics  of  history  and  science  ; and  the 
amusement  of  his  leisure  hours  was  the  game  of  chess, 
which  he  improved  or  corrupterl  with  new  refinements. 
In  his  religion  he  was  a zealous,  though  not  perhaps 
an  orthodox,  Mussulman  ; but  his  sound  understand- 
ing may  tempt  us  to  believe  that  a supei-stitious  rever- 
ence for  omens  and  pretphesies,  for  saints  and  astro- 
logers, was  only  atfected  as  an  instrument  of  policy. 
In  the  government  of  a vast  empire  he  stood  alone 
and  absolute,  without  a rebel  to  oppose  his  power,  a 
favourite  to  seduce  his  affections,  or  a minister  to 
mislead  his  judgment.  It  was  his  firme.st  maxim, 
that,  whatever  might  be  the  consequence,  the  word  of 
the  prince  should  never  be  disputed  or  recalled  ; but 
his  foes  have  maliciously  observed,  that  the  commands 
of  anger  and  destruction  were  more  strictly  executed 
than  those  of  beneficence  and  favour.  His  sons  and 
grandsons,  of  whom  Timour  left  six -and -thirty  at  his 
decease,  were  his  first  and  most  submissive  subjects  ; 
and  whenever  they  deviated  from  their  duty,  they 
were  corrected,  according  to  the  laws  of  Zingis,  with 
the  bastonnade,  and  afterwards  restored  to  honour  and 
command.  Perhaps  his  heart  was  not  devoid  of  the 
social  virtues  ; perhaps  lie  was  not  incapable  of  loving 
his  friends  and  pardoning  his  enemies  ; but  the  rules 
of  morality  are  founded  on  the  public  interest ; and 
it  may  be  sufficient  to  applaud  the  wisdom  of  a 
monarch  for  the  liberality  by  which  he  is  not  im- 
poverished, and  for  the  justice  by  which  he  is 
strengthened  and  enriched.  To  maintain  the  har- 
mony of  authority  and  obedience,  to  chastise  the 
proud,  to  protect  the  weak,  to  reward  the  deserving, 
to  banish  vice  and  idleness  from  his  dominions,  to 
secure  the  traveller  and  merchant,  to  restrain  the 
depredations  of  the  soldier,  to  cherish  the  labours  of 
the  husbandman,  to  encourage  industry  and  learning, 
and,  b}'  an  equal  and  moderate  assessment,  to  in- 
crease the  revenue  without  increasing  the  taxes,  are 
indeed  the  duties  of  a prince ; but,  in  the  discharge 
of  these  duties,  he  finds  an  ample  and  immediate  re- 
compense. Timour  might  boast  that,  at  his  accession 
to  the  throne,  Asia  was  the  prey  of  anarchy  and 
rapine,  whilst  under  his  prosperous  monarchy  a child, 
fearless  and  unhurt,  might  carry  a purse  of  gold  from 
the  east  to  the  west.  Such  was  his  ctnfidence  of 
merit,  that  from  this  reformation  he  derived  an 
excu.se  for  his  victories,  and  a title  to  universal 
dominion.  The  four  following  obsenations  will 
serve  to  appreciate  his  claim  to  the  public  gratitude; 
and  perhaps  we  shall  conclude,  that  the  Mogul  em- 
peror was  rather  the  scourge  than  the  benefactor  of 
mankind.  1.  If  some  partial  disorders,  some  local 
oppressions,  were  healed  by  the  sword  of  Timour,  the 
remedy  was  far  more  pernicious  than  the  disease.  By 
their  rapine,  cruelty,  and  discord,  the  petty  tyrants 
of  Persia  might  afflict  their  subjects ; but  whole 
nations  were  crushed  under  the  footsteps  of  the  re- 
former. The  gi'ound  which  had  been  occupied  by 
flourishing  cities  was  often  marked  by  his  abominable 
trophies — by  columns  or  pyramids  of  human  heads. 
Astracan,  Carizrae,  Delhi,  Ispahan,  Bagdjul,  Aleppo, 
Damascus,  Boursa,  Smyrna,  and  a thousand  others, 
were  sacked,  or  burned,  or  utterly  destroyed  in  his 
pre.sence,  and  by  his  troops  ; and  perhaps  his  con- 
science would  have  been  startled  if  a priest  or  philo 
sopher  had  dared  to  number  the  millions  of  victims 
1 whom  he  had  sacrificed  to  the  establishment  of  peace 

l.h<) 


FROM  172V 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


and  order.  2.  Hit)  most  destructive  wars  were  rather 
inroads  than  conquests.  He  invadcil  Turkestan, 
Ki|)zak,  Mussia,  Hindostan,  Syria,  .\natolia,  Armenia, 
tind  (ieoi'oia,  without  a hope  or  a desire  of  preserv- 
ing tliose  distant  iirovinccs.  From  thence  he  departeil 
laden  with  sjioil  ; but  he  left  behind  him  neitlier 
troi,ps  to  awe  the  contumacious,  nor  magistrates  to 
lirotect  the  oOedient  natives.  Wlien  he  had  broken 
the  fabric  of  their  ancient  government,  he  abandoned 
them  to  the  evils  which  his  invasion  had  aggravated 
or  caused  ; nor  were  these  evils  oompensated  by  any 
present  or  possible  benefits.  '6.  Tlie  kingiloms  of 
Transoxiana  and  Persia  were  the  proper  field  which 
he  laboured  to  cultivate  and  adorn,  as  the  peqictual 
inheritance  of  his  family.  But  his  peaceful  labours 
were  often  interrupted,  and  sometimes  blasted,  by  the 
ab.scnce  of  the  conqueror.  While  he  triumphed  on 
the  Volga  or  the  Ganges,  his  servants,  and  even  his 
sons,  forgot  their  master  and  their  duty.  The  public 
and  private  injuries  «’ere  poorly  redressed  by  the 
tardy  rigour  of  inquiry  and  punishment ; and  we  must 
be  content  to  ju'aise  the  institutions  of  Tiniour  as  the 
specious  idea  of  a perfect  monarchy.  4.  Whatsoever 
might  be  the  blessings  of  his  administration,  they 
evaporated  with  his  life.  To  reign,  rather  than  to 
govern,  was  the  ambition  of  his  children  and  grand- 
children, the  enemies  of  each  other  and  of  the  people. 
A fragment  of  the  empire  was  upheld  with  some  glory 
by  Sharokh,  his  youngest  son  ; but  after  his  decease, 
the  .scene  was  again  involved  in  darkness  and  blood  ; 
and  before  the  end  of  a century,  Transoxiana  and 
Persia  were  trampled  by  the  Uzbecks  from  the  north, 
and  the  Turkmans  of  the  black  and  white  sheep.  The 
race  of  Tiniour  would  have  been  extinct,  if  a hero, 
his  descendant  in  the  fifth  degree,  had  not  fled  before 
the  Uzbek  arms  to  the  conquest  of  Hindostan.  His 
successors  (the  great  Moguls)  extended  their  sway 
from  the  mountains  of  Caslunir  to  Cape  Comorin,  and 
from  Candahar  to  the  Gulf  of  Bengal.  Since  the  reign 
of  .Vurungzebe,  their  empire  has  been  dissolved  ; their 
treasures  of  Delhi  have  been  rifled  by  a Persian 
robber ; and  the  richest  of  their  kingdoms  is  now 
posse.ssed  by  a company  of  Christian  merchants,  of  a 
remote  island  in  the  northern  ocean. 

l^Inrention  and  Use  of  Gunpowder.'] 

The  only  hope  of  salvation  for  the  Greek  empire 
and  the  adjacent  kingdoms,  would  have  been  some 
more  powerful  weapon,  some  discovery  in  the  art  of 
war,  that  should  give  them  a decisive  superiority  over 
their  Turkish  foes.  Such  a weapon  was  in  their 
hands  ; such  a iliscovery  had  been  made  in  the  criti- 
cal moment  of  their  fate.  The  chemists  of  China  or 
Europe  had  found,  by  casual  or  elaborate  experiments, 
that  a mixture  of  saltpetre,  sulphur,  and  charcoal, 
produces,  with  a spark  of  fire,  a tremendous  explosion. 
It  was  soon  observed,  that  if  the  expansive  force  were 
compressed  in  a strong  tube,  a ball  of  stone  or  iron 
might  be  expelled  with  irresistible  and  destructive 
velocity.  The  precise  era  of  the  invention  and  appli- 
cation of  gunpowder  is  involved  in  doubtful  traditions 
and  equivocal  language ; yet  we  may  clearly  discern 
that  it  was  known  before  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth 
centurv  ; and  that  before  the  end  of  the  same,  the  use 
of  artillery  in  battles  and  sieges,  by  sea  and  land,  was 
familiar  to  the  states  of  Germany,  Italy,  Spain, 
France,  and  England.  The  priority  of  nations  is  of 
small  account;  none  could  derive  any  exclusive  bene- 
fit from  their  previous  or  superior  knowledge ; and  in 
the  common  improvement,  they  stood  on  the  same 
level  of  relative  power  and  military  science.  Nor  was 
it  possible  to  circumscribe  the  secret  within  the  pale 
of  the  church  ; it  was  disclosed  to  the  Turks  by  the 
treachery  of  ajOTstates  and  the  selfish  j.olicy  of  rivals  ; 
and  the  sultans  had  sense  to  adopt,  and  wealth  to 


reward,  the  talents  of  a Christian  engineer.  The 
Genoese,  who  transported  Amurath  into  Europe,  must 
be  accused  as  his  i)rcceptors  ; and  it  was  probably  by 
their  hands  that  his  cannon  was  cast  and  directed  at 
the  siege  of  Constantinople.  The  first  attemiit  was 
indeed  unsucces.sful  ; but  in  the  general  warfare  of 
the  age,  the  advantage  was  on  their  side  who  were 
most  commonly  the  assailants  ; for  a while  the  pro- 
portion of  the  attack  and  defence  was  suspended  ; and 
this  thundering  artillery  was  pointed  against  the  walls 
and  towers  which  had  been  erected  only  to  resist  the 
less  potent  engines  of  antiquity.  By  the  Venetians, 
the  use  of  gunpowder  was  communicated  without 
reproach  to  the  sultans  of  Egypt  and  Persia,  their 
allies  against  the  Ottoman  power ; the  secret  was  soon 
propagated  to  the  extremities  of  Asia  ; and  the  advan- 
tage of  the  European  was  confined  to  his  easy  vic- 
tories over  the  savages  of  the  new  world.  If  we  con- 
trast the  rapid  progress  of  this  mischievous  di.scovery 
with  the  slow  and  laborious  advances  of  reason,  science, 
and  the  arts  of  peace,  a philo.sopher,  according  to  his 
temper,  will  laugh  or  weep  at  the  folly  of  mankind. 

\_Letter  of  Gibbon  to  Mrs  Porten — Account  of  his  Mode 
of  Life  at  Lausanne.] 

December  27,  iras 

The  unfortunate  are  loud  and  loquacious  in  their 
complaints,  but  real  happiness  is  content  with  its  own 
silent  enjoyment ; and  if  that  happiness  is  of  a quiet 
uniform  kind,  we  suffer  days  and  weeks  to  elapse 
without  communicating  our  sensations  to  a distant 
friend.  By  you,  therefore,  whose  temper  and  under- 
standing have  extracted  from  human  life,  on  every 
occasion,  the  best  and  most  comfortable  ingredients, 
my  silence  will  always  be  interpreted  as  an  evidence 
of  content,  and  you  would  only  be  alarmed  (the  danger 
is  not  at  hand)  by  the  too  frequent  repetition  of  my 
letters.  Perhaps  I should  have  continued  to  slumber, 
I don’t  know  how  long,  had  I not  been  awakened  by 
the  anxiety  which  you  express  in  your  last  letter.  * * 

From  this  base  subject  I descend  to  one  which  more 
seriously  and  strongly  engages  your  thoughts — the 
consideration  of  my  health  and  happiness.  And  you 
will  give  me  credit  when  1 assure  you,  with  sincerity, 
that  I have  not  repented  a single  moment  of  the  step 
which  1 have  taken,  and  tliat  I only'  regret  the  not 
having  executed  the  same  design  two,  or  five,  or  even 
ten  years  ago.  By  this  time  I might  have  returned 
independent  and  rich  to  ray  native  country  ; I should 
have  escaped  many  disagreeable  events  that  have 
happened  in  the  meanwhile,  and  1 should  have  avoided 
the  parliamentary  life,  which  experience  has  proved 
to  be  neithe»  .suitable  to  my  temper  nor  conducive  to 
my  fortune.  In  speaking  of  the  hapi)iness  which  I 
enjoy',  you  will  agi’ee  with  me  in  giving  the  preference 
to  a sincere  and  .sensible  friend  ; and  though  you 
cannot  discern  the  full  extent  of  his  merit,  you  will 
easily  believe  that  Deyverdun  is  the  man.  Perhaps 
two  persons  so  perfectly  fitted  to  live  together  were 
never  formed  by  nature  and  education.  We  have 
both  read  and  seen  a great  variety  of  objects  ; the 
lights  and  shades  of  our  different  characters  are  hap- 
pily blended ; and  a friendship  of  thirty  years  has 
taught  us  to  enjoy  our  mutual  advantages,  and  to 
support  our  unavoidable  imperfections.  In  love  and 
marriage  some  harsh  sounds  will  sometimes  inteiTupt 
the  harmony,  and  in  the  course  of  time,  like  our 
neighbours,  we  must,  expect  some  disagreeable  mo- 
ments ; but  confidence  and  freedom  are  the  two  pillars 
of  our  union,  and  I am  much  mistaken  if  the  building 
be  not  solid  and  comfortable.  * In  tliis  season 
I rise  (not  at  four  in  the  morning,  but)  a little  before 
eight ; at  nine  I am  called  from  my  study  to  break- 
fast, which  I always  perform  alone,  in  the  English 

200 


I 

I HISTORIANS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


style  ; and,  with  the  aid  of  Caplin,*  I perceive  no  dif- 
fonnice  between  Lausanne  and  Ucntinck  Street.  Our 
uiorniiif^  are  usually  pa.ssed  in  separate  studies  ; we 
never  approach  each  other’s  door  without  a ])revious 
message,  or  thrice  knocking,  and  my  apartment  is 
already  sacred  and  formidable  to  strangers.  I dress 
at  half  past  one,  and  at  two  (an  early  hour,  to  which 
1 am  not  perfectly  reconciled)  we  sit  down  to  dinner. 
We  have  hired  a female  cook,  well  skilled  in  her  pro- 
fession, and  accustomed  to  the  taste  of  every  nation  ; 
as,  for  instance,  we  had  excellent  mince-pies  yester- 
day. After  dinner  and  the  departure  of  our  company — 
one,  two,  or  three  friends — we  read  together  some  amus- 
ing book,  or  play  at  che.ss,  or  retire  to  our  rooms,  or 
make  visits,  or  go  to  the  coffee-house.  Between  six 
and  -seven  the  assemblies  begin,  and  I am  oppressed 
only  with  their  number  and  variety.  Whist,  at  shil- 
lings or  half-crowns,  is  the  game  I generally  play,  and 
I play  three  rubbers  with  pleasure.  Between  nine  and 
ten  we  withdraw  to  our  bread  and  cheese,  and  friendly 
converse,  which  sends  us  to  bed  at  eleven  ; but  these 
sober  hours  are  too  often  interrupted  by  private  or 
numerous  suppers,  which  I have  not  the  courage  to 
resist,  though  I practise  a laudable  abstinence  at  the 
best  furni.shed  tables.  Such  is  the  skeleton  of  my 
life ; it  is  impossible  to  communicate  a perfect  idea 
of  the  vital  and  substantial  parts,  the  characters  of 
the  men  and  women  with  whom  I have  very  easily 
connected  myself  in  looser  and  closer  bonds,  accord- 
ing to  their  inclination  and  my  own.  If  I do  not 
deceive  myself,  and  if  Deyverdun  does  not  flatter  me, 
I am  already  a general  favourite  ; and  as  our  likings 
and  dislikes  are  commonly  mutual,  I am  equally 
satisfied  with  the  freedom  and  elegance  of  manners, 
and  (after  proper  allowances  and  exceptions)  with  the 
worthy  and  amiable  qualities  of  many  individuals. 
The  autumn  has  been  beautiful,  and  the  winter 
hitherto  mild,  but  in  January  we  must  expect  some 
severe  frost.  Instead  of  rolling  in  a coach,  I walk 
the  streets,  wrapped  up  in  a fur  cloak  ; but  this  exer- 
cise is  wholesome,  and,  except  an  accidental  fit  of  the 
gout  of  a few  days,  I never  enjoyed  better  health.  I 
am  no  longer  in  Pavilliard’s  house,  where  I was 
almost  starved  Avith  cold  and  hunger,  and  you  may 
be  assured  that  I now  enjoy  every  benefit  of  comfort, 
plenty,  and  even  decent  luxury.  You  wish  me 
happy  ; acknorvledge  that  such  a life  is  more  con- 
ducive to  happiness  than  five  nights  in  the  week 
passed  in  the  House  of  Commons,  or  five  mornings 
spent  at  the  Custom-house. 

[Remarlcs  on  Reading.'] 

[These  remarhs  form  the  preface  to  a series  of  memoranda 
begun  by  Gibbon  in  1761,  under  the  title  of  Abstract  of  my 
Readings.'] 

‘ Reading  is  to  the  mind,’  said  the  Duke  of  Vivonne 
to  Louis  X 1 V.,  ‘ what  your  partridges  are  to  my  chops.’ 
It  is,  in  fact,  the  nourishment  of  the  mind  ; for  by 
reading  we  know  our  Creator,  his  works,  ourselves 
chiefly,  and  our  fellow-creatures.  But  this  nourish- 
ment is  easily  converted  into  poison.  Salmasius  had 
re.ad  as  much  as  Grotiu.s,  perhaps  more  ; but  their 
different  modes  of  reading  made  the  one  an  en- 
lightened philosopher,  and  the  other,  to  speak 
plainly,  a pedant,  pufied  up  with  a useless  eru- 
dition. 

Let  us  read  with  method,  and  propose  to  ourselves 
an  end  to  which  all  our  studies  may  point.  Through 
neglect  of  this  rule,  gross  ignorance  often  disgraces 
great  readers ; who,  by  skipping  hastily  and  irregu- 
larly from  one  subject  to  another,  render  themselves 
incapable  of  combining  their  ideas.  So  many  de- 
tached parcels  of  knowledge  cannot  form  a whole. 

* His  English  valet  de  ebambro. 


EDWARD  GIDBOH. 


This  inconstancy  weakens  the  energies  of  the  mind, 
creates  in  it  a dislike  to  application,  and  even  robs  it 
of  the  advantages  of  natural  good  sense. 

Yet  let  us  avoid  the  contrary  extreme,  and  respect 
method,  without  rendering  ourselves  its  slaves.  While 
we  propo.se  an  end  in  our  reading,  let  not  this  end  be 
too  remote ; and  when  once  we  have  attained  it,  let 
our  attention  be  directed  to  a different  subject.  In- 
constancy weakens  the  understanding  ; a long  and  ex- 
clusive application  to  a single  object  hardens  and 
contracts  it.  Our  ideas  no  longer  change  easily  into 
a different  channel,  and  the  course  of  reading  to  which 
we  have  too  long  accustomed  ourselves  is  the  only  one 
that  we  can  pursue  Avith  pleasure. 

We  ought,  besides,  to  be  careful  not  to  make  the 
order  of  our  thoughts  subservient  to  that  of  our 
subjects ; this  AA'OuId  be  to  sacrifice  the  principal  to 
the  accessory.  The  use  of  our  reading  is  to  aid 
us  in  thinking.  The  perusal  of  a particular  work 
gives  birth,  perhaps,  to  ideas  unconnected  with  the 
subject  of  Avhich  it  treats.  I Avish  to  jiursue  these 
ideas ; they  Avithdraw  me  from  my  proposed  plan  of 
reading,  and  thrOAV  me  into  a new  track,  and  from 
thence,  perhaps,  into  a second  and  a third.  At 
length  I begin  to  perceiA-e  Avhlther  my  researches 
tend.  Their  result,  perhaps,  may  be  profitable ; it 
is  Avorth  Avhile  to  try  ; Avhereas,  had  I followed  the 
high  road,  I should  not  have  been  able,  at  the  end 
of  my  long  journey,  to  retrace  the  progress  of  my 
thoughts. 

This  plan  of  reading  is  not  applicable  to  our  eaidy 
studies,  since  the  .sev'erest  method  is  scarcely  sufficient 
to  make  us  conceive  objects  altogether  new.  Neither 
can  it  be  adopted  by  those  Avho  read  in  order  to  Avi.te, 
and  who  ought  to  diA’cll  on  their  subject  till  they 
have  sounded  its  depths.  These,  reflections,  hoAveA-er, 
I do  not  absolutely  Avarrant.  On  the  supposition  that 
they  are  just,  they  may  be  so,  perhaps,  for  myself 
only.  The  constitution  of  minds  differs  like  that  of 
bodies  ; the  same  regimen  Avill  not  suit  all.  Each 
individual  ought  to  study  his  own. 

To  read  Avith  attention,  exactly  to  define  the  ex- 
pressions of  our  author,  never  to  admit  a conclusion 
Avithout  comprehending  its  reason,  often  to  pause,  re- 
flect, and  interrogate  ourselves,  these  are  so  many 
advices  which  it  is  easy  to  give,  hut  difficult  to  folloAV. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  that  almost  evangelical 
maxim  of  forgetting  friends,  country,  religion,  of 
giving  merit  its  due  praise,  and  embracing  truth 
Avherever  it  is  to  be  found. 

But  what  ought  Ave  to  read  ? Each  indivinual 
must  ansAA'er  this  question  for  him.self,  agreeably  to 
the  object  of  his  studies.  The  only  general  precept 
that  I Avould  venture  to  give,  is  that  of  Pliny,  ‘ to  read 
much,  rather  than  many  things;’  to  make  a careful 
selection  of  the  best  works,  and  to  render  them  fami- 
liar to  us  by  attentive  and  repeated  perusals.  Without 
expatiating  on  the  authors  so  generally  known  and 
approved,  I Avould  simply  observe,  that  in  matters  of 
reasoning,  the  best  are  those  aaEo  have  augmented  the 
number  of  useful  truths  ; Avho  have  discovered  truths, 
of  Avhatever  nature  they  may  he  ; in  one  Avord,  those 
bold  spirits  Avho,  quitting  the  beaten  track,  prefer  being 
in  the  AATong  alone,  to  being  in  the  right  Avith  the 
multitude.  Such  authors  increase  the  number  of  our 
ideas,  and  even  their  mistakes  are  useful  to  their  suc- 
cessors. With  all  the  respect  due  to  Mr  Locke,  I 
AA'ould  not,  hoAvever,  neglect  the  works  of  those  aca- 
demicians who  destroy  errors  without  hoping  to  sub- 
stitute truth  in  their  stead.  In  Avorks  of  fancy, 
invention  ought  to  bear  aAvay  the  palm  ; chiefly  that 
invention  which  creates  a ncAv  kind  of  writing ; and 
next,  that  AA’hich  displays  the  charms  of  novelty  in 
its  subject,  characters,  situation,  pictures,  thoughts, 
and  sentiments.  Yet  this  invention  will  miss  its 
effect,  unless  it  be  accompanied  with  a genius  capable 

201 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TO  17C0 


of  a(iai)tirig  itself  to  every  variety  of  the  subject — suc- 
cessively sublime,  jiathetie,  flowery,  majestic,  and 
playful ; and  with  a judgment  which  admits  nothing 
indecorous,  and  a style  which  expresses  well  what- 
f'-or  ought  to  be  said.  As  to  compilations  which  are 
intended  merely  to  treasure  u]>  the  thoughts  of  others, 
I ask  whether  they  are  written  with  perspicuity, 
whether  sui)erfluities  are  lopped  off,  and  dispersed  ob- 
servations skilfully  collected  ; and  agreeably  to  my 
answers  to  tho.se  questions,  I estimate  the  merit  of 
such  performances. 


METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 

The  public  taste  has  been  almost  ■wholly  withdrawn 
from  metaphysical  pursuits,  which  at  this  time  con- 
stituted a favourite  study  with  men  of  letters.  Ample 
scope  ■was  given  for  ingenious  speculation  in  the  in- 
ductive philosoiihy  of  the  mind;  and  the  example  of 
a few  great  names,  each  connected  with  some  parti- 
cular theory  of  moral  science,  kept  alive  a zeal  for 
such  minute  and  often  fanciful  inquiries.  In  the 
higher  branch  of  ethics,  honourable  service  was  ren- 
dered by  llishop  Butler,  but  it  was  in  Scotland  that 
speculati.ve  philosophy  obtained  most  favour  and 
celebrity.  After  a long  interval  of  a century  and 
a half.  Dr  Francis  Hutcheson  (1694-1747)  intro- 
duced into  Scotland  a taste  for  metaphysics,  which, 
in  the  si.xteenth  century,  had  prevailed  to  a great 
extent  in  the  northern  universities.  Hutcheson  was 
a native  of  Ireland,  but  studied  in  the  university  of 
Glasgow  for  six  years,  after  which  he  returned  to 
his  native  country,  and  kept  an  academy  in  Dublin. 
About  the  year  1726  he  published  his  Inquiry  into 
Beauty  and  Virtue,  and  his  reputation  was  so  high 
that  he  was  called  to  be  professor  of  moral  philo- 
sophy in  Glasgow  in  the  year  1729.  His  great  work, 
a System  of  Moral  Philosophy,  did  not  appear  till  after 
his  death,  when  it  was  published  in  two  volumes, 
quarto,  by  his  son.  The  rudiments  of  his  philosophy 
were  borrowed  from  Sh.aftesbury,  but  he  introduced 
a new  term,  the  moral  sense,  into  the  metaphysical 
vocabulary,  and  assigned  to  it  a sphere  of  consider- 
able importance.  With  him  the  moral  sense  was  a 
capacity  of  perceiving  moral  qualities  in  action, 
which  excite  what  he  ealled  ideas  of  those  qualities, 
in  the  same  manner  as  external  things  give  us  not 
merely  pain  or  pleasure,  but  notions  or  ideas  of  hard 
ness,  form,  and  colour.  We  agree  with  Dr  Brown 
in  considering  this  a great  error;  a moral  sense  con- 
sidered strictly  and  truly  a sense,  as  much  so  as  any 
of  those  which  are  the  source  of  our  direct  external 
perceptions,  and  not  a state  or  act  of  the  understand- 
ing, seems  a purely  fanciful  hj’pothesis.  The  an- 
cient doctrine,  that  virtue  consists  in  benevolence, 
was  supported  by  Hutcheson  with  much  acuteness ; 
but  when  he  asserts  that  even  the  approbation  of 
our  own  conscience  diminishes  the  merit  of  a bene- 
volent action,  we  instinctively  reject  his  theory  as 
unnatural  and  visionary.  On  account  of  these  para- 
doxes, Sir  James  Mackintosh  charges  Hutcheson 
with  confounding  the  theory  of  moral  sentiments 
■with  the  criterion  of  moral  actions,  but  bears  testi- 
mony to  the  ingenuity  of  his  views,  and  the  elegant 
simplicity  of  his  language. 

DAVID  HUME. 

The  system  of  Idealism,  promulgated  by  Berke- 
ley and  tiie  writings  of  Hutcheson,  led  to  the  first 
literary  production  of  David  Hume — his  Treatise 
on  Human  A^oturc,  published  in  1738.  The  leading 
doctrine  of  Hume  is,  that  all  the  objects  of  our 
knowledge  are  divided  in  two  classes — impressions 


and  ideas.  From  the  structnre  of  our  minds  he  con-  ’ 
tended  that  we  must  for  ever  dwell  in  ignorance;  and  1 
thus,  ‘ by  perplexing  the  relations  of  cause  and  effect,  I 
he  boldly  aimed  to  introduce  a universal  scepticism,  j 
and  to  pour  a more  than  Egyptian  darkness  into  the  j 
whole  region  of  morals.’  The  ‘ Treatise  on  Human  I 
Nature’  was  afterwards  re-cast  and  re-published  I 
under  the  title  of  An  Inquiry  concerning  the  Human  \ 
Understanding ; but  it  still  failed  to  attract  attention.  I 
He  was  now,  however,  known  as  a philosophical  ! 
writer  by  his  Bssays,  Moral,  Political,  and  Literary,  I 
published  in  1742  ; a miscellany  of  thoughts  at  once 
original,  and  calculated  for  popularity.  The  other 
metaphysical  works  of  Hume  are,  an  Inquiry  con- 
cerning the  Principles  of  Morals,  the  Natural  History  I 
of  Religion,  and  Dialogues  on  Natural  Religion,  which  j 
were  not  published  till  after  his  death.  The  moral 
system  of  Hume,  that  the  virtue  of  actions  depends  | 
wholly  upon  their  utility,  has  been  often  combated,  j 
and  is  generally  held  to  be  successfully  refuted  by 
Brown.  In  his  own  day.  Dr  Adam  Smith  thus  i 
ridiculed  the  doctrine.  ‘ It  seems  impossible,’  he 
says,  ‘ that  the  approbation  of  virtue  should  be  a I 
sentiment  of  the  same  kind  with  that  by  which  we  I 
approve  of  a convenient  and  well-contrived  build-  | 
ing ; or  that  we  should  have  no  other  reason  for  i 
praising  a m.an  than  for  that  for  which  we  commend 
a chest  of  drawers  1’  Mr  Hume’s  theory  as  to 
miracles,  that  there  was  more  probability  in  the 
error  or  bad  faith  of  the  reporter  than  in  any  in- 
terference with  the  ordinary  laws  of  nature,  which 
the  observations  of  scientific  men  show  to  be  un- 
SAverving,  was  met,  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the 
public,  by  the  able  disquisition  of  Dr  George  Camp- 
bell, whose  leading  argument  in  reply  ivas,  that  we 
have  equally  to  trust  to  human  testimony  for  an 
account  of  those  laws,  as  for  a history  of  the  trans- 
actions which  are  considered  to  be  an  exception 
from  them.  In  drawing  his  metaphysical  theories 
and  distinctions,  Hume  seems  to  have  been  unmoved 
by  any  consideration  of  consequences.  He  saiv  that 
they  led  to  universal  scepticism — ‘to  doubts  that 
would  not  only  shake  all  inductive  science  to  pieces, 
but  would  put  a stop  to  the  whole  business  of  life’ — 
to  the  absurd  contradiction  in  terms,  ‘ a belief  that  j 
there  can  be  no  belief’ — but  his  love  of  theory  and  i 
paradox,  his  philosophical  acuteness  and  subtlety,  \ 
involved  him  in  the  maze  of  scepticism,  and  he  was 
content  to  be  for  ever  in  doubt.  It  is  at  the  same 
time  to  be  admitted,  in  favour  of  this  remarkable  man, 
that  a genuine  love  of  letters  and  of  philosophy,* 
and  an  honourable  desire  of  distinction  in  these 
walks— which  had  been  his  predominating  sentiment 
and  motive  from  his  earliest  years,  to  the  exclusion 
of  more  vulgar  though  dazzling  ambitions — had  pro- 
bably a large  concern  in  misleading  him.  In  matters  ! 
strictly  philosophical,  his  thoughts  ivere  original  | 
and  profound,  and  to  him  it  might  not  be  difficult  to  j 
trace  the  origin  of  several  ideas  ivhich  have  since 
been  more  fully  elaborated,  and  exercised  no  small  i 
influence  on  human  affairs.  i 

I 

[Ore  Delicacy  of  Taste."] 

[From  Hume’s  ‘ Essays.'] 

Nothing  is  so  improving  to  the  temper  as  the  study 
of  the  beauties  either  of  poetry,  eloquence,  music,  or 
painting.  They  give  a certain  elegance  of  sentiment  ! 
to  which  the  rest  of  mankind  are  strangers.  The 

* Of  this  ruling  passion  of  Hume  we  have  the  following  out- 
burst in  his  account  of  the  reign  of  James  I. : — ‘ Such  a supo-  ! 
riority  do  the  pursuits  of  literature  possess  above  every  other  | ^ 
occupation,  that  even  he  who  attains  but  a mediocrity  in  them,  ' J 
merits  the  pre-eminence  above  those  that  excel  the  most  in  the  i . 
common  and  vulgar  professions.’ 


202 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DAVID  IIUMK. 


METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 


emotions  which  they  excite  are  soft  ami  tender.  They 
draw  off  the  inii.d  from  the  hurry  of  business  and  in- 
terest ; cherish  reflection  ; dispose  to  tranquillity  ; and 
produce  an  agreeable  melancholy,  which,  of  all  dispo- 
sitions of  the  mind,  is  the  best  suited  to  love  and 
Irltndship.  In  the  second  place,  a delicacy  of  taste 
is  favourable  to  love  and  friendship,  by  confining  our 
choice  to  few  people,  and  making  us  indifferent  to  the 
company  and  conversation  of  the  greater  part  of  men. 
You  will  seldqm  find  that  mere  men  of  the  world, 
whatever  strong  sense  they  may  be  endowed  with,  are 
lery  nice  in  distinguishing  characters,  or  in  marking 
(hose  insensible  differences  and  gradations  which  make 
one  man  preferable  to  another.  Any  one  that  has 
competent  sen.se  is  sufficient  for  their  entertain- 
ment : they  talk  to  him  of  their  pleasure  and  aflairs 
with  the  same  frankness  that  they  would  to  another  ; 
and  finding  many  who  are  fit  to  supply  his  place,  they 
never  feel  any  vacancy  or  want  in  his  absence.  But, 
to  make  use  of  the  allusion  of  a celebrated  French 
author,  the  judgment  may  be  compared  to  a clock  or 
watch  where  the  most  ordinary  machine  is  sufficient 
to  tell  the  hours,  but  the  most  elaborate  alone  can 
point  out  the  minutes  and  seconds,  and  distinguish 
the  smallest  differences  of  time.  One  that  has  well 
digested  his  knowledge,  both  of  books  and  men,  has 
little  enjoyment  but  in  the  company  of  a few  select 
companions.  He  feels  too  sensibly  how  much  all  the 
rest  of  mankind  fall  short  of  the  notions  which  he  has 
entertained ; and  his  affections  being  thus  confined 
within  a narrow  circle,  no  wonder  he  carries  them 
further  than  if  they  were  more  general  and  undistin- 
guished. The  gaiety  and  frolic  of  a bottle  companion 
improves  with  him  into  a solid  friendship  ; and  the 
ardours  of  a youthful  appetite  become  an  elegant 
passion. 

[On  Simplicity  and  R^nement.'] 

[From  the  same.] 

It  is  a certain  rule  that  wit  and  passion  are  entirely 
incompatible.  When  the  affections  are  moved,  there 
is  no  place  for  the  imagination.  The  mind  of  man 
being  naturally  limited,  it  is  impossible  that  all  its 
faculties  can  operate  at  once ; and  the  more  any  one 
predominates,  the  less  room  is  there  for  the  others  to 
exert  their  vigour.  For  this  reason  a greater  degree 
of  simplicity  is  required  in  all  compositions  where 
men,  and  actions,  and  passions  are  painted,  than  in 
such  as  consist  of  reflections  and  observations.  And, 
as  the  former  species  of  writing  is  the  more  engaging 
and  beautiful,  one  may  safely,  upon  this  account,  give 
the  jireference  to  the  extreme  of  simplicity  above  that 
of  refinement. 

'We  may  also  observe,  that  those  compositions 
which  we  read  the  oftenest,  and  which  every  man  of 
taste  has  got  by  heart,  have  the  recommendation  of 
simplicity,  and  have  nothing  surprising  in  the  thought 
when  divested  of  that  elegance  of  expression  and  har- 
mony of  numbers  with  which  it  is  clothed.  If  the  merit 
of  the  composition  lie  in  a point  of  wit,  it  may  strike 
at  first ; but  the  mind  anticipates  the  thought  in  the 
second  perusal,  and  is  no  longer  affected  by  it.  When 
1 read  an  epigram  of  Martial,  the  first  line  recalls  the 
whole  ; and  I have  no  pleasure  in  repeating  to  myself 
what  1 know  already.  But  each  line,  each  word  in 
Catullus,  has  its  merit ; and  I am  never  tired  with  the 
perusal  of  him.  It  is  sufficient  to  run  over  Cowley 
once  ; but  Parnell,  after  the  fiftieth  reading,  is  as  fresh 
as  the  first.  Besides,  it  is  with  books  as  with  women, 
where  a certain  plainness  of  manner  and  of  dress  is 
more  engaging  than  that  glare  of  paint,  and  airs,  and 
apparel,  which  may  dazzle  the  eye  but  reaches  not  the 
affections.  Terence  is  a modest  and  bashful  beauty, 
to  whom  we  grant  ever3'thing,  because  he  assumes 


nothing ; and  whose  purity  and  nature  make  a durable 
though  not  a violent  impressicL  cn  us. 

[Estimate  of  the  Effects  of  Luxui'y.'\ 

[From  the  same.] 

Since  luxury  may  be  considered  either  as  innocent 
or  blameable,  one  may  be  surprised  at  those  prepos- 
terous opinions  which  have  been  entertained  concern- 
ing it;  while  men  of  libertine  princi[iles  bestow  praises 
even  on  vicious  luxury,  and  represent  it  as  highly 
advantageous  to  society  ; and,  on  the  other  hand,  men 
of  severe  morals  blame  even  the  most  innocent  luxury, 
.and  represent  it  as  the  source  of  all  the  corruptions, 
disorders,  and  factions  incident  to  civil  government. 
We  shall  here  endeavour  to  correct  both  these  ex- 
tremes, by  proving,  first,  that  the  ages  of  refinement  are 
both  the  happiest  and  most  virtuous  ; secondly,  that 
wherever  luxury  ceases  to  be  innocent,  it  also  ceases 
to  be  beneficial ; and  when  carried  a degree  too  far, 
is  a quality  pernicious,  though  perhaps  not  the  most 
pernicious,  to  political  society. 

To  prove  the  first  point,  we  need  but  consider  the 
effects  of  refinement  both  on  private  and  on  public 
life.  Human  happiness,  according  to  the  most  re- 
ceived notions,  seems  to  consist  in  three  ingredients ; 
action,  pleasure,  and  indolence.  And  though  these 
ingredients  ought  to  be  mixed  in  different  proportions, 
according  to  the  particular  disposition  of  the  person, 
yet  no  one  ingredient  can  be  entirely  wanting  without 
destroying  in  some  measure  the  relish  of  the  whole 
composition.  Indolence  or  repose,  indeed,  seems  not 
of  itself  to  contribute  much  to  our  enjoyment,  but, 
like  sleep,  is  requisite  as  an  indulgence  to  the  w'eak- 
ness  of  human  nature,  which  cannot  support  an  unin- 
terrupted course  of  business  or  pleasure.  That  quick 
march  of  the  spirits  which  takes  a man  from  himself, 
and  chiefly  gives  satisfaction,  does  in  the  end  exhaust 
the  mind,  and  requires  some  intervals  of  repose,  which, 
though  agreeable  for  a moment,  yet,  if  prolonged, 
beget  a languor  and  lethargy  that  destroy  all  enjoy- 
ment. Education,  custom,  and  example,  have  a 
mighty  influence  in  turning  the  mind  to  any  of  these 
pursuits ; and  it  must  be  owned  that,  where  they 
promote  a relish  for  action  and  pleasure,  they  are  so 
far  favourable  to  human  happiness.  In  times  when  in- 
dustry and  the  arts  flourish,  men  are  kept  in  perpetual 
occupation,  and  enjoy  as  their  reward  the  occupation 
itself,  as  well  as  those  pleasures  which  are  the  fruit  of 
their  labour.  The  mind  acquires  new  vigour,  en- 
larges its  powers  and  faculties,  and,  by  an  assiduity 
in  honest  industry,  both  satisfies  its  natural  appetites 
and  prevents  the  growth  of  unnatural  ones,  which 
commonly  spring  up  when  nourished  by  ease  and 
idleness.  Banish  those  arts  from  society,  you  deprive 
men  both  of  action  and  of  pleasure ; and  leaving 
nothing  but  indolence  in  their  place,  you  even  destroy 
the  relish  of  indolence,  which  never  is  agreeable  but 
when  it  succeeds  to  labour,  and  recruits  tne  spirits 
exhausted  by  too  much  application  and  fatigue. 

Another  advantage  of  industry  and  of  refinements 
in  the  mechanical  arts  i.s,  that  they  commonly  produce 
some  refinements  in  the  liberal;  nor  can  one  be  carried 
to  perfection  without  being  accompanied  in  some 
degree  with  the  other.  The  same  age  which  produces 
great  philosophers  and  politicians,  renowned  generals 
and  poets,  usually  abounds  with  skilful  weavers  and 
ship-carpenters.  We  cannot  reasonably  expect  that 
a piece  of  w'oollen  cloth  will  be  brought  to  perfection 
in  a nation  which  is  ignorant  of  astronomy,  or  where 
ethics  are  neglected.  The  spirit  of  the  age  affects  all 
the  arts,  and  the  minds  of  men  being  once  roused 
from  their  lethargy  and  put  into  a fermentation,  turn 
themselves  on  all  sides,  and  carry  improvements  into 
every  art  and  science.  Profound  ignorance  is  totally 
banished,  and  men  enjoy  the  privilege  of  ration^ 


FROM  1727  CYCLOP^IDIA  OF  to  1780. 


creatures,  to  think  as  well  as  to  act,  to  cultivate  the 
pleasures  of  the  iiiiiul  as  well  as  those  of  the  body. 

The  more  these  refined  arts  advance,  the  more 
sociable  men  become.  Nor  is  it  jiossihle,  that  when 
enriched  with  science,  and  possessed  of  a fund  of  con- 
versation, they  should  be  contented  to  remain  in  soli- 
tude, or  live  with  their  fellow-citizens  in  that  distant 
manner  which  is  peculiar  to  ignorant  and  barbarous 
nations.  They  flock  into  cities ; love  to  receive  and 
communicate  knowledge;  to  .show  their  wit  or  their 
breeding ; their  taste  in  conversation  or  living,  in 
clothes  or  furniture.  Curiosity  allures  the  wi.se; 
vanity  the  foolish  ; and  pleasure  both.  Particular 
clubs  and  societies  are  everywhere  formed ; both 
sexes  meet  in  an  easy  and  sociable  manner ; and  the 
tempers  of  men,  as  well  as  their  behaviour,  refine 
apace.  So  that,  beside  the  improvements  which  they 
receive  from  knowledge  and  the  liberal  arts,  it  is  im- 
pos.sible  but  they  must  feel  an  increase  of  humanity, 
from  the  very  habit  of  conversing  together,  and  con- 
tributing to  each  other’s  pleasure  and  entertainment. 
Thus  industry,  knowledge,  and  humanity,  are  linked 
together  by  an  indissoluble  chain,  and  are  found,  from 
experience  as  well  as  reason,  to  be  peculiar  to  the 
more  iKjli.-^hed,  and  what  are  commonly  denominated 
the  more  luxurious  ages. 

[After  some  farther  arguments]  Knowledge  in  the 
arts  of  government  naturally  begets  mildness  and 
moderation,  by  instructing  men  in  the  advantages  of 
humane  maxims  above  rigour  and  severity,  which 
drive  subjects  into  rebellion,  and  make  the  return  to 
submission  impracticable,  by  cutting  off  all  hopes  of 
pardon.  Whei;  the  tempers  of  men  are  softened,  as 
well  as  their  knowledge  improved,  this  humanity 
appears  still  more  conspicuous,  and  is  the  chief  cha- 
racteristic which  distinguishes  a civilised  age  from 
times  of  barbarity  and  ignorance.  Factions  are  then 
less  inveterate,  revolutions  less  tragical,  authority 
less  severe,  and  seditions  less  frequent.  Even  foreign 
wars  abate  of  their  cruelty ; and  after  the  field  of 
battle,  where  honour  and  interest  steel  men  against 
compa.ssion  as  well  as  fear,  the  combatants  divest 
themselves  of  the  brute,  and  resume  the  man. 

Nor  need  we  fear  that  men,  by  losing  their  ferocity, 
will  lose  their  martial  spirit,  or  become  less  un- 
daunted and  vigorous  in  defence  of  their  country  or 
their  libei'ty.  The  arts  have  no  such  elfect  in  ener- 
vating either  the  mind  or  body.  On  the  contrary, 
industry,  their  inseparable  attendant,  adds  new  force 
to  both.  And  if  anger,  w'hich  is  said  to  be  the  whet- 
stone of  courage,  loses  somew'hat  of  its  asperity  by 
politene.ss  and  refinement,  a sense  of  honour,  which  is 
a stronger,  more  constant,  and  more  governable  prin- 
ciple, acquires  fresh  vigour  by  that  elevation  of  genius 
which  arises  from  knowledge  and  a good  education. 
Add  to  this,  that  courage  can  neither  have  any  dura- 
tion, nor  be  of  any  u.se,  when  not  accompanied  with 
di.scipliue  and  martial  skill,  which  are  seldom  found 
among  a barbarous  people.  The  ancients  remarked 
that  Datames  was  the  only  barbarian  that  ever  knew 
the  art  of  war.  And  Pyrrhus,  seeing  the  Romans 
I marshal  their  army  with  some  art  and  skill,  said  with 
surprise.  These  barbarians  have  nothing  barbarous  in 
their  discipline ! It  is  observable  that,  as  the  old 
Romans,  by  applying  themselves  solely  to  war,  were 
almost  the  only  uncivilised  people  that  ever  possessed 
military  discipline,  so  the  modem  Italians  are  the 
only  civilised  people,  among  Europeans,  that  ever 
wanted  courage  and  a martial  spirit.  Those  who 
would  ascribe  this  effeminacy  of  the  Italians  to 
their  luxury,  or  politeness,  or  application  to  the  art.s, 
need  but  consider  the  French  and  English,  whose 
bravery  is  as  incontestable  as  their  love  for  the  arts 
and  their  assiduity  in  commerce.  The  Italian  his- 
torians give  us  a more  satisfactory  reason  for  this 
degeneracy  of  their  countrymen.  They  show  us  how 


the  sword  wa.s  drojiiicd  at  once  by  all  the  Italian 
sovereigns  ; while  the  V'enctian  aristocracy  was  jealous 
of  its  subjects,  the  Florentine  democracy  a])plied 
itself  entirely  to  commerce ; Rome  was  governed  by 
priests,  and  Naples  by  women.  War  then  hecame 
the  business  of  soldiers  of  fortune,  who  s]>ared  one 
another,  and,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  worhl,  could 
engage  a whole  day  in  what  they  called  a battle,  and 
return  at  night  to  their  camp  without  the  least  blood- 
shed. 

What  has  chiefly  induced  severe  moralists  to  de- 
claim against  refinement  in  the  arts,  is  the  example 
of  ancient  Rome,  which,  joining  to  its  poverty  and 
rusticity  virtue  and  public  spirit,  rose  to  such  a sur- 
prising height  of  grandeur  and  liberty  ; but,  having 
learned  from  its  conquered  jirovinccs  the  Asiatic 
luxury,  fell  into  every  kind  of  corruj)tion  ; wdienca 
arose  sedition  and  civil  wars,  attended  at  last  with 
the  total  loss  of  liberty.  All  the  Latin  classics  whom 
we  peruse  in  our  infancy  are  full  of  these  sentiments 
and  universally  ascribe  the  ruin  of  their  state  to  the 
arts  and  riches  imported  from  the  East ; insomuch 
that  Sallust  represents  a taste  for  painting  as  a vice, 
no  le.S3  than  lewdne.ss  and  drinking.  And  so  popular 
were  these  sentiments  during  the  latter  ages  of  the 
republic,  that  this  author  abounds  in  praises  of  the 
old  rigid  Roman  virtue,  though  himself  the  most 
egregious  instance  of  modern  luxury  and  corruption  ; 
speaks  contemptuously  of  the  Grecian  eloquence, 
though  the  most  elegant  writer  in  the  world  ; nay, 
employs  preposterous  digre.ssions  and  declamations  to 
this  purpose,  though  a model  of  taste  and  correctne.ss. 

But  it  would  be  easy  to  prove  that  these  WTiters 
mistook  the  cause  of  the  disorders  in  the  Roman 
state,  and  ascribed  to  luxury  and  the  arts  what  really 
proceeded  from  an  ill-modelled  government,  and  the 
unlimited  extent  of  conquests.  Refinement  on  the 
pleasures  and  conveniences  of  life  has  no  natural 
tendency  to  beget  venality  and  corruption.  The 
value  which  all  men  put  upon  any  particular  plea- 
sure depends  on  comparison  and  experience  ; nor  is  a 
porter  less  greedy  of  money  which  he  spends  on  bacon 
and  brandy,  than  a courtier  who  purchases  champagne 
and  ortolans.  Riches  are  valuable  at  all  times,  and 
to  all  men,  because  they  always  purchase  pleasures 
such  as  men  are  accustomed  to  and  desire  : nor  can 
anything  restrain  or  regulate  the  love  of  money  but 
a sense  of  honour  and  virtue  ; which,  if  it  be  not 
nearly  equal  at  all  times,  will  naturally  abound  most 
in  ages  of  knowledge  and  refinement.  * * 

To  declaim  against  present  times,  and  magnify  t’ne 
virtue  of  remote  ancestors,  is  a propensity  almost  in- 
herent in  human  nature : and  as  the  sentiments  and 
opinions  of  civilised  ages  alone  are  transmitted  to 
posterity,  hence  it  is  that  we  meet  with  so  many 
severe  judgments  pronounced  against  luxury,  and 
even  science ; and  hence  it  is  that  at  present  we  give 
so  ready  an  assent  to  them.  But  the  fallacy  is  easily 
perceived  by  comparing  different  nations  that  are  con- 
temporaries ; where  w’e  both  judge  more  impartially, 
and  can  better  set  in  opposition  those  manners  with 
which  we  are  sufficiently  acquainted.  Treachery  and 
cruelty,  the  most  pernicious  and  most  odious  of  all 
vices,  seem  peculiar  to  uncivilised  ages,  and  by  the 
refined  Greeks  and  Romans  were  ascribed  to  all  the 
barbarous  nations  which  surrounded  them.  They 
might  justly,  therefore,  have  presumed  that  their  own 
ancestors,  so  highly  celebrated,  possessed  no  greater 
virtue,  and  were  as  much  inferior  to  their  posteidty  in 
honour  and  humanity  as  in  taste  and  science.  An 
ancient  Frank  or  Saxon  may  be  highly  extolled  : but 
I believe  every  man  would  think  his  life  or  fortune 
much  less  secure  in  the  hands  of  a Moor  or  Tartar 
than  those  of  a French  or  English  gentlemen,  the 
rank  of  men  the  most  civilised  in  the  m-  st  civilised 
nations. 

204 


METAPiiYsicAL  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURR  david  ntuR. 


We  eomc  now  to  the  second  position  which  we  pro- 
posed to  illustrate,  to  wit,  that  as  innocent  luxury 
or  a retinenient  in  the  arts  and  conveniences  of  life  is 
advantageous  to  the  public,  so  wherever  luxury  ceases 
to  be  innocent,  it  also  ceases  to  be  beneficial ; and 
when  carried  a degree  farther,  begins  to  be  a quality 
pernicious,  though  perhaps  not  the  most  pernicious,  to 
political  society. 

Let  us  consider  what  we  call  vicious  luxury.  No 
gratification,  however  sensual,  can  of  itself  be  esteemed 
vicious.  A gratification  is  only  vicious  when  it  en- 
grosses all  a man’s  expense,  and  leaves  no  ability  for 
such  acts  of  duty  and  generosity  as  are  required  by 
his  situation  and  fortune.  Suppose  that  he  correct 
the  vice,  and  employ  part  of  his  expense  in  the  edu- 
cation of  his  children,  in  the  support  of  his  friends, 
and  in  relieving  the  poor,  would  any  prejudice  result 
to  society ! On  the  contrary,  the  same  consumption 
would  arise ; and  that  labour  which  at  present  is 
employed  only  in  producing  a slender  gratification  to 
one  man,  would  relieve  the  necessitous,  and  bestow 
satisfaction  on  hundreds.  The  same  care  and  toil  that 
raise  a dish  of  pease  at  Christmas,  would  give  bread 
to  a whole  family  during  six  months.  To  say  that 
without  a vicious  luxury  the  labour  would  not  have 
been  employed  at  all,  is  only  to  say  that  there  is  some 
other  defect  in  human  nature,  such  as  indolence, 
selfishness,  inattention  to  others,  for  which  luxury 
in  some  mea.sure  provides  a remedy ; as  one  poison 
may  be  an  antidote  to  another.  But  virtue,  like 
wholesome  food,  is  better  than  poisons,  however  cor- 
rected. 

Suppose  the  same  number  of  men  that  are  at  pre- 
sent in  Great  Britain  with  the  same  soil  and  climate  ; 
I ask,  is  it  not  possible  for  them  to  be  happier,  by  the 
most  perfect  way  of  life  that  can  be  imagined,  and  by 
the  greatest  reformation  that  omnipotence  itself  could 
work  in  their  temper  and  disposition  ? To  assert  that 
they  cannot,  appears  evidently  ridiculous.  As  the 
land  is  able  to  maintain  more  than  all  its  present  in- 
habitants, they  could  never,  in  such  a Utopian  state, 
feel  any  other  ills  than  those  which  arise  from  bodily 
sickness,  and  these  are  not  the  half  of  human  miseries. 
All  other  ills  spring  from  some  vice,  either  in  our- 
selves or  others ; and  even  many  of  our  diseases  pro- 
ceed from  the  same  origin.  Remove  the  vices,  and 
the  ills  follow.  You  must  only  take  care  to  remove 
all  the  vices.  If  you  remove  part,  you  may  render 
the  matter  worse.  By  banishing  vicious  luxury, 
without  curing  sloth  and  an  indifference  to  others, 
you  only  diminish  industry  in  the  state,  and  add  no- 
thing to  men’s  charity  or  their  generosity.  Let  us, 
therefore,  rest  contented  with  asserting  that  two  op- 
posite vices  in  a state  may  be  more  advantageous  than 
cither  of  them  alone  ; but  let  us  never  pronounce  vice 
in  itself  advantageous.  Is  it  not  very  inconsistent  for 
an  author  to  assert  in  one  page  that  moral  distinctions 
are  inventions  of  politicians  for  public  interest,  and 
in  the  next  page  maintain  that  vice  is  advantageous 
to  the  public  ? And  indeed  it  seems,  upon  any 
system  of  morality,  little  less  than  ^ contradiction  in 
terms  to  talk  of  a vice  which  is  in  general  beneficial 
to  society. 

1 thought  this  reasoning  necessary,  in  order  to  give 
some  light  to  a philosophical  question  which  has  been 
much  disputed  in  England.  I call  it  a philosophical 
question,  not  a political  one  ; for  whatever  may  be 
the  consequence  of  such  a miraculous  transformation 
of  mankind  as  would  endow  them  with  every  species 
of  virtue,  and  free  them  from  every  species  of  vice, 
this  concerns  not  the  magistrate  who  aims  only  at 
possibilities.  He  cannot  cure  every  vice  by  substi- 
tuting a virtue  in  its  place.  Very  often  he  can  only 
cure  one  vice  by  another,  and  in  that  case  he  ought 
to  prefer  what  is  least  pernicious  to  society.  Luxury, 
when  excessive,  is  the  source  of  many  ills,  but  is  in 


general  preferable  to  sloth  and  idleness,  which  would 
commonly  succeed  in  its  place,  and  arc  more  hurtful 
both  to  private  persons  and  to  the  public.  When 
sloth  reigirs,  a mean  uncultivated  way  of  life  prevails 
amongst  individuals,  without  society,  without  enjoy- 
ment. And  if  the  sovereign,  in  such  a situation, 
demands  the  service  of  his  subjects,  the  labour  of  the 
state  suffices  only  to  furnish  the  necessaries  of  life  to 
the  labourers,  and  can  afford  nothing  to  those  who 
are  employed  in  the  public  service. 

Of  the  Middle  Station  of  Life. 

The  moral  of  the  following  fable  will  easily  discover 
itself  without  my  explaining  it.  One  rivulet  meet- 
ing another,  with  whom  he  had  been  long  united  in 
strictest  amity,  with  noisy  haughtine.ss  and  disdain 
thus  bespoke  him: — ‘ What, brother!  .still  in  the  same 
state  1 Still  low  and  creeping  1 Are  you  not  ashamed 
when  you  behold  me,  who,  though  lately  in  a like 
condition  with  you,  am  now  become  a great  river, 
and  shall  shortly  be  able  to  rival  the  Danube  or  the 
Rhine,  provided  those  friendly  rains  continue  which 
have  favoured  my  banks,  but  neglected  yours  ?’  ‘ Very 
true,’  replies  the  humble  rivulet,  ‘you  are  now,  in- 
deed, swollen  to  a great  size  ; but  methinks  you  are 
become  withal  somewhat  turbulent  and  muddy.  I 
am  contented  with  my  low  condition  and  my  purity.’ 

Instead  of  commenting  upon  this  fable,  1 shall  take 
occasion  from  it  to  compare  the  different  stations  of 
life,  and  to  persuade  such  of  my  readers  as  are  placed 
in  the  middle  station  to  be  satisfied  with  it,  as  the 
most  eligible  of  all  others.  The.se  form  the  most 
numerous  rank  of  men  that  can  be  supposed  suscep- 
tible of  philosophy,  and  therefore  all  di.scour.ses  of 
morality  ought  principally  to  be  addressed  to  them. 
The  great  are  too  much  immersed  in  pleasure,  and 
the  poor  too  much  occupied  in  providing  for  the 
necessities  of  life,  to  hearken  to  the  calm  voice  of 
reason.  The  middle  station,  as  it  is  most  happy  in 
many  respects,  so  particularly  in  this,  that  a man 
placed  in  it  can,  with  the  greatest  leisure,  consider 
his  own  happiness,  and  reap  a new  enjoyment,  from 
comparing  his  situation  with  that  of  persons  above  or 
below  him. 

Agur’s  prayer  is  sufficiently  noted — ‘ Two  things 
have  I required  of  thee ; deny  me  them  not  before  I 
die:  remove  far  from  me  vanity  and  lies;  give  me 
neither  poverty  nor  riches ; feed  me  with  food  con- 
venient for  me,  lest  I be  full  and  deny  thee  and  say 
who  is  the  Lord  ? or  lest  I be  poor,  and  steal,  and 
take  the  name  of  my  God  in  vain.’  The  middle  sta- 
tion is  here  justly  recommended,  as  affording  the 
fullest  security  for  virtue ; and  I may  also  add,  that 
it  gives  opportunity  for  the  most  ample  exercise  of 
it,  and  furnishes  employment  for  every  good  quality 
which  we  can  possibly  be  possessed  of.  Those  who  are 
placed  among  the  lower  ranks  of  men  have  little  oppor- 
tunity of  exerting  any  other  virtue  besides  those  of 
patience,  resignation,  industry,  and  integrity.  Those 
who  are  advanced  into  the  higher  stations,  have  full 
employment  for  their  generosity,  humanity,  affability, 
and  charity.  When  a man  lies  betwdxt  these  two 
extremes,  he  can  exert  the  former  virtues  towards  his 
superiors,  and  the  latter  towards  his  inferiors.  Every 
moral  quality  which  the  human  soul  is  susceptible 
of,  may  have  its  turn,  and  be  called  up  to  action  ; 
and  a man  may,  after  this  manner,  be  much  more 
certain  of  his  progress  in  virtue,  than  where  his  good 
qualities  lie  dormant  and  wdthout  employment. 

But  there  is  another  virtue  that  seems  principally 
to  lie  among  equals,  and  is,  for  that  reason,  chiefly 
calculated  for  the  middle  station  of  life.  This  virtue 
is  friendship.  I believe  most  men  of  generous  tem- 
pers are  apt  to  envy  the  great,  when  they  consider  the. 
I large  opportunities  such  persons  have  of  doing  good 


FROM  1727  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1700. 


to  their  fellow-crcaturea,  and  of  acquiring  the  friend- 
ship and  cateem  of  men  of  merit.  They  make  no 
advances  in  vain,  and  are  not  obliged  to  associate 
with  those  whom  they  have  little  kindness  for,  like 
people  of  inferior  stations,  who  are  subject  to  have 
tlieir  ])rolTers  of  friendsliip  rejected  even  where  they 
would  be  most  fond  of  j)lacing  their  affections.  Hut 
though  the  great  have  more  facility  in  acquiring 
friendships,  they  cannot  be  so  certain  of  the  sincerity 
of  them  as  men  of  a lower  rank,  since  the  favours 
they  bestow  may  acquire  them  flattery,  instead  of 
good  will  and  kindness.  It  has  been  very  judiciously 
remarked,  that  we  attach  ourselves  more  by  the  ser- 
vices we  perform  than  by  those  we  receive,  and  that 
a man  is  in  danger  of  losing  his  friends  by  obliging 
them  too  far.  1 should  therefore  choose  to  lie  in 
the  middle  way,  and  to  have  my  commerce  with  my 
friend  varied  both  by  obligations  given  and  received. 
I have  too  much  jiride  to  be  willing  that  all  the 
obligations  should  lie  on  my  side,  and  should  be 
afraid  that,  if  they  all  lay  on  his,  he  would  also  have 
too  much  jiride  to  be  entirely  easy  under  them,  or 
have  a perfect  complacency  in  my  company. 

We  may  also  remark  of  the  middle  station  of  life, 
th.at  it  is  more  favourable  to  the  acquiring  of  wisdom 
and  ability,  as  well  as  of  virtue,  and  that  a man  so 
situate  h.as  a better  chance  for  attaining  a knowledge 
both  of  men  and  things,  than  those  of  a more  elevated 
station,  lie  enters  with  more  familiarity  into  human 
life,  and  everything  appears  in  its  natural  colours  be- 
fore him  : he  has  more  leisure  to  form  observations  ; 
and  has,  besides,  the  motive  of  ambition  to  push  him 
on  in  his  attainments,  being  certain  that  he  can  never 
rise  to  any  distinction  or  eminence  in  the  world  with- 
out his  own  industry.  And  here  I cannot  forbear 
communicating  a remark,  which  may  appear  some- 
what extraordinary,  namely,  that  it  is  wisely  ordained 
by  Providence  that  the  middle,  station  should  be  the 
most  favourable  to  the  improving  our  natural  abilities, 
since  there  is  really  more  capiacity  requhsite  to  per- 
form the  duties  of  that  station,  than  is  requisite  to 
act  in  the  higher  spheres  of  life.  There  are  more 
natural  parts,  and  a stronger  genius  requisite  to  make 
a good  lawyer  or  physician,  than  to  make  a great 
monarch.  For,  let  us  take  any  race  or  succession  of 
kings,  where  birth  alone  gives  a title  to  the  cro\vn  ; 
the  English  kings,  for  instance,  who  have  not  been 
esteemed  the  most  shining  in  history.  From  the  Con- 
quest to  the  succession  of  his  present  majesty,  we  may 
reckon  twenty-eight  sovereigns,  omitting  those  who 
died  minors.  Of  these,  eight  are  esteemed  princes  of 
great  capacity,  namely,  the  Conqueror,  Harry  II., 
Edward  I.,  Edwanl  III.,  Harry  V.  and  VII.,  Eliza- 
beth, and  the  late  King  William.  Now,  I believe 
every  one  will  allow,  that,  in  the  common  run  of 
mankind,  there  are  not  eight  out  of  twenty-eight 
who  are  fitted  by  nature  to  make  a figure  either  on 
the  bench  or  at  the  bar.  Since  Charles  VIE,  ten 
monarchs  have  reigned  in  France,  omitting  Francis 
II.  Five  of  those  have  been  esteemed  princes  of 
capacity,  namely,  Louis  XL,  XII.,  and  XIV.,  Francis 
I.,  and  Harry  IV.  In  short,  the  governing  of  man- 
kind well  requires  a great  deal  of  virtue,  justice,  and 
humanity,  but  not  a surprising  capacity.  A certain 
Pope,  whose  name  I have  forgot,  used  to  say,  ‘ Let  us 
divert  ourselves,  my  friends  ; the  world  governs  itself.’ 
There  are,  indeed,  some  critical  times,  such  as  those 
in  which  Harry  IV.  lived,  that  call  for  the  utmost 
vigour ; and  a less  courage  and  capacity  than  what 
appeared  in  that  great  monarch  must  have  sunk  un- 
der the  weight.  Hut  such  circumstances  are  rare  ; 
and  even  then  fortune  does  at  least  one  half  of  the 
business. 

Since  the  common  professions,  such  as  law  or  phy- 
sic, require  equal,  if  not  superior  capacity,  to  what  are 
everted  in  the  higher  spheres  of  life,  it  is  evident  that 


the  soul  must  be  made  of  still  a finer  mould,  to  shine 
in  philosophy  or  poetry,  or  in  any  of  the  higher  parts 
of  learning.  Courage  and  resolution  are  chiefly  re- 
quisite in  a comrnsMider,  justice  and  humanity  in  a 
statesman,  but  genius  and  capacity  in  a scholar. 
Great  generals  and  great  politicians  arc  found  in  all 
ages  and  countries  of  the  world,  and  frequently  start 
up  at  once,  even  amongst  the  greatest  barbarians. 
Sweden  was  sunk  in  ignorance  ivhen  it  jiroduced 
Gustavus  Ericson  and  (iustavus  Adolplius ; Muscovy 
when  the  Czar  appeared  ; and  jierhaps  Carthage  when 
it  gave  birth  to  Hannibal.  Hut  England  must  pass 
through  a long  gradation  of  its  Spensers,  Johnsons, 
Wallers,  Drydens,  before  it  arise  at  an  Addi.son  or  a 
Pope.  A happy  talent  for  the  liberal  arts  and 
sciences  is  a kind  of  prodigy  among  men.  Nature 
must  afford  the  richest  genius  that  comes  from  her 
hands  ; education  and  example  must  cultivate  it  from 
the  earliest  infancy;  and  inilustry  must  concur  to 
carry  it  to  any  degree  of  perfection.  No  man  needs 
be  suqirised  to  see  Kouli-Kan  among  the  Persians  ; 
but  Homer,  in  so  early  an  age  among  the  Greeks,  is 
certainly  matter  of  the  highest  wonder. 

A man  cannot  show  a genius  for  war  who  is  not  so 
fortunate  as  to  be  trusted  with  command  ; and  it  sel- 
dom happens,  in  any  state  or  kingdom,  that  several 
at  once  are  placed  in  that  situation.  How  many 
Marlboroughs  were  there  in  the  confederate  army,  who 
never  rose  so  much  as  to  the  command  of  a regiment  1 
But  I am  persuaded  there  has  been  but  one  Mil- 
ton  in  England  within  these  hundred  year.s,  because 
every  one  may  exert  the  talents  of  poetry  who  is  pos- 
sessed of  them  ; and  no  one  could  exert  them  under 
greater  disadvantages  than  that  divine  poet.  If  no 
man  were  allowed  to  write  verses  but  the  person  who 
was  beforehand  named  to  be  laureate,  could  we  expect 
a poet  in  ten  thousand  years  ? 

Were  we  to  distinguish  the  ranks  of  men  by  their 
genius  and  capacity,  more  than  by  their  virtue  and 
usefulness  to  the  public,  great  philosophers  would  cer- 
tainly challenge  the  first  rank,  and  must  be  placed  at 
the  top  of  mankind.  So  rare  is  this  character,  that 
perhaps  there  has  not  as  yet  been  above  two  in  the 
world  who  can  lay  a just  claim  to  it.  At  least  Gali- 
leo and  Newton  seem  to  me  so  far  to  excel  all  the 
rest,  that  1 cannot  admit  any  other  into  the  same 
class  with  them. 

Great  poets  may  challenge  the  second  place ; and 
this  species  of  genius,  though  rare,  is  yet  much  more 
frequent  than  the  former.  Of  the  Greek  poets  that 
remain,  Homer  alone  seems  to  merit  this  character  : 
of  the  Romans,  Virgil,  Horace,  and  Lucretius  : of  the 
English,  Milton  and  Pope : Corneille,  Racine,  Boileau, 
and  Voltaire  of  the  F’rench:  and  Tasso  and  Ariosto 
of  the  Italians. 

Great  orators  and  historians  are  perhaps  more  rare 
than  great  poets ; but  as  the  opportunities  for  exert- 
ing the  talents  requisite  for  eloquence,  or  acquiring 
the  knowledge  requisite  for  writing  history,  depend  in 
some  measure  upon  fortune,  we  cannot  pronounce 
these  productionsjof  genius  to  be  more  extraordinary 
than  the  former. 

I should  now  return  from  this  digression,  and  show 
that  the  middle  station  of  life  is  more  favourable  to 
happiness,  as  well  as  to  virtue  and  wisdom  ; but  as 
the  arguments  that  prove  this  seem  pretty  obvious,  I 
shall  here  forbear  insisting  on  them. 

The  Hartleian  theory  at  this  time  found  ad- 
mirers and  followers  in  England.  Dr  David  Hart- 
ley, an  English  physician  (1705-17.57),  having  im- 
bibed from  Locke  the  principles  of  logic  and  meta- 
physics, and  from  a hint  of  Newton  the  doctrine 
that  there  were  vibrations  in  the  substance  of  the 
brain  that  might  throw  new  light  on  the  phenomena 
of  the  mind,  formed  a system  which  he  developed 


METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  ADAM  SMITH. 


in  Ills  eliibor.ite  work,  published  in  1749,  under  the 
title  of  Observations  on  Man,  his  Frame,  his  Duty, 
and  his  Expectations.  Hartley,  besides  his  theory  of 
the  vibrations  in  the  brain,  refers  all  the  operations 
of  the  intellect  to  the  association  of  ideas,  and  repre- 
sents that  association  as  reducible  to  the  single  law, 
that  ideas  which  enter  the  mind  at  the  same  time 
acquire  a tendency  to  call  up  each  other,  which  is 
in  direct  proportion  to  the  frequency  of  their  having 
entered  together.  His  theory  of  vibrations  has  a 
tendency  to  materialism,  but  was  not  designed  by  its 
ingcu'ous  author  to  produce  such  au  effect. 


DR  ADAM  SOTTH. 

Dr  Adam  Smith,  after  an  interval  of  a few  years, 
succeeded  to  Hutcheson  as  professor  of  moral  philo- 
sophy in  Glasgow,  and  not  only  inherited  his  love 
of  metaphysics,  but  adopted  some  of  his  theories, 
which  he  blended  with  his  own  views  of  moral 
science.  Smith  was  born  in  Kirkaldy  in  Fifeshire 
in  1723.  His  father  held  the  situation  of  comp- 
troller of  customs,  but  died  before  the  birth  of  his 


Dr  Adam  Smith. 


son.  At  Glasgow  university,  Smith  distinguished 
himself  by  his  acquirements,  and  obtained  a nomi- 
nation to  Baliol  college,  Oxford,  where  he  continued 
for  seven  years.  His  friends  had  designed  him  for 
the  church,  but  he  preferred  trusting  to  literature 
and  science.  He  gave  a course  of  lectures  in  Edin- 
burgh on  rhetoric  and  belles  lettres,  which,  in 
1751,  recommended  him  to  the  vacant  chair  of  pro- 
fessor of  logic  in  Glasgow,  and  this  situation  he 
next  year  exchanged  for  the  more  congenial  one  of 
moral  philosophy  professor.  In  1759  he  published 
his  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments,  and  in  1764  he  was 
prevailed  upon  to  accompany  the  young  Duke  of 
Buccleuch  as  travelling  tutor  on  the  continent. 
They  were  absent  two  years,  and  on  his  return. 
Smith  retired  to  his  native  town,  and  pursued  a 
severe  system  of  study,  which  resulted  in  the  publi- 
cation, in  1776,  of  his  great  work  on  political  eco- 
nomy, An  Inquiry  into  the  Nature  and  Causes  of  the 
Wealth  of  Nations.  Two  years  afterwards  he  was 
made  one  of  the  commissioners  of  customs,  and  his 
latter  days  were  spent  in  ease  and  opulence.  He 
died  in  1790 


The  philosophical  doctrines  of  Smith  are  vastly 
inferior  in  value  to  the  language  and  illustrations  he 
employs  in  enforcing  them.  He  has  been  styled 
the  most  eloquent  of  modern  moralists;  and  his  woik 
is  embellished  with  such  a variety  of  examples,  with 
such  true  pictures  of  the  passions,  and  of  life  and 
manners,  that  it  may  be  read  with  pleasure  and  ad- 
vantage by  those  who,  like  Gray  the  poet,  cannot 
see  in  the  darkness  of  metaphysics.  His  leading 
doctrine,  that  sympathy  must  necessarily  precede  our 
moral  approbation  or  disapprobation,  has  been  gene- 
rally abandoned.  ‘ To  derive  our  moral  sentiments,’ 
says  Brown,  ‘ whieh  are  as  universal  as  the  actions 
of  mankind  that  come  under  our  review,  from  the 
occasional  sympathies  that  warm  or  sadden  us  with 
joys,  and  griefs,  and  resentments  which  are  not  our 
own,  seems  to  me  very  nearly  the  same  sort  of  error 
as  it  would  be  to  derive  the  waters  of  an  overflow- 
ing stream  from  the  sunshine  or  shade  which  may 
occasionally  gleam  over  it.’  Mackintosh  has  also 
pointed  out  the  error  of  representing  the  sympathies 
in  their  jirimitive  state,  Avithout  undergoing  any 
transformation,  as  continuing  exclusively  to  consti- 
tute the  moral  sentiments — an  error  which  he  hap- 
pily compares  to  that  of  the  geologist  who  should 
tell  us  that  the  layers  of  this  planet  had  always  been 
in  the  same  state,  shutting  his  eyes  to  transition 
states  and  secondary  formations.  As  a specimen  of 
the  flowing  style  and  moral  illustrations  of  Smith, 
we  give  an  e.xtract  on 

[The  Results  of  Misdirected  and  Guilty  Ambition.'] 

To  attain  to  this  envied  situation,  the  candidates 
for  fortune  too  frequently  abandon  the  paths  of  vir- 
tue ; for  unhappily,  the  road  Avhich  leads  to  the  one, 
and  that  which  leads  to  the  other,  lie  sometimes  in 
very  opposite  directions.  But  the  ambitious  m.an  flat- 
ters himself  that,  in  the  splendid  situation  to  whieh 
he  advances,  he  will  have  so  many  means  of  command- 
ing the  respect  and  admiration  of  mankind,  and  will 
be  enabled  to  act  with  such  superior  propriety  and 
grace,  that  the  lustre  of  his  future  conduct  will  en- 
tirely cover  or  efface  the  foulness  of  the  steps  by  which 
he  arrived  at  that  elevation.  In  many  governments 
the  eandidates  for  the  highest  stations  are  above  the 
law,  and  if  they  can  attain  the  object  of  their  am 
bition,  they  have  no  fear  of  being  called  to  account 
for  the  means  by  which  they  acquired  it.  They  often 
endeavour,  therefore,  not  only  by  fraud  and  falsehood, 
the  ordinary  and  vulgar  arts  of  intrigue  and  eabal, 
but  sometimes  by  the  perpetration  of  the  most  enor- 
mous crimes,  by  murder  and  assassination,  by  rebel- 
lion and  civil  war,  to  supplant  and  destroy  those  Avho 
oppose  or  stand  in  the  way  of  their  greatness.  They 
more  frequently  miscarry  than  succeed,  and  com- 
monly gain  nothing  but  the  disgraceful  punishment 
which  is  due  to  their  crimes.  But  though  they  should 
be  so  lueky  as  to  attain  that  wished-for  greatness,  they 
are  always  most  miserably  disappointed  in  the  happi- 
ness which  they  expect  to  enjoy  in  it.  It  is  not  ease 
or  pleasure,  but  always  honour,  of  one  kind  or  another, 
though  frequently  an  honour  very  ill  understood,  that 
the  ambitious  man  really  pursues.  But  the  honour 
of  his  exalted  station  appears,  both  in  his  >wn  eyes 
and  in  those  of  other  people,  polluted  and  defiled  by 
the  baseness  of  the  means  through  which  he  rose  to 
it. , Though  by  the  profusion  of  every  liberal  expense, 
though  by  exeessive  indulgence  in  every  jirofligate 
pleasure — the  wretched  but  usual  resource  of  ruined 
characters  ; though  by  the  hurry  of  public  business, 
or  by  the  prouder  and  more  dazzling  tumult  of  war, 
he  may  endeavour  to  efface,  both  from  his  own  memory 
and  from  that  of  other  people,  the  remembrance  of 
what  he  has  done,  that  remembrance  never  fails  to 
pursue  him.  He  invokes  in  vain  the  dark  and  disma 

207 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  178C. 


powers  of  forgetful  ness  urul  oblivion.  He  remembers 
I iiimself  wlmt  he  bus  done,  and  that  remembrance  tells 

I bim  that  other  people  must  likewise  remember  it. 

I Amidst  all  the  gaudy  pomp  of  the  most  ostentatious 

I greatness,  amidst  the  venal  and  vile  adulation  of  the 

' great  and  of  the  leanieil,  amidst  the  more  innocent 

! though  more  foolish  acelainations  of  the  common 

I people,  amidst  all  the  pride  of  conquest  and  the 

I triumph  of  succe.ssful  war,  he  is  still  secretly  pursued 

by  the  avenging  furies  of  shame  and  remorse  ; and 
while  glory  seems  to  surround  him  on  all  sides,  he 
himself,  in  his  own  imagination,  sees  black  and  foul 
infamy  fast  pursuing  him,  and  every  moment  ready 
to  overtake  him  from  behind.  Kven  the  great  Cae.sar, 
though  he  had  the  magnanimity  to  dismiss  his  guards, 
could  not  dismiss  his  suspicions.  The  remembrance 
of  I’harsalia  still  haunted  and  pursued  him.  When, 
at  the  request  of  the  senate,  he  had  the  generosity  to 
pardon  Marcellus,  he  told  that  assembly  that  he  was 
not  un.'iwaro  of  the  designs  which  were,  carrying  on 
against  his  life  ; but  that,  as  he  had  lived  long  enough 
both  for  nature  and  for  glory,  he  was  contented  to  die, 
and  therefore  despised  all  conspiracies.  lie  had,  per- 
haps, lived  long  enough  for  nature  ; but  the  man  who 
felt  himself  the  object  of  such  deadly  re.sentment, 
from  those  whose  favour  he  wished  to  gain,  and  whom 
he  still  wished  to  consider  as  his  friends,  had  certainly 
livial  too  long  for  real  glory,  or  for  all  the  happiness 
which  he  could  ever  hope  to  enjoy  in  the  love  and 
esteem  of  his  equals. 

DR  REID. 

Dr  Keid’s  Inquiry  into  the  Human  Mind,  published 
in  1764,  was  an  attack  on  the  ideal  theory,  and  on 
the  scei)tical  conclusions  which  Ilume  deduced  from 
it.  The  author  had  the  candour  to  submit  it  to 
Hume  before  publication,  and  the  latter,  with  his 
usual  complacency  and  good  nature,  acknowledged 
the  merit  of  the  treatise.  In  1785  Reid  published 
his  Essays  on  the  Intellectual  Powers  of  Man,  and  in 
1788  those  on  the  Actwe  Powers.  The  merit  of 
Reid  as  a correct  reasoner  and  original  thinker  on 
moral  science,  free  from  the  jargon  of  the  schools, 
and  basing  his  speculations  on  inductive  reasoning, 
has  been  generally  admitted.  The  ideal  theory  which 
he  combated,  taught  that  ‘ nothing  is  perceived  but 
what  is  in  the  mind  which  perceives  it;  that  we 
really'  do  not  perceive  things  that  are  external,  but 
only’  certain  images  and  pictures  of  them  imprinted 
upon  the  mind,  which  are  called  impressions  and 
ideas.’  This  doctrine  Reid  had  himself  believed, 
till,  finding  it  led  to  important  consequences,  he 
asked  himself  the  question,  ‘ What  evidence  have  I 
for  this  doctrine,  that  all  the  objects  of  my’  know- 
ledge are  ideas  in  my’  ow’n  mind  ?’  He  set  about  an 
inquiry,  but  could  find  no  evidence  for  tbe  principle, 
he  says,  excepting  the  authority  of  philosophers. 
Dugald  Stewart  says  of  Reid,  that  it  is  by  the  logi- 
cal rigour  of  his  method  of  investigating  metaphy- 
sical subjects  (imperfectly  understood  even  by  the 
disciples  of  Locke),  still  more  than  by  the  impor- 
tance of  his  particular  conclusions,  that  he  stands 
§0  conspicuously  distinguished  among  those  who 
have  hitherto  prosecuted  analytically  the  study  of 
man.  In  the  dedication  of  his  ‘ Inquiry,’ Reid  in- 
cidentally makes  a definition  which  strikes  us  as 
very  happy : — ‘ The  productions  of  imagination,’  he 
s,ays,  ‘ require  a genius  which  soars  above  the  com- 
mon rank;  but  the  treasures  of  knowledge  are  com- 
monly buried  deep,  and  may  be  reached  by’  those 
drudges  who  can  dig  with  labour  and  patience, 
though  they  have  not  wings  to  fly.’  Dr  Reid  was 
a native  of  Strachan,  in  Kincardineshire,  where  he 
was  born  on  the  26th  of  April  1710.  He  was  bred 


to  the  church,  and  obtained  the  living  of  New 
M;ichar,  Aberdeenshire.  In  1752  he  was  appointed 
professor  of  moral  philosoidiy  in  King’s  college, 
Aberdeen,  whieh  he  quitted  in  1763  for  the  chaii 
of  moral  philo.soi)hy  in  Glasgow.  He  died  on  the 
7th  of  October  1796. 

LORD  KAME8. 

Henry  Home  (1696-1782),  a Scottish  lawyer  and 
judge,  in  wliieh  latter  capacity  he  took,  according  to 
a custom  of  his  country,  the  designation  of  Lord 
Karnes,  was  a conspicuous  member  of  the  literary 


House  of  Lord  Karnes,  Canongate,  Edinburgh, 
and  philosophical  society  assembled  in  Edinburgh 
during  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
During  the  earlier  part  of  his  life  he  devoted  the 
w’hole  powers  of  an  acute  and  reflective  mind,  and  I 
with  an  industry  calling  for  the  greatest  pr.aise,  to  j 
his  profession,  and  compilations  and  treatises  con-  j 
nected  with  it.  But  the  natural  bent  of  his  faculties 
towards  philosophical  disquisition — the  glory  if  not 
the  vice  of  his  age  and  country — at  length  took  the 
mastery’,  and,  after  reaching  the  bench  in  1752,  he 
gave  his  leisure  almost  exclusively  to  metaphysi- 
cal .and  ethical  subjects.  Ills  first  work  of  this 
kind.  Essays  on  the  Principles  of  Morality  and  Natu- 
ral Reliyion,  combats  those  theories  of  human  nature 
which  deduce  all  actions  from  some  single  principle, 
and  attempts  to  establish  several  principles  of  ac- 
tion. He  here  maintained  philosophical  necessity', 
but  in  a connection  with  the  duties  of  morality  and 
religion,  which  he  hoped  might  save  him  from  the 
obloquy’  bestowed  on  other  defenders  of  that  doc- 
trine ; an  expectation  in  which  he  was  partially 
disappointed,  as  he  narrowly  escaped  a citation  be- 
fore the  General  Assembly  of  his  native  church,  on 
account  of  this  book. 

The  Intioduction  to  the  Art  of  Thinking,  published 
in  1761,  was  a small  :ind  subordinate  work,  consist- 
ing mainly  of  a series’of  detached  maxims  and  gene- 
r:d  observations  on  human  conduct,  illustrated  by 
.anecdotes  drawn  from  the  stores  of  history  and 
biography.  In  the  ensuing  year  appeared  a larger 
work,  perhaps  the  best  of  all  his  compositions — The 
Elements  of  Criticism,  three  volumes,  a bold  and 

208 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 


LORD  KAMES. 


! 

i 


I 


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i I 

I 

I 


original  jx'rfoniiaiice,  whidi,  discarding  all  arbitrary 
rules  of  literary  criticism  derived  from  authority, 
seeks  for  a proper  set  of  rules  in  the  fundamental 
principles  of  human  nature  itself.  Dugald  Stewart 
admits  this  to  be  the  first  systematic  attempt  to 
investigate  the  metaphysical  principles  of  the  fine 
arts. 

Lord  Karnes  had,  for  many  years,  kept  a common- 
place hook,  into  which  he  transcrilxid  all  anecdotes 
of  man,  in  his  various  nations  and  degrees  of  civili- 
sation. which  occurred  in  the  course  of  his  reading, 
or  appeared  in  the  fugitive  publications  cf  the  day. 
When  advanced  to  near  eighty  years  of  age,  he 
tl'.rew  these  together  in  a work  entitled  Sketches  of 
the  History  of  Man  (two  vols.,  4to.,  1773),  which 
shows  his  usual  ingenuity  and  acuteness,  and  pre- 
sents many  curious  disquisitions  on  society,  but  is 
materially  reduced  in  value  by  the  .absence  of  a 
proper  authentic.ation  to  many  of  the  statements 
presented  in  it  as  illustrations.  A volume,  entitled 
Loose  Hints  on  Education,  published  in  1781,  and  in 
which  he  anticipates  some  of  the  doctrines  on  that 
Bubiect  which  have  since  been  in  vogue,  completes 
the  list  of  his  philosophical  works. 

Lord  Karnes  was  also  distinguished  as  an  amateur 
agriculturist  and  improver  of  land,  and  some  opera- 
tions, devised  by  him  for  clearing  away  a superin- 
cumbent moss  from  his  estate  by  means  of  water 
raised  from  a neighbouring  river,  help  to  mark  the 
originality  and  boldness  of  his  conceptions.  This 
taste  led  to  his  producing,  in  1777,  a volume  entitled 
The  Gentleman  Farmer,  which  he  has  himself  suffi- 
ciently described  as  ‘ an  attempt  to  improve  agricul- 
ture by  subjecting  it  to  the  test  of  rational  prin- 
ci])les.’ 

Lord  Karnes  was  a man  of  commanding  aspect 
and  figure,  but  easy  and  familiar  manners.  He  was 
the  life  and  soul  of  every  private  company,  and  it 
was  remarked  of  him  that  no  subject  seemed  too 
great  or  too  frivolous  to  derive  lustre  from  his  re- 
marks upon  it  The  taste  and  thought  of  his  philo- 
sophical works  have  now  placed  them  out  of  fashion, 
but  they  contain  many  views  and  reflections  from 
which  modern  inquirers  might  derive  advantage. 

[Pleasures  of  the  Eye  and  the  .Ear.] 

That  nothing  external  is  perceived  till  first  it  make 
an  impression  upon  the  organ  of  sense,  is  an  observa- 
tion that  holds  equally  in  every  one  of  the  external 
senses.  But  there  is  a difference  as  to  our  knowledge 
of  that  iiniiression  ; in  touching,  tasting,  and  smelling, 
we  are  sensible  of  the  impression  ; that,  for  example, 
which  is  made  upon  the  hand  by  a stone,  upon  the 
palate  by  an  apricot,  and  upon  the  nostrils  by  a rose. 
It  is  otherwise  in  seeing  and  hearing;  for  I am  not 
sensible  of  the  impression  made  upon  my  eye  when  I 
behold  a tree,  nor  of  the  impression  made  upon  ray 
ear  when  1 listen  to  a song.  That  difference  in  the 
manner  of  perceiving  external  objects,  distinguisheth 
remarkably  hearing  and  seeing  from  the  other  senses  ; 
and  I am  ready  to  show  that  it  distinguisheth  still 
more  remarkably  the  feelings  of  the  former  from  that 
of  the  latter  ; every  feeling,  pleasant  or  painful,  must 
be  in  the  mind  ; and  yet,  becau.se  in  tasting,  touching, 
and  smelling,  we  are  sensible  of  the  impression  made 
upon  the  organ,  we  are  led  to  place  there  also  the 
pleasant  or  painful  feeling  caused  by  that  impression  ; 
but,  with  respect  to  seeing  and  hearing,  being  insen- 
sible of  the  organic  impression,  we  are  not  misled  to 
assign  a wrong  place  to  the  pleasant  or  painful  feel- 
ings caused  by  that  impression ; and  therefore  we 
naturally  place  them  in  the  mind,  where  they  really 
are;  upon  that  account  they  are  conceived  to  be  more 
refined  and  spiritual  than  what  are  derived  from  tast- 

56 


ing,  toucliing,  and  smelling;  for  the  latter  feelings, 
seeming  to  exist  externally  at  the  organ  of  sense,  arc 
conceived  ko  be  merely  cori>oreal. 

The  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  the  ear  being  thus 
elevated  above  those  of  the  other  externa!  .senses,  ac- 
quire so  much  dignity,  as  to  become  a laudable  enter- 
tainment. They  are  not,  liowever,  .sot  on  a level  with 
the  purely  intellectual,  lx;ing  no  les.s  inferior  in  dig- 
nity to  intelleetiial  pleasures,  than  superior  to  the 
organic  or  corporeal : they  indeed  resemble  the  latter, 
being,  like  them,  proiluccd  by  external  objects  ; but 
they  .also  resemble  the  former,  being,  like  them,  pro- 
duced without  any  sensible  organic  impression.  Their 
mixed  nature  and  middle  place  between  organic  and 
intellectual  pleasures  qualify  them  to  associate  with 
both  ; beauty  heightens  all  the  organic  feelings,  as 
well  as  the  intellectual  ; harmony,  though  it  aspires 
to  inflanie  devotion,  disdains  not  to  improve  the  reli.sh 
of  a banquet. 

The  pleasures  of  the  eye  .and  the  ear  have  other 
valuable  properties  beside  tho.se  of  dignity  and  eleva- 
tion ; being  sweet  and  moderately  exhilarating,  they 
are  in  their  tone  equally  di.stant  from  the  turbulence 
of  passion  and  the  languor  of  indolence  ; and  by  tliat 
tone  are  perfectly  well  qualified  not  only  to  revive 
the  spirits  when  sunk  by  sensual  gratification,  but  also 
to  relax  them  when  overstrained  in  any  violent  pur- 
suit. Here  is  a remedy  provided  for  n.any  distresses; 
and  to  be  convinced  of  its  salutary  effects,  it  will  be 
sufficient  to  run  over  the  following  particulars.  Or- 
ganic ple.asures  have  naturally  a short  duration  ; when 
prolonged,  they  lose  their  relish  ; when  indulged  to 
excess,  they  beget  satiety  and  disgust ; and  to  restore 
a proper  tone  of  mind,  nothing  can  be  more  h,a])]iily 
contrived  than  the  exbilar.ating  ple.asures  of  the  eye 
and  ear.  On  the  other  h.and,  any  intense  exorcise  of 
intellectual  powers  becomes  painful  by  overstra.ning 
the  mind  ; cessation  from  such  exerci.se  gives  not  in- 
stant relief ; it  is  necessary  that  the  void  be  filled  ith 
some  amusement,  gently  relaxing  the  spirits  : organic 
pleasure,  which  h.ath  no  relish  but  while  we  are  m 
vigour,  is  ill  qualified  for  that  otiice ; but  the  finer 
pleasures  of  sense,  which  occupy,  without  exhausting, 
the  mind,  are  finely  qualified  to  restore  its  usual  tone 
after  severe  application  to  study  or  business,  as  well 
as  after  satiety  from  .sensual  gratification. 

Our  first  perceptions  are  of  external  objects,  and 
our  first  attachments  are  to  them.  Organic  pleasures 
take  the  lead  ; but  the  mind  gradually  ripening,  re- 
lisheth  more  and  more  the  pleasures  of  the  eye  and 
ear,  which  approach  the  purely  mental  without  ex- 
hausting the  spirits,  and  exceed  the  purely  sensual 
without  danger  of  satiety.  The  pleasures  of  the  eye 
and  ear  have  accordingly  a natural  aptitude  to  draw 
us  from  the  immoderate  gratification  of  sensual  appe- 
tite ; and  the  mind,  once  accustomed  to  enjoy  a variety 
of  external  objects  without  being  sensible  of  the  organic 
impression,  is  prepared  for  enjoying  internal  objects 
where  there  cannot  be  an  organic  impression.  Thus 
the  Author  of  nature,  by  qualifying  the  human  mind 
for  a succes.sion  of  enjoyments  from  low  to  high,  leads 
it  by  gentle  steps  from  the  most  grovelling  corporeal 
pleasures,  for  which  only  it  is  fitted  in  the  beginning 
of  life,  to  those  refined  and  sublime  pleasures  that  are 
suited  to  its  maturity. 

But  we  are  not  bound  down  to  this  succession  by 
any  law  of  necessity  : the  God  of  nature  offers  it  to 
us  in  order  to  advance  our  happiness  ; and  it  is  suffi- 
cient that  he  hath  enabled  us  to  carry  it  on  in  a 
natural  course.  Nor  has  he  made  our  task  either 
di.sagreeable  or  difficult : on  the  contrary,  the  transi- 
tion is  sweet  and  easy  from  corporeal  pleasures  to  the 
more  refined  pleasures  of  sense ; and  no  less  so  from 
these  to  the  exalted  pleasures  of  morality  and  reli- 
gion. We  stand  therefore  engaged  in  honour  as  wtU 
as  interest,  to  second  the  purposes  of  nature  by  culti- 

209 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPiTiDIA  OF 


TO  1781) 


Tatins;  the  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  ear,  those  espe- 
cially that  require  extraordinary  culture,  sucli  as 
arise  from  poetry,  painting,  scul])turc,  inuHie,  garden- 
ing, and  architecture.  This  especially  is  the  duty  of 
the  opulent,  who  have  leisure  to  inqjrove  their  minds 
and  their  feelings.  The  fine  arts  are  contrived  to  give 
pleasure  to  the  eye  and  the  ear,  disregarding  the  in- 
ferior senses.  A taste  for  these  arts  is  a plant  that 
grows  naturally  in  many  soils ; but  without  culture, 
scarce  to  perfection  in  any  soil : it  is  susceptible  of 
much  refinement,  and  is  by  proper  care  greatly  im- 
proved. In  this  respect  a taste  in  the  fine  arts  goes 
hand  in  hand  with  the  moral  sense,  to  which  indeed 
it  is  nearly  allied  : both  of  them  discover  what  is  right 
and  what  is  wrong : fashion,  temper,  and  education, 
have  an  influence  to  vitiate  both,  or  to  preserve  them 
pure  and  untainted  : neither  of  them  are  arbitrary 
nor  local,  being  rooted  in  human  nature,  and  govern- 
ed by  principles  common  to  all  men.  The  design  of 
thepre.sent  undertaking,  which  aspires  not  to  morality, 
is  to  examine  the  sensitive  branch  of  human  nature, 
to  trace  the  objects  that  are  naturally  agreeable,  as 
well  as  those  that  arc  naturally  disagreeable  ; and  by 
the.se  means  to  discover,  if  we  can,  what  are  the  genuine 
principles  of  the  fine  arts.  The  man  who  aspires  to 
be  a critic  in  these  arts  must  pierce  still  deeper  ; he 
must  acquire  a clear  perception  of  what  objects  are 
lofty,  what  low,  what  proper  or  improper,  what  manly, 
and  what  mean  or  trivial  ; hence  a foundation  for 
reasoning  upon  the  taste  of  any  individual,  and  for 
passing  a sentence  upon  it : where  it  is  conformable 
to  principles,  we  can  pronounce  with  certainty  that  it 
is  correct ; otherwise,  that  it  is  incorrect  and  perhaps 
whimsical.  Thus  the  fine  arts,  like  morals,  become  a 
rational  science  ; and,  like  morals,  may  be  cultiviited 
to  a high  degree  of  refinement. 

Manifold  are  the  advantages  of  criticism  when  thus 
studied  as  a rational  science.  In  the  first  place,  a 
thorough  acquaintance  with  the  principles  of  the  fine 
arts  redoubles  the  pleasure  we  derive  from  them  To 
the  man  who  resigns  himself  to  feeling,  without  inter- 
posing any  judgment,  poetry,  music,  painting,  are 
mere  pastime.  In  the  prime  of  life,  indeed,  they  are 
delightful,  being  supported  by  the  force  of  novelty  and 
the  heat  of  imagination  ; but  in  time  they  lose  their 
relish,  and  are  generally  neglected  in  the  maturity  of 
life,  which  disposes  to  more  serious  and  more  import- 
ant occupations.  To  those  who  deal  in  criticism  as  a 
regular  science  governed  by  just  principles,  and  giving 
scope  to  judgment  as  well  as  to  fancy,  the  fine  arts  are 
a favourite  entertainment,  and  in  old  age  maintain 
that  relish  which  they  produce  in  the  morning  of  life. 


DR  BEATXrE. 

Among  the  answerers  of  Hume  was  Dr  Beattie 
the  poet,  who,  in  1770,  published  his  Essay  on  the 
Nature  and  Immutalnlity  of  Truth,  in  opposition  to 
Sophistry  and  Scepticism.  Inferior  to  most  of  the 
metaphysicians  in  logical  precision,  equanimity  of 
temper,  or  patient  rese.arch,  Beattie  brought  great 
zeal  and  fervour  to  his  task,  a respectable  share  of 
philosophical  knowledge,  and  a better  command  of 
popular  language  and  imaginative  illustration  than 
most  of  his  fellow-labourers  in  that  dry  and  dusty 
field.  These  qualities,  joined  to  the  pious  and  bene- 
ficial tendency  of  his  work,  enabled  him  to  produce 
a highly  popular  treatise.  No  work  of  the  kind  ivas 
ever  so  successful.  It  has  fallen  into  equal  neglect 
with  other  metaphysical  treatises  of  the  age,  and  is 
now  considered  unworthy  the  talents  of  its  author. 
It  has  neither  tlie  dignity  nor  the  acumen  of  the 
original  philosopher,  and  is  unsuited  to  the  ordinary 
religious  reader.  The  best  of  Beattie’s  prose  works 
are  his  Dissertations,  Moral  and  Critical,  and  his 


Essays  on  Poetry,  Music,  ^c.  He  also  i)ubli.shed  a 
digest  of  his  college  lectures,  under  the  title  of  JUe- 
mrnls  of  Moral  Science.  In  these  works,  though  not 
profoundly  (>hilo.soi)hical,  the  author’s  ‘ lively  relish 
for  the  sublime  and  beautiful,  his  clear  and  elegant 
style,’  and  his  happy  quotations  and  critical  exam- 
ples, must  strike  every  reader. 

[On  the  Love  of  Nature.'] 

[From  * Beattie’s  Essays.’] 

Homer’s  beautiful  description  of  the  heavens  and 
earth,  as  they  appear  in  a calm  evening  by  the  light  of 
the  moon  and  stars,  concludes  with  this  circumstance 
— ‘ And  the  heart  of  the  shepherd  is  glad.’  Madame 
Uacier,  from  the  turn  she  gives  to  the  passage  in  her 
version,  seems  to  think,  and  Pope,  in  order  perhaps 
to  make  out  his  couplet,  insinuate.s,  that  the  gladness 
of  the  shepherd  is  owing  to  his  sense  of  the  utility  of 
those  luminaries.  And  this  may  in  part  be  the  case; 
but  this  is  not  in  Homer  ; nor  is  it  a necessary  consi- 
deration. It  is  true  that,  in  contemplating  the  ma- 
terial universe,  they  who  discern  the  causes  and  effe.oU 
of  things  must  be  more  rapturously  entertained  than 
those  who  perceive  nothing  but  shape  and  size,  colour 
and  motion.  Yet,  in  the  mere  outside  of  nature’s 
works  (if  I may  so  express  my.self),  there  is  a splen- 
dour and  a magnificence  to  which  even  untutored  minds 
cannot  attend  without  great  delight. 

Not  that  all  peasants  or  all  philosophers  are  equally 
susceptible  of  these  charming  impressions.  It  is  strange 
to  observe  the  callousness  of  some  men,  before  whom 
all  the  glories  of  heaven  and  earth  pass  in  daily  suc- 
cession, without  touching  their  hearts,  elevating  their 
fancy,  or  leaving  any  durable  remembrance.  Even  of 
those  who  pretend  to  sensibility,  how  many  are  them 
to  whom  the  lustre  of  the  rising  or  setting  sun,  the 
.sparkling  concave  of  the  midnight  sky,  the  mountain 
forest  to.ssing  and  roaring  to  the  stonn,  or  w.arbling 
with  all  the  melodies  of  a summer  evening  ; the  sweet 
interchange  of  hill  and  dale,  shade  and  sunshine, 
grove,  lawn,  and  water,  which  an  extensive  land.scape 
offers  to  the  view ; the  scenery  of  the  ocean,  so  lovely, 
so  majestic,  and  so  tremendous,  and  the  many  pleas- 
ing varieties  of  the  animal  and  vegetable  kingdom, 
could  never  afford  so  much  real  .satisfaction  as  the 
steams  and  noise  of  a ball-room,  the  insipid  fiddling 
and  squeaking  of  an  opera,  or  the  vexations  and 
wranglings  of  a card -table! 

But  some  minds  there  are  of  a different  make,  who, 
even  in  the  early  part  of  life,  receive  from  the  con- 
templation of  nature  a species  of  delight  which  they 
would  hardly  exchange  for  any  other  ; and  who,  as 
avarice  and  ambition  are  not  the  infirmities  of  that 
period,  would,  with  equal  sincerity  and  rapture,  ex- 
claim— 

‘ I care  not.  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny  ; 

You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature’s  grace  ; 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky. 

Through  whicli  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face; 

You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns  by  living  stream  at  eve.' 

Such  minds  have  always  in  them  the  seeds  of  true 
taste,  and  frequently  of  imitative  genius.  At  least, 
though  their  enthusiastic  or  visionary  turn  of  mind, 
as  the  man  of  the  world  would  call  it,  should  not 
always  incline  them  to  practise  poetry  or  painting,  we 
need  not  scruple  to  affirm  that,  without  some  portion 
of  this  enthusiasm,  no  person  ever  became  a true  poet 
or  painter.  For  he  wjio  would  imitate  the  works  of 
nature,  must  first  accurately  observe  them,  and  accu- 
rate observation  is  to  be  expected  from  those  only  who 
take  great  pleasure  in  it. 

To  a mind  thus  disposed,  no  part  of  creation  is  in- 
different. In  the  crowded  city  and  howling  wilder- 
ness, in  the  cultivated  province  and  solitary  isle,  in 

210 


METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LlTKUATUli K. 


DR  IIEAITIE. 


the  flowery  lawn  aiul  craggy  mountain,  in  the  mur- 
mur of  tlie  rivuLt  and  in  the  uproar  of  tlie  ocean,  in 
the  radiance  of  summer  and  gloom  of  winter,  in  the 
thunder  of  lieaven  and  in  the  whisper  of  the  breeze, 
i he  still  finds  something  to  rouse  or  to  soothe  his 
imagination,  to  draw  forth  his  alfections,  or  to  employ 
his  understanding.  And  from  every  mental  energy 
1 that  is  not  attended  with  pain,  and  even  from  some  of 

i those  that  are,  as  moderate  terror  and  pity,  a sound 

mind  derives  satisfaction  ; exercise,  being  equally  ne- 
i ccssary  to  the  body  and  the  soul,  and  to  both  equally 
I productive  of  health  and  jileasure. 
j This  happy  sensibility  to  the  beauties  of  nature 
should  be  cherished  in  young  persons.  It  engages 
j them  to  contemplate  the  Creator  in  his  wonderful 
I works ; it  purifies  and  harmonises  the  soul,  and  pre- 

! pares  it  for  moral  and  intellectual  discipline  ; it  sup- 

I plies  a never-failing  source  of  amusement ; it  contri- 
! butes  even  to  bodily  health  ; and,  as  .a  strict  analogy 
i j subsists  between  material  and  moral  beauty,  it  leads 
; I the  heart  by  an  easy  transition  from  the  one  to  the 
i ; other,  and  thus  recommends  virtue  for  its  transcen- 
dent loveliness,  and  makes  vice  appear  the  object  of 
I contempt  and  abomination.  An  intimate  acquaint- 
' ance  with  the  best  descriptive  poets — Spenser,  Milton, 
j and  Thomson,  but  above  all  with  the  divine  Georgic — 
i joined  to  some  practiee  in  the  art  of  drawing,  will 
i promote  this  amiable  sensibility  in  early  years ; for 
then  the  faee  of  nature  has  novelty  superadded  to  its 
other  eharms,  the  passions  are  not  pre-engaged,  the 
heart  is  free  from  care,  and  the  imagination  warm  and 
romantic. 

liut  not  to  insist  longer  on  those  ardent  emotions 
that  are  peculiar  to  the  enthusiastic  disciple  of 
nature,  may  it  not  be  affirmed  of  all  men  without 
sxception,  or  at  least  of  all  the  enlightened  part  of 
! I mankind,  that  they  are  gratified  by  the  contemplation 
of  things  natural  as  opposed  to  unnatural  ? IMon- 
etroas  sights  pi  lase  but  for  a moment,  if  they  please 
at  all  ; for  they  derive  their  charm  from  the  beholder’s 
amazement,  wh’ch  is  quickly  over.  I have  read,  in- 
deed, of  a man  >f  rank  in  Sicily  who  chooses  to  adorn 
his  villa  with  pictures  and  statues  of  most  unnatural 
I deformity ; but  it  is  a singular  instance ; and  one 
I would  not  be  much  more  surprised  to  hear  of  a person 

I living  without  food,  or  growing  fat  by  the  use  of 

I poison.  To  say  of  anything  that  it  is  contrary  to 
I nature,  denotes  censure  and  disgust  on  the  part  of  the 
speaker ; as  the  epithet  natural  intimates  an  agree- 
able quality,  and  seems  for  the  most  part  to  imply 
that  a thing  is  as  it  ought  to  be,  suitable  to  our  own 
taste,  and  congenial  with  our  own  constitution.  Think 
with  what  sentiments  we  should  peruse  a poem  in 
which  nature  was  totally  misrepresented,  and  prin- 
eiples  of  thought  and  of  operation  supposed  to  take 
place  repugnant  to  everything  we  had  seen  or  heard 
of ; in  which,  for  example,  avarice  and  coldness  were 
ascribed  to  youth,  and  prodigality  and  passionate 
I attachment  to  the  old  ; in  which  men  were  made  to 

! act  at  random,  sometimes  according  to  character, 

i and  sometimes  contrary  to  it ; in  which  cruelty  and 

; I envy  were  productive  of  love,  and  beneficence  and 

, [ kind  aft'ection  of  hatred ; in  which  beauty  was  in- 

! variably  the  object  of  dislike,  and  ugliness  of  desire ; 

j ; in  which  society  was  rendered  happy  by  atheism  and 

I the  promiscuous  perpetration  of  crimes,  and  justice 

1 ] and  fortitude  were  held  in  universal  contempt.  Or 

I ! think  how  we  should  relish  a painting  where  no 

' ! regard  was  had  to  the  proportions,  colours,  or  any  of 

i the  physical  laws  of  nature  ; where  the  ears  and  eyes 

I of  animals  were  placed  in  their  shoulders  ; where  the 

i sky  was  green,  and  the  grass  crimson ; where  trees 

I grew  with  their  branches  in  the  earth,  and  their  roots 

! in  the  air ; where  men  were  seen  fighting  after  their 

I heads  were  cut  off,  ships  sailing  on  the  land,  lions  en- 

tangled in  cobwebs,  sheep  preying  on  dead  carcases, 


fishes  sporting  in  the  woods,  and  elephants  walking 
on  the  sea.  Could  such  figures  and  combinations  give 
pleasure,  or  merit  the  appellation  of  sublime  or  beau- 
tiful? Should  we  hesitate  to  pronounce  their  autlior 
mad?  And  are  tlie  absurdities  of  madmen  proper 
subjects  either  of  amusement  or  of  imitation  to  rea- 
sonable beings  ? 

[Ore  Scolikh  ^^usic.'} 

[From  tlie  same.] 

There  is  a certain  style  of  melody  peculiar  to  each 
musical  country,  which  the  people  of  that  country  are 
apt  to  jirefer  to  every  other  style.  That  they  should 
prefer  their  own,  is  not  surprising ; and  that  the  me- 
lody of  one  people  should  (titfer  from  that  of  another, 
is  not  more  surprising,  perhajis,  than  that  the  language 
of  one  people  should  differ  from  that  of  another.  Bui 
there  is  something  not  unworthy  of  notice  in  the  par- 
ticular expression  and  style  that  characterise  the  music 
of  one  nation  or  province,  and  distinguish  it  from  every 
other  sort  of  music.  Of  this  diversity  Scotland  sup- 
plies a striking  example.  The  native  melody  of  the 
Highlands  and  Western  Isles  is  as  different  from  that 
of  the  southern  part  of  the  kingdom  as  the  Irish  or 
Erse  language  is  different  from  the  English  or  Scotch. 
In  the  conclusion  of  a discourse  on  music,  as  it  relates 
to  the  mind,  it  will  not  perhaps  be  impertinent  to 
offer  a conjecture  on  the  cause  of  these  peculiarities  ; 
which,  though  it  should  not — and  Indeed  I am  satis- 
fied that  it  will  not — fully  account  for  any  one  of 
them,  may,  how'ever,  incline  the  reader  to  think  that 
they  are  not  unaccountable,  and  may  also  throw  some 
faint  light  on  this  part  of  philosophy. 

Every  thought  that  partakes  of  the  nature  of  pa.ssion 
has  a correspondent  expression  in  the  look  and  ges- 
ture ; and  so  strict  is  the  union  between  the  passion 
and  its  outward  sign,  that,  where  the  former  is  not  in 
some  degree  felt,  the  latter  can  never  be  perfectly 
natural,  but  if  assumed,  becomes  awkward  mimicry, 
instead  of  that  genuine  imitation  of  nature  which 
draws  forth  the  sympathy  of  the  beholder.  If  there-, 
fore  there  be,  in  the  circumstances  of  particular 
nations  or  persons,  anything  that  gives  a peculiarity 
to  their  passions  and  thoughts,  it  seems  reasonable  to 
expect  that  they  will  also  have  something  peculiar  in 
the  expression  of  their  countenance  and  even  in  tho 
form  of  their  features.  Gains  Marius,  Jugurtba, 
Tamerlane,  and  some  other  great  warriors,  are  cele- 
brated for  a peculiar  ferocity  of  aspect,  which  they 
had  no  doubt  contracted  from  a perpetual  and  unre- 
strained exertion  of  fortitude,  contempt,  and  other 
violent  emotions.  These  produced  in  the  face  their 
correspondent  expressions,  whieh,  being  often  repeated, 
became  at  last  as  habitual  to  the  features  as  the  sen- 
timents they  arose  from  were  to  the  heart.  Savages, 
whose  thoughts  are  little  inured  to  control,  have  more 
of  this  significancy  of  look  than  those  men  who,  being 
born  and  bred  in  civilised  nations,  are  accustomed 
from  their  childhood  to  suppress  every  emotion  that 
tends  to  interrupt  the  peace  of  society.  And  while 
the  bloom  of  youth  lasts,  and  the  smoothness  of  fea- 
ture peeuliar  to  that  period,  the  human  face  is  less 
marked  with  any  strong  character  than  in  old  age. 
A peevish  or  surly  stripling  may  elude  the  eye  of  the 
physiognomist  ; but  a wicked  old  man,  whose  visage 
does  not  betray  the  evil  temperature  of  his  heart,  must 
have  more  cunning  than  it  would  be  prudent  for  him 
to  acknowledge.  Even  by  the  trade  or  profession  the 
human  countenance  may  be  characterised.  They  who 
employ  themselves  in  the  nicer  mechanic  arts,  (hat 
require  the  earnest  attention  of  the  artist,  do  gene- 
rally contract  a fixedness  of  feature  suited  to  that  one 
uniform  sentiment  which  engrosses  them  while  at 
work.  Whereas  other  artists,  whose  work  requires 
less  attention,  and  who  may  ply  their  trade  and 

211 


1 

PROM  1727  CYCKOP^I^DI A OF  to  I7H0. 

amuse  themselves  with  eoiiversatioii  at  the  same  time, 
have,  for  the  most  part,  smoother  aiul  more  uiimeaiiiii" 
faces:  their  thoughts  are  more  miscellaneous,  ami 
therefore  their  features  are  less  fixed  in  one  uniform 
confij;uration.  A keen  penetrating  look  indicates 
thoughtfulness  and  spirit:  a dull  torpid  countenance 
is  not  often  accompanied  with  great  sagacity. 

This,  though  there  may  be  many  an  exception,  is 
in  general  true  of  the  visible  signs  of  our  passions ; 
and  it  is  no  less  true  of  the  audible.  A man  habitu- 
ally ])ccvish,or  passionate,  or  querulous,  or  imiierious, 
may  be  known  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  as  well  as 
by  his  physiognomy.  May  we  not  go  a step  farther, 
and  say  that  if  a man,  under  the  influence  of  any 
passion,  were  to  compose  a di.scourse,  or  a poem,  or  a 
tunc,  his  work  would  in  some  measure  e.xhibit  an 
imago  of  his  mind  ? I could  not  easily  be  persuaded 
that  Swift  and  .luvenal  were  men  of  sweet  temiiers ; 
or  that  Thomson,  Arbuthnot,  and  Prior,  were  ill- 
natured.  The  airs  of  Felton  are  so  uniformly  mourn- 
ful, that  I cannot  suppose  him  to  have  been  a merry 
or  even  a cheerful  man.  If  a musician,  in  deep 
aflliction,  were  to  attemjit  to  compose  a lively  air,  I 
believe  he  would  not  succeed  : though  I confess  I do 
not  well  understand  the  naf^ure  of  the  connection  that 
may  take  place  between  a mournful  mind  and  a me- 
lancholy tune.  It  is  easy  to  conceive  how  a poet  or 
an  onitor  should  transfuse  his  passions  into  his  work ; 
for  every  passion  suggests  ideas  congenial  to  its  own 
nature  ; and  the  composition  of  the  poet  or  of  the 
orator  must  necessarily  consist  of  those  ideas  that 
occur  at  the  time  he  is  composing.  But  musical 
sounds  are  not  the  signs  of  ideas  ; rarely  are  they  even 
the  imitations  of  natural  sounds  ; so  that  I am  at  a 
loss  to  conceive  how  it  should  happen  that  a musician, 
overwhelmed  with  sorro-w,  for  example,  should  ])ut 
together  a series  of  notes  whose  expression  is  contrary 
to  that  of  another  series  which  he  had  put  together 
when  elevated  with  joy.  But  of  the  fact  I .am  not 
doubtful ; though  I have  not  sagacity  or  knowledge 
of  music  enough  to  be  able  to  explain  it.  And  my 
opinion  in  this  m.atter  is  warranted  by  that  of  a more 
competent  judge,  who  s.ays,  spe.aking  of  church  volun- 
taries, that  if  the  organist  ‘ do  not  feet  in  himself  the 
divine  energy  of  devotion,  he  will  Labour  in  vain  to 
raise  it  in  others.  Nor  can  he  hope  to  throw  out  those 
happy  instantaneous  thoughts  which  sometimes  far 
exceed  the  best  concerted  compositions,  and  which  the 
enraptured  performer  would  gladly  secure  to  his  future 
use  .and  pleasure,  diil  they  not  as  fleetly  esc.ape  as 
they  rise.’  A man  who  has  made  music  the  study  of 
his  life,  and  is  well  acquainted  with  all  the  best  ex- 
amples of  style  and  expression  that  are  to  be  found  in 
the  works  of  former  masters,  m.ay,  by  memory  .and 
much  pr.actice,  attain  a sort  of  mechanical  dexterity 
in  contriving  music  suitable  to  any  given  p.a.ssion  ; 
but  such  music  would,  I presume,  he  vulgar  and 
spiritless  compared  to  what  an  .artist  of  genius  throws 
out  when  under  the  power  of  any  ardent  emotion.  It 
is  recorded  of  Lulli,  that  once  when  his  im.agination 
was  all  on  fire  with  some  verses  descriptive  of  terrible 
ideas,  which  he  had  been  reading  in  a French  tragedy, 
he  r.an  to  his  harpsichord,  and  struck  off  such  .a  com- 
bination of  sounds,  th.at  the  company  felt  their  bail- 
stand  on  end  with  hoiTor. 

Let  us  therefore  suppose  it  proved,  or,  if  you  please. 
Lake  it  for  granted,  that  diflerent  sentiments  in  the 
mind  of  the  musician  will  give  different  and  peculiar 
expressions  to  his  music ; and  upon  this  principle  it 
will  not  perhaps  be  impossible  to  account  for  some  of 
the  phenomen.a  of  a national  ear. 

The  Highlands  of  Scotland  are  a picturesque,  but 
in  general  a melancholy  country.  Long  tracts  of 
mountainous  desert,  covered  with  dark  heath,  and 
often  obscured  by  misty  weather ; n.arrow  valleys, 
thinly  inhabited,  and  bounded  by  precipices  resound- 

ing  with  the  fall  of  torrents  ; a .soil  so  ruggeil,  and  a 
clinuite  so  dreary,  as  in  many  jiarts  to  admit  neither 
the  amusements  of  ji.asturage  nor  the  labours  of  agri- 
culture; the  mournful  dashing  of  waves  along  the 
firths  and  lakes  that  intersect  the  country;  the  por- 
tentous noises  which  every  change  of  the  wind  and 
every  incre.ase  and  diminution  of  the  waters  is  apt  to  . 
raise  in  a lonely  region,  full  of  echoe.s,  and  rocks,  and  ; 
cavei'iis ; the  grotesque  and  ghastly  api)earance  of  | 
such  a land.scapc  by  the  light  of  the  moon.  Objects  i 
like  these  diffu.se  a gloom  over  the  fancy,  which  may  | 
be  compatible  enough  with  occasional  and  social  I 
merriment,  but  cannot  fail  to  tincture  the  thoughts 
of  a native  in  the  hour  of  silence  and  solitude.  If  | 
these  people,  notwithst.anding  their  reformation  in  re-  1 
ligion,  ami  more  frequent  intercourse  with  str.angers,  j 
do  still  retain  many  of  their  old  superstitions,  we  need 
not  drmbt  but  in  former  times  they  must  have  been 
more  enslaved  to  the  horrors  of  imagination,  when  be- 
set with  the  bugbears  of  popery  and  the  darkness  of  i 
paganism.  Llost  of  their  superstitions  are  of  .a  me-  | 
lancholy  cast.  Th.at  second  sight  wherewith  some 
of  them  are  still  supposed  to  be  haunted,  is  considered 
by  themselves  as  .a  misfortune,  on  account  of  the  m.any 
dreadful  images  it  is  saiil  to  obtrude  upon  the  fancy. 

1 have  been  told  that  the  inhabitants  of  some  of  the 
Aljiine  regions  do  likewi.se  lay  claim  to  a sort  of  second 
sight.  Nor  is  it  wonderful  that  persons  of  lively 
imagination,  immured  in  deep  solitude,  and  sur- 
rounded with  the  stupendous  scenery  of  clouds,  pre- 
cipices, and  torrents,  should  dream,  even  when  they 
think  themselves  awake,  of  those  few  striking  ideas 
with  which  their  lonely  lives  are  diversified ; of 
corp.ses,  funeral  processions,  and  other  objects  of  ter-  | 
ror  ; or  of  marriages  and  the  arrival  of  strangers,  ami  j 
.such  like  imatters  of  more  agree.able  curiosity.  Let  it 
be  observed,  also,  that  the  ancient  Highlanders  of  Scot- 
Land  had  hardly  any  other  way  of  supporting  them- 
selves than  by  hunting,  fishing,  or  war,  professions  that 
.arc  continually  exposed  to  fatal  accidents.  And  hence, 
no  doubt,  additional  horrors  would  often  haunt  their 
solitude,  and  a deeper  gloom  overshadow  the  imagi- 
nation even  of  the  hardie.st  native. 

What  then  would  it  be  reasomable  to  expect  from  ; 
the  fanciful  tribe,  from  the  musicians  and  poets,  of  ' 
such  a region?  Strains  expressive  of  jo)',  tranquil-  1 
lity,  or  the  softer  passions  ? No  : their  style  must  have  | 
been  better  suited  to  their  circumstances.  And  so  | 
we  find  in  fact  th.at  their  music  is.  The  w'ildest  irre- 
gularity appe.ars  in  its  composition  : the  ex])ression  is 
warlike  and  mel.ancholy,  and  approaches  even  to  the 
terrible.  And  that  their  poetry  is  almost  uniformly 
mournful,  and  their  views  of  n.ature  dark  .and  drearr-, 
will  be  allowed  by  all  who  .admit  of  the  authenticity 
of  Ossian  ; and  not  doubted  by  any  who  believe  those 
fragments  of  HighLand  poetry  to  be  genuine,  which 
many  old  people,  now  alive,  of  that  country,  remem- 
ber to  have  heard  in  their  youth,  and  were  then  taught 
to  refer  to  a jwetty  high  antiquity. 

Some  of  the  southern  provinces  of  Scotland  present 
a very  different  prospect.  Smooth  and  lofty  hills 
covered  with  verdure  ; clear  streams  winding  through 
long  and  beautiful  valleys ; trees  produced  without 
culture,  here  straggling  or  single,  and  there  crowding 
into  little  groves  .and  bowers,  with  other  circum- 
stances peculiar  to  the  districts  I allude  to,  render 
them  fit  for  pasturage,  and  favourable  to  romantic 
leisure  and  tender  pa.ssions.  Several  of  the  old  Scotch 
songs  take  their  names  from  the  rivulets,  villages,  and 
hills  adjoining  to  the  Tweed  near  Melrose ; a region 
distinguished  by  many  charming  varieties  of  rural 
scenery,  and  which,  whether  we  consider  the  face  of 
the  country  or  the  genius  of  (he  people,  may  ]>roperly 
enough  be  termed  the  Arcadia  of  Scotland.  And  all 
these  songs  are  sweetly  and  powerfully  expressive  of 
love  and  tenderness,  and  other  emotions  suited  to  (ho 

21-2 

WniTF.RS  IN  DIVINITY. 


ENGLISH  LITERATUKE. 


nn  JOSEI’II  BUTLER. 


tranquillity  of  pastoral  life.  * * I believe  it  [the 

Scottish  music]  took  its  rise  among  men  who  were 
real  shepherds,  and  who  actually  felt  the  sentiments 
and  affections  whereof  it  is  so  very  expressive. 

DR  RICUARD  PRICE ABRAHAM  TUCKER — DR  JOSEPH 

PRIESTLEY. 

Dr  Richard  Price  (1723-1791),  a nonconfor- 
mist divine,  published,  in  1758,  A Review  of  the 
Principal  Questions  and  Difficulties  in  Morals,  which 
I attracted  attention  as  ‘ an  attempt  to  revive  the  in- 
i tellectual  theory  of  moral  obligation,  which  seemed  to 
I j have  fallen  under  the  attacks  of  Butler,  Hutcheson, 

I and  Hume,  even  before  Smith.’  Price,  after  Cud- 
worth,  supports  the  doctrine  that  moral  distinctions 
being  perceived  by  reason,  or  the  understanding, 
are  equally  iniinutable  with  all  other  kinds  of  truth. 
On  the  other  side,  it  is  argued  that  reason  is  but  a 
principle  of  our  mental  fr.arne,  like  the  principle 
which  is  the  source  of  moral  emotion,  and  has  no 
peculiar  claim  to  remain  unaltered  in  the  supposed 
general  alteration  of  our  mental  constitution.  Price 
was  an  able  writer  on  finance  and  ]>olitical  economy, 
and  took  .an  active  part  in  the  political  questions 
of  the  day  at  the  time  of  the  French  Revolution:  he 
was  a republican  in  principle,  and  is  attacked  by 
Burke  in  his  Reflections  on  the  Revolution. 

Abraham  Tucker  (1705-1774)  was  an  English 
squire,  who,  instead  of  pursuing  the  pleasures  of  the 
chase,  studied  metaphysics  at  bis  country-seat,  and 
published,  under  the  fictitious  name  of  Edward 
j Search,  a work,  entitled  The  Light  of  Nature  Pur- 
sued, which  Paley  said  contained  more  original  think- 
ing and  observ.ation  than  any  other  work  of  the  kind. 
Tucker,  like  Adam  Smith,  excelled  in  illustration, 
and  he  did  not  disdain  the  most  homely  subjects  for 
e.xainples.  Mackintosh  says  he  excels  in  mixed,  not 
in  pure  philosophy,  and  that  his  intellectual  views 

I I are  of  the  Ilartleian  school.  How  truly,  and  at  the 

j : same  time  how  beautifully,  has  Tucker  characterised 
! I in  one  short  sentence  his  own  favourite  metaphysical 
1 1 studies ! ‘ The  science  of  abstruse  learning,’  he 

I ' B.ays,  ‘ when  completely  attained,  is  like  Achilles’s 
; I spear,  that  healed  the  wounds  it  had  made  before. 

It  casts  no  additional  light  upon  the  paths  of  life, 

I but  disperses  the  clouds  with  which  it  had  over- 
I spread  them  ; it  advances  not  the  traveller  one  step 
j on  his  journey,  but  conducts  him  back  again  to  the 

I j spot  from  whence  he  had  wandered.’ 

! ! In  1775  Dr  Joseph  Priestley  published  an  ex- 
j ' amination  of  the  principles  of  Dr  Reid  and  others, 

I I designed  as  a refutation  of  the  doctrine  of  common 

I ] sense,  said  to  be  employed  as  the  test  of  truth  by 
I the  Scottish  metaphysicians.  The  doctrines  of 

I I Priestley  are  of  the  school  of  Hartley.  In  1777 
1 1 he  published  a series  of  disquisitions  on  Matter 

I and  Spirit,  in  which  he  openly  supported  the  mate- 
j rial  system.  He  also  wrote  in  support  of  another 
' unpopular  doctrine — that  of  necessity.  He  settled 
! in  Birmingham  in  1780,  and  officiated  as  minister 
I of  a dissenting  congregation.  His  religious  opinions 
j were  originally  Calvinistic,  but  afterwards  became 
decidedly  anti-Trinitarian.  His  works  excited  so 
, niucti  opposition,  that  he  ever  after  found  it  necessary  , 

J as  he  states,  to  write  a pamphlet  annu.ally  in  their 
r defence!  Priestley  was  also  an  active  and  distin- 
! guished  chemist,  and  wrote  a history  of  discoveries 
j i relative  to  light  and  colours,  a history  of  electricity, 
! ' &c.  At  the  period  of  the  French  Revolution  in 
; 1791,  a mob  of  outrageous  and  brutal  loyalists  set 

; ' fire  to  his  house  in  Birmingham,  and  destroyed  his 
I library,  a[  p.aratus,  and  specimens.  Three  years 
afterwards  he  emigrated  to  America,  where  he  con- 
j tinned  his  studies  in  science  and  theology,  and  died 


at  Northumberland,  Pennsylvania,  in  1804.  As  an 
experimental  philosopher,  Priestley  was  of  a supe- 
rior class ; but  as  n metaphysical  or  ethical  writer, 
he  can  only  be  considered  subordinate.  He  was  a 
man  of  intrepid  spirit  and  of  unceasing  industry. 
One  of  his  critics  (in  the  Edinburgh  Review)  draws 
from  his  writings  a lively  picture  of  ‘ that  inde- 
fatigable activity,  that  bigotted  vanity,  that  pre- 
cipitation, cheerfulness,  and  sincerity,  which  made 
up  the  character  of  this  restless  philosopher.’ 

Robert  Hall,  whose  feelings  as  a dissenter,  and 
an  enemy  to  all  religious  intolerance  and  persecution, 
were  enlisted  on  the  side  of  Priestley,  has  thus  eulo- 
gised him  in  one  of  his  most  eloquent  sentences  : — 
‘ The  religious  tenets  of  Dr  Priestley  apjiear  to  me 
erroneous  in  the  extreme  : but  I should  be  sorry  to 
suffer  any  difference  of  sentiment  to  diminish  my 
sensibility  to  virtue,  or  my  admiration  of  genius. 
His  enlightened  and  active  mind,  his  unwearied 
.assiduity,  the  extent  of  his  researches,  the  light  he 
has  poured  into  almost  every  department  of  science, 
will  be  the  admiration  of  that  period,  when  the 
greater  part  of  those  who  have  favoured,  Cr  those 
who  have  opposed  him,  will  be  alike  forgotten. 
Distinguished  merit  will  ever  rise  superior  to  op- 
pression, and  will  draw  lustre  from  reproach.  Th-e 
vapours  which  gather  round  the  rising  sun,  and 
follow  in  its  course,  seldom  fail  at  the  close  of  it  to 
form  a magnificent  theatre  for  its  reception,  .and  to 
invest  with  varieg.ated  tints,  and  with  a softened 
effulgence,  the  luminary  which  they  cannot  hide. 

WRITERS  IN  DIVINITY. 

Without  much  originality  (excepting  in  one  me- 
morable instance),  there  wais  great  acuteness,  con- 
troversial ability,  and  learning  displayed  in  the  de- 
partment of  theology.  The  higher  dignitaries  of 
the  church  of  England  are  generally  well  fitted,  by 
education,  talents,  and  the  leisure  they  enjoy,  for 
vindicating  revealed  religion  from  the  attacks  of  all 
assailants ; and  even  ivhen  the  standard  of  duty  was 
low  among  the  inferior  clergy,  there  has  seldom  been 
any  want  of  sound  polemical  divines.  It  seems  to 
be  admitted  that  there  was  a decay  of  piety  and  zeal 
in  the  church  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  now  tre.at- 
ing.  To  .animate  this  drooping  spirit,  and  to  pl.ace 
revelation  upon  the  imperishable  foundations  of  true 
]'i'.ilosophy.  Dr  Joseph  Butler  publisl  ed  his  great 
work  on  the  Analogy  of  Religion  to  the  Course  of 
Nature,  which  appeared  in  173G.  Without  entering 
on  the  question  of  the  miracles  and  prophecies.  Dr 
Butler  rested  his  evidence  on  the  analogies  of  nature  : 

‘ he  reasons  from  that  part  of  the  divine  proceedings 
which  comes  under  our  view  in  the  d,aily  business 
of  life,  to  that  larger  and  more  comprehensive  part 
of  t’.iese  proceedings  which  is  beyond  our  vieiv,  and 
which  religion  reveals.’  His  argument  for  a future 
life,  from  the  changes  which  the  human  bodj'  undir- 
goes  at  birth,  and  in  its  different  stages  of  maturity  ; 
and  from  the  instances  of  the  same  law  of  nature, 
in  the  change  of  worms  into  butterflies,  and  birds 
and  insects  bursting  the  shell,  and  entering  into  a 
new  world,  furnished  with  new  powers,  is  one  of 
the  most  conclusive  pieces  of  reasoning  in  the  lan- 
guage. The  same  train  of  argument,  in  support  of 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  h.as  been  followed  up  in 
two  admirable  lectures  in  Dr  T.  Brown’s  Philosophy. 
'I’he  work  of  Butler,  however,  extends  over  a wide 
field— over  the  whole  of  the  leading  points,  both  in 
natural  and  revealed  religion.  The  germ  of  his 
treatise  is  contained  in  a p,assage  in  Origen  (one  of 
the  most  eminent  of  the  fathers,  who  died  at  Tyre 
in  the  year  254),  which  Butler  quotes  in  his  intro- 
duction. It  is  to  the  effect  that  he  who  believes 

213 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OK 


TO  17<t0 


tlio  S(rri]itiirc  to  have  j)roct‘L‘(led  from  tho  author  of 
iiaturo,  may  well  believe  that  the  same  dillhailties' 
exist  in  it  as  in  tlie  constitution  of  nature.  Hence, 
Ihitler  infers  that  he  who  denies  the  Scripture  to 
have  come  from  God,  on  account  of  diffieulties  found 
in  it,  may,  for  the  same  reason,  deny  the  world  to 
have  been  formed  by  Him.  Inexplicable  difliculties 
are  found  in  the  course  of  nature ; no  sound  theist 
can  therefore  be  surprised  to  find  similar  ditliculties 
in  the  Christian  religion.  If  both  proceed  from  the 
sanie  author,  the  wonder  would  rather  he,  that,  even 
on  this  i)iferior  ground  of  ditlicidty  and  adaptation 
to  the  comi)rchension  of  man,  there  should  not  be 
found  the  impress  of  the  same  hand,  whose  works  we 
can  trace  hut  a very  little  way,  and  whose  word 
equally  transcends  on  some  points  the  feeble  efforts 
of  unassisted  reason.  All  llutlcr’s  arguments  on 
natural  and  revealed  religion  are  marked  by  pro- 
found thought  and  sagacity.  In  a volume  of  ser- 
mons published  by  him,  he  shines  equally  as  an 
ethical  philosopher.  In  the  three  first,  on  human 
nature,  he  has  laid  the  science  of  morals  on  a surer 
foundation  than  any  previous  writer.  After  show- 
ing that  our  social  affections  are  disinterested,  he 
proceeds  to  vindicate  the  supremacy  of  the  moral 
sentiments.  Man  is,  in  his  view,  a law  to  himself ; 
but  the  intimations  of  tliis  law  are  not  to  he  deduced 
from  the  strength  or  temporary  predominance  of 
any  single  ai>petite  or  passion.  They  are  to  be  de- 
duced from  the  dictates  of  one  principle,  which  is 
evidently  intended  to  rule  over  the  other  parts  of 
our  nature,  and  which  is.sues  its  mandates  with 
authority.  This  master  principle  is  conscience, 
which  rests  upon  rectitude  as  its  object,  as  disinte- 
restedly as  the  social  affections  rest  upon  their  ap- 
propriate objects,  and  as  naturally  as  the  appetite  of 
imnger  is  satisfied  with  food.  The  ethical  system 
of  Butler  has  been  adopted  by  Reid,  Stewart,  and 
Brown.  Sir  .Tames  Mackintosli  (who  acknowledged 
that  Bishop  Butler  was  his  father  in  philosophy) 
made  an  addition  to  it ; he  took  the  principle  of 
utility  as  a test  or  criterion  of  the  rectitude  or  vir- 
tue which,  with  Butler,  he  maintained  to  be  the  pro- 
per object  of  our  moral  affections.  The  life  of  this 
eminent  prelate  affords  a pleasing  instance  of  talent 
winning  its  w.ay  to  distinction  in  the  midst  of  diffi- 
culties. lie  was  born  in  1692,  the  son  of  a shop- 
keeper at  Wantage,  in  Berkshire.  His  father  was 
a Presbyterian,  and  intended  his  son  to  be  a minister 
of  the  same  persuasion,  but  the  latter  conformed  to 
the  establishment,  took  orders,  and  was  successively 
preacher  at  the  Rolls  chapel,  prebendary  of  Ro- 
chester, clerk  of  the  closet  to  the  queen,  bishop  of 
Bristol,  and  bishop  of  Durham.  He  owed  much  to 
Queen  Caroline,  who  h.ad  a ])liilosophical  taste,  and 
valued  his  talents  and  virtues.  Butler  died  on  the 
16th  of  June  1752. 

BISHOP  WAKBURTON. 

No  literary  m.an  of  this  period  engrossed  in  his 
own  time  a larger  share  of  the  attention  of  the 
learned  world,  not  to  speak  of  the  public  at  large, 
than  did  Wili.iam  Warburton,  bishop  of  Glou- 
cester (1698-1779).  Prodigious  powers  of  study 
and  of  expression,  a bold  and  original  waj'  of  think- 
ing, and  indomitable  self-will  and  arrogance,  were 
the  leading  characteristics  of  this  extraordinary 
man,  who  unfortunately  was  too  eager  to  astonisli 
and  arrest  the  attention  of  mankind,  to  care  for  any 
more  beneficial  result  from  his  literary  e.xertions; 
and  whose  writings  have,  accordingly,  after  passing 
ike  a splendid  meteor  across  the  horizon  of  his  own 
age,  sunk  into  all  but  oblivion.  He  was  the  son  of 
an  attorney  at  Newark,  and  entered  life  in  the  same 


pnjfession,  and  at  the  same  town,  hut  soon  .saw  fit 
to  abandon  a pursuit  in  which  it  was  evident  he 
could  have  no  success.  A passion  for  reading  led 
Warburton  in  his  twenty-fifth  year  to  adopt  the 


Bishop  Warburton. 

clerical  profession.  He  took  deacon’s  orders,  and  by 
a dedication  to  a small  and  obscure  volume  of  trans- 
lations published  in  172.3,  obtained  a presentation  to 
a small  vicarage.  He  now  threw  himself  amidst  the 
inferior  literary  society  of  the  metropolis,  and  sought 
for  subsistence  and  advancement  by  his  pen.  On 
obtaining  from  a patron  the  rectory  of  Brand  ; 

Broughton,  in  Lincolnshire,  he  retired  thither,  and  ! 

devote(>  himself  for  a long  series  of  years  to  reading.  j 

His  first  work  of  any  note  was  published  in  1736,  i 

under  the  title  of  Alliance  between  Church  and  State,  : 

which,  though  scarcely  calculated  to  please  either  ! 

party  in  the  church,  was  extensively  read,  and 
brought  the  author  into  notice.  In  the  next.  The  ' 

Divine  Legation  of  Moses,  of  which  the  first  volume  | 

iippe.ared  in  1738,  and  the  remaining  four  in  the  ! 

course  of  several  j'ears  thereafter,  the  gigantic  I 

scholarship  of  Warburton  shone  out  in  all  its  vast-  j 

ness.  It  had  often  been  objected  to  the  pretensions  | 

of  the  Jewish  religion,  that  it  presented  nowhere  i 

any  acknowledgment  of  the  principle  of  a future 
state  of  rewards  and  punishments.  Warburton,  who 
delighted  in  pariidox,  instead  of  attempting  to  deny 
this  or  explain  it  away,  at  once  acknowledged  it,  but 
asserted  that  therein  lay  the  strongest  argument  for 
the  divine  mission  of  Moses.  To  establish  this  point, 
he  ransacked  the  whole  donuains  of  pagan  antiquity, 
and  reared  such  a mass  of  curious  and  confounding  I 
argument,  tliat  mankind  might  be  said  to  be  awed 
by  it  into  a i)artial  concession  to  the  author’s  views. 

He  never  completed  the  work  ; he  became,  indeed, 
weary  of  it ; and  perhaps  the  fallacy  of  the  hypo- 
thesis was  first  secretly  acknowledged  by  bimself.  • 
If  it  had  been  consecrated  to  truth,  instead  of  j)ara- 
dox,  it  would  h.ave  been  by  far  the  most  illustrious 
book  of  its  age.  As  it  is,  we  oidy  look  into  it  to  | 
wonder  at  its  endless  learning  and  misspent  inge-  | 
nuity. 

The  merits  of  the  author,  or  his  worldly  wisdom, 
brought  him  preferment  in  the  church : he  rosa 
through  the  grades  of  prebend  of  Gloucester,  pre- 
bend of  Durham,  and  dean  of  Bristol,  to  be  (1’’59' 

214 


WRITERS  IN  PIVINITT. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


BISHOP  WARBURTOM. 


bishop  of  Gloucester — a remarkable  transition  for 
the  Newark  attorney. 

It  would  he  tedious  to  detail  the  other  literary 
adventures  of  this  arrogant  prelate.  The  only  one 
which  falls  particularly  in  our  way  is  his  edition  of 
Pope’s  works,  for  the  publication  of  which  he  had 
obtained  a patent  right  in  consequence  of  the  poet’s 
bequest.  The  annotations  of  Warburton  upon  Pope, 
perverting  the  author’s  ii'eaning  in  miinberless  in- 
stances, and  full  of  malignity  against  half  the  learned 
men  of  the  age,  were  a disgrace  to  contemiiorary 
liteiature.  Yet  for  many  years  the  works  of  Pope 
could  not  be  possessed  without  this  monstrous  in- 
cumbrance. The  latter  years  of  Warburton  were 
spent  in  a melancholy  state  of  mental  weakness, 
partly  occasioned  by  grief'  for  the  loss  of  a son ; for, 
like  the  butcher  animals,  this  man.  ^uthle^s  to  all 
others,  had  kind  feelings  towards  his  own  kindred. 
Ten  years  after  his  death,  his  great  work  is  spoken 
of  by  Gibbon  as  already  a brilliant  ruin.  It  is  now 
rarely  referred  to,  its  learning  being  felt  as  no  at- 
traction where  the  solid  qualities  of  truth  are  want- 
ing. Warburton  is  indeed  as  perfect  a proof  of  the 
futility  of  talent  without  moral  direction,  as  could 
be  produced  from  the  meanest  walks  of  literature. 
He  gave  all  to  a bad  ambition,  in  which  the  chief 
object  seems  to  have  been  to  make  his  fellow  crea- 
tures wonder  at  and  stand  in  awe  of  him.  Such 
feelings  as  he  excited  are  doomed  to  be  transient. 
They  have  passed  away;  and  Warburton,  having 
never  conferred  any  solid  benefit  on  his  kind,  is 
already  little  else  than  a name. 

f The  Grecian  Mythology — The  Various  Lights  in  which 
it  was  regarded.] 

[Frcm  the  ‘ Divine  Legatioa.’] 

Here  matters  rested  : and  the  vulgar  faith  seems  to 
have  rem.ained  a long  time  undisturbed.  But  as  the 
age  grew  refined,  and  the  Greeks  became  inquisitive 
and  learned,  the  common  mythology  began  to  give 
offence.  The  speculative  and  more  delicate  were 
shocked  at  the  absurd  and  immoral  stories  of  their 
gods,  and  scandalised  to  find  such  things  make  an 
authentic  p.art  of  their  story.  It  may,  indeed,  be 
thought  matter  of  wonder  how  such  tales,  taken  up  in 
a barbarous  age,  came  not  to  sink  into  oblivion  as  the 
age  grew  more  knowing,  from  mere  abhorrence  of  their 
indecencies  and  shame  of  their  absurdities.  Without 
doubt  this  had. been  their  fortune,  but  for  an  unlucky 
circumstance.  The  great  poets  of  Greece,  who  had 
most  contributed  to  refine  the  public  taste  and  man- 
ners, and  were  now  grown  into  a kind  of  sacred 
authority,  had  sanctified  these  silly  legends  by  their 
writings,  which  time  had  now  consigned  to  immor- 
tality. 

Vulgar  paganism,  therefore,  in  such  an  age  as  this, 
lying  open  to  the  attacks  of  curio-us  and  inquisitive 
men,  would  not,  we  may  well  think,  be  long  at  rest. 
It  is  true,  freethinking  then  lay  under  great  difficul- 
ties and  discouragements.  To  insult  the  religion  of 
one’s  country,  which  is  now  the  mark  of  learned  dis- 
tinction, was  branded  in  the  ancient  world  with  public 
infiiny.  Yet  freethinkers  there  were,  who,  as  is  their 
wont,  together  with  the  public  worship  of  their  country, 
threw  off  all  reverence  for  religion  in  general.  Amongst 
these  was  Euhemerus,  the  Messenian,  and,  by  what  we 
can  learn,  the  most  distinguished  of  this  tribe.  This 
man,  in  mere  wantonness  of  heart,  began  his  attacks 
on  religion  by  divulging  the  secret  of  the  my.steries. 
But  as  it  was  capital  to  do  this  directly  and  pro- 
fessedly, he  contrived  to  cover  his  perfidy  and  malice 
by  the  intervention  of  a kind  of  Utopian  romance. 
He  pretended,  ‘ that  in  a certain  city,  which  he  came 
to  in  his  travels,  he  found  this  grand  secret,  that  the 


gods  were  dead  men  deified,  preferred  in  their  sacred 
writings,  and  confirmed  by  monumental  records  in- 
scribed to  the  gods  themselves,  who  were  there  said  to 
bo  interred.’  So  far  was  not  amiss  ; but  then,  in  the 
genuine  spirit  of  his  cla.ss,  who  never  cultivate  a truth 
but  in  order  to  graft  a lie  upon  it,  he  pretended  ‘ that 
dead  mortals  were  the  first  gods,  and  that  an  ima- 
ginary divinity  in  these  early  heroes  and  conquerors 
created  the  idea  of  a superior  power,  and  introduced 
the  practice  of  religious  worship  amongst  men.’  The 
learned  reader  sees  below  [note  in  Greek  omitted] 
that  our  freethinker  is  true  to  his  cause,  and  en- 
deavours to  verify  the  fundamental  principle  of  his 
sect,  that  fear  first  made  gods,  even  in  that  very  in- 
stance where  the  contrary  passion  seems  to  have  been 
at  its  height,  the  time  when  men  made  gods  of  their 
deceased  benefactors.  A little  matter  of  address  hides 
the  shame  of  so  perverse  a piece  of  malice.  He  repre- 
sents those  founders  of  society  and  fathers  of  theii 
country  under  the  idea  of  destructive  conquerors,  who 
by  mere  force  and  fear  had  brought  men  into  subjec- 
tion and  slavery.  On  this  account  it  was  that  indig- 
nant antiquity  concurred  in  giving  Euhemerus  the 
proper  name  of  atlieist,  which,  however,  he  would 
hardly  have  escaped,  though  he  had  done  no  more 
than  divulge  the  secret  of  the  mysteries,  and  had  not 
poisoned  his  discovery  with  this  impious  and  foreign 
addition,  so  contrary  to  the  true  spirit  of  that  secret. 

This  detection  had  been  long  dreaded  by  tlie 
orthodox  protectors  of  pagan  worship ; and  they  were 
provided  of  a temporary  defence  in  their  intricate  and 
properly  perplexed  system  of  symbolic  adoration. 
But  this  would  do  only  to  stop  a breach  for  the  pre- 
sent, till  a better  could  be  provided,  and  was  too 
weak  to  stand  alone  against  so  violent  an  attack. 
The  philosophers,  therefore,  now  took  up  the  defence 
of  paganism  where  the  priests  had  left  it,  and  to  the 
otliers’  symbols  added  their  own  allegories,  for  a 
second  cover  to  the  absurdities  of  the  ancient  mytho- 
logy ; for  all  the  genuine  sects  of  pliilosophy,  as  we 
have  observed,  were  steady  patriots,  legislation  making 
one  essential  part  of  their  philosophy  ; and  to  legis- 
late without  the  foundation  of  a national  religion, 
was,  in  their  opinion,  building  castles  in  the  air.  So 
that  we  are  not  to  wonder  they  took  the  alarm,  and 
opposed  these  insulters  of  the  public  worship  with  all 
their  vigour.  But  as  they  never  lost  sight  of  their 
proper  character,  they  so  contrived  that  the  defence 
of  the  national  religion  should  terminate  in  a recom- 
mendation of  their  philosophic  speculations.  Hence, 
their  support  of  the  public  worship,  and  their  evasion 
of  Euhemerus’s  charge,  turned  upon  this  proposition, 
‘ That  the  whole  ancient  mythology  was  no  other 
than  the  vehicle  of  physical,  moral,  and  divine  know- 
ledge.’ And  to  this  it  is  that  the  learned  Eusebius 
refers,  where  he  says,  ‘ That  a new  race  of  men  refined 
their  old  gross  theology,  and  gave  it  an  honester  look, 
and  brought  it  nearer  to  the  truth  of  things.’ 

However,  this  proved  a troublesome  work,  and, 
after  all,  ineffectual  for  the  security  of  men’s  private 
morals,  which  the  example  of  the  licentious  stoiy 
according  to  the  letter  would  not  fail  to  influence, 
how  well  soever  the  allegoric  interpretation  was  cal- 
culated to  cover  the  public  honour  of  religion  ; so 
that  the  more  ethical  of  the  philosophers  grew  peevish 
with  what  gave  them  so  much  trouble,  and  answered 
so  little  to  the  interior  of  religious  practice.  This 
made  them  break  out,  from  time  to  time,  into  hasty 
resentments  against  their  capital  poets ; unsuitable, 
one  would  think,  to  the  dignity  of  the  authors  of  such 
noble  recondite  truths  as  they  would  persuade  us  to 
believe  were  treasured  up  in  their  writings.  Heno 
it  was  that  Plato  banished  Homer  from  his  republic, 
and  that  Pythagoras,  in  one  of  his  extramunJane  ad- 
ventures, saw  both  Homer  and  Hesiod  doing  penance 
in  hell,  and  hung  up  there  for  examples,  to  be  bleached 

215 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


and  imi  ifiod  from  tlie  grossness  and  pollution  of  tlieir 
ideas. 

Tlie  first  of  tlicse  allegorisers,  as  we  learn  from 
Laertius,  was  .•\naxagoras,  who,  witli  his  friend  Me- 
trodorus,  turned  Homer’s  mytliology  into  a system  of 
ethies.  Ne.xt  eanie  Ilereelides  I’onticns,  and  of  the 
same  fables  ma<le  as  good  a system  of  physies  ; which, 
to  sliow  us  with  what  kind  <jf  s]iirit  it  was  coinimsed, 
he  entitled  Antiri'c.‘:i,‘i  tun  kal  autun  [IIuniei'</it]  blan- 
jihcrn<"i<ml(m.  .'Xnd  last  of  all,  wlien  the  necessity 
became  more  j)ressing,  I’roclus  undertook  to  show  that 
all  Ibuner’s  fables  were  no  other  than  physical,  ethical, 
ajid  moral  allegories.  * * 

un  uoiJKUT  i.owTiT — nn  c.  middleton — kev.  w.  law 

1)R  ISAAC  WATTS — Dll  IliCIIAIU)  HIIKD— DUG. 

nouNu — DU  jon.v  joktin. 

Du  lloHUUT  Lowth,  scconil  son  of  Dr  'William 
Lowth,  was  Isum  at  lluriton,  in  Ilanipshirc,  in  1710. 
He  entered  the  ebureh,  and  became  successively 
bishop  of  St  Daviil’s,  O.xford,  and  London;  he  died 
in  1787.  'I'he  works  of  Lowth  display  both  genius 
and  learning.  They  consist  of  Prelection  a on  Hebrew 
Poetrt/,  a Life  of  William  of  Wykeliam,  a Short  In- 
troiliiclion  to  English  Grammar,  and  a Translation  of 
Isaiah.  The  last  is  the  greatest  of  his  productions. 
The  spirit  of  eastern  poetry  is  rendered  with  fidelity, 
elegance,  and  snhlimity  ; and  the  work  is  an  ines- 
timable contribution  to  biblical  criticism  and  learn- 
ing, as  well  as  to  the  e.xalted  strains  of  the  divine 
muse. 

Du  Conyers  Middleton,  distingui.shed  for  his 
admirable  Life  of  Cicero,  mixed  freely  and  eagerly'  in 
the  religious  controversies  of  the  times.  One  writer. 
Dr  Matthew  Tindal,  served  as  a firebrand  to  the 
clergy.  Tindal  had  embraced  jinpery  in  the  reign 
of  Janies  II..  but  afterwards  renounced  it.  Being 
thus,  as  Drummond  the  poet  said  of  Ben  Johnson, 
‘of  either  religion,  as  versed  in  botli,’  he  set  himself 
to  write  on  theology,  and  jiublishcd  The  Rights  of  the 
Christian  Church  Asserted,  ami  Christianity  as  Old  as 
the  Creation.  The  latter  had  a decided  deistical 
tendency,  and  was  answered  by  several  divines,  as 
Dr  Conybeare,  Dr  Foster,  and  Dr  Waterland. 
Middleton  now  joined  in  the  argument,  and  wrote 
remarks  on  Dr  Waterland’s  manner  of  vindicating 
Scripture  against  Tindal,  which  only’  increased  the 
confusion  by  adding  to  the  elements  of  discord.  He 
also  [mblished  A Free  Inquiry  into  the  Miraculous 
Powers  of  the  Church,  which  was  answered  by  seve- 
ral of  the  high  church  clergy'.  These  treatises  have 
now  fallen  into  oblivion.  They  were  perhaps  useful 
in  preventing  religious  truths  from  stagnating  in 
that  lukewarm  age ; but  in  adverting  to  them,  we 
are  reminded  of  the  fine  saying  of  Hall — ‘ While 
Protestants  attended  more  to  the  points  on  which 
they  differed  than  those  on  which  they'  agreed,  while 
more  zeal  was  employed  in  settling  ceremonies  and 
defending  subtleties  than  in  enforcing  plain  revealed 
truths,  the  lovely  fruits  of  peace  and  charity  perished 
under  the  storms  of  controversy.’ 

A permanent  service  was  rendered  to  the  cause  of 
Christianity  by  the  writings  of  the  Rev.  William 
Law  (1686-17fil),  author  of  a still  popular  work, 
A Serious  Call  to  a Holy  Life,  which,  hapjiening  to 
fall  into  tlie  hands  of  Dr  Johnson  at  college,  gave 
that  eminent  person  ‘ the  first  occasion  of  thinking 
in  earnest  of  religion  after  he  became  capable  of 
rational  inquiry.’  Law  was  a Jacobite  nonconfor- 
mist : he  was  tutor  to  the  father  of  Gibbon  the 
historian. 

The  two  elementary  works  of  Du  Isaac  IVatts — 
his  Logic,  or  the  Right  Use  of  Reason,  imblished  in 
• 724,  and  his  Improvement  oj  'he  Mind  (a  supplement 


to  the  former),  were  both  designed  to  advance  the 
interests  of  religion,  and  are  well  adapted  to  the 
purpose.  'Various  theological  treatises  were  also 
written  by  AV’atts. 

Du  Richard  Hurd  (1720-1808).  a friend  and 
(liscii)le  of  Warburton,  was  author  of  an  Introiluction 
to  the  Study  of  the  Prophecies,  being  the  substance  of 
twelve  discourses  delivered  at  Cambridge.  Hurd 
was  a man  of  taste  and  leaniing.  author  of  a com- 
mentary on  Horace,  and  editor  of  Cowley's  work.s. 
He  rose  to  enjoy  high  church  preferment,  and  died 
bishop  of  Worcester,  after  having  declined  the  arehi- 
episcopal  see  of  Canterbury. 

Dr  George  Horne  (1730-1792)  was  another 
divine  whose  talents  and  learning  raised  him  to  the 
bench  of  bishops.  He  wrote  various  works,  the 
most  important  of  which  is  a Commentary  on  the 
Book  of  Psalms,  which  appeared  in  1776  in  two 
volumes  quarto.  It  is  still  a text-book  with  theolo- 
gical students  and  divines,  and  unites  extensive 
eruilition  with  fervent  piety. 

Dr  John  Jortin  (1698-1770),  a prebendary  of 
St  Paul’s  and  archdeacon  of  London,  was  an  eminent 
scholar,  and  an  independent  theologian.  He  wrote 
various  dissertations.  Remarks  on  Ecclesiastical  His- 
tory, a Life  of  Erasmus,  &c.  'I'he  freedom  of  some 
of  his  strictures  gave  offence  to  the  high  church 
clergy.  Of  a similar  character,  but  less  orthodox  in 
his  tenets,  was  Dr  John  Jebb,  who  obtained  con- 
siderable preferment  in  the  church,  which  he  re- 
signed on  imbibing  Smdnian  opinions.  On  quitting 
the  church,  Jehb  studied  and  jiractised  as  a physi- 
cian: he  died  in  1786,  aged  fifty.  His  works  oa 
theology  and  other  subjects  form  three  volumes. 

Of  the  other  theological  and  devotional  produc- 
tions of  the  established  clergy  of  this  age,  there  i.s 
only  room  to  notice  a few  of  the  best.  'The  disser- 
tations of  Bishop  Newton  on  various  parts  of  the 
Bible ; the  Lectures  on  the  English  Church  Catechism, 
by  Archbishop  Seeker  ; Bishop  Law’s  Consiilerations 
on  the  Theory  of  Religion,  and  his  Reflections  on  the 
Life  and  Character  of  Christ,  are  all  works  of  stan- 
dard excellence.  The  labours  of  Dr  Kennicot,  in 
the  collection  of  various  manuscripts  of  the  Hebrew 
Bible,  are  also  worthy  of  being  here  mentioned  as 
an  eminent  service  to  sacred  literature. 

GEORGE  WHITEFIELD — JOHN  WESLET. 

Connected  with  the  English  cst.ablishment,  j'ot 
ultimately  separating  from  it,  were  those  two  re- 
markable men,  Whitefield  and  Wesley.  Both  were 
highly  useful  in  their  day  and  generation,  and  they 
enjoyed  a popularity  rarely  attained  b^-  divines. 
George  Whitefield  was  born  in  Gloucester  in 
1714.  He  took  orders,  and  preached  in  London  with 
astonishing  success.  He  made  several  voyages  to 
America,  where  he  was  equ.ally  popular.  Whitefield 
adopted  the  Calvinistic  doctrines,  and  preached 
them  with  incessant  activity,  and  an  eloquence  un- 
paralleled in  its  effects.  As  a popular  orator  he 
was  passionate  and  vehement,  wielding  his  audiences 
almost  at  will,  and  so  fascinating  in  his  style  and 
manner,  that  Hume  the  historian  said  he  was  worth 
travelling  twenty  miles  to  hear.  He  died  in  New- 
bury, New  England,  in  1770.  His  writings  are  tame 
and  commonplace,  and  his  admirers  regretted  that 
he  should  have  injured  his  fame  by  resorting  to 
publication. 

John  Wesley  was  more  learned,  and  in  all  re- 
spects better  fitted  to  become  the  leader  and  founder 
of  a sect.  His  father  was  rector  of  Epworth,  in  Lin- 
colnshire, where  John  was  born  in  1703.  He  was 
educated  at  Oxford,  where  he  and  his  brother  Ch.arles, 
and  a few  other  students,  lived  in  a regular  svsteni  of 

216 


■WmTKUS  IN  DIVINITT. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  IIUCII  BLAIR. 


pious  Study  ami  disciplino,  wlieiice  tliey  were  deno- 
minated Aletliodists.  After  oflieiating  a short  time 
as  curate  to  his  father,  the  young  entliusiast  set 
otf  as  a missionary  to  Georgia,  wliere  he  remained 
about  two  years.  Shortly  after  his  return  in  1738, 
he  commenced  field-preaehiug,  occasionally  travel- 
ling through  every  part  of  Great  Rritaiu  and  Ireland, 
where  he  established  congregations  of  IMethodists. 
Thousands  flocked  to  his  standard.  The  grand  doc- 
trine of  Wesley  was  universal  redemption,  as  eon- 
tradistiiiguished  from  the  Calvinistic  doctrine  of 
])articular  redemption,  and  his  jiroselytes  were,  by 
the  act  of  conversion,  made  regenerate  men.  The 
IMethodists  also  received  lay  converts  as  preachers, 
who,  by  their  itinerant  ministrations  and  unquench- 
able enthusiasm,  confributed  materially  to  the  ex- 
tension of  their  societies.  Wesley  continued  writ- 
ing, preaching,  and  travelling,  till  he  was  eighty- 
eight  years  of  age ; his  apostolic  earnestness  and 
venerable  appearance  procured  for  him  everywhere 
jirofouud  rcsjiect.  He  had  preached  about  forty 
thousand  sermons,  and  travelled  three  hundred 
thousand  miles.  His  highly  useful  and  laborious 
career  was  terminated  on  the  2d  of  March  1791. 
His  body  lay  in  a kind  of  state  in  his  chapel  at 
London  the  day  previous  to  his  interment,  dressed 
in  his  clerical  habit,  with  gown,  cassock,  and  band; 
the  old  clerical  cap  on  his  head,  a Bible  in  one  hand, 
and  a white  handkerchief  in  the  other.  The  funeral 
service  was  reail  by  one  of  his  old  preachers.  ‘ When 
he  came  to  that  part  of  the  service,  “ forasmuch  as 
it  hath  pleased  God  to  take  unto  himself  the  soul  of 
our  dear  brother''  his  voice  changed,  and  he  substi- 
tuted the  word  father ; and  the  feeling  with  which 
he  did  this  was  such,  that  the  congregation,  who 
w’ere  shedding  silent  tears,  burst  at  once  into  loud 
weeping.’  * At  the  time  of  Wesley’s  death,  the 
number  of  Methodists  in  Europe,  America,  and  the 
West  India  islands,  was  80,000 : they  are  now  above 
a million — three  hundred  thousand  of  which  are  in 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  The  writings  and  jour- 
nals of  Wesley  are  very  voluminous,  but  he  cannot 
be  said  to  have  produced  any  one  valuable  work  in 
divinity  or  general  literature. 

NATHANIEL  LARDNER — HUGH  FARMER DR  JAMES 

FOSTER — JOHN  LELAND. 

The  English  dissenters  now  began  to  evince  their 
regard  for  learning  and  their  ardour  in  study.  Dr 
Nathaniel  Lardner  (1G84-1768)  produced  some 
treatises  of  the  highest  importance  to  the  theological 
student.  His  works  fill  eleven  octavo  volumes. 
The  chief  is  his  Credibility  of  the  Gonpel  History, 
published  between  1730  and  17.57,  in  fifteen  volumes, 
and  in  which  proofs  are  brought  from  innumerable 
sources  in  the  religious  history  and  literature  of  the 
first  five  centuries  in  favour  of  the  truth  of  Chris- 
tianity. Another  voluminous  work,  entitled  A Large 
CoUectinn  of  Ancient  Jewish  and  Heathen  Testimonies 
to  the  Truth  of  the  Christian  Ileligion,  appeared  near 
the  close  of  the  author’s  life,  and  completed  a design, 
which,  making  allowance  for  the  interruptions  occa- 
sioned by  other  studies  and  writings  of  less  impor- 
tance, occupied  his  attention  for  forty-three  years. 

Hugh  Earmer  (1714-1787),  a pupil  of  Dr  Dod- 
dridge, was  author  of  several  religious  treatises,  the 
most  important  of  which  is  his  Dissertation  on 
Miracles,  a work  of  close  reasoning  and  profound 
thought.  This  dissertation  was  published  in  1771, 
anil  still  maintains  its  place  as  one  of  the  bulwarks 
of  revealed  religion. 

Dk  .James  Poster  (1697-1752)  is  worthy  of  no- 

*  Southey's  Life  of  Wesley. 


tice  among  the  dissenting  divine.s.  as  having  obtained 
the  jioetieal  praise  of  Poiie.  ID  was  originally  an 
Independent,  but  afterwards  joined  the  Baptists,  and 
was  one  of  the  most  popular  i>reaehers  in  London. 
He  wrote  Tracts  on  Heresy,  Discourses  on  Natural 
Religion  and  Social  Virtue,  and  other  tlieologieal 
works. 

John  Leland  (1691-1766)  was  pastor  of  a con- 
gregation of  Protestant  dissenters  in  Dublin.  He 
wrote  A View  of  the  Deisticul  Writers  in  England, 
and  an  elaborate  work  on  the  Advantage  and  Neces- 
sity of  the  Christian  Revelation.  The  former  is  a solid 
and  valuable  treatise,  and  is  still  regarded  as  one  of 
the  best  confutations  of  infidelity. 

DR  HUGH  BLAIR, 

The  Scottish  church  at  this  time  also  contained 
some  able  and  accomplished  divines.  The  equality 
of  livings  in  the  northern  estahlishment,  and  the 
greater  amount  of  pastoral  labour  devolved  upon  its 
ministers,  are  unfavourahle  for  studious  research  or 
profound  erudition.  The  Edinhurgh  clergy,  how- 
ever, are  generally  men  of  talents  and  attainments, 
and  the  universities  occasionally  receive  some  of  the 
best  divines  as  professors.  One  of  the  most  popidar 
and  influential  of  the  Scottish  clergy  was  Dr  Hugh 
Blair,  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1718.  He  was  at  first 
minister  of  a country  church  in  Eifeshire,  but,  being 
celebrated  for  his  jiulpit  eloquence,  he  was  succes- 
sively preferred  to  the  Canongate,  Lady  Yester’s, 
and  the  High  Church  in  Edinburgh.  In  1759  he 
commenced  a course  of  lectures  on  rhetoric  and 
belles  lettres,  which  extended  his  literar3'  reputation; 
.and  in  1763  he  published  his  Dissertation  on  the 
Poems  of  Ossian,  a production  evincing  both  critical 
taste  and  learning.  In  1777  appeared  the  first  vo- 
lume of  his  Sermons,  which  was  so  well  received  that 
the  author  published  three  other  volumes,  and  a 
fifth  which  he  had  prepared,  was  printed  after  his 
death.  A royal  pension  of  £200  per  ammm  further 
rewarded  its  author.  Blair  next  published  his  Rhe- 
torical Lectures,  and  they  also  met  with  a favourable 
reception.  Though  somewhat  hard  and  dry  in  style 
and  manner,  this  work  forms  a useful  guide  to  the 
young  student : it  is  carefully  arranged,  contains 
abundance  of  examples  in  every  department  of  lite- 
rafy  composition,  and  has  also  detailed  criticisms  on 
ancient  and  modern  authors.  The  sermons,  how- 
ever, are  the  most  valuable  of  Blair’s  works.  They 
are  written  with  taste  and  elegance,  and  by  incul- 
cating Christian  morality  without  any  allusion  to 
controversial  topics,  are  suited  to  all  classes  of  Chris- 
tians. Profound  thought,  or  reasoning,  or  impas- 
sioned eloquence,  they  certainly'  do  not  possess,  and 
in  this  respect  they  must  be  considered  inferior  to 
the  posthumous  sermons  of  Logan  the  poet,  which, 
if  occasional!)'  irregular,  or  faulty  in  style,  have 
more  of  devotional  ardour  and  vivid  de.scription.  In 
society  Dr  Blair  was  cheerful  and  polite,  the  friend 
of  literature  as  well  as  of  virtue.  His  predominant 
weakness  seems  to  have  been  v.anif)’,  which  was 
soon  discovered  by  Burns,  in  his  memorable  resi- 
dence in  Edinburgh  in  1787.  Blair  died  on  the  27th 
of  December  1800. 

[On  the  Cultivation  of  Taste.~\ 

[From  ‘ Blair’s  Lectures.’] 

Such  studies  have  this  peculiar  adv.antage,  that  the/ 
exercise  our  reason  without  fatiguing  it.  They  lead 
to  inquiries  acute,  but  not  painful ; profound,  but  not 
dry  or  abstruse.  They  strew  flowers  in  the  path  of 
science,  and  while  they  keep  the  mind  bent  in  some 
degree  and  active,  they  relieve  it  at  the  same  time 

217 


PROM  1727 


CYCLOPyEDIA  OP 


TO  178o. 


from  that  more  toilrtome  labour  to  which  it  must  sub- 
mit in  tlie  acquisition  of  necessary  erudition  or  the 
investigation  of  abstract  trutli. 

The  cultivation  of  taste  is  further  recommended  by 
the  happy  effects  wliich  it  naturally  tends  to  produce 
on  human  life.  The  most  busy  man  in  the  most 
active  sphere  cannot  he  always  occupied  by  business. 
Men  of  serious  ])rofessions  cannot  always  be  on  the 
stretch  of  serious  thought.  Neither  can  the  most  gay 
ami  flourishing  situations  of  fortune  afford  any  man  the 
power  of  filling  all  his  hours  with  pleasure.  Life  must 
always  languish  in  the  hands  of  the  idle.  It  will 
frequently  languish  even  in  the  hands  of  the  busy,  if 
they  have  not  some  employment  subsidiary  to  that 
which  forms  their  main  pursuit.  How  then  shall 
these  vacant  spaces,  those  unemployed  intervals, 
nhich  more  or  less  occur  in  the  life  of  every  one,  be 
filled  up?  How  can  we  contrive  to  dispose  of  them 
in  any  way  that  shall  be  more  agreeable  in  itself,  or 
more  consonant  to  the  dignity  of  the  human  mind, 
than  in  the  entertainments  of  taste,  and  the  study  of 
polite  literature?  He  who  is  .so  happy  as  to  have 
acquired  a relish  for  these,  has  always  at  hand  an  in- 
nocent and  irreproachable  amusement  for  his  leisure 
hours,  to  save  him  from  the  danger  of  many  a perni- 
cious passion.  He  is  not  in  hazard  of  being  a burden 
to  himself.  He  is  not  obliged  to  fly  to  low  company, 
or  to  court  the  riot  of  loose  pleasures,  in  order  to  cure 
the  tediousness  of  existence. 

Providence  seems  ])lainly  to  have  pointed  out  this 
useful  purpose  to  which  the  pleasui-es  of  taste  may 
be  applied,  by  interposing  them  in  a middle  station 
between  the  pleasures  of  sense  and  those  of  i)ure 
intellect.  We  were  not  designed  to  grovel  always 
among  objects  so  low  as  the  former ; nor  are  we  cap- 
able of  dwelling  constantly  in  so  high  a region  as  the 
latter.  The  pleasures  of  taste  refresh  the  mind  after 
the  toils  of  the  intellect  and  the  labours  of  abstract 
study  ; and  they  gradually  raise  it  above  the  attach- 
ments of  sense,  and  prepare  it  for  the  enjoyments  of 
virtue. 

So  consonant  is  this  to  experience,  that,  in  the  edu- 
cation of  youth,  no  object  has  in  every  age  appeared 
more  important  to  wise  men  than  to  tincture  them 
early  with  a relish  for  the  entertainments  of  taste. 
The  transition  is  commonly  made  with  ease  from  these 
to  the  discharge  of  the  higher  and  more  important 
duties  of  life.  Good  hopes  may  be  entertained  of 
those  whose  minds  have  this  liberal  and  elegant  turn. 
It  is  favourable  to  many  virtues.  Whereas,  to  be 
entirely  devoid  of  relish  for  eloquence,  poetry,  or  any  of 
the  fine  arts,  is  justly  construed  to  be  an  unpromising 
sympitom  of  youth ; and  raises  suspicions  of  their 
being  prone  to  low  gratifications,  or  destined  to 
drudge  in  the  more  vulgar  and  illiberal  pursuits  of 
life. 

There  are  indeed  few  good  dispositions  of  any  kind 
with  which  the  improvement  of  taste  is  not  more  or 
les.s  connected.  A cultivated  taste  increases  sensibi- 
lity to  all  the  tender  and  humane  passions,  by  giving 
them  frequent  e.xercise ; while  it  tends  to  weaken  the 
more  violent  and  fierce  emotions. 

Ingenuas  didicisse  fidellter  artes 

Emollit  mores,  nee  sinlt  esse  feros.* 

The  elevated  sentiments  and  high  examples  which 
poetry,  eloquence,  and  history  are  often  bringing  under 
our  view,  naturally  tend  to  nourish  in  our  minds 
public  spirit,  the  love  of  glory,  contempt  of  external 
fortune,  and  the  admiration  of  what  is  truly  illus- 
trious and  great. 

I will  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  improvement 
of  taste  and  of  virtue  is  the  same,  or  that  they  may 

♦ These  polished  arts  have  humanised  mankind. 

Softened  the  rude  and  calmed  the  boisterous  mind. 


always  be  expected  to  coexist  in  an  equal  degree. 
More  powerful  correctives  than  taste  can  apply  are 
neces.sary  for  reforming  the  corrupt  propensities  which 
too  frequently  prevail  among  mankind.  Elegant 
speeulations  are  sometimes  found  to  float  on  the  sur- 
faee  of  the  mind,  while  bad  passions  pos.sess  the  inte- 
rior regions  of  the  heart.  At  the  same  time  this 
cannot  but  be  admitted,  that  the  exercise  of  taste  is, 
in  its  native  tendeney,  moral  and  purifying.  From 
reading  the  most  admired  productions  of  genius, 
whether  in  poetry  or  prose,  almost  every  one  rises 
with  some  good  impressions  left  on  his  mind  ; and 
though  these  may  not  always  be  durable,  they  are  at 
least  to  be  ranked  among  the  means  of  disposing  the 
heart  to  virtue.  One  thing  is  certain,  that  with- 
out pos.sessing  the  virtuous  affections  in  a strong 
degree,  no  man  can  attain  eminence  in  the  sublime 
parts  of  eloquence.  He  mu.st  feel  what  a good  man 
feels,  if  he  expects  greatly  to  move  or  to  interest  man- 
kind. They  are  the  ardent  sentiments  of  honour, 
virtue,  magnanimity,  and  public  sjiirit,  that  only  can 
kindle  that  fire  of  genius,  and  call  up  into  the  mind 
those  high  ideas,  which  attract  the  admiration  of  ages  ; 
and  if  this  spirit  be  necessary  to  produce  the  most 
distinguished  efforts  of  eloquence,  it  must  be  neces- 
sary also  to  our  relishing  them  with  proper  taste  and 
feeling. 

[Difference  letween  Taste  and  Genius.'] 

[From  the  same.] 

Taste  and  genius  are  two  words  frequently  joined 
together,  and  therefore,  by  inaccurate  thinkers,  con- 
founded. They  signify,  however,  two  quite  different 
things.  The  difference  between  them  can  be  clearly 
pointed  out,  and  it  is  of  importance  to  remember  it. 
Taste  consists  in  the  power  of  judging;  genius  in  the 
power  of  executing.  One  may  have  a considerable 
degree  of  taste  in  poetry,  eloquence,  or  any  of  the  fine 
arts,  who  has  little  or  hardly  any  genius  for  com- 
position or  execution  in  any  of  these  arts  ; but  genius 
cannot  be  found  without  including  taste  also.  Genius, 
therefore,  deserves  to  be  considered  as  a higher  power 
of  the  mind  than  taste.  Genius  always  imports  some- 
thing inventive  or  creative,  which  does  not  rest  in 
mere  sensibility  to  beauty  where  it  is  perceived,  but  j 
which  can,  moreover,  produce  new  beauties,  and  ex-  | 
hibit  them  in  such  a manner  as  strongly  to  impress  I j 
the  minds  of  others.  Refined  ta.ste  forms  a good 
critic ; but  genius  is  further  necessary  to  form  the  I 

poet  or  the  orator.  | 

It  is  proper  also  to  observe,  that  genius  is  a wora  | 

which,  in  common  acceptation,  extends  much  further  I 

than  to  the  objects  of  taste.  It  is  used  to  signify  that  j | 
talent  or  aptitude  which  we  receive  from  nature  for  I 
excelling  in  any  one  thing  whatever.  Thus,  we  speak  | 

of  a genius  for  mathematics,  as  well  as  a genius  for  | 

poetry — of  a genius  for  war,  for  politics,  or  for  any  j 
mechanical  employment.  | 

This  talent  or  aptitude  for  excelling  in  some  one 
particular  is,  I have  .said,  what  we  receive  from  nature. 

By  art  and  study,  no  doubt,  it  may  be  greatly  ira-  | 
proved,  but  by  them  alone  it  cannot  be  acquired.  As 
genius  is  a higher  faculty  than  taste,  it  is  ever,  ac- 
cording to  the  usual  frugality  of  nature,  more  limited  i 
in  the  sphere  of  its  operations.  It  is  not  uncommon  I 
to  meet  with  persons  who  have  an  exeellent  taste  in  | 
several  of  the  polite  arts,  such  as  music,  poetry,  paint-  i 
ing,  and  eloquence,  all  together ; but  to  find  one  who  | 
is  an  excellent  performer  in  all  these  arts,  is  much  ! 

more  rare,  or  rather,  indeed,  such  a one  is  not  to  bo  i 
looked  for.  A sort  of  universal  genius,  or  one  who  is  i 
equally  and  indifferently  turned  towards  several  difle-  I i 
rent  professions  and  arts,  is  not  likely  to  excel  in  any;  j j 
although  there  may  be  some  few  exceptions,  yet  in  ! 
general  it  holds,  that  when  the  bent  of  the  mind  is  l 

218 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WRITEUS  IN  DIVINITY. 


DR  HUGH  BLAIR. 


wholly  directed  towards  some  one  object,  exclusive  in 
a manner  of  others,  there  is  the  fairest  prospect  of 
eminence  in  that,  whatever  it  be.  The  rays  must 
converge  to  a point,  in  order  to  glow  intensely. 

[On  Sublimity.^ 

[From  the  same.] 

It  is  not  easy  to  describe  in  words  the  precise  im- 
pression which  great  and  sublime  objects  make  upon 
us  when  we  behold  them  ; but  every  one  has  a con- 
ception of  it.  It  produces  a sort  of  internal  elevation 
and  e.xpansion ; it  raises  the  mind  much  above  its 
ordinary  state,  and  fills  it  with  a degree  of  wonder 
avd  a-stonishinent  which  it  cannot  well  expres.s.  The 
emotion  is  certainly  delightful,  but  it  is  altogether  of 
the  serious  kind  ; a degree  of  awfulness  and  solemnity, 
even  approaching  to  severity,  commonly  attends  it 
when  at  its  height,  very  distinguishable  from  the  more 
gay  and  brisk  emotion  raised  by  beautiful  objects. 

The  simplest  form  of  external  grandeur  appears  in 
the  vast  and  boundless  prospects  presented  to  us  by 
nature ; such  as  wide  extended  plains,  to  which  the 
eye  can  see  no  limits,  the  firmament  of  heaven,  or 
the  boundless  expanse  of  the  ocean.  All  vastness 
produces  the  impression  of  sublimity.  It  is  to  be 
remarked,  however,  that  space,  extended  in  length, 
makes  not  so  strong  an  impression  as  height  or  depth. 
Though  a boundless  plain  be  a grand  object,  yet  a 
high  mountain,  to  which  we  look  up,  or  ..n  awful  pre- 
cipice or  tower,  whence  we  look  down  o.i  the  objects 
which  lie  below,  is  still  more  so.  The  excessive  gran- 
deur of  the  firmament  arises  from  its  height,  joined  to 
its  boundless  extent ; and  that  of  the  ocean  not  from 
its  extent  alone,  but  from  the  perpetual  motion  and 
irresistible  force  of  that  mass  of  waters.  M'herever 
space  is  concerned,  it  is  clear  that  amplitude  or  great- 
ness of  extent  in  one  dimension  or  other  is  necessary 
to  grandeur.  Remove  all  bounds  from  any  object, 
and  you  presently  render  it  sublime.  Hence  infinite 
space,  endless  numbers,  and  eternal  duration,  fill  the 
mind  with  great  ideas. 

From  this  some  have  imagined  that  vastness  or 
amplitude  of  extent  is  the  foundation  of  all  sub- 
limity. But  I cannot  be  of  this  opinion,  because 
many  objects  appear  sublime  which  have  no  relation 
to  space  at  all.  Such,  for  instance,  is  great  loudness 
of  sound.  The  burst  of  thunder  or  of  cannon,  the 
roaring  of  winds,  the  shouting  of  multitudes,  the 
sound  of  vast  cataracts  of  water,  are  all  incontestably 
grand  objects.  ‘ I heard  the  voice  of  a great  multi- 
tude, as  the  sound  of  many  waters,  and  of  mighty 
thunderings,  saying.  Hallelujah.’  In  general,  we 
may  observe  that  great  power  and  force  exerted 
always  raise  sublime  ideas  ; and  perhaps  the  most 
copious  source  of  these  is  derived  from  this  quarter. 
Hence  the  grandeur  of  earthquakes  and  burning  moun- 
tains ; of  great  conflagrations  ; of  the  stormy  ocean 
and  overflowing  waters  ; of  tempests  of  wind  ; of  thun- 
der and  lightning ; and  of  all  the  uncommon  violence 
of  the  elements : nothing  is  more  sublime  than  mighty 
power  and  strength.  A stream  that  runs  within  its 
banks  is  a beautiful  object,  but  when  it  rushes  down 
with  the  impetuosity  and  noise  of  a torrent,  it  pre- 
sently becomes  a sublime  one.  From  lions,  and  other 
animals  of  strength,  are  drawn  sublime  comparisons 
in  poets.  A race-horse  is  looked  upon  with  pleasure ; 
but  it  is  the  war-horse,  ‘ whose  neck  is  clothed  with 
thunder,’  that  carries  grandeur  in  its  idea.  The  en- 
gagement of  two  great  armies,  as  it  is  the  highest 
exertion  of  human  might,  combines  a variety  of 
sources  of  the  sublime,  and  has  accordingly  been 
always  considered  as  one  of  the  most  striking  and 
magnificent  spectacles  that  can  be  either  presented  to 
the  eye,  or  exhibited  to  the  imagination  in  descrip- 
tion. 


For  the  further  illustration  of  this  subject,  it  is 
proper  to  remark,  that  all  idca.s  of  the  solemn  and 
awful  kind,  and  even  bordering  on  the  terrible,  tend 
greatly  to  assist  the  sublime  ; such  as  darkness,  soli- 
tude, and  silence.  What  are  the  scenes  of  nature  that 
elevate  the  mind  in  the  highest  degree,  and  produce 
the  sublime  sensation  ? Not  the  gay  landscape,  the 
flowery  field,  or  the  flourishing  city  ; but  the  hoary 
mountain-s,  and  the  solitary  lake,  the  aged  forest,  and 
the  torrent  falling  over  the  rock.  Hence,  too,  night 
scenes  are  commonly  the  most  sublime.  The  firma- 
ment, when  filled  with  stars,  scattered  in  such  vast 
numbers,  and  with  such  magnificent  profusion,  strikes 
the  imagination  with  a more  awful  grandeur  than 
when  we  view  it  enlightened  with  all  the  splendour 
of  the  sun.  The  deep  sound  of  a great  bell,  or  the 
striking  of  a great  clock,  are  at  any  time  grand,  but, 
when  heard  amid  the  silence  and  stillness  of  the  night, 
they  become  doubly  so.  Darkness  is  very  commonly 
applied  for  adding  sublimity  to  all  our  ideas  of  the 
Deity : ‘ He  inaketh  darkness  his  pavilion,  he  dwelleth 
in  the  thick  cloud.’  So  Milton  : — 

How  oft,  amidst 

Thick  clouds  and  dark,  does  heaven's  all  ruling  Sire 
Choose  to  reside,  h's  glory  unobscured. 

And  with  the  majesty  of  darkness,  round 
Circles  his  throne. 

Observe  with  how  much  art  Virgil  has  introduced 
all  those  ideas  of  silence,  vacuity,  and  darkne.ss,  when 
he  is  going  to  introduce  his  hero  to  the  infernal  re- 
gions, and  to  disclose  the  secrets  of  the  great  deep 

Ye  subterranean  gods,  whose  awful  sway 
The  gliding  ghosts  and  silent  shades  obey  ; 

Oh,  Chaos,  hear  ! and  Phlegethon  profound  ! 

"Whose  solemn  empire  stretches  wide  around  ! 

Give  me,  ye  great  tremendous  powers,  to  tell 
Of  scenes  and  wonders  in  the  depth  of  hell ; 

Give  me,  your  mighty  secrets  to  display 

From  those  black  realms  of  darkness  to  the  day. — PUL 

Obscure  they  went ; through  dreary  shades,  that  led 
Along  the  waste  dominions  of  the  dead  ; 

As  wander  travellers  in  woods  by  night. 

By  the  moon’s  doubtful  and  malignant  light. — Drydcn. 

These  passages  I quote  at  present,  not  so  much  as 
instances  of  sublime  writing,  though  in  themselves 
they  truly  are  so,  as  to  show,  by  the  effect  of  them, 
that  the  objects  which  they  present  to  us  belong  to 
the  class  of  sublime  ones. 

Obscurity,  we  are  further  to  remark,  is  not  unfavour- 
able to  the  sublime.  Though  it  render  the  object  in- 
distinct, the  impression,  however,  may  be  great ; for, 
as  an  ingenious  author  has  well  observed,  it  is  one 
thing  to  make  an  idea  clear,  and  another  to  make  it 
affecting  to  the  imagination  ; and  the  imagination 
may  be  strongly  afiected,  and,  in  fact,  often  is  so,  by 
objects  of  which  we  have  no  clear  conception.  I hus 
we  see  that  almost  all  the  descriptions  given  us  of  the 
appearances  of  supernatural  beings,  cainy  some  sub- 
limity, though  the  conceptions  which  they  afford  us 
be  confused  and  indistinct.  Their  sublimity  arises 
from  the  ideas,  which  they  always  conve}',  of  superior 
power  and  might,  joined  with  an  awful  obscurity. 
We  may  see  this  fully  exemplified  in  the  following 
noble  passage  of  the  book  of  Job  : — ‘ In  thoughts  from 
the  visions  of  the  night,  when  deep  sleep  falleth  upon 
men,  fear  came  upon  me  and  trembling,  which  made 
all  my  bones  to  shake.  Then  a spirit  passed  before 
my  face ; the  hair  of  my  flesh  stood  up  ; it  stood  still ; 
but  I could  not  discern  the  form  thereof ; an  image 
was  before  mine  eyes  ; there  was  silence  ; and  I heard 
a voice — Shall  mortal  man  be  more  just  than  God !’ 
(Job  iv.  15.)  No  ideas,  it  is  plain,  are  so  sublime  as 
those  taken  from  the  Supreme  Being,  the  most  un- 
known, but  the  greatest  of  all  objects  j the  infinity 

219 


\1il 


CYCLOr^DIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


of  whose  nature,  ami  tlie  eternity  of  wliose  duration, 
joined  with  the  oinni]iotence  of  Ids  power,  tliough  tliey 
surpass  our  conceptions,  yet  exalt  them  to  the  highest. 
In  general,  all  objects  that  are  greatly  raised  above  us, 
or  far  removed  from  us,  either  in  space  or  in  time, 
are  apt  to  strike  us  as  great.  Our  viewing  them  as 
through  the  mist  of  distance  or  antiquity  is  favour- 
able to  the  impressions  of  their  sublimity. 

.\s  obscurity,  so  disorder  too  is  very  comp.atibic 
with  grandeur;  nay,  frequently  heightens  it.  Few 
things  that  are  strictly  regular  and  methodical  appear 
sublime.  We  see  the  limits  on  every  side  ; we  feel 
ourselves  confined  ; there  is  no  room  for  the  mind’s 
exerting  any  great  efibrt.  Kxact  proportion  of  parts, 
though  it  enters  often  into  the  beautiful,  is  much 
disregarded  in  the  sublime.  A great  mass  of  rocks, 
thrown  together  by  the  hand  of  nature  with  wildness 
and  confusion,  strike  the  mind  with  more  grandeur 
than  if  they  had  been  adjusted  to  one  another  with 
the  most  accurate  symmetry. 

In  the  feeble  attem])ts  which  human  art  can  make 
towards  producing  grand  objects  (feeble,  I mean,  in 
comparison  with  the  powers  of  nature),  greatness  of 
dimensions  always  constitutes  a principal  part.  No 
pile  of  buildings  can  convey  any  idea  of  sublimity, 
unless  it  be  ample  and  lofty.  There  is,  too,  in  archi- 
tecture, what  is  called  greatness  of  manner,  which 
seems  chiefly  to  arise  from  presenting  the  object  to  us 
in  one  full  point  of  view,  so  that  it  shall  make  its 
impression  whole,  entire,  and  undivided  upon  the 
mind.  A Gothic  cathedral  raises  ideas  of  grandeur 
in  our  minds  by  its  size,  its  height,  its  awful  ob.scu- 
rity,  its  strength,  its  antiquity,  and  its  durability. 

There  still  remains  to  be  mentioned  one  class  of 
sublime  objects,  which  may  be  called  the  moral  or 
sentimental  sublime,  ari.sing  from  certain  exertions  of 
the  human  mind,  from  certain  affections  and  actions 
of  our  fellow-creatures.  These  will  be  found  to  be  all, 
or  chiefly  of  that  class,  which  comes  under  the  name 
of  magnanimity  or  heroism ; and  they  produce  an 
effect  extremely  similar  to  what  is  produced  by  the 
view  of  grand  objects  in  nature  ; filling  the  mind  with 
admiration,  and  elevating  it  .above  itself.  Wherever, 
in  some  critical  and  high  situ.ation,  we  behold  a man 
uncommonly  intrepid,  and  resting  upon  himself,  supe- 
rior to  p.assion  and  to  fear  ; animated  by  some  greiit 
principle  to  the  contempt  of  popul.ar  opinion,  of  selfish 
interest,  of  dangers,  or  of  death,  there  we  are  struck 
with  <a  sense  of  the  sublime. 

High  virtue  is  the  most  natural  .and  fertile  source 
of  this  moral  sublimity.  However,  on  some  occasions, 
where  virtue  cither  has  no  place,  or  is  but  imperfectly 
displayed,  yet  if  extraordinary  vigour  and  force  of 
mind  be  discovered,  we  are  not  insensible  to  a degree 
of  grandeur  in  the  character ; and  from  the  splendid 
conqueror,  or  the  daring  conspirator,  whom  w'e  are  far 
from  approving,  we  cannot  witlihold  our  admiration. 


DR  GEORGE  CAMPBELL. 

Dr  George  Campbell,  professor  of  divinity  and 
.afterwards  principal  of  Marisch.al  college,  Aberdeen, 
was  a theologian  and  critic  of  more  vigorous  intel- 
lect .and  various  learning  than  Dr  Blair.  Ilis  Dis- 
sertation on  Miracles,  written  in  reply  to  Ilume,  is  a 
conclusive  and  masterly  piece  of  reasoning;  and  his 
Philosophy  of  Rhetoric  (published  in  1776)  is  perhaps 
the  best  book  of  the  kind  since  Aristotle,  iilost  of 
the  other  works  on  this  subject  are  little  else  hut 
compilations,  but  Campbell  brought  to  it  a high 
degree  of  pliilosophical  acumen  and  learned  research. 
Its  utility  is  also  equal  to  its  depth  and  originality: 
the  i)liilosopher  finds  in  it  exercise  for  his  ingenuity, 
111(1  the  student  may  safely  consult  it  for  its  practical 
“uggestions  and  illustrations.  Dr  Campbell’s  other 


works  are,  a Translation  of  the  Four  Gospels,  wortliy 
of  liis  talents,  some  sermons  iireached  on  puldic 
occasions,  and  a series  of  Lectures  on  Kcclesiaslical 
History,  which  were  not  publislieil  till  after  his  death. 
It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  Ilume  liimself  admitted 
the  ‘ ingenuity’ of  CamiibcH’s  reply  to  his  sceptical 
opinions,  and  the  ‘great  learning’  of  the  author.  The 
well-known  hypothesis  of  Hume  is,  that  no  testi- 
mony for  any  kind  of  miracle  can  ever  amount  to  a 
probability,  much  less  to  a proof.  To  this  Dr  Camp- 
bell opposed  the  argument  that  testimony  has  a 
natural  and  original  influence  on  belief,  antecedent 
to  experience,  in  illustration  of  which  he  remarked, 
that  the  earliest  assent  which  is  given  to  testimony 
by  children,  and  which  is  previous  to  all  experience, 
is  in  fact  the  most  unlimited.  His  answer  is  divided 
into  two  parts;  first,  that  miracles  arc  capable  of 
proof  from  testimony,  and  religious  miracles  not  less 
than  others;  and,  secondly,  that  the  miracles  on 
which  the  belief  of  Christianity  is  founded,  are  sufli- 
ciently  attested.  Campbell  had  no  fear  for  the  re- 
sult of  such  discussions  : — ‘ 1 do  not  hesitate  to 
affirm,’  he  says,  ‘that  our  religion  has  been  indebted 
to  the  attempts,  though  not  to  the  intentions,  of  its 
bitterest  enemies.  They  have  tried  its  strength, 
indeed,  and,  by  trying,  they  have  displayed  its 
strength  ; and  that  in  so  clear  a light,  as  we  could 
never  have  hoped,  without  such  a trial,  to  have 
viewed  it  in.  Let  them,  therefore,  write ; let  them 
argue,  and,  when  arguments  fail,  even  let  them 
cavil  against  religion  as  much  as  they  please ; 1 
should  be  heartily  sorry  that  ever  in  this  island,  the 
asylum  of  libert}',  where  the  spirit  of  Christianity 
is  better  understood  (however  defective  the  inhabi- 
tants are  in  the  observance  of  its  precepts)  than  in 
any  other  part  of  the  Christian  world  ; 1 should,  1 
say,  be  sorry  that  in  this  island  so  great  a disservice 
were  done  to  religion  as  to  check  its  adversaries  in 
any  other  way  than  by  returning  a candid  answer 
to  their  objections.  I must  at  the  same  time  ac- 
knowledge, that  I am  both  ashamed  and  grieved 
when  I observe  any  friends  of  religion  betray  so 
great  a diffidence  in  the  goodness  of  tlieir  cause  (for 
to  this  diffidence  alone  can  it  be  imputed),  .as  to  show 
an  inclination  for  recurring  to  more  forcible  methods. 
The  assaults  of  infidels,  I may  venture  to  prophecy, 
will  never  overturn  our  religion.  They  will  jirove 
not  more  hurtful  to  the  Christian  system,  if  it  be 
allowed  to  compare  small  things  with  the  greatest, 
than  the  boisterous  winds  are  said  to  prove  to  the 
sturdy  oak.  They  shake  it  impetuously  for  a time, 
and  loudly  threaten  its  subversion  ; whilst,  in  effect, 
they  only  serve  to  niake  it  strike  its  roots  the  deeper, 
and  stand  the  firmer  ever  after.’ 

In  the  same  manly  spirit,  and  reliance  on  the 
ultimate  triumph  of  truth.  Dr  Caraiibell  was  opposed 
to  the  penal  laws  against  the  Catholics  ; and  in  1779, 
when  the  country'  was  agitated  with  that  intolerant 
zeal  against  Popery,  which  in  the  following  year 
burst  out  in  riots  in  London,  he  issued  an  Address 
to  the  People  of  Scotland,  remarkable  for  its  cogency 
of  argument  and  its  just  and  enlightened  sentiments. 
For  this  service  to  true  religion  and  toleration  the 
mob  of  Aberdeen  broke  the  author's  windows,  and 
nicknamed  him  ‘Pope  Campbell.’  In  1795,  when 
far  advanced  in  life.  Dr  Campbell  received  a pen- 
sion of  £300  from  the  Crown,  on  which  he  rc.signed 
his  professorship,  and  his  situation  as  jirinciiial  of 
Marischal  college.  He  enjoyed  this  well-earned  re- 
ward only  one  ye.ar,  dying  in  1796,  in  his  seventy- 
seventh  ye.ar.  With  the  single  exception  of  Dr 
Kobertsou  the  historian  (who  shone  in  a totally 
different  walk),  the  name  of  Dr  Campbell  is  the 
createst  which  the  Scottish  church  can  numb(!r 
among  its  clergy. 

‘.hlO 


MiiCKLi.ANF.ous  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  dr  Samuel  (ohnbor. 

MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 

DR  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

This  (leiwrtmcnt  of  our  literature  was  unusually 
ricli  at  the  iiresent  period,  ns  it  ineluded  nearly  all 
the  preat  names  that  shone  in  poetry,  fietion,  politics, 
philosophy,  and  criticism.  First,  as  c.xercisiug  a 
more  commanding  intlnence  than  any  other  of  his 
rontemporaries,  may  be  mentioned  Dr  Johnson, 
already  distinguished  as  a moral  poet  and  essayist. 
In  17j5  .lohnsou  published  his  Dictionary  of  the  Eng- 
lish Language,  which  had  occupied  the  greater  part 
of  his  time  for  seven  years.  In  1765  appeared  his 
edition  of  Shakspeare,  containing  little  that  is  imlu- 
ablo  in  the  way  of  annotation,  but  introduced  by  a 
powerful  and  m.asterly  preface.  In  1770  and  1771 
lie  wrote  two  political  paiu])hlets  in  support  of  the 
measures  of  government.  The  False  Alarm,  and 
Thoughts  on  the  late  Transactions  respecting  the  Falk- 
land Islands.  Though  often  harsh,  contemptuous, 
and  intolerant,  these  pamphlets  are  admirable  pieces 
of  composition — full  of  nerve  and  controversial  zeal. 
In  1775  appeared  his  Journey  to  the  Western  Isles  of 
Scotland;  and  in  1781  his  Lives  of  the  Poets.  Itwas 
the  felicity  of  .Johnson,  as  of  Dryden,  to  improve  as 
an  author  as  he  advanced  in  years,  and  to  write  best 
after  he  had  ]iassed  that  period  of  life  when  many 
men  are  almost  incapable  of  intellectual  e.xertion. 
In  reviewing  the  above  works,  little  other  language 
need  be  employed  than  that  of  eulogy.  The  Dic- 
tionary is  a valuable  practical  work,  not  remarkable 
for  philological  research,  but  for  its  happy  and 
luminous  definitions,  the  result  of  great  sag.acity,  pre- 
cision of  understanding,  and  clearness  of  expression. 
A few  of  the  definitions  betray  the  personal  feelings 
and  peculiarities  of  the  author,  and 'have  been  much 
ridiculed.  For  example,  ‘ Excise,’  which  (as  a Tory 
hating  Walpole  and  tlie  Whig  e.xciseact)  he  defines, 
‘A  hateful  tax  levied  upon  commodities,  and  ad- 
judged, not  by  the  common  judges  of  property,  but 
1 wretches  hired  by  those  to  whom  excise  is  paid.’ 

I i A pension  is  defined  to  be  ‘ an  allow.ance  made  to 

I I any  one  without  an  equivalent.  In  England  it  is 
1 generally  understood  to  mean  pay  given  to  a state- 
hireling for  treason  to  his  country.’  After  such  a 

1 definition,  it  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  that  John.son 
paused,  and  felt  some  ‘ comi)unctious  visitings’  before 
lie  accepted  a pension  himself!  Oats  he  defines,  ‘ A 
grain  which  in  England  is  generally  given  to  horses, 
but  in  Scotland  supports  the  pcojile.’  This  gave 
mortal  olfence  to  the  natives  of  Scotland,  and  is 
hardly  j-et  forgiven  ; but  the  best  reply  was  the 
happy  observation  of  Lord  Elibank,  ‘ Yes,  and  where 
will  ymi  find  such  horses  and  such  men  ?’  The 
‘ Journej'  to  the  Western  Isles’  makes  no  pretension 
to  scientific  discovery,  but  it  is  an  entertaining  and 
finely  written  work.  In  the  Highlands,  the  poetical 
imagination  of  Johnson  expanded  with  the  new 
1 scenery  and  forms  of  life  presented  to  his  contempla- 
tion. Ilis  love  of  feudalism,  of  clanship,  and  of 
, ancient  .Jacobite  families,  found  full  scope  ; and  as  he 
was  always  a close  observer,  his  descriptions  convey 
much  pleasing  .and  original  information.  His  com- 
plaints of  the  want  of  woods  in  Scotland,  though 
dwelt  upon  with  a ludicrous  perseverance  and 
querulousness,  had  the  effect  of  setting  the  landlords 
to  plant  their  bleak  moors  and  mountains,  and  im- 
prove the  aspect  of  the  country.  The  ‘ Lives  of  the 
Foets’  have  a freedom  of  style,  a vigour  of  thought, 
and  happiness  of  illustration,  rarely  attained  even  by 
their  author.  The  plan  of  the  work  was  defective, 

I as  the  lives  begin  only  with  Cowley,  e.xcluding  all 
the  previous  poets  from  Chaucer  downwards.  Some 
feeble  and  worthless  rhymesters  also  obtained  niches 
ia  Johnson’s  gallery ; but  the  most  serious  defect  of 

the  whole  is  the  injustice  done  to  some  of  our  greatest 
masters  of  song,  in  consequence  of  the  political  or 
personal  prejudices  of  the  author.  To  j\Iilton  he  is 
strikingly  unjust,  though  his  criticism  on  I’aradise 
Lost  is  able  and  profound.  Gray  is  treated  with  a 
coarseness  and  insensibility  derogatory  only  to  the 
critic ; and  in  general,  as  we  have  before  had  occa- 
sion to  remark,  the  higher  order  of  imaginative 
poetry  suffers  under  the  ponderous  hand  of  John- 
son. , Its  beauties  were  too  air)’  and  ethereal  for  his 
grasp — too  subtle  for  his  feeling  or  understanding. 
A few  extracts  are  subjoined,  to  illustrate  his  pecu- 
liar but  impressive  and  animated  style. 

[From,  the  Preface  to  the  Diclionai'y.'] 

It  is  the  fate  of  tho.se  who  toil  at  the  lower  employ- 
ments of  life  to  be  rather  driven  by  the  fear  of  evil, 
than  attracted  by  the  prospect  of  good ; to  be  expo.sed 
to  censure  without  hope  of  praise ; to  be  disgraced 
by  mi.scarriage,  or  punished  for  neglect,  where  success 
would  have  been  without  applause,  and  diligence 
without  reward. 

Among  these  unhappy  mortals  is  the  writer  of  dic- 
tionaries ; whom  mankind  have  considered,  not  as  the 
pupil,  but  the  slave  of  science,  the  pioneer  of  literature, 
doomed  only  to  remove  rubbish  and  clear  obstructions 
from  the  paths  through  which  learning  and  genius 
press  forward  to  conquest  and  glory,  without  bestow- 
ing a smile  on  the  humble  drudge  that  facilitates 
their  progress.  Every  other  author  may  aspire  to  praise; 
the  lexicographer  can  only  hope  to  escape  reproaclq 
and  even  this  negative  recompense  has  bceu  yet 
granted  to  very  few. 

I h.avc,  notwithstanding  this  discouragement,  at- 
teni])ted  a dictionary  of  the  English  language,  which, 
while  it  rvas  employed  in  the  cultivation  of  every 
species  of  liter.ature,  has  itself  been  hitherto  neglected  ; 
sufl'ered  to  spread,  under  the  direction  of  chance,  into 
w’ild  exuberance  ; resigned  to  the  tyranny  of  time  and 
fashion  ; and  exposed  to  the  corruptions  of  ignortmee, 
and  caprices  of  innovation. 

No  book  was  ever  turned  from  one  language  into 
another  without  imparting  something  of  its  native 
idiom  ; this  is  the  most  mischievous  and  comprehen- 
sive iiRiov.ation  ; single  words  may  enter  by  thousands, 
and  the  fabric  of  the  tongue  continue  the  same ; but 
new  phra.seology  changes  much  at  once  ; it  alters  not 
the  single  stones  of  the  building,  but  the  onler  of  the 
columns.  If  an  academy  should  be  established  for 
the  cultiv.ation  of  our  style — which  I,  who  can  never 
wish  to  see  dependence  multiplied,  hope  the  .spirit  of 
English  liberty  will  hinder  or  destroy — let  them,  in- 
stead of  compiling  grammars  and  dictionaries,  en- 
deavour, with  all  their  influence,  to  stop  the  license 
of  transLators,  whose  idleness  and  ignorance,  if  it  be 
suffered  to  proceed,  will  reduce  us  to  babble  a dialect 
of  France. 

If  the  changes  that  we  fear  be  thus  irresistible, 
what  remains  but  to  acquiesce  with  silence,  as  in  the 
other  insurmountable  distres.ses  of  humanity.  It  re- 
mains that  we  retard  what  we  cannot  repel,  th.it  we 
palliate  what  we  cannot  cure.  Life  may  be  lengthened 
by  care,  though  death  cannot  be  ultimately  deleated  ; 
tongues,  like  governments,  have  a natural  tendency  to 
degeneration  ; we  have  loiig  preserved  our  constitu- 
tion, let  us  make  some  struggles  for  our  language. 

In  hope  of  giving  longevity  to  that  which  its  own 
nature  forbids  to  be  immortal,  I have  devoted  this 
book,  the  labour  of  years,  to  the  honour  of  my 
country,  that  we  m.ay  no  longer  yield  the  palm  of 
philology,  without  a contest,  to  the  nations  of  the 
continent.  The  chief  glory  of  every  people  arises 
from  its  authors : whether  I shall  add  anything  by 
my  own  writings  to  the  reputation  of  English  litera- 
ture, must  be  left  to  time ; much  of  my  life  has  bsea 

221 

1 FROM  \m  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  to  1780. 

1 lost  umlor  the  pressures  of  disease;  much  has  been 

1 trifled  away  ; and  much  has  always  been  spent  in 

j)rovisicn  for  the  day  that  was  jiassing  over  me ; but  1 
shall  not  think  my  employment  useless  or  ipnoble, 
if,  by  my  assistance,  forei;;n  nations  and  distant  ages 
pain  access  to  the  propagators  of  knowledge,  and  un- 
derstand the  teachers  of  truth  ; if  my  labours  afford 
light  to  the  repositories  of  science,  and  add  celebrity 
to  Hacon,  fo  Hooker,  to  Milton,  and  to  Boyle. 

When  1 am  animated  by  this  wish,  I look  with 
pleasure  on  my  book,  however  defective,  and  deliver 
1 it  to  the  world  with  the  spirit  of  a man  that  has  cn- 

; dcavouied  well.  That  it  will  immediately  become 

1 popular,  1 have  not  promised  to  myself ; a few  wild 

1 blunders  and  risible  absurdities,  from  which  no  work 

1 of  such  multiplicity  was  ever  free,  may  for  a time 

i furnish  folly  with  laughter,  and  harden  ignorance 

into  contemi)t ; but  useful  diligence  will  at  last  pre- 
vail, and  there  never  can  be  wanting  some  who  dis- 
tinguish desert,  who  will  consider  that  no  dictionary 
of  a living  tongue  ever  can  be  perfect,  since,  while  it 
is  hastening  to  publication,  some  words  are  budding 
and  some  falling  away  ; that  a whole  life  cannot  be 
spent  upon  syntax  and  etymology,  and  that  even  a 
whole  life  would  not  be  sufficient ; that  he  whose  de- 
sign includes  wdiatevei  language  can  express,  must 
often  speak  of  what  he  does  not  undemtand  ; that  a 
writer  will  sometimes  be  hurried  by  eagerness  to  the 
end,  and  sometimes  faint  with  weariness  under  a task 
which  Scaliger  compares  to  the  labours  of  the  anvil 
and  the  mine ; that  what  is  obvious  is  not  always 
known,  and  what  is  known  is  not  always  present ; 
that  sudden  fits  of  inadvertency  will  sui-pri.se  vigi- 
lance, slight  avocations  will  seduce  attention,  and 
casual  eclipses  of  the  mind  will  darken  learning ; 
and  that  the  wndter  shall  often  in  vain  trace  his 
memory  at  the  moment  of  need  for  that  which  yester- 
day he  knew  wdth  intuitive  readiness,  and  which  will 
come  uncalled  into  his  thoughts  to-morrow. 

In  this  work,  when  it  shall  be  found  that  much  is 
omitted,  let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  much  likewise  is 
performed ; and  though  no  book  was  ever  spared  out 
of  tenderness  to  the  author,  and  the  world  is  little 
solicitous  to  know  whence  proceeded  the  faults  of 
that  which  it  condemns,  yet  it  may  gratify  curiosity 
to  inform  it,  that  the  English  Dictionary  was  written 
with  little  assistance  of  the  learned,  and  without  any 
patronage  of  the  great ; not  in  the  soft  obscurities  of 
retirement,  or  under  the  .shelter  of  academic  bowers, 
but  amid  inconveidence  and-  distraction,  in  sickness 
and  in  sorrow.  It  may  repress  the  triumph  of 
malignant  criticism  to  observe,  that  if  our  language  is 
not  here  fully  displayed,  I have  only  failed  in  an  at- 
tempt which  no  human  powers  have  hitherto  com- 
pleted. If  the  lexicons  of  ancient  tongues,  now 
immutably  fixed,  and  comprised  in  a few  volumes,  be 
yet,  after  the  toil  of  successive  ages,  inadequate  and 
delusive ; if  the  aggregated  knowledge  and  co-ope- 
rating diligence  of  the  Italian  academicians  did  not 
secure  them  from  the  censure  of  Beni ; if  the  embodied 
critics  of  France,  when  fifty  years  had  been  spent  upon 
their  work,  were  obliged  to  change  its  economy,  and 
give  their  second  edition  another  form,  I may  surely 
be  contented  without  the  praise  of  perfection,  which,  if 
I could  obtain  in  this  gloom  of  solitude,  what  would 
it  avail  me  ? I have  j>rotracted  my  work  till  most  of 
those  whom  I wished  to  please  have  sunk  into  the 
grave,  and  success  and  miscarriage  are  empty  sounds. 

1 therefore  dismiss  it  with  frigid  tranquillity,  having 
little  to  fear  or  hope  from  censure  or  from  praise. 

[Reflections  on  Landing  at  Iona.'] 

[From  the  ‘ Journey  to  the  Western  Isles.*] 

We  were  now  treading  that  illustrious  island  which 
was  once  the  luminary  of  the  Caledonian  regions, 

whence  savage  clans  and  roving  barbarians  derived 
the  benefits  of  knowle<lgc  and  the  blessings  of  religion. 
To  abstract  the  mind  from  all  local  emotion  would 
be  imj)Ossible  if  it  were  endeavoured,  and  would  be 
foolish  if  it  were  possible.  Whatever  withdraws  us 
from  the  ])owerof  our  senses,  whatever  makes  the  past, 
the  distant,  or  the  future,  predominate  over  the  pre- 
sent, advances  us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings. 
Far  from  me  and  my  friends  be  such  frigid  jdiilosojihy 
as  may  conduct  us  indifferent  and  unmoved  over  any 
ground  which  has  been  dignified  by  wisdom,  bravery, 
or  virtue.  The  man  is  little  to  be  envied  whose  j>a- 
triotism  would  not  gain  force  on  the  plains  of  Mara- 
thon, or  who.se  piety  w'ould  not  grow  warmer  among 
the  ruins  of  Iona. 

[Parallel  hetween  Pope  and  Drydcn.] 

[From  the  ‘ Lives  of  the  Poets.*] 

Pope  professed  to  have  learned  his  poetry  from 
Drydcn,  whom,  whenever  an  opportunity  was  pre- 
sented, he  praised  through  his  whole  life  with  un- 
varied liberality  ; and  perhaps  his  character  may 
receive  some  illustration,  if  he  be  compared  with  his 
master. 

Integrity  of  understanding  and  nicety  of  discern- 
ment were  not  allotted  in  a less  proportion  to  Drydcn  | 
than  to  Pope.  The  rectitude  of  Dryden’s  mind  was 
sufficiently  shown  by  the  dismission  of  his  poetical 
prejudices,  and  the  rejection  of  unnatural  thoughts  j 
and  rugged  numbers.  But  Dryden  never  desired  to 
apply  all  the  judgment  that  he  had.  lie  wrote,  and  ! 
professed  to  write,  merely  for  the  people  ; and  when 
he  pleased  others  he  contented  himself.  He  spent  no 
time  in  struggles  to  rouse  latent  powers  ; he  never 
attempted  to  make  that  better  which  w-as  already 
good,  nor  often  to  mend  what  he  must  have  known  to 
be  faulty.  He  w-rote,  as  he  tells  us,  with  verj*  little 
consideration  ; when  occasion  or  necessity  called  upon 
him,  he  poured  out  what  the  present  moment  hap- 
pened to  supply,  and,  when  once  it  had  passed  the 
press,  ejected  it  from  his  mind  ; for  when  he  had  no 
pecuniary  interest,  he  had  no  further  solicitude.  I 

Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy : he  desired  tc  | 
excel,  and  therefore  always  endeavoured  to  do  hi. 
best;  he  did  not  court  the  candour,  but  dared  th.‘  ! 
judgment  of  his  reader,  and  expecting  no  indul-  j 
gence  from  others,  he  showed  none  to  himself.  He 
examined  lines  and  words  with  minute  and  puncti- 
lious observation,  and  retouched  every  part  with  in- 
defatigable diligence,  till  he  had  left  nothing  to  be 
forgiven. 

For  this  reason  he  kept  his  pieces  very  long  in  his 
hands,  while  he  considered  and  reconsidered  them. 
The  only  poems  which  can  be  supposed  to  have  been 
written  with  such  regard  to  the  times  as  might  ha.sten 
their  publication,  were  the  two  satires  of  ‘ Thirty- 
eight,’  of  which  Dodsley  told  me  that  they  were 
brought  to  him  by  the  author  that  they  might  be 
fairly  copied.  ‘ Almost  every  line,’  he  said,  ‘ was 
then  written  twice  over;  I gave  him  a clean  transcript, 
which  he  sent  sometime  afterwards  to  me  for  the  press 
with  almost  every  line  written  twice  over  a second 
time.’ 

His  decharation,  that  his  care  for  his  works  ceased 
at  their  publication,  was  not  strictly  true.  His  pa- 
rental attention  never  abai.doned  them ; what  he 
found  amiss  in  the  first  edition,  he  silently  corrected 
in  those  that  followed.  He  appears  to  have  revised 
the  ‘Iliad,’  and  freed  it  from  some  of  its  imper- 
fections ; and  the  ‘ Essay  on  Criticism  ’ received  many 
improvements  after  its  first  appearance.  It  will  sel- 
dom be  found  that  he  altered  without  adding  clear- 
ness, elegance,  or  vigour. 

Pope  had  perhaps  the  judgment  of  Dryden,  but 
Dryden  certainly  wanted  the  diligence  of  Pope. 

•J22 

OLIVER  OOLDSMlTn. 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LTTEllATUIlE. 


In  acquired  knowledge,  the  superiority  must  he 
allowed  to  Dryden,  whose  education  was  more  .scho- 
lastic, and  who,  before  he  became  an  author,  had  been 
allowed  more  time  for  study,  with  better  means  of  in- 
formation. Ilis  mind  has  a larger  range,  and  he 
collects  his  images  and  illustrations  from  a more  ex- 
tensive circumference  of  science.  Dryden  knew  more 
of  man  in  his  general  nature,  and  Pope  in  his  local 
manners.  The  notions  of  Dryden  were  formed  by 
conprehensive  .speculaGon,  and  those  of  Pope  by 
m'nute  attention.  There  is  more  dignity  in  the 
knowledge  of  Dryden,  and  more  certainty  in  that  of 
Pope. 

Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either  ; for  both 
excelled  likewise  in  prose  ; but  Pope  did  not  borrow 
his  prose  from  his  predecessor.  The  style  of  Dryden 
is  capricious  and  varied,  that  of  Pope  is  cautious  and 
uniform.  Dryden  obeys  the  motions  of  his  own  mind. 
Pope  constrains  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of  composi- 
tion. Dryden  is  sometimes  vehement  and  rapid.  Pope 
is  always  smooth,  uniform,  and  gentle.  Dryden’s 
page  is  a natural  field,  rising  into  inequalities,  and 
divei-sified  by  the  varied  exuberance  of  abundant  ve- 
getation, Pope’s  is  a velvet  lawn,  shaven  by  the 
scythe,  and  levelled  by  the  roller. 

Of  genius,  that  power  which  constitutes  a poet, 
that  quality  without  which  judgment  is  cold  and 
knowledge  is  inert,  that  energy  which  collects,  com- 
bines, amplifies,  and  animates,  the  superiority  must, 
with  some  hesitation,  be  allowed  to  Dryden.  It  is 
not  to  be  inferred  that  of  this  poetical  vigour  Pope 
had  only  a little,  because  Dryden  had  more  ; for  every 
other  writer  since  Milton  must  give  place  to  Pope  ; 
and  even  of  Dryden  it  must  be  said,  that  if  he  has 
brighter  paragraphs,  he  has  not  better  poems.  Dry- 
den’s  performances  were  always  hasty,  either  excited 
by  some  external  occasion,  or  extorted  by  domestic 
necessity ; he  composed  without  consideration,  and 
published  without  correction.  What  his  mind  could 
supply  at  call,  or  gather  in  one  excursion,  was  all 
that  he  sought,  and  all  that  he  gave.  The  dilatory 
caution  of  Pope  enabled  him  to  condense  his  senti- 
ments, to  multiply  his  images,  and  to  accumulate  all 
that  study  might  produce  or  chance  might  supply. 
If  the  flights  of  Dryden,  therefore,  are  higher.  Pope 
continues  longer  on  the  wing.  If  of  Dryden’s  fire 
the  blaze  is  brighter,  of  Pope’s  the  heat  is  more  regu- 
lar and  constant.  Dryden  often  surpasses  expecta- 
tion, and  Pope  never  falls  below  it.  Dryden  is  read 
with  frequent  astonishment,  and  Pope  with  pei'petual 
delight. 

This  parallel  will,  I hope,  when  it  is  well  consi- 
dered, be  found  just  ; and  if  the  reader  should  sus- 
pect me,  as  I suspect  myself,  of  some  partial  fondness 
for  the  memory  of  Dryden,  let  him  not  too  hastily 
condemn  me,  for  meditation  and  inquiry  may,  per- 
haps, show  him  the  reasonableness  of  my  determi- 
nation. 

[Picture  of  the  Miseries  of  TFar.] 

[From  the  ‘ Thoughts  on  the  Falkland  Islands."] 

It  is  wonderful  with  what  coolness  and  indifference 
the  greater  part  of  mankind  see  war  commenced. 
Those  that  hear  of  it  at  a distance  or  read  of  it  in 
books,  but  have  never  presented  its  evils  to  their 
minds,  consider  it  as  little  more  than  a splendid  game, 
a proclamation,  an  army,  a battle,  and  a triumph. 
Some,  indeed,  must  perish  in  the  successful  field,  hut 
they  die  upon  the  bed  of  honour,  resign  their  lives 
amidst  the  joys  of  conquest,  and,  filled  with  England’s 
glory,  smile  in  death  ! 

The  life  of  a modern  soldier  is  ill  represented  by 
heroic  fiction.  War  has  means  of  destruction  more 
formidable  than  the  cannon  and  the  sword.  Of 
the  ihouiands  and  ten  thousands  that  perished  in 


our  late  contests  with  France  and  Spain,  a very  small 
part  ever  felt  the  stroke  of  an  enemy ; the  rest  lan- 
guished in  tents  and  ships,  amidst  damps  and  putre- 
faction ; pale,  torpid,  spiritle.s.s,  and  helpless  ; ga.sping 
and  groaning,  unpitied  among  men,  made  obdurate 
by  long  continuance  of  hopeless  misery  ; and  were  at 
last  whelmed  in  pits,  or  heaved  into  the  ocean,  with- 
out notice  and  without  remembrance.  By  incommo- 
dious encampments  and  unwholesome  stations,  where 
courage  is  useless  and  enterprise  impracticable,  fleets 
are  silently  dispeopled,  and  armies  sluggishly  melted 
away. 

Thus  is  a people  gradually  exhausted,  for  the  most 
part,  with  little  effect.  The  wars  of  civilised  nations 
make  very  slow  changes  in  the  system  of  empire. 
The  public  perceives  scarcely  any  alteration  but  an 
increase  of  debt ; and  the  few  individuals  who  are 
benefited  are  not  supposed  to  have  the  clearest  right 
to  their  advantages.  If  he  that  shared  the  danger 
enjoyed  the  profit,  and  after  bleeding  in  the  battle, 
grew  rich  by  the  victory,  he  might  show  his  gains  with- 
out envy.  But  at  the  conclusion  of  a ten  years’  war, 
how  are  we  recompensed  for  the  death  of  multitudes 
and  the  expense  of  millions,  but  by  contemplating 
the  sudden  glories  of  paymasters  and  agents,  contrac- 
tors and  commissaries,  whose  equipages  shine  like 
meteors,  and  whose  palaces  rise  like  exhalations  \ 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

The  ‘Citizen  of  the  World,’ by  Goldsmith,  was  pub- 
lished in  a collected  shape  in  1762,  and  his  ‘Essays 
about  the  same  time.  As  a light  critic,  a sportive 
yet  tender  and  insinuating  moralist,  and  observer  of 
men  and  manners,  we  have  no  hesitation  in  placing 
Goldsmith  far  above  Johnson.  His  chaste  humour, 
poetical  fancy,  and  admirable  style,  render  these 
essa3’s  (for  the  Citizen  of  the  World  consists  of  de- 
tached pieces)  a mine  of  lively  and  profound  thought, 
happy  imagery,  and  pure  English.  The  story  of  the 
Old  Soldier,  Beau  Tibbs,  the  Reverie  at  the  Boar’s 
Head  Tavern,  and  the  Strolling  Plaj'cr,  are  in  ths 
finest  vein  of  story-telling  ; while  the  Eastern  Apo- 
logue, Asem,  an  Eastern  Tale,  and  Alcander  and  ! 
Septimius,  are  tinged  with  the  light  of  true  poetry 
and  imagination.  Where  the  author  spe.aks  of  actuM 
life,  anti  the  ‘fashion  of  our  estate,’  we  see  the 
w'orkings  of  experience  and  a finely  meditative 
mind.  ‘ The  History  of  Animated  Nature,’  not  pub- 
lished till  after  his  death,  is  imbued  with  the  same 
graces  of  composition.  Goldsmith  was  no  naturalist, 
strictly  speaking,  but  his  descriptions  are  often 
vivid  and  beautiful,  and  his  history  is  well  calcu- 
lated to  aw'aken  a love  of  nature  and  a study  of  its 
various  phenomena. 

[Scenery  of  the  A Ips.'] 

[From  the  ‘ History  of  the  Earth  and  Animated  Nature."] 

Nothing  can  be  finer  or  more  exact  than  Mr  Pope’s 
description  of  a traveller  straining  up  the  Alps. 
Every  mountain  he  comes  to  he  thinks  will  be  the 
last : he  finds,  however,  an  unexpected  hill  rise  before 
him  ; and  that  being  scaled,  he  finds  the  highest  sum- 
mit almost  at  as  great  a distance  as  before.  Upon 
quitting  the  plain,  he  might  have  left  a green  and 
fertile  soil,  and  a climate  warm  and  pleasing.  As  he 
ascends,  the  ground  assumes  a more  russet  colour,  the 
grass  becomes  more  mossy,  and  the  weather  more 
moderate.  When  he  is  still  higher,  the  weather  be- 
comes more  cold,  and  the  earth  more  barren.  In  this 
dreary  passage  he  is  often  entertained  with  a little 
valley  of  sui-prising  verdure,  caused  by  the  reflecti  d 
heat  of  the  sun  collected  into  a narrow  spot  on  the 
surrounding  heights.  But  it  much  more  frequently 

223 


I'lioM  17-27  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  to  1780 

liappcns  that  he  sees  oiilv  frljjhtful  preeijiices  beneath, 
ami  lakes  of  ania7,iii<;  deptli,  from  whence  rivers  are 
firmed,  and  fountains  derive  their  original.  On  those 
places  next  tlic  hi^rhest  summits  vegetation  is  scarcelv 
carried  on  ; here  and  tliere  a few  jilants  of  the  most 
hardy  kind  appear.  The  air  is  intolerably  cold — 
either  continually  refrigerated  with  frosts,  or  dis- 
turhed  with  temjiests.  All  the  ground  hero  wears  an 
eternal  covering  of  ice  and  snow,  that  seem  con- 
tinually accumulating.  Upon  emerging  from  this 
war  of  the  elements,  he  ascends  into  a purer  and 
serener  region,  where  vegetation  is  entirely  ceased — 
where  the  |ii-ecipices,  composed  entirely  of  rocks,  rise 
perpendicularly  above  him  ; while  he  views  beneath 
liim  all  the  combat  of  the  elements,  clouds  at  his  feet, 
and  thunders  darting  upwards  from  their  bosoms  be- 
low. A thousand  meteors,  which  are  never  seen  on  the 
plain,  present  thomseUcs.  Circular  rainbows,  mock 
suns,  the  shadow  of  the  mountain  projected  upon  the 
body  of  the  air,  anil  the  traveller’s  own  image  re- 
flected as  in  a looking-glass  upon  the  opposite  cloud. 

[A  Sl'elch  of  the  Universe.l 
[From  the  same.] 

The  world  may  be  considered  as  one  vast  mansion, 
where  man  has  hecn  admitted  to  enjoy,  to  admire, 
and  to  be  grateful.  The  first  desires  of  savage  nature 
are  merely  to  gratify  the  importunities  of  sensual  ap- 
jietite,  and  to  neglect  the  contemplation  of  things, 
barely  satisfied  with  their  enjoyment ; the  beauties  of 
nature,  and  all  the  wonders  of  creation,  have  but  little 
charms  for  a being  taken  up  in  obviating  the  wants 
of  the  day,  and  anxious  for  precarious  subsistence. 

Our  philosophers,  therefore,  who  have  testified  such 
surprise  at  the  want  of  curiosity  in  the  ignorant,  .seem 
not  to  consider  that  they  are  usually  employed  in 
making  provisions  of  a more  important  nature — in 
providing  rather  for  the  necessities  than  the  amuse- 
ments of  life  It  is  not  till  our  more  pressing  w'ants 
are  sufiiciently  supplied,  that  we  can  attend  to  the 
calls  of  curiosity  ; so  that  in  every  age  scientific  re- 
finement has  been  the  latest  effort  of  human  industry. 

But  human  curiosity,  though  at  first  slowly' excited, 
being  at  last  possessed  of  leisure  for  indulging  its  pro- 
pensitv,  becomes  one  of  the  greatest  amusements  of 
life,  and  gives  higher  satisfactions  than  what  even  the 
senses  can  afford.  A man  of  this  disposition  turns 
all  nature  into  a magnificent  theatre,  replete  with 
objects  of  wonder  and  surprise,  and  fitted  up  chiefly 
for  his  happiness  and  entertainment ; he  industriously 
examines  all  things,  from  the  minutest  insect  to  the 
most  finished  animal,  and  when  his  limited  organs 
can  no  longer  make  the  di.squisition,  he  sends  out  his 
imagination  upon  new  inquiries. 

Nothing,  therefore,  can  be  more  august  and  striking 
than  the  idea  which  his  reason,  aided  by  his  imagina- 
tion, furnishes  of  the  universe  around  him.  Astrono- 
mers tell  us  that  this  earth  which  we  inhabit  forms 
but  a very  minute  part  in  that  great  assemblage  of 
bodies  of  which  the  world  is  composed.  It  is  a mil- 
lion of  times  less  than  the  sun,  by  which  it  is  en- 
lightened. The  planets,  also,  which,  like  it,  are  sub- 
ordinate to  the  sun’s  influence,  exceed  the  earth  one 
thou.sand  times  in  magnitude.  These,  which  were  at 
first  supposed  to  wander  in  the  heavens  without  any 
fixed  path,  and  that  took  their  name  from  their  ap- 
parent deviations,  have  long  been  found  to  perform 
their  circuits  with  great  exactness  and  strict  regula- 
rity. They  have  been  discovered  as  forming  with  our 
earth  a system  of  bodies  circulating  round  the  sun, 
all  obedient  to  one  law,  and  impelled  by  one  com- 
mon influence. 

Modern  philosophy  has  taught  us  to  believe,  that 
when  the  great  Author  of  nature  began  the  work  of 
treation,  he  chose  to  operate  by  second  causes ; and 

that,  suspending  the  constant  exertion  of  his  jiower, 
he  endued  matter  with  a (piality  by  which  the  uni-  ! 
versal  economy  of  nature  might  be  continued,  without  i 
his  immediate  assistance,  'fhis  quality  is  called  at-  j 
traction,  a sort  of  aiiproximating  influence,  which  all  | 
bodies,  whether  terrestrial  or  celestial,  are  found  to  | 
possess  ; and  which,  in  all,  increases  as  the  quantity  of  | 
matter  in  eacli  increases.  The  sun,  by  far  the  great-  I 
cst  body  in  our  system,  is,  of  consequence,  posse.ssed  | 
of  much  the  greatest  share  of  this  .attracting  power  ; i 
and  all  the  planets,  of  which  our  earth  is  one,  are,  of  1 
course,  entirely  subject  to  its  superior  influence.  Were  1 
this  power,  therefore,  left  uncontrolled  by  any  other,  | 
tile  sun  must  quickly  have  attracted  all  the  bodies  of  ; 
our  celestial  .system  to  itself ; but  it  is  equally  conn-  | 
teracted  by  anotlier  power  of  equal  efficacy;  namely, 
a progre.ssive  force  which  each  planet  received  when  it  j 
was  impelled  forward  by  the  divine  architect  upon  its 
first  formation.  The  heavenly  bodies  of  our  system 
being  thus  acted  upon  by  two  opposing  powers;  | 
namely,  by  that  of  attraction,  which  draws  them  to-  ; 
wards  the  sun,  and  that  of  impulsion,  which  drives  '■ 
them  straight  forward  into  the  great  void  of  space,  : 
they  piirsUe  a track  between  these  contrary  directions  ; 1 
and  each,  like  a stone  whirled  about  in  a sling,  obey-  j 
ing  two  opjiosite  forces,  circulates  round  its  great  | 
centre  of  heat  and  motion.  | 

In  this  manner,  therefore,  is  the  harmony  of  our  | 
planetary  system  [ire.sen'ed.  The  sun,  in  the  midst,  j 
gives  heat  and  light  and  circular  motion  to  the 
pl.anets  which  surround  it  : Mercury,  Venus,  the  ' 
Earth,  Mars,  .lupiter,  and  Saturn,  pcrf^orni  their  con- 
stant circuits  at  different  distances,  each  taking  up  a 
time  to  complete  its  revolutions,  proportioned  to  the 
gre<atnes3  of  the  circle  which  it  is  to  describe.  The 
lesser  planets,  also,  which  are  attendants  upon  some 
of  the  greater,  are  subject  to  the  same  laws ; they  cir- 
culate with  the  Siiine  exactness,  and  are  in  the  .same 
manner  influenced  by  their  respective  centres  of 
motion. 

Besides  tho.se  bodies  which  make  a part  of  our 
peculiar  system,  and  which  may  be  said  to  reside 
within  its  great  circumference,  there  are  others  that 
frequently  come  among  us  from  the  most  distant  tracts 
of  space,  and  that  seem  like  d.angeroiis  intruders  upon 
the  beautiful  simplicity  of  nature.  The.se  are  comets, 
whose  appearance  was  once  so  terrible  to  mankind, 
.and  the  theory  of  which  is  so  little  understood  at  pre-  ! 
sent;  all  we  know  is,  that  their  number  is  much 
greiiter  than  that  of  the  planets,  and  that,  like  these,  1 
they  roll  in  orbits,  in  some  measure  obedient  to  solar  j 
influence.  Astronomers  have  endeavoured  to  calcu- 
late the  returning  periods  of  many  of  them  ; but  ex-  j 
pcrience  has  not,  as  yet,  confirmed  the  veracity  of  j 
their  investigations.  Indeed,  who  can  tell,  when  tho.se  i 
wanderers  have  made  their  excursions  into  other  t 
worlds  and  distfint  systems,  what  oKstacles  may  be  ' 
found  to  oppose  their  progress,  to  accelerate  their  mo-  | 
tions,  or  retard  their  return  ? | 

But  what  we  have  hitherto  attempted  to  sketch  is  ! 
but  .a  small  part  of  that  great  fabric  in  which  the 
Deity  has  thought  proper  to  manifest  his  wisdom  and  ■ 
omnipotence.  There  are  multitudes  of  other  bodies  I 
dispersed  over  the  face  of  the  he.avens,  that  lie  too  re-  1 
mote  for  examination  ; the.se  have  no  motion  such  as  | 
the  planets  are  found  to  possess,  and  are  therefore 
called  fixed  stars;  and  from  their  extreme  brilliancy  j 
and  their  immense  distance,  philosophers  have  been 
induced  to  suppose  them  to  be  suns  resembling  that  ' 
which  eidivens  our  system.  As  the  imagination,  also,  i 
once  excited,  is  .seldom  content  to  stop,  it  has  fur- 
nished each  with  an  attendant  system  of  planets  be-  I 
longing  to  itself,  and  h.as  even  induced  some  to  dejilore 
the  fate  of  those  systems  whose  imagined  suns, 
which  sometimes  happens,  have  become  no  longer 
visible. 

224 

jllS'JKI  I.ANUOl'S  WUITKRS, 


KNdr.Isn  LITERATURK. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Hut  oolijooturcs  of  this  kind,  wliich  no  loasoning  van 
ViCortain  nor  cxporiment  reach,  are  rather  amusing 
than  useful.  ’I'hough  we  see  the  greatness  and  wis- 
dom of  tlie  Deity  in  all  the  seeming  worlds  that 
surround  us,  it  is  our  chief  concern  to  trace  him  in 
that  which  we  inhabit.  The  examination  of  the  earth, 
the  wonders  of  its  contrivance,  the  history  of  its  advan- 
tages, or  of  the  seeming  defects  in  its  formation,  are 
the  proper  business  of  the  natural  historian.  A de- 
scription of  this  earth,  its  animal.s,  vegetable.s,  and 
minerals,  is  the  most  delightful  entertainment  the 
mind  can  be  furnished  with,  as  it  is  the  most  interest- 
ing and  useful.  1 would  beg  leave,  therefore,  to  con- 
clude the.se  commonplace  speculations  with  an  obser- 
vation which,  1 hope,  is  not  entirely  so. 

A use,  hitherto  not  much  insisted  upon,  that  may 
result  from  the  contempl.ation  of  celestial  magnifi- 
cetee,  is,  that  it  will  teach  us  to  make  an  allowance 
for  he  apparent  irregularities  we  find  below.  When- 
erei  we  can  examine  the  works  of  the  Deity  at  a pro- 
per point  of  distance,  so  as  to  take  in  the  whole  of  his 
design,  we  see  nothing  but  uniformity,  beauty,  and 
preci;  ion.  The  heavens  present  us  with  a plan  which, 
though  inexpressibly  magnificent,  is  yet  regular  be- 
yond the  power  of  invention.  Whenever,  therefore, 
we  find  any  apparent  defects  in  the  earth,  instead 
of  attempting  to  reason  ourselves  into  an  opinion 
that  they  are  beautiful,  it  will  be  wiser  to  say  that 
we  do  not  behold  them  at  the  proper  point  of  dis- 
tance, and  that  our  eye  is  laid  too  close  to  the  ob- 
jects to  take  in  the  regularity  of  their  connection. 
In  short,  we  may  conclude  that  God,  who  is  regular 
in  his  great  productions,  acts  with  equal  uniformity 
in  the  little. 


[Scenery  of  the  Sea-coasts.'] 

[From  the  same.] 

Those  who  have  been  much  upon  our  coasts  know 
that  there  are  two  different  kinds  of  .shores — that 
which  slants  down  to  the  water  with  a gentle  declivity, 
and  that  which  rises  with  a precipitate  boldness,  and 
seems  set  as  a bulwark  to  repel  the  force  of  the  in- 
vading deeps.  It  is  to  such  shores  as  these  that  the 
whole  tribe  of  the  gull  kind  resort,  as  the  rocks  offer 
them  a retreat  for  their  young,  and  the  sea  a sufficient 
supply.  It  is  in  the  cavities  of  these  rocks,  of  which 
the  shore  is  composed,  that  the  vast  variety  of  sea- 
fowl  retire  to  breed  in  safety.  The  waves  beneath, 
that  continually  beat  at  the  base,  often  wear  the  shore 
into  an  impending  boldness,  so  that  it  seems  to  jut 
out  over  the  water,  while  the  raging  of  the  sea  makes 
the  place  inaccessible  from  below.  These  are  the 
j situations  to  which  sea-fowl  chiefly  resort,  and  bring 
i up  their  young  in  undisturbed  security. 

! Those  who  have  never  observed  our  boldest  coasts, 

I have  no  idea  of  their  tremendous  sublimity.  The 
j boasted  works  of  art,  the  highest  towers,  and  the  no- 
blest domes,  are  but  ant-hills  when  put  in  comparison  ; 
the  single  cavity  of  a rock  often  exhibits  a coping 
higher  than  the  ceiling  of  a Gothic  cathedral.  The 
face  of  the  shore  offers  to  the  view  a wall  of  massive 
stone  ten  times  higher  than  our  tallest  steeples. 
^^’hat  should  we  think  of  a preeipice  three  quarters 
of  a mile  in  height  2 and  yet  the  rocks  of  St  Kilda 
are  still  higher!  What  must  be  our  awe  to  approach 
the  edge  of  that  impending  height,  and  to  look  down 
on  the  unfathomable  vacuity  below  ; to  ponder  on  the 
terrors  of  falling  to  the  bottom,  where  the  waves  that 
swell  like  mountains  are  scarcely  seen  to  curl  on  the 
surface,  and  the  roar  of  an  ocean  a thousand  leagues 
broad  appears  softer  than  the  murmur  of  a brook?  It 
is  in  these  formidable  mansions  that  myriads  of  sea- 
fowl  are  for  ever  seen  sporting,  flying  in  security 
down  the  depth,  half  a mile  beneath  the  feet  of  the 

67 


spectator.  The  crow  and  the  chough  avoid  those 
frightful  precipices ; they  choo.se  smaller  heights, 
where  they  are  less  exposed  to  the  tem|)est ; it  is  the 
cormorant,  thegannet,  the  tarrock,  and  the  terne,  that 
venture  to  these  dreadful  retreats,  and  claim  an  un- 
disturbed pos.session.  To  the  spectator  from  above, 
those  birds,  though  some  of  them  are  above  the  size 
of  an  eagle,  seem  scarce  as  large  as  a swallow,  and 
their  loudest  screaming  is  .scarcely  perceptible. 

But  the  generality  of  our  .shores  are  not  so  formid- 
able. Though  they  may  rise  two  hundred  fathom 
above  the  surface,  yet  it  often  happens  that  the  water 
forsakes  the  shore  at  the  departure  of  the  tide,  and 
leaves  a noble  and  delightful  walk  for  curiosity  on 
the  beach.  Not  to  mention  the  variety  of  shells  with 
which  the  sand  is  strewed,  the  lofty  rocks  that  hang 
over  the  spectator’s  head,  and  that  seem  but  just  kept 
from  falling,  produce  in  him  no  unplcasing  gloom. 

If  to  this  be  added  the  fluttering,  the  screaming,  and 
the  pursuits  of  myriads  of  water-birds,  all  either  in- 
tent on  the  duties  of  incubation,  or  rou.sed  at  the 
presence  of  a stranger,  nothing  can  compose  a scene 
of  more  peculiar  solemnity.  To  walk  along  the  shore 
when  the  tide  is  departed,  or  to  sit  in  the  hollow  of  a 
rock  when  it  is  come  in,  attentive  to  the  various 
sounds  that  gather  on  every  .side,  above  and  below, 
may  raise  the  mind  to  its  highest  and  noblest  exer- 
tions. The  solemn  roar  of  the  waves  swelling  into 
and  subsiding  from  the  vast  caverns  beneath,  the 
piercing  note  of  the  gull,  the  frequent  chatter  of  the 
guillemot,  the  loud  note  of  the  auk,  the  scream  of  the 
heron,  and  the  hoarse  deep  periodical  croaking  of  the 
cormorant,  all  unite  to  furnish  out  the  grandeur  ol 
the  scene,  and  turn  the  mind  to  Him  who  is  the 
essence  of  all  sublimity. 

[On  the  Ina-eased  Love  of  Life  with  Age.] 

[From  Goldsmith's  Essays.]  | 

Age,  that  lessens  the  enjoyment  of  life,  increases 
our  desire  of  living.  Those  dangers  which,  in  the  | 
vigour  of  youth,  we  had  beamed  to  despise,  assume  | 
new  terrors  as  we  grow  yld.  Our  caution  increasing  ■ 
as  our  years  increase,  fe,.r  becomes  at  last  the  prevail-  | 
ing  passion  of  the  mind,  and  the  small  remainder  of  | 
life  is  taken  up  in  useless  efforts  to  keep  off  our  end,  j 
or  provide  for  a continued  existence.  i 

Strange  contradiction  in  our  nature,  and  to  which  | 
even  the  wise  are  liable!  If  I should  judge  of  that  ' 

part  of  life  which  lies  before  m.'?  by  that  which  I have  ! 

already  seen,  the  prospect  is  hideous.  Experience 
tells  me  that  my  past  enjoyments  have  brought  no 
real  felicity,  and  sensation  assures  me  that  those  I 
have  felt  are  stronger  than  those  which  are  yet  to 
come.  Yet  experience  and  sensation  in  vain  per-suade ; 
hope,  more  powerful  than  either,  dresses  out  the  dis- 
tant prospect  in  fancied  beauty ; some  happiness,  in 
long  perspective,  still  beckons  me  to  pursue ; and, 
like  a losing  gamester,  every  new  disappointment  in- 
creases my  ardour  to  continue  the  game. 

Whence,  then,  is  this  increased  love  of  life,  whieft 
grows  upon  us  with  our  years  2 whence  comes  it,  that 
we  thus  make  greater  efforts  to  preserve  our  existence 
at  a period  when  it  becomes  scarce  worth  the  keeping ! 

Is  it  that  nature,  attentive  to  the  pre.servation  of 
mankind,  increases  our  wishes  to  live,  while  she  les- 
sens our  enjoyments ; and,  as  she  robs  the  senses  of 
every  pleasure,  equips  imagination  in  the  spoil?  Life 
would  be  insupportable  to  an  old  man  who,  loaded  ] 
with  infirmities,  feared  death  no  more  than  when  in  | 
the  vigour  of  manhood  ; the  numberless  calamities  of  j 
decaying  nature,  and  the  consciousness  of  surviving 
every  pleasure,  would  at  once  induce  him,  with  his 
own  hand,  to  terminate  the  scene  of  misery  ; but  hap- 
pily the  contempt  of  death  forsakes  him  at  a lime 
when  it  could  only  be  prejudicial,  and  life  acquires 

2-25 


% 


PROM  1727  CYCL01'^;i)lA  OF  to  17(ftj 


an  imaginary  value  in  proportion  as  its  real  value  is 
no  more. 

Our  attachment  to  every  object  around  us  increases 
in  general  from  tlie  length  of  our  acquaintance  with 
it.  ‘ I would  not  choose,’  says  a Krencli  j>liilosoplicr, 
‘ to  see  an  old  post  pulled  up  with  which  I had  been 
long  acquainted.’  A mind  long  habituated  to  a cer- 
tain set  of  objects  insensibly  becomes  fond  of  seeing 
them;  visits  them  from  habit,. and  parts  from  them 
with  reluctance.  From  hence  proceeds  the  avarice 
of  the  old  in  every  kind  of  possession  ; they  love  the 
world  and  all  that  it  produces  ; they  love  life  and  all 
its  advantages,  not  because  it  gives  them  pleasure, 
but  because  they  have  known  it  long. 

Chinvang  the  Chaste,  ascending  the  throne  of  China, 
commanded  that  all  who  were  unjustly  detained  in 
prison  during  the  preceding  reigns  should  be  set  free. 
Among  the  number  who  came  to  thank  their  deliverer 
on  this  occasion  there  appeared  a majestic  old  man, 
who,  falling  at  the  emperor’s  feet,  addressed  him  as 
follows  : ‘ Great  father  of  China,  beliold  a wretch, 
now  eighty-five  years  old,  who  was  shut  up  in  a 
dungeon  at  the  age  of  twenty-two.  I was  imprisoned, 
though  a stranger  to  crime,  or  without  being  even 
confronted  by  my  accusers.  I have  now  lived  in 
solitude  and  darkness  for  more  than  fifty  years,  and 
am  grown  familiar  with  distress.  As  yet,  dazzled  with 
the  splendour  of  that  sun  to  which  you  have  restored 
me,  I have  been  wandering  the  streets  to  find  out 
some  friend  that  would  assist,  or  relieve,  or  remember 
me  ; but  my  friends,  my  family,  and  relations  are  all 
dead,  and  I am  forgotten.  Permit  me,  then,  0 Chin- 
vang, to  wear  out  the  wretched  remains  of  life  in  my 
former  prison  ; the  walls  of  my  dungeon  are  to  me 
more  pleasing  than  the  most  splendid  palace : I have 
not  long  to  live,  and  shall  be  unhappy  except  I spend 
the  rest  of  my  days  where  my  youth  was  passed — in 
that  prison  from  whence  you  were  pleased  to  release 
me.’ 

The  old  man’s  pas.sion  for  confinement  is  similar  to 
that  we  all  have  for  life.  We  are  habituated  to  the 
prison,  we  look  round  with  discontent,  are  displeased 
with  the  abode,  and  yet  the  length  of  our  captivity 
only  increases  our  fondness  for  the  cell.  The  trees  we 
have  planted,  the  houses  we  h.ave  built,  or  the  pos- 
terity we  have  begotten,  all  serve  to  bind  us  closer  to 
earth,  and  imbitter  our  parting.  Life  sues  the  young 
like  a new  acquaintance  ; the  companion,  as  )’et  un- 
exhausted, is  at  once  instructive  and  amusing ; its 
company  pleases,  yet  for  all  this  it  is  but  little  re- 
garded. To  us,  who  are  declined  in  years,  life  appears 
like  an  old  friend ; its  jests  have  been  anticipated  in 
former  conversation  ; it  has  no  new  story  to  make  us 
■mile,  no  new  improvement  with  which  to  surpri.se, 
yet  still  we  love  it ; destitute  of  every  enjoyment,  still 
we  love  it ; husband  the  wasting  treasure  with  in- 
creasing frugality,  and  feel  all  the  poignancy  of  an- 
guish in  the  fatal  separation. 

Sir  Philip  Mordaunt  was  young,  beautiful,  sincere, 
brave,  an  Englishman.  He  had  a complete  fortune  of 
his  own,  and  the  love  of  the  king  his  master,  which 
was  equivalent  to  riches.  Life  opened  all  her  treasures 
before  him,  and  promised  a long  succession  of  future 
happiness,  lie  came,  tasted  of  the  entertainment,  but 
was  disgusted  even  at  the  beginning.  He  professed 
an  aversion  to  living,  was  tired  of  walking  round  the 
same  circle ; had  tried  every  enjoyment,  and  found 
them  all  grow  weaker  at  every  repetition.  ‘ If  life 
be  in  youth  so  displeasing,’  cried  he  to  himself,  ‘ what 
will  it  appear  when  age  comes  on?  if  it  be  at  pre.sent 
indifferent,  sure  it  will  then  be  execrable’  This 
thought  imbittered  every  reflection  ; tlL  at  last,  with 
all  the  serenity  of  perverted  reason,  he  ended  the 
debate  with  a pistol ! Had  this  self-deluded  man 
been  apprised  that  existence  grows  more  desirable  to 
us  the  longer  we  exist,  he  would  have  then  faced  old 


age  without  shrinking;  lie  would  have  boldly  dared  to 
live,  and  served  that  society  by  his  future  assiduity 
which  he  basely  injured  by  his  desertion. 

[A  City  Niylit- Piece.'] 

[From  the  * Citizen  of  the  tVorld.’J 

The  clock  has  just  struck  two;  the  expiring  taper 
rises  and  sinks  in  the  socket ; the  watchman  forgets  the 
hour  in  slumber ; the  laborious  and  the  happy  are  at 
rest ; and  nothing  wakes  but  meditation,  guilt,  revelry, 
anil  despair.  The  drunkard  once  more  fills  the  de- 
stroying bowl  ; the  robber  walks  his  midnight  round  ; 
and  the  suicide  lifts  his  guilty  arm  against  his  own 
sacred  person. 

Let  me  no  longer  waste  the  night  over  the  page  of 
antiquity  or  the  sallies  of  contemporary  genius,  but 
pursue  the  solitary  walk,  where  vanity,  ever  changing, 
but  a few  hours  past  walked  before  me — where  she 
kept  up  the  pageant,  and  now,  like  a froward  child, 
seems  hushed  with  her  own  importunities. 

What  a gloom  hangs  all  around  ! The  dying  lamp 
feebly  emits  a yellow  gleam  ; no  sound  is  heard  but 
of  the  chiming  clock  or  the  distant  watch-dog  ; all 
the  bustle  of  human  pride  is  forgotten.  An  bout 
like  this  may  well  display  the  emptiness  of  human 
vanity. 

There  will  come  a time  when  this  temporary  soli- 
tude will  be  made  continual,  and  the  city  itself,  like 
its  inhabitants,  fade  away,  and  leave  a desert  in  its 
room. 

What  cities,  great  as  this,  have  once  triumphed 
in  existence,  had  their  victories  as  great,  joy  as  just 
and  as  unbounded,  and,  W'ith  short-sighted  presump- 
tion, promised  themselves  immortality  ! Posterity  can 
hardly  trace  the  situation  of  some ; the  sorrowful 
traveller  wanders  over  the  awful  ruins  of  others ; 
and,  as  he  beholds,  he  learns  wisdom,  and  feels  the 
transience  of  every  sublunary  possession. 

Here,  he  cries,  stood  their  citadel,  now  grown  over 
with  weeds  ; there  their  senate  house,  but  now  the 
haunt  of  every  noxious  reptile.  Temples  and  theatres 
stood  here,  now  only  an  undistinguished  heap  of  ruin. 
They  are  fallen,  for  luxury  and  avarice  first  made 
them  feeble.  The  rewards  of  state  were  conferred  on 
amusing,  and  not  on  useful  members  of  society. 
Their  riches  and  ojmlence  invited  the  invaders,  who, 
though  at  first  repulsed,  returned  again, conquered  by 
perseverance,  and  at  last  swept  the  defendants  into 
undistinguished  destruction. 

How  few  appear  in  those  streets,  which  but  some 
few  hours  ago  were  crowded  ! And  those  who  appear 
now  no  longer  wear  their  daily  nuisk,  nor  attempt  to 
hide  their  lewdness  or  their  misery. 

But  who  are  those  who  make  the  streets  their  couch, 
and  find  a short  repose  from  wretchedness  at  the  doors 
of  the  opulent  ? These  are  strangers,  wanderers,  and  or- 
phans, whose  circumstances  are  too  humble  to  expect  re- 
dress, and  whose  distresses  are  too  great  even  for  pity. 
Their  wretchedness  excites  rather  horror  than  pity. 
Some  are  without  the  covering  even  of  rags,  and  others 
emaciated  with  disease.  The  world  has  di.sclaimed 
them  : society  turns  its  back  upon  their  di.stress,  and 
has  given  them  up  to  nakedness  and  hunger.  These 
poor  shivering  females  have  once  seen  happier  days, 
and  been  flattered  into  beauty. 

Why,  why  was  I born  a man,  and  yet  see  the  suf- 
ferings of  wretches  I cannot  relieve  ? Poor  houseless 
creatures ! the  world  will  give  you  reproaches,  but 
will  not  give  you  relief.  The  slightest  misfortunes 
of  the  great,  the  most  imaginary  uneasiness  of  the 
rich,  are  aggravat<;d  with  all  the  power  of  eloquence, 
and  held  up  to  engage  our  attention  and  .sympathetic 
sorrow.  The  poor  weep  unheeded,  persecuted  by  every 
subordinate  species  of  tyranny  ; and  every  law  which 
gives  others  security  becomes  an  enemy  to  them. 

226 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


F.DMUND  nURKE. 


, 

I I MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 


Why  was  this  licart  of  mine  formed  witli  so  much 
sensibility  ? or  why  was  not  niy  fortune  adapted  to  its 
, impulses ! Tenderness  without  the  capacity  of  re- 
lieving, only  makes  the  man  more  wretched  than  the 
I '■Ujcct  which  sues  for  assistance. 

EDMUND  BURKE. 

As  an  orator,  politician,  and  author,  the  name  of 
1 Edmund  IIurke  stood  high  with  his  contemporaries, 
and  time  has  abated  little  of  its  lustre.  He  is  still 
j by  far  the  most  eloquent  and  imaginative  of  alt  our 
writers  on  public  affairs,  and  the  most  philosopliical 
of  English  statesmen.  Burke  was  born  in  Dublin, 
the  second  son  of  an  attorney,  in  1730.  After  his 
education  at  Trinity  college,  he  removed  to  London, 
where  he  entered  himself  as  a student  of  the  Middle 
Temple,  and  laboured  in  periodical  works  for  the 
booksellers.  His  first  conspicuous  work  was  a 
parody  on  the  style  and  manner  of  Bolingbroke,  a 
Vindication  of  Natural  Society,  in  which  the  para- 
do.xical  reasoning  of  the  noble  sceptic  is  pushed  to  a 
ridiculous  extreme,  and  its  absurdity  very  happily 
I exposed.  In  1757  he  published  A P/nVosop/n'eaZ  7n- 
I quiry  into  the  Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and 
• Beautiful,  which  soon  attracted  considerable  atten- 
tion, and  jwived  tlie  way  for  the  author’s  introduc- 
tion to  tlie  society  of  Johnson,  Reynolds,  Goldsmith, 
and  the  other  eminent  men  of  the  day.  Burke, 
however,  was  still  struggling  with  difficulties,  and 


Edmund  Burke. 

compiling  for  booksellers.  He  suggested  to  Dodsley 
the  plan  of  an  Annual  Register,  which  that  spirited 
publisher  adopted,  Burke  furnishing  the  whole  of 
. the  original  matter.  He  continued  for  several  years 
j to  write  the  historical  portion  of  tliis  valuable  com- 
I pilation.  In  1761  Burke  accompanied  the  Earl  of 
I Halifax  to  Ireland  as  one  of  his  secretaries ; and  four 
i years  afterwards,  he  was  fairly  launched  into  public 
life  as  a Whig  politician,  by  becoming  private  secre- 
tary to  the  Marquis  of  Rockingham,  then  appointed 
first  lord  of  the  treasury.  A seat  in  parliament  next 
followed,  and  Burke  became  a leading  speaker  in 
i the  House  of  Commons.  His  first  seat  was  for 

j Wendover,  and  he  was  afterwards  member  for 

I Bristol  and  Malton.  His  speeches  on  American 


affairs  were  among  his  most  vigorous  and  felicitous 
appearances : his  most  important  public  duty  was 
the  part  he  took  in  the  prosecution  of  Warren 
Hastings,  and  his  opposition  to  the  regency  bid 
' of  Mr  Pitt.  Stormier  times,  however,  were  at 
hand  : the  French  Revolution  was  then  ‘ blacken- 
ing the  horizon’  (to  use  one  of  his  own  metaphors), 
and  he  early  predicted  the  course  it  would  take. 

He  strenuously  warned  his  countrymen  against  the 
dangerous  influence  of  French  principles,  and  pub- 
lished his  memorable  treatise.  Reflections  on  the 
French  Revolution.  A rupture  now  took  place  be- 
tween him  and  his  Whig  friends,  Mr  Fo.x  in  parti- 
cular ; but  with  characteristic  ardour  Burke  went 
on  denouncing  the  doctrines  of  the  revolution,  and 
published  his  Appeal  from  the  New  to  the  Old  Whigs, 
his  Letters  to  a Noble  Lord,  and  his  Letters  on  the  Pro- 
posals for  Peace  with  the  Regicide  Directory  of  France. 
The  splendour  of  these  compositions,  the  various 
knowledge  which  they  display,  the  rich  imagery 
with  which  they  abound,  and  the  spirit  of  philoso- 
phical reflection  which  pervades  them  all,  stamp 
them  among  the  first  literary  productions  of  their 
time.  Judged  as  political  treatises,  they  may  in 
some  instances  be  considered  as  exaggerated  in  their 
tone  and  manner : the  imagination  of  the  orator 
transported  him  beyond  the  bounds  of  sober  pru- 
dence and  correct  taste ; but  in  all  his  wanderings 
there  is  genius,  wisdom,  and  eloquence.  Such  a 
flood  of  rich  illustration  had  never  before  been  poured 
on  questions  of  state  policy  and  government.  At 
the  same  time  Burke  was  eminently  practical  in  his 
views.  His  greatest  efforts  w ill  be  found  directed 
to  the  redress  of  some  existing  wrong,  or  the  pre.ser- 
vation  of  some  existing  good — to  hatred  of  actual 
oppression,  to  the  removal  of  useless  restrictions, 
and  to  the  calm  and  sober  improvement  of  the  law’s 
and  government  which  he  venerated,  without  ‘ coin- 
ing to  himself  MJiig  principles  from  a French  die, 
unknown  to  the  impress  of  our  fathers  in  the  con- 
stitution.’ Where  inconsistencies  are  found  in  his 
writings  between  his  early  and  later  opinions,  they  j 
will  be  seen  to  consist  chiefly  in  matters  of  detail  or 
in  expression.  Tire  leading  principles  of  his  public 
life  wore  always  the  same.  He  wished,  as  he  says, 
to  preserve  consistency,  but  only  by  varying  Ids 
means  to  secure  the  unity  of  his  end;  ‘when  the 
equipoise  of  the  vessel  in  which  he  sails  maj’  be  en- 
dangered by  overloading  it  upon  one  side,  he  is 
desirous  of  carrying  the  small  weight  of  his  reasons  to 
that  which  may  preserve  its  equipoise.’  When  the 
revolution  broke  out,  his  sagacity  enabled  him  to 
foresee  the  dreadfid  consequences  which  it  would 
entail  upon  France  and  the  world,  and  his  enthusi- 
astic temperament  led  him  to  state  his  impressions 
in  language  sometimes  overcharged  and  almost  bom- 
bastic, sometimes  full  of  prophetic  fire,  and  always 
w'ith  an  energy  and  exuberance  of  fancy  in  which, 
among  philosophical  politicians,  he  was  unrivalled. 

In  the  clash  of  party  strife,  so  eminent  a person  could 
not  escape  animadversion  or  censure ; his  own  ardour 
excited  others,  and  the  vehemence  of  his  manner  natu-  j 
rally  provoked  and  aggravated  discussion.  'J’hus  he  I 
stood  aloof  from  most  of  his  old  associates,  when,  like 
a venerable  tower,  he  was  sinking  into  ruin  and  de- 
cay. Fosterity,  however,  has  done  ample  justice  to 
his  genius  and  character,  and  has  confirmed  the 
opinion  of  one  of  his  contemporaries,  that  if  (as  he 
did  not  attempt  to  conceal)  Cicero  was  the  model  on 
which  he  laboured  to  form  his  own  character  in 
eloquence,  in  policy,  in  ethics,  and  philosophy,  he 
infinitely  surpassed  the  original.  Burke  retired  from 
parliament  in  1794.  The  friendship  of  the  Marquis 
of  Rockingham  had  enabled  him  to  purchase  an 
estate  near  Beaconsficld,  in  Buckinghamshire,  and 

227 


FHOM  1727 


CYCr.OP^IDIA  OF 


I 


there  tlie  orator  spent  exclusively  his  few  remaining 
years.  In  lie  was  rewarded  with  a handsome 

IKMision  from  the  civil  list.  It  was  in  oontemplation 
to  elevate  him  to  the  peerage,  hut  the  death  of  his 
only  .son  (who  was  his  colleague  in  the  representa- 
tion of  Malton)  rendered  him  indifferent,  if  not 
averse,  to  such  a distinction.  The  force  and  energy 
of  his  mind,  and  the  creative  richness  of  his  imagi- 
nation, continued  with  him  to  the  last.  Ills  Letter 
tu  (I  JVohle  Lord  on  his  Pension  (ITyti),  his  Letters  on 
a Reyicide.  Pence  {^7^6  and  1797),  and  his  Ohserva- 
tions  on  the  Conduct  of  the  Minority  (1797),  hear  no 
trace  of  decaying  vigour,  though  written  after  the 
age  of  sixty-seven.  The  keen  interest  with  which 
he  regarded  passing  events,  particularly  the  great 
political  drama  then  in  action  in  France,  is  still 
manifest  in  these  works,  with  general  oh.servations 
and  reflections  that  strike  from  their  profundity  and 
their  universal  application.  ‘ He  possessed,’  says 
Coleridge,  ‘and  had  sedulously  sharpened  that  eye 
which  sees  all  things,  actions,  and  events,  in  relation 
to  the  laws  which  determine  their  existence  and 
circumscribe  their  possibility.  He  referred  habi- 
tually to  principles — he  was  a scientifle  statesman.’ 
This  reference  to  principles  in  the  writings  and 
speeches  of  Burke  (and  his  speeches  were  all  care- 
fully prepared  fur  the  press),  renders  them  still 
po[)ular  and  valuable,  when  the  circumstances  and 
events  to  which  they  relate  have  long  passed  away, 
and  been  succeeded  by  others  not  less  important ; 
while  their  grander  passages,  their  imagery  and  pro- 
fusion of  illustration,  make  them  interesting  to  the 
orator  and  literary  student.  His  imagination,  it  is 
admitted,  was  not  always  guided  by  correct  taste  ; 
some  of  his  images  are  low,  and  even  border  on  dis- 
gust.* His  language  and  his  conceptions  are  often 
hyperbolical ; or  it  may  be  said,  his  mind,  like  the 
soil  of  the  East,  which  he  loved  to  paint,  threw  up  a 
rank  and  luxuriant  vegetation,  in  which  unsightly 
weeds  were  mingled  with  the  choicest  flowers  and 
the  most  precious  fruit.  He  was  at  once  a poet,  an 

* One  of  the  happiest  of  his  homely  similes  is  eontained  in  his 
reply  to  Pitt,  on  the  subjeet  of  the  commercial  treaty  with 
France  in  1797*  Pitt,  he  contended,  had  contemplated  the 
subject  with  a narrowness  peculiar  to  limited  minds — ‘ as  an 
affair  of  two  little  countin?:-hoiises,  and  not  of  two  great 
nations.  He  seems  to  consider  it  as  a contention  between 
the  sign  of  the  Jteur-el^-lis  and  the  sign  of  the  old  red  lion, 
for  which  should  obtain  the  best  custom.’  In  replying  to 
the  argument,  that  the  Americans  were  our  children,  and 
shouhl  not  have  revolted  against  their  parent,  he  said, 

‘ They  are  our  children,  it  is  true,  but  when  children  ask 
for  bread,  we  are  not  to  give  them  a stone.  "When  those 
children  of  ours  wi.sh  to  assimilate  with  their  parent,  and  to 
respect  the  beauteous  countenance  of  British  liberty,  are  we 
to  turn  to  them  the  shameful  parts  of  our  constitution  ? Are 
we  to  give  them  our  weakness  for  their  strength,  our  oppro- 
brium for  their  glory,  and  the  slough  of  slavery',  which  we  are 
not  able  to  work  off,  to  serve  them  for  their  freedom  ?’  His 
account  of  the  ill-assorted  administration  of  Lord  Chatham  is 
no  less  ludicrous  than  correct.  ‘ He  made  an  administration 
so  chequered  and  speckled  ; he  put  together  a piece  of  joinery 
so  crossly  indented,  and  whimsically  dove-tailed  ; a cabinet  so 
variously  inlaid ; such  a piece  of  diversified  mosaic  ; such  a 
tesselated  pavement  without  cement,  here  a bit  of  black  stone, 
and  there  a bit  of  white  ; patriots  and  courtiers  ; king’s  friends 
and  republicans  ; Whigs  and  Tories  ; treacherous  friends  and 
open  enemies ; that  it  was  indeed  a very  curious  show,  but 
utterly  unsafe  to  touch,  and  unsure  to  stand  on.  The  colleagues 
whom  he  had  a.ssorted  at  the  same  boards  stared  at  each  other, 
and  were  obliged  to  ask,  “ Sir,  your  name  ?"  “ Sir,  you  have 
the  advantage  of  me  “ Mr  Such-a-one,  I beg  a thousand  par- 
dons.” I venture  to  say  it  did  so  happen,  that  persons  had  a 
single  office  divided  between  them,  who  h.ad  never  spoke  to 
each  other  in  their  lives,  until  they  found  themselves,  they 
knew  not  how,  pigging  together,  heads  and  pioints,  in  the  same 
Ixuckle  bed.’ 


lO  1780. 


orator,  a jtliilosopber,  ami  practical  statesman  ; and 
liis  knowledge,  bis  industry,  and  iterseverance,  were 
as  remarkable  as  bis  gonin.s.  Tbe  protracted  and 
brilliant  career  of  this  great  man  was  terminated  on 
tbe  9tb  of  .July  1797,  and  be  was  interred  in  tbe 
ebureb  at  Beaconsfield.* 

A comijlete  edition  of  Burke’s  works  baa  been  pnb- 
lislieii  in  sixteen  volutnes.  His  political,  and  not  bis 
pbilosopbical  writings. are  noweb iefly  read.  His  ‘ l)is- 
(jnisition  on  tbe  Sublime  and  Beautiful’  is  incorrect 
in  tbeory  and  in  many  of  its  illustrations,  tb-.-igb 
containing  some  just  remarks  and  elegant  criticism. 
His  inigbty  understanding,  as  Sir  .James  iUaekintosb 
observed,  w as  best  einjiloyed  in  ‘ tbe  middle  region. 


Beaconsfield. 


between  tbe  details  of  business  and  the  gener.alitics 
of  speculation.’  In  this  department,  his  knowle<ige 
of  men  as  well  as  of  books,  of  ])assions  as  well  as 
principles,  was  called  into  action,  and  bis  imagina- 
tion found  room  for  its  lights  and  shadows  among 
tbe  varied  realities  and  shifting  scenes  of  life.  A 
generous  political  opponent,  and  not  less  eloquent 
(though  less  original  and  less  powerful)  writer, 
has  thus  sketched  the  character  of  Burke : — 

‘ It  is  pretended,’  says  Robert  Hall,  ‘ that  the  mo- 
ment we  quit  a state  of  nature,  as  we  have  given  up 
tlie  control  of  our  actions  in  return  for  tbe  superior 
advantages  of  law  and  government,  we  can  never 
appeal  again  to  any  original  principlc.s,  but  must 
rest  content  with  tbe  advantages  that  are  secured 
by  the  terms  of  tbe  society.  These  are  tbe  views 
which  distinguish  tbe  i>olitical  writings  of  Jlr  Burke, 
an  author  wliose  splendid  and  unequal  powers  have 
giv'en  a vogue  and  fashion  to  certain  tenets  which, 
from  any  other  pen,  would  have  aj.peared  abject 
and  contemptible.  In  the  field  of  reason  the  en- 
counter w'ould  not  be  difficult,  but  who  can  with- 
stand the  fascination  and  magic  of  his  eloquence? 
The  excursions  of  his  genius  are  immense.  His  im- 
perial fancy  has  laid  all  nature  under  tribute,  and 
has  collected  riches  from  every  scene  of  the  creation 

* A plain  mural  tablet  has  been  erected  in  the  church  to  the 
memory  of  Burke.  The  orator’s  re.sidcnce  was  about  a mile 
from  the  town  of  Beacc  nsfield.  The  hoiLse  wa.s  afterwards 
partly  destroyed  by  fire,  ^d  is  now,  we  believe,  wholly  re- 
moved. 


228 


MISCKI.I.ANKOUS  WRITKItS. 


ENGLISH  LITEUATURE. 


KDMUNI)  nUBKK. 


■ind  ('very  walk  of  art.  Ills  culogium  on  the  queen 
of  France  is  a master-piece  of  pathetic  composition ; 
so  select  are  its  images,  so  fraught  with  tenderness, 
and  so  rich  with  colours  “ dipt  in  heaven,”  that  he 
vho  can  read  it  without  rapture  may  have  merit  as 
a reasoner,  hut  must  resign  all  pretensions  to  taste 
and  sensibility.  His  imagination  is,  in  truth,  only 
too  prolific  : a world  of  itself,  where  he  dwells  in 
the  midst  of  chimcricid  alarms — is  the  dupe  of  his 
own  enchantments,  and  starts,  like  Prospero,  at  the 
spectres  of  his  own  creation,  His  intellectual  views 
in  general,  however,  are  wide  and  variegated,  rather 
than  distinct ; and  the  light  he  has  let  in  on  the 
Rritish  constitution,  in  particular,  resembles  the 
coloured  etrulgence  of  a painted  medium,  a kind  of 
mimic  twilight,  solemn  and  sootliing  to  the  senses, 
but  better  fitted  for  ornament  than  use.’* 

Sir  James  Mackintosh  considered  that  Burke’s 
best  style  was  before  the  Indian  business  and  the 
French  Revolution  had  inflamed  him.  It  was  more 
chaste  and  simple ; but  his  writings  and  speeches  at 
this  period  can  hardly  be  said  to  equal  his  later 
productions  in  vigour,  fancy,  or  originality.  The 
I excitement  of  the  times  seemed  to  give  a new 
development  to  his  mental  energies.  The  early 
speeches  have  most  constitutional  and  practical  value 
— the  late  ones  most  genius.  The  former  are  a solid 
and  durable  structure,  and  the  latter  its  ‘ Corinthian 
columns.’ 

I \_From  the  Speech  on  Conciliation  mth  America,  1775.] 

! ^Ir  Speaker,  I cannot  prevail  on  myself  to  hurry 
over  the  great  consideration.  It  is  good  for  us  to  be 
here.  We  stand  where  we  have  an  immense  view  of 
what  is,  and  what  is  past.  Clouds,  indeed,  and  dark- 
ness, rest  upon  the  future.  Let  us,  however,  before 
we  descend  from  this  noble  eminence,  reflect  that  this 
growth  of  our  national  prosperity  has  happened  within 
the  short  period  of  the  life  of  man.  It  has  happened 
within  sixty-eight  years.  There  are  those  alive  who.«e 
memory  might  touch  the  two  extremities.  For  in- 
stance, my  Lord  Bathurst  might  remember  all  the 
stages  of  the  progress.  He  was  in  1704  of  an  age  at 
least  to  be  made  to  comprehend  such  things.  He  was 
then  old  enough  acta  parentum  jam,  lerjere,  et  qua  sit 
poterit  cognoscere  virtus.  Suppose,  sir,  that  the  angel 
of  this  auspicious  youth,  foreseeing  the  many  virtues 
which  made  him  one  of  the  most  amiable,  as  he  is 
one  of  the  most  fortunate  men  of  his  age,  had  opened 
to  him  in  vision,  that,  when  in  the  fourth  generation, 
the  third  prince  of  the  house  of  Brunswick  had  sat 
twelve  years  on  the  throne  of  tha.t  nation,  which  (by 
the  happy  i.ssue  of  moderate  and  healing  councils) 
was  to  be  made  Great  Britain,  he  should  see  his  son, 

I lord-chancellor  of  England,  turn  back  the  current  of 
hereditary  dignity  to  its  fountain,  and  raise  him  to  a 
I higher  rank  of  peerage,  whilst  he  enriched  the  family 
with  a new  one.  If  amidst  these  bright  and  happy 
scenes  of  domestic  honour  and  prosperity  that  angel 
should  have  drawn  up  the  curtain,  and  unfolded  the 
rising  glories  of  his  country,  and  whilst  he  was  gazing' 
with  admiration  on  the  then  commercial  grandeur  of 
' England,  the  Genius  should  point  out  to  him  a little 
I speck,  scarce  visible  in  the  mass  of  the  national  inte- 
j rest,  a small  seminal  principle,  rather  than  a formed 
I body,  and  should  tell  him—*  Young  man,  there  is 
j America — which  at  this  day  serves  for  little  more 
i than  to  amuse  you  with  stories  of  savage  men  and 
uncouth  manners  ; yet  shall,  before  you  taste  of  death, 

I show  itself  equal  to  the  whole  of  that  commerce  which 
I now  attracts  the  envy  of  the  world.  Whatever  Eng- 
I land  has  been  growing  to  by  a progressive  increase  of 
' improvement,  brought  in  by  varieties  of  people,  by 

' * UalTs  Works,  2d  edition,  vol.  iv.  p.  89. 


succe.ssion  of  civilising  conquests  and  civilising  settle- 
ments in  a series  of  seventeen  hundred  years,  you 
shall  see  as  much  added  to  her  by  America  in  the 
course  of  a single  life!’  If  this  state  of  his  country 
had  been  foretold  to  him,  would  it  not  require  all  the 
sanguine  credulity  of  youth,  and  all  the  fervid  glow 
of  enthusiasm,  to  make  him  believe  it?  Fortunate 
man,  he  has  lived  to  see  it ! Fortunate,  indeed,  if  he 
lives  to  see  nothing  that  shall  vary  the  prospect  and 
cloud  the  setting  of  his  day  I * * 

You  cannot  station  garrisons  in  every  part  of  these 
deserts.  If  you  drive  the  people  from  one  place,  they 
will  carry  on  their  annual  tillage,  and  remove  with 
their  flocks  and  herds  to  another.  Many  of  the  peojde 
in  the  back  settlements  are  already  little  attached  to 
particular  situations.  Already  they  have  topped  the 
Appalachian  mountains.  From  thence  they  behold 
before  them  an  immense  pla’n,  one  vast,  rich,  level 
meadow ; a square  of  five  hundred  miles.  Over  this 
they  would  wander  without  a possibility  of  restraint ; 
they  would  change  their  manners  with  the  habits  of 
their  life ; would  soon  forget  a government  by  which 
they  were  disowned  ; would  become  hordes  of  English 
Tartars,  and,  pouring  down  upon  your  unfortified 
frontiers  a fierce  and  irresistible  cavalry,  become 
masters  of  your  governors  and  your  counsellors,  your 
collectors  and  comptrollers,  and  all  the  slaves  that 
adhere  to  them.  Such  would,  and  in  no  long  time 
must  be,  the  effect  of  attempting  to  forbid  as  a crime, 
and  to  suppress  as  an  evil,  the  command  and  blessing 
of  Providence — * increase  and  multiply.’  Such  would 
be  the  happy  result  of  an  endeavour  to  keep  as  a lair 
of  wild  beasts  that  earth  which  God,  by  an  express 
charter,  has  given  to  the  children  of  men.  Far  dif- 
ferent, and  surely  much  wiser,  has  been  our  policy 
hitherto.  Hitherto  we  have  invited  our  people,  by 
every  kind  of  bounty,  to  fixed  establishments.  We 
have  invited  the  husbandman  to  look  to  authority  for 
his  title.  We  have  taught  him  piously  to  believe  in 
the  mysterious  virtue  of  wax  and  parchment.  We 
have  thrown  each  tract  of  land,  as  it  was  ]>eopled, 
into  districts,  that  the  ruling  power  should  never  be 
wholly  out  of  sight.  We  have  settled  all  we  could, 
and  we  have  carefully  attended  every  settlement  with 
government. 

Adhering,  sir,  as  I do  to  this  policy,  as  well  as  for 
the  reasons  I have  just  given,  1 think  this  new  project 
of  hedging  in  population  to  be  neither  prudent  nor 
practicable. 

To  impoverish  the  colonies  in  general,  and  in  par- 
ticular to  arrest  the  noble  course  of  their  marine 
enterprises,  would  be  a more  easy  task,  I freely  con- 
fess it.  We  have  shown  a disposition  to  a system  of 
this  kind  ; a disposition  even  to  continue  the  restraint 
after  the  offence ; looking  on  ourselves  as  rivals  to 
our  colonies,  and  persuaded  that  of  course  we  must 
gain  all  that  they  shall  lose.  Much  mischief  we  may 
certainly  do.  The  power  inadequate  to  all  other 
things  is  often  more  than  sufficient  for  this.  I do 
not  look  on  the  direct  and  immediate  power  of  the 
colonies  to  resist  our  violence  as  very  formidable. 
In  this,  however,  I may  be  mistaken.  But  when  I 
consider  that  we  have  colonies  for  no  purpose  but  to 
be  serviceable  to  us,  it  seems  to  my  poor  understand- 
ing a little  preposterous  to  make  them  unserviceable, 
in  order  to  keep  them  obedient.  It  is,  in  truth,  nothing 
more  than  the  old,  and,  as  I thought,  exploded  pro- 
blem of  tyranny,  which  proposes  to  beggar  its  subjects 
into  submission.  But  remember,  when  you  have  com- 
pleted your  system  of  impoverishment,  that  nature 
still  proceeds  in  her  ordinary  course ; and  that  dis- 
content will  increase  with  misery ; and  that  there  are 
critical  moments  in  the  fortunes  of  all  states,  when 
they  who  are  too  weak  to  contribute  to  your  prospe- 
rity, may  be  strong  enough  to  complete  your  ruin 
Spoliatis  arma  supei-mnt. 

22.9 


FROM  1727 


CYCIi)IV>:i)IyV  OP’ 


TO  1780. 


Tlio  tiMiipor  and  character  whicli  prevail  in  onr 
colonies  are,  1 am  afraid,  unalterable  by  any  human 
art.  We  cannot,  1 fear,  falsify  the  i)cdi"ree  of  this 
fierce  people,  and  persuade  them  that  they  are  not 
spruno  from  a nation  in  whose  veins  the  blood  of  free- 
dom circulates.  The  language  in  which  they  would 
hear  you  tell  them  this  tale  would  detect  the  impo- 
sition ; your  speech  would  betray  you.  An  Knglish- 
mau  is  the  unfittost  per.son  on  earth  to  argue  another 
Knglishman  into  slavery.  * * 

My  hold  of  the  colonics  is  in  the  close  affection 
wdiich  grows  from  common  names,  from  kindred  blood, 
from  similar  privileges,  and  equal  protection.  These 
are  ties  wdiich,  though  light  as  air,  are  as  strong  as 
links  of  iron.  Let  the  colonies  always  keeii  the  idea 
of  their  civil  rights  associated  wdth  your  government ; 
they  will  cling  and  grapple  to  you  ; and  no  force 
under  heaven  will  be  of  power  to  tear  them  from  their 
allegiance.  Hut  let  it  be  once  understood  that  your 
government  may  be  one  thing  and  their  privileges 
another;  that  these  two  things  may  exist  without  any 
mutual  relation,  the  cement  is  gone — the  cohesion  is 
loosened — and  everything  hastens  to  decay  and  dis- 
solution. As  long  as  you  have  the  wisdom  to  keep 
the  sovereign  authority  of  this  country  as  the  sanc- 
tuary of  liberty,  the  sacred  temple  consecrated  to  our 
common  faith,  wherever  the  cho.sen  race  and  sons  of 
England  worship  freedom,  they  will  turn  their  faees 
towards  you.  The  more  they  multiply,  the  more 
friends  you  will  have ; the  more  ardently  they  love 
liberty,  the  more  perfect  will  be  their  obedience. 
Slavery  they  can  have  anywhere.  It  is  a weed  that 
grows  in  every  soil.  They  may  have  it  from  Spain, 
they  may  have  it  from  Prussia ; but  until  you  become 
lost  to  all  feeling  of  your  true  interest  and  your 
natural  dignity,  freedom  they  can  have  from  none 
but  you.  This  is  the  commodity  of  price,  of  which 
you  have  the  monopoly.  This  is  the  true  act  of  navi- 
gation, which  binds  you  to  the  commerce  of  the  colo- 
nies, and  through  them  secures  to  you  the  commerce 
of  the  world.  Deny  them  this  participation  of  free- 
dom, and  you  break  that  sole  bond  which  originally 
made,  and  must  still  preserve,  the  unity  of  the  em- 
pire. Do  not  entertain  so  weak  an  imagination,  as 
that  your  registers  and  your  bonds,  your  affidavits 
and  your  sufferances,  your  coquets  aijd  your  clear- 
ances, are  what  form  the  great  securities  of  your 
commerce.  Do  not  dream  that  your  letters  of  office, 
and  youi  instructions,  and  your  su.spending  clauses, 
are  the  things  that  hold  together  the  great  contexture 
of  this  mysterious  whole.  These  things  do  not  make 
your  government.  Dead  instruments,  passive  tools 
as  they  are,  it  is  the  sjurit  of  the  English  communion 
that  gives  all  their  life  ami  efficacy  to  them.  It  is 
the  spirit  of  the  Engli.sh  constitution  which,  infused 
through  the  mighty  mass,  pervades,  feeds,  unites, 
invigorates,  vivifies  every  part  of  the  empire,  even 
down  to  the  minutest  member. 

Is  it  not  the  same  virtue  wdiich  does  everything  for 
us  here  in  England  f Do  you  imagine,  then,  that  it 
is  the  land-tax  act  wdiich  raises  your  revenue  I that 
it  is  the  annual  vote  in  the  committee  of  supply  which 
gives  you  your  army?  or  that  it  is  the  mutiny  bill 
wdiich  inspires  it  with  bravery  and  discipline?  Xo! 
Surely  no!  It  is  the  love  of  the  people;  it  is  their 
attachment  to  their  government,  from  the  sen.se  of 
the  deep  stake  they  have  in  such  a glorious  institu- 
tion, which  gives  you  your  army  and  your  navy,  and 
infuses  into  both  that  liberal  obedience  wdthout  wdiich 
your  army  would  be  a ba.se  rabble,  and  your  navy 
nothing  but  rotten  timber.  All  this,  I know  well 
enough,  w ill  sound  wdld  and  chimerical  to  the  profane 
herd  of  those  vulgar  and  mechanical  politicians  wdio 
have  no  place  among  us  ; a sort  of  people  wdio  think 
that  nothing  exists  but  what  is  gross  and  material  ; 
Mid  who,  therefore,  far  from  being  qualified  to  be 


directors  of  the  great  movement  of  empire,  are  not  fit 
to  turn  a wheel  in  the  machine,  lliit  to  men  truly 
initiated  and  rightly  taught,  these  ruling  and  master 
princi|)les  which,  in  the  opinion  of  such  men  as  I have  j 
mentioned,  have  no  substantial  existence,  are  in  truth 
everything,  and  all  in  all.  Magnanimity  in  politics 
is  not  seldom  the  truest  w isdom,  and  a great  empire 
and  little  minds  go  ill  together.  If  we  are  conscious 
of  our  situation,  and  glow  with  zeal  to  fill  our  places 
as  becomes  our  station  and  ourselves,  we  ought  to 
auspicate  all  our  public  proceedings  on  America,  wdth  I 
the  old  warning  of  the  church,  tsurmm  cot-da/  W' 
ought  to  elevate  our  minds  to  the  greatness  of  that 
trust  to  which  the  order  of  Providence  has  called  us. 
liy  adverting  to  the  dignity  of  this  high  calling,  our 
ancestors  have  turned  a savage  wdlderness  into  a glo- 
rious eniiure  ; and  have  made  the  most  extensive,  and 
the  only  honourable  conquests ; not  by  destroying, 
but  by  promoting  the  wealth,  the  number,  the  happi- 
ness of  the  human  race.  Let  us  get  an  American 
revenue,  as  we  have  got  an  American  empire.  English 
privileges  have  made  it  all  that  it  is ; English  privi- 
leges alone  wdll  make  it  all  it  can  be.  In  full  confi- 
dence of  this  unalterable  truth,  I now  (quod  felix 
f au.it umquets it)  lay  the  first  stone  of  the  temple  of 
peace.* 

[Mr  Burle’s  Account  of  his  5on.] 

Had  it  pleased  God  to  continue  to  me  the  hopes 
of  succession,  I should  have  been,  according  to  my 
mediocrity,  and  the  mediocrity  of  the  age  1 live  in, 
a sort  of  founder  of  a family ; I should  have  left  a 
son,  who,  in  all  the  points  in  wdiich  personal  merit 
can  be  viewed,  in  science,  in  erudition,  in  genius, 
in  taste,  in  honour,  in  generosity,  in  humanity,  in 
every  liberal  sentiment,  and  every  liberal  accom- 
plishment, would  not  have  shown  himself  inferior 
to  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  or  to  any  of  those  whom  he 
traces  in  his  line.  11  is  Grace  very  soon  would  have 
wanted  all  plausibility  in  his  attack  upon  that  pro- 
vision wdiich  belonged  more  to  mine  than  to  me.  He 
would  soon  have  supplied  every  deficiency,  and  sym- 
metrised every  disproportion.  It  would  not  have  been 
for  that  successor  to  resort  to  aiiy  stagnant  wasting 
reservoir  of  merit  in  me,  or  in  any  ancestry.  He  had 
in  him.self  a salient  living  spring  of  generous  and 
manly  action.  Every  day  he  lived,  he  would  have  re- 
purchased the  bounty  of  the  crown,  and  ten  times 
more,  if  ten  times  more  he  had  received.  He  was 
made  a public  creature,  and  had  no  enjoyment  what- 
ever but  in  the  performance  of  some  duty.  At  this 
exigent  moment  the  loss  of  a finished  man  is  not 
easily  supplied. 

But  a Disposer,  wdiose  power  we  are  little  able  -to 
resist,  and  wdiose  wdsdom  it  behoves  us  not  at  all  to 
dispute,  has  ordained  it  in  another  manner,  and 
(whatever  my  querulous  weakness  might  suggest)  a 
far  better.  The  storm  has  gone  over  me,  and  I lie 
like  one  of  tho.se  old  oaks  wdiich  the  late  hurricane 
.has  scattered  about  me.  I am  stripped  of  all  my 
honours ; I am  torn  up  b^'  the  roots,  and  lie  prostrate  j 
on  the  earth ! There,  and  prostrate  there,  I most  j 
unfeignedly  recognise  the  divine  justice,  and  in  some  I 
degree  submit  to  it.  But  whilst  1 humble  myself  i 
before  God,  I do  not  know  that  it  is  forbidden  to  repel  ! 

the  attacks  of  unjust  and  inconsiderate  men.  The  j 

patience  of  .lob  is  proverbial.  After  some  of  the  con-  I 
vuLsive  struggles  of  our  irritable  nature,  he  submitted  j 

* At  the  conclusion  of  this  speccli,  Jlr  lliirke  moved  that 
the  right  of  parliamentary  representation  should  be  extended 
to  the  American  colonies,  but  his  motion  wag  negatived  by 
270  to  7d.  Indeed  his  most  brilliant  orations  made  little  im- 
pression on  tile  House  of  Coinmong,  the  ministerial  party  Ixr 
ing  strong  in  numbers. 

230 


EDMUND  BUllKK. 


MISCELLANEOUS  wiuTERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


him.sclf,  and  repented  in  dust  and  ashes.  Hut  even 
so,  1 do  not  find  him  blamed  for  reprehending,  and 
vvitli  a considerable  degree  of  verbal  asi>erity,  those 
ill-natured  neighbours  of  his  who  visited  his  dung- 
hill to  read  moral,  political,  and  economical  lectures 
on  his  misery.  I am  alone.  I have  none  to  meet  my 
enemies  in  the  gate.  Indeed,  my  lord,  I greatly  de- 
ceive myself,  if  in  this  hard  season  I would  give  a 
peck  of  refuse  wheat  for  all  that  is  called  fame  and 
honour  in  the  world.  This  is  the  appetite  but  of  a 
few.  It  is  a lu.xury  ; it  is  a privilege;  it  is  an  indul- 
gence for  those  who  are  at  their  ease.  But  we  are  all 
of  us  made  to  shun  disgrace,  as  we  are  made  to  shrink 
from  pain,  and  poverty,  and  disease.  It  is  an  instinct ; 
and  under  the  direction  of  Veason,  instinct  is  always 
in  the  right.  I live  in  an  inverted  order.  ■ They  who 
ought  to  have  succeeded  me  are  gone  before  me  ; they 
who  should  have  been  to  me  as  posterity,  are  in  the 
place  of  ancestors.  I owe  to  the  dearest  relation 
(which  ever  must  subsist  in  memory)  that  act  of  piety, 
which  he  would  have  performed  to  me ; I owe  it  to 
him  to  show,  that  he  was  not  descended,  as  the  Duke 
of  Bedford  would  have  it,  from  an  unworthy  parent. 

C The  British  Monarchy.'] 

The  learned  professors  of  the  rights  of  man  regard 
prescription,  not  as  a title  to  bar  all  claim,  set  up 
against  old  possession,  but  they  look  on  prescription 
it.self  as  a bar  against  the  possessor  and  proprietor. 
They  hold  an  immemorial  possession  to  be  no  more 
than  a long  continued,  and  therefore  an  aggravated 
injustice.  Such  are  their  ideas,  such  their  religion, 
and  such  their  law.  But  as  to  our  country  and  our 
race,  as  long  as  the  well-compacted  structure  of  our 
church  and  state,  the  sanctuary,  the  holy  of  holies  of 
that  ancient  law,  defended  by  reverence,  defended  by 
power,  a fortress  at  once  and  a temple,  shall  stand 
inviolate  on  the  brow  of  the  British  Sion — as  long  as 
'the  British  monarchy,  not  more  limited  than  fenced 
by  the  orders  of  the  state,  shall,  like  the  proud  keep 
of  Windsor,  rising  in  the  majesty  of  proportion,  and 
girt  with  the  double  belt  of  its  kindred  and  coeval 
towers — as  long  as  this  awful  structure  shall  oversee 
and  guard  the  subjected  land,  so  long  the  mounds 
and  dikes  of  the  low  fat  Bedford  Level  will  have  no- 
thing to  fear  from  all  the  pickaxes  of  all  the  levellers 
of  France.  As  long  as  our  sovereign  lord  the  king, 
and  his  faithful  subjects,  the  lords  and  commons  of 
this  -ealm — the  triple  cord  which  no  man  can  break  ; 
the  .solemn,  sworn,  constitutional  frankpledge  of  this 
nation  ; the  firm  guarantee  of  each  other’s  being  and 
each  other’s  rights ; the  joint  and  several  securities, 
each  'll  its  place  and  order  for  every  kind  and  every 
quality  of  property  and  of  dignity — as  long  as  these 
endure,  so  long  the  Duke  of  Bedford  is  safe ; and  we 
are  all  safe  together — the  high  from  the  blights  of 
envy  and  the  spoliations  of  rapacity  ; the  low  from 
the  iron  hand  of  oppression  and  the  insolent  spurn  of 
contempt. 

[Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France.] 

[From  * Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  Franee.’] 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I saw  the 
queen  of  France,  then  the  dauphiness,  at  Versailles; 
ind  surely  never  lighted  on  this  orb,  which  she  hardly 
seemed  to  touch,  a more  delightful  vision.  I saw  her 
just  above  the  horizon,  decorating  and  cheering  the 
elevated  sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in — glittering 
like  the  morning  star  full  of  life,  and  splendour,  and 
joy.  Oh  ! what  a revolution  ! and  what  a heart  must 
I have  to  contemplate  without  emotion  that  elevation 
and  that  fall ! Little  did  I dream,  when  she  added 
titles  of  veneration  to  chat  enthusiastic,  distant,  re- 
spectful love,  that  she  .'-hould  ever  be  obliged  to  carry 


the  sharp  antidote  against  disgrace  concealed  in  that 
bo.som  ; little  did  I dream  that  I should  have  lived  to 
see  such  disasters  fallen  upon  her  in  a nation  of  gal- 
lant men,  in  a nation  of  men  of  honour  and  of  cava- 
liers. I thought  ten  thousand  swords  must  have  leaped 
from  their  scabbards  to  avenge  even  a look  that  threat- 
ened her  with  insult.  But  the  age  of  chivalry  is  gone. 
That  of  sophisters,  economists,  and  calculators  has 
succeeded  ; and  the  glory  of  Europe  is  extinguished 
for  ever.  Never,  never  more  shall  we  behold  that 
generous  loyalty  to  rank  and  sex,  that  proud  submis- 
sion, that  dignified  obedience,  that  subordination  of 
the  heart,  which  kept  alive,  even  in  servitude-  itself, 
the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom.  The  unbought  grace 
of  life,  the  cheap  defence  of  nations,  the  nurse  of  manly 
sentiment  and  heroic  enterprise  is  gone!  It  is  gone, 
that  sensibility  of  principle,  that  chastity  of  honour, 
which  felt  a stain  like  a wound,  which  inspired  cour- 
age whihst  it  mitigated  ferocity,  which  ennobled  what- 
ever it  touched,  and  under  which  vice  itself  lost  half 
its  evil  by  losing  all  its  grossness. 

[2'/iC  Order  of  Nobility.] 

[From  the  same.] 

To  be  honoured  and  even  privileged  by  the  laws, 
opinions,  and  inveterate  usages  of  our  country,  grow- 
ing out  of  the  prejudice  of  ages,  has  nothing  to 
provoke  horror  and  indignation  in  any  man.  Even 
to  be  too  tenacious  of  those  privileges  is  not  abso- 
lutely a crime.  The  strong  struggle  in  every  indivi- 
dual to  preserve  possession  of  what  he  has  found  to 
belong  to  him,  and  to  distinguish  him,  is  one  of  the 
securities  against  injustice  and  despotism  implanted 
in  our  nature.  It  operates  as  an  instinct  to  secure 
property,  and  to  preserve  communities  in  a settled 
state.  What  is  there  to  shock  in  this  ! Nobility  is 
a graceful  ornament  to  the  civil  order.  It  is  the  Co- 
rinthian capital  of  polished  society.  Omnes  boni  nobi- 
litati  semper favemus,  was  the  saying  of  a wise  and 
good  man.  It  is,  indeed,  one  sign  of  a liberal  and 
benevolent  mind  to  incline  to  it  with  some  sort  of 
partial  propensity.  He  feels  no  ennobling  principle 
in  his  own  heart  who  wishes  to  level  all  the  artificial 
institutions  which  have  been  adopted  for  giving  a 
body  to  opinion  and  permanence  to  fugitive  esteem. 
It  is  a sour,  malignant,  and  envious  di.sposition,  with- 
out taste  for  the  reality,  or  for  any  image  or  represen- 
tation of  virtue,  that  secs  with  joy  the  unmerited  fall 
of  what  had  long  flourished  in  splendour  and  in  hen- 
our.  I do  not  like  to  see  anything  destroyed,  any  void 
produced  in  society,  any  ruin  on  the  face  of  the  land. 

[Dependence  of  English  on  American  Freedom.] 
[From  ‘ Address  to  the  King.’  1777.] 

To  leave  any  real  freedom  to  parliament,  freedom 
must  be  left  to  the  colonies.  A military  government 
is  the  only  substitute  for  civil  liberty.  That  the 
establishment  of  such  a power  in  America  will  utterly 
ruin  our  finances  (though  its  certain  effect',  is  the 
smallest  part  of  our  concern.  It  will  become  an  apt, 
powerful,  and  certain  engine  for  the  destruction  of  our 
freedom  here.  Great  bodies  of  armed  men,  trained  to 
a contempt  of  popular  assemblies  representative  of  an 
English  people,  kept  up  for  the  purpose  of  exacting 
imiiositions  without  their  consent,  and  maintained  by 
that  exaction ; instruments  in  subverting,  without 
any  process  of  law,  great  ancient  establishments  and 
lespected  forms  of  governments,  set  free  from,  and 
therefore  above  the  ordinary  English  tribunals  of  the 
country  where  they  serve  ; these  men  cannot  so  trans- 
form themselves,  merely  by  crossing  the  sea,  as  to 
behold  with  love  and  reverence,  and  submit  with  pro- 
found obedience  to  the  very  same  things  in  Great 
Britain  which  in  America  they  had  been  taught  to 

231 


H.OM  17-27  CYCLOPiKniA  OF  to  17!)u 


dcH|)isc,  iiikI  Imd  been  accustomed  to  awe  and  humble 
All  your  majesty’s  troops,  in  the  rotation  of  service, 
will  puss  through  this  discipline,  and  contract  these 
habits.  If  we  coubi  flatter  < urselves  that  this  would 
not  happen,  we  must  be  the  weakest  of  men  : we  must 
be  the  worst,  if  we  were  indifferent  whether  it  hap- 
p'uied  or  not.  What,  gracious  sovereign,  is  the  empire 
of  America  to  us,  or  the  empire  of  the  world,  if  we 
lose  our  own  liberties?  We  dej>rccate  this  last  of 
evils.  We  deprecate  the  effect  of  the  doctrines  which 
must  support  and  countenance  the  government  over 
conquered  Knglishmen. 

As  it  will  be  impossible  long  to  resist  the  powerful 
and  equitable  arguments  in  favour  of  the  freedom  of 
these  iinhaiipy  people,  that  are  to  be  drawn  from  the 
principle  of  our  own  liberty,  attenqits  will  be  made, 
attempts  have  been  made,  to  ridicule  and  to  argue 
away  this  principle,  and  to  inculcate  into  the  minds 
of  your  people  other  maxims  of  government  and  other 
grounds  of  obedience  than  those  which  have  prevailed 
at  and  since  the  glorious  Revolution.  By  degrees 
these  doctrines,  by  being  convenient,  may  grow  pre- 
valent. The  consequence  is  not  certain;  but  a gene- 
ral change  of  principles  rarely  happens  among  a 
people  without  leading  to  a change  of  government. 

Sir,  your  throne  cannot  stand  secure  upon  the  prin- 
ciples of  unconditional  submission  and  passive  obe- 
dience; on  powers  exercised  without  the  concurrence 
of  the  people  to  be  governed  ; on  acts  made  in  defiance 
of  their  prejudices  and  habits;  on  acquiescence  pro- 
cured by  foreign  mercenary  troojis,  and  secured  by 
standing  armies.  These  may  possibly  be  the  founda- 
tion of  other  thrones  ; they  must  be  the  subversion  of 
your.s.  It  was  not  to  passive  princijiles  in  our  ances- 
tors that  we  owe  the  honour  of  ajipearing  before  a 
sovereign  who  cannot  feel  that  he  is  a prince,  without 
knowing  that  we  ought  to  be  free.  The  Revolution  is 
a departure  from  the  ancient  course  of  the  descent  of 
this  monarchy.  The  people  at  that  time  re-entered 
into  their  original  rights  ; and  it  was  not  becau.se  a 
positive  law  authorised  what  was  then  done,  but  be- 
cause the  freedom  and  safety  of  the  subject,  the  origin 
and  cause  of  all  laws,  reijuired  a proceeding  para- 
mount and  superior  to  them.  At  that  ever-memorable 
and  instructive  period,  the  letter  of  the  law  was  super- 
seded in  favour  of  the  substance  of  liberty.  To  the 
free  choice,  therefore,  of  the  people,  without  either 
king  or  parliament,  we  owe  that  happy  establishment 
out  of  which  both  king  and  parliament  were  regene- 
rated. From  that  great  principle  of  liberty  have 
originated  the  statutes  confirming  and  ratifying  the 
establishment  from  which  your  majesty  derives  your 
right  to  rule  over  us.  Those  statutes  have  not  given 
us  our  liberties  ; our  liberties  have  produced  them. 
Every  hour  of  your  majesty’s  reign,  your  title  stands 
upon  the  very  same  foundation  on  which  it  was  at 
first  laid,  and  we  do  not  know  a better  on  which  it 
can  po.ssibly  be  laid. 

Convinced,  sir,  that  you  cannot  have  diflferent  rights, 
and  a different  security  in  different  parts  of  your  do- 
minions, we  wish  to  lay  an  even  platform  for  yonr 
throne,  and  to  give  it  an  unmovable  stability,  by  lay- 
ing it  on  the  general  freedom  of  your  people,  and  by 
securing  to  your  majesty  that  confidence  and  affection 
in  all  parts  of  your  dominions,  which  makes  your  be.st 
security  and  dearest  title  in  this  the  chief  seat  of  your 
empire. 

[Destruction  of  the  Carnatic.] 

[From  speech  on  the  Nabob  of  Arcot’s  debts,  1785.^ 

\VTien  at  length  Hyder  Ali  found  that  he  had  to 
do  with  men  who  either  would  sign  tio  convention,  or 
whom  no  treaty  and  no  signature  could  bind,  and 
who  were  the  determined  enemies  of  human  inter- 
v.)Urse  itself,  he  decreed  to  make  the  country  possessed 


by  these  incorrigible  and  predestinated  criminals  .a 
I memorable  example  to  mankind,  lie  rc.solved,  in  the 
gloomy  rece.sses  of  a mind  capacious  of  such  things,  to 
leave  the  whole  Caniatic  an  everlasting  monument 
of  vengeance,  and  to  put  perpetual  de.s(datio]i  as  a 
barrier  between  him  and  those  against  whom  the  fiuth 
which  holds  the  moral  elements  of  the  world  together 
was  no  protection.  He  became  at  length  so  confi- 
dent of  his  force,  so  collected  in  his  might,  that  he 
made  no  secret  whatever  of  his  dreadful  resolution. 
Having  terminated  his  disputes  with  every  enemy  and 
every  rival,  who  buried  their  ,jnutual  animosities  in 
their  common  detestation  against  the  creditors  of  the 
Nabob  of  Arcot,  he  drew  from  every  quarter  whatever 
a savage  ferocity  could  add  to  his  new  rudiments  in 
the  arts  of  destruction ; and  compounding  all  the 
materials  of  fury,  havoc,  and  desolation,  into  one 
black  cloud,  he  hung  for  a while  on  the  declivities 
of  the  mountains.  Whilst  the  authors  of  all  these 
evils  were  idly  and  stupidly  gazing  on  the  menacing 
meteor  which  blackened  all  their  horizon,  it  suddenly 
burst  and  poured  down  the  whole  of  its  contents  upon 
the  plains  of  the  Carnatic.  Then  ensued  a scene  of 
wo,  the  like  of  which  no  eye  had  seen,  no  heart  con- 
ceived, and  which  no  tongue  can  adequately  tell.  All 
the  horrors  of  war  before  known  or  heard  of  were 
mercy  to  that  new  havoc.  A storm  of  universal  fire 
blasted  every  field,  consumed  every  house,  destroyed 
every  temple.  The  miserable  iidiabitants  flying  from 
the  fiaming  villages,  in  part  were  slaughtered  : others, 
without  regard  to  sex,  to  age,  to  the  respect  of  rank, 
or  .sacredness  of  function  ; fathers  torn  from  children, 
husbands  from  wives,  enveloped  in  a whirlwind  of 
cavalry,  and  amidst  the  goading  spears  of  drivers 
and  the  trampling  of  pursuing  horses,  were  swept  into 
cajjtivity,  in  an  unknown  and  hostile  land.  Those 
who  were  able  to  evade  this  tempest  fled  to  the  walled 
cities;  but,  escaping  from  fire,  sword,  and  exile,  they 
fell  into  the  jaws  of  famine. 

The  alms  of  the  settlement,  in  this  dreadful  exi- 
gency, were  certainly  liberal  ; and  all  was  done  by 
charity  that  private  charity  could  do  : but  it  was  a 
people  in  beggary  ; it  was  a nation  that  stretched  out 
its  hands  for  food.  For  months  together  these  crea- 
tures of  sufl’erance,  whose  very  excess  and  luxury  in 
their  most  plenteous  days  had  fallen  short  of  the 
allowance  of  our  austerest  fasts,  silent,  patient,  re- 
signed, without  .sedition  or  disturbance,  almost  with- 
out complaint,  peri.shed  by  a hundred  a day  in  the 
streets  of  Madras ; every  day  seventy  at  le.ast  laid 
their  bodies  in  the  streets,  or  on  the  glacis  of  Tanjore, 
and  expired  of  famine  in  the  granary  of  India.  1 was 
going  to  awake  your  justice  towards  this  unhappy  part 
of  our  fellow-citizens,  by  bringing  before  you  some  of 
the  circumstances  of  this  plague  of  hunger.  Of  all 
the  calamities  which  beset  and  waylay  the  life  of  man, 
this  comes  the  nearest  to  our  heart,  and  is  that  wherein 
the  proudest  of  us  all  feels  himself  to  be  nothing  more 
than  he  is : but  I find  myself  unable  to  manage  it 
with  deccruin  ; these  details  are  of  a species  of  horror 
so  nau.seous  and  disgusting  ; they  are  so  degrading 
to  the  sufferers  and  to  the  hearers  ; they  are  so  humi- 
liating to  human  nature  itself,  that,  on  better  thoughts, 

1 find  it  more  advisable  to  throw  a pall  over  this 
hideous  object,  and  to  leave  it  to  your  geiieral  con- 
ceptions. 

For  eighteen  months,  without  intermission,  this 
destruction  raged  from  the  gates  of  Madras  to  the 
gates  of  Tanjore  ; and  so  completely  did  these  masters 
in  their  art,  Hyder  Ali  and  his  more  ferocious  son, 
ab.solve  themselves  of  their  impious  vow,  that  when 
the  British  armies  traversed,  as  they  did,  the  Carnatic 
for  hundreds  of  miles  in  all  directions,  through  the 
whole  line  of  their  march  did  tiiey  not  sec  one  man, 
not  one  woman,  not  one  child,  not  one  fourfooted  bo.ist 
of  any  description  whatever.  One  dead  uniform  silence 

232 


Misc!>LLAnEous  wiiiTEUS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  i.dmund  bcrkb. 


n'igncd  over  the  whole  region.  * * The  Carnatic 

is  a country  not  mucli  inferior  in  extent  to  Engliiiul. 
Figure  to  yourself,  Mr  Speaker,  the  land  in  whose  re- 
presentative chair  you  sit ; figure  to  yourself  the  form 
and  fiushion  of  your  sweet  and  cheerful  country  from 
Thames  to  Trent,  north  and  south,  and  from  the  Irish 
to  the  German  sea  east  and  west,  emptied  and  em- 
bowelled  (may  God  avert  the  omen  of  our  crimes !)  by 
so  accomjilished  a desolation  1 

\Thc  Difference  Between  Mr  Burlce  and  the 
Duke  of  Bedford.] 

[Tlie  Puke  of  Bedford  .ind  th^  E.arl  of  Lauderdale  attacked 
Mr  Burke  and  his  pension  in  their  place  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
aud  Burke  replied  in  his  ‘ Letters  to  a Noble  Lord,'  one  of  the 
most  sarcastic  and  most  able  of  all  his  productions.] 

I was  not,  like  his  Grace  of  Bedford,  swaddled,  and 
rocked,  and  dandled  into  a legislator — Nitor  in  adver- 
sum  is  the  motto  for  a man  like  me.  I possessed  not 
one  of  the  qualities,  nor  cultivated  one  of  the  arts, 
that  recommend  men  to  the  favour  and  protection  of 
the  great.  I was  not  made  for  a minion  or  a tool.  As 
little  did  I follow  the  trade  of  winning  the  hearts  by 
imposing  on  the  understandings  of  the  people.  At 
every  step  of  my  progress  in  life  (for  in  every  step  was 
I traversed  and  opposed),  and  at  every  turnpike  I 
met  I was  obliged  to  show  my  passport,  and  again  and 
again  to  prove  ray  sole  title  to  the  honour  of  being 
useful  to  my  country,  by  a proof  that  I was  not  wholly 
unacquainted  with  its  laws,  and  the  whole  system  of 
its  intere.sts  both  abroad  and  at  home.  Otherwise,  no 
rank,  no  toleration  even  for  me.  I had  no  arts  but 
manly  arts.  On  them  I have  stood,  and,  please  God, 
in  spite  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lau- 
derdale, to  the  last  gasp  will  I stand.  * * 

I know  not  how  it  has  happened,  but  it  really  seems 
that,  whilst  his  Grace  was  meditating  his  well-con- 
sidered censure  upon  me,  he  fell  into  a sort  of  sleep. 
Homer  nods,  and  the  Duke  of  Bedford  may  dream ; 
and  as  dreams  (even  his  golden  dreams)  are  apt  to  be 
ill-pieced  and  incongruously  put  together,  his  Grace 
preserved  his  idea  of  reproach  to  me,  but  took  the  sub- 
ject-matter from  the  crown-grants  to  his  own  family. 
This  is  ‘the  stuff  of  which  his  dreams  are  made.’  In 
that  way  of  putting  things  together,  his  Grace  is  per- 
fectly in  the  right.  The  grants  to  the  house  of  Russel 
were  so  enormous,  as  not  only  to  outrage  economy,  but 
even  to  stagger  credibility.  The  Duke  of  Bedford  is 
the  leviathan  among  all  the  creatures  of  the  crown. 
He  tumbles  about  his  unwieldy  bulk  ; he  plays  and 
frolics  in  the  ocean  of  the  royal  bounty.  Huge  as  he 
is,  and  whilst  ‘ he  lies  floating  many  a rood,’  he  is  still 
a creature.  His  ribs,  his  fins,  his  whalebone,  his 
blubber,  the  very  spiracles  through  which  he  spouts  a 
torrent  of  brine  against  his  origin,  and  covers  me  all 
over  with  the  spray — everything  of  him  and  about 
him  is  from  the  throne. 

Is  it  for  him  to  question  the  dispensation  of  the 
royal  favour? 

I really  am  at  a loss  to  draw  any  sort  of  parallel 
between  the  public  merits  of  his  Grace,  by  which  he 
justifies  the  grants  he  holds,  and  these  services  of 
mine,  on  the  favourable  construction  of  which  I have 
obtained  what  his  Grace  so  much  disapproves.  In 
private  life,  I have  not  at  all  the  honour  of  acquaint- 
ance with  the  noble  duke.  But  I ought  to  presume, 
and  it  costs  me  nothing  to  do  so,  that  he  abundantly 
deserves  the  esteem  and  love  of  all  who  live  with  him. 
But  as  to  public  service,  why,  truly,  it  would  not  be 
more  ridiculous  for  me  to  compare  myself  in  rank,  in 
fortune,  in  splendid  descent,  in  youth,  strength,  or 
figure,  with  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  than  to  make  a 
parallel  between  his  services  and  my  attempts  to  be 
useful  to  my  country.  It  would  not  be  gross  adula- 
tion, but  uncivil  irony,  to  say  that  he  has  any  public 


merit  of  his  own,  to  keep  aliie  the  idea  of  the  services 
by  which  his  va.st  landed  pensions  were  obtained.  My 
merits,  whatever  they  are,  are  original  and  personal ; 
his  are  derivative.  It  is  his  ancestor,  the  original  ]ien- 
sioner,  that  has  laid  up  this  inexhaustible  fund  of 
merit,  which  makes  his  Grace  ro  very  delicate  and  ex- 
ceptions about  the  merit  of  all  other  grantees  of  the 
crown.  Had  he  permitted  me  to  remain  in  quiet,  I 
.should  have  said,  ’tis  his  estate ; that’s  enough.  It 
is  his  by  law;  what  have  I to  do  with  it  or  its  his- 
tory? He  would  naturally  have  said  on  his  side,  ’tis 
this  man’s  fortune.  He  is  as  good  now  as  my  an- 
cestor was  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  I am 
a 3'oung  man  with  very  old  pensions ; he  is  an  old 
man  with  very  young  pensions — that’s  all. 

^Vhy  will  his  Grace,  by  attacking  me,  force  me  re- 
luctantly to  compare  ray  little  merit  with  that  which 
obtained  from  the  crown  those  prodigies  of  profuse 
donation  by  which  he  tramples  on  the  mediocrity  of 
humble  and  laborious  individuals  ? * * S’.nce 

the  new  grantees  have  war  made  on  them  by  the  old, 
and  that  the  word  of  the  sovereign  is  not  to  be  taken, 
let  us  turn  our  eyes  to  history,  in  which  great  men 
have  always  a ])leasure  in  contemplating  the  heroic 
origin  of  their  house. 

■rhe  first  peer  of  the  name,  the  first  purchaser  of  the 
grants,  W'as  a Mr  Russel,  a person  of  an  ancient  gen- 
tleman’s family,  raised  by  being  a minion  of  Henry 
VIII.  As  there  generally  is  some  resemblance  of  cha- 
racter to  create  these  relations,  the  favourite  was  in 
all  likelihood  much  such  another  as  his  master.  The 
first  of  these  immoderate  grants  was  not  taken  from 
the  ancient  demesne  of  the  crown,  but  from  the  recent 
confiscation  of  the  ancient  nobility  of  the  land.  The 
lion  having  sucked  the  blood  of  his  prey,  threw  the 
offal  carcass  to  the  jackal  in  waiting.  Having  tasted 
once  the  food  of  confiscation,  the  favourites  became 
fierce  and  ravenous.  This  worthy  favourite’s  first  grant 
was  from  the  lay  nobility.  The  second,  infinitely  im- 
proving on  the  enormity  of  the  first,  was  from  the 
plunder  of  the  church.  In  truth,  his  Grace  is  some- 
what excusable  for  his  dislike  to  a grant  like  mine, 
not  only  in  its  quantity,  but  in  its  kind  so  different 
from  his  own. 

Mine  was  from  a mild  and  benevolent  sovereign  ; 
his  from  Henry  VIII.  Mine  had  not  its  fund  in  the 
murder  of  any  innocent  person  of  illustrious  rank,  or 
in  the  pUlage  of  any  body  of  unoffending  men  ; his 
grants  were  from  the  aggregate  and  consolidated  funds 
of  judgments  iniquitously  legal,  and  from  posse.ssions 
voluntarily  surrendered  / the  lawful  proprietors  with 
the  gibbet  at  their  door. 

The  merit  of  the  grantee  whom  he  derives  from, 
was  that  of  being  a prompt  and  greedy  instrument  of 
a levelling  tyrant,  who  oppressed  all  descriptions  of 
his  people,  but  who  fell  with  particular  fury  on  every- 
thing that  W'as  great  and  noble.  Mine  ha.s  been  in 
endeavouring  to  screen  every  man,  in  every  class,  from 
oppression,  and  particularly  in  defending  the  high  and 
eminent,  who  in  the  bad  times  of  confiscating  prince.s, 
confiscating  chief  governors,  or  confiscating  dema- 
gogues, are  the  most  exposed  to  jealousy,  avarice,  and 
envy. 

The  merit  of  the  original  grantee  of  his  Grace’s 
pensions  was  in  giving  his  hand  to  the  W'ork,  and 
partaking  the  spoil  with  a prince,  who  plundered  a 
part  of  the  national  church  of  his  time  and  country. 
Mine  was  in  defending  the  whole  of  the  national 
church  cf  my  own  time  and  my  own  country,  and  the 
whole  of  the  national  churches  of  all  countries,  from 
the  principles  and  the  examples  which  leail  to  eccle- 
siastical pillage,  thence  to  a contempt  of  all  prc.scrip- 
tive  titles,  thence  to  the  pillage  of  all  property,  aud 
thence  to  universal  desolation. 

The  merit  of  the  origin  of  his  Grace’s  fortune  was 
in  being  a favourite  and  chief  adviser  to  a prince  who 

233 


FBOH  1727  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  to  1780. 


»C‘ft  no  liberty  to  lii»  native  country.  My  endeavour 
was  to  obtain  liberty  for  the  municipal  country  in 
which  I was  born,  and  for  all  descriptions  and  denomi- 
nations in  it.  Mine  was  to  support,  with  unrelaxing 
vigilance,  every  right,  every  privilege,  every  franchise, 
•n  thij  my  adopted,  my  dearer  and  more  comprehen- 
sive country  ; and  not  only  to  preserve  those  rights  in 
this  chief  seat  of  empire,  but  in  every  nation,  in  every 
land,  in  every  climate,  language,  and  religion  in  the 
vast  domain  that  still  is  under  the  protection,  and  the 
larger  that  was  once  under  the  protection,  of  the 
British  crown. 

llis  founder’s  merits  were  by  arts  in  which  he  served 
his  master  ami  made  his  fortune,  to  bring  poverty. 
Wretchedness,  and  depopulation  on  his  country.  Mine 
were  under  a benevolent  prince,  in  promoting  the 
commerce,  manufactures,  and  agriculture  of  his  king- 
dom ; in  which  his  majesty  shows  an  eminent  exam- 
ple, who  even  in  his  amusements  is  a patriot,  and  in 
hours  of  leisure  an  improver  of  his  native  soil. 

\^Characler  of  Howard  the  Pliilanthropiit.1 

I cannot  name  this  gentleman  without  remarking, 
that  his  labours  and  writings  have  done  much  to  open 
the  eyes  and  hearts  of  all  mankind.  He  has  visited 
all  Europe  — not  to  survey  the  sumi>tuousness  of 
palaces,  or  the  stateliness  of  temples ; not  to  make 
accurate  measurements  of  the  remains  of  ancient 
grandeur,  nor  to  form  a scale  of  the  curiosities  of  mo- 
dern art  ; nor  to  collect  medals,  or  collate  manu- 
scripts, but  to  dive  into  the  depths  of  dungeons,  to 
plunge  into  the  infection  of  hospitals,  to  survey  the 
mansions  of  sorrow  and  pain  ; to  take  the  gauge  and 
dimensions  of  misery,  depression,  and  contempt;  to 
remember  the  forgotten,  to  attend  to  the  neglected,  to 
visit  the  forsaken,  and  compare  and  collate  the  dis- 
tresses of  all  men  in  all  countries,  llis  plan  is  ori- 
ginal : it  is  as  full  of  genius  as  of  humanity.  It  was 
a voy.tge  of  di.scovery  ; a circumnavigation  of  charity. 
Already,  the  benefit  of  his  labour  is  felt  more  or  less 
in  every  country : 1 hope  he  will  anticipate  his  final 
reward  by  seeing  all  its  effects  fully  realised  in  his 
own. 

JUNIUS. 

On  the  21st  of  January  1769  appeared  the  first 
of  a series  of  political  letters,  bearing  the  signature 
of  Junius,  whieli  have  since  taken  their  place  among 
the  standard  works  of  the  English  language.  Great 
excitement  prevailed  in  the  nation  at  the  time.  The 
contest  with  the  American  colonies,  the  imposition 
of  new  taxes,  the  difficulty  of  forming  a steady  and 
permanent  administration,  and  the  great  ability  and 
eloquence  of  the  opposition,  had  tended  to  spread  a 
feeling  of  dissatisfaction  throughout  the  country. 
The  public.ation  of  the  North  Briton,  a periodical 
edited  by’  John  Wilke.s,  and  conducted  w’ith  reckless 
violence  and  asperity',  added  fuel  to  the  flame,  and 
the  prime  minister.  Lord  North,  said  justly’,  that 
‘ the  press  overflowed  the  land  with  its  black  gall, 
and  poisoned  the  minds  of  the  people.’  Without  any 
wish  to  express  political  opinions,  we  may  say  that 
the  government  was  not  equal  to  the  emergency, 
and  indeed  it  would  have  required  a cabinet  of  the 
highest  powers  and  most  energetic  wisdom  to  have 
triumphed  over  the  opposition  of  men  like  Chatham 
and  Burke,  and  writers  like  Junius.  The  most 
popular  newspaper  of  that  day  w.as  the  Public 
Advertiser,  published  by  Woodfall,  a man  of  educa- 
tion and  res|)cctability.  In  this  journal  the  writer 
known  as  Junius  had  contributed  under  various 
signatures  for  about  two  years.  The  letters  by 
which  he  is  now  distinguished  were  more  carefully 


elaborated,  ami  more  highly  polished,  than  any  of  his 
previous  communications.  They  attacked  .all  the 
public  characters  of  the  day  connected  with  the 
government,  they  retailed  much  private  scandal  and 
Iiersonal  history,  and  did  not  spare  even  royalty  it- 
self. The  compression,  point,  and  brilliancy  of  their 
language,  their  unrivalled  sarcasm,  boldness,  and 
tremendous  invective,  at  once  arrested  the  attention 
of  the  pvMic.  Every  effort  that  could  be  devised 
by  the  government,  or  prompted  by  private  indig- 
nation, was  made  to  discover  their  author,  but  in 
vain.  ‘ It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things,’  he  writes 
to  his  publisher,  ‘ tliat  y’ou  or  anybody  else  should 
know  me,  unless  I make  myself  known : all  arts  or 
inquiries  or  rewards  would  be  inetfectual.’  In  an- 
other place  he  remarks,  ‘ I am  the  sole  depository 
of  my  secret,  and  it  shall  die  with  me.’  The  even'; 
has  verified  the  prediction  : he  had  drawn  around 
himself  so  impenetrable  a veil  of  secrecy,  that  all 
the  efforts  of  inquirers,  political  and  literaiy,  failed 
in  dispelling  the  origijial  darkness.  The  letters 
were  published  at  intervals  from  1769  to  1772,  when 
they  were  collected  by  Woodfall  and  revised  by  their 
author  (who  was  equally  unknown  to  his  publisher), 
and  printed  in  two  volumes.  'They  have  since  gone 
through  innumenable  editions ; but  the  best  is  that 
published  in  1812  by  Woodfall’s  son,  which  includes 
the  letters  by  the  same  writer  under  other  signa- 
tures, with  his  private  notes  to  his  publisher,  and 
fac-similes  of  his  handwriting. 

The  principles  of  Junius  are  moderate,  compared 
with  his  personalities.  Some  sound  constitutional 
maxims  are  conveyed  in  his  letters,  but  his  style 
has  undoubtedly  been  his  passport  to  fame.  His 
illustrations  and  metaphors  are  also  sometimes  un- 
commonly felicitous.  The  personal  malevolence  of 
his  att.acks  it  is  impossible  to  justify,  'fhey  evince 
a settled  deliberate  malignity,  which  could  not  pro- 
ceed from  a man  of  a good  or  noble  nature,  and  con- 
tain allusions  to  obscure  individuals  in  the  public 
offices,  which  seem  to  have  arisen  less  from  p.atriotisiu 
than  from  individual  hatred  and  envy.  When  the 
controversy  as  to  the  authorship  of  these  memorable 
philippics  had  almost  died  away,  a book  appeared 
in  1816,  bearing  the  title  of ‘Junius  Identified  with  a 
Celebrated  Living  Character.’  'I’he  living  character 
w.as  tlje  late  Sir  Philip  Francis,  and  certainly  a mass 
of  strong  circumstantial  evidence  has  been  jiresented 
in  his  favour.  ‘ 'I'he  external  evidence,’  says  Mr 
M.acaulay,*  ‘ is,  we  think,  such  .as  would  support  a 
verdict  in  a civil,  nay,  in  a criminal  proceeding.  The 
handwriting  of  Junius  is  the  very  peculiar  handwrit- 
ing of  FTancis,  slightly  disguised.  As  to  the  position, 
pursuits,  and  connexions  of  Junius,  the  following 
are  the  most  important  facts  which  can  be  considered 
as  clearly  proved  : — First,  that  he  was  acquainted 
with  the  technical  forms  of  the  secretary  of  state’s 
office;  secondly,  th.at  he  was  intiimately  acquainted 
with  the  business  of  the  war  office ; thirdly,  that  he, 
during  the  year  1770,  attended  debates  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  and  took  notes  of  speeches,  particularly  of 
the  speeches  of  Lord  Chatham  ; fourthly,  that  he 
bitterly  resented  the  appointment  of  Mr  Chamier  to 
the  place  of  deputy-secretary  at  war ; fifthly,  that 
he  was  bound  by  some  strong  tie  to  the  first  Lord 
Holland.  Now,  Francis  passed  some  years  in  the 
secretary  of  state’s  office.  He  was  subsequently 
chief  clerk  of  the  war  office.  He  repeatedly  men- 
tioned that  he  had  himself,  in  1770,  heard  speeches 
of  Lord  Chatham  ; and  some  of  these  speeches  were 
actually  printed  from  his  notes.  He  resigned  his 
clerkship  at  the  war  office  from  resentment  at  the 
appointment  of  5Ir  Chamier.  It  was  by  Lord  Hol- 

♦ Edinburgh  Review  for  1841. 

234 


MISCKI.l.AM'.Ol'S  WRITKKS.  ENCiLlSIl  TjlTKH ATUHK.  junius. 


laiul  that  1 e was  first  introduced  into  tlie  public 
service.  Now,  here  are  live  marks,  all  of  which 
ought  to  be  found  in  Junius.  They  are  all  five 
found  in  Francis.  We  do  not  believe  that  more 
than  two  of  them  can  be  found  in  any  other  person 
whatever.  If  this  argument  does  not  settle  the 
question,  there  is  an  end  of  all  reasoning  on  circ\im- 
stantial  eviilence.’  The  same  acute  writer  considers 
the  internal  evidence  to  be  equally  clear  as  to  the 
claims  of  Francis.  Already,  how’ever,  the  impression 
made  on  the  public  mind  by  the  evidence  for  this 
gentleman  seems  to  have  passed  away,  and  atten- 
tion has  recently  been  directed  to  another  indi- 
vid'ial,  who  was  only  one  ■ of  ten  or  more  persons 
8usi)ected  at  the  time  of  the  publication.  This  is 
Lord  George  Sackville,  latterly  Viscount  Sackville, 
an  able  but  unpopular  soldier,  cashiered  from  the 
army  in  consequence  of  neglect  of  duty  at  tlie  battle 
of  Minden,  but  who  afterwards  regained  the  favour 
of  the  government,  and  acted  as  secretary  at  war 
throughout  the  whole  period  of  the  American  con- 
test. A work  by  Mr  Coventry  in  1825,  and  a 
volume  by  Mr  Jaques  in  1842,  have  been  devoted 
to  an  endeavour  tc  fix  the  authorship  of  Junius  upon 
Lord  George,  and  it  is  surprising  how  many  and 
how  (lowerful  are  the  arguments  which  have  been 
adduced  by  these  writers.  It  seems  by  no  means 
unlikely  that  a haughty  and  disappointed  man,  who 
conceived  himself  to  have  suffered  unjustly,  should 
pour  forth  his  bitter  feelings  in  this  form  ; but,  again, 
if  Lord  George  Sackville  was  really  Junius,  how 
strange  to  consider  that  the  vituperator  of  the  king. 
Lord  Mansfield,  and  others,  should  in  a few  short 
years  have  been  acting  along  with  them  in  the  go- 
vernment! Here,  certainly,  there  is  room  to  pause, 
and  either  to  suspend  judgment  altogether,  or  to  lean 
to  the  conclusion  for  Francis  which  has  been  fa- 
voured by  such  high  authority. 

Philip  Francis  was  the  son  of  the  Rev.  Philip 
Francis,  translator  of  Horace.  He  was,  born  in 
Dublin  in  1740.  and  at  the  early  age  of  sixteen  was 
placed  b}'  Lord  Holland  in  the  secretary  of  state’s 
office.  By  the  patronage  of  Pitt  (Lord  Chatham), 
he  was  made  secretary  to  General  Bligh  in  1758,  and 
was  present  at  the  capture  of  Cherburgh ; in  1760 
he  accompanied  Lord  Kinnoul  as  secretary  on  his 
embassy  to  Lisbon;  and  in  1763  he  was  appointed 
to  a considerable  situation  in  the  war  office,  which 
he  held  till  1772.  Next  year  he  was  made  a member 
of  the  council  appointed  for  the  government  of  Ben- 
g.al,  from  whence  he  returned  in  1781,  after  being  per- 
petually at  war  with  the  governor-general,  Warren 
Hastings,  and  being  wounded  by  him  in  a duel.  He 
after  ’ards  sat  in  parliament,  supporting  Whig  prin- 
ciples, and  was  one  of  the  ‘Friends  of  the  People’ 
in  association  with  Fox,  Tierney,  and  Grey.  He 
died  in  1818.  It  must  be  acknowledged  that  the 
speeches  and  letters  of  Sir  Philip  evince  much  of 
the  talent  found  in  Junius,  though  they  are  less 
rhetorical  in  style ; while  the  history  and  dispositions 
of  the  man — his  strong  resentments,  his  arrogance, 
his  interest  in  the  public  questions  of  the  day, 
evinced  by  his  numerous  pamphlets,  even  in  ad- 
vanced age,  and  the  whole  complexion  of  his  party 
and  political  sentiments,  are  what  we  should  expect 
of  Woodfall’s  celebrated  correspondent.  High  and 
commanding  qualities  he  undoubtedly  possessed ; nor 
was  he  without  genuine  patriotic  feelings,  and  a 
desire  to  labour  earnestly  for  the  public  weal.  His 
error  lay  in  mistaking  his  private  enmities  for  pub- 
lic virtue,  and  nursing  his  resentments  till  they  at- 
tained a dark  and  unsocial  malignity.  His  temper 
was  irritable  and  gloomy,  and  often  led  him  to  form 
mistaken  and  uncharitable  estimates  of  men  and 
measures. 


Of  the  literary  e.\ccllenccs  of  Juniu.s,  his  sarcasm, 
compressed  energy,  and  brilliai.t  illustration,  a few 
specimens  may  be  quoted.  His  finest  metaphor  (as 
just  in  sentiment  as  beautiful  in  expression)  is  con- 
tained in  the  conclusion  to  the  forty-second  letter : — 
‘ The  ministry,  it  seems,  are  labouring  to  draw  a 
line  of  distinction  between  the  honour  of  the  crown 
and  the  rights  of  the  people.  This  new  idea  has  yet 
only  been  started  in  discourse ; for,  in  effect,  both 
objects  have  been  equally  sacrificed.  I neither  un- 
derstand the  distinction,  nor  what  use  the  ministry 
propose  to  make  of  it.  The  king’s  honour  is  that 
of  his  people.  Their  real  honour  and  real  interest 
are  the  same.  I am  not  contending  for  a vain  punc- 
tilio. A clear  unblemished  character  comprehends 
not  only  the  integrity  that  will  not  offer,  but  the 
spirit  that  will  not  submit,  to  an  injury  ; and  whether 
it  belongs  to  an  individual  or  to  a community,  it  is  the 
foundation  of  peace,  of  independence,  and  of  safety. 
Private  credit  is  wealth  ; public  honour  is  security. 
The  feather  that  adorns  the  royal  bird  supports  his 
flight.  Strip  him  of  his  plumage,  and  you  fix  him 
to  the  earth.’ 

Thus  also  he  remarks— ‘In  the  shipwreck  of  the 
state,  trifles  float  and  are  preserved ; while  every- 
thing solid  and  valuable  sinks  to  the  bottom,  and  is 
lost  for  ever.’ 

Of  the  supposed  enmity  of  George  HI.  to  Wilkes, 
and  the  injudicious  prosecution  of  that  demagogue, 
Junius  happily  remarks — ‘ He  said  more  than  mo- 
derate men  would  justify,  but  not  enough  to  entitle 
him  to  the  honour  of  your  majesty’s  personal  resent- 
ment. The  rays  of  royal  indignation,  collected  upon 
him,  served  only  to  illuminate,  and  could  not  con- 
sume. Animated  by  the  favour  of  the  people  on 
the  one  side,  and  heated  by  persecul  ion  on  the  other, 
his  views  and  sentiments  changed  with  his  situation. 
Hardly  serious  at  first,  he  is  now  an  enthusiast. 
The  coldest  bodies  warm  with  opposition,  the  hardest 
sparkle  in  collision.  There  is  a holy  mistaken  zeal 
in  politics  as  well  as  religion.  By  persuading  others, 
we  convince  ourselves.  The  passions  are  engaged, 
and  create  a maternal  affection  in  the  mind,  which 
forces  us  to  love  the  cause  for  which  we  suffer.’ 

The  letter  to  the  king  is  the  most  dignified  of  the 
letters  of  Junius;  those  to  the  Dukes  of  Grafton 
and  Bedford  the  most  severe.  The  latter  afford  the 
most  favourable  specimens  of  the  force,  ejiigram,  and 
merciless  sarcasm  of  his  best  style.  The  Duke  of 
Grafton  was  descended  from  Charles  11.,  and  this 
afforded  the  satirist  scope  for  invective : — ‘ The  cha- 
racter of  the  reputed  ancestors  of  some  men  has 
made  it  impossible  for  their  descendants  to  be  vicious 
in  the  extreme,  without  being  degenerate.  Those  of 
your  Grace,  for  instance,  left  no  distressing  examples 
of  virtue,  even  to  their  legitimate  posterity  ; and  you 
may  look  back  with  pleasure  to  an  illustrious  pedi- 
gree, in  which  heraldry  has  not  left  a single  good 
quality  upon  record  to  insult  or  upbraid  you.  You 
have  better  proofs  of  your  descent,  my  lord,  than  the 
register  of  a marriage,  or  any  troublesome  inheri- 
tance of  reputation.  There  are  some  nereditary 
strokes  of  character  by  which  a family  may  be  as 
clearly  distinguished  as  by  the  blackest  features  of 
the  human  face.  Charles  I.  lived  and  died  a hypo- 
crite ; Charles  II.  was  a hypocrite  of  another  sort, 
and  should  have  died  upon  the  same  scaffold.  At 
the  distance  of  a century,  we  see  their  different  cha- 
racters happily  revived  and  blended  in  your  Grace. 
Sullen  and  .severe  without  religion,  profligate  with- 
out gaiety,  you  live  like  Charles  II.,  without  being 
an  amiable  companion ; and.  for  aught  I know,  may 
die  as  his  father  did,  without  the  reputation  of  a 
martyr.’ 

Ill  the  same  strain  of  elaborate  and  ref  ned  sar- 

235 


FROM  1727  CYCLOP71':niA  OF  »o  17HU. 


casm  Ihc  Diikuof  Ikalfoni  is  addressed; — ‘ My  lord, 
you  are  so  little  aceustorned  to  reeeive  any  marks  of 
respect  or  esteem  from  the  puhlie,  that  if  in  the  fol- 
lowiiifT  lines  a compliment  or  expression  of  api)lause 
should  escape  me,  I fear  you  would  consider  it  as  a 
mockery  of  your  estahlished  character,  and  perhaps 
an  insult  to  your  imderstandiiifr.  You  have  nice 
feeliiif^s,  my  lord,  if  we  may  judge  from  3'our  resent- 
ments. Cautious,  therefore,  of  giving  offence  where 
you  have  so  little  deserved  it,  I shall  leave  the  illus- 
tration of  your  virtues  to  other  hands.  Your  friends 
have  a privilege  to  play  upon  the  easiness  of  jour 
temper,  or  jirohahly  they  are  better  acquainted  with 
your  good  qualities  than  I am.  You  have  done  good 
by  stealth.  The  rest  is  upon  record.  You  have 
still  left  ample  room  for  speculation  when  pane- 
g3'ric  is  ex'hausted.’ 

After  having  reproached  the  duke  for  corruption 
and  imbecility,  the  splendid  tirade  of  Junius  con- 
cludes in  a strain  of  unmeasured  yet  lofty  invec- 
tive ; — ‘ Let  us  consider  you,  then,  as  arrived  at  the 
summit  of  worldly  greatness;  let  us  suppose  that 
all  your  phins  of  avarice  and  ambition  are  accom- 
plished, and  your  most  sanguine  wishes  gratified  in 
the  fc;ir  as  well  as  the  hatred  of  the  people.  Can  age 
itself  forget  that  you  are  now  in  the  last  act  of  life? 
Can  gray  hairs  make  folly  venerable?  and  is  there 
no  period  to  be  reserved  for  meditation  and  retire- 
ment? For  shame,  my  lord ! Let  it  not  be  recorded 
of  j'ou  that  the  latest  moments  of  your  life  were 
dedicated  to  tlie  same  unworthy  pursuits,  the  same 
busy  agitations,  in  which  your  youth  and  manhood 
were  exhausted.  Consider  that,  though  j'ou  cannot 
disgrace  j'our  former  life,  you  are  violating  the  cha- 
racter of  age,  and  exposing  the  impotent  imbecility, 
after  you  have  tost  the  vigour,  of  the  passions. 

Your  friends  will  ask,  perhaps,  “ Whither  shall 
this  unhappy  old  man  retire  ? Can  he  remain  in 
the  metropolis,  where  his  life  has  been  so  often 
threatened,  and  his  palace  so  often  attacked?  If 
he  returns  to  Woburn,  scorn  and  mockery  await 
him  : he  must  create  a solitude  round  his  estate,  if 
he  would  avoid  the  face  of  reproacli  and  derision. 
At  Plymouth  his  destruction  would  be  more  than 
probable;  at  Exeter  inevitable.  No  honest  English- 
man will  ever  forget  his  attachinent,  nor  any  honest 
Scotchman  forgive  his  treachery,  to  Lord  Bute.  At 
every  town  he  enters,  he  must  change  his  liveries 
and  name.  Whichever  way  he  Hies,  the  hue  and 
cry  of  the  country  pursues  him. 

In  another  kingdom,  indeed,  the  blessings  of  his 
administration  have  been  more  sensibly  felt,  his 
virtues  better  understood  ; or,  at  worst,  they  will  not 
for  him  alone  forget  their  hospitalitj'.”  As  well 
might  Verres  have  returned  to  Sicily.  You  have 
twice  escaped,  my  lord ; beware  of  a third  experi- 
ment. The  indignation  of  a whole  people  plun- 
dered, insulted,  and  oppressed,  as  they  have  been, 
>ill  not  always  be  disappointed. 

It  is  in  vain,  therefore,  to  shift  the  scene ; you  can 
no  more  fly  from  your  enemies  than  from  yourself. 
Persecuted  abroad,  you  look  into  your  own  heart 
for  consolation,  and  find  nothing  but  reproaches  and 
despair.  But,  my  lord,  j’ou  may  quit  the  field  of 
business,  though  not  the  field  of  danger ; and  though 
you  cannot  be  safe,  j'ou  may  cease  to  be  ridiculous. 
I fear  you  have  listened  too  long  to  the  advice  of 
those  pernicious  friends  with  whose  interests  you 
have  sordidly  united  your  own,  and  for  whom  you 
have  sacrificed  everything  th.at  ought  to  be  dear  to 
a man  of  honour.  They  are  still  base  enough  to  en- 
courage the  follies  of  your  age,  as  they  once  did  the 
vices  of  your  youth.  As  little  acquainted  with  the 
rules  of  decorum  as  with  the  laws  of  morality,  they 
vill  not  suffer  you  to  profit  by  experience,  nor  even 


to  consult  the  propriety  of  a bad  character.  Even 
1 now  they  tell  you  that  life  is  no  more  than  a dra- 
matic scene,  in  which  the  hero  should  i)rcserve  his 
consistency  to  the  last;  and  that,  as  j'ou  lived  with- 
out virtue,  you  should  die  without  repentance.’ 

These  are  certainly  brilliant  pieces  of  composi- 
tion. The  tone  and  spirit  in  which  they  are  con- 
ceived are  harsh  and  reprehensible — in  some  parts 
almost  fiendish — but  they  are  the  emanations  of  a 
powerful  and  cultivated  genius,  that,  under  better 
moral  discipline,  might  have  done  lasting  honour  to 
literature  and  virtue.  The  acknowledged  produc- 
tions of  Sir  Philii)  Francis  have  equal  animation,  but 
less  studied  brevity  and  force  of  style.  The  soaring 
ardour  of  j'outh  had  flown  ; his  hopes  were  crushed  ; 
he  was  not  writing  under  the  mask  of  a fearless  and 
impenetrable  secrecy.  Yet  in  1812,  in  a letter  to 
Earl  Grey  on  the  subject  of  the  blockade  of  Norway, 
we  find  such  vigorous  sentences  as  the  following; — 

‘ Though  a nation  may  be  bought  and  sold,  deceived 
or  betraj-ed,  oppressed  or  beggared,  and  in  every 
other  sense  undone,  all  is  not  lost,  as  long  as  a sense 
of  national  honour  survives  the  general  ruin.  Even 
an  individual  cannot  be  crushed  by  events  or  over- 
whelmed by  adversity,  if,  in  the  wreck  and  ruin  of 
his  fortune,  the  character  of  the  man  remains  un- 
blemished. That  force  is  elastic,  and,  with  the  help 
of  resolution,  will  raise  him  again  out  of  any  depth 
of  calamity.  But  if  the  injured  sufferer,  whetlier 
it  be  a great  or  a little  community,  a number 
of  individuals  or  a single  person,  be  content  to  sub- 
mit in  silence,  and  to  endure  without  resentment 
— if  no  complaints  shall  be  uttered,  no  murmur  shall 
be  heard,  deploratum  est — there  must  be  something 
celestial  in  the  spirit  that  rises  from  that  descent. 

In  March  1798,  I had  your  voluntary  and  entire 
concurrence  in  the  following,  as  well  as  many  other 
abandoned  propositions — when  we  drank  pure  wine 
together — when  you  were  young,  and  I was  not 
superannuated — when  we  left  the  cold  infusions  of 
prudence  to  fine  ladies  and  gentle  politicians — when 
true  wisdom  was  not  degraded  by  the  name  of  mo- 
deration— when  we  cared  but  little  by  wliat  majo- 
rities the  nation  was  betrayed,  or  how  many  felons  I 
were  aequitted  by  their  peers — and  wlien  we  were  j 
not  afraid  of  being  intoxicated  by  the  elevation  of  a 
spirit  too  highly  rectified.  In  England  and  Scot- 
land, the  general  disposition  of  the  people  may  be  ; 
fairly  judged  of  by  the  means  which  are  said  to  be 
necessary  to  counteract  it — an  immense  standing 
army,  barracks  in  every  part  of  the  countiw,  tlie 
bill  of  rights  suspended,  and,  in  effect,  a military 
despotism.’  The  following  vigorous  and  Junins-Uhe 
passage  is  from  a speech  made  by  Francis  in  answer 
to  the  remark  of  Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow,  namely, 
that  it  would  have  been  well  for  the  country  if 
General  Clavering,  Colonel  Monson,  and  Mr  Francis, 
had  been  drowned  in  tlieir  passage  to  India.  Sir 
Philip  observed  : — ‘His  second  reason  for  obtaining 
a seat  in  parliament,  was  to  have  an  o])portunity  of 
explaining  his  own  conduet  if  it  should  be  ques- 
tioned, or  defending  it  if  it  should  be  attacked.  The 
last  and  not  least  urgent  reason  was,  that  he  might 
be  ready  to  defend  the  character  of  his  colleagues, 
not  against  specific  charges,  which  he  was  sure  would 
never  be  produced,  but  against  the  language  of 
calumny,  which  endeavoured  to  asperse  without 
daring  to  accuse.  It  was  well  known  that  a gross 
and  public  insult  had  been  offered  to  the  memory  of 
General  Clavering  and  Colonel  Monson,  Iw  a person 
of  high  rank  in  this  country.  He  was  haj)pj’  when 
he  heard  that  his  name  was  included  in  it  with 
theirs.  So  highly  did  he  respect  the  cluiracter  of 
those  men,  that  he  deemed  it  an  honour  to  share  in 
the  injustice  it  had  suffered.  It  was  in  compliance 

236 


mSCKI.I.ANF.OUS  WHITERS. 


EN('.LIS1I  LI'l'ERATURE. 


JUNIDh 


with  tlie  forms  of  tlie  lunisc.  ami  not  to  shelter  him- 
self. or  out  of  temlerness  to  the  part}',  tliiit  lie  for- 
bore to  name  him.  He  meant  to  describe  him  so 
exactly  that  he  could  not  be  mistaken.  He  declared, 
in  his  idace  in  a great  assembly,  and  in  the  course 
of  a grave  deliberation,  “ that  it  would  have  been 
h'iii]iv  for  this  country  if  General  Clavering,  Colonel 
iMonson,  and  Mr  Francis,  had  been  drowned  in  their 
jiassage  to  India.”  If  this  poor  and  spiteful  invec- 
tive had  been  uttered  by  a man  of  no  consequence 
or  repute — by  any  light,  trifling,  inconsiderate  i>erson 
— by  a lord  of  the  bed-chamber,  for  example — or 
any  of  the  other  silken  barons  of  modern  days,  he 
should  have  heard  it  with  indifference;  but  when  it 
was  seriously  urged,  and  deliberately  insisted  on, 
by  a grave  lord  of  parliament,  by  a judge,  by  a man 
of  ability  and  eminence  in  his  profession,  whose 
personal  disposition  was  serious,  who  carried  gravity 
to  sternness,  and  sternness  to  ferocity,  it  could  not 
be  received  with  imlifference.  or  answered  without 
resentment.  Such  a man  would  be  thought  to  have 
imiuircd  before  he  pronounced.  From  his  mouth  a 
reproach  was  a sentence,  an  invective  was  a judg 
nicnt.  The  accidents  of  life,  and  not  any  original 
distincti('ii  that  he  knew  of,  had  placed  him  too 
high,  and  himself  at  too  great  a distance  from  him, 
to  admit  of  any  other  answer  than  a public  defiance 
for  General  Clavering,  for  Colonel  Jlonson,  and  for 
himself.  This  was  not  a party  question,  nor  should 
it  be  left  to  so  feeble  an  advocate  as  he  was  to  sup- 
port it.  The  friends  and  fellow-soldiers  of  General 
Clavering  and  Colonel  Jlonson  would  assist  him  in 
defending  their  memory.  He  demanded  and  ex- 
pected the  su])port  of  every  man  of  honour  in  that 
house  and  in  the  kingdom.  What  character  was 
safe,  if  slander  was  permitted  to  .attack  the  reputa- 
tion of  two  of  the  most  honourable  and  virtuous 
men  that  ever  were  employed,  or  ever  perished  in 
the  service  of  their  country.  He  knew  that  the 
authoihy  of  this  man  was  not  without  weight ; but 
he  had  an  infinitely  higher  aiithority  to  oppose  to 
it.  He  had  the  happiness  of  hearing  the  merits  of 
General  Clavering  and  Colonel  Monson  acknow- 
ledged and  aiiplauded,  in  terms  to  which  he  was 
not  at  liberty  to  do  more  than  to  allude — they  were 
rajiid  and  expressive.  He  must  not  venture  to 
repeat,  lest  he  should  do  them  injustice,  or  violate 
the  forms  of  respect,  where  essentially  he  owed  and 
felt  the  most ; but  he  was  sufficiently  understood. 
The  generous  sens.ations  that  animate  the  royal 
mind  were  easily  distinguished  from  those  which 
rankled  in  the  heart  of  that  person  who  was  sup- 
posed to  be  the  keeper  of  the  royal  conscience.’ 

In  the  last  of  the  private  letters  of  Junius  to 
Woodfall — the  last,  indeed,  of  his  appearances  in 
that  character — he  says,  with  his  characteristic  ar- 
dour and  impatience,  ‘ I feel  for  the  honour  of  this 
country,  when  I see  that  there  are  not  ten  men  in  it 
who  will  unite  and  stand  together  upon  any  one 
question.  But  it  is  all  alike,  vile  and  contemiitible.’ 
Tins  was  written  in  January  1773.  F'orty-three 
years  afterwards,  in  1816,  Sir  Philip  Francis  thus 
writes  in  a letter  on  public  .affairs,  addressed  to  Lord 
Holland,  and  the  similarity  in  manner  and  senti- 
ment is  striking.  The  style  is  not  unworthy  of 
Junius:  — ‘My  mind  sickens  and  revolts  at  the 
scenes  of  public  depravity,  of  personal  baseness,  and 
of  ruinous  folly,  little  less  than  universal,  which 
have  passed  before  us,  not  in  dramatic  represen  ta- 
ti(,n,  but  in  real  action,  since  the  year  1792,  in  the 
government  of  this  once  flourishing  as  well  as  glori- 
ous kingdom.  In  that  period  a deadly  revolution 
has  taken  place  in  the  moral  character  of  the  nation, 
and  even  in  the  instinct  of  the  gregarious  multitude. 
Passion  of  any  kind,  if  it  existed,  might  excite  action. 


With  still  many  generous  exception.s,  the  body  of 
the  country  is  lost  in  apathy  and  indilfercnce — some- 
times strutting  on  stilts— for  the  most  part  grovel- 
ling on  its  belly — no  life-blood  in  the  heart — and 
instead  of  reason  or  reflection,  a caput  vxutuum  for 
a head-piece ; of  all  revolutions  this  one  is  the 
worst,  because  it  makes  any  other  impossible.’’*' 
Among  the  lighter  sketches  of  Fr.anos  m,ay  be 
t.aken  the  following  brief  characters  of  Fox  and 
Pitt : — ‘ They  know  nothing  of  Mr  Fox  who  think 
that  he  was  what  is  commonly  called  well  educated. 
I know  that  it  vvas  directly  or  very  nearly  the  re- 
verse. His  mind  educated  itself,  not  by  early  study 
or  instruction,  but  by  active  listening  and  rapid 
apprehension.  He  said  so  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons when  he  .and  Mr  Burke  jiarted.  His  powerful 
understanding  grew  like  a forest  oak,  not  by  culti- 
vation, but  by  neglect.  Mr  Pitt  was  a plant  of  an 
inferior  ordeir,  though  marvellous  in  its  kind — a 
smooth  bark,  with  tlie  deciduous  pomp  and  decora- 
tion of  a rich  foli.age,  and  blossoms  and  flowers 
which  drop  off  of  themselves,  and  leave  the  tree 
naked  at  last  to  be  judged  by  its  fruits.  He,  indeed, 
as  I suspect,  had  been  educated  more  than  enough, 
until  there  w'as  nothing  natural  and  spontaneous  left 
in  him.  He  was  too  ]iolished  and  accurate  in  the 
minor  embellishments  of  his  art  to  be  a great  artist 
in  anything.  He  could  have  painted  the  boat,  and 
the  fish,  and  the  broken  nets,  but  not  the  two  fisher- 
men. He  knew  his  audience,  and.  with  or  without 
eloquence,  how'  to  summon  the  generous  passions  to 
his  applause.  The  human  eye  soon  grows  weary 

* The  ch.iracter  of  Francis  is  seen  in  the  following  admir- 
able observation,  whieh  is  at  once  acute  and  profound  : — 

‘ With  a callous  heart  there  can  be  no  genius  in  the  imagina- 
tion or  wisdom  in  the  mind*;  and  therefore  the  prayer  with 
equal  truth  and  sublimity  s,ays — “ Incline  our  hearts  unto 
wisdom. ■■  Resolute  thoughts  find  words  foi  themselves,  and 
make  their  own  vehicle.  Im])ression  and  pre.-,sion  are  rela- 
tive ideas.  He  who  feels  deeply  will  express  strongly.  The 
language  of  slight  sensations  is  naturally  feebie  and  su))erficial. 
— Jti’fkclions  on  the  Abmulanc  of  Paper.  1.110.— Francis  ex- 
celled in  pointed  and  pithy  exjiressifm.  Alter  his  return  to 
parliament  in  17(14,  he  g:  ve  great  offence  tc.  Mr  I’itt,  by  ex- 
claiming, after  he  had  pronounced  an  animated  eulogy  on  Lord 
Chatham,  ‘ Rut  he  is  dead,  and  has  left  nothing  in  this  w'orld 
that  resembles  him  1*  In  a speech  d-.-l  \ ered  at  a political  meet- 
ing in  11117,  he  said,  ‘ We  live  in  times  that  call  for  wisdom  in 
contemplation  and  virtue  in  action  ; but  in  which  virtue  and 
wisdom  will  not  do  without  resolution.'  Whet,  the  property- 
tax  was  imposed,  he  exclaimed,  ‘ that  the  ministers  were  now 
coming  to  the  life-blood  of  the  country,  and  the  more  they 
wanted  the  less  they  would  get,'  In  a letter  to  Lord  Holland, 
written  in  UlKi,  he  remarks,  * Whether  you  look  up  to  the  lop 
or  down  to  the  bottom,  whether  you  mount  with  the  froth  or 
sink  w'ith  the  sediment,  no  rank  in  this  country  can  s,ippi>rl  a 
perfectly  degraded  name.’  ‘ .My  recital,’  he  says  to  Loid  Hol- 
land, * shall  be  inflicted  on  you,  as  if  it  w*ere  an  operation,  with 
compassion  for  the  p.atient,  with  the  brevity  of  impatience  and 
the  rapidity  of  youth  ; for  1 feel  or  fancy  that  1 am  gradually 
growing  young  again,  in  my  way  back  to  infancy.  The  taper 
that  burns  in  the  socket  flashes  more  than  once  before  it  dies. 

1 would  not  long  outlive  myself  if  1 could  help  it,  like  some  of 
my  old  friends  who  pretend  to  be  al  ve,  when  to  luy  certain 
knowledge  they  have  been  dead  these  seven  years.’  The  writer 
of  a memoir  of  F'rancis,  in  the  Annual  Obituary  (1112ih,  states 
that  one  of  his  maxims  was,  * That  the  views  of  every  one 
should  be  directed  towards  a solid,  however  moderate  inde- 
pendence, without  which  no  man  can  be  happy  or  even  honest, 
'fhere  is  a remarkable  eoincidence  'too  close  to  be  accidental, 
in  a private  letter  by  Junius  to  his  publisher  Woodfall.  dated 
March  5,  1772 : * As  for  myself,  be  assured  that  1 am  far  above 
all  pecuniary  views,  and  no  other  person  I think  has  any  claim 
to  share  with  you.  Make  the  most  of  it,  therefore,  and  let  all 
your  views  in  life  be  directed  to  a sold,  however  moderate 
independence.  Without  it  no  ."oan  can  be  happy,  nor  evra 
honest.* 


237 


KROM  1727  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  lo  1780. 

of  !in  unlxmiKlod  plain,  and  sooner,  I believe,  than 
of  any  limited  portion  of  spaee,  whatever  its  dimen- 
sions may  he.  There  is  a calm  delight,  a doled 
ripoxo,  in  viewing  tlie  smooth-shaven  verdure  of  a 
bowline  green  as  long  as  it  is  near.  You  must  learn 
from  re[)etition  that  those  properties  are  inseparable 
from  the  idea  of  a fiat  surface,  and  that  flat  and 
tire.some  are  synonymous.  The  works  of  nature, 
which  eommand  admiration  at  once,  and  never  lose 
it,  are  compounded  of  grand  inequalities.’ 

[Janirts’s  Celebrated  Letter  to  the  King.'] 

To  tho  Printer  of  the  Public  Advertiser. — 19th  December  17G9. 

Sir — When  the  eomplaints  of  a brave  and  power- 
ful ]>eople  are  observed  to  increase  in  proportion  to 
the  wrongs  they  have  suffered  ; when,  instead  of  sink- 
ing into  submission,  they  are  roused  to  resistance,  the 
time  will  soon  arrive  at  which  every  inferior  considera- 
tion must  yield  to  the  security  of  the  sovereign,  and 
to  the  general  safety  of  the  state.  There  is  a moment 
of  difficulty  and  danger,  at  which  flattery  and  false- 
hood can  no  longer  deceive,  and  simplicity  itself  can 
no  longer  be  misled.  Let  us  suppose  it  arrived.  Let 
us  suppose  a gracious  well-intentioned  prince  made 
sensible  at  last  of  the  great  duty  he  owes  to  his  peojile, 
and  of  his  own  disgraceful  situation;  that  he  looks 
round  him  for  assistance,  and  asks  for  no  advice  but 
how  to  gratify  the  wishes  and  secure  the  happiness 
of  his  subjects.  In  these  circumstances,  it  may  be 
matter  of  curious  speculation  to  consider,  if  an  honest 
man  were  permitted  to  approach  a king,  in  what  terms 
he  would  address  himself  to  his  sovereign.  Let  it  be 
imagined,  no  matter  how  improbable,  that  the  first  pre- 
judice against  his  character  is  removed  ; that  the  cere- 
monious difficulties  of  an  audience  are  surmounted  ; 
that  he  feels  him.self  animated  by  the  purest  and  most 
honourable  affection  to  his  king  and  country  ; and  that 
the  great  person  whom  he  addresses  has  spirit  enough 
to  bid  him  speak  freely,  and  understanding  enough  to 
listen  to  him  with  attention.  Unacquainted  with  the 
vain  impertinence  of  forms,  he  would  deliver  his  sen- 
timents with  dignity  and  firmness,  but  not  without 
respect : — 

Sir — It  is  the  misfortune  of  your  life,  and  origi- 
nally the  cause  of  every  reproach  and  distress  which 
has  attended  your  government,  that  you  should  never 
have  been  acquainted  with  the  language  of  truth  till 
you  heard  it  in  the  complaints  of  your  people.  It  is 
not,  however,  too  late  to  correct  the  error  of  your  edu- 
cation. We  are  still  inclined  to  make  an  indulgent 
allowance  for  the  pernicious  lessons  you  received  in 
your  youth,  and  to  form  tne  most  sanguine  hopes  from 
the  natural  benevolence  of  your  disposition.  We  are 
far  from  thinking  you  capable  of  a direct  deliberate 
purpose  to  invade  those  original  rights  of  your  sub- 
jects on  which  all  their  civil  and  political  liberties 
depend.  Had  it  been  possible  for  us  to  entertain  a 
suspicion  so  dishonourable  to  your  character,  we  should 
long  since  have  adopted  a style  of  remonstrance  very 
distant  from  the  humility  of  complaint.  The  doc- 
trine inculcated  by  our  laws,  ‘ that  the  king  can  do 
no  wrong,’  is  admitted  without  reluctance.  We  sepa- 
rate the  amiable  good-natured  prince  from  the  folly 
and  treachery  of  his  servants,  and  the  private  virtues 
of  the  man  from  the  vices  of  his  government.  Were 
it  not  for  this  just  distinction,  I know  not  whether 
your  majesty’s  condition,  or  that  of  the  English  na- 
tion, would  deserve  most  to  be  lamented.  I would 
prepare  your  mind  for  a favourable  reception  of  truth, 
by  removing  every  painful  offensive  idea  of  personal 
reproach.  Your  subjects,  sir,  wish  for  nothing  but 
that,  as  they  are  reasonable  and  affectionate  enough  to 
separate  your  person  from  your  government,  so  you,  in 
your  turn,  would  distinguish  between  the  conduct 
Thich  becomes  the  permanent  dignity  of  a king,  and 

that  which  serves  only  to  promote  the  temiiorary  in-  ’ 
tcrest  and  miserable  ambition  of  a minister. 

You  ascended  the  throne  with  a declared  (and,  1 
doubt  not,  a sincere)  resolution  of  giving  universal 
satisfaction  to  your  subjects.  You  found  them  pleased 
with  the  novelty  of  a young  prince,  whose  countenance 
promised  even  more  than  his  words,  and  loyal  to  you 
not  only  from  principle  but  passion.  It  was  not  a 
cold  profession  of  allegiance  to  the  first  magistrate, 
but  a partial,  animated  attachment  to  a favourite 
prince,  the  native  of  their  country.  They  did  not 
wait  to  examine  your  conduct,  nor  to  be  determined 
by  experience,  but  gave  you  a generous  credit  for  the 
future  blessings  of  your  reign,  and  paid  you  in  ad- 
vance the  dearest  tribute  of  their  affections.  Such, 
sir,  was  once  the  disposition  of  a people  who  now  sur- 
round your  throne  with  reproaches  and  complaints. 

Uo  justice  to  yourself.  Banish  from  your  mind  those 
unworthy  opinions  with  which  some  interested  per- 
sons have  laboured  to  pos.sess  you.  Distrust  the  men 
who  tell  you  that  the  English  are  naturally  light  and 
inconstant ; that  they  complain  without  a cause. 
Withdraw  your  confidence  equally  from  all  parties  ; 
from  ministers,  favourites,  and  relations  ; and  let  there 
be  one  moment  in  your  life  in  which  you  have  con- 
sulted your  own  understanding. 

When  you  affectedly  renounced  the  name  of  Eng- 
lishman, believe  me,  sir,  you  were  persuaded  to  pay 
a very  ill-judged  compliment  to  one  part  of  your  sub- 
jects at  the  expen.se  of  another.  While  the  natives  of 
Scotland  arc  not  in  actual  rebellion,  they  are  un- 
doubtedly entitled  to  protection  ; nor  do  I mean  to 
condemn  the  policy  of  giving  some  encouragement  to 
the  novelty  of  their  affection  for  the  house  of  Hanover. 

I am  ready  to  hope  for  everything  from  their  new-born 
zeal,  and  from  the  future  steadiness  of  their  allegiance. 
But  hitherto  they  have  no  claim  to  your  favour.  To 
honour  them  with  a determined  predilection  and  con-  1 
fidence,  in  exclusion  of  your  English  subjects — who  ] 
placed  your  family,  and  in  spite  of  treachery  and  re- 
bellion, have  supported  it,  upon  the  throne — is  a mis- 
take too  gross  for  even  the  unsuspecting  generosity  of  | 
youth.  In  this  error  we  see  a capital  violation  of  the  ' 
most  obvious  rules  of  policy  and  prudence.  We  trace  ! 
it,  however,  to  an  original  bias  in  your  education,  and  : 
are  ready  to  allow  for  your  inexperience.  1 

To  the  same  early  influence  we  attribute  it,  that  | 
you  have  descended  to  take  a .share  not  only  in  the  i 
narrow  views  and  interests  of  p.articular  persons,  but  | 
in  the  fatal  malignity  of  their  pa.ssions.  At  your  j 
accession  to  the  throne  the  whole  system  of  govern-  ‘ 
ment  was  altered  ; not  from  wisdom  or  deliberation,  ( 
but  because  it  had  been  adopted  by  your  predcce.ssor,  i 
A little  personal  motive  of  pique  and  resentment  was 
sufficient  to  remove  the  ablest  servants  of  the  crown  , | 

but  it  is  not  in  this  country,  sir,  that  such  men  can  | 
be  dishonoured  by  the  frowns  of  a king.  They  were  | 
dismissed,  but  could  not  be  disgraced.  1 

Without  entering  into  a minuter  discussion  of  the 
merits  of  the  peace,  we  may  observe,  in  the  imprudent  | 
hurry  with  which  the  finst  overtures  from  Erance  were  i 
accepted,  in  the  conduct  of  the  negotiation,  and 
terms  of  the  treaty,  the  strongest  marks  of  that  preci- 
pitate spirit  of  concession  with  which  a certain  part 
of  your  subjects  have  been  at  all  times  ready  to  pur- 
chase a peace  with  the  natural  enemies  of  this  country. 

On  your  part  we  are  satisfied  that  everything  wa.s 
honourable  and  sincere  ; and  if  England  was  sold  tc 
France,  we  doubt  not  that  your  majesty  was  equally 
betrayed.  The  conditions  of  the  jicace  were  matter 
of  grief  and  surprise  to  your  subjects,  but  not  the 
immediate  cause  of  their  present  discontent.  , 

Hitherto,  sir,  you  had  been  sacrificed  to  the  preju-  i 
dices  and  passions  of  others.  With  what  firmncis 
will  you  bear  the  mention  of  your  own  ? 

A man  not  very  honourably  distinguished  in  the 

2.38 

— — 1 

MiscKu.ANB)us  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  junius. 

world  commences  iv  formal  attack  upon  your  favourite  ; 
consiilcriu"  nothiiif;  but  h)w  he  might  best  expose  his 
person  and  principles  to  detestation,  and  the  national 
character  of  his  countrymen  to  contempt.  The  natives 
of  that  country,  sir,  are  as  much  distinguished  by  a 
peculiar  character,  as  by  your  majesty’s  favour.  Like 
another  chosen  people,  they  have  been  conducted  into 
the  land  of  plenty,  where  they  find  themselves  effec- 
tually marked  and  divided  from  mankind.  There  is 
hardly  a period  at  which  the  most  irregular  character 
may  not  be  redeemed ; the  mistakes  of  one  sex  find 
a retreat  in  patriotism  ; those  of  the  other  in  devo- 
tion. Mr  Wilkes  brought  with  him  into  politics  the 
same  liberal  sentiments  by  which  his  private  conduct 
had  been  directed ; and  seemed  to  think,  that  as  there 
are  few  excesses  in  which  an  English  gentleman  may 
not  be  permitted  to  indulge,  the  same  latitude  was 
allowed  him  in  the  choice  of  his  political  principles, 
and  in  the  spirit  of  maintaining  them.  I mean  to 
state,  not  entirely  to  defend,  his  conduct.  In  the 
earnestness  of  his  zeal,  he  suffered  some  unwarrant- 
able insinuations  to  escape  him.  He  said  more  than 
moderate  men  would  justify,  but  not  enough  to  entitle 
him  to  the  honour  of  your  majesty’s  personal  resent- 
ment. The  rays  of  royal  indignation  collected  upon 
him,  served  only  to  illumine,  and  could  not  consume. 
Animated  by  the  favour  of  the  people  on  one  side, 
and  heated  by  persecution  on  the  other,  his  views 
and  sentiments  changed  with  his  situation.  Hardly 
serious  at  first,  he  is  now  an  enthusiast.  The  coldest 
bodies  warm  with  opposition ; the  hardest  sparkle  in 
collision.  There  is  a holy  mistaken  zeal  in  politics 
as  well  as  religion.  By  persuading  others,  we  convince 
ourselves  ; the  passions  are  engaged,  and  create  a 
maternal  aflfection  in  the  mind,  which  forces  us  to 
love  the  cause  for  which  we  suffer.  Is  this  a conten- 
tion worthy  of  a king?  Are  you  not  sensible  how 
much  the  meanness  of  the  cause  gives  an  air  of  ridi- 
cule to  the  serious  difficulties  into  which  you  have 
been  betrayed?  The  destruction  of  one  man  has  been 
now  for  many  years  the  sole  object  of  your  govern- 
ment ; and  if  there  can  be  anything  still  more  dis- 
graceful, we  have  seen  for  such  an  object  the  utmost 
influence  of  the  e.xecutive  power,  and  every  ministerial 
artifice,  exerted  without  success.  Nor  can  you  ever 
succeed,  unless  he  should  be  imprudent  enough  to 
forfeit  the  protection  of  those  laws  to  which  you  owe 
your  crown  ; or  unless  your  ministers  should  persuade 
you  to  make  it  a question  of  force  alone,  and  try  the 
whole  strength  of  government  in  opposition  to  the 
people.  The  lessons  he  has  received  from  experience 
will  probably  guard  him  from  such  excess  of  folly ; 
and  in  your  majesty’s  virtues  we  find  an  unquestion- 
able assurance  that  no  illegal  violence  will  be  at- 
tempted. 

Far  from  suspecting  you  of  so  horrible  a design,  we 
would  attribute  the  continued  violation  of  the  laws, 
and  even  this  last  enormous  attack  upon  the  vital 
principles  of  the  constitution,  to  an  ill-advised  un- 
wythy  personal  resentment.  From  one  false  step 
you  have  been  betrayed  into  another  ; and  as  the 
cause  was  unworthy  of  you,  your  ministers  were  deter- 
mined that  the  prudence  of  the  execution  should 
correspond  with  the  wisdom  and  dignity  of  the  design. 
They  have  reduced  you  to  the  necessity  of  choosing 
out  of  a variety  of  difficulties  ; to  a situation  so  un- 
happy, that  you  can  neither  do  ivrong  without  ruin, 
nor  right  without  affliction.  These  worthy  servants 
have  undoubtedly  given  you  many  singular  proofs 
of  their  abilities.  Not  contented  with  making  Mr 
Wilkes  a man  of  importance,  they  have  judiciously 
transferred  the  question  from  the  rights  and  interests 
of  one  man,  to  the  most  important  rights  and  interests 
of  the  people ; and  forced  your  subjects,  from  wishing 
well  to  the  cause  of  an  individual,  to  unite  with  him 
in  their  own.  Let  them  proceed  as  they  have  begun, 

and  your  majesty  need  not  doubt  that  the  catastrophe 
will  do  no  dishonour  to  the  conduct  of  the  piece. 

The  circumstances  to  which  you  are  reduced  will 
not  admit  of  a compromise  with  the  English  nation. 
Undecisive  qualifying  measures  will  disgrace  your 
government  still  more  than  open  violence  ; and  with- 
out satisfying  the  people,  will  excite  their  contempt. 
They  have  too  much  understanding  and  spirit  to 
accept  of  an  indirect  satisfaction  for  a direct  injury. 
Nothing  less  than  a repeal  as  formal  as  the  resolution* 
itself,  can  heal  the  wound  which  has  been  given  to 
the  constitution  ; nor  will  anything  less  be  accepted. 
I can  readily  believe  that  there  is  an  influence  suffi- 
cient to  recall  that  pernicious  vote.  The  House  of 
Commons  undoubtedly  consider  their  duty  to  the 
crown  as  paramount  to  all  other  obligations.  To  us 
they  are  indebted  for  only  an  accidental  existence, 
and  have  justly  transferred  their  gratitude  from  their 
parents  to  their  benefactors  ; from  those  who  gave 
them  birth  to  the  minister  from  whose  benevolence 
they  derive  the  comforts  and  pleasures  of  their  poli- 
tical life ; who  has  taken  the  tenderest  care  of  their 
infancy,  and  relieves  their  necessities  without  offend- 
ing their  delicacy.  But  if  it  were  possible  for  their 
integrity  to  be  degraded  to  a condition  so  vile  and 
abject,  that,  compared  with  it,  the  present  estimation 
they  stand  in  is  a state  of  honour  and  respect,  con- 
sider, sir,  in  what  manner  you  will  afterwards  proceed. 
Can  you  conceive  that  the  people  of  this  country  will 
long  submit  to  be  governed  by  so  flexible  a House  of 
Commons?  It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  human  society 
that  any  form  of  government  in  such  circumstances 
can  long  be  preserved.  In  ours,  the  general  contempt 
of  the  people  is  as  fatal  as  their  detestation.  Such, 
I am  persuaded,  would  be  the  necessary  effect  of  any 
base  concession  made  by  the  present  House  of  Com- 
mons ; and,  as  a qualifying  measure  would  not  be 
accepted,  it  remains  for  you  to  decide  whether  you 
will,  at  any  hazard,  support  a set  of  men  who  have 
reduced  you  to  this  unhappy  dilemma,  or  whether 
you  will  gratify  the  united  wishes  of  the  whole  people 
of  England  by  dissolving  the  parliament. 

Taking  it  for  granted,  as  1 do  very  sincerely,  that 
you  have  personally  no  design  against  the  constitu- 
tion, nor  any  view  inconsistent  with  the  good  of  your 
subjects,  1 think  you  cannot  hesitate  long  upon  the 
choice  which  it  equally  concerns  your  interest  and 
your  honour  to  adopt.  On  one  side,  you  hazard  the 
affections  of  all  your  English  subjects  ; you  relinquish 
every  hope  of  repose  to  yourself,  and  you  endanger 
the  establishment  of  your  family  for  ever.  All  this 
you  venture  for  no  object  whatever,  or  for  such  an 
object  as  it  would  be  an  affront  to  you  to  name.  Men 
of  sense  will  examine  your  conduct  with  suspicion ; 
while  those  who  are  incapable  of  comprehending  to 
what  degree  they  are  injured,  affiict  you  with  clamours 
equally  insolent  and  unmeaning.  Supposing  it  pos- 
sible that  no  fatal  struggle  should  ensue,  you  detei- 
mine  at  once  to  be  unhappy,  without  the  hope  of  a 
compensation  either  from  interest  or  ambition.  If 
an  English  king  be  hated  or  despised,  he  must  be  un- 
happy ; and  this,  perhaps,  is  the  only  political  truth 
which  he  ought  to  be  convinced  of  without  experi- 
ment. But  if  the  English  people  should  no  longer 
confine  their  resentment  to  a submissive  representa- 
tion of  their  wrongs ; if,  following  the  glorious  ex- 
ample of  their  ancestors,  they  should  no  longer  appeal 
to  the  creature  of  the  constitution,  but  to  that  high 
Being  who  gave  them  the  rights  of  humanity,  whose 
gifts  it  were  sacrilege  to  surrender,  let  me  ask  you, 
sir,  upon  what  part  of  your  subjects  would  you  rely 
for  assistance  ? 

The  people  of  Ireland  have  been  uniformly  plun- 

* Of  the  House  of  Commons,  on  the  subject  of  the  Middlesex 
election. 

239 

FROM  1727 


dercd  iiml  oppressed.  In  return,  they  give  you  every 
day  fresh  marks  of  tlieir  resentment.  Tliey  despise 
the  miserable  governor  you  have  sent  them,  because 
lie  is  the  creature  of  bord  liute ; nor  is  it  from  any 
natural  confusion  in  their  ideas  that  they  are  so  ready 
to  confound  the  original  of  a king  with  the  disgrace- 
ful representation  of  him. 

The  distance  of  the  colonies  would  make  it  impo.s- 
fiible  for  them  to  take  an  active  concern  in  your 
affairs,  even  if  they  were  as  well  affected  to  your  go- 
vernment as  they  once  pretended  to  be  to  your  per.son. 
They  were  ready  enough  to  distinguish  between  you 
and  your  ministers.  They  comtilained  of  an  act  of 
the  legislature,  but  traced  the  origin  of  it  no  higher 
than  to  the  servants  of  the  crown  ; they  pleased 
themselves  with  the  hope  that  their  sovereign,  if  not 
favourable  to  their  cau.se,  at  least  was  impartial. 
The  decisive  personal  part  you  took  against  them  has 
effectually  banished  that  first  distinction  from  their 
minds.*  They  consider  you  as  united  with  your  ser- 
vants against  .\merica  ; and  know  how  to  distinguish 
the  sovereign  and  a venal  parliament  on  one  side, 
from  the  real  sentiments  of  the  English  people  on  the 
other.  Looking  forward  to  independence,  they  might 
possibly  receive  you  for  their  king;  but  if  ever  you 
retire  to  .America,  be  assured  they  will  give  you  such 
a covenant  to  digest,  as  the  presbytery  of  Scotland 
would  have  been  ashamed  to  offer  to  Charles  II.  They 
left  their  native  land  in  search  of  freedom,  and  found 
it  lira  deseit.  Divided  as  they  are  into  a thousand 
forms  of  polity  and  religion,  there  is  one  point  in 
which  they  all  agree ; they  equally  detest  the  pa- 
geantry of  a king,  and  the  supercilious  hypocrisy  of  a 
bishop. 

It  is  not,  then,  from  the  alienated  affections  of  Ire- 
land or  America  that  you  can  reasonably  look  for 
assi.stance  : still  less  from  the  people  of  England,  wdio 
are  actually  contending  for  their  rights,  and  in  this 
great  que.-tiou  are  parties  against  you.  You  are  not, 
however,  destitute  of  every  appearance  of  .support; 
you  have  all  the  Jacobites,  non-jurors,  Roman  Catho- 
lics, and  Tories  of  this  country  ; and  all  Scotland, 
without  exception.  Considering  from  what  family 
you  are  de.scended,  the  choice  of  your  friends  has  been 
singularly  directed  ; and  truly,  sir,  if  you  had  not  lost 
the  W hig  interest  of  England,  I should  admire  your 
dexterity  in  turning  the  hearts  of  your  enemies.  Is 
it  ]iossible  for  you  to  place  any  confidence  in  men 
who,  before  they  are  faithful  to  you,  must  renounce 
every  opinion,  and  betray  every  principle,  both  in 
church  and  state,  which  they  inherit  from  their  an- 
cestors, and  are  confirmed  in  by  their  education  ; 
whose  numbers  are  so  inconsiderable,  that  they  have 
long  since  been  obliged  to  give  up  the  principles  and 
language  which  distinguish  them  as  a party,  and  to 
fight  under  the  banners  of  their  enemies!  Their  zeal 
begins  with  hypocrisy,  and  must  conclude  in  treachery. 
At  first  they  deceive;  at  last  they  betray. 

As  to  the  Scotch,  I must  suppose  your  heart  and 
understiindiug  so  biased  from  your  earliest  infancy 
in  their  f.ivour,  that  nothing  le.ss  than  your  own  mis- 
fortunes can  undeceive  you.  You  will  not  accept  of 
the  uniform  experience  of  your  ancestors  ; and  when 
once  a man  is  determined  to  believe,  the  very  ab- 
surdity of  the  doctrine  confirms  him  in  his  faith.  A 
bigoted  understanding  can  draw  a proof  of  attachment 
to  the  house  of  Hanover  from  a notorious  zeal  for  the 

* In  the  kins’s  speech  of  8th  November  1/88,  it  was  deciared 
‘ that  the  spirit  of  faction  had  broken  out  afresh  in  some  of 
the  colonies,  and  in  one  of  them  proceeded  to  acts  of  violence 
and  resistance  to  the  execution  of  the  laws ; that  Boston  was 
in  a state  of  disobedience  to  all  law  and  government,  and  had 
proceeded  to  measures  subversive  of  the  constitution,  and  at- 
tended with  circumstances  that  manifested  a disposition  to 
throw  off  their  dependence  on  Great  Britain.' 


TO  1780. 


house  of  Stuart ; and  find  an  earnest  of  future  loyalty 
in  former  rebellions.  Appearances  are,  however,  in 
their  favour  ; so  strongly,  indeed,  that  one  would  think 
they  hail  forgotten  that  you  are  their  lawful  king,  and 
had  mistaken  you  for  a pretender  to  the  crown.  Let 
it  be  admitted,  then,  that  the  Scotch  are  as  sincere  in 
their  present  jirofessions,  as  if  you  were  in  reality  not 
an  Englishman,  but  a IJriton  of  the  north  ; you  would 
not  be  the  first  prince  of  their  native  country  against 
whom  they  have  rebelled,  nor  the  first  whom  they 
have  basely  betrayed.  Have  you  forgotten,  sir,  or  has 
your  favourite  concealed  from  you,  that  part  of  our 
history  when  the  unhappy  Charles  (and  he,  too,  had 
private  virtues)  fled  from  the  open  avowed  indig- 
nation of  his  English  subjects,  and  surrendered  him- 
self at  discretion  to  the  good  faith  of  his  own  country- 
men? Without  looking  for  support  in  their  affections 
as  subjects,  he  applied  only  to  their  honour  as  gentle- 
men for  protection.  They  received  him,  as  they  would 
your  majesty,  with  bows,  and  smiles,  and  falsehood; 
and  kept  him  till  they  had  settled  their  bargain  with 
the  English  parliament;  then  basely  sold  their  native 
king  to  the  vengeance  of  his  enemies.  This,  sir, 
was  not  the  act  of  a few  traitors,  but  the  deliberate 
treachery  of  a Scotch  parliament,  representing  the 
nation.  A wi.se  prince  might  draw  from  it  two 
le.s.sons  of  equal  utility  to  himself : on  one  side  he 
might  leani  to  dread  the  undisgui.sed  resentment  of 
a generous  people  who  dare  openly  assert  their  rights, 
and  who  in  a just  cause  are  ready  to  meet  their  sove- 
reign in  the  field  ; on  the  other  side  he  would  be  i 
taught  to  apprehend  something  far  more  formidable — | 

a fawning  treachery,  against  which  no  prudence  c.an  j 
guard,  no  courage  can  defend.  The  insidious  smile 
upon  the  cheek  would  warn  him  of  the  canker  in  the  ' 
heart. 

From  the  uses  to  which  one  part  of  the  army  has 
been  too  frequently  applied,  you  have  some  reason  to 
expect  that  there  are  no  services  they  would  refuse. 
Here,  too,  we  trace  the  partiality  of  your  understand- 
ing. You  take  the  sense  of  the  army  from  the  con- 
duct of  the  Guards,  with  the  same  justice  with  which 
you  collect  the  sense  of  the  people  from  the  represen- 
tations of  the  ministry.  Your  marching  regiments,  ! 
sir,  will  not  make  the  Guards  their  exaiiqile  cither  as  I 
soldiers  or  subjects.  They  feel  and  resent,  as  they  ( 
ought  to  do,  that  invariable  undistinguishing  f.ivour  j 
with  which  the  Guards  are  treated ; ivhile  those  gal- 
lant troops,  by  whom  every  hazardous,  every  laborious 
service  is  performed,  are  left  to  perish  in  garrisons 
abroad,  or  pine  in  quarters  at  home,  neglected  and 
forgotten.  If  they  had  no  .sense  of  the  great  original 
duty  they  owe  their  country,  their  re.sentment  would 
operate  like  patriotism,  and  leave  your  cause  to  be 
defended  by  those  on  whom  you  have  lavished  the  re- 
wards and  honours  of  their  profession.  The  praetorian 
bands,  enervated  and  debauched  as  they  were,  had 
still  strength  enough  to  awe  the  Roman  populace; 
but  when  the  distant  legions  took  the  alarm,  they 
marched  to  Rome  and  gave  away  the  empire. 

On  this  side,  then,  whichever  way  you  turn  y^ur 
eyes,  you  see  nothing  but  perplexity  and  distre.ss. 
You  may  determine  to  support  the  very  ministry  who 
have  reduced  your  affairs  to  this  deplorable  situation  ; 
you  may  .shelter  yourself  under  the  forms  of  a par- 
liament, and  set  your  people  at  defiance  ; but  be 
assured,  sir,  that  such  a resolution  would  be  as  im- 
prudent as  it  would  be  odious.  If  it  did  not  imme- 
diately shake  your  establishment,  it  would  rob  you  of 
your  peace  of  mind  for  ever. 

On  the  other,  how  different  is  the  prospect!  how 
easy,  how  safe  and  honourable  is  the  path  before  you ! 

The  English  nation  declare  they  are  grossly  injured 
by  their  representatives,  and  .solicit  your  majesty  to 
exert  your  lawful  prerogative,  and  give  them  an  op- 
portunity of  recalling  a trust  which  they  find  hius  been 

240 


CYCLOI’fliDIA  OF 


JUNIUS. 


ttiscF.i.LANi’.ous  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


j scnmlalouslv  iibustHl.  You  are  not  to  be  told  that 
, tin  [lower  of  the  House  of  Commons  is  not  orieiiml  ; 

but  delc"ate<l  to  them  for  the  welfare  of  the  peo|ile, 
i fmm  whom  they  received  it.  A question  of  right 
I arises  between  the  constituent  and  the  representative 
I body.  Hy  what  authority  shall  it  be  decided  ? Will 
I your  majesty  interfere  in  a question  in  which  you 
have  properly  no  immediate  concern  ? It  would  be  a 
i ] step  equally  odious  and  unnecessary.  Shall  the  lords 
1 be  called  u]ion  to  determine  the  rights  and  privileges 
I ' of  the  comiuont  ? They  cannot  do  it  without  a fla- 
] ! grant  breach  of  the  constitution.  Or  will  you  refer  it 
l!  to  the  judges!  They  have  often  told  your  ancestors 

I that  the  law  of  parliament  is  above  them.  What 
I party,  then,  remains,  but  to  leave  it  to  the  people  to 

determine  for  themselves?  They  alone  are  injured  ; 
I and  since  there  is  no  superior  power  to  which  the 
I ; cause  can  be  referred,  they  alone  ought  to  determine. 

I do  not  mean  to  perplex  you  with  a tedious  argu- 

I I ment  upon  a subject  already  so  discussed,  that  inspi- 
I riition  could  hawlly  throw  a new  light  upon  it.  There 
I I are,  however,  two  [loints  of  view  in  which  it  particu- 

' larly  imports  your  majesty  to  consider  the  late  pro- 
I ccedings  of  the  House  of  Commons.  By  depriving  a 
j subject  of  his  birthright,  they  have  attributed  to  their 
I own  vote  an  authority  equal  to  an  act  of  the  whole 
I legislature  ; and  though,  perhaps,  not  with  the  same 
motives,  have  strictly  followed  the  example  of  the 
Long  Barliament,  which  first  declared  the  regal  office 
useless,  and  soon  after,  with  as  little  ceremony,  dis- 
solved the  House  of  Lords.  The  same  pretended  power 
which  robs  an  Engl'sh  subject  of  his  birthright,  may 
rob  an  English  king  of  his  crowm.  In  another  view, 
the  re.solution  of  the  House  of  Commons,  apparently 
not  so  dangerous  to  your  majesty,  is  still  more  alarm- 
ing to  your  people.  Not  contented  with  divesting  one 
man  of  his  right,  they  have  arbitrarily  conveyed  that 
right  to  another.  They  have  .set  aside  a return  as 
illegal,  without  daring  to  censure  those  officers  who 
were  particularly  ap[irised  of  Mr  Wilkes’s  incapacity 
(not  otdy  by  the  declaration  of  the  house,  but  ex- 
pressly by  the  writ  directed  to  them),  and  who  never- 
theless returned  him  as  duly  elected.  They  have  re- 
jected the  majority  of  votes,  the  only  criterion  by  which 
our  laws  judge  of  the  sense  of  the  people  ; they  have 
transferred  the  right  of  election  from  the  collective 
to  the  representative  body;  and  by  these  acts,  taken 
sejiarately  or  togetlier,  they  have  essentially  altered 
I the  original  constitution  of  the  House  of  Common.s. 
Versed  as  your  majesty  undoubtedly  is  in  the  English 
history,  it  cannot  easily  escape  you  how  much  it  is 
your  interest,  as  well  as  your  duty,  to  prevent  one  of 
the  three  estates  from  encroaching  upon  the  province 
of  the  other  two,  ( r assuming  the  authority  of  them 
all.  When  once  they  have  departed  from  the  great 
constitutional  line  by  which  all  their  proceedings 
shocld  be  directed,  who  will  answer  for  their  future 
moderation  ? or  what  assurance  will  they  give  you, 
that  when  they  have  trampled  upon  their  equals,  they 
( will  submit  to  a superio-?  Your  majesty  may  learn 
I hereafter  how  nearly  the  slave  and  the  tyrant  are 
I allied. 

I Some  of  your  council,  more  candid  than  the  rest, 

; admit  the  abandoned  profligacy  of  the  present  House 
i of  Commons,  but  oppose  their  dissolution  upon  an 
opinion  (1  confe.ss  not  very  unwarrantable)  that 
their  successors  would  be  equally  at  the  disposal  of 
the  treasury.  I cannot  persuade  myself  that  the 
nation  will  have  profited  so  little  by  experience.  But 
if  that  opinion  were  well-founded,  you  might  then 
gratify  our  wishes  at  an  easy  rate,  and  appease  the 
present  clamour  again-st  your  government,  without 
oflering  any  material  injury  to  the  favourite  cause  of 
corruption. 

You  have  still  an  honourable  part  to  act.  The 
affections  of  your  subjects  may  still  be  recovered. 

68 


But  before  you  subdue  their  hearts,  you  must  gain  a 
noble  victory  over  your  own.  Discard  those  little 
personal  re.sentments  which  have  too  long  directed 
your  [lublic  conduct.  Pardon  this  man*  the  remainder 
of  his  punishment ; and  if  resentment  still  prevails, 
make  it  (what  it  should  have  been  long  since)  an  act 
not  of  mercy  but  of  contempt.  He  will  soon  fall 
back  into  his  natural  station — a silent  senator,  and 
hardly  supporting  the  weekly  eloquence  of  a news- 
paper. The  gentle  brcatli  of  peace  would  leave  him 
on  the  surface,  neglected  and  unremoved ; it  is  only 
the  tempest  that  lifts  him  from  his  place. 

Without  consulting  your  minister,  call  together 
your  whole  council.  Let  it  appear  to  the  public  that 
you  can  determine  and  act  for  yourself.  Come  for- 
ward to  your  peo[)le  ; lay  aside  the  wretched  formali- 
ties of  a king,  and  .speak  to  your  subjects  with  the 
sjiirit  of  a man,  and  in  the  language  of  a gentleman. 
Tell  them  you  have  been  fatally  deceived  : the  ac- 
knowledgment will  be  no  disgrace,  but  rather  an 
honour,  to  your  understanding.  Tell  them  you  are 
determined  to  remove  every  cause  of  complaint 
against  your  government ; that  you  will  give  your 
confidence  to  no  man  that  does  not  possess  the  confi- 
dence of  your  subjects  ; and  leave  it  to  themselves  to 
determine,  by  their  conduct  at  a future  election, 
whether  or  not  it  be  in  reality  the  general  sense  of 
the  nation,  that  their  rights  have  been  arbitrarily  in- 
vaded by  the  present  House  of  Commons,  ai  d the  con- 
stitution betrayed.  They  will  then  do  just  ce  to  theit 
representatives  and  to  themselves. 

These  sentiments,  sir,  and  the  style  thry  are  con- 
veyed in,  may  be  offensive,  perhaps,  because  they  are 
new  to  you.  Accustomed  to  the  language  of  courtiers, 
you  measure  their  alfections  by  the  vehemence  of  theii 
expressions  ; and  when  they  only  prai.se  you  indirectly, 
you  admire  their  sincerity.  But  this  is  not  a time  to 
trifle  with  your  fortune.  They  deceive  you,  sir,  who 
tell  3'ou  that  you  have  many  friends  whose  aftections 
are  founded  upon  a principle  of  personal  attachment. 
The  first  foundation  of  friendship  is  not  the  power  ol 
conferring  benefits,  but  the  equality  with  which  they 
are  received,  and  may  be  returned.  The  fortune  which 
made  j'ou  a king,  forbade  you  to  have  a friend  ; it  is 
a law  of  nature,  which  cannot  be  violated  with  impu- 
nity. The  mistaken  prince  who  looks  for  friendship 
will  find  a favourite,  and  in  that  favourite  the  ruin 
of  his  affairs. 

The  people  of  England  are  loyal  to  the  house  of 
Hanover,  not  from  a vain  preference  of  one  family  to 
another,  but  from  a conviction  that  the  establishment 
of  that  family  was  necessary  to  the  support  of  theii 
civil  and  religious  liberties.  This,  sir,  is  a principle 
of  allegiance  equally  solid  and  rational  ; fit  for  Eng- 
lishmen to  adopt,  and  well  worthy  of  your  majesty’s 
encouragement.  We  cannot  long  be  deluded  by  no- 
minal distinctions.  The  name  of  Stuart  of  itself  is 
only  contemptible ; armed  with  the  sovereign  autho- 
rity, their  principles  are  formidable.  The  prince  wh'; 
imitates  their  conduct  should  be  warned  by  their  ex- 
ample ; and  while  he  plumes  himself  upon  the  security 
of  his  title  to  the  crown,  should  remember  chat  as  it 
was  acquired  by  one  revolution,  it  may  be  lost  by 
another. 

DE  LOLME. 

The  Constitution  of  England,  or  an  Account  of 
the  English  Government,  by  M.  De  Lolme,  waj 
recommended  by  Junius  ‘as  a performance  deep, 
solid,  and  ingenious.’  The  author  was  a native  of 

* Mr  Wilkes,  who  was  then  under  confinement  in  the 
king's  bench,  on  a sentence  of  a fine  of  a thousand  pounds, 
and  twenty-two  months'  imprisonment  (from  the  18th  of  June 
17681,  for  the  publication  of  the  North  Briton  No.  45,  and  tlui 
Essay  on  Woman. 


FROM  1727 


(’YCLOP7KDIA  OF 


10  178(. 


Gv.nc“va,  who  liiid  studied  the  law.  Ilis  work  on  tlie 
Kiiglish  eonstitution  was  first  published  in  Iloilaiid, 
in  the  Freneh  language.  The  English  edition,  en- 
larged and  dedicated  by  the  author  to  King  George 
III.,  appeared  in  1775.  ])e  Lolmc  wrote  several 

slight  politieal  treatises,  and  expected  to  be  patro- 
nised by  the  British  government.  In  this  he  was 
disappointed;  and  his cireumstances  were  so  reduced, 
that  he  M'as  glad  to  accept  of  relief  from  the  Literary 
Fund.  He  left  England,  and  died  in  Switzerland  in 
1807,  aged  sixty-two.  The  praise  of  .Junius  has  not 
been  confirmed  by  the  present  generation,  for  I)e 
Lolme’s  work  has  fallen  into  neglect.  He  evinces 
considerable  acuteness  in  tracing  and  pointing  out 
the  distinguishing  features  of  our  constitution  ; but 
his  work  is  scarcely  entitled  to  the  appellation  of 
‘solid;’  his  admiration  is  too  excessive  and  undis- 
tinguishing to  be  always  just.  Of  the  case  and 
si)irit  with  which  this  foreigner  wrote  our  language, 
we  give  one  specimen,  a correct  remark  on  the  free- 
dom with  which  Englishmen  comidain  of  the  acts  of 
their  government: — ‘The  agitation  of  the  popular 
mind  is  not  in  England  what  it  would  be  in  other 
states  ; it  is  not  the  symptom  of  a profound  and 
general  discontent,  and  the  forerunner  of  violent 
commotions.  Foreseen,  regulated,  even  hoped  for 
by  the  constitution,  this  agitation  animates  all  parts 
of  the  state,  and  is  to  be  considered  only  as  the 
beneficial  vicissitude  of  the  seasons.  The  govern- 
ing power  being  dependent  on  the  nation,  is  often 
thwarted ; but  so  long  as  it  continues  to  deserve  the 
affection  of  the  peojde,  it  can  never  be  endangered. 
Like  a vigorous  tree,  which  stretches  its  branches 
far  and  wide,  the  slightest  breath  can  put  it  in  mo- 
tion ; but  it  acquires  and  exerts  at  every  moment  a 
new  degree  of  force,  and  resists  the  winds  by  the 
strength  and  elasticity  of  its  fibres  and  the  depth  of 
its  roots.  In  a word,  wdiatever  revolutions  may  at 
times  happen  among  the  persons  who  conduct  the 
public  affairs  in  Plngland,  they  never  occasion  the 
shortest  interruption  of  the  power  of  the  law's,  or 
the  smallest  diminution  of  the  security  of  indivi- 
duals. A man  who  should  have  incurred  the  enmity 
of  the  most  powerful  men  in  the  state — what  do  I 
say? — though  he  had,  like  another  Vatinius,  drawn 
upon  himself  the  united  detestation  of  all  parties, 
might,  under  the  protection  of  the  laws,  and  by 
keeping  within  the  bounds  required  by  them,  con- 
tinue to  set  both  his  enemies  and  the  whole  nation 
at  defiance.’ 

DR  ADAM  SMITH. 

Dr  Adam  Smith’s  Wealth  of  Nations,  published 
in  1776,  laid  the  foundations  of  the  science  of 
political  economy.  Some  of  its  leading  principles 
had  been  indicated  by  Hobbes  and  Locke ; Hume  in 
his  essays  had  also  stated  some  curious  results  re- 
specting wealth  and  trade  ; and  several  French 
writers  had  made  considerable  advances  towards  the 
formation  of  a system.  Smith,  how'ever,  after  a 
labour  of  ten  years,  produced  a complete  system  of 
political  economy ; and  the  execution  of  his  work 
evinces  such  indefatigable  research,  so  much  saga- 
city, learning,  and  information,  derived  from  arts 
and  manufactures,  no  less  than  from  books,  that  the 
‘ Wealth  of  Nations’  must  always  be  regarded  as  one 
of  the  greatest  works  in  political  philosophy  w'hich 
the  world  has  produced.  Its  leading  principles,  as 
enumerated  by  its  best  and  latest  commentator,  Mr 
M'Culloch,  may  be  thus  summed  up  : — • He  showed 
that  the  only  source  of  the  opulence  of  nations  is 
labour;  that  the  natural  wish  to  augment  our  for- 
tunes and  rise  in  the  world  is  the  cause  of  riches 
being  aciumiuated.  He  demonstrated  th»t  labour 


is  productive  of  W'calth.  when  employed  in  manu- 
factures and  commerce,  as  well  as  when  it  is  em- 
ployed in  the  cultivation  of  land;  ho  traced  the 
various  means  by  which  labour  may  be  rendered 
most  effective  ; and  gave  a most  admirable  analysis 
and  exposition  of  the  prodigious  addition  made  to 
its  effie.aey  by  its  division  among  dilferent  indivi- 
duals anil  countries,  and  by  the  employment  of 
accumulated  wealth  or  capital  in  industrious  un- 
dertakings. He  also  showed,  in  opjiosition  to  the 
eommonly  received  opinions  of  the  merchants,  poli- 
ticians, and  statesmen  of  his  time,  that  wealth  does 
not  consist  in  the  .abundance  of  gold  and  silver,  but 
in  the  abundance  of  the  various  necessaries,  conve- 
niences, and  enjoyments  of  human  life  ; that  it  is  in 
every  case  sound  ])olicy  to  leave  individuals  to  pur- 
sue their  own  interest  in  their  own  w.ay;  that,  in 
prosecuting  branches  of  industry  advantageous  to 
themselves,  they  necessarily  prosecute  such  as  are 
at  the  same  time  advantageous  tf  the  public;  and 
that  every  regulation  intended  to  force  industry  into 
particular  channels,  or  to  determine  the  species  of 
commercial  intercourse  to  be  carried  on  between 
different  parts  of  the  same  country,  or  between  dis- 
tant and  independent  countries,  is  impolitic  and 
pernicious.’*  Though  correct  in  his  fundamental 
positions.  Dr  Smith  h.as  been  shown  to  be  guilty  of 
several  errors.  He  does  not  always  reason  correctly 
from  the  principles  he  lays  down  ; and  some  of  his 
distinctions  (as  that  between  the  different  classes  of 
society  as  productive  and  unproductive  consumers) 
have  been  shown,  by  a more  careful  analysis  and 
observation,  to  be  unfounded.  But  these  defects  do 
not  touch  the  substantial  merits  of  the  work.  ‘ which 
produced,’  says  Mackintosh,  ‘an  immediate,  general, 
and  irrevocable  change  in  some  of  the  most  impor- 
tant parts  of  the  legislation  of  all  civilised  states. 

In  a few  years  it  began  to  alter  law's  and  treaties, 
and  has  made  its  W'ay,  throughout  the  convulsions 
of  revolution  and  conquest,  to  a due  ascend.ant  over 
the  minds  of  men,  with  far  less  than  the  average 
obstructions  of  prejudice  and  clamour,  w'hieh  choke 
the  channels  through  which  truth  flows  into  prac- 
tice.’ In  this  w'ork,  as  in  his  ‘ Moral  Sentiments,’ 

Dr  Smith  is  copious  and  happy  in  his  illustrations. 
The  following  account  of  the  advantages  of  the 
division  of  labour  is  very  finely  written  : — ‘ Observe 
the  accommodation  of  the  most  common  artificer 
or  day-labourer  in  a civilised  and  thriving  country, 
and  you  will  perceive  that  the  number  of  people, 
of  whose  industry  a part,  though  but  a sm.all  part, 
has  been  employed  in  procuring  him  this  accom- 
modation, exceeds  all  computation.  The  woollen  j 
coat,  for  example,  which  covers  the  day'-labourer,  as 
coarse  and  rough  as  it  may  appear,  is  the  produce 
of  the  joint  labour  of  a great  multitude  of  work- 
men. The  shepherd,  the  sorter  of  the  wool,  the 
w'ool-comber  or  carder,  the  dyer,  the  scribbler,  the 
spinner,  the  weaver,  the  fuller,  the  dresser,  with 
many  others,  must  all  join  their  different  arts  in 
order  to  complete  even  this  homely  production. 
How  m.any  merchants  and  carriers,  besides,  must 
have  been  emyfloyed  in  transporting  the  materials 
from  some  of  those  workmen  to  others,  who  often 
live  in  a very  distant  part  of  the  country  ? How 
much  commerce  and  navigation  in  particul.ar,  how 
many  ship- builders,  sailors,  sail-makers,  rope-makers, 
must  have  been  employed  in  order  to  bring  toge- 
ther the  different  drugs  made  use  of  by  the  dyer, 
which  often  come  from  the  remotest  corners  of  the 
world?  What  a variety  of  labour,  too,  is  necessary 
in  order  to  produce  the  tools  of  the  meanest  of  those 
workmen  1 To  say  nothing  of  such  complicated 

* M'Culloch's  Principles  of  Political  Economy,  p.  57. 

242 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MISCF.L1.ANF.0US  WKITF.US. 


1 mncliines  ns  the  ship  of  tlie  sailor,  the  mill  of  the 
fuller,  or  even  the  loom  of  the  weaver,  let  us  consi- 
der only  what  a variety  of  labour  is  requisite  in 
order  to  form  that  very  simple  machine,  the  shears 
j with  which  the  shepherd  clips  the  wool.  The  miner, 
the  builder  of  the  furnace  for  smelting  the  ore,  the 
' j feller  of  the  timher,  the  burner  of  the  chareoal  to  be 
j made  use  of  in  the  smelting-house,  the  brickmaker, 
the  bricklayer,  the  workmen  who  attend  the  furnace, 

' the  millwright,  the  forger,  the  smith,  must  all  of 
: ! them  join  their  ditfereut  arts  in  order  to  produce 
I i them.  Were  we  to  examine  in  the  same  manner 
' all  the  different  parts  of  his  dress  and  household 
j furniture,  the  coarse  linen  shirt  which  he  wears  next 
I his  skin,  the  shoes  which  cover  his  feet,  the  bed 

I j which  he  lies  on,  and  all  the  different  jiarts  which 
j I compose  it,  the  kitchen-grate  at  which  lie  prepares 

I I his  victuals,  the  coals  which  he  makes  use  of  for 
j that  purpose,  dug  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and 

brought  to  him.  perhaps,  by  a long  sea  and  a long 
land-carriage,  all  the  other  utensils  of  his  kitchen, 
all  the  furniture  of  his  table,  the  knives  and  forks, 
the  earthen  or  pevter  plates  upon  which  he  serves 
up  and  divides  his  i ictuals,  the  different  hands  em- 
ployed in  preparing  his  bread  and  his  beer,  the  glass 
window  which  lets  in  the  heat  and  the  light,  and 
keeps  out  the  wind  and  the  rain,  with  all  the  know- 
ledge and  art  requisite  for  preparing  that  beautiful 
and  happy  invention,  without  which  these  northern 
parts  of  the  world  could  scarce  have  afforded  a very 
comfortable  habitation,  together  with  the  tools  of 
all  the  different  workmen  employed  in  producing 
those  different  conveniences;  if  we  examine,  I say, 
all  these  things,  and  consider  what  a variety  of 
labour  is  employed  about  each  of  them,  we  shall  be 
sensible  that,  without  the  assistance  and  co-opera- 
tion of  many  thousands,  the  very  meanest  person  in 
a civilised  country  could  not  be  provided,  even  ac- 
cording to,  what  we  very  falsely  im.agine,  the  easy 
and  simple  manner  in  which  he  is  commonly  accom- 
modated. Compared,  indeed,  with  the  more  extra- 
vagant luxury  of  the  great,  his  accommodation  must 
no  doubt  appear  extremely  simple  and  easy;  and 
yet  it  may  be  true,  perhaps,  that  the  accommoda- 
tion of  a European  prin%  s*  does  not  always  so  much 
e.xceed  that  of  an  industrious  and  frugal  peasant,  as 
the  accommodation  of  the  latter  exceeds  tliat  of 
many  an  African  king,  the  absolute  masters  of  the 
lives  and  liberties  of  ten  thousand  naked  savages.’ 

DR  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN — WILLIAM  MELMOTH 

WILLIAM  HARRIS — JAMES  HARRIS — WILLIAM 
STUKELEY EDWARD  KING. 

I As  Adam  Smith  taught  how  the  wealth  of  nations 

I I might  be  accumulated  and  preserved.  Dr  Benjamin 

I Franklin  (1706-1790),  with  a humbler  aim,  but 
j with  scarcely  less  practical  sagacity,  applied  the 
I ! »*me  lessons  to  individuals.  By  his  admirable  writ- 
' I mgs,  and  still  more  admir.able  life,  he  inculcated  the 
I : virtues  of  industry,  frugality,  and  independence  of 

thought,  and  may  be  reckoned  one  of  the  benefactors 
j of  mankind.  Franklin  was  a native  of  Boston  in 
I America,  and  was  brought  up  to  the  trade  of  a 
I printer.  By  unceasing  industry  and  strong  natural 
I talents  (which  he  assiduously  cultivated),  he  rose  to 
] be  one  of  the  representatives  of  Philadelphia,  and 
j after  the  separation  of  America  from  Britain,  he 
was  ambassador  for  the  states  at  the  court  of  France. 
Several  important  treaties  were  negotiated  by  him, 
and  in  all  the  fame  and  fortunes  of  his  native  coun- 
try— its  struggles,  disasters,  and  successes — he  bore 
a prominent  part.  The  writings  of  Franklin  are 
I not  numerous  : he  always,  as  he  informs  us,  ‘ set  a 
j greater  value  on  a doer  of  good  than  on  any  other 


DR  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIH. 


kind  of  reputation.’  Ilis  7’oor  Richard's  Almanack. 
containing  some  homely  and  valuable  rules  of  lito, 
was  begun  in  1732.  Between  the  years  1747  and 
1754  he  communicated  to  his  friend,  Peter  Collin- 
son,  a series  of  letters  detailing  New  Experiments 


and  Observations  on  Electricity,  made  at  Philadelphia, 
in  which  he  established  the  scientific  fact,  that 
electricity  and  lightning  are  the  same.  His  experi- 
ments, as  described  by  himself,  have  an  air  of  wonder 
and  romance.  He  made  a kite  of  a silk  handker- 
chief, and  set  it  up  into  the  air,  with  a common  key 
fastened  to  the  end  of  a hempen  string,  by  which  he 
held  the  kite  in  his  hand.  His  son  watched  with 
him  the  result ; clouds  came  and  passed,  and  at 
length  lightning  came ; it  agitated  the  hempen 
Corel,  and  emitted  sparks  from  the  key,  which  gave 
him  a slight  electrical  shock.  The  discovery  was 
thus  made;  the  identity  of  lightning  with  electri- 
city was  clearly  manifested;  and  Franklin  was  so 
overcome  by  his  feelings  at  the  discover}',  that  he 
said  he  could  willingly  at  that  moment  h.ave  died ! 
The  political,  miscellaneous,  and  philosophical  works 
of  Franklin,  were  published  by  him  in  1779,  and 
were  afterwards  republished,  with  additions,  by  his 
grandson,  in  six  volumes.  His  memoir  of  himself  is 
the  most  valuable  of  his  miscellaneous  pieces  ; his 
essays  scarcely  exceed  mediocrity  as  literary  compo- 
sitions, but  they  are  animated  by  a spirit  of  benevo- 
lence and  practical  wisdom. 

The  refined  classical  taste  and  learning  of  William 
Melmoth  (1710-1799)  enriched  this  period  with  a 
translation  of  Pliny’s  Letters,  which  Warton,  a 
highly  competent  judge,  pronounced  to  be  one  of  the 
few  translations  that  are  better  than  the  original. 
Under  the  assumed  name  of  Fitzosborne,  Melmoth 
also  published  a volume  of  Letters  on  Literary  and 
Moral  Subjects,  remarkable  for  elegance  of  style. 
The  same  author  translated  Cicero’s  Letters  to 
several  of  his  friends,  and  the  treatises  De  Amicit.'a 
and  De  Senectute,  to  which  he  appended  large  and 
valuable  annotations.  Melmoth  was  an  amiable, 
accomplished,  and  pious  man,  and  his  character 
shines  forth  in  all  his  writings.  His  translations 
are  still  the  best  we  possess ; and  his  style,  though 
sometimes  feeble  from  excess  of  polish  and  orna- 
ment, is  generally  correct,  pers’jicuous,  and  musical 
in  construction. 

243 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOI’i^lDIA  OF 


Ti  i780. 


[On  Tliinkiny.'] 

[From  Melmoth’a  Letters.] 

If  one  would  rate  any  particular  merit  according  to 
its  true  valuation,  it  may  be  necessary,  periiaps,  to 
consider  how  far  it  can  be  justly  claimed  by  mankind 
in  general.  I am  sure,  at  least,  when  1 read  the  very 
ui.eonunon  sentiments  of  your  last  letter,  1 found  their 
jndieious  author  rise  in  my  esteem,  by  reflecting  that 
there  is  not  a more  singular  character  in  the  world 
tliaii  that  of  a thinking  man.  It  is  not  merely  having 
a succession  of  ideas  which  lightly  skim  over  the  mind, 
tliat  can  with  any  propriety  be  styled  by  that  deno- 
mination. It  is  observing  them  separately  and  dis- 
tinctly, and  ranging  them  under  their  respective 
classes  ; it  is  calmly  and  steadily  viewing  our  opinions 
on  every  side,  and  resolutely  tracing  them  through  all 
their  consequences  and  connections,  that  constitutes 
the  man  of  reflection,  and  distinguishes  reason  from 
fancy.  Providence,  indeed,  does  not  seem  to  have 
formed  any  very  considerable  number  of  our  species 
for  an  extensive  exercise  of  this  higher  faculty,  as  the 
thoughts  of  the  far  greater  part  of  mankind  are  neces- 
sarily restrained  within  the  ordinary  purposes  of  ani- 
mal life.  But  even  if  we  look  up  to  those  who 
move  in  much  superior  orbits,  and  who  have  ojipor- 
tunities  to  improve,  as  well  as  leisure  to  exercise 
their  understandings,  we  shall  find  that  thinking 
is  one  of  the  least  exerted  privileges  of  cultivated 
humanity. 

It  is,  indeed,  an  operation  of  the  mind  which  meets 
with  many  obstructions  to  check  its  just  and  free 
direction  ; but  there  are  two  princi]des  which  prevail 
more  or  less  in  the  constitutions  of  most  men,  that 
particularly  contribute  to  keep  this  faculty  of  the  soul 
unemployed  ; I mean  pride  and  indolence.  To  des- 
cend to  truth  through  the  tedious  progression  of  well- 
examined  deductions,  is  considered  as  a reproach  to 
the  quickness  of  understanding,  as  it  is  much  too 
laborious  a method  for  any  but  those  who  are  possessed 
of  a vigorous  and  resolute  activity  of  mind.  For  this 
reason  the  greater  jiart  of  our  species  generally  choose 
either  to  seize  upon  their  conclusions  at  once,  or  to  take 
them  by  rebound  from  others,  as  best  suiting  with  their 
vanity  or  their  laziness.  Accordingly,  Mr  Locke  ob- 
serves, tliat  there  are  not  so  many  errors  and  wrong 
opinions  in  the  world  as  is  generally  imagined.  Not 
that  he  thinks  mankind  are  by  any  means  uniform  in 
embracing  truth  ; but  because  the  majority  of  them, 
he  maintains,  have  no  thought  or  opinion  at  all 
about  those  doctrines  concerning  which  they  raise  the 
greatest  clamour.  Like  the  common  soldiers  in  an 
army,  they  follow  where  their  leaders  direct,  without 
knowing  or  even  inquiring  into  the  cause  for  which 
they  so  warmly  contend. 

This  will  account  for  the  slow  steps  by  which  truth 
has  advanced  in  the  world  on  one  side,  and  for  tho.se 
absurd  systems  which  at  different  periods  have  had 
a universal  currency  on  the  other  ; for  there  is  a 
strange  disposition  in  human  nature  either  blindly  to 
tread  the  same  paths  that  have  been  traversed  by 
others,  or  to  strike  out  into  the  most  devious  extrava- 
gances : the  greater  part  of  the  world  will  either 
totally  renounce  their  reason,  or  reason  only  from  the 
wild  suggestions  of  a heated  imagination. 

From  the  same  source  may  be  derived  those  divi- 
sions and  animosities  which  break  the  union  both  of 
public  and  private  societies,  and  turn  the  peace  and 
harmony  of  human  intercourse  into  dissonance  and 
contention.  For,  while  men  judge  and  act  by  such 
measures  as  have  not  been  proved  by  the  standard  of 
dispassionate  reason,  they  must  equally  be  mistaken 
in  their  estimates  both  of  their  own  conduct  and  that 
»f  others. 

If  we  turn  our  view  from  active  to  contemplative  | 


life,  we  may  have  occasion,  perhaps,  to  remark  that 
thinkijig  is  no  less  uncommon  in  tlic  literary  tlian  the 
civil  world.  The  number  of  those  writers  who  can, 
with  any  justness  of  expre.ssion,  be  termed  tliinking 
authors,  would  not  fijrm  a very  copious  library,  lo.mgh 
one  were  to  take  in  all  of  that  kind  which  both  aiicient 
and  modern  times  have  produced.  Necessarily,  1 
imagine,  must  one  exclude  from  a colli  ction  of  i;,is 
sort  all  critics,  commcntator.s,  translators,  and,  ir. 
short,  all  that  numerous  under-tribe  in  the  common. 
wcaltlr  of  literature  that  owe  tlieir  existence  merely 
to  the  tlmughts  of  others.  I sliould  reject,  for  the 
same  reason,  such  compilers  as  Valerius  Maximus  and 
Aulus  (icllius  : though  it  must  be  owned,  indeed,  their 
works  have  acquired  an  accidental  value,  as  they  ]irc- 
serve  to  us  several  curious  traces  of  antiquily,  wliich 
time  would  otherwise  have  entirely  worn  out.  Those 
teeming  geniuses,  likewise,  who  have  imipagated  the 
fruits  of  their  studies  through  a long  series  of  tracts, 
would  have  little  jiretence,  I believe,  to  beadmitted  as 
writers  of  reflection.  For  tliis  re,ason  I cannot  regret 
the  loss  of  those  incredible  numbers  of  comiiositions 
which  some  of  the  ancients  are  said  to  have  produced  : 

Quale  fuit  C’assi  rapiilo  ferventius  amni 

Ingenium  ; capsis  iniein  famaest  esse,  librisque 

Ambustum  proprhs. — y/ta*. 

Tlius  Fpicurus,  we  are  told,  left  behind  him  three 
hundred  volumes  of  his  own  works,  wherein  lie  had 
not  inserted  a single  quotation  ; and  we  have  it  upon 
the  authority  of  Varro’s  own  words,  that  he  himself 
composed  four  hundred  and  ninety  books.  Seneca 
assures  us  that  Didymus  the  gramimarian  wrote  no 
less  than  four  thousand  ; but  Origen,  it  seems,  was  yet 
more  prolific,  and  extended  his  peiformances  even  to 
six  thousand  treatises.  It  is  obvious  to  imagine  with 
what  sort  of  materials  the  iiroductions  of  such  expe- 
ditious workmen  were  wrought  up : sound  thought 
and  well-matured  rcllections  could  have  no  share,  we 
may  be  sure,  in  these  hasty  performances,  'i'hus  are 
books  multiplied,  whilst  authors  are  scarce;  and  so 
much  easier  is  it  to  write  than  to  think!  But  shall 
I not  myself,  Balamedes,  prove  an  instance  that  it  is 
so,  if  I suspend  any  longer  your  own  more  important 
rellcctions,  by  interrupting  you  with  such  as  iiiinei 

[On  Conversaiion.'\ 

[From  the  same.] 

It  is  with  much  pleasure  I look  back  upon  that 

philosophical  week  which  I lately  enjoyed  at  ; 

as  there  is  no  part,  perhaps,  of  social  life  whicii  affords 
more  real  .satisfaction  than  those  hours  which  one 
passes  ill  rational  and  unreserved  conversation.  The 
free  communication  of  sentiments  amongst  a set  of 
ingenious  and  .speculative  friend.s,  .such  as  those  you 
gave  me  the  op]iortunity  of  meeting,  throws  the  mind 
into  the  most  advantageous  exercise,  and  shows  the 
strength  or  weakness  of  its  oiiiuions,  with  greater  force 
of  conviction  tluaii  any  other  method  we  can  employ. 

'J'hat  ‘it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone,’  is  true 
in  more  views  of  our  species  than  one ; and  society 
gives  strength  to  our  reason,  as  well  as  polish  to  our 
manners.  The  .soul,  when  left  entirely  to  her  own 
solitary  contemplations,  is  insensibl}'  drawn  by  a sort 
of  constitutional  bias,  which  generally  leads  her 
opinions  to  the  side  of  her  inclinations.  Ilonce  it  is 
that  she  contracts  those  peculiarities  of  reasoning,  and 
little  habits  of  thinking,  which  so  often  confirm  her 
in  the  most  fantastical  errors  ; but  nothing  is  more 
likely  to  recover  the  mind  from  this  false  bent  than 
the  counter-warmth  of  impartial  debate.  Convor.sa- 
tion  opens  our  views,  and  gives  our  faculties  a more 
vigorous  play  ; it  puts  us  upon  turning  our  notions  on 
every  side,  and  holds  them  up  to  a light  that  discovers 
those  latent  flaws  which  would  probably  lave  Iv-'i 

244 


MISCRLI.ANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  WILLIAM  IlLACKSTOrtE. 


I 


concealed  in  the  gloom  of  unagitated  abstraction. 
.Accordingly,  one  may  remark  that  most  of  those  wild 
doctrines  which  have  been  let  loose  upon  the  world, 
have  generally  owed  their  birth  to  persons  whose  cir- 
cumstances or  di.spositions  have  given  them  the  fewest 
opportunities  of  canvassing  their  respective  systems 
in  the  way  of  free  and  friendly  debate.  Had  the 
authors  of  many  an  extravagant  hypothesis  discussed 
their  principles  in  private  circles,  ere  they  had  given 
vent  to  them  in  public,  the  observation  of  Varro  had 
never  perhaps  been  made  (or  never,  at  least,  with  so 
much  justice),  that  ‘ there  is  no  opinion  .so  absurd, 
but  has  some  philosopher  or  other  to  produce  in  its 
support.’ 

Upon  this  principle  I imagine  it  is  that  some  of 
the  finest  pieces  of  antiquity  are  written  in  the  dia- 
logue manner.  Plato  and  Tully,  it  should  seem, 
thought  truth  could  never  be  examined  with  more 
advantage  than  amidst  the  amicable  opposition  of 
well-regulated  converse.  It  is  probable,  indeed,  that 
subjects  of  a serious  and  philosophical  kind  were  more 
frequently  the  topics  of  Greek  and  Roman  conversa- 
;ions  than  they  are  of  ours  ; as  the  circumstances  of 
the  world  had  not  yet  given  occasion  to  those  pruden- 
;ie'  reasons  which  may  now  perhaps  restrain  a more 
free  exchange  of  sentiments  amongst  us.  There  was 
something,  likewise,  in  the  very  scenes  themselves 
where  they  usually  assembled,  that  almost  unavoid- 
ably turned  the  stream  of  their  conversations  into  this 
useful  cha  mel.  Their  rooms  and  gardens  were  gene- 
rally adorned,  you  know,  with  the  statues  of  the 
greatest  masters  of  reason  that  had  then  appeared  in 
the  world ; and  while  Socrates  or  Aristotle  stood  in 
their  view,  it  is  no  wonder  their  discourse  fell  upon 
tho.se  subjects  which  such  animating  representations 
would  naturally  suggest.  It  is  probable,  therefore, 
that  many  of  those  ancient  pieces  which  are  drawn  up 
in  the  dialogue  manner  were  no  imaginary  conversa- 
tions invented  by  their  authors,  but  faithful  tran- 
scripts from  real  life.  And  it  is  this  circumstance, 
perhaps,  as  much  as  any  other,  which  contributes  to 
give  them  that  remarkable  advantage  over  the  gene- 
rality of  modern  compositions  which  have  been  formed 
upon  the  same  plan.  I am  sure,  at  least,  I could 
scarcely  name  more  than  three  or  four  of  this  kind 
which  have  appeared  in  our  language  worthy  of 
notice.  My  Lord  Shaftesbury’s  dialogue,  entitled  The 
Moralists,  Mr  Addison’s  upon  Ancient  Coins,  Mr 
Spence’s  upon  the  Odyssey,  together  with  those  of  my 
very  ingenious  friend,  Philemon  to  Hydaspes,  are 
almost  the  only  productions  in  this  way  which  have 
hitherto  come  forth  amongst  us  with  advantage. 
These,  indeed,  are  all  master-pieces  of  the  kind,  and 
written  in  the  true  .spirit  of  learning  and  politeness. 
The  conversation  in  each  of  these  most  elegant  perfor- 
mances is  conducted,  not  in  the  usual  absurd  method 
of  introducing  one  disputant  to  be  tamely  silenced  by 
the  other,  but  in  the  more  lively  dramatic  manner, 
where  a just  contrast  of  characters  is  preserved 
throughout,  and  where  the  several  speakers  support 
their  respective  sentiments  with  all  the  strength  and 
spirit  of  a well-bred  opposition. 

William  Harris  (1720-1770),  a dissenting  di- 
vine in  Devonshire,  published  historical  memoirs  of 
James  I.,  Charles  I.,  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  Charles 
II.  These  works  were  written  in  imitation  of  the 
manner  of  Bayle,  the  text  being  subordinate  to  the 
notes  and  illustrations.  Very  frequently  only  a 
single  line  of  the  memoir  is  contained  in  the  page, 
the  rest  being  wholly  notes.  As  depositories  of  ori- 
ginal papers,  the  memoirs  of  Harris  (which  are  still 
to  be  met  with  in  five  volumes)  are  valuable : the 
.•riginal  part  is  trifling  in  extent,  and  written  with- 
out either  merit  or  pretension. 

James  Harris  of  Salisbury,  a learned  and  bene- 


volent man,  published  in  1744  treatises  on  art,  on 
music  and  painting,  and  on  hiippiness.  He  after- 
wards (1751)  produced  his  celebrated  work,  Hermes, 
or  a Philosophical  Inquiry  concerning  Universal  Gram- 
mar. The  definitions  of  Harris  are  considered  arbi- 
trary and  often  unnecessary,  and  his  rules  are  com- 
plicated ; but  his  profound  acquaintance  with  Greek 
literature,  and  his  general  learning,  supplying  nu- 
merous illustrations,  enabled  him  to  produce  a 
curious  and  valuable  publication.  Every  writer  on 
the  history  and  philosophy  of  grammar  must  consult 
‘Hermes.’  Unfortunately  the  study  of  the  ancient 
dialects  of  the  northern  nations  ivas  little  prevalent 
at  the  time  of  Mr  Harris,  and  to  this  cause  (as  was 
the  case  also  with  many  of  the  etymological  distinc- 
tions in  Johnson’s  Dictionary)  must  be  attributed 
some  of  his  errors  and  the  imperfection  of  his  plan. 
Mr  Harris  was  a man  of  rank  and  fortune  : he  sat 
several  years  in  parliament,  and  was  successively  a 
lord  of  the  admiralty  and  lord  of  the  treasury.  In 
1774  he  was  made  secretary  and  comptroller  to  the 
queen,  which  he  held  till  his  death  in  1780.  His 
son.  Lord  Malmesbury,  published,  in  1801,  a com- 
plete edition  of  his  works  in  two  volumes  quarto. 
Harris  relates  the  following  interesting  anecdote  of 
a Greek  pilot,  to  show  that  even  among  the  present 
Greeks,  in  the  day  of  servitude,  the  remembrance  of 
their  ancient  glory  is  not  extinct : — ‘ When  the  late 
Mr  Anson  (Lord  Anson’s  brother)  was  upon  his 
travels  in  the  East,  he  hired  a vessel  to  visit  the 
Isle  of  Tenedos.  His  pilot,  an  old  Greek,  as  they 
were  sailing  along,  said  with  some  satisfaction, 
“ There  ’twas  our  fleet  lay.”  Mr  Anson  demanded, 
“ What  fleet?”  “ What  fleet!”  replied  the  old  man, 
a little  piqued  at  the  question,  “ why,  our  Grecian 
fleet  at  the  siege  of  Troy.”  ’ 

Two  distinguished  antiquarian  writers,  whose  re- 
searches illustrate  the  history  of  their  native  country, 
may  be  here  mentioned — William  Stukeley(1687- 
1765),  who  published  Ilinerarium  Curiosum,  or  an 
Account  of  the  Antiquities  and  Curiosities  of  Great 
Brita  in,  An  Account  o f Stonehenge,  &c.  &c.  Stukeley 
studied  medicine,  but  afterwards  took  orders,  and 
at  the  time  of  his  death,  was  rector  of  St  George 
church.  Queen  Square,  London.  Edward  King 
(17.35-1807),  an  English  barrister,  published  Obser- 
vations on  Ancient  Castles,  and  an  elaborate  work,  in 
three  folio  volumes,  Munimenta  Antiqua,  descriptive 
of  English  architecture  anterior  to  the  Norman 
Conquest. 

sir  william  blackstone. 

Sir  William  Blackstone’s  Commentaries  on  the 
Laws  of  England,  published  in  1765,  exhibit  a logical 
and  comprehensive  mind,  and  a correct  taste  in  com- 
position. They  formed  the  first  attempt  to  popu- 
larise legal  knowledge,  and  were  eminently  success- 
ful. Junius  and  others  have  attacked  their  author 
for  leaning  too  much  to  the  side  of  prerogative,  and 
abiding  rather  by  precedents  than  by  sense  and 
justice;  yet  in  the  House  of  Commons,  when  Black- 
stone  was  once  advocating  w'hat  was  considered 
servile  obedience,  he  was  answered  from  his  own 
book  I The  Commentaries  h.ave  not  been  sup- 
planted by  any  subsequent  work  of  the  same  kind, 
but  various  additions  and  corrections  have  been 
made  by  eminent  lawj-ers  in  late  editions.  Black- 
stone  thus  sums  up  the  relative  merits  of  an 
elective  and  hereditary  monarchy:  — ‘It  must 
be  owned,  an  elective  monarchy  seems  to  be  the 
most  obvious,  and  best  suited  of  any  to  the  na- 
tional principles  of  government  and  the  freedom 
of  human  nature ; and,  accordingly,  we  find  from 
history  that,  in  the  infancy  and  first  rudiments  of 

245 


1 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TO  1780 


almost  every  state,  the  leader,  chief  map;istrate,  or 
])riiice,  hath  usually  been  elective.  And  if  the  in- 
dividuals who  compose  that  state  could  always  con- 
tinue true  to  lirst  i)rinciples,  uninfluenced  by  passion 
or  prejudice,  unassailed  by  corruption,  and  unawed 
by  violence,  elective  succession  were  as  much  to  be 
desired  in  a kingdom  as  in  other  inferior  commu- 
nities. 'I’he  best,  the  wisest,  and  the  bravest  man 
would  then  be  sure  of  receiving  that  crown  which 
his  endowments  have  merited;  and  the  sense  of  an 
unbi.'ised  majority  would  be  dutifully  acquiesced  in 
by  the  few  who  were  of  different  oi)inions.  But 
history  and  observation  will  inform  us  that  elections 
of  every  kind,  in  the  present  state  of  human  nature, 
are  too  frequently  brought  about  by  influence,  par- 
tiality, and  arliiiee;  and  even  where  the  case  is 
otherwise,  these  practices  will  be  often  suspected, 
and  as  constantly  charged  upon  the  successful,  by  a 
sidenetic  disappointed  minority.  This  is  an  evil  to 
which  all  societies  are  liable;  as  well  those  of  a pri- 
v:itc  and  domestic  kind,  as  the  great  community  of 
the  public,  which  regulates  and  includes  the  rest. 
But  in  the  former  there  is  this  advantage,  that  such 
suspicions,  if  false,  proceed  no  farther  than  jealousies 
ami  murmurs,  which  time  will  effectually  suppress; 
and,  if  true,  the  injustice  may  be  remedied  by  legal 
means,  by  an  appeal  to  tho.se  tribunals  to  which 
every  member  of  society  has  (by  becoming  such) 
virtually  engaged  to  submit.  Whereas  in  the  great 

I and  independent  society  which  every  nation  com- 
poses, there  is  no  superior  to  resort  to  but  the  law  of 
nature;  no  method  to  redress  the  infringements  of 
that  law  but  the  actual  exertion  of  private  force. 
As,  therefore,  between  two  nations  complaining  of 
mutual  injuries,  the  quarrel  can  only  be  decided  by 
the  law  of  arms,  so  in  one  and  the  same  nation, 
when  the  fundamental  principles  of  their  common 
union  are  supposed  to  be  invaded,  and  more  especially 
when  the  appointment  of  their  chief  magistrate  is 
alleged  to  be  unduly  made,  the  only  tribunal  to  which 
the  complainants  can  appeal  is  that  of  the  God  of 
battles ; the  only  process  by  which  the  appeal  can 
be  carried  on  is  that  of  a civil  and  intestine  war. 
A hereditary  succession  to  the  crown  is  therefore 
now  established  in  this  and  most  other  countries,  in 
order  to  prevent  that  periodical  bloodshed  and 
misery  which  the  history  of  ancient  imperial  Rome, 

I and  the  more  modern  experience  of  Boland  and 
Germany,  may  show  us  are  the  consequences  of 
elective  kingdoms.’ 

[On  the  Right  of  Property.'] 

[From  Blackstone’s  Commentaries.] 

In  the  beginning  of  the  world,  we  are  informed  by 
holy  writ,  the  all-bountiful  Creator  gave  to  man 
‘ dominion  over  all  the  earth,  and  over  the  fish  of  the 
sea,  and  over  the  fowl  of  the  air,  and  over  every  living 
thing  that  moveth  upon  the  earth.’  This  is  the  only 
true  and  solid  foundation  of  ni.an’s  dominion  over 
external  things,  whatever  airy  metaphysical  notions 
may  have  been  started  by  fanciful  writers  upon  this 
subject.  The  earth,  therefore,  and  all  things  therein, 
are  the  general  property  of  all  mankind,  exclusive  of 
other  beings,  from  the  immediate  gift  of  the  Creator. 
And  while  the  earth  continued  bare  of  inhabitants, 
it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  all  was  in  common 
among  them,  and  that  every  one  took  from  the  public 
stock  to  his  own  use  such  things  a.s  his  immediate 

I necessities  required. 

I These  general  notions  of  property  were  then  suffi- 

1 cient  to  answer  all  the  purposes  of  human  life;  and 
might,  perhaps,  still  have  answered  them,  h.ad  it  been 
possible  for  mankind  to  have  remained  in  a state  of 
urimeva)  simplieity ; as  may  be  collected  from  the 

i 


manners  of  many  American  nations,  when  first  dis- 
covered by  the  Kuropeans  ; and  from  the  ancient  nie- 
tliod  of  living  among  the  first  Kuropeans  them.selves, 
if  we  may  credit  either  the  memorials  of  them  pre-  I 
served  in  the  golden  ago  of  the  poets,  or  the  uniform 
accounts  given  by  historians  of  tho.se  times  wherein 
eranl  omnia  cummunia  et  indiri/a  omnihm,  rcluli  unum 
cunctis  patrimoniuin  Cfset.  Not  that  this  communion 
of  good  seems  ever  to  have  been  applicable,  even  in 
the  earliest  ages,  to  aught  but  the  substance  of  the 
thing,  nor  could  be  extended  to  the  use  of  it.  For, 
by  the  law  of  nature  and  reason,  he  who  first  began  to 
use  it  acquired  therein  a kind  of  transient  property,  that 
lasted  so  long  as  he  was  usiiig  it,  and  no  longer ; or, 
to  speak  with  greater  precision,  the  right  of  possession 
continued  for  the  same  time  only  that  the  act  of  pos- 
se.ssion  lasted.  Thus  the  ground  was  in  common,  and 
no  pari  of  it  was  the  pennanent  property  of  any  man 
in  particular;  yet,  wlioever  was  in  the  occupation  of 
any  determinate  spot  of  it,  for  rest,  for  shade,  or  the 
like,  acquired  for  the  time  a sort  of  ownership,  from 
which  it  would  liave  been  unjust,  and  contrary  to  the 
law’  of  nature,  to  liave  driven  liim  by  force ; but  the 
instant  that  he  quitted  the  u.se  or  occupation  of  it, 
another  might  seize  it  without  injustice.  Thus  also  a 
vine  or  other  tree  might  be  said  to  be  in  common,  as 
all  men  were  equally  entitled  to  its  produce  ; and  yet 
any  ]irivate  individual  might  gain  the  sole  property  of 
the  fruit,  which  he  had  gathered  for  his  own  repast  ; 
a doctrine  well  illustrated  by  Cicero,  who  compares 
the  world  to  a great  theatre,  which  is  common  to  the 
public,  and  yet  the  place  which  any  man  has  taken  is 
for  the  time  his  own. 

But  when  mankind  increased  in  number,  craft,  and 
ambition,  it  became  necessary  to  entertain  conceptions 
of  more  permanent  dominion  ; and  to  appropriate  to 
individuals  not  the  immediate  use  only,  but  the  very 
substance  of  the  thing  to  be  used.  Otherwise,  innu- 
merable tumults  must  have  arisen,  and  the  good  order 
of  the  world  been  continually  broken  and  disturbed, 
while  a variety  of  persons  were  striving  who  should 
get  the  first  occupation  of  the  same  thing,  or  di.sputing 
which  of  them  had  actually  gained  it.  As  human  life 
also  grew  more  and  more  refined,  abundance  of  con- 
veniences were  devised  to  render  it  more  easy,  com- 
modious, and  agreeable,  as  habitations  for  shelter  and 
safety,  and  raiment  for  warmth  and  decency.  But  no 
man  would  be  at  the  trouble  to  provide  either,  so  long 
as  he  had  only  a usufructuary  property  in  them, 
which  was  to  cease  the  instant  that  he  quitted  po.sses- 
sion  ; if,  as  soon  as  he  walked  out  of  his  tent,  or  pulled 
off  his  garment,  the  next  stranger  who  came  by  would 
have  a right  to  inhabit  the  one,  and  to  wear  the  other. 

In  the  case  of  habitations,  in  particular,  it  was  natu- 
ral to  observe,  that  even  the  brute  creation,  to  whom 
everything  else  was  in  common,  maintained  a kind  cf 
permanent  property  in  their  dwellings,  especially  for 
the  protection  of  their  young  ; that  the  birds  of  the 
air  had  nests,  and  the  beasts  of  the  field  had  caverns, 
the  invasion  of  which  they  esteemed  a very  liagrant 
injustice,  and  would  saciifice  their  lives  to  preserve 
them.  Hence  a property  was  soon  established  in  every 
man’s  house  and  homestall,  which  seem  to  have  been 
originally  mere  temporary  huts  or  movable  cabins, 
suited  to  the  design  of  Providence  for  more  speedily 
peopling  the  earth,  and  suited  to  the  wandering  life 
of  their  owners,  before  any  extensive  property  in  the 
soil  or  ground  was  established.  And  there  can  be  no 
doubt  but  that  movables  of  every  kind  became  sooner 
a]>propriated  than  the  periaanent  substantial  soil; 
partly  because  they  rvere  m >re  susceptible  of  a long 
occupance,  which  might  be  continued  for  months  to- 
gether without  any  sensible  interruption,  and  at  length 
by  usage  ripen  into  an  established  right ; but  princi- 
pally because  few  of  them  could  be  fit  for  use,  till 
improved  and  meliorated  by  the  bodily  labour  of  the 

24G 


UISCEIXANE0U9  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  WILLIAM  BLACK.STONA. 


occupant ; which  bodily  labour,  bestowed  upon  any 
subject  which  before  lay  in  common  to  all  men,  is  uni- 
versally allowed  to  give  the  fairest  and  most  reason- 
able title  to  an  exclusive  property  therein. 

The  article  of  food  was  a more  immediate  call,  and 
therefore  a more  early  consideration.  Such  as  were 
not  contented  with  the  spontaneous  product  of  the 
earth,  sought  for  a more  solid  refreshment  in  the  flesh 
of  beasts,  which  they  obtained  by  hunting.  But  the 
frequent  disappointments  incident  to  that  method  of 
provision,  induced  them  to  gather  together  such  ani- 
mals as  were  of  a more  tame  and  sequacious  nature  ; 
and  to  establish  a permanent  property  in  their  flocks 
and  herds,  in  order  to  sustain  themselves  in  a less  pre- 
carious manner,  partly  by  the  milk  of  the  dams,  and 
partly  by  the  flesh  of  the  young.  The  support  of 
these  their  cattle  made  the  article  of  water  also  a very 
important  point.  And  therefore  the  book  of  Genesis 
(the  most  venerable  monument  of  antiquity,  considered 
merely  with  a view  to  hi.story)  will  furnish  us  with 
frequent  instances  of  violent  contentions  concerning 
wells,  the  exclusive  property  of  which  appears  to  have 
been  established  in  the  first  digger  or  occupant,  even 
in  such  jdaces  where  the  ground  aiul  herbage  remained 
yet  in  common.  Thus  we  find  Abraham,  who  was  but 
a sojourner,  asserting  his  right  to  a well  in  the  country 
of  Abimelech,  and  exacting  an  oath  for  his  security, 

‘ because  he  had  digged  that  well.’  And  Isaac,  about 
ninety  years  afterwards,  reclaimed  this  his  father’s 
property  ; and  after  much  contention  with  the  Philis- 
tines, was  suffered  to  enjoy  it  in  peace. 

All  this  while  the  soil  and  pasture  of  the  earth  re- 
mained still  in  common  as  before,  and  open  to  every 
occupant ; except  perhaps  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
towns,  where  the  necessity  of  a sole  and  exclusive 
j roperty  in  lands  (for  the  sake  of  agriculture)  was 
turlier  felt,  and  therefore  more  readily  complied  with. 
Otherwise,  when  the  multitude  of  men  and  cattle  had 
consumed  every  convenience  on  one  spot  of  ground,  it 
was  deemed  a natural  right  to  seize  upon  and  occupy 
such  other  lands  as  would  more  easily  supply  their 
necessities.  This  practice  is  still  retained  among  the 
wild  and  uncultivated  nations  that  have  never  been 
formed  into  civil  states,  like  the  Tartars  and  others 
in  the  East,  ivhere  the  climate  itself,  and  the  bound- 
less extent  of  their  territory,  conspire  to  retain  them 
still  in  the  same  savage  state  of  vagrant  liberty  which 
was  universal  in  the  earliest  ages,  and  which  Tacitus 
informs  us  continued  among  the  Germans  till  the  de- 
cline of  the  Roman  empire.  We  have  also  a striking 
example  of  the  same  kind  in  the  history  of  Abraham 
and  his  nephew  Lot.  When  their  joint  substance 
became  so  great,  that  pasture  and  other  conveniences 
grew  scarce,  the  natural  consequence  was,  that  a strife 
arose  between  their  servants,  so  that  it  was  no  longer 
practicable  to  dwell  together.  This  contention  Abra- 
ham thus  endeavoured  to  compose : — ‘ Let  there  be  no 
strife,  I pray  thee,  between  thee  and  me.  Is  not  the 
whole  land  before  thee  ? Separate  thyself,  I pray  thee, 
from  me.  If  thou  wilt  take  the  left  hand,  then  will 
I go  to  the  right ; or  if  thou  depart  to  the  right  hand, 
then  will  I go  to  the  left.’  This  plainly  implies  an  ac- 
knowledged right  in  either  to  occupy  whatever  ground 
he  pleased,  that  was  not  pre  occupied  by  other  tribes. 
‘ And  Lot  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  beheld  all  the  plain 
»f  Jordan,  that  it  was  well  watered  everywhere,  even 
as  the  garden  of  the  Lord.  Then  Lot  chose  him  all 
the  plain  of  Jordan,  and  journied  east,  and  Abraham 
dwelt  in  the  land  of  Canaan.’ 

Upon  the  same  principle  was  founded  the  right  of 
migration,  or  .sending  colonies  to  find  out  new  habita- 
tions, when  the  mothei -country  was  overcharged  with 
inhabitants  ; which  was  practised  as  well  by  the  Phoe- 
nicians and  Greeks,  as  the  Germans,  Scythians,  and 
other  northern  people.  And  so  long  as  it  was  con- 
fined to  tiin  si  -eking  and  cultivation  )f  desert,  unin- 


habited countries,  it  kept  strictly  within  thedimits  of 
the  law  of  nature.  But  how  far  the  se  zing  on  coun- 
tries already  peopled,  and  driving  out  or  mas.sacring 
the  innocent  and  defenceless  natives,  merely  because 
they  ditfered  from  their  invaders  in  language,  in  reli- 
gion, in  customs,  in  goveniment,  or  in  colour ; how 
far  such  a conduct  was  con.sonant  to  nature,  to  reason, 
or  to  Christianity,  deserved  well  to  be  considered  by 
those  who  have  rendered  their  names  immortal  by  thus 
civilising  mankind. 

As  the  world  by  degrees  grew  more  populous,  it 
daily  became  more  difficult  to  find  out  new  spots  to 
inhabit,  without  encroaching  upon  former  occupants  ; 
and,  by  constantly  occupying  the  same  individual 
spot,  the  fruits  of  the  earth  were  consumed,  and  its 
spontaneous  produce  destroyed,  without  any  provision 
for  a future  supply  or  succession.  It  therefore  be- 
came necessary  to  pursue  some  regular  method  of 
providing  a con.stant  subsistence ; and  this  necessity 
produced,  or  at  least  promoted  and  encouraged,  the 
art  of  agriculture,  by  a regular  connection  and  conse- 
quence ; introduced  and  established  the  idea  of  a 
more  permanent  property  in  the  soil  than  had  hitherto 
been  received  and  adopted.  It  was  clear  that  the 
earth  would  not  produce  her  fruits  in  sufficient  quan- 
tities, without  the  assistance  of  tillage ; but  who 
would  be  at  the  pains  of  tilling  it,  if  another  might 
watch  an  opportunity  to  seize  upon  and  enjoy  the 
product  of  his  industry,  art,  and  labour?  Had  not, 
therefore,  a separate  property  in  lands,  as  movables, 
been  vested  in  some  individuals,  the  world  must  have 
continued  a forest,  and  men  have  been  mere  animals 
of  prey  ; which,  according  to  some  philosophers,  i.s 
the  genuine  state  of  nature.  Whereas  now  (so 
graciously  has  Providence  interwoven  our  duty  and 
our  happiness  together)  the  result  of  this  very  neces- 
sity has  been  the  ennobling  of  the  human  species,  by 
giving  it  opportunities  of  improving  its  rational 
faculties,  as  well  as  of  exerting  its  natural.  Necessity 
begat  property ; and,  in  order  to  insure  that  property, 
recourse  was  had  to  civil  society,  which  brought  along 
with  it  a long  train  of  inseparable  concomitants— 
states,  government,  laws,  punishments,  and  the  public 
exercise  of  religious  dutie.s.  Thus  connected  together, 
it  was  found  that  a part  only  of  society  was  sufficient 
to  provide,  by  their  manual  labour,  for  the  neces.sary 
subsistence  of  all  ; and  leisure  was  given  to  others  to 
cultivate  the  human  mind,  to  invent  useful  arts,  and 
to  lay  the  foundations  of  science. 

The  only  question  remaining  is,  how  this  property 
became  actually  vested ; or  what  it  is  that  gave  a 
man  an  exclusive  right  to  retain  in  a permanent 
manner  that  specific  land  which  before  belonged 
generally  to  everybody,  but  particularly  to  nobody  ? 
And  as  we  before  observed,  that  occupancy  gave  the 
right  to  the  temporary  use  of  the  soil,  so  it  is  agreed 
upon  all  hands  that  occupancy  gave  also  the  original 
right  to  the  iiermanent  property  in  the  substance  of 
the  earth  itself,  which  excludes  every  one  else  but  the 
owner  from  the  use  of  it.  There  is,  indeed,  some 
dift'erence  among  the  writers  on  natural  law  concern- 
ing the  reason  why  occupancy  should  convey  this 
right,  and  invest  one  with  this  absolute  property ; 
Grotius  and  Puflendorf  insisting  that  this  right  of 
occupancy  is  founded  upon  a tatit  and  implied 
assent  of  all  mankind,  that  the  first  occupant  should 
become  the  owner;  and  Barbeyrac,  Titius,  Mr  Locke, 
and  others,  holding  that  there  is  no  such  implied 
assent,  neither  is  it  necessary  that  there  should  be  ; for 
that  the  very  act  of  occupancy  alone  being  a degree 
of  bodily  labour,  is,  from  a principle  of  natural  jus- 
tice, without  any  consent  or  compact,  sufficient  of 
itself  to  gain  a title  ; a di.spute  that  savours  too 
much  of  nice  and  scholastic  refinement!  However, 
both  sides  agree  in  this,  that  occupancy  is  the  thing 
by  which  the  title  was  in  fact  originally  gained ; 

247 


FROM  1727  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  to  1780, 


every  man  Hcizing  to  his  own  continueil  use  such  spots 
of  ground  as  he  found  most  agreeable  to  his  own  con- 
venieiiee,  provided  he  found  them  unoccupied  by  any 
one  else. 

EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD. 

Philii*  Dormer  Stanhore,  Karl  of  Chesterfield 
(1094  -1773),  was  an  elegant  autlior,  though  his  only 
j)opnlar  compositions  are  his  Letters  to  his  Su/i,  a 
work  eoiitainiiig  many  e.veellent  advices  for  the 
cultivation  of  tlie  minii  and  improvement  of  tlie  ex- 
ternal worldly  cliaraeter.  but  greatly  deficient  in  the 
higher  ixiints  of  morality.  Lord  Cliesterfield  was 
an  aide  politician  and  diplomatist,  ami  an  eloquent 
parliamentary  del)ater.  The  celebrated  • Letters  to 
his  Son’  were  not  intended  for  publication,  and  did 
not  ai>pear  till  after  his  death.  Their  publication 
was  much  to  Iw  regretted  by  every  friend  of  this  ac- 
complished, witty,  and  eloquent  peer. 

[Difiniticm  of  Good  Brecdint/.'i 

[From  Chesterfield’s  Letters.] 

A friend  of  yours  and  mine  has  very  justly  defined 
good  breeding  to  be,  ‘ the  result  of  much  good  sense, 
some  good  nature,  and  a little  self-denial  for  the  sake 
of  others,  and  with  a view  to  obtain  tlie  same  indul- 
gence from  them.’  Taking  this  for  granted  (as  I 
think  it  cannot  be  disputed),  it  is  a.stonishing  to  me 
that  anybody,  who  has  good  sense  and  good  nature, 
can  essentially  fail  in  good  breeding.  As  to  the  modes 
of  it,  indeed,  they  vary  according  to  persons,  places, 
and  circumstances,  and  are  only  to  be  acquired  by 
observation  and  experience ; but  the  substance  of  it 
is  everywhere  and  eternally  tlie  same.  Good  manners 
are,  to  particular  societies,  what  good  morals  are  to 
society  in  general — their  cement  and  their  security. 
And  as  laws  are  enacted  to  enforce  good  morals,  or  at 
least  to  prevent  the  ill  effects  of  bad  ones,  so  there 
are  certain  rules  of  civility,  universally  implied  and 
received,  to  enforce  good  manners  and  punish  bad 
ones.  And  indeed  there  .seems  to  me  to  be  less  diffe- 
rence both  between  the  crimes  and  punishments,  than 
at  first  one  would  imagine.  The  immoral  man,  who 
invades  another’s  property,  is  justly  hanged  for  it; 
and  the  ill-bred  man,  who  by  his  ill  manners  invades 
and  disturbs  the  quiet  and  comforts  of  private  life, 
is  by  common  consent  as  justly  banished  society. 
Mutual  complaisances,  attentions,  and  .sacrifices  of 
little  conveniences,  are  as  natural  an  implied  compact 
between  civilised  people,  as  protection  and  obedience 
are  between  kings  and  subjects ; whoever,  in  either 
case,  violates  that  compact,  justly  forfeits  all  advan- 
tages arising  from  it.  For  my  own  part,  1 really 
think  that,  next  to  the  consciousness  of  doing  a good 
action,  that  of  doing  a civil  one  is  the  most  pleasing ; 
and  the  epithet  which  I should  covet  the  most,  next 
to  that  of  Aristides,  would  be  that  of  well-bred. 
Thus  much  for  good  breeding  in  general  ; I will  now 
consider  some  of  the  vai  ious  modes  and  degrees  of  it. 

Very  few,  scarcely  any,  are  wanting  in  the  respect 
which  they  should  show  to  those  whom  they  acknow- 
ledge to  be  infinitely  their  superiors,  such  as  crowned 
heads,  prince.s,  and  public  persons  of  distinguished 
and  eminent  posts.  It  is  the  nnanner  of  showing  that 
respect  which  is  different.  The  man  of  fashion  and 
of  the  w’orld  expresses  it  in  its  fullest  extent,  but 
naturally,  easily,  and  without  concern ; whereas  a 
man  who  is  not  used  to  keep  good  company  expresses 
it  awkwardly  ; one  sees  that  he  is  not  used  to  it,  and 
that  it  costs  him  a great  deal;  but  1 never  saw  the 
worst-bred  man  living  guilty  of  lolling,  whistling, 
scratching  his  head,  and  such  like  indecencie.s,  in 
company  that  he  respected.  In  such  companies, 
therefore,  the  only  point  to  bo  attended  to  is,  to  show 

li:- — — 


that  res])ect  which  everybody  means  to  show,  in  an 
ca.sy,  unembarrassed,  and  graceful  manner.  This  is 
what  observation  and  experience  mu.st  teach  you. 

In  mixed  companie.s,  whoever  is  admitt<Ml  to  make 
j)art  of  them  i.“,  for  tlie  time  at  least,  siipjiosed  to  be 
on  a footing  of  equality  with  the  re-t ; ami,  conse- 
quently, as  there  is  no  one  principal  object  of  awe 
and  re.s|iect,  people  are  apt  to  take  a greater  latitude 
in  their  behaviour,  and  to  be  less  ui«m  their  guard ; 
and  so  they  may,  provided  it  be  within  certa'" 
bounds,  which  are  upon  no  occasion  to  be  transgressed. 
Hut  upon  these  occasions,  though  no  one  is  entitled 
to  distinguished  marks  of  respect,  eveiy  one  claims, 
and  very  justly,  every  mark  of  civility  and  good 
breeding.  Ease  is  allowed,  but  caielessne.ss  and 
negligence  are  strictly  forbidden.  If  a man  accosts 
you,  and  talks  to  you  ever  so  dully  or  frivolously,  it 
is  worse  than  rudeness,  it  is  brutality,  to  show  hiii., 
by  a manifest  inattention  to  what  he  says,  that  you 
think  him  a fool  or  a blockhead,  and  not  worth  hear- 
ing. It  is  much  more  so  with  regard  to  women, 
who,  of  whatever  rank  they  are,  are  entitled,  in  con- 
sideration of  their  sex,  not  only  to  an  at'eotive,  but 
an  officious  good  breeding  from  men.  I'heir  little 
wants,  likings,  li.slikes,  preferences,  antipathie.q  and 
fancies,  must  be  officiously  attended  to,  aijd,  if  ])ossible, 
gue.ssed  at  and  anlici[)ated,  by  a well-bred  man. 
You  must  never  usuiqi  to  yourself  those  conveniences 
and  gratifications  which  are  of  common  right,  such  :is 
the  best  [daces,  the  best  dishc.s,  &c.  ; but  on  the  con- 
trary, always  decline  them  yourself,  and  oiler  them 
to  others,  who,  in  their  turns,  will  offer  them  to  you ; 
so  that,  upon  the  whole,  you  will  in  your  turn  enjoy 
your  .share  of  the  common  right.  It  would  be  endle.ss 
for  me  to  enumerate  all  the  particular  instances  in 
which  a well-bred  man  shows  his  good  breeding  in 
good  company  ; and  it  would  be  injurious  to  you  to 
suppose  that  your  own  good  sense  will  not  [>oint  them 
out  to  you  ; and  then  your  own  good  nature  will  re- 
commend, and  your  self-interest  enforce  the  practice. 

There  is  a third  sort  of  good  breeding,  in  which 
people  are  the  most  apt  to  fail,  from  a very  mistaken 
notion  that  they  cannot  fail  at  all.  1 mean  with 
regard  to  one’s  most  familiar  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances, or  those  w ho  really  are  our  inferiors ; and 
there,  undoubtedly,  a greater  degree  of  ease  is  not 
only  allowed,  but  proper,  and  contributes  much  to  the 
comforts  of  a private  sociai  life.  Hut  case  and  free- 
dom have  their  bounds,  which  must  by  no  means  be 
violated.  A certain  degree  of  negligence  and  careles.s- 
ness  becomes  injurious  and  insulting,  from  the  real  or 
supposed  inferiority  of  the  j>ersons ; and  that  de- 
lightful liberty  of  conversation  among  a few  friends  is 
soon  destroyed,  as  liberty  often  has  been,  by  .being 
carried  to  licentiousness.  Hut  example  exidains  things 
best,  and  I will  put  a pretty  strong  case : Supi>ose 
you  and  me  alone  together;  1 believe  you  will  allow 
that  1 have  as  good  a right  to  unlimited  freedom  in 
your  company,  as  either  you  or  I can  po.ssibly  have  in 
an}' other ; and  I am  apt  to  believe,  too,  that  you 
would  indulge  me  in  that  freedom  as  far  as  anybody 
would.  Hut,  notwithstanding  thi.s,  do  you  imagine 
that  I should  think  there  was  no  bounds  to  that  free- 
dom ? I assure  you  I should  not  think  so;  and  I 
take  myself  to  be  as  much  tied  down  by  a certain 
degree  of  good  manners  to  you,  as  by  other  degrees  of 
them  to  other  people.  The  most  familiar  and  inti- 
mate habitudes,  connexions,  and  friendshi])s,  require 
a degree  of  good  breeding  both  to  pre.serve  and  cement 
them.  The  best  of  us  have  our  bad  sides,  atid  it  is  as 
imprudent  as  it  is  ill-bred  to  exhibit  them.  1 shall 
not  use  ceremony  with  you  ; it  would  be  misplaced 
between  us  ; but  I shall  certainly  observe  that  degree 
of  good  breeding  with  you  w hich  is,  in  the  first  place, 
decent,  and  which,  1 am  sure,  is  ab.solutely  necessary 
to  make  us  like  one  another’s  company  long. 

248 


MISCKI.I.ANKOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITER ATURE. 


HORACE  WAIPOLB. 


eOAMl'.  JESYNS — DR  ADAM  FERODSON — LORD 
MONBODDO — HORACE  WALPOLE. 

SoAME  Jknyns  (1704-1787)  was  distinguislied  in 
early  life  as  a gay  and  witty  writer,  both  in  poetry 
ami  prose;  but  afterwards  applying  liiinself  to  serious 
subjects,  be  produced,  in  1757,  A Free  Inquiry  into 
1 the  Nature  of  Foil;  in  1776,  A View  of  the  Internal 
Kriiiences  of  the  Christian  lleliyion;  and  in  1782, 
Disquisitions  on  Various  Subjects ; works  containing 
niucii  ingenious  speeulation,  but  which  have  lost 
most  of  their  early  popularity. 

Dr  Adam  Ferguson  (1724-1816),  son  of  the 
minister  ol'  Logierait,  in  rerthshire,  was  educated 
at  St  Andrews : removing  to  Edinburgh,  he  be- 
eame  an  associate  of  Dr  Robertson,  Blair,  Home, 
&e.  In  1744  he  entered  the  42d  regiment  as 
chaplain,  and  continued  in  that  situation  till  1757, 
when  he  resigned  it,  and  became  tutor  in  the 
family  of  Lord  Bute.  He  was  afterwards  pro- 
fessor of  n.atural  philosophy  and  of  moral  philo- 
sophy in  the  university  of  Edinburgh.  In  1778  he 
went  to  America  as  secretary  to  the  commissioners 
appointed  to  negotiate  with  the  revolted  colonies: 
on  his  return  he  resumed  the  duties  of  his  professor- 
shi]!.  His  latter  days  were  spent  in  ease  and  afflu- 
ence at  St  Andrews,  where  he  died  at  the  patriarchal 
age  of  ninety-three.  The  works  of  Dr  Ferguson 
are.  The  History  of  Civil  Society,  published  in  1766; 
Institutes  of  Moral  Philosophy,  1769  ; A Reply  to  Dr 
Priceon  Civil  and  Religious  Liberty,  1776  ; The  His- 
lori/  of  the  Progress  and  Termination  of  the  Roman 
Republic,  1783;  and  Principles  of  Moral  and  Political 
Science,  1792.  SirWidter  Scott,  who  was  personally 
acquainted  Avith  Ferguson,  supplies  some  interesting 
information  as  to  the  latter  years  of  this  venerable 
professor,  whom  he  considered  the  most  striking 
example  of  the  stoic  philosopher  which  could  be 
seen  in  modern  days.  He  had  a shock  of  paralysis 
in  the  sixtieth  year  of  his  life,  from  which  period  he 
became  a strict  Pythagorean  in  his  diet,  eating  no- 
thing but  vegetables,  and  drinking  only  water  or 
milk.  The  deep  interest  which  he  took  in  the 
French  w.ar  had  long  seemed  to  be  the  main  tie 
which  connected  him  with  passing  existence ; and 
the  news  of  Waterloo  acted  on  the  aged  patriot  as  a 
nunc  dimittis.  From  that  hour  the  feeling  that  had 
almost  alone  given  him  energy  decayed,  and  he 
avowedly  relinquished  all  desire  for  prolonged  life. 
Of  Ferguson's  ‘ History  of  Civil  Society,’  Gray  the 
poet  remarks — ‘ There  are  uncommon  strains  of 
eloquence  in  it ; and  I was  surprised  to  find  not  one 
single  idiom  of  his  country  (I  think)  in  the  Avhole 
Avork.  His  application  to  the  heart  is  frequent,  and 
often  successful.  His  love  of  Montesquieu  and 
Tacitus  has  led  him  into  a manner  of  writing  too 
short-Avinded  and  sententious,  which  those  gre.at 
men,  had  they  lived  in  better  times,  and  under  a 
better  government,  aa'ouIcI  have  avoided.’  This  re- 
mark is  true  of  all  Ferguson’s  Avritings;  his  style  is 
too  succinct  and  compressed.  His  Roman  history, 
however,  is  a valuable  compendium,  illustrated  by 
philosophical  vieAvs  and  reflections. 

Lord  Monboddo’s  Essay  on  the  Origin  and  Pro- 
gress of  Language,  published  in  1771-3  and  6,  is  one 
of  those  singular  Avorks  Avhich  at  once  provoke 
study  and  ridicule.  The  author  Avas  a man  of  real 
learning  and  talents,  but  a humorist  in  character 
and  opinions.  He  aa’rs  an  enthusiast  in  Greek  litera- 
ture and  antiquities,  and  a worshipper  of  Homer. 
So  far  did  be  carry  this,  that,  finding  carriages  Avere 
not  in  use  among  the  ancients,  he  never  Avould  enter 
one,  but  made  all  his  journeys  to  London  (which  he 
visited  once  a year)  and  other  places  ou  horseback, 


and  continued  the  practice  till  he  Ai’as  upAvards  of 
eighty.  He  said  it  Avas  a degradation  of  the  genuine 
dignity  of  human  nature  to  be  dragged  at  the  tail  of 
a horse  instead  of  mounting  upon  his  back ! The 
eccentric  philosopher  Avas  less  careful  of  the  dignity 
of  human  nature  in  some  of  his  opinions.  He  gravely 
maintains  in  his  Essay  that  men  were  originally 
monkeys,  in  AA-hicb  condition  they  remained  for  ages 
destitute  of  speech,  reason,  and  social  afl'eetions. 
They  gradually  improved,' according  to  Monboddo’s 
theory,  as  geologists  say  the  earth  Avas  changed  by 
successive  revolutions  ; but  he  contends  that  the  ou- 
rang  outangs  are  still  of  the  human  species,  and  that 
in  the  Bay  of  Bengal  there  exists  a nation  of  human 
beings  Avith  tails  like  monkeys,  Avhich  had  been  dis- 
covered a hundred  and  thirty  years  before  by  .a 
SAvedish  skipper.  When  Sir  Joseph  Banks  returned 
from  Botany  Bay,  Monboddo  inquired  after  the  long- 
tailed men,  and,  according  to  Dr  Johnson,  Avas  not 
pleased  that  they  had  not  been  found  in  all  bis  pere- 
grinations. All  the  moral  sentiments  and  domestic 
affections  AA-ere,  according  to  this  AA-liimsical  philoso- 
pher, the  result  of  art,  contrivance,  and  experience, 
as  much  as  Avriting,  ship-building,  or  any  other  me- 
chanical invention  ; and  hence  he  places  man,  in  his 
natural  state,  below  beavers  and  sea  cats,  Avhich  he 
terms  social  and  political  animals ! The  laughable 
absurdity  of  these  doctrines  must  have  protected 
their  author  from  the  fulminations  of  the  clergy, 
Avho  Avere  then  so  eager  to  attack  all  the  metajihy- 
sical  opponents  of  revealed  religion.  In  1779  Mon- 
boddo published  an  elaborate  Avork  on  ancient  met.a- 
pbysics,  in  three  volumes  quarto,  Avhich.  ’ike  his 
former  publication,  is  equally  learned  and  equally 
AA-himsical.  After  a life  of  study  and  paradox,  dis- 
charging his  duties  as  a lord  of  session  with  upright- 
ness and  integrity,  and  much  respected  in  private 
for  his  amiable  dispositions,  James  Burnet,  Lord 
Monboddo,  died  in  Edinburgh  May  26,  1799,  at  the 
advanced  age  of  eighty-five. 

Horace  Walpole,  the  author  of  the  ‘Castle  of 
Otranto,’  already  noticed,  Avould  have  held  but  an 
insignificant  place  in  British  literature,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  his  Correspondence  and  IMemoirs,  those 
pictures  of  society  and  manners,  compounded  of  Avit 
and  gaiety,  shreAvd  observation,  sarcasm,  censorious- 
ness, high  life,  and  sparkling  language.  His  situa- 
tion and  circumstances  Avere  exactly  suited  to  his 
character  and  habits.  He  had  in  early  life  traA  died 
Avith  his  friend  Gray,  the  poet,  and  imbibed  in  Italy 
a taste  for  antiquity  and  the  arts,  fostered,  no  lioubt, 
by  the  kindred  genius  of  Gray,  Avho  delighted  in 
ancient  architecture  and  in  classic  pursuits.  He 
next  tried  public  life,  and  sat  in  parliament  for 
tAventy-six  years.  This  added  to  his  observation  of 
men  and  manners,  but  Avithout  increasing  his  repu- 
tation, for  Horace  Walpole  Avas  no  orator  or  states- 
man. His  aristocratic  habits  preA’ented  him  from 
courting  distinction  as  a general  author,  and  he 
accordingly  commenced  collecting  antiques,  building 
a baronial  castle,  and  chronicling  in  secret  his  opi- 
nions and  impressions  of  his  contemporaries.  His 
income,  from  sinecure  offices  and  private  sources, 
Avas  about  £4000  per  annum  ; and,  as  he  Avas  never 
married,  his  fortune  enabled  him,  under  good  ma- 
nagement and  methodical  arrangement,  to  gratify 
his  tastes  as  a virtuoso.  When  thirty  years  old,  he 
had  purchased  some  land  at  TAvickenham,  near  Lon- 
don, and  here  he  commenced  improving  a snudl 
house,  AA'hich  by  degrees  SAvelled  into  a feudal  castle, 
Avith  turrets,  toAvers,  galleries,  and  corridors,  Avin- 
dows  of  stained  glass,  armorial  be.arings,  and  all  the 
other  appropriate  insignia  of  a Gothic  baronnil  man- 
sion. Who  has  not  heard  of  StraAA-berry  Hill — that 
‘little  plaything  house,’  as  Walpole  styled  it,  in 

249 


PROM  1727 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


which  were  gathered  curiosities  of  all  descriptions, 
works  of  art,  rare  editions,  valuable  letters,  memo- 
rials of  virtue  and  of  vice,  of  genius,  beauty,  taste, 
and  fashion,  mouldered  into  dustl  This  valuable 
collection  is  now  (1842)  scattered  to  the  winds — ■ 
dispersed  at  a public  sale. 

r.nough  to  rouse  the  dead  man  into  r.agc. 

And  warm  with  red  resentment  the  wan  cheek. 

The  delight  with  which  Walpole  conteniphated  this 
suburban  retreat,  is  evinced  in  many  of  his  let- 
ters. In  one  to  General  Conway  (the  only  man  he 
seems  ever  to  have  really  loved  or  regarded),  he  runs 
on  in  this  enthusiastic  manner : — ‘ You  i)erceive  that 
I h.ave  got  into  a new  camj),  and  have  left  my  tub 
at  Windsor.  It  is  a little  pl.aything  house  that  I 
have  got  out  of  this  Chevenix’s  shop  [Strawberry 
Hill  had  been  occupied  by  Mrs  Chevenix,  a toy- 
woman  !],  and  is  the  prettiest  bauble  you  ever  saw. 
It  is  set  in  enamelled  meadows,  with  filigree  hedges ; 

A small  Euphrates  through  the  piece  is  rolled, 

And  little  fishes  wave  their  wings  of  gold. 

Two  delightful  ro.ads,  that  you  would  call  dusty, 
supply  me  continually  with  coaches  and  chaises ; 
and  barges,  as  solemn  as  barons  of  the  E.xchequer, 
move  under  my  window.  Kichmond  Hill  and  Ham 
Walks  bound  my  prospect;  but,  thank  God!  the 
Thames  is  between  me  and  the  Duchess  of  Queens 
berry.  Dowagers,  as  plenty  as  flounders,  inh.abit 
all  around ; and  Pope’s  ghost  is  just  now  skim- 
ming under  my  window  by  a most  poetical  moon- 
light.’ 

The  literary  performances  with  which  Walpole 
varied  bis  life  at  Strawberry  Hill  are  all  character- 
istic of  the  man.  In  1758  appeared  his  Catalogue  of 
Boi/al  and  Noble  Authors;  in  1761  his  Anecdotes  o/ 
Painting  in  England;  in  1765  his  Castle  of  Otranto; 
and  in  1767  liis  Historic  Doubts  as  to  the  ch.aracter 
and  person  of  Rieh.ard  III.  He  left  for  publication 
Afenioirs  of  the  Court  of  George  //.,  and  a large  col- 
lection of  copies  of  his  letters;  and  he  printed  at  his 
private  press  (for  among  the  collections  at  Strawberry 
Hill  was  a small  i)rinting  establishment)  his  tragedy 
of  the  Mgsterious  Mother.  A complete  collection  of 
his  letters  w.as  printed  in  1841,  in  six  volumes.  The 
writings  of  Walpole  are  all  ingenious  and  entertain- 
ing, and  though  his  judgments  on  men  and  books 
or  p.assing  events  are  often  inaccurate,  and  never 
profound,  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  amused  by 
the  liveliness  of  his  style,  his  wit,  his  acuteness 
and  even  his  malevolence.  ‘ Walpole’s  Letters,’  says 
Mr  Macaulay,  ‘are  generally  considered  as  his  best 
performances,  .and,  we  think,  with  reason.  His  faults 
are  far  less  oflTensive  to  us  in  his  correspondence 
than  in  his  books.  His  wild,  absurd,  and  ever- 
changing  opinions  of  men  and  things  are  easily 
pardoned  in  familiar  letters.  His  bitter  scoffing 
depreciating  disposition  does  not  show  itself  in  so 
unmitigated  a manner  as  in  his  Memoir.s.  A 
writer  of  letters  must  be  civil  and  friendly  to  his 
correspondent  at  least,  if  to  no  other  person.’  The 
variety  of  topics  introduced  is  no  doubt  one  cause  of 
the  charm  of  these  compositions,  for  every  page  and 
almost  every  sentence  turns  up  something  new,  and 
the  whim  of  the  moment  is  ever  with  Walpole  a 
subject  of  the  greatest  import.ance.  The  peculiarity 
of  his  information,  his  private  scandal,  his  anecdotes 
of  the  great,  and  the  constant  exhibition  of  his  own 
tastes  and  pursuits,  furnish  abundant  amusement  to 
the  reader.  Another  Horace  Walpole,  like  another 
Boswell,  the  world  has  not  supplied,  and  probably 
Uever  wiU, 


{^Politics  and  Evening  Parties.] 

To  Sir  Horace  Mann — 1745. 

When  I receive  your  long  letters  I am  ashamed ; 
mine  are  notes  in  comparison.  How  do  you  contrive 
to  roll  out  your  patience  into  two  sheets!  You  cer- 
tainly don’t  love  me  better  than  1 do  you  ; and  yet  if 
our  loves  were  to  be  sold  by  the  quire,  you  would  have 
by  far  the  more  magnificent  stock  to  dispose  of.  I 
can  only  say  that  age  has  already  an  eft'eet  on  the 
vigour  of  my  pen  ; none  on  yours : it  is  not,  I assure 
you,  for  you  alone,  but  my  ink  is  at  low  water-mark 
for  all  my  acquaintance.  My  present  shame  arises 
from  a letter  of  eight  sides,  of  December  8th,  which  I 
received  from  you  last  post. 

It  is  not  being  an  upright  sen.ator  to  promise  one’s 
vote  beforeh.and,  especially  in  a money-matter  ; but  I 
believe  so  many  excellent  p<atriots  have  just  done  the 
same  thing,  that  1 .shall  venture  readily  to  engage  my 
promi.se  to  you,  to  get  you  any  sum  for  the  defence  of 
Tuscany — why,  it  is  to  ilefend  you  and  my  own 
country  ! my  own  pahace  in  Via  de  Santo  Spirito,^  my 
own  princess  epicisec,  and  all  my  family ! I shall 
quite  make  interest  for  you  : nay,  1 would  speak  to 
our  now  ally,  and  your  old  acquaintance,  Loi'd  Sand- 
wich, to  assist  in  it ; but  I could  have  no  hope  of 
getting  at  his  ear,  for  he  has  put  on  such  a first-rate 
tie-wig,  on  his  admission  to  the  admiralty-board,  that 
nothing  without  the  lungs  of  a boatswain  can  ever 
think  to  penetrate  the  thickne.ss  of  the  curls.  I think, 
however,  it  does  honour  to  the  dignity  of  ministers  : 
when  he  was  but  a patriot,  his  wig  was  not  of  half  its 
present  gravity.  There  are  no  more  changes  made  : 
all  is  quiet  yet  ; but  next  Thursday  the  parliament 
meets  to  decide  the  complexion  of  the  se.ssion.  My 
Lord  Chesterfield  goes  next  week  to  Holland,  and  then 
returns  for  Ireland. 

The  great  present  disturbance  in  politics  is  my 
Lady  Gnanville’s  assembly  ; which  I do  assure  you 
distre.sses  the  Pelhams  infinitely  more  than  a myste- 
rious meeting  of  the  St.ates  would,  and  far  more  than 
the  abrupt  breaking  up  of  the  Diet  at  Grodno.  She 
had  begun  to  keep  Tuesdays  before  her  lord  resigned, 
which  now  she  continues  with  greater  zeal.  Her  house 
is  very  fine,  she  very  handsome,  her  lord  very  agreeable 
and  extraordinary  ; and  yet  the  Duke  of  Newcastle 
wonders  that  people  will  go  thither.  He  mentioned 
to  my  father  my  going  there,  who  laughed  at  him; 
Cato’s  a proper  person  to  trust  with  such  a childish 
jealou.sy  ! Harry  Fox  s.ays,  ‘ Let  the  Duke  of  New- 
castle open  his  own  house,  and  see  if  all  that  come 
thither  are  his  friends.’  The  fiv.shion  now  is  to  send 
cards  to  the  women,  and  to  declare  that  all  men  are 
welcome  without  being  asked.  This  is  a piece  of  case 
that  shocks  the  prudes  of  the  last  age.  You  can’t 
imagine  how  my  Lady  Granville  shines  in  doing 
honours  ; you  know  she  is  made  for  it.  My  lord  has 
new  furni.shed  his  mother’s  apartment  for  her,  and  has 
given  her  a magnificent  set  of  dressing-plate : he  is 
very  fond  of  her,  and  she  as  fond  of  his  being  so. 

You  will  have  heard  of  M.arshal  Belleisle’s  being 
made  a prisoner  at  Hanover : the  world  will  believe  it 
was  not  by  accident.  He  is  sent  for  over  hither : the 
first  thought  was  to  confine  him  to  the  Tower,  but  that 
is  contrary  to  the  politesse  of  modern  war  ; they  talk 
of  sending  him  to  Nottingh.am,  where  Tallard  was. 

I am  .sure,  if  he  is  prisoner  at  large  anywhere,  we 
could  not  have  a worse  inmate  1 so  ambitious  and  in- 
triguing a man,  who  was  author  of  this  whole  war, 
will  be  no  bad  gener.al  to  be  ready  to  head  the  Jaco- 
bites on  any  insurrection.^ 

' The  street  in  Florence  where  Mr  Mann  lived. 

2 Bellei&le  and  his  brother,  who  had  been  sent  by  the  king 
of  Franee  on  a mission  to  the  king  of  I*russia,  were  detained, 
while  changing  horses,  at  Elbengerode,  and  from  thence  con- 

250 


HOIIACE  WALPOLB. 


uisoELi.ANEous  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


I can  sny  notliiiig  more  about  young  Gardiner,  but 
that  I don’t  think  my  father  at  all  inclined  now  to 
have  any  letter  written  for  him.  Adieu  ! 

[The  Scottish  ItehclUon.'] 

[To  the  same — Nov.  15,  1745  ] 

I told  you  in  my  last  wliat  di.sturbance  there  had 
been  about  the  new  regiments  ; the  afi'air  of  rank  was 
again  disputed  on  the  report  till  ten  at  night,  and 
carried  by  a majority  of  twenty-three.  The  king  had 
been  persuaded  to  appear  for  it,  though  Lord  Gran- 
ville made  it  a party  point  against  Mr  Pelham. 
M'innington  did  not  speak.  I was  not  there,  for  I 
could  not  vote  for  it,  and  yielded  not  to  give  any 
hindrance  to  a public  measure  (or  at  least  what  was 
called  so)  just  now.  The  prince  acted  openly,  and 
influenced  his  people  against  it ; but  it  only  served  to 
let  Mr  Pelham  see  what,  like  everything  else,  he  did 
not  know — how  strong  he  is.  The  king  will  scarce 
speak  to  him,  and  he  cannot  yet  get  Pitt  into  place. 

The  rebels  are  come  into  England : for  two  days 
we  believed  them  near  Lancaster,  but  the  ministry 
now  own  that  they  don’t  know  if  they  have  passed 
Carlisle.  Some  think  they  will  besiege  that  towm, 
which  has  an  old  wall,  and  all  the  militia  in  it  of 
Cumberland  and  W’estmorcland ; but  as  they  can 
pass  by  it,  I don’t  see  why  they  should  take  it,  for 
they  are  not  strong  enough  to  leave  garrisons.  Several 
desert  them  as  they  advance  south  ; and  altogether, 
good  men  and  bad,  nobody  believes  them  ten  thousand. 
By  their  marching  westward  to  avoid  Wade,  it  is 
evident  that  they  are  not  strong  enough  to  fight  him. 
They  may  yet  retire  back  into  their  mountains,  but 
if  once  they  get  to  Lancaster,  their  retreat  is  cut  off; 
for  Wade  will  not  stir  from  Newcastle  till  he  has 
embarked  them  deep  into  England,  and  then  he  will 
be  behind  them.  He  has  sent  General  Handasyde 
from  Berwick  with  two  regiments  to  take  possession 
of  Edinburgh.  The  rebels  are  certainly  in  a very 
desperate  situation  : they  dared  not  meet  Wade  ; and 
if  they  had  waited  for  him,  their  troops  would  have 
deserted.  Unless  they  meet  with  great  risings  in 
their  favour  in  Lancashire,  I don’t  see  what  they  can 
hope,  e.\cept  from  a continuation  of  our  neglect. 
That,  indeed,  has  nobly  exerted  itself  for  them.  They 
were  suffered  to  inarch  the  whole  length  of  Scotland, 
and  take  possession  of  the  capital,  without  a man 
appearing  against  them.  Then  two  thousand  men 
sailed  to  them,  to  run  from  them.  Till  the  flight  of 
Cope’s  army,  Wade  was  not  sent.  Two  roads  still 
lay  into  England,  and  till  they  had  chosen  that  which 
Wade  had  not  taken,  no  army  was  thought  of  being 
sent  to  secure  the  other.  Now  Ligonier,  with  seven 
old  regiments,  and  six  of  the  new,  is  ordered  to  Lan- 
cashire ; before  this  first  division  of  the  army  could 
get  to  Coventry,  they  are  forced  to  order  it  to  halt, 
for  fear  the  enemy  should  be  up  with  it  before  it  was 
all  assembled.  It  is  uncertain  if  the  rebels  will  march 
to  the  north  of  Wales,  to  Bristol,  or  towards  London. 
If  to  the  latter,  Ligonier  must  fight  them  ; if  to  either 
of  the  other,  which  I hope,  the  two  armies  may  join 
and  drive  them  into  a corner,  where  they  must  all 
perish.  They  cannot  subsist  in  Wales,  but  by  being 
supplied  by  the  Papists  in  Ireland.  The  best  is,  that 
we  are  in  no  fear  from  France ; there  is  no  prepara- 
tion for  invasions  in  any  of  their  ports.  Lord  CTan- 
carty,'  a Scotchman  of  great  parts,  but  mad  and 
drunken,  and  whose  family  forfeited  £90,000  a-year 
for  King  James,  is  made  vice-admiral  at  Brest.  The 

veyed  to  England  ; where,  refusing  to  give  their  parole  in  the 
mode  it  was  required,  they  were  confined  in  Windsor  castle. 

' Donagh  M.accarty,  Earl  of  Clancarty,  was  an  Irishman, 
and  not  a Scotchman. 


Duke  of  Bedford  goes  in  his  little  round  person  with 
his  regiment ; he  now  takes  to  the  land,  and  says  he 
is  tired  of  being  a pen-and-ink  man.  Lord  Gower 
insisted,  too,  upon  going  with  his  regiment,  but  is  laid 
up  with  the  gout. 

With  the  rebels  in  England,  you  may  imagine  we 
have  no  private  news,  nor  think  of  foreign.  From 
this  account  you  may  judge  that  our  case  is  far  from 
desperate,  though  disagreeable.  The  prince,*  while 
the  princess  lies-in,  has  taken  to  give  dinners,  to  which 
he  asks  two  of  the  ladies  of  the  bed-chamber,  two  of 
the  maids  of  honour,  &c.  by  turns,  and  five  or  six 
others.  He  sits  at  the  head  of  the  table,  drinks  and 
harangues  to  all  this  medley  till  nine  at  night ; and 
the  other  day,  after  the  ailair  of  the  regiments,  drank 
Mr  Fox’s  health  in  a bumper,  with  three  huzzas,  for 
opposing  Mr  Pelham — 

‘ Si  quk  fata  aspera  rumpus, 

Tu  Marcellus  eris !’ 

You  put  me  in  pain  for  my  eagle,  and  in  more  for 
the  Chutes,  whose  zeal  is  very  heroic,  but  very  ill- 
placed.  I long  to  hear  that  all  my  Chutes  and  eagles 
are  safe  out  of  the  Pope’s  hands!  Pray,  wish  the 
Suares’s  joy  of  all  their  espousals.  Does  the  princess 
pray  abundantly  for  her  friend  the  Pretender?  Is 
she  extremely  abbatue  with  her  devotion  ? and  does 
she  fast  till  she  has  got  a violent  appetite  for  supper? 
And  then,  does  she  eat  so  long,  that  old  Sarrasin  is 
quite  impatient  to  go  to  cards  again  ? Good  night  1 
1 intend  you  shall  still  be  resident  from  King  George. 

P.S. — I forgot  to  tell  you,  that  the  other  day  I con- 
cluded the  ministry  knew  the  danger  was  all  over ; 
for  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  ventured  to  have  the  Pre- 
tender’s declaration  burnt  at  the  Royal  Exchange. 

Nov.  22,  1745. 

For  these  two  days  we  have  been  expecting  news  of  a 
battle.  Wade  marched  last  Saturday  from  Newcastle, 
and  must  have  got  up  with  the  rebels  if  they  stayed 
for  him,  though  the  roads  are  exceedingly  bad,  and 
great  quantities  of  snow  have  fallen.  But  last  night 
there  was  some  notice  of  a body  of  rebels  being  ad- 
vanced to  Penrith.  We  were  put  into  great  spirits 
by  a heroic  letter  from  the  mayor  of  Carlisle,  who 
had  fired  on  the  rebels  and  made  them  retire ; he 
concluded  with  saying,  ‘ And  so  I think  the  town  of 
Carlisle  has  done  his  majesty  more  service  than  the 
great  city  of  Edinburgh,  or  than  all  Scotland  together.’ 
But  this  hero,  who  was  grown  the  whole  fashion  for 
four-and-twenty  hours,  had  chosen  to  stop  all  other 
letters.  The  king  spoke  of  him  at  his  levde  with 
great  encomiums  ; Lord  Stair  said,  ‘ Yes,  sir,  Mr 
Patterson  has  behaved  very  bravely.’  The  Duke  of 
Bedford  interrupted  him  ; ‘ My  lord,  his  name  is  not 
Patterson;  that  is  a Scotch  naifie  ; his  name  is  I'attin- 
son.’  But,  alack ! the  next  day  the  rebels  returned, 
having  placed  the  women  and  children  of  the  country 
in  wagons  in  front  of  their  army,  and  forcing  the 
peasants  to  fix  the  scaling-ladders.  The  great  Mr 
Pattlnson,  or  Patterson  (for  now  his  name  may  be 
which  one  pleases),  instantly  surrendered  the  town, 
and  agreed  to  pay  two  thousand  pounds  to  save  it 
from  pillage. 

[London  Earthquakes  and  London  Gossip."] 

[To  the  same — March  11,  1750.] 

Portents  and  prodigies  are  grown  so  frequent. 

That  they  have  lost  their  name. — Drydetu 

My  text  is  not  literally  true  ; but  as  far  as  earth* 
quakes  go  towards  lowering  the  price  of  wonderful 
commodities,  to  be  sure  we  are  overstocked.  VV^e 

1 Ferdinand  of  Wales, 

251 


PROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  1780. 


liiive  liiul  a second,  much  more  violent  than  the  first  ; 
and  ^ou  must  not  he  surprised  if,  by  next  post,  you 
liear  of  a burning  mountain  sprung  up  in  Smithiield. 
ill  tlic  niglit  between  Wednesday  and  Thursday  last 
(exactly  a month  since  the  first  shock),  the  earth  had 
a shivering  fit  between  one  and  two,  but  so  slight, 
that,  if  no  more  had  followed,  1 don’t  beliefe  it  would 
have  been  noticed.  1 had  been  awake,  and  had  scarce 
dozed  again — on  a sudden  1 felt  my  bolster  lift  up  my 
head  : I thought  somebody  was  getting  from  under 
my  bed,  but  soon  found  it  was  a strong  earthquake 
that  lasted  near  half  a minute,  with  a violent  vibra- 
tion and  great  roaring.  1 rang  my  bell  ; my  ser- 
vant came  in,  frightened  out  of  his  senses:  in  an  in- 
stant we  heard  all  the  windows  in  the  neighbourhood 
flung  up.  1 got  up  and  found  peojile  running  into 
the  streets,  but  saw  no  mischief  done:  there  has  been 
some  ; two  old  houses  flung  down,  several  chimneys, 
and  much  china-ware.  The  bells  rung  in  .several 
houses.  Admiral  Knowles,  who  has  lived  long  in 
Jamaica,  and  felt  seven  there,  says  this  was  more 
violent  than  any  of  them  : Francesco  prefers  it  to  the 
drci  dful  one  at  Leghorn.  The  wise  say,  that  if  we 
have  not  rain  soon,  we  shall  certainly  have  more. 
Several  peojde  are  going  out  of  town,  for  it  has  nowhere 
reached  above  ten  miles  from  London  : they  say  they 
are  not  frightened,  but  that  it  is  such  fine  weather, 
‘Lord!  one  can’t  help  going  into  the  country  !’  Tlu 
only  visible  effect  it  has  had  was  on  the  Ridotto,  at 
which,  being  the  following  night,  there  were  but  four 
hundred  people.  A parson  who  came  into  White’s 
the  morning  of  earthquake  the  first,  and  heard  bets 
laid  on  whether  it  was  an  earthquake  or  the  blowing 
up  of  powder  mills,  went  away  exceedingly  scan- 
dalised, and  .said,  ‘ 1 protest  they  are  such  an  im- 
pious set  of  people,  that  1 believe  if  the  last  trumpet 
was  to  sound  they  would  bet  puppet-show  against 
Judgment.’  If  we  get  any  nearer  still  to  the  torrid 
zone,  I shall  pique  myself  on  sending  you  a present 
of  cedrati  and  orange-flower  water ; 1 am  already 
planning  a terreno  for  Strawberry  Hill. 

The  Middlesex  election  is  carried  against  the  court : 
the  Prince  in  a green  frock  (and  1 won’t  swear,  but  in 
a Scotch  plaid  waistcoat)  sat  under  the  park-wall  in 
his  chair,  and  hallooed  the  voters  on  to  Brentford. 
The  Jacobites  are  so  transported,  that  they  are  opening 
subscriptions  for  all  boroughs  that  shall  be  vacant — 
this  is  wise ! They  will  spend  their  money  to  carry  a 
few  more  seats  in  a Parliament  where  they  will  never 
have  the  majority,  and  so  have  none  to  carry  the 
general  elections.  The  omen,  however,  is  bad  for 
Westminster  ; the  high-bailifi'  went  to  vote  for  the 
opposition. 

1 now  jump  to  another  topic ; I find  all  this  letter 
will  be  detached  scraps;  I can’t  at  all  contrive  to 
hide  the  seams.  But  1 -don’t  care.  I began  my  letter 
merely  to  tell  you  of  the  earthquake,  and  I don’t 
pique  myself  upon  doing  any  more  than  telling  you 
what  you  w’ould  be  glad  to  have  told  you.  I told 
you,  too,  how  pleased  I was  with  the  triumphs  of 
another  fid  beauty,  our  friend  the  princess.*  Do 
you  know,  1 have  found  a history  that  has  great  re- 
semblance to  hers ; that  is,  that  will  be  very  like 
hers,  if  hers  is  but  like  it.  I will  tell  it  you  in  as 
few  words  as  I can.  Madame  la  Marechale  de  I’Ho- 
pital  was  the  daughter  of  a sempstress  a young 

' ThO  Princess  Craon,  who,  it  had  been  reported,  was  to 
marry  Stanislaus  Leezinsky,  Duke  of  Lorraine  and  e.v-king  of 
Poland,  whose  daughter,  Maria  Leezinsky,  was  married  to 
Louis  XV.,  king  of  France. 

- This  is  the  story  of  a woman  named  Mary  Mignot.  She 
was  near  marrying  a young  man  of  the  name  of  La  Gardie, 
who  afterwards  entered  the  Swedish  service,  and  became  a 
field-marshal  in  that  couiitiy.  Her  first  husband  was,  if  I 
mistake  not,  a procureur  of  Grenoble ; her  second  was  the 


gentleman  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  was  going  to  bu 
married  to  her,  but  the  match  was  broken  off.  An 
old  fermier-general,  who  had  retired  into  the  [irovince 
where  this  happened,  hearing  the  story,  had  a curio- 
sity to  see  the  victim  ; he  liked  her.  married  her, 
died,  and  left  her  enough  not  to  care  for  her  incon- 
stant. She  came  to  Paris,  wdiere  the  Marechal  de 
I’llopital  married  her  for  her  riches.  After  the  Mare- 
chal’s  death,  Casiinir,  the  abdicated  king  of  Poland, 
who  was  retired  into  France,  fell  in  love  with  the 
Marechale,  and  privately  married  her.  If  the  event 
ever  happens,  I .shall  certainly  travel  to  Nancy,  to 
hear  her  talk  of  7iia  Idle  fiUe  la  Heine  de  France. 
What  pains  my  Lady  Pomfret  would  take  to  prove* 
that  an  abdicated  king’s  wife  did  not  take  place  of 
an  English  counte.ss ; and  how  the  princess  herself 
would  grow  still  fonder  of  the  Pretender^*  for  the 
similitude  of  his  fortune  with  that  of  le  Roi  man  maril 
Her  daughter.  Mirepoix,  was  frightened  the  other 
night  with  Mrs  Nugent’s  calling  out,  un  I'oleurl  un 
vuleur!  The  ambassadress  had  heard  so  much  of 
robbing,  that  she  did  not  doubt  but  dam  ce  pais  aj, 
they  robbed  in  the  middle  of  an  assembly.  It  turned 
out  to  be  a thief  in  the  candle!  Good  night! 


THE  EAnL  OF  CHATHAM. 

Another  series  of  letters,  written  at  this  time,  h.as 
since  been  published.  The  collection  is  far  inferior 
in  value,  but  its  author  was  one  of  the  greatest  men 
of  his  age — perhaps  the  first  of  English  orators  and 
statesmen.  We  allude  to  a volume  of  letters  written 
by  the  Earl  of  Chatlnam  to  his  nephew,  Thomas  Pitt, 
Lord  Camelford.  This  work  contains  much  excel- 
lent advice  as  to  life  and  conduct,  a sincere  admira- 
tion of  classic.al  learning,  and  great  kindliness  of 
domestic  feeling  and  affection.  Another  collection 
of  the  correspondence  of  Lord  Chatham  was  made 
and  published  in  1841,  in  four  volumes.  Some  light 
is  thrown  on  contemporary  history  and  public  events 
by  this  correspondence ; but  its  princiiial  value  is  of 
a reflex  nature,  derived  from  our  interest  in  all  that 
relates  to  the  lofty  and  commanding  intellect  which 
shaped  the  destinies  of  Europe.  William  Pitt  was 
born  on  the  15th  of  November  1708.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Eton,  whence  he  removed  to  Trinity  college,  | 
Oxford.  He  was  .afterwards  a cornet  in  the  Blues! 
His  military  career,  however,  was  of  short  duration; 
for,  before  he  was  quite  twenty  one,  he  had  a seat  in 
parliament.  His  talents  for  debate  were  soon  con- 
spicuous ; and  on  the  occasion  of  a bill  for  register- 
ing seamen  in  1740,  he  made  his  memorable  reply 
to  Mr  Walpole,  who  had  taunted  him  on  account  of 
his  youth.  This  burst  of  youthful  ardour  has  been 
immortalised  by  Dr  Johnson,  who  then  reported  the 
parliamentary  debates  for  the  Gentleman’s  Maga- 
zine. Johnson  was  no  laborious  or  diligent  note- 
taker;  he  often  had  merely  verbal  communications 
of  the  sentiments  of  the  speakers,  which  he  imbued 
with  his  own  energy,  and  coloured  with  his  jieculiar 
style  and  diction.  Pitt’s  reply  to  Walpole  mav 
therefore  be  considered  the  composition  of  Johnson, 
founded  on  some  note  or  statement  of  the  actual 
speech ; yet  we  are  tempted  to  transcribe  it,  on 
account  of  its  celebrity  and  its  eloquence : — 

Marshal  de  ITIdpifal ; and  her  third  is  supposed  to  have  been 
Casimir,  the  ex-king  of  Poland,  who  had  retired,  after  his 
abdication,  to  the  monastery  of  St  Germain  des  Pr6s-  It  does 
not,  however,  appear  certain  whether  Casimir  actually  married 
her  or  not. 

* Lady  Pomfret  and  Princess  Craon  did  not  visit  at  Florence, 
upon  a dispute  of  precedence. 

* The  Pretender,  when  in  Lorraine,  lived  in  Prince  Craon’s  [ 

house.  I 

252 


>nsci:i.i.\Ni:oi;s  writkrs. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EARI,  OF  CHATHAM. 


of  Chatham  on  bchirf  tattntcd  on  accomit  of 
youth. ~\ 

.''ir — The  atrocious  crime  of  being  a 3'oung  man, 
wliich  the  honourable  gentleman  has,  with  such  si)irit 
ami  ib'ccuLT,  chargeil  upon  me,  I shall  neither  attempt 
to  puli  late  nor  deny,  but  content  inj’self  with  wish- 
ing that  I may  be  one  of  those  whose  follies  may  cease 
with  their  youth,  and  not  of  that  number  who  are 
ignorant  in  s]>ite  of  experience.  Whether  j’outh  can 
be  imputed  to  any  man  as  a reproach,  I will  not, 
sir,  assume  the  prordnee  of  determining ; but  surely 
age  may  become  justly  contemptible,  if  the  oppor- 
tunities which  it  brings  have  passed  away  without 
improvement,  and  vice  appears  to  prevail  when  the 
passions  have  subsided.  The  wretch  who,  after  having 
seen  the  consequences  of  a thousand  errors,  continues 
still  to  blunder,  and  whose  age  has  only  added  obsti- 
nacy to  stupidity,  is  surely  the  object  either  of  ab- 
horrence or  contempt,  and  deserves  not  that  his  gray 
hairs  shouhl  secure  him  from  insult.  IMuch  more, 
sir,  is  he  to  be  abhorred  wdio,  as  he  has  advanced  in 
age,  has  receded  from  virtue,  and  become  more  wicked 
with  less  temptation  ; who  prostitutes  himself  for 
money  wliich  he  cannot  enjoy,  and  spends  the  re- 
mains of  his  life  in  the  ruin  of  his  country.  But 
youth,  sir,  is  not  my  only  crime  ; I have  been  accused 
of  acting  a theatrical  part.  A theatrical  part  may 
either  imply  some  peculiarities  of  gesture,  or  a dissi- 
mulation of  my  real  sentiments,  and  an  adoption  of 
the  0]Huions  and  language  of  another  man. 

In  the  fir.st  sense,  sir,  the  charge  is  too  trifling  to 
be  confuted,  and  deserves  only  to  be  mentioned  that 
it  may  be  despised.  I am  at  liberty,  like  every  other 
man,  to  use  my  own  language ; and  though,  perhaps, 
I may  have  .some  ambition  to  please  this  gentleman, 
1 shall  not  lay  myself  under  any  restraint,  nor  very 
solicitously  copy  his  diction  or  his  mien,  however 
matured  by  age,  or  modelled  by  experience.  But  if 
any  man  shall,  by  charging  me  with  theatrical  beha- 
viour, imply  that  I utter  any  sentiments  but  my  own, 
I shall  treat  him  as  a calumniator  and  a villain  ; nor 
shall  any  protection  shelter  him  from  the  treatment 
he  deserves.  I shall,  on  such  an  occasion,  without 
scruple,  trample  upon  all  those  forms  with  which 
wealth  and  dignity  entrench  themselves ; nor  shall 
anything  but  age  restrain  my  resentment ; age,  which 
alwi  vs  brings  one  privilege,  that  of  being  insolent  and 
supercilious,  without  punishment.  But  with  regard, 
sir,  to  those  whom  I have  offended,  I am  of  opinion 
that  if  I had  acted  a borrowed  part,  I should  have 
avoided  their  censure ; the  heat  that  offended  them 
is  the  ardour  of  conviction,  and  that  zeal  for  the  ser- 
vice of  my  country  which  neither  hope  nor  fear  .shall 
influence  me  to  suppress.  I will  not  sit  unconcerned 
Avhile  my  liberty  is  invaded,  nor  look  in  silence  upon 
public  robbery.  I will  exert  my  endeavours,  at  what- 
ever hazard,  to  repel  the  aggressor,  and  drag  the  thief 
to  justice,  whoever  may  protect  him  in  his  villany, 
and  whoever  may  partake  of  his  plunder. 

We  need  not  follow  the  public  career  of  Pitt, 
which  is,  in  fact,  a part  of  the  history  of  England 
during  along  and  agitated  period.  His  style  of  ora- 
tory was  of  the  highest  class,  rapid,  vehement,  and 
over[)owering,  and  it  was  adorned  bj'  all  tlie  graces  of 
action  and  delivery.  His  public  conduct  was  singu- 
larly pure  and  disinterested,  considering  the  venality 
of  the  times  in  which  he  lived  ; but  as  a statesman 
he  was  often  inconsistent,  haughty,  and  impracti- 
calde.  His  acceptance  of  a peerage  (in  17G6)  hurt 
his  popularity  witli  the  nation,  who  loved  and  reve- 
renced him  as  ‘ the  great  commoner but  he  still 
‘ shook  the  senate’  with  the  resistless  appeals  of  his 
eloquence.  His  speech — delivered  wffien  he  was  up- 
wards of  sixty,  and  broken  down  and  enfeebled  by 


disea.se — against  t'e  employment  of  Indians  in  the 
war  with  America,  is  too  characteristic,  too  noble,  tsj 
be  omitted. 

\_Spcech  of  Chatham  ayainst  the  employment  of  Indian) 
in  the  war  with  America.] 

I cannot,  my  lords,  I will  not,  join  in  congratu- 
lation on  misfortune  and  disgrace.  This,  my  lords, 
is  a perilous  and  tremendous  moment;  it  is  not  a 
time  for  adqlation  ; the  smoothness  of  flattery  cannot 
save  us  in  this  rugged  and  awful  crisis.  It  is  now 
neces.sary  to  instruct  the  throne  in  the  language  of 
truth.  We  must,  if  possible,  dispel  the  delusion  and 
darkness  which  envelope  it,  and  display,  in  its  full 
danger  and  genuine  colours,  the  ruin  which  is  brought 
to  our  doors.  Can  ministers  still  presume  to  expect 
support  in  their  infatuation  ? Can  parliament  be  so 
dead  to  their  dignity  and  duty,  as  to  give  their  sup- 
port to  measures  thus  obtruded  aiid  forced  upon  them  ; 
measures,  my  lords,  which  have  reduced  this  late 
flourishing  empire  to  scorn  and  contempt?  But  yes- 
terday, and  England  might  have  stood  against  the 
world ; now,  none  so  poor  to  do  her  reverence ! The 
people  whom  we  at  fir.st  despised  as  rebels,  but  whom 
we  now  acknowledge  as  enemies,  are  abetted  against 
you,  supplied  with  every  military  store,  have  their 
interest  consulted,  and  their  ambassadors  entertained, 
by  your  inveterate  enemy  ; and  ministers  do  not,  and 
dare  not,  interpose  with  dignity  or  effect.  The  des- 
perate state  of  our  army  abroad  is  in  part  kuow.n. 
No  man  more  highly  esteems  and  honours  the  Englis.i 
troops  than  I do  ; I know  their  virtues  and  *thei! 
v'alour ; I know  they  can  achieve  anything  but  im- 
pos.sibilities;  and  I know  that  the  conquest  of  English 
America  is  an  impossibility.  You  cannot,  my  lords, 
you  cannot  conquer  America.  What  is  your  present 
situation  there?  We  do  not  know  the  worst  , but  we 
know  that  in  three  campaigns  we  have  done  nothing 
and  suffered  much.  You  may  swell  every  expense, 
accumulate  every  assistance,  and  extend  your  traffic 
to  the  shambles  of  every  German  despot;  your  attempts 
will  be  forever  vain  and  impotent — doubly  so,  indeed, 
from  this  mercenary  aid  on  which  you  rely  ; for  it 
irritates,  to  an  incurable  resentment,  the  minds  of 
your  adversaries,  to  overrun  them  with  the  mercenary 
.sons  of  rapine  and  plunder,  devoting  them  and  their 
pos.sessions  to  the  rapacity  of  hireling  cruelty.  If  1 
were  an  American,  as  I am  an  Englishman,  while  a 
foreign  troop  was  landed  in  my  country,  1 never  would 
lay  dowm  my  arras:  Never,  never,  never!  But,  my 
lords,  who  is  the  man  that,  in  addition  to  the  dis- 
graces and  mischiefs  of  the  war,  has  dared  to  autho- 
rise and  associate  to  our  arms  the  tomahawk  and 
scalping-knife  of  the  .savage  ; to  call  into  civilised 
alliance  the  wild  and  inhuman  inhabitant  of  the 
woods  ; to  delegate  to  the  merciless  Indian  the  defence 
of  disputed  rights,  and  to  wage  the  horrors  of  his  bar- 
barous war  against  our  brethren  ? My  lords,  these 
enormities  cry  aloud  for  redre.ss  and  punishment. 
But,  my  lords,  this  barbarous  measure  has  been  de- 
fended, not  only  on  the  principles  of  policy  and  neces- 
sity, but  also  on  those  of  morality  ; ‘ for  it  is  perfectly 
allow-able,’  says  Lord  Suffolk,  ‘ to  use  all  the  means 
which  God  and  nature  have  put  into  our  hands.’  I 
am  astonished,  I am  shocked,  to  hear  such  principles 
confessed  ; to  hear  them  avowed  in  this  house  or  in 
this  country.  My  lords,  I did  not  intend  to  encroach 
so  much  on  your  attention  ; but  I cannot  repress  my 
indignation — I feel  myself  impelled  to  speak.  My 
lords,  we  are  called  upon  as  members  of  this  house, 
as  men,  as  Christians,  to  prote.'t  against  such  horrible 
barbarity  I That  God  and  na  ure  have  put  into  our 
hands ! What  ideas  of  God  and  nature  that  noble 
lord  may  entertain  I know  not ; but  1 know  tliat  such 
detestable  principles  are  equally  abhorrent  to  religion 

25.1 


FROM  1727 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TO  178ti 


and  lnimaiiity.  W'liat ! to  attribute  the  sacred  Banc- 
tion  oKiod  and  nature  to  the  massacres  of  the  Indian 
gcalping-kTiife  ! to  the  cannibal  savage,  torturing,  mur- 
dering, devouring,  drinking  the  blood  of  bis  mangled 
victims  ! Such  notions  shock  every  j)rccei)t  of  morality, 
every  feeling  of  humanity,  every  sentiment  of  honour. 
J'hese  abominable  principles, and  this  more  abominable 
av  )\val  of  them,  demand  the  most  decisive  indignation. 
I tall  upon  that  right  reverend,  and  this  most  learned 
bench,  to  vindicate  the  religion  of  their  Ood,  to  support 
the  justice  of  their  country.  I call  upon  tjie  bishops  to 
intcriiose  the  unsullied  sanctity  of  their  lawn  ; upon 
the  ju<lges  to  interpose  the  purity  of  their  ermine,  to 
save  us  from  this  i)ollution.  I call  upon  the  honour 
of  your  lordships  to  reverence  the  dignity  of  your  an- 
cestors, and  to  maintain  your  own.  I call  upon  the 
spirit  and  humanity  of  my  country  to  vindicate  the 
national  character.  I invoke  the  Genius  of  the  Con- 
stitution. From  the  tapestry  that  adorn  these  walls, 
the  immortal  ancestor  of  this  noble  lord  frowns  with 
indignation  at  the  disgrace  of  his  country.  In  vain 
did  he  defend  the  liberty  and  establish  the  religion 
of  Ilritain  agaiinst  the  tyranny  of  Rome,  if  these  worse 
than  l’o]>ish  cruelties  and  inquisitorial  practices  are 
emlured  among  us.  To  send  forth  the  merciless 
cannibal,  thirsting  for  blood!  against  whom?  your 
Protestant  brethren ! to  lay  waste  their  country,  to 
desolate  their  dwelling.s,  and  extirpate  their  race  and 
name  by  the  aid  and  instrumentality  of  these  horrible 
hell-hounds  of  war  ! Spain  can  no  longer  boast  pre- 
eminence in  barbarity.  She  armed  herself  with 
blood-hounds  to  extirpate  the  wretched  natives  of 
^le-^ico ; we,  more  ruthless,  loose  these  dogs  of  war 
against  our  countrymen  in  America,  endeared  to  us 
by  every  tie  that  can  sanctify  humanity.  I solemnly 
call  upon  your  lordships,  and  upon  every  order  of 
men  in  the  .state,  to  stamp  upon  this  infamous  pro- 
cedure the  indelible  stigma  of  the  public  abhorrence. 
More  particularly  I call  upon  the  holy  prelates  of 
our  religion  to  do  away  this  iniquity;  let  them  per- 
form a lustration,  to  purify  the  country  from  this 
deep  and  deadly  sin.  My  lord.s,  I am  old  and  weak, 
and  at  present  unable  to  say  more  ; but  my  feelings 
and  indign.ation  were  too  strong  to  have  said  less.  I 
could  not  have  slept  this  night  in  my  bed,  nor  even 
rejio.sed  my  head  upon  my  i>illow,  without  giving  vent 
to  my  eternal  abhorrence  of  such  enormous  and  pre- 
posterous principles. 

The  last  public  .appearance  and  death  of  Lord 
Chatham  are  thus  described  by  Bclsham,  in  his 
history  of  Great  Britain  : — 

‘ The  mind  feels  interested  in  the  minutest  circum- 
stances relating  to  the  host  d.ay  of  the  public  life  of 
this  renowned  statesman  and  patriot.  He  was  dressed 
in  a rich  suit  of  black  velvet,  with  a full  wig,  and 
covered  up  to  the  knees  in  flannel.  On  his  arrival  in 
the  hou.se,  he  refreshed  himself  in  the  lord  chancellor’s 
room,  where  he  stayed  till  prayers  were  over,  and  till 
he  was  informed  that  business  was  going  to  begin. 
He  was  then  led  into  the  house  by  his  son  .and  son-in- 
law,  Mr  Willi.arn  Pitt  and  Lord  Viscount  Mahon,  all 
the  lords  standing  up  out  of  respect,  and  making  a 
lane  for  him  to  pass  to  the  earl’s  bench,  he  bowing 
very  gracefully  to  them  as  he  proceeded.  He  looked 
pale  and  much  emaciated,  but  his  eye  retained  all  its 
native  fire  ; wlimh,  joined  to  his  general  deportment, 
and  the  attention  of  the  house,  formed  a spectacle 
very  striking  and  impressive. 

When  the  Duke  of  Richmond  had  sat  down.  Lord 
Chatham  rose,  and  beg.an  by  lamenting  “ that  his 
bodily  infirmities  had  so  long  and  at  so  important  a 
crisis  pro  vented  hi.s  attendance  on  the  duties  of  par- 
tiainent.  He  declared  that  he  had  made  an  effort 
• Imost  beyond  the  powers  of  his  constitution  to  come 


down  to  the  house  on  this  day,  perhaps  the  last  ’ 
time  he  should  ever  be  able  to  enter  its  walls,  to 
express  the  indignation  he  felt  at  the  idea  which  he 
understood  was  gone  forth  of  yielding  up  the  sove- 
reignty of  America.  My  lords,”  continued  he,  “ I 
rejoice  that  the  grave  has  not  closed  upon  me,  tliat  I 
am  still  alive  to  lift  up  my  voice  against  the  dis- 
memberment of  this  ancient  and  noble  monarchy. 
Pressed  down  as  I am  by  the  lo.ad  of  infirmity,  1 am 
little  able  to  assist  my  country  in  this  most  perilous 
conjuncture;  but,  my  lords,  wliile  I have  sense  and 
memory,  I never  will  consent  to  tarnish  the  lustre  of 
this  nation  by  an  ignominious  surrender  of  its  rights 
and  fairest  possessions.  Shall  a people,  so  lately  the 
terror  of  the  world,  now  fall  prostrate  before  the  house 
of  Bourbon  ? It  is  impossible  ! In  God’s  name,  if  it 
is  absolutely  necessary  to  declare  either  for  peace  or 
war,  .and  if  peace  cannot  be  pre.served  with  honour, 
why  is  not  war  commenced  without  hesitation  ? I am 
not,  1 confess,  well  informed  of  the  resources  of  this 
kingdom,  but  I trust  it  has  still  sufficient  to  maintain 
its  just  rights,  though  I know  them  not.  Any  state, 
my  lords,  is  better  than  despair.  Let  us  at  least 
make  one  effort,  and  if  wo  must  fall,  let  us  fall  like 
men.” 

The  Duke  of  Richmond,  in  reply,  dechared  himself 
to  be  “ totally  ignorant  of  the  means  by  which  we 
were  to  resist  with  success  the  combination  of  .Ame- 
rica with  the  house  of  Bourbon.  He  urged  the  noble 
lord  to  point  out  any  possible  mode,  if  he  were  able 
to  do  it,  of  making  the  Americans  renounce  that  in-  , 
dependence  of  which  they  were  in  possession.  His  ; 
Grace  added,  that  if  he  could  not,  no  man  could  ; and  j 
that  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  change  his  opinion  on 
the  noble  lord’s  authority,  unsupported  by  any  reasons 
but  a recital  of  the  calamities  arising  from  a st.ate  of 
things  not  in  the  power  of  this  country  now  to  alter.” 

Lord  Chatham,  who  had  appeared  greatly  moved 
during  the  reply,  made  an  eager  effort  to  rise  at  the 
conclusion  of  it,  as  if  Labouring  with  .some  great  idea, 
and  impatient  to  give  full  .scope  to  his  feelings  ; but 
before  he  coubl  utter  <a  word,  pressing  hi.s  hand  on  his 
bosom,  he  fell  down  suddenly  in  a convulsive  fit. 
The  Duke  of  Cumberland,  Lord  Temple,  and  other  i 
lords  near  him,  caught  him  in  their  arms.  The  house 
was  immediately  cle.ared ; and  his  lordship  being 
carried  into  an  adjoining  apartment,  the  deb.ate  was 
adjourned.  Medical  assistance  being  obtained,  his 
lordship  in  some  degree  recovered,  and  was  conveyed 
to  his  favourite  villa  of  Hayes,  in  Kent,  where,  after 
lingering  some  few  weeks,  he  expired  May  II,  1778, 
in  the  70th  year  of  his  age.’ 

Grattan,  the  Irish  or.ator,  has  drawn  the  character 
of  Lord  Chatham  with  such  felicity  and  vigour  of 
style,  that  it  will  ever  be  preserved,  if  only  for  its 
composition.  The  glittering  point  and  antithesis  of 
his  thoughts  and  language,  have  seldom  been  united 
to  such  originality  and  force : — 

‘ The  secretary  stood  alone.  Modern  degeneracy 
had  not  reached  him.  Original  and  unaccommodating, 
the  features  of  his  character  h.ad  the  hardihood  of 
antiquity.  His  august  mind  overawed  majesty  ; and 
one  of  his  sovereigns  thought  royalty  so  impaired  in 
his  presence,  that  he  conspired  to  remove  him,  in 
order  to  be  relieved  from  his  superiority.  No  state 
chicanery,  no  narrow  system  of  vicious  politics,  sunk 
him  to  the  vulgar  level  of  the  great ; but,  overbearing, 
persuasive,  .and  impracticable,  his  object  was  England, 
his  ambition  was  fame.  Without  dividing,  ho  de- 
stroyed party ; without  corrupting,  he  made  a venal  | 
age  unanimous.  France  sunk  beneath  him.  With 
one  hand  he  smote  the  house  of  Bourbon,  and  wielded 
in  the  other  the  democracy  of  England.  The  sight  of 
his  mind  was  infinite  ; and  his  schemes  were  to  affect, 

254 


milCKU.ANEOUS  WIUTEUS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


E>XYCLOP/EDIAS  AND  5IACAZINL9. 


iiDt  Kiiglaml,  not  tlie  present  age  only,  but  Kurope 
and  posterity.  Wonderful  were  the  incans  by  which 
theue  schemes  were  accomplished  ; always  seasonable, 
always  adequate,  the  suggestions  of  an  understanding 
animated  by  ardour  and  enlightened  by  prophecy. 

'J’hc  ordinary  feelings  which  make  life  amiable  and 
indolent  were  unknown  to  him.  No  domestic  diffi- 
culties, no  domestic  weakness,  reached  him  ; but  aloof 
from  the  sordid  occurrences  of  life,  and  unsullied  by 
its  intercourse,  he  came  occasionally  into  our  system 
to  cotinsel  and  to  decide. 

A character  so  ei  alted,  so  strenuous,  so  various,  so 
authoritative,  astonished  a corrupt  age,  and  the  trea- 
sury trembled  at  the  name  of  Pitt  through  all  the 
classes  of  venality.  Corruption  imagined,  indeed, 
that  she  had  found  defects  in  this  statesman,  and 
talked  much  of  the  inconsistency  of  his  glory,  and 
much  of  the  ruin  of  his  victories ; but  the  history  of 
his  country,  and  the  calamities  of  the  enemy,  an- 
swered and  refuted  her.  Nor  were  his  political  abi- 
lities his  only  talents : his  eloquence  was  an  era  in 
the  senate,  peculiar  and  spontaneous,  familiarly  ex- 
pressing gigantic  sentiments  and  instinctive  wisdom  ; 
not  like  the  torrent  of  Demosthenes,  or  the  splendid 
conflagration  of  Tully  ; it  resembled  sometimes  the 
thunder,  and  sometimes  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
Like  Murray,  he  did  not  conduct  the  understanding 
through  the  painful  subtlety  of  argumentation  ; nor 
was  he,  like  Townsend,  for  ever  on  the  rack  of  exer- 
tion ; but  rather  lightened  upon  the  subject,  and 
reached  the  point  by  the  flashings  of  the  mind,  which, 
like  those  of  his  eye,  were  felt,  but  could  not  be  fol- 
lowed. Upon  the  whole,  there  was  in  this  man  some- 
thing that  could  create,  subvert,  or  reform ; an  un- 
derstanding, a spirit,*  and  an  eloquence  to  summon 
mankind  to  society,  or  to  break  the  bonds  of  slavery 
asunder,  and  to  rule  the  wilderness  of  free  minds 
with  unbounded  authority ; something  that  could 
establish  or  overwhelm  empire,  and  strike  a blow  in 
the  world  that  should  resound  through  the  universe.’ 

ENCTCLOPJEDIA3  AND  MAGAZINES. 

The  Cyclopedia  of  Ephraim  Chambers,  published 
in  1728,  in  two  folio  volumes,  w'as  the  first  dictionary 
or  repertory  of  general  knowledge  produced  in  Bri- 
tain. Chambers,  who  had  been  reared  to  the  busi- 
ness of  a globe-maker,  and  was  a man  of  respectable 
though  not  profound  attainments,  died  in  1740.  His 
work  was  printed  five  times  during  the  subsequent 
eighteen  3'ears,  and  has  finally  been  extended,  in  the 
present  centurjq  under  the  care  of  Dr  Abraham 
Rees,  to  forty  volumes  in  quarto.  Dr  John  Camp- 
bell, whose  share  in  compiling  the  Universal  His- 
tory has  already  been  spoken  of,  began  in  1742  to 
publish  his  Lives  of  the  British  Admirals,  and  three 
jears  later  commenced  the  Biographia  Britannica; 
works  of  considerable  magnitude,  and  which  still 
possess  a respectable  reputation.  The  reign  of 
George  II.  produced  many  other  attempts  to  fami- 
liarise knowledge ; but  it  seems  only  necessary  to 
a’lude  to  ors  of  these,  the  Breceptor  of  Robert 


Dodsley,  first  published  in  1748,  and  which  long 
continued  to  be  a favourite  and  useful  book.  It 
embraced  within  the  compass  of  two  volumes,  in 
octavo,  treatises  on  elocution,  composition,  arith- 
metic, geography,  logic,  moral  philosoph)',  human 
life  and  manners,  and  a few  other  branches  of  know- 
ledge, then  supposed  to  form  a complete  course  of 
education. 

The  age  under  notice  may  be  termed  the  epoch 
of  magazines  and  reviews.  The  earliest  work  of 
the  former  kind,  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  com- 
menced in  the  year  1731  by  Mr  Edward  Cave,  a 
printer,  W'as  at  first  simply  a monthly' condensation 
of  newspaper  discussions  and  intelligence,  but  in  the 
course  of  a few  years  became  open  to  the  reception 
of  literary  and  archaeological  articles.  The  term 
magazine  thus  gradually  departed  from  its  original 
meaning  as  a depository  of  extracts  from  newspapers, 
till  it  was  understood  to  refer  to  monthly  miscel- 
lanies of  literature,  such  as  it  is  now  habitually 
applied  to.  The  design  of  Mr  Cave  was  so  success- 
ful, that  it  soon  met  with  rivalry,  though  it  was 
some  time  before  any  other  w'ork  obtained  sufficient 
encouragement  to  be  continued  for  any  lengthened 
period.  The  Literary  Magazine,  started  in  173.5 
by  Mr  Ephraim  Cliambers,  subsisted  till  about  th« 
close  of  the  century.  The  London  Magazine,  the 
British  Magazine,  and  the  Town  and  Country  Ma- 
gazine, were  other  works  of  the  same  kind,  pub- 
lished with  more  or  less  success  during  the  reigns 
of  George  II.  and  George  III.  In  1739,  the  Scots 
Magazine  was  commenced  in  Edinburgh,  upon  a 
plan  nearly  similar  to  the  ‘ tJentleman’s  it  sur- 
vived till  1826,  and  forms  a valuable  register  of  the 
events  of  the  times  over  which  it  extends.  In  the 
old  magazines,  there  is  little  trace  of  that  anxiety 
for  literary  excellence  which  now  animates  the  con- 
ductors of  such  miscellanies ; yet,  from  the  notices 
which  they  contain  respecting  the  characters,  inci- 
dents, and  manners  of  former  years,  they  are  gene- 
rally very  entertaining.  The  ‘ Gentleman’s  Maga- 
zine’ continues  to  be  published,  and  retains  much  of 
its  early  distinction  as  a literary  and  archxological 
repository. 

Periodical  works,  devoted  exclusively  to  the  criti- 
cism of  new  books,  were  scarcely  known  in  Britain 
till  1749,  when  the  Monthly  Review  was  com- 
menced under  the  patronage  of  the  Whig  and  low 
church  party.  This  was  followed,  in  1756,  bj'  the 
establishment  of  the  Critical  Review,  which  for  some 
years  was  conducted  by  Dr  Smollett,  and  was  de- 
voted to  the  interests  of  the  Tory  party  in  church 
and  state.  These  productions,  marked  by  no  great 
ability,  were  the  only  publications  of  the  kind  pre- 
vious to  the  commencement  of  the  British  Critic  in 
1793. 

Another  respectable  and  useful  periodical  work 
was  originated  in  1758  by  Robert  Dodsley,  under 
the  title  of  the  Annual  Register,  the  plan  being  sug- 
gested, as  has  been  said,  by  Burke,  who  for  some 
years  wrote  the  historical  portion  wHh  his  usual 
ability.  This  work  is  still  published 


FROM  17B0 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THF.  PRESENT  TIMB. 


FROM  1780  TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


POETa 

HE  great  va- 
riety ami  abun- 
dance of  ttie  li- 
terature of  this 
period  might,  in 
some  measure, 
have  been  pre- 
dicted from  the 
progress  made 
during  the  pre- 
vious thirty  or 
forty  years,  in 
wliich,  as  Johnson  said,  almost 
every  man  had  come  to  write 
and  toexpress  himself correctly, 
and  the  number  of  readers  had 
been  multiplied  a thousand- 
fold. The  increase  in  national 
wealth  and  population  natu- 
rally led,  in  a country  like  Great 
Britain,  to  the  improvement  of 
literature  and  the  arts,  and  accordingly  we  find  that 
a more  popular  and  general  style  of  composition  be- 
gan to  sujiplant  the  conventional  stiffness  and  classic 
restraint  imposed  upon  former  authors.  The  human 
intellect  and  imagination  were  sent  abroad  on  wider 
surveys,  and  with  more  ambitious  views.  To  excite 
a great  mass  of  hearers,  the  public  orator  finds  it 
necessary  to  appeal  to  the  stronger  passions  and 
universal  sympathies  of  his  audience  ; and  in  writ- 
ing for  a large  number  of  readers,  an  author  must 
adopt  similar  means,  or  fail  of  success.  Hence  it 
seems  natural  that  as  society  advanced,  the  character 
of  our  literature  should  become  assimilated  to  it, 
and  partake  of  the  onward  movement,  the  popular 
feeling,  and  rising  energy  of  the  nation.  Tliere  were, 
however,  some  great  puWic  events  and  accidental 
circumstances  which  assisted  in  bringing  about  a 
change.  The  American  war,  by  exciting  the  elo- 
quence of  Chatham  and  Burke,  awakened  the  spirit 
of  tile  nation.  The  enthusiasm  was  continued  by 
the  poet  Cowper,  who  sympathised  keenly  with  his 
fellow-men,  and  liad  a w’arm  love  of  his  native  coun- 
try. Cowper  wrote  from  no  system ; he  had  not 
read  a poet  for  seventeen  ye-ars ; but  he  drew  the 
distinguishing  features  of  English  life  and  scenery 
with  such  graphic  power  and  beauty,  that  tlie  mere 
poetry  of  art  and  fashion,  and  the  stock  images  of 
descriptive  verse,  could  Tiot  hut  appear  mean,  affected, 
and  commoniilace.  W'arton’.s  ‘History  of  Poetry,’  and 
Peri-y’s  ‘Heliques,’  threw  back  the  imagination  to  the 
bolder  and  freer  era  of  our  national  literature,  and 
the  German  d ima,  witli  all  its  horrors  and  extra- 
vagance, w'as  something  better  than  mere  delinea- 
tions of  m.-umers  or  incidental  satire.  The  French 
Revolution  came  next,  and  seemed  to  break  down  all 
artificial  distinctions.  Talent  and  virtue  only  were 
to  be  regarded,  and  the  spirit  of  man  w-as  to  enter 
on  a new  course  of  free  and  glorious  action.  This 
dream  passed  away;  but  it  had  sunk  deep  into  some 
irdent  minds,  and  its  fruits  were  seen  in  bold  specu- 
ations  on  the  hopes  and  destiny  of  man,  in  the 


strong  colourings  of  nature  and  passion,  and  in  the 
free  and  flexible  movements  of  the  native  genius  of 
our  poetry.  Since  then,  every  department  of  lite- 
rature has  been  cultivated  with  success.  In  fiction, 
the  name  of  Scott  is  inferior  only  to  that  of  Shak- 
speare;  in  criticism,  a new  era  may  be  dated  from 
the  establishment  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  ; and  ir» 
historical  composition,  if  we  have  no  Hume  or  Gib- 
bon, we  have  the  results  of  far  more  valuable  and 
diligent  researcli.  Truth  and  nature  liave  been 
more  truly  and  devoutly  worshipped,  and  real  e.xcel- 
lence  more  highly  prized.  It  has  been  feared  by 
some  that  the  principle  of  utility,  which  is  recog- 
nised as  one  of  the  features  of  tlie  present  age,  and 
the  progress  of  mechanical  knowledge,  would  be  fatal 
to  the  higher  efforts  of  imagination,  and  diminish 
the  territories  of  the  poet.  This  seems  a groundles.« 
fear.  It  did  not  damp  the  ardour  of  Scott  or  Byron, 
and  it  has  not  prevented  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth 
from  gradually  working  its  way  into  public  favour. 

If  we  have  not  the  chivalry  and  romance  of  the 
Elizabetlian  age,  we  have  the  ever-living  passions  of 
human  nature,  and  tlie  wide  theatre  of  the  world,  ! 
now  accurately  knou-n  and  discriminated,  as  a field  | 
for  the  exercise  of  genius.  We  have  the  benefit  of 
all  past  knowledge  and  literature  to  exalt  our  stan-  | 
dard  of  imitation  and  taste,  and  a more  sure  reward 
in  the  encouragement  and  applause  of  a populous 
and  enlightened  nation.  ‘ The  literature  of  England,’ 
says  Shelley,  ‘ has  arisen,  as  it  were,  from  a new  birth. 

In  spite  of  the  low-thoughted  envy  which  would 
undervalue  contemporary  merit,  our  own  will  be  a 
memorable  age  in  intellectual  achievements,  and  we 
live  among  such  philosophers  and  poets  as  surpass, 
beyond  comparison,  any  who  have  appeared  since  i 
the  last  national  struggle  for  civil  and  religious 
liberty.  The  most  unfailing  herald,  companion,  and 
follower  of  the  awakening  of  a great  people  to  work 
a beneficial  change  in  opinion  or  institution,  is  poetry. 

At  such  periods  there  is  an  accumulation  of  the 
power  of  communicating  and  receiving  intense  and 
impassioned  conceptions  respecting  man  and  nature. 
The  persons  in  whom  this  power  resides,  may  often, 
as  far  as  regards  many  portions  of  their  nature,  have 
little  apparent  correspondence  with  that  spirit  of 
good  of  which  they  are  the  ministers.  But  even 
whilst  they  deny  and  abjure,  they  are  yet  compelled 
to  serve  the  power  which  is  seated  on  the  throne  of 
their  own  soul.  It  is  impossible  to  read  the  com- 
positions of  the  most  celebrated  writers  of  the  pre- 
sent lay,  without  being  startled  with  the  electric 
life  which  burns  within  their  words.  'They  measure 
the  circumference  and  sound  the  depths  of  human 
nature  with  a comprehensive  and  all  penetrating 
spirit,  and  they  are  themselves  perhaps  the  most 
sincerely  astonished  at  its  manifestations,  for  it  is 
less  their  spirit  than  the  spirit  of  the  age.  I’oetsare 
the  hierophants  of  an  unapprehended  inspiration; 
the  mirrors  of  the  gigantic  shadows  which  futurity 
casts  upon  the  present ; the  words  which  express 
what  they  understand  not ; the  trumpets  which  sing 
to  battle,  and  feel  not  what  they  inspire ; the  in- 
fluence which  is  moved  not,  hut  moves.  Poets  are 
the  unacknowledged  legislators  of  the  world.’ 

256 


PORTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WIILIAM  COWPEE. 


WILLIAM  COWPER, 

AVilliam  Cowper,  * the  most  popular  poet  of  his 
jeneratioii,  and  tlie  best  of  Enplisli  letter-writers,’ 
*a  Illr  Sdutliey  has  designated  liim,  belonged  cmpha- 


■WiDlam  Cowper. 


tically  to  the  aristocracy  of  England.  His  father, 
the  Rev.  Dr  Cowper,  chaplain  to  George  II.,  was  the 
son  of  Spencer  Cowper,  one  of  the  judges  of  the 
coiut  of  common  pleas,  and  a younger  brother  of 
the  first  Earl  Cowper,  lord  chancellor.  Ills  mother 
was  allied  to  some  of  the  noblest  families  in  England, 
descended  by  four  ditferent  lines  from  King  Henry  III. 
This  lofty  iineage  cannot  add  to  the  lustre  of  the 
poet’s  fame,  but  it  sheds  additional  grace  on  his  piety 
and  humility.  Dr  Cowper,  besides  his  royal  chap- 
laincy, held  the  rectory  of  Great  Berkhamstead,  in 
the  county  of  Hertford,  and  there  the  poet  was  born, 
November  15,  1731.  In  his  sixth  j'ear  he  lost  his 
motlier  (whom  he  tenderly  and  affectionately  re- 
membered through  all  his  life),  and  was  placed  at 
a boarding-school,  where  he  continued  two  years. 
The  tyranny  of  one  of  his  school-fellows,  who  held 
in  complete  subjection  and  abject  fear  the  timid  and 
home-sick  boy,  led  to  his  removal  from  this  semi- 
nary, and  undoubtedly  prejudiced  him  against  the 
whole  system  of  public  education.  He  was  next 
placed  at  Westminster  school,  where,  as  he  says,  he 
served  a seven  vears’  apprenticeship  to  the  classics ; 
and  at  the  age  of  eighteen  was  removed,  in  order  to 
be  articled  to  an  attorney.  Having  passed  through 
this  training  (with  the  future  Lord  Chancellor  Tlmr- 
low  for  his  fellow-clerk),  Cowper,  in  1754,  was  called 
to  the  bar.  He  never,  however,  made  the  law  a 
study:  in  the  solicitor’s  office  he  and  Thurlow  were 
‘ constantly'  employed  from  morning  to  night  in  gig- 
gling and  making  giggle,’  and  in  his  chambers  in  the 
Temple  he  wrote  gay  verses,  and  associated  with 
B nmel  Thornton,  Colm.an,  Lloyd,  and  other  wits.  He 
contributed  a few  papers  to  the  Connoisseur  and 
to  the  St  James's  Chronicle,  both  conducted  by  his 
friends.  Darker  days  were  at  hand.  Cowper’s 
father  was  now  dead,  his  patrimony  was  small,  and 
he  was  in  his  thirty-second  year,  almost  ‘ unprovided 
with  an  aim,’  for  the  law  was  with  him  a mere  nomi- 
nal profession.  In  this  crisis  of  his  fortunes  his 
kinsman.  Major  Cowper,  presented  him  to  the  office 
of  clerk  of  the  journals  to  the  House  of  Lords — a 
desirable  and  lucrative  appointment.  Cowper  ac- 
cepted it;  but  the  labour  of  studying  the  forms  of 
procedure,  and  the  dread  of  qualifying  himself  by 
59 


appearing  at  the  bar  of  the  House  of  Lords,  [ilnnged 
him  in  the  deepest  misery  and  distress.  The  seeds 
of  in.sanity  were  then  in  his  frame;  and  .after  brood- 
ing over  his  fancied  ills  till  reason  had  fled,  he  at- 
tempted to  commit  suicide.  Happily  this  desperate 
effort  failed;  the  appointment  was  given  up,  and 
Cowper  was  removed  to  a private  madhouse  at  St 
Albans,  kept  by  Dr  Cotton.  The  cloud  of  horror 
gradually  passed  away,  and  on  his  recovery,  he  re- 
solved to  withdraw  entirely  from  the  society  and  ; 
business  of  the  world.  He  had  still  a small  portion  | 
of  his  funds  left,  and  his  friends  subscribed  a further 
sum,  to  enable  him  to  live  frugally  in  retirement. 

The  bright  hopes  of  Cowper’s  youth  seemed  tlius  to 
have  all  vanished : his  prospects  of  .advancement  in  : 
the  world  were  gone ; and  in  the  new-born  zeal  of  , 
his  religious  fervour,  his  friends  might  well  doubt  I 
whether  his  reason  had  been  completely  restored. 

He  retired  to  the  town  of  Huntingdon,  near  Cam-  I 
bridge,  where  his  brother  resided,  and  there  formed 
an  intimacy  with  the  family  of  the  Rev.  Morley  | 
Unwin,  a clergyman  resident  in  the  place.  He  was  * 
adopted  as  one  of  the  family;  and  when  Mr  Unwin 
himself  was  suddenly  removed,  the  same  connexion 
was  continued  with  his  widow.  Death  only  could 
sever  a tie  so  strongly  knit — cemented  by  mutual  : 
faith  and  friendship,  and  by  sorrows  of  which  the  j 
world  knew  nothing.  To  the  latest  generation  the 
name  of  Mary  Unwin  will  be  united  with  that  ol 
Cowper,  partaker  of  his  fame  as  of  his  sad  decline — j 

By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light.  | 

After  the  de.ath  of  Mr  Unwin  in  1767,  the  family  : 
were  .advised  by  the  Rev.  .John  Newton — a remark- 
able man  in  many  respects — to  fix  their  abode  at 
Olney,  in  the  nortliern  division  of  Buckinghamshire, 
where  Mr  Newton  himself  officiated  as  curate.  Thii 


Olney  Church. 


was  accordingly  done,  and  Cowper  removed  with 
them  to  a spot  which  he  has  consecrated  by  his 
genius.  He  had  still  the  river  Ouse  with  him,  as 
at  Huntingdon,  but  the  scenery  is  more  varied  and 
attractive,  and  abounds  in  fine  retired  walks.  His 
life  was  that  of  a religious  recluse : he  ceased  cor- 
responding with  his  friends,  and  associated  only 
with  Mrs  Unwin  and  Newton.  The  latter  engaged 

257 


FROM  17f)0 


CVUI.01V>:i)IA  OF 


TILL  THE  PBE8BKT  T)>r>. 


Ills  assistance  in  writin|»  a volume  ot'liymns,  Imt  his 
niorhiil  imlancholy  Knined  Kmund,  and  in  1773  it 
beiamie  a ease  of  decided  insanity.  AlHiut  two  years 
were  jiassed  in  this  unha|)py  state.  On  his  recovery, 
Cowper  t(x)k  to  ijardeninf',  rearing  hares,  drawing 
landscapes,  and  composing  poetry.  'J'he  latter  was 
fortunately  the  most  permanent  enjoyment  ; and  its 
fruits  appeared  in  a volume  of  poems  published  in 
1782.  Tlie  sale  of  the  work  was  slow  ; but  his  friends 
were  eager  in  its  praise,  and  it  received  the  approba- 
tion of  .Johnson  and  Franklin.  Ilis  correspondence 
was  resumed,  and  cheerfulness  ag.ain  became  an  in- 
mate of  his  retreat  at  Olney.  This  happy  change 
was  augmented  by  the  presence  of  a third  party, 
f/’idy  Austen,  a widow,  who  came  to  re.^hle  in  the 
i'-.im'-d.iate  neighbourhood  of  Olney,  and  whose  con- 
’’  rsation  for  a time  charmed  away  the  nidancholy 
spirit  of  •"'owper.  She  told  him  the  story  of  John 
a.::-:  ‘ the  famous  horseman  anc  his  feats  were 
h>  !xl;.;u"tihle  source  of  merriment.’  J ady  Aisfon 
Sij-..  -."—-^occl  u;  :o  uue  poet  to  try  his  powere  in  j 
blanli  •-.--t.,  and  fro,.:  her  snggostion  sprang  the 
noble  poe,.'  of  ’the  Task.  Tins  memorable  fiiend-  ( 
Ehij)  was  at  length  dissolved.  The  lady  exacted  too 
much  of  the  time  and  attention  of  the  poet — perhaps 
a shade  of  jealousy  on  the  part  of  Blrs  Unwin,  with 
respect  to  the  sui>erior  charms  and  attractions  of  her 
rival,  intervened  to  increase  the  alienation — and  be- 
fore the  Task  was  finished,  its  fair  inspirer  had 
left  Olney  without  any  intention  of  returning  to  it. 
In  1785  the  new  volume  was  published.  Its  suc- 
cess was  instant  and  deindeil.  The  public  were 
glad  to  hear  the  true  voice  of  poetry  and  of  nature, 
and  in  the  rural  descriptions  and  fireside  scenes  of 
the  Task,  they  saw  the  features  of  English  scenery 
and  domestic  life  faithfully  delineated.  ‘The  Task,’ 
says  Southey,  ‘ was  at  once  descriptive,  moral,  and 
satirical.  The  descriptive  parts  everywhere  bore 
evidence  of  a thoughtful  mind  and  a gentle  si>irit,  as 
well  as  of  an  observant  eye  ; and  the  moral  senti- 
ment which  pervaded  them  gave  a charm  in  which 
descriptive  poetry  is  often  found  wanting.  The  best 
didactic  poems,  when  compared  with  the  Task,  are 
like  formal  gardens  in  comparison  with  woodland 
scenery.’  As  soon  as  he  had  completed  his  labours 
for  the  publication  of  his  second  volume,  Cowper 
entered  upon  an  undertaking  of  a still  more  arduous 
nature  — a translation  of  Homer.  He  had  gone 
through  the  great  Grecian  at  Westminster  school, 
and  afterwards  read  him  critically  in  the  Temple, 
and  he  was  impressed  with  but  a poor  opinion  of  the 
transl.ation  of  Pope.  Setting  himself  to  a daily  task 
of  forty  lines,  he  at  length  accomplished  the  forty 
thousand  verses.  He  published  by  subscription,  in 
which  his  friends  were  generously  active.  Tlie  work 
appeared  in  1791,  in  two  volumes  .'luarto.  In  the 
interval  the  poet  and  Mrs  Unwin  had  removed  to 
Weston,  a beautiful  village  about  a mile  from  Olney. 
Ilis  cousin.  Lady  Hesketh,  a woman  of  refined  and 
fascinating  manners,  had  visited  him;  he  had  also 
formed  a friendly  intimacy  with  the  family  of  the 
Throckmortons,  to  whom  Weston  belonged,  and  his 
circumstances  were  comparatively  easy.  His  malady, 
however,  returned  upon  him  with  full  force,  and 
Mrs  Unwin  being  rendered  helpless  by  palsy  the 
task  of  nursing  her  fell  upon  the  sensitive  and  de- 
jected poet.  A careful  revision  of  his  Homer,  and 
an  engagement  to  edit  a new  edition  of  IMilton, 
were  the  last  literary  undertakings  of  Cowper.  The 
former  he  completed,  but  without  improving  the 
first  edition  : his  second  task  was  never  finished. 

A deepening  gloom  settle  1 on  his  mind,  with  occa- 
lionally  bright  intervals.  A visit  to  his  friend 
Haylev,  at  Eartham,  produced  a short  cessa'ion  of 
bis  mental  suffering,  and  in  1794  a pension  oi  £300 


was  granted  to  him  from  the  crown.  He  was  induced,  I 
in  1795,  to  remove  with  Mrs  Unwin  to  Norfolk,  on  I 
a visit  to  some  relations,  and  there  Mrs  Unwin  died 
on  the  17th  December  1796.  The  uidiappy  poet 
would  not  believe  that  his  long  tried  friend  was 
actually  dead ; he  went  to  see  the  body,  and  on  wit- 
nessing the  unaltered  placidity  of  death.  Hung  him- 
self to  the  other  side  of  the  room  with  a passionate 
expression  of  feeling,  and  from  that  time  he  never 
mentioned  her  name  nor  spoke  of  her  again.  He 
lingered  on  for  more  than  three  years,  still  under 
the  same  dark  shadow  of  religious  despondency  and 
terror,  but  occasionally  writing,  and  listening  atten- 
tively to  works  read  to  him  by  his  friends.  His 
last  poem  was  the  Castuwuy,  a strain  of  touching 
and  beautiful  verse,  which  showed  no  decay  of  his  ‘ 
poetical  powers  : at  length  death  came  to  his  release  ■ 
on  the  25th  of  Aptil  1800.  ‘Jo  sad  and  strange  a 


Cowper’s  Monument. 


destiny  has  never  before  or  since  been  that  of  a man 
of  genius.  With  wit  and  humour  at  will,  he  was  i 
nearly  all  his  life  plunged  in  the  darkest  melancholy,  t 
Innocent,  pious,  and  confiding,  he  lived  in  per-  ; 
petual  dread  of  everlasting  punishment:  he  could 
only  see  between  him  and  heaven  a high  wall  which  ! 
he  despaired  of  ever  being  able  to  scale ; yet  his  in-  j 
tellectual  vigour  was  not  subdued  by  affliction.  AVhat  i 
he  wrote  for  amusement  or  relief  in  the  midst  of 
‘ supreme  distress,’  surpasses  the  elaborate  efforts  of  1 
others  made  under  the  most  favourable  circum-  | 
stances ; and  in  the  very  winter  of  his  days,  his  j 
fancy  was  as  fresh  and  blooming  as  in  the  spring 
and  morning  of  existence.  That  he  was  constitu- 
tionally prone  to  melancholy  and  insanity,  seems 
u.'idoubted ; but  the  predisposing  causes  were  as 
surely  .aggravated  by  his  strict  and  secluded  mode 
of  life.  Lady  Hesketh  was  a better  guide  and  com- 
panion than  .John  Newton  ; and  no  one  can  read 
Ids  letters  without  observing  that  cheerfulness  was 
inspired  by  the  one,  and  terror  by  the  other.  The 
iron  frame  of  Newton  could  stand  unmoved  anddst 
shocks  that  destroyed  the  shrinking  and  apprehen- 
sive ndnd  of  Cowper.  All,  however,  have  now  gone 
to  their  account — the  stern  yet  kind  minister,  the 
faithful  Mary  Unwin,  the  gentle  high-borc  relations 

258 


j torn.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  william  cowpeb. 

who  forsook  ease,  and  luxury,  and  society  to  soothe 
the  misery  of  one  wretched  being,  and  that  immortal 
1 being  hiniself  has  p.assed  away,  scarce  conscious  that 
' he  had  bequeathed  an  imperishable  treasure  to  man- 
■ kind.  We  have  greater  and  loftier  poets  than 
; 1 Cowper,  but  none  so  entirely  incorporated,  as  it 
\ were,  with  our  daily  existence — none  so  completely 
a friend — our  companion  in  woodland  wanderings, 
and  in  moments  of  serious  thought — ever  gentle  and 
affectionate,  even  in  his  transient  fits  of  ascetic 
gloom — a pure  mirror  of  affections,  regrets,  feelingjs, 
and  desires  which  we  have  all  felt  or  would  wish  to 
cherish.  Shakspeare,  Spenser,  and  Milton,  are  spirits 
j of  ethere.al  kind : Cowper  is  a steady  and  valu.able 
1 1 friend,  whose  society  we  may  sometimes  neglect  for 
that  of  more  splendid  and  attractive  associates,  but 
whose  unwavering  principle  and  purity  of  character, 
joined  to  rich  intellectual  powers,  overflow  upon  us 
in  secret,  and  bind  us  to  him  for  ever, 
i It  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at  that  Cowper’s 

Irst  volume  was  coldly  received.  The  subjects  of 
^ ais  poems  (Table  Talk,  the  Progress  of  Error,  Truth. 

Expostulation,  Hope,  Charity,  &c.)  did  not  promise 
1 much,  and  his  manner  of  handling  them  was  not 

I i calculated  to  conciliate  a fastidious  public.  He 

' j was  both  too  harsh  and  too  spiritu.al  for  general 

i i readers.  Johnson  had  written  moral  poems  in  the 
! ! same  form  of  verse,  but  they  possessed  a rich  declama- 
' i tory  grandeur  and  brilliancy  of  illustration  which 

Cowper  did  not  attempt,  and  probably  would,  from 
principle,  have  rejected.  There  are  passages,  how- 
' ever,  in  these  evangelic.al  works  of  Cowper  of 
masterly  execution  and  lively  fancy.  His  character 
; of  Chatham  has  rarely  been  surpassed,  even  by  Poi>e 
or  Dryden : — 

A.  Patriots,  alas ! the  few  that  have  been  found 
1 Where  most  they  flourish,  upon  English  ground, 

j The  country’s  need  have  scantily  supplied  ; 

1 And  the  last  left  the  scene  when  Chatham  died. 

! jB.  Not  so  ; the  virtue  still  adorns  our  age, 

1 Though  the  chief  actor  died  upon  the  stage. 

I I In  him  Demosthenes  was  heard  again  ; 

'•  j Liberty  taught  him  her  Athenian  strain ; 

She  clothed  him  with  authority  and  awe, 

1 Spoke  from  his  lips,  and  in  his  looks  gave  law. 

I i His  speech,  his  form,  his  action  full  of  grace, 

i And  all  his  country  beaming  in  his  face, 

j He  stood  as  some  inimitable  hand 

Would  strive  to  make  a Paul  or  Tully  stand. 

No  sycophant  or  slave  that  dared  oppose 
! 1 Her  sacred  cause,  but  trembled  when  he  rose  ; 

' And  every  venal  stickler  for  the  yoke, 

' Felt  himself  crushed  at  the  first  word  he  spoke. 

i 1 Neither  has  the  fine  simile  with  which  the  foUow- 
! ! ing  retrospect  closes  : — 

Ases  elapsed  ere  Homer’s  lamp  appeared, 
j And  ages  ere  the  hlantuan  swan  was  heard ; 

1 To  carry  nature  lengths  unknown  before, 

’ To  give  a Milton  birth  asked  ages  more. 

Thus  genius  rose  and  set  at  ordered  times, 
j And  shot  a day-spring  into  distant  climes, 

' Ennobling  every  region  that  he  chose. 

I I He  sunk  in  Greece,  in  Italy  he  rose ; 

And,  tedious  years  of  Gothic  darkness  past, 

, j Emerged  all  splendour  in  our  isle  at  last. 

[ 1 Thus  lovely  halcyons  dive  into  the  main, 

j '■  Then  show  far  off  their  shining  plumes  again. 

i ^ The  poem  of  Conversation  in  this  volume  is  rich 
j|  in  Addisonian  humour  and  satire,  and  formed  no 
j unworthy  prelude  to  the  Task.  In  Hope  and  Retire- 
ment, we  see  traces  of  the  descriptive  powers  and 
natural  pleasantry  afterwards  so  finely  developed. 

The  highest  flight  in  the  whole,  and  the  one  most 
characteristic  of  Cowper,  is  his  sketch  of 

[77iC  Greenland  Missionaries.] 

That  sound  bespeaks  salvation  on  her  way. 

The  trumpet  of  a life-restoring  day ; 

’Tis  heard  where  England’s  e.ostern  glory  shines, 
And  in  the  gulfs  of  her  Cornubian  mines. 

And  still  it  spreads.  See  Germany  send  forth 
Her  sons  to  pour  it  on  the  farthest  north ; 

Fired  with  a zeal  peculiar,  they  defy 
The  rage  and  rigour  of  a polar  sky. 

And  plant  successfully  sweet  Sharon’s  rose 
On  icy  plains  and  in  eternal  snows. 

Oh  blessed  within  the  enclosure  of  your  rocks, 
Nor  herds  have  ye  to  boast,  nor  bleating  flocks ; 

No  fertilising  streams  your  fields  divide. 

That  show  reversed  the  villas  on  their  side ; 

No  groves  have  ye  ; no  cheerful  sound  of  bird. 

Or  voice  of  turtle  in  your  land  is  heard  ; 

Nor  grateful  eglantine  regales  the  smell 
Of  those  that  walk  at  evening  where  ye  dwell ; 

But  Winter,  armed  with  terrors  here  unknown. 

Sits  absolute  on  his  unshaken  throne. 

Piles  up  his  stores  amidst  the  frozen  waste. 

And  bids  the  mountains  he  has  built  stand  fast ; 
Beckons  the  legions  of  his  storms  away 
From  happier  scenes  to  make  your  lauds  a prey  ; 
Proclaims  the  soil  a conquest  he  has  won. 

And  scorns  to  share  it  with  the  distant  sun. 

A'et  Truth  is  yours,  remote  unenvied  isle  ! 

And  Peace,  the  genuine  offspring  of  her  smile; 

The  pride  of  lettered  ignorance,  that  binds 
In  chains  of  error  our  accomplished  minds. 

That  decks  with  all  the  splendour  of  the  true, 

A false  religion,  is  unknoivn  to  you. 

Nature  indeed  vouchsafes  for  our  delight 
The  sweet  vicissitudes  of  day  and  night ; 

Soft  airs  and  genial  moisture  feed  and  cheer 
Field,  fruit,  and  flower,  and  every  creature  here ; 
But  brighter  beams  than  his  who  fires  the  skies 
Have  risen  at  length  on  your  admiring  eyes. 

That  shoot  into  your  darkest  caves  the  day 
From  which  our  nicer  optics  turn  away. 

In  this  mixture  of  argument  and  piety,  poetry'  and 
plain  sense,  we  have  the  distinctive  traits  of  Cowper’s 
genius.  The  freedom  acquired  by  composition,  and 
especially  the  presence  of  Lady  Austen,  led  to  more 
valuable  results ; and  when  he  entered  upon  the  Task, 
he  was  far  more  disposed  to  look  at  the  sunny'  side 
of  things,  and  to  launch  into  general  description. 
His  versification  underwent  a similar  improvement. 
His  former  poems  were  often  rugged  in  style  and 
expression,  and  were  made  so  on  purpose,  to  avoid 
the  polished  uniformity  of  Pope  and  his  imitators. 
He  was  now  sensible  that  he  had  erred  on  the  oppo- 
site side,  and  accordingly  the  Task  was  made  to 
unite  strength  and  freedom  witli  elegance  and  har- 
mony. No  poet  has  introduced  so  much  idiomatic 
expression  into  a grave  poem  of  blank  verse;  but  the 
higher  passages  are  all  carefully  finished,  and  rise 
or  fall,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  subject,  with 
inimitable  grace  and  melody.  In  this  respect  Cow- 
per, as  already  mentioned,  has  greatly  the  advantage 
of  Thomson,  whose  stately  march  is  never  relaxed, 
however  trivial  be  the  theme.  The  variety  oi  the 
Task  in  style  and  manner,  no  less  than  in  subject, 
is  one  of  its  greatest  charms.  The  mock-heroic 
opening  is  a fine  specimen  of  his  humour,  und  from 
this  he  slides  into  rural  description  a id  moral  reflec- 
tion so  naturally  and  easily,  that  the  reader  is  carried 
along  apparently  without  an  effort.  The  scenery  of 
the  Ouse — its  level  plains  and  spacious  meads — is 
described  with  the  vividness  of  painting,  and  th« 

259 

FROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  "ill  the  prksknt  tims. 


poet  tlion  elevates  the  character  of  his  picture  by  a 
rapid  sketch  of  still  nobler  features: — 

{Rural  Sounds. 

Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds, 

Kxliilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
Tlie  tone  of  languid  nature.  Mighty  winds 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 
The  dasli  of  ocean  on  his  winding  shore. 

And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind. 
Unnumbered  branches  waving  in  the  blast. 

Anil  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering  all  at  once. 

Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighbouring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and  chiming  as  they  fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that  with  a livelier  green 
Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 

Nature  inanimate  displays  sweet  sounds, 

But  animated  nature  sweeter  still. 

To  soothe  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 

Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 
The  livelong  night ; nor  these  alone  whose  notes 
Nice-fingered  art  must  emulate  in  vain. 

But  rawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 
In  still-repeated  circles,  screaming  loud. 

The  jay,  the  pie,  and  even  the  boding  owl 
That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me. 
Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh. 

Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  for  ever  reigns. 
And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

The  freedom  of  this  versification,  and  the  admirable 
variety  of  pause  and  cadence,  must  strike  the  most 
uncritical  reader.  With  the  same  playful  strength 
and  equal  power  of  landscape  painting,  he  describes 

{The  Diversified  Character  of  Creation.'] 

The  earth  was  made  so  various,  that  the  mind 
Of  desultory  man,  studious  of  change 
And  pleased  with  novelty,  might  be  indulged. 
Prospects,  however  lovely,  may  be  seen 
Till  half  their  beauties  fade  ; the  weary  sight. 

Too  well  acquainted  with  their  smiles,  slides  oflf 
Fastidious,  seeking  less  familiar  scenes. 

Then  snug  enclosures  in  the  sheltered  vale. 

Where  frequent  hedges  intercept  the  eye. 

Delight  us,  happy  to  renounce  a while. 

Not  sensele.ss  of  its  charms,  what  still  we  love. 

That  such  short  absence  may  endear  it  more. 

Then  forests,  or  the  savage  rock  may  please 
That  hides  the  sea-mew  in  his  hollow  clefts 
Above  the  reach  of  man  ; his  hoary  head 
Conspicuous  many  a league,  the  mariner 
Bound  homeward,  and  in  hope  already  there. 

Greets  with  three  cheers  exulting.  At  his  waist 
A girdle  of  half-withered  shrubs  he  shows. 

And  at  his  feet  the  baffled  billows  die. 

The  common  overgrown  with  fern,  and  rough 
With  prickly  goss,  that,  shapeless  and  deform. 

And  dangerous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom. 

And  decks  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold. 

Yields  no  unpleasing  ramble  ; there  the  turf 
Smells  fresh,  and  rich  in  odoriferous  herbs 
And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regales  the  sense 
With  luxury  of  unexpected  sweets. 

From  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  Task  we 
never  lose  sight  of  the  author.  His  love  of  country 
rambles,  when  a boy. 

O’er  hills,  through  valleys,  and  by  river’s  brink  ; 
his  walks  with  Mrs  Unwin,  when  he  had  exchanged 
Uie  Thames  for  the  Ouse,  and  had  ‘ grown  sober  in 


the  vale  of  years  j’  his  playful  satire  ai  d tendei 
admonition,  his  denunciation  of  slavery,  his  noble 
jiatriotism,  his  devotional  earnestness  and  snbli- 
mity,  his  warm  sympathy  with  his  fellow-men,  and 
bis  exquisite  paintings  of  domestic  peace  and  hap- 
piness, are  all  so  much  self-portraiture,  drawn  with 
the  ripe  skill  and  taste  of  the  master,  yet  with  a 
modesty  that  shrinks  from  the  least  obtrusiveness 
and  display.  The  very  rapidity  of  his  transitions, 
where  tilings  light  and  sportive  are  drawn  up  with 
the  most  solemn  truths,  and  satire,  patho.s,  and  re- 
proof alternately  mingle  or  repel  each  other,  are 
characteristic  of  his  mind  and  temperament  in  ordi- 
nary life.  His  inimitable  ease  and  colloquial  free- 
dom, which  lends  such  a charm  to  his  letters,  is 
never  long  absent  from  his  poetry;  and  his  peculiar 
tastes,  as  seen  in  that  somewhat  grandiloquent  line, 

Who  loves  a garden,  loves  a greenhouse  too, 

are  all  pictured  in  the  pure  and  lucid  pages  of  the 
Task.  It  cannot  be  said  that  Cowper  ever  aban- 
doned his  sectarian  religious  tenets,  yet  they  are 
little  seen  in  his  great  work.  His  piety  is  that 
which  all  should  feel  and  venerate;  and  if  his  sad 
experience  of  the  world  had  tinged  the  pro.spect  of 
life,  ‘ its  fiuctuations  and  its  vast  concerns,’  with  a 
deeper  shade  than  seems  consonant  with  the  genera 
welfare  and  happiness,  it  also  imparted  a highei 
authority  and  more  impressive  wisdom  to  his  earnest 
and  solemn  appeals.  He  was  ‘ a stricken  deer  that 
left  the  herd,’  conscious  of  the  follies  and  w.ants  of 
those  he  left  behind,  and  inspired  with  power  to 
minister  to  the  delight  and  instruction  of  the  whole 
human  race. 

{From  ‘ Conversation.’] 

The  emphatic  speaker  dearly  loves  to  oppose. 

In  contact  inconvenient,  nose  to  nose, 

.“^s  if  the  gnomon  on  his  neighbour’s  phiz. 

Touched  with  a magnet,  had  attracted  his. 

His  whispered  theme,  dilated  and  at  large. 

Proves  after  all  a wind-gun’s  airy  charge — 

An  extract  of  his  diary — no  more — 

A tasteless  journal  of  the  day  before. 

He  walked  abroad,  o’ertaken  in  the  rain. 

Called  on  a friend,  drank  tea,  stept  home  again ; 
Resumed  his  purpose,  had  a world  of  talk 
With  one  he  stumbled  on,  and  lost  his  walk ; 

1 interrupt  him  with  a sudden  bow. 

Adieu,  dear  sir,  lest  you  should  lose  it  now. 

A graver  coxcomb  we  may  sometimes  see, 

Quite  as  absurd,  though  not  so  light  as  he : 

A shallow  brain  behind  a serious  mask. 

An  oracle  within  an  empty  cask. 

The  solemn  fop,  significant  and  budge  ; 

A fool  with  judges,  amongst  fools  a judge; 

He  says  but  little,  and  that  little  said. 

Owes  all  its  weight,  like  loaded  dice,  to  lead. 

His  wit  invites  you  by  his  looks  to  come. 

But  when  you  knock,  it  never  is  at  home : 

’Tis  like  a pareel  sent  you  by  the  stage. 

Some  handsome  present,  as  your  hopes  presage; 

’Tis  heavy,  bulky,  and  bids  fair  to  prove 
An  absent  friend’s  fidelity  of  love  ; 

But  when  unpacked,  your  disappointment  groans 
To  find  it  stuffed  with  brickbats,  earth,  and  stones. 

Some  men  employ  their  health — an  ugly  trick — 

In  making  known  how  oft  they  have  been  sick. 

And  give  us  in  recitals  of  disease 
A doctor’s  trouble,  but  without  the  fees ; 

Relate  how  many  weeks  they  kept  their  bed. 

How  an  emetic  or  cathartic  sped  ; 

Nothing  is  slightly  touched,  much  less  forgot; 

Nose,  ears,  and  eyes  seem  Piesent  on  the  spot. 

260 


POETS,  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  william  cowpek 


Now  the  distemper,  spite  of  draught  or  pill, 
Victorious  seemed,  and  now  the  doctor’s  skill ; 

And  now — alas  ! for  unforeseen  mishaps  ! 

They  j)ut  on  a damp  nightcap,  and  relapse ; 

They  thought  they  must  have  died,  they  were  so  bad. 
Their  peevish  hearers  almost  wish  they  had. 

Some  fretful  tempers  wince  at  every  touch, 

You  always'do  too  little  or  too  much : 

You  speak  with  life,  in  hopes  to  entertain, 

Y our  elevated  voice  goes  through  the  brain ; 

You  fall  at  once  into  a lower  key, 

That’s  worse,  the  drone-pipe  of  a humble  bee. 

The  southern  sash  admits  too  strong  a light ; 

You  rise  and  drop  the  curtain — now  ’tis  night. 

He  shakes  with  cold — you  stir  the  fire,  and  strive 
To  make  a blaze — that’s  roasting  him  alive. 

Serve  him  with  venison,  and  he  chooses  fish  ; 

H’ith  sole- — that’s  just  the  sort  he  would  not  wish. 
He  takes  what  he  at  first  professed  to  loathe, 

And  ip  du"  time  feeds  heartily  “u  both ; 

Yet  still  o’erclouded  with  a ..onstaiit  frown. 

He  does  not  swallow,  but  he  gulps  it  down. 

Your  hope  to  please  him  vain  on  every  plan, 

Himself  should  work  that  wonder,  if  he  can. 

Alas ! his  efforts  double  his  distress. 

He  likes  yours  little  and  his  own  still  less ; 

Thus  always  teasing  others,  always  teased. 

His  only  pleasure  is  to  be  displeased. 

I pity  bashful  men,  who  feel  the  pain 
Of  fancied  scorn  and  undeserved  disdain. 

And  bear  the  marks  upon  a blushing  face 
Of  needless  shame  and  self-imposed  disgrace. 

Our  sensibilities  are  so  acute. 

The  fear  of  being  silent  makes  us  mute. 

We  sometimes  think  we  could  a speech  produce 
Much  to  the  purpose,  if  our  tongues  were  loose; 

But  being  tried,  it  dies  upon  the  lip. 

Faint  as  a chicken’s  note  that  has  the  pip ; 

Our  wasted  oil  unprofitably  burns. 

Like  hidden  lamps  in  old  sepulchral  urns. 

On  the  Receipt  of  hie  Mother's  Picture. 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  language  ! Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  1 heard  thee  last. 

Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smiles  I sec. 

The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me ; 

Voice  only  fails,  else,  how  distinct  they  say, 

‘ Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away  !’ 

The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalise. 

The  art  that  baffles  time’s  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0 welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  1 
Who  bidd’st  me  honour,  with  an  artless  song 
Affectionate,  a mother  lost  so  long. 

1 will  obey,  not  willingly  alone. 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 

And  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief. 

Fancy  shall  weave  a charm  for  my  relief; 

Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 

A momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother ! when  I learned  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o’er  thy  sorrowing  son. 

Wretch  even  then,  life’s  journey  just  begun? 

Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unseen,  a kiss  ; 
Perhaps  a tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 

Ah,  that  maternal  smile  ! it  answers — Yes. 

I heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 

I saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away. 

And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a last  adieu  1 
But  was  it  such ! It  was.  Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a sound  unknown. 


May  1 but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 

The  parting  sound  shall  pass  my  lips  no  morel 
Thy  maidens  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern. 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  a quick  return  : 

What  ardently  I wished  I long  believed. 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived ; 

By  disappointment  every  day  beguiled. 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a child. 

Thus  many  a sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

1 learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot. 

But,  though  I less  deplored  thee,  ne’er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 

And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day. 

Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 

Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capt, 

’Tis  now  become  a history  little  known. 

That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  ! but  the  record  fair. 

That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there. 

Still  outlives  many  a storm,  that  has  effaced 
A thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made. 

That  thou  might’st  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I left  my  home. 

The  biscuit  or  confectionary  plum  ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed ; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall. 

Ne’er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks. 

That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes ; 

All  this,  still  legible  in  memory’s  page. 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 

Addsjoy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 

Perhaps  a frail  memorial,  but  sincere. 

Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture’s  tissued  flowers. 

The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 

I pricked  them  into  paper  with  a pin, 

(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while. 
Would  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile), 
Could  those  few  pleasant  hours  again  appear. 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I wish  them  here? 
I would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I m'ght. 

But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such. 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 

That  I should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a gallant  bark  from  Albion’s  coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed). 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle. 

Where  spices  breathe  and  brighter  seasons  smile. 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below. 

While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay ; 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift ! hast  reached  the  shore 
‘ Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar;’ 

And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life,  long  since,  has  anchored  at  thy  side. 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest. 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed- 
Me  howling  winds  drive  devious,  tempest-tossed, 

Sails  ript,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost ; 
And  day  by  day  some  current’s  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a prosperous  course. 

But  oh  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  hel 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 

My  boast  is  not  that  I deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  ; 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPiEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMX. 


Hut  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 

The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 

And  now,  farewell — Time  unrovoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I wished  is  done. 

Hy  contemplation’s  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 

I seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o’er  again  : 
'I'o  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine ; 

And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 

And  I can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 

Time  has  but  half  .succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

[ Voltaire  and  the  Lace-worker.^ 

Y on  cott.ager,  who  weaves  at  her  own  door, 
Pillow  and  bobbins  all  her  little  store  ; 

Content  though  mean,  and  cheerful  if  not  gay, 
Shuffling  her  threads  .about  the  live-long  day, 
Just  earns  a scanty  pittance,  and  at  night 
Lies  down  secure,  her  heart  and  pocket  light ; 
She,  for  her  humble  sphere  by  nature  fit, 

Has  little  understanding,  and  no  wit ; 

Receives  no  praise ; but  though  her  lot  be  such 
(Toilsome  and  indigent),  she  renders  much  ; 

Just  knows,  and  knows  no  more,  her  Bible  true — 
A truth  the  brilliant  Frenchman  never  knew; 
And  in  that  charter  reads,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
Her  title  to  a treasure  in  the  skies. 

O happy  peasant ! 0 unhappy  bard  ! 

His  the  mere  tinsel,  hers  the  rich  reward ; 

He  praised,  perhaps,  for  ages  yet  to  come. 

She  never  heard  of  half  a mile  from  home; 

He  lost  in  errors  his  vain  heart  prefers, 

SLi  safe  in  the  simplicity  of  hers. 

To  Mary  l^Mrs  TJnioirC). 

Autumn,  1793. 

The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast ; 

Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  our  last ! 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  spirits  have  a fainter  flow, 

I see  thee  daily  weaker  grow  ; 

’Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low. 

My  Mary! 

Thy  needles,  once  a shining  store. 

For  my  sake  restless  heretofore. 

Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more. 

My  Mary  I 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still. 

Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will. 

My  Mary ! 

But  well  thou  play’dst  the  housewife’s  part. 
And  all  thy  threads,  with  magic  art. 

Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart. 

My  Mary! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a dream  ; 

Yet  me  they  charm,  whate’er  the  theme. 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 

Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light. 

My  Marv  • 

For,  could  I view  nor  them  nor  thee. 

What  sight  worth  seping  could  1 see! 

The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me. 

My  Mary! 


Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline. 

Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign  ; 

Yet  gently  pressed,  press  gently  mine. 

My  Mary! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov’st. 

That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov’st 
Upheld  by  two ; yet  still  thou  lov’st. 

My  Maryl 

And  still  to  love,  though  pressed  with  ill. 

In  wintiy  age  to  feel  no  chill. 

With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still. 

My  Mary ! 

But  ah!  by  constant  heed  I know. 

How  oft  the  sadness  that  I show. 

Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  wo. 

My  Mary ! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past. 

Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last. 

My  Mary  1 

[ Winter  Evening  in  the  Country.'] 

[From  ‘ The  Task."] 

Hark  ! ’tis  the  twanging  horn  o’er  yonder  bridge. 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  unwrlnkled  face  reflected  bright ; 

He  comes,  the  herald  of  a noisy  world. 

With  spattered  boots,  strapped  waist,  and  frozen 
locks  ; 

News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back. 

True  to  his  charge,  the  close-packed  load  behind, 

Y et  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn ; 

And,  having  dropped  the  expected  bag,  pass  on. 

He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch ! 

Cold  and  yet  cheerful : messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some  ; 

To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 

Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks. 

Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With  tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer’s  cheeks 
Fast  as  the  p'eriods  from  his  fluent  quill. 

Or  charged  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains, 

Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 

His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 

But  0 the  important  budget  I ushered  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings  ? have  our  troops  awaked  ! 

Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugged. 

Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Atlantic  wave  ? 

Is  India  free!  and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 
And  jewelled  turban  with  a smile  of  peace. 

Or  do  we  grind  her  still ! The  grand  debate. 

The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply. 

The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit. 

And  the  loud  laugh — I long  to  know  them  all ; 

I burn  to  set  the  imprisoned  wranglers  free. 

And  give  them  voice  and  utter.ance  once  again. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast. 

Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round. 

And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a steamy  column,  and  the  cups. 

That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each. 

So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 

Not  such  his  evening  who,  with  shining  face. 

Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and  squeezed 
And  bored  with  elbow-points  through  both  his  sidea, 
Out-scolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage  : 

Nor  his  who  p.atient  stands  till  his  feet  throb. 

And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriot,  bursting  with  heroic  rage. 


PORTS.  ENGLISH  LlTEIlA'rUHE.  wim-iasi  cowpee. 


Dr  j)liu;cm«n,  nil  tranquillity  and  smiles. 

This  liilio  of  four  papes,  happy  work  ! 

Which  not  even  critics  criticise  ; that  holds 
Inqui.dtive  attention,  while  1 read, 

Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  fair, 
Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break ; 

What  is  it  but  a map  of  busy  life. 

Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns? 

Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge 
That  tempts  ambition.  On  the  summit  see 
The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes ; 

He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them  ! At  his  heels, 
Close  at  his  heels,  a demagogue  ascends. 

And  with  a dexterous  jerk  soon  twists  him  down, 
And  wins  them  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 

Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence  in  soft 
Meanders  lubricate  tlie  course  they  take ; 

Th“  modest  speaker  is  ashamed  and  grieved 
To  engross  a moment^s  notice,  and  yet  begs, 

Begs  a propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts. 

However  trivi..'  all  that  he  conceives. 

Sweet  bashfulness!  it  claims  at  least  this  praise, 

The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense 
That  it  foretells  us,  always  comes  to  pass. 

Cataracts  of  declamation  thunder  here  ; 

There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page. 

In  which  all  comprehension  wanders  lost; 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there. 

With  merry  descants  on  a nation’s  woes. 

The  rest  appears  a wilderness  of  strange 
But  gay  confusion  ; roses  for  the  cheeks. 

And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age. 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald. 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean,  plundered  of  their  sweets  ; 
Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  dews. 

Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  favourite  airs, 

/Ethereal  journeys,  submarine  exploits. 

And  Katterfelto,*  with  his  hair  on  end 
At  his  own  wonders,  wondering  for  his  bread. 

’Tls  pleasant  through  the  loop-holes  of  retreat 
To  peep  at  such  a world  ; to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd  ; 

To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates 
At  a safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a soft  murmur  on  the  uninjured  ear. 

Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  1 seem  advanced 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height. 

That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all.  * * 

0 W’inter  ! ruler  of  the  inverted  year,  * * 

I love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem’st. 

And  dreaded  as  thou  ai't ! Thou  hold’st  the  sun 
A prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east. 

Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon. 

And  huiTying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 

Down  to  the  rosy  west ; but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease. 

And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought. 

Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 

I crown  tTiee  king  of  intimate  delights. 

Fire-side  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness. 

And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening,  know. 

No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates ; 

No  powdered  pert  proficient  in  the  art 
Of  sounding  an  alarm  assaults  these  doors 
Till  the  street  rings  ; no  stationary  steeds 
Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound. 
The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake: 

But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task. 

The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flower, 

♦ A noted  conjuror  of  tbo  day. 


Wrought  |)atiently  into  the  snowy  lawn. 

Unfolds  its  bosom:  buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs, 

.^nd  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed. 

Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair  ; 

A wreath,  that  cannot  fade,  of  flowers,  that  blow 
With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 

The  poet’s  or  historian’s  page  by  one 
Made  vocal  for  the  amusement  of  the  rest ; 

The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 
The  touch  from  many  a trembling  chord  shakes  out; 
And  the  clear  voice  symphoiiious,  yet  distinct. 

And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still. 

Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a keener  edge 
On  female  industry : the  threaded  steel 
Flies  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 

The  volume  closed,  the  customary  rites 
Of  the  last  meal  commence.  A Roman  meal ; 

Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found 
Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note. 

Perhaps  by  moonlight,  at  their  humble  doors. 

And  under  an  old  oak’s  domestic  shade. 

Enjoyed,  spare  feast!  a radish  and  an  egg. 

Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  j’et  not  dull. 

Nor  such  as  with  a frown  forbids  the  play 
Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth; 

Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  iminous  world. 

Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God 
That  made  them  an  intruder  on  their  joys. 

Start  at  his  awful  name,  or  deem  his  praise 
A jarring  note.  Themes  of  a graver  tone. 

Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love. 

While  we  retrace  with  memory’s  pointing  wand. 
That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review. 

The  dangers  we  have  ’scaped,  the  broken  snare. 

The  disappointed  foe,  deliverance  found 
Unlooked  for,  life  preserved  and  peace  restored. 
Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 

0 evenings  worthy  of  the  gods  ! exclaimed 
The  Sabine  bard.  0 evenings,  I reply. 

More  to  be  prized  and  coveted  than  yours  ! 

As  more  illumined,  and  with  nobler  truths. 

That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love,  enjoy.  • 

Come  Evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace  ; 
Return  sweet  Evening,  and  continue  long! 

Methinks  I see  thee  in  the  streaky  west. 

With  matron-step  slow-moving,  while  the  night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train  ; one  hand  employed 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charged  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day  : 

Not  sumptuously  adorned,  nor  needing  aid. 

Like  homely-featured  night,  of  clustering  gems ; 

A star  or  two,  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow. 

Suffices  thee  ; save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers:  not  worn  indeed  on  high 
With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone. 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 

Come  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  tny  votary  calm, 

Or  make  me  so.  Composure  is  thy  gift ; 

And  whether  I devote  thy  gentle  hours 
To  bookr,  to  music,  or  the  poet’s  toil  ; 

To  we.aving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit ; 

Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels. 

When  they  command  whom  man  was  born  to  please, 

1 slight  thee  not,  but  make  thee  welcome  still. 

Just  when  our  drawing-rooms  begin  to  blaze 

With  lights,  by  clear  reflection  multiplied 
From  many  a mirror,  in  which  he  of  Oath, 

Goliah,  might  have  seen  his  giant  bulk 
Whole  without  stooping,  towering  crest  and  all. 

My  pleasures  too  begin.  But  me  perhaps 
The  glowing  hearth  may  satisfy  a while 
With  faint  illumination,  that  uplifts 
The  shadows  to  the  ceiling,  there  by  fits 
Dancing  uncouthly  to  the  quivering  flame. 

263 


PHOM  r7ftO 


CYCLOl’^iDlA  OF 


TILL  THE  PEESEM  TIMl. 


N(<  uiiilelightful  is  an  liom-  to  me 
So  Hpent  in  parlour  twiliglit : huc)i  a gloom 
SuitH  well  the  thoughtful  or  unthinking  mind, 

The  mind  contemplative,  with  some  new  theme 
Pregnant,  or  indisposed  alike  to  all. 

I Laugh  )e  who  hoast  vour  more  mercurial  power*. 

That  never  felt  a. stupor,  know  no  pause. 

Nor  need  one  ; 1 am  conscious,  and  l onfess 
Fearle.ss  a soul  that  does  not  always  think. 

Me  oft  has  fancy,  ludicrous  and  wild, 

Soothed  with  a waking  dream  o.  houses,  towers. 

Trees,  churches,  and  strange  visage,  expressed 
In  the  red  cinders,  while  with  poring  ve 
I gazeil,  myself  creating  what  I saw. 

Nor  less  amused  have  1 quiescent  watched 
The  sooty  films  that  play  upon  the  bars 
Pendulous,  and  foreboding  in  the  view 
Of  superstition,  i>ro])hcsying  still. 

Though  still  deceived,  some  stranger’s  near  approach. 
’Tis  thus  the  understanding  takes  repo.se 
In  inilolent  vacuity  of  thought, 

And  sleeps  and  is  refreshed.  Meanwhile  the  face 

Conceals  the  mood  lethargic  with  a mask 

Of  deep  deliberation,  as  the  man 

Were  tasked  to  his  full  strength,  absorbed  and  lost. 

Thus  oft,  reclined  at  ease,  I lose  an  hour 

At  evening,  till  at  length  the  freezing  blast. 

That  sweeps  the  bolted  shutter,  summons  home 
The  recollected  powers  ; and  snai>ping  short 
The  glassy  threads  with  which  the  fancy  weaves 
Her  brittle  toils,  restores  me  to  my.self. 

How  calm  is  my  recess ; and  how  the  frost. 

Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind,  endear 
The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoyed  within! 

I saw  the  woods  and  fields  at  close  of  day, 

A variegated  show  ; the  meadows  green. 

Though  faded  ; and  the  lands,  where  lately  waved 
The  golden  harvest,  of  a mellow  brown, 

Upturned  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share. 

1 saw  far  off  the  weedy  fallows  smile 
With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  grazed 
By.  flocks,  fast  feeding,  and  selecting  each 
His  favourite  herb ; while  all  the  leafless  groves 
That  skirt  the  horizon  wore  a sable  hue. 

Scarce  noticed  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 

To-iiionow  brings  a change,  a total  change  ! 

Which  even  now,  though  silently  performed. 

And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 
Of  universal  nature  undergoe.s. 

Fast  falls  a fleecy  shower:  the  downy  flakes 
Descending,  and  with  never-ceasing  lapse 
Softly  alighting  upon  all  below. 

Assimilate  all  objects.  Earth  receives 
Gladly  the  thickening  mantle;  and  the  green 
And  tender  blade,  that  feared  the  chilling  blast. 
Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a veil. 

In  such  a world,  so  thorny,  and  where  none 
Finds  happine.ss  unblighted  ; or,  if  found, 

Without  some  thistly  .sorrow  at  its  side. 

It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distingui.shed  than  ourselves  ; that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills. 

And  sympathise  with  others  suffering  more. 

Ill  fares  the  traveller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team. 

The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogged  wheels  ; and  in  its  sluggish  pace 
Noiseless  appears  a moving  hill  of  snow. 

The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide. 

While  every  breath,  by  respiration  strong 
Forced  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 
Upon  their  jutting  che.sts.  He,  formed  to  bear 
The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempe.stuous  night, 

With  half-shut  eyes,  and  puckered  cheeks,  and  teeth 

tk" . rr 


I’rcscnted  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 

One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 
He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip, 

Ke.sounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 

0 ha[ipy — and  in  my  account  denied 
That  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 
Refinement  is  endued — thrice  ha]>py  thou! 

Thy  frame,  robust  and  haidy,  feels  indeed 
'fhe  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpaired. 

The  learned  finger  never  need  explore 

Thy  vigorous  pul.se ; and  the  unhealthful  cast. 

That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  every  bone 
Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  tliee. 

Thy  days  roll  on  exemi)t  from  household  care ; 

Thy  wagon  is  thy  wife ; and  the  poor  beasts 
That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro. 

Thine  helpless  charge,  dependent  on  thy  care. 

Ah,  treat  them  kindly  ; rude  as  thou  appearest. 

Yet  show  that  thou  hast  mercy  ! which  the  great 
With  needle.ss  hurry  whirled  from  ]>lace  to  place. 
Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  show. 

Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat. 

Such  claim  compa.ssion  in  a night  like  Hiis, 

And  have  a friend  in  every  feeling  heart. 

Warmed,  while  it  lasts,  by  labour,  all  day  long 
They  brave  the  season,  and  yet  find  at  eve, 

HI  clad,  and  fed  but  sparely,  time  to  cool. 

'J'he  frugal  housewife  trembles  wliile  she  lights 
Her  scanty  stock  of  brushwood,  blazing  clear. 

But  dying  soon,  like  all  terrestrial  joys. 

The  few  small  embers  left  she  nui'ses  well ; 

And,  while  her  infant  race,  with  outspread  hands 
And  crowded  knees,  sit  cowering  o’er  the  sparks, 
Retires,  content  to  quake,  so  they  be  warmed. 

The  man  feels  least,  as,  more  inured  than  she 
To  winter,  and  the  current  in  his  veins 
More  briskly  moved  by  his  severer  toil ; 

Yet  he,  too,  finds  bis  own  distress  in  theirs. 

The  taper  .soon  extinguished,  which  1 saw 
Dangled  along  at  the  cold  finger’s  end 
Ju.st  when  the  day  declined,  and  the  brown  loaf 
Lodged  on  the  shelf,  half  eaten  without  sauce 
Of  savoury  cheese,  or  butter,  co.stlier  still. 

Sleep  seems  their  only  refuge ; for,  alas. 

Where  penury  is  felt  the  thought  is  chained. 

And  sweet  colloquial  jileasures  are  but  few! 

With  all  this  thrift  they  tlirive  not.  All  the  care 
Ingenious  parsimony  takes,  but  just 
Saves  the  small  inventory,  bed  and  .stool. 

Skillet  and  old  carved  chest,  from  public  sale. 

They  live,  and  live  without  extorted  alms 
From  grudging  hamls  ; but  other  boa-st  have  non* 

To  soothe  their  honest  pride,  that  scorns  to  beg. 

Nor  comfort  else,  but  in  their  mutual  love. 

1 praise  you  much,  ye  meek  and  patient  pair. 

For  ye  are  worthy  ; choosing  rather  far 

A dry  but  independent  crust,  hard  earned. 

And  eaten  with  a sigh,  than  to  endure 
The  rugged  frowns  and  insolent  rebuffs 
Of  knaves  in  office,  partial  in  the  work 
Of  distribution  ; liberal  of  their  aid 
To  clamorous  importunity  in  rags. 

Rut  ofttimes  deaf  to  suppliants  who  would  bluah 
To  wear  a tattered  garb,  however  coarse, 

Whom  famine  cannot  reconcile  to  filth  : 

The.se  ask  with  painful  shyness,  and,  refused 

Because  deserving,  silently  retire  I 

But  be  ye  of  good  courage!  Time  itself 

Shall  much  befriend  you.  Time  .shall  give  increase; 

And  all  your  numerous  progeny,  well-trained. 

But  helpless,  in  few  years  shall  find  their  hands. 

And  labour  too.  Meanwhile  ye  shall  not  want 
What,  conscious  of  your  virtues,  we  can  spare. 

Nor  what  a wealthier  than  ourselves  may  seud. 

I mean  the  man  who,  when  the  distant  poor 
Need  help,  denies  them  nothing  but  his  name. 

264 


IH>K'rS. 


ENOLISII  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


[Lore  of  Nature.] 

[From  the  same.] 

Tis  bom  with  all : the  love  of  Nature’s  works 
Is  an  ingredient  in  the  compound  man, 

Infused  at  the  creation  of  the  kind. 

And,  though  the  Almighty  Maker  has  throughout 
Discriminated  each  from  each,  by  strokes 
And  touches  of  his  hand,  with  so  much  art 
Diversified,  that  two  were  never  found 
Twins  at  all  points — yet  this  obtains  in  all, 

That  all  discern  a beauty  in  his  works. 

And  all  can  taste  them  : minds,  that  have  been  formed 
And  tutored  with  a relish,  more  exact. 

But  none  without  some  relish,  none  unmoved. 

It  is  a flame  that  dies  not  even  there, 

■\Vhere  nothing  feeds  it : neither  business,  crowds. 

Nor  habits  of  luxurious  city-life. 

Whatever  else  they  smother  of  true  worth 
In  human  bosoms,  quench  it  or  abate. 

The  villas  with  which  London  stands  begirt. 

Like  a swarth  Indian  with  his  belt  of  beads. 

Prove  it.  A breath  of  unadulterate  air. 

The  glimpse  of  a green  pasture,  how  they  cheer 
The  citizen,  and  brace  his  languid  frame  1 
Even  in  the  stifling  bosom  of  the  town, 

A garden,  in  which  nothing  thrives,  has  charms 
That  soothe  the  rich  possessor ; much  consoled 
That  here  and  there  some  sprigs  of  mournful  mint. 

Of  nightshade  or  valerian,  grace  the  wall 
He  cultivates.  These  serve  him  with  a hint 
That  nature  lives  ; that  sight-refreshing  green 
Is  still  the  livery  she  delights  to  wear. 

Though  sickly  .samples  of  the  exuberant  whole. 

What  are  the  casements  lined  with  creeping  herbs. 
The  prouder  sashes  fronted  with  a range 
Of  orange,  myrtle,  or  the  fragrant  weed. 

The  Krenchman’s  darling?  Arc  they  not  all  proofs 
That  man,  immured  in  cities,  .still  retains 
His  inborn  inextinguishable  thiisst 
Of  rural  scene.s,  compensating  his  loss 
By  supplemental  shifts  the  best  he  may? 

The  most  unfurni.shed  with  the  means  of  life. 

And  they  that  never  pass  their  brick-wall  bounds 
To  range  the  fields  and  treat  their  lungs  with  air. 
Yet  feel  the  burning  instinct ; over-head 
Suspend  their  crazy  boxes,  planted  thick. 

And  watered  duly.  There  the  pitcher  stands 
A fragment,  and  the  spoutless  tea-pot  there  ; 

Sad  witnesses  how  close-pent  man  regrets 
The  country,  with  what  ardour  he  contrives 
A peep  at  nature,  when  he  can  no  more. 

Hail,  therefore,  patroness  of  health  and  ease, 

And  contemplation,  heart-consoling  joys 
And  harmless  pleasures,  in  the  thronged  abode 
Of  multitudes  unknown  ; hail,  rural  life! 

Address  himself  who  will  to  the  pursuit 
Of  honours,  or  emolument,  or  fame, 

I shall  not  add  myself  to  such  a chase. 

Thwart  his  attempts,  or  envy  his  success. 

Some  must  be  great.  Great  otiices  will  have 
Great  talents.  And  God  gives  to  every  man 
The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste. 

That  lifts  him  into  life,  and  lets  him  fall 
Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordained  to  fill. 

To  the  deliverer  of  an  injured  land 
He  gives  a tongue  to  enlarge  upon,  a heart 
To  feel,  and  courage  to  redress  her  wrongs ; 

To  monarchs  dignity  ; to  judges  sense  ; 

To  artists  ingenuity  and  skill ; 

To  me  an  unambitious  mind,  content 
In  the  low  vale  of  life,  that  early  felt 
A wish  for  ease  and  leisure,  and  ere  long 
Found  here  that  leisure  and  that  ease  I wished. 


[English  Liberty.] 

We  love 

The  king  who  loves  the  law,  respects  his  bounds, 
And  reigns  content  within  them  ; him  we  serve 
Freely  and  with  delight,  who  leaves  us  free: 

But  recollecting  still  that  he  is  man. 

We  trust  him  not  too  far.  King  though  he  be, 
And  king  in  England  too,  he  may  be  weak. 

And  vain  enough  to  be  ambitious  still ; 

May  exercise  amiss  his  jiroper  powers. 

Or  covet  more  than  freemen  choose  to  grant : 
Beyond  that  mark  is  treason.  He  is  ours 
To  administer,  to  guard,  to  adorn  the  state. 

But  not  to  waq)  or  change  it.  We  are  his 
To  serve  him  nobly  in  the  common  cause. 

True  to  the  death,  but  not  to  be  his  slaves. 

Mark  now  the  difference,  ye  that  boast  your  love 
Of  kings,  between  your  loyalty  and  ours. 

Wc  love  the  man,  the  paltry  pageant  you  ; 

We  the  chief  patron  of  the  commonwealth. 

You  the  regardless  anther  of  its  woes  ; 

We  for  the  sake  of  liberty,  a king. 

You  chains  and  bondage  for  a tyrant’s  sake: 

Our  love  is  principle,  and  has  its  root 
In  reason,  is  judicious,  manly,  free  ; 

Yours,  a blind  instinct,  crouches  to  the  rod. 

And  licks  the  foot  that  treads  it  in  the  dust. 
Were  king.ship  as  true  treasure  as  it  seems. 
Sterling,  and  worthy  of  a wise  man’s  wish, 

I would  not  be  a king  to  be  beloved 
Causeless,  and  daubed  with  undisceming  praise, 
VV’here  love  is  mere  attachment  to  the  throne. 

Not  to  the  man  who  fills  it  as  he  ought. 

’Tis  liberty  alone  that  gives  the  flower 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume  ; 

And  we  are  weeds  without  it.  All  constraint. 
Except  what  wisdom  lays  on  evil  men. 

Is  evil ; hurts  the  faculties,  impedes 
Their  progress  in  the  road  of  science,  blinda 
The  eyesight  of  discovery,  and  begets 
In  those  that  suffer  it  a sordid  mind. 

Bestial,  a meagre  intellect,  unfit 
To  be  the  tenant  of  man’s  noble  form. 

Thee  therefore  still,  blameworthy  as  thou  art. 
With  all  thy  loss  of  empire,  and  though  squeezed 
By  public  exigence,  till  annual  food 
Fails  for  the  craving  hunger  of  the  state. 

Thee  I account  still  happy,  and  the  chief 
Among  the  nation.s,  seeing  thou  art  free. 

My  native  nook  of  earth  ! thy  clime  is  rude. 
Replete  with  vapour.s,  and  disposes  much 
All  hearts  to  sadness,  and  none  more  than  mine: 
Thine  unadulterate  manners  are  less  soft 
And  plausible  than  social  life  requires. 

And  thou  hast  need  of  discipline  and  art 
To  give  thee  what  politer  France  receives 
From  nature’s  bounty — that  humane  addresa 
And  sweetness,  without  which  no  pleasure  is 
In  converse,  either  starved  by  cold  reserve. 

Or  flushed  with  fierce  dispute,  a sen.seless  brawl. 
Yet  being  free,  I love  thee : for  the  sake 
Of  that  one  feature  can  be  well  content. 

Disgraced  as  thou  hast  been,  poor  as  thou  art. 

To  seek  no  sublunary  rest  beside. 

But  once  enslaved,  farewell ! 1 could  endure 
Chains  nowhere  patiently  ; and  chains  at  home. 
Where  I am  free  by  birthright,  not  at  all. 

Then  what  were  left  of  roughness  in  the  grain 
Of  British  natures,  wanting  its  excuse 
That  it  belongs  to  freemen,  would  disgust 
And  shock  me.  I should  then  with  double  pain 
Feel  all  the  rigour  of  thy  fickle  clime  ; 

And,  if  I must  bewail  the  blessing  lost. 

For  which  our  Hampdeus  and  our  Sidneys  bled, 

265 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  TitE  present  TiJOk 

I would  at  least  bewail  it  under  skies 
Milder,  among  a people  less  austere  ; 

In  scenes  which,  having  never  known  me  free, 

Would  not  rc[>roach  me  with  the  loss  I felt. 

Do  1 forebode  impossible  events, 

J\nd  tremble  at  vain  dreams?  Heaven  grant  I mayl 
Hut  the  age  of  virtuous  politics  is  past. 

And  we  are  deep  in  that  of  cold  pretence. 

Patriots  are  grown  too  shrewd  to  be  sincere. 

And  we  too  wise  to  trust  them.  He  that  takes 
Deep  in  his  soft  credulity  the  stamp 
Designed  by  loud  declaimers  on  the  part 
Of  liberty,  themselves  the  slaves  of  lust, 

Incurs  derision  for  his  easy  faith. 

And  lack  of  knowledge,  and  with  cause  enough  : 

For  when  was  public  virtue  to  be  found 
M'here  private  was  not?  Can  he  love  the  whole 
Who  loves  no  part?  He  be  a nation’s  friend, 

Who  is  in  truth  the  friend  of  no  man  there? 

Can  he  be  strenuous  in  his  country’s  cause 
Who  slights  the  charities,  for  whose  dear  sake 
That  country,  if  at  all,  must  be  beloved  ? 

’Tis  tlierefore  sober  and  good  men  are  ead 
For  England’s  glory,  seeing  it  wax  pale 
And  sickly,  while  her  champions  wear  their  hearts 
So  loose  to  private  duty,  that  no  brain. 

Healthful  and  undisturbed  by  factious  fumes. 

Can  dream  them  trusty  to  the  general  weal. 

Such  were  they  not  of  old,  whose  tempered  blades 
Dispersed  the  shackles  of  usurped  control. 

And  hewed  them  link  from  link  ; then  Albion’s  sons 
Were  sons  indeed ; they  felt  a filial  heart 
Beat  high  within  them  at  a mother’s  wrongs; 

And,  shining  each  in  his  domestic  sphere. 

Shone  brighter  still,  once  called  to  public  view. 

’Tis  therefore  many,  whose  sequestered  lot 
Forbids  their  interference,  looking  on. 

Anticipate  perforce  some  dire  event ; 

And,  .seeing  the  old  castle  of  the  state. 

That  promised  once  more  firmness,  so  assailed 
That  all  its  tempest-beaten  turrets  shake. 

Stand  motionless  expectants  of  its  fall. 

All  has  its  date  below ; the  fatal  hour 
AVaa  registered  in  heaven  ere  time  began. 

M’e  turn  to  dust,  and  all  our  mightiest  works 
Die  too : the  deep  foundations  that  we  lay. 

Time  ploughs  them  up,  and  not  a trace  remains. 

We  build  with  what  we  deem  eternal  rock : 

A distant  age  asks  where  the  fabric  stood : 

And  in  the  dust,  sifted  and  searched  in  vain. 

The  undiscoverable  secret  sleeps. 

[A  Winter  Tfa?!-.] 

The  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood ; 

The  morning  sharp  and  clear.  But  now  at  noon. 
Upon  the  .southern  side  of  the  slant  hills. 

And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast. 

The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage. 

And  has  the  warmth  of  May.  The  vault  is  blue 
Without  a cloud,  .and  white  without  a speck 
The  diizzling  splendour  of  the  scene  below. 

Again  the  harmony  comes  o’er  the  vale. 

And  through  the  trees  1 view  the  embattled  tower. 
Whence  all  the  music.  I again  perceive 
The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains. 

And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I tread 

The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms. 

Whose  outspre.ad  branches  overarch  the  glade. 

The  roof,  though  movable  through  all  its  length 
As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufficed. 

And,  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 
The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a path  for  me. 

No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 

T'ne  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 

With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  suppressed : 

I’lcased  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 
From  spray  to  spray,  where’er  he  rests  he  shakes 
From  many  a twig  the  pendant  drops  of  ice. 

That  tinkle  in  the  withered  leaves  below. 

Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft. 

Charms  more  than  silence.  Meditation  here 
May  think  down  hours  to  moments.  Here  the  heart 
May  give  a useful  lesson  to  the  head. 

And  learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 
Knowledge  and  wisdom,  far  from  being  one. 

Have  ofttimes  no  connexion.  Knowledge  dwells 
In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men. 

Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 

Knowledge,  a rude  unprofitable  mass. 

The  mere  materials  with  which  wisdom  builds. 

Till  smoothed  and  squared  and  fitted  to  its  place. 
Docs  but  incumber  whom  it  .seems  to  enrich. 
Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learned  so  much, 
Wi.sdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 

Books  are  not  seldom  talismans  and  .spells. 

By  which  the  magic  art  of  shrewder  wits 
Holds  an  unthinking  multitude  enthralled. 

Some  to  the  fascination  of  a name 
Surrender  judgment,  hoodwinked.  Some  the  style 
Infatuates,  and  through  labyrinths  and  wilds 
Of  error  leads  them  by  a tune  entranced  ; 

While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weak  to  bear 
The  insupportable  fatigue  of  thought. 

And  swallowing  therefore  without  pause  or  choice 
The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all. 

But  trees,  and  rivulets  whose  rapid  course 
Defies  the  check  of  winter,  haunts  of  deer. 

And  sheep-walks  populous  with  bleating  lambs, 

And  lanes  in  which  the  primro.se  ere  her  time 
Peeps  through  the  moss  that  clothes  the  hawthor* 
root. 

Deceive  no  student.  Wisdom  there  and  truth. 

Not  shy  as  in  the  world,  and  to  be  won 

By  slow  solicitation,  seize  at  once 

The  roving  thought,  and  fix  it  on  thera.selves. 

What  prodigies  can  power  divine  perform 
More  grand  than  it  produces  year  by  year. 

And  all  in  sight  of  inattentive  man  ! 

Familiiir  with  the  effect,  we  slight  the  cause. 

And  in  the  constancy  of  nature’s  course. 

The  regular  return  of  genial  months. 

And  renovation  of  a faded  world. 

See  nought  to  wonder  at.  Should  God  again. 

As  once  in  Gibeon,  interrupt  the  race 
Of  the  undeviating  and  punctual  sun. 

How  would  the  world  admire?  But  speaks  it  less 

An  agency  divine,  to  make  him  know 

His  moment  when  to  sink  and  when  to  rise. 

Age  after  age,  than  to  arrest  his  course? 

All  we  behold  is  miracle ; but  seen 
So  duly,  all  is  miracle  in  vain. 

Where  now  the  vital  energy  that  moved. 

While  summer  was,  the  pure  and  subtle  lymph 
Through  the  imperceptible  meandering  veins 
Of  leiif  and  flower?  It  sleeps  ; and  the  icy  touch 
Of  unprolific  winter  has  impressed 
A cold  stagnation  on  the  intestine  tide. 

But  let  the  months  go  round,  a few  short  months. 

And  all  shall  be  restored.  These  naked  shoots. 
Barren  as  lances,  among  which  the  wind 
flakes  wintry  music,  sighing  as  it  goes. 

Shall  put  their  graceful  foliage  on  again. 

And  more  aspiring,  and  with  ampler  spread. 

Shall  boast  new  charms,  and  more  than  they  have  lost. 
Then,  each  in  its  peculiar  honours  clad. 

Shall  publish  even  to  the  distant  eye 
Its  family  and  tribe.  Laburnum,  rich 
In  streaming  gold  ; syringii,  ivory  pure  ; 

The  .scentless  and  the  scented  rose  ; this  red. 

And  of  a humbler  growth,  the  other  tall. 

And  throwing  up  into  the  darkest  gloom 

266 

POETS. 


KN(JLIS1I  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  COWPSB. 


Of  iioigliboufing  cvpress,  or  more  sable  yew, 

Her  silver  globes,  light  as  the  foamy  surf 
That  the  wind  severs  fiom  the  broken  wave ; 

The  lilac,  various  in  array,  now  white, 

Now  sanguine,  and  her  beauteous  head  now  set 

With  purple  spikes  pyramidal,  as  if 

Studious  of  ornament ; yet  unresolved 

Which  hue  she  most  approved,  she  chose  them  all ; 

Copious  of  flowers  the  woodbine,  pale  and  wan, 

But  well  compensating  her  sickly  looks 
With  never-cloying  odours,  early  and  late; 
Hypericum  all  bloom,  so  thick  a swarm 
Of  flowers,  like  flies  clothing  her  slender  rods, 

That  scarce  a leaf  appears  ; mezerion  too. 

Though  leafless,  well  attired,  and  thick  beset 
With  blushing  wreaths,  investing  every  spray; 
Althasa  with  the  purple  eye  ; the  broom. 

Yellow  and  bright,  as  bullion  unalloyed. 

Her  bloss  mis ; and  luxuriant  above  all 
The  jessa  nine,  throwing  wide  her  elegant  sweets. 
The  deep  dark  green  of  whose  unvarnished  leaf 
Makes  more  conspicuous,  and  illumines  more 
The  bright  profusion  of  her  scattered  stars. 

These  have  been,  and  these  shall  be  in  their  day ; 
And  all  this  uniform  and  coloured  scene 
Shall  be  dismantled  of  its  fleecy  load. 

And  flush  into  variety  again. 

From  dearth  to  plenty,  and  from  death  to  life. 

Is  Nature’s  progress,  when  she  lectures  man 
In  heavenly  truth ; evincing,  as  she  makes 
The  grand  transition,  that  there  lives  and  works 
A soul  in  all  things,  and  that  soul  is  God. 

The  beauties  of  the  wilderness  are  his. 

That  make  so  gay  the  solitary  place 

Where  no  eye  sees  them.  And  the  fairer  forms 

That  cultivation  glories  in  are  his. 

He  sets  the  bright  procession  on  its  way. 

And  marshals  all  the  order  of  the  year; 

He  marks  the  bounds  which  winter  may  not  pass. 
And  blunts  his  pointed  fury  ; in  its  case. 

Russet  and  rude,  folds  up  the  tender  germ 
Uninjured,  with  inimitable  art ; 

And,  ere  one  flowery  season  fades  and  dies. 

Designs  the  blooming  wonders  of  the  next. 

T/te  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin: 

Showing  how  he  went  farther  than  he  intended,  and  came 
safe  home  again. 

John  Gilpin  was  a citizen 
Of  credit  and  renown, 

A train-band  captain  eke  was  he 
Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin’s  spouse  said  to  her  dear. 

Though  wedded  we  have  been 
These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

To-morrow  is  our  wedding  day. 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 
All  in  a chaise  and  pair. 

My  sister,  and  my  sister’s  child. 

Myself  and  children  three, 

M^ill  fill  the  chaise ; so  you  must  ride 
On  horseback  after  we. 

He  soon  replied,  I do  admire 
Of  womankind  but  one. 

And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear ; 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

I am  a linen-draper  bold. 

As  all  the  world  doth  know. 

And  my  good  friend  the  calender 
Will  lend  his  horse  to  go. 


Quoth  Mrs  Gilpin,  That’s  well  said  ; 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear. 

We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own. 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear. 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife; 

O’erjoyed  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent. 

She  bad  a frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought. 
But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 
Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed. 
Where  they  did  all  get  in  ; 

Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 
To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels^ 
Were  never  folk  so  glad  ; 

The  stones  did  rattle  underneath. 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse’s  side 
Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 

And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride. 

But  soon  came  down  again  ; 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reached  had  he. 

His  journey  to  begin. 

When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 
Three  cu.stomers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came  ; for  loss  of  time. 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore. 

Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew. 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

’Twas  long  before  the  customers 
Were  suited  to  their  mind. 

When  Betty  screaming  came  down  stairs, 

‘ The  wine  is  left  behind  1’ 

Good  lack  ! quoth  he — j'et  bring  it  me. 

My  leathern  belt  likewise. 

In  which  I bear  my  trusty  sword 
When  I do  exercise. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul  1) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found. 

To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved. 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a curling  ear. 

Through  which  the  belt  he  drew. 

And  hung  a bottle  on  each  side. 

To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 
Equipped  from  top  to  toe. 

His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat, 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 
Upon  his  nimble  steed. 

Full  slowly  pacing  o’er  the  stones 
With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a smoother  road 
Beneath  his  well-shod  feet. 

The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot. 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  fair  and  softly,  John  he  cried. 

But  .John  he  cried  in  vain  ; 

That  trot  became  a gallop  soon. 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 
Who  cannot  sit  upright. 

He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  handi, 

Amd  eke  with  all  his  might. 

267 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ^ till  the  present  time. 

Ills  hoibc,  uliiih  uever  in  that  sort 
Had  luiiullod  been  before, 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbour  in  such  trim. 

Wbat  tiling  upon  his  back  liad  got 

Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate. 

Did  wonder  more  and  i:;'.*;". 

And  thus  accostc^d  him : 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought; 

What  news?  what  news?  your  tidings  tell— 

Away  went  hat  and  wig  ; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 

He  little  drcaint  when  he  set  out 

Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come. 

Of  running  such  a rig. 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ? 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 

Now  Gilpin  had  a pleasant  wit. 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay. 

And  loved  a timely  joke  ; 

Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 

And  thus  unto  the  calender 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke : 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

I came  because  your  horse  would  come; 

The  bottles  he  had  slung  ; 

And,  if  I well  forebode. 

A bottle  swinging  at  each  side. 

My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here — 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

They  are  upon  the  road. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed. 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

Up  flew  the  window's  all  ; 

His  friend  in  merry  pin. 

And  every  soul  cried  out.  Well  done  ! 

Returned  him  not  a single  word. 

As  loud  as  he  could  baw'l. 

But  to  the  house  went  in. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he  t 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig ; 

His  fame  soon  spread  around  ; 

A wig  that  flowed  behind. 

He  carrioi  weight  ! he  rides  a race  t 

A hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear. 

’T'S  idr  a thousand  pound! 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

.And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

’Twas  wonderful  to  view 

Thus  showed  his  ready  wit. 

How  in  a trice  the  turnpike  men 

My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

T1  eir  gates  wide  open  threw. 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 
His  reeking  head  full  low. 

But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 

That  hangs  upon  your  face  ; 

The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Were  shattered  at  a blow. 

Be  in  a hungry  case. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road. 

Said  John,  It  is  my  wedding  day. 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen. 

And  all  the  world  would  stare 

Which  made  his  horse’s  flanks  to  smoke 

If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

And  I should  dine  at  VV’are. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight. 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said. 

With  leathern  girdle  braced; 

I am  in  haste  to  dine  ; 

For  all  might  see  the  bottle  necks 

’Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Y ou  shall  go  back  for  mine. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast  < 

These  gambols  he  did  play. 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear  ; 

Until  he  came  unto  the  VVash 

For,  while  he  spake,  a braying  ass 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay. 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear  ; 

And  there  he  threw  the  w.ash  about 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

On  both  sides  of  the  way. 

Had  heard  a lion  roar. 

Just  like  unto  a trundling  mop. 

And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might. 

Or  a wild  goose  at  play. 

As  he  had  done  before. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  Gilpin’s  hat  and  wig  : 

From  the  balcony  spied 

Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first ; 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

For  why? — they  were  too  big. 

Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin  ! — Here’s  the  house — 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

They  all  aloud  did  cry  ; 

Her  husband  posting  down 

The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired  : 

Into  the  country  far  away. 

Said  Gilpin — So  am  I ! 

She  pulled  out  half-a-crown  ; 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a whit 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said. 

Inclined  to  tarry  there  ; 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 

For  why  ? his  owner  had  a house 

This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 

Full  ten  miles  off  at  Ware. 

My  husband  safe  and  well. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew. 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  ms£^ 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong  ; 

John  coming  back  amain  ! 

So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

Whom  in  a trice  he  tried  to  stop. 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

By  catching  at  his  rein  ; 

Away  went  Gilpin  ou^of  breath. 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant. 

And  sore  against  his  w.ll. 

And  gladly  would  have  done. 

Till  at  his  friend  the  calender’s 

The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 

His  horse  at  last  stood  stilL 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

258 

FOBTt. 


ENGLISH  1.1TERATURE. 


WIM.IAH  IIAYLET, 


Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  post-boy  at  his  heels, 

The  post-boy’s  horse  right  glad  to  miss 
The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road 
Thus  seeing  Gili)in  fly. 

With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry  : — 

Stop  thief  ! stop  thief!  a highwayman  I 
Not  one  of  them  was  mute  ; 

And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 
Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 
flew  open  in  short  space  ; 

The  tollmen  thinking  as  before 
T''at  Gilpin  rode  a race. 

And  >0  he  diil,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 

Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 
He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing  long  live  the  king, 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he  ; 

And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I be  there  to  see  1 

■WILLIAM  HATL'ET. 

William  Hayley  (1745-1820),  the  biographer  of 
Cowper,  wrote  various  poetical  works,  which  en- 
joyed great  popularitv  in  their  day.  His  principal 
productions  are  the  Triumphs  of  Temper  (1781),  a 
series  of  poetical  epistles  on  history,  addressed  to 
Gibbon,  and  Essays  on  Painting,  on  Epic  Poetry,  &c. 
He  produced  several  unsuccessful  tr.igedies,  a novel, 
and  an  Essay  on  Old  Maids.  A gentleman  by  educa- 
tion and  fortune,  and  fond  of  literary  communication, 
Hayley  enjoyed  the  acquaintance  of  most  of  the 
eminent  men  of  his  times.  His  overstrained  sensi- 
bility and  romantic  tastes  exposed  him  to  ridicule, 
yet  he  was  an  amiable  and  benevolent  man.  It  was 
through  his  personal  a|)plication  to  Pitt  that  Cowper 
received  his  pension.  He  had  (what  appears  to  have 
been  to  him  a sort  of  melancholy  pride  and  satis- 
faction) the  task  of  writing  epitaphs  for  most  of  his 
friends,  including  Mrs  Unwin  and  Cowper.  His  life 
of  Cowper  appeared  in  180.3,  and  three  years  after- 
wards it  was  enlarged  by  a supplement.  Hayley 
prepared  memoirs  of  his  own  life,  which  he  disposed 
of  to  a publisher  on  condition  of  his  receiving  an 
annuity  for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  This  annuity 
he  enjoyed  for  twelve  years.  The  memoirs  ap- 
pearecl  in  two  fine  quarto  volumes,  but  they  failed 
to  attract  attention.  Hayley  had  outlived  his  popu- 
larity, and  his  smooth  but  often  unmeaning  lines 
had  vanished  like  cliaff  before  the  vigorous  and 
natural  outpourings  of  the  modern  muse.  As  a 
specimen  of  this  once  much  praised  poet,  ive  subjoin 
some  lines  on  the  death  of  his  mother,  which  had 
the  merit  of  delighting  Gibbon,  and  with  which  Mr 
Southey  has  remarked  Cowper  would  sympathise 
deeply : — 

[Tribute  to  a Mother,  on  her  Death.'] 

[From  the  ‘ Essay  on  Epic  Poetry.’] 

For  me  who  feel,  whene’er  I touch  the  lyre. 

My  talents  sink  below  my  proud  desire ; 

Who  often  doubt,  and  sometimes  credit  give. 

When  friends  assure  me  that  my  verse  will  live ; 
Whom  health,  too  tender  for  the  bustling  throng. 

Led  into  pensive  shade  and  soothing  song ; 

Whatever  fortune  my  unpolished  rhymes 
May  meet  in  present  or  in  future  times. 


Let  the  blest  art  my  grateful  thoughts  employ. 

Which  soothes  my  sorrow  and  augments  my  joy ; 
Whence  lonely  peace  and  social  pleasure  springs, 
And  friendship  dearer  than  the  smile  of  kings. 

While  keener  poets,  querulously  proud. 

Lament  the  ill  of  poesy  aloud. 

And  magnify  with  irritation’s  zeal, 

Those  common  evils  we  too  strongly  feel. 

The  envious  comment  and  the  subtle  style 
Of  specious  slander,  stabbing  with  a smile ; 

Frankly  1 wish  to  make  her  blessings  known. 

And  think  tho.se  blessings  for  her  ills  atone ; 

Nor  would  my  honest  pride  that  praise  forego. 

Which  makes  Malignity  yet  more  my  foe. 

If  heartfelt  pain  e’er  led  me  to  accuse 
The  dangerous  gift  of  the  alluring  Muse, 

’Twas  in  the  moment  when  my  verse  impressed 
Some  anxious  feelings  on  a mother’s  breast. 

0 thou  fond  .spirit,  who  with  pride  ha.st  smiled, 

And  frowned  with  fear  on  thy  poetic  child. 

Pleased,  yet  alarmed,  when  in  his  boyish  time 
He  sighed  in  numbers  or  he  laughed  in  rhyme ; 
While  thy  kind  cautions  warned  him  to  beware 
Of  Penury,  the  bard’s  perpetual  snare; 

Marking  the  early  temper  of  his  soul. 

Careless  of  wealth,  nor  fit  for  base  control ! 

Thou  tender  saint,  to  whom  he  owes  much  more 
Than  ever  child  to  parent  owed  before  ; 

In  life’s  first  season,  when  the  fever’s  flame 
Shrunk  to  deformity  his  shrivelled  frame. 

And  turned  each  fairer  image  in  his  brain 
To  blank  confusion  and  her  crazy  train, 

’Twas  thine,  with  constant  love,  through  lingering  yean 
To  bathe  thy  idiot  orphan  in  thy  tears ; 

Day  after  day,  and  night  succeeding  night. 

To  turn  incessant  to  the  hideous  sight. 

And  frequent  watch,  if  haply  at  thy  view 
Departed  reason  might  not  dawn  anew  ; 

Though  medicinal  art,  with  pitying  care. 

Could  lend  no  aid  to  save  thee  from  de.spair. 

Thy  fond  maternal  heart  adhered  to  hope  and  prayer : 
Nor  prayed  in  vain  ; thy  child  from  powers  above 
Received  the  sense  to  feel  and  bless  thy  love. 

0 might  he  thence  receive  the  happy  skill. 

And  force  proportioned  to  his  ardent  will. 

With  truth’s  unfading  radiance  to  emblaze 
Thy  virtues,  worthy  of  immortal  praise  1 

Nature,  w’ho  decked  thy  form  with  beauty’s  fiawera, 
Exhausted  on  thy  soul  her  finer  powers  ; 

Taught  ii  with  all  her  energy  to  feel 

Love’s  melting  softness,  friendshi|i’s  fervid  zeal, 

The  generous  purpose  and  the  active  thought. 

With  charity’s  diffusive  .spirit  fraught. 

There  all  the  best  of  mental  gifts  she  placed. 

Vigour  of  judgment,  purity  of  taste, 

Superior  parts  without  their  spleenful  leaven. 
Kindness  to  earth  and  confidence  in  heaven. 

While  my  fond  thoughts  o’er  all  thy  merits  roll, 

Thy  praise  thus  gushes  from  my  filial  .soul ; 

Nor  will  the  public  with  harsh  rigour  blame 
This  my  just  homage  to  thy  honoured  name  ; 

To  please  that  public,  if  to  please  be  mine. 

Thy  virtues  trained  me — let  the  praise  be  thine.  ' 

Inscription  on  the  Tomb  of  Cowper. 

Ye  who  with  ivarmth  the  public  triumph  feel 
Of  talents  dignified  by  sacred  zeal. 

Here,  to  devotion’s  bard  devoutly  just. 

Pay  your  fond  tribute  due  to  Cowper’s  dust! 

England,  exulting  in  his  .spotless  fame. 

Ranks  with  her  dearest  sons  his  favourite  name. 

Sense,  fancy,  wit,  suffice  not  all  to  raise 
So  clear  a title  to  affection’s  praise : 

His  highest  honours  to  the  heart  belong; 

His  virtues  formed  the  magic  of  his  soi.g. 


8«9 


FROM  178)  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  xirx  the  present  time. 


On  the  Tomb  of  Mrs  Unwin. 

Trusting  in  God  with  all  her  heart  and  mind, 

This  woman  jirovcd  magnanimously  kind; 

Kiidurcd  allliction’s  desolating  hail, 

And  vitehed  a poet  through  misfortune’s  vale. 

Her  sj  itless  dust  angelic  guards  defendl 
It  is  the  dust  of  Unwin,  Cowper’s  friend. 

That  single  title  in  itself  is  fame. 

For  all  who  read  his  verse  revere  her  name. 

vn  ERASMUS  DARWIN. 

Dr  Erasmus  Darwin,  an  ingenious  philosophi- 
cal, though  fanciful  poet,  was  born  at  Elston,  near 
Newark,  in  1731.  Having  pa.ssed  with  credit 
through  a course  of  education  at  St  John’s  college, 
Cambridge,  he  ajiplied  himself  to  the  study  of 
physic,  and  took  his  degree  of  bachelor  in  medicine 
at  Edinburgh  in  17.55.  He  then  commenced  prac- 
tice in  Nottingham,  but  meeting  with  little  encour- 
agement, he  removed  to  Lichfield,  where  he  long 
continued  a successful  and  distinguished  physician. 
In  1757  Dr  Darwin  married  an  accomplished  lady 
of  Lichfield,  Miss  Mary  Howard,  by  whom  he  had 
five  children,  two  of  whom  died  in  infancy.  The 
lady  herself  died  in  1770  ; and  after  her  decease, 
Darwin  seems  to  have  commenced  his  botanical 
and  literary  pursuits.  He  was  at  first  afraid  that 
the  reputation  of  a poet  would  injure  him  in  his 
profession,  but  being  firmly  established  in  the  latter 
capacity,  he  at  length  ventured  on  publication.  At 
this  time  he  lived  in  a picturesque  villa  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Lichfield,  furnished  with  a grotto 
and  fountain,  and  here  he  began  the  formation  of 
a botanic  garden.  The  spot  he  has  described  as 
‘adapted  to  love-scenes,  and  as  being  thence  a 
proper  residence  for  the  modern  goddess  of  botany.’ 
In  1781  appeared  the  first  part  of  Darwin’s  Botanic 
Garden,  a poem  in  glittering  and  polished  heroic 
Terse,  designed  to  describe,  adorn,  and  allegorise  the 
Liunaian  system  of  botany.  The  Rosicrucian  doc- 
trine of  gnomes,  sylphs,  nymphs,  and  salamanders, 
was  adopted  by  the  poet,  as  • affording  a proper 
machinery  for  a botanic  poem,  as  it  is  probable 
they  were  origin.ally  the  names  of  hieroglyphic 
figures  representing  the  elements.’  The  novelty 
and  ingenuity  of  Darwin’s  attempt  attracted  much 
attention,  and  rendered  him  highly  popular.  In 
the  same  year  the  poet  was  called  to  attend  an 
aged  gentleman,  Colonel  Sachevell  Pole  of  Rad- 
bourne-hall,  near  Derby.  An  intimacy  was  thus 
formed  with  Mrs  Pule,  and  the  colonel  dying,  the 
poetical  physician  in  a few  months  afterwards,  in 
1781,  married  the  firir  widow,  wdio  possessed  a join- 
ture of  L.600  per  annum.  Darwin  was  now  released 
from  all  pruilential  fears  and  restraints  as  to  the  cul- 
tivation of  his  poetical  talents,  and  he  went  on  adding 
to  his  floral  gallery.  In  1789  appeared  the  second 
part  of  his  poen.  , containing  the  Loves  of  the  Plants. 
Ovid  having,  he  said,  transmuted  men,  women,  and 
even  gods  and  goddesses  into  trees  and  flowers,  he 
had  undertaken,  by  similar  art,  to  restore  some  of 
them  to  their  original  animality,  after  having  re- 
mained prisoners  so  long  in  their  respective  vege- 
table mansions  : — 

From  giant  oaks,  that  wave  their  branches  dark 
To  the  dwarf  moss  that  clings  upon  their  bark. 

What  beaux  and  beauties  crowd  the  gaudy  groves, 
And  woo  and  win  their  vegetable  loves.* 

* Linn.vus,  the  celebrated  Swedish  natur,alist,  has  deinon- 
atrated,  that  all  flowers  contain  families  of  males  or  females, 
or  both  ; and  on  their  marriage,  has  constructed  his  invaluable 
system  of  botany. — Vanvin. 


How  snowdrops  cold,  and  blue-eyed  harebells  blend 
Their  tender  tears,  as  o’er  the  streams  they  bend ; 

The  love-sick  violet,  anil  the  primrose  pale, 

I’ow  their  sweet  heads,  and  whi.sper  to  the  gale  ; 

With  secret  sighs  the  virgin  lily  droops. 

And  jealous  cowslips  hang  their  tawny  cups. 

How  the  young  ro.se,  in  beauty’s  damask  pride, 

Drinks  the  warm  blushes  of  his  bashful  bride; 

With  honied  lips  enamoured  woodbines  meet. 

Clasp  with  fond  arms,  and  mix  their  kisses  sweet ! 
Stay  thy  soft  murmuring  waters,  gentle  rill ; 

Hush,  whispering  winds;  ye  rustling  leaves  be  still; 
Rest,  silver  butterflies,  your  quivering  wings; 

Alight,  ye  beetles,  from  your  airy  rings ; 

Ye  painted  moths,  your  gold-eyed  plumage  furl, 

Bow  your  wide  horns,  your  spiral  trunks  uncurl ; 
Glitter,  ye  glow-worms,  on  your  mossy  beds  ; 

Descend,  ye  .spiders,  on  your  lengthened  threads  ; 
Slide  here,  ye  horned  snails,  with  varni.shed  shells; 

Y e bee-nymphs,  listen  in  your  waxen  cells  1 

This  is  exquisitely  melodious  verse,  and  ingenious 
subtle  fancy.  A few  passages  have  moral  sentiment 
and  human  interest  united  to  the  same  powers  of 
vivid  painting  and  expression : — 

Roll  on,  ye  stars  ! exult  in  youthful  prime, 

Mark  with  bright  curves  the  printless  steps  of  Time; 
Near  and  more  near  your  beamy  cars  approach. 

And  lessening  orbs  on  lessening  orbs  encroach  ; 
Flowers  of  the  sky  ! ye,  too,  to  age  must  yield, 

Frail  as  your  silken  si.sters  of  the  field  1 
Star  after  star  from  heaven’s  high  arch  shall  rush. 
Suns  sink  on  suns,  and  systems  systems  crush. 
Headlong,  extinct,  to  one  dark  centre  fall. 

And  death,  and  night,  and  chaos  mingle  all! 

Till  o’er  the  wreck,  emerging  from  the  storm. 
Immortal  nature  lifts  her  changeful  form. 

Mounts  from  her  funeral  pyre  on  wings  of  flame. 

And  soars  and  shines,  another  and  the  same  1 

In  another  part  of  the  poem,  after  describing  the 
cassia  plant,  ‘ cinctured  with  gold,’  and  borne  on 
by  the  current  to  the  coasts  of  Norway,  with  all  its 
‘infant  loves,’  or  seeds,  the  poet,  in  his  usual  strain 
of  forced  similitude,  digresses  in  the  following  happy 
and  vigorous  lines,  to  Moses  concealed  on  the  Nile,  and 
the  slavery  of  the  Africans  : — 

So  the  sad  mother  at  the  noon  of  night. 

From  bloody  Memphis  stole  her  silent  flight ; 
Wrapped  her  dear  babe  beneath  her  folded  vest. 

And  clasped  the  treasure  to  her  throbbing  breast ; 
With  soothing  whispers  hushed  its  feeble  cry. 

Pressed  the  soft  kiss,  and  breathed  the  secret  sigh- 
With  dauntle.ss  step  she  seeks  the  winding  shore, 
Hears  unappalled  the  glimmering  torrents  roar; 

With  paper-flags  a floating  cradle  weaves. 

And  hides  the  smiling  boy  in  lotus  leaves ; 

Gives  her  white  bosom  to  his  eager  lip.s. 

The  salt  tears  mingling  with  the  milk  he  sips ; 

Waits  on  the  reed-crowned  brink  ivith  pious  guile. 
And  trusts  the  scaly  monsters  of  the  Nile. 

Erewhile  majestic  from  his  lone  abode. 

Ambassador  of  heaven,  the  prophet  trod  ; 

Wrenched  the  red  scourge  from  proud  oppression*! 
hands. 

And  broke,  cursed  slavery  1 thy  iron  bands. 

Hark!  heard  ye  not  that  piercing  cry. 

Which  shook  the  waves  and  rent  the  sky? 

E’en  now,  e’en  now,  on  yonder  western  shores 
Weeps  pale  despair,  and  writhing  anguish  roars  ; 

E’en  now  in  Afric’s  groves  with  hideous  yell, 

Fierce  slavery  stalks,  and  slips  the  dogs  of  hell ; 

From  vale  to  vale  the  gathering  cries  rebound. 

And  sable  nations  tremble  at  the  sound! 

Ye  bands  of  senators  ! whose  suffrage  sways 
Britannia’s  realms,  whom  eiiher  Ind  obeys; 

270 


rOETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


nn  EHASMUS  DARWin. 


Who  ri^ht  the  injured  and  reward  the  brave,  t 
Rt.rcteli  your  strong  arm,  for  ye  have  power  to  save! 
Throned  in  tlic  vaulted  heart,  his  dread  resort, 
Inexorable  conscience  holds  his  court; 

\\'ith  still  small  voice  the  plots  of  guilt  alarms. 

Hares  his  masked  brow,  his  lifted  hand  disarms ; 

But  wrapped  in  night  with  terrors  all  his  own. 

He  speaks  in  thunder  when  the  deed  is  done. 

Hear  him,  ye  senates!  hear  this  truth  sublime, 

‘ He  who  allows  oppression  shares  the  crime  1’ 

The  material  images  of  Darwin  are  often  less  happy 
than  tlie  above,  being  both  e.xtravagant  and  gross, 
and  grouped  together  witliout  any  visible  connexion 
or  dependence  one  on  the  other.  He  has  such  a 
throng  of  startling  metaphors  and  descriptions,  the 
latter  drawn  out  to  an  excessive  length  and  tiresome 
minuteness,  that  nothing  is  left  to  tlie  reader’s  ima- 
gination, and  the  whole  passes  like  a glittering 
pageant  before  the  eye,  exciting  wonder,  but  without 
toucliing  the  heart  or  feelings.  As  the  poet  was  then 
past  fifty,  the  exuberance  of  his  fancy,  and  his  pecu- 
liar choice  of  subjects,  are  the  more  remarkable.  A 
third  part  of  the  ‘ Botanic  Garden’  was  added  in 
1792.  D.arwin  next  published  his  Zoononiia,  or  the 
Laws  of  Organic  Life,  part  of  which  he  had  written 
many  years  previously.  Tliis  is  a curious  and  original 
physiological  treatise,  evincing  an  inquiring  and 
attentive  study  of  natural  phenomena.  Dr  Thomas 
Brown,  Professor  Dugald  Stewart,  Paley,  and  others, 
have,  liowever,  successfully  combated  the  positions 
of  Darwin,  particularly  his  theory  which  refers  in- 
stinct to  sensation.  In  1801  our  author  came  forward 
with  another  philosophical  disquisition,  entitled 
Phgtologia,  or  the  Philosophy  of  Agriculture  and  Gar- 
dening. He  also  wrote  a short  treatise  on  Female 
Education,  intended  for  the  instruction  and  assist- 
I ance  of  part  of  his  own  family.  This  was  Darwin’s 
last  publication.  He  had  always  been  a remarkably 
temiierate  man.  Indeed  he  totally  abstained  from 
all  fermented  and  spirituous  liquors,  and  in  his 
Botanic  Garden  he  compares  their  effeets  to  that 
of  the  Promethean  fire.  He  was,  however,  subject 
to  inflammation  as  well  as  gout,  and  a sudden  attack 
carried  him  olf  in  his  seventy-first  year,  on  the  18th 
of  April  1802.  Shortly  after  his  death  was  pub- 
lished a poem.  The  Temple  of  Nature,  which  he  had 
ready  for  the  press,  the  preface  to  the  work  being 
dated  only  three  months  before  his  death.  The 
Temple  of  Nature  aimed,  like  the  Botanic  Garden, 
to  amuse  by  bringing  distinctly  to  the  imagination 
the  beautiful  and  sublime  images  of  the  operations 
of  nature.  It  is  more  metaphysic.al  than  its  prede- 
cessor, and  more  inverted  in  style  and  diction. 

The  poetical  reputation  of  Darwin  was  as  bright 
and  transient  as  the  plants  and  flowers  which  formed 
the  subject  of  his  verse.  Cowper  praised  his  song 
for  its  rich  embellishments,  and  said  it  was  as 
‘ strong’  as  it  was  ‘ learned  and  sweet.’  ‘ There  is  a 
fashion  in  poetry,’  observes  Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘ which, 
without  increasing  or  diminishing  the  real  value  of 
the  materials  moulded  upon  it,  does  wonders  in 
facilitating  its  currency  while  it  has  novelty,  and  is 
often  founci  to  impede  its  reception  when  the  mode 
has  passed  aw.ay.’  This  has  been  the  fate  of  Darwin. 
Be.sides  his  coterie  at  Lichfield,  the  poet  of  Flora  had 
cvmsiderable  influence  on  the  poetical  taste  of  his  own 
day.  He  may  be  traced  in  the  ‘ Pleasures  of  Hope’ 
of  Campbell,  and  in  other  young  poers  3f  that  time. 
The  attempt  to  unite  science  with  tr.e  inspirations 
of  the  Muse,  was  in  itself  an  attractive  novelty,  and 
he  supported  it  with  various  and  high  powers.  His 
command  of  fancy,  of  poetical  language,  dazzling 
metaphors,  and  sonorous  versification,  was  well 
iccouded  hr  his  cr-j-ious  and  multifarious  knowledge. 


The  effect  of  tlie  wliole,  however,  was  artificial,  and 
destitute  of  any  strong  or  continuous  interest.  The 
Rosicrucian  machinery  of  Pope  was  united  to  the 
delineation  of  human  passions  and  pursuits,  and 
became  the  auxiliary  of  wit  and  satire  ; but  who  can 
sympathise  with  the  loves  and  metamorphoses  of 
the  plants  ? Darwin  had  no  sentiment  or  pathos, 
except  in  very  brief  episodical  passages,  and  even 
his  eloquent  and  splendid  versification,  for  want  of 
variety  of  cadence,  becomes  monotonous  and  fatigu- 
ing. There  is  no  repgse,  no  cessation  from  the  glare 
of  his  bold  images,  his  compound  epithets,  and  high- 
toned  melody.  He  had  attained  to  rare  perfection 
in  the  mechanism  of  poetry,  but  wanted  those  im- 
pulses of  soul  and  sense,  and  that  guiding  taste  which 
were  required  to  give  it  vitality,  and  direct  it  to  its 
true  objects. 

\_Invocation  to  the  Goddess  of  Botany. 

[From  * The  Botanic  Garden.l 

‘ Stay  your  rude  steps  1 whose  throbbing  breasts  icfcld 
The  legion-fiends  of  glory  and  of  gold  1 
Stay,  whose  false  lips  seductive  simpers  part. 

While  cunning  nestles  in  the  harlot  heart! 

For  you  no  dryads  dress  the  roseate  bower. 

For  you  no  nymphs  their  sparkling  vases  pour; 
Unmarked  by  you,  light  graces  swim  the  green, 

And  hovering  Cupids  aim  their  shafts  unseen. 

But  thou  whose  mind  the  well-attempered  ray 
Of  taste  and  virtue  lights  with  purer  day  ; 

Whose  finer  sense  with  soft  vibration  owns 
With  sweet  responsive  sympathy  of  tones ; 

So  the  fair  flower  expands  its  lucid  form 
To  meet  the  sun,  and  shuts  it  to  the  storm ; 

For  thee  my  borders  nurse  the  fragrant  wreath. 

My  fountains  murmur,  and  my  zephyrs  breathe ; 

Slow  slides  the  painted  snail,  the  gilded  fly 
Smooths  his  fine  down,  to  charm  thy  curious  eye; 

On  twinkling  fins  my  pearly  pinions  play. 

Or  win  with  sinuous  train  their  trackless  way ; 

My  plumy  pairs  in  gay  embroidery  dressed. 

Form  with  ingenious  bill  the  pensile  nest. 

To  love’s  sweet  notes  attune  the  listening  dell. 

And  echo  sounds  her  soft  symphonious  shell. 

And  if  with  thee  some  hapless  maid  should  stray. 
Disastrous  love  companion  of  her  way,  , 

Oh,  lead  her  timid  steps  to  yonder  glade. 

Whose  arching  cliffs  depending  alders  shade ; 

Where,  as  meek  evening  wakes  her  temperate  breeze, 
And  moonbeams  glitter  through  the  trembling  trees, 
The  rills  that  gurgle  round  shall  soothe  her  ear. 

The  weeping  rocks  shall  number  tear  for  tear ; 

There,  as  sad  Philomel,  alike  forlorn. 

Sings  to  the  night  from  her  accustomed  thorn ; 

While  at  sweet  intervals  each  falling  note 
Sighs  in  the  gale  and  whispers  round  the  grot. 

The  sister  wo  shall  calm  her  aching  breast. 

And  softer  slumbers  steal  her  cares  to  rest. 

Winds  of  the  north  1 restrain  your  icy  gales. 

Nor  chill  the  bosom  of  these  happy  vales! 

Hence  in  dark  heaps,  ye  gathering  clouds,  revolve! 
Disperse,  ye  lightnings,  and  ye  mists  dissolve  1 
Hither,  emerging  from  yon  orient  skies. 

Botanic  goddess,  bend  thy  radiant  eyes  ; 

O’er  these  soft  scenes  assume  thy  gentle  icign, 
Pomona,  Ceres,  Flora  in  thy  train  ; 

O’er  the  still  dawn  thy  placid  smile  effuse. 

And  with  thy  silver  sandals  print  the  dews ; 

In  noon’s  bright  blaze  thy  vermeil  vest  unfold. 

And  wave  thy  emerald  banner  starred  with  gold. 

Thus  spoke  the  genius  as  he  stept  along, 

And  bade  these  lawns  to  peace  and  truth  belong  , 
Down  the  steep  slopes  he  led  with  modest  skill 
The  willing  pathway  and  the  truant  rill. 


271 


PROM  17ff0 


CYCLOI’iKDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  I’RKSE.Vl  riMK. 


Strctolied  o’er  the  marsliy  vale  yon  willowy  iiiouml, 
Where  HhineH  the  lake  amid  the  tufted  ground  ; 
liaised  the  young  woodland,  smoothed  the  wavy  green, 
And  gave  to  beauty  all  the  quiet  scene. 

She  comes  ! the  goddess!  through  the  whispering  air, 
liright  as  the  morn  descends  her  blushing  car ; 

Each  circling  wheel  a wreath  of  flowers  entwines. 

And,  gemmed  with  flowers,  the  silken  harness  shines; 
The  golden  bits  with  flowery  studs  are  decked. 

And  knots  of  Howers  the  crimson  reins  connect. 

And  now  on  earth  the  silver  axle  rings. 

And  the  shell  sinks  upon  its  sleftder  springs; 

Light  from  her  airy  seat  the  goddess  bounds. 

And  steps  celestial  press  the  jiansied  grounds. 

Fair  Spring  advancing  calls  her  feathered  quire, 

And  tunes  to  softer  notes  her  laughing  lyre; 

Lids  her  gay  hours  on  purple  pinions  move. 

And  anus  her  zephyrs  with  the  shafts  of  love. 

[Destruction  of  Scnnacherlt's  Army  hy  a Pestilential 

Wind.] 

[Fmm  the  ‘ Economy  of  Vegetation.’] 

From  Ashur’s  vales  when  proud  Sennacherib  trod. 
Poured  his  swoln  heart,  defied  the  living  God, 

Urged  with  incessant  shouts  his  glittering  powers. 

And  Judah  shook  through  all  her  massy  towers; 
Hound  her  sad  altars  press  the  prostrate  crowd. 

Hosts  beat  their  breasts,  aud  suppliant  chieftains 
bowed ; 

Loud  shrieks  of  matrons  thrilled  the  troubled  air, 

And  trembling  virgins  rent  their  scattered  hair; 

High  in  the  midst  the  kneeling  king  adored, 

Sjiread  the  blaspheming  scroll  before  the  Lord, 

Raised  his  pale  hands,  and  breathed  his  pausing  sighs, 
Aud  fixeil  on  heaven  his  dim  imploring  eyes. 

‘ Oh  ! mighty  God,  amidst  thy  seraph  throng 
Y'ho  sit’st  sublime,  the  judge  of  right  and  wrong  ; 
Thine  the  wide  earth,  bright  sun,  and  starry  zone. 
That  twinkling  journey  roun<l  thy  golden  throne  ; 
Thine  is  the  crystal  source  of  life  and  light. 

And  thine  the  realms  of  death’s  eternal  night. 

Oh  ! bend  thine  ear,  thy  gracious  eye  incline, 

Lo  ! Ashur's  king  blasphemes  thy  holy  shrine. 

Insults  our  offerings,  and  derides  our  vows. 

Oh  ! strike  the  diadem  from  his  impious  brows. 

Tear  from  his  murderous  hand  the  bloody  rod. 

And  teai-h  the  trembling  nations  ‘ Thou  art  God  I’ 
Sylphs  ! in  what  dread  arr.ay  with  pennons  broad. 
Onward  ye  floated  o’er  the  ethereal  road  ; 

Called  each  dank  steam  the  reeking  marsh  exhales, 
Contagious  vapours  and  volcanic  gales  ; 

Gave  the  soft  south  with  poisonous  breath  to  blow. 
And  rolled  the  dreadful  whirlwind  on  the  foe! 

Hark  I o’er  the  camp  the  venomed  tempest  sings, 

Man  falls  on  man,  on  buckler  buckler  rings  ; 

Gro.an  answers  groan,  to  anguish  anguish  yields. 

And  death’s  loud  accents  shake  the  tented  fields  1 
High  rears  the  fiend  his  grinning  jaws,  and  wide 
Spans  the  pale  nations  with  colossal  stride, 

Waves  his  broad  falchion  with  uplifted  hand, 

Aud  his  vast  shadow  darkens  all  the  laud. 

[The  -Belgian  Lovers  and  the  Plague.] 

[From  the  same.] 

[AVhen  the  plasrue  rased  in  Holland  in  1C3G,  a yonns  girl  was 
seized  with  it,  and  was  removed  to  a garden,  where  her  lover, 
who  was  betrothed  to  her,  attended  her  as  amir.se.  lie  re- 
mained uninfected,  and  she  recovered,  and  was  married  to 
him.] 

Thus  when  the  plague,  upborne  on  Belgian  air. 

Looked  through  the  mist,  and  shook  his  clotted  hair. 
O’er  shrinking  nations  steered  malignant  clouds, 

Ajid  rained  destruction  on  the  gaping  crowds; 


The  beauteous  Jltgle  felt  the  envenomed  diirt. 

Slow  rolled  her  eye  and  feebly  throbbed  her  heart; 
Each  fervid  sigh  seemed  shorter  than  the  last. 

And  starting  friendship  shunned  her  as  she  passed. 
With  weak  unsteady  step  the  fainting  maid 
Seeks  the  cold  garden’s  solitary  shade. 

Sinks  on  the  pillowy  moss  her  drooping  head. 

And  prints  with  lifeless  limbs  her  leafy  bed. 

On  wings  of  love  her  plighted  swain  pursues. 

Shades  her  from  winds  and  shelters  her  from  dews. 
Extends  on  tapering  poles  the  canva.ss  roof. 

Spreads  o’er  the  straw-wove  mat  the  flaxen  woof ; 
Sweet  buds  and  blossoms  on  her  bolster  strows. 

And  binds  his  kerchief  round  her  aching  brows; 
Soothes  with  soft  ki.ss,  with  tender  accents  charms. 
And  clasps  the  bright  infection  in  his  arms. 

With  pale  and  languid  smiles  the  grateful  fair 
Applauds  his  virtues  and  rewards  his  care; 

Mourns  with  wet  cheek  her  fair  companions  fled. 

On  timorous  step,  or  numbered  with  the  dead; 

Calls  to  her  bosom  all  its  scattered  rays. 

And  pours  on  Thyrsis  the  collected  blaze  ; 

Braves  the  chill  night,  caressing  and  caressed. 

And  folds  her  hero-lover  to  her  breast. 

Less  bold,  Leander,  at  the  dusky  hour. 

Eyed,  as  he  swam,  the  far  love-lighted  tower; 
Breasted  with  struggling  arms  the  tossing  wave. 

And  sunk  benighted  in  the  watery  grave. 

Less  bold,  Tobias  claimed  the  nuptial  bed. 

Where  seven  fond  lovers  by  a fiend  had  bled  ; 

And  drove,  instructed  by  his  angel  guide. 

The  enamoured  demon  from  the  fatal  bride. 

Sylphs  I while  your  winnowing  pinions  fanned  the  aiT| 
And  shed  gay  visions  o’er  the  sleeping  pair. 

Love  round  their  couch  effused  his  rosy  breath. 

And  with  his  keener  arrows  conquered  death. 

[Death  of  Eliza  at  the  Battle  of  Minden.] 

[From  the  ‘ Loves  of  the  Plants.’] 

So  stood  Eliza  on  the  wood-crowned  height. 

O’er  Minden’s  plain,  spectatress  of  the  fight. 

Sought  with  bold  eye  amid  the  bloody  strife 
Her  dearer  self,  the  partner  of  her  life  ; 

P'rom  hill  to  hill  the  rushing  host  pursued. 

And  viewed  his  banner,  or  believed  she  viewed. 
Pleased  with  the  distant  roar,  with  quicker  tread 
I’ast  by  his  hand  one  lis])ing  boy  she  led  ; 

And  one  fair  girl  amid  the  loud  alarm 
Slept  on  her  kerchief,  cradled  by  her  arm  ; 

M'hile  round  her  brows  bright  beams  of  Honour  dart- 
And  Love’s  warm  eddies  circle  round  her  heart. 

Near  and  more  near  the  intrepid  beauty  pressed. 

Saw  through  the  driving  smoke  his  dancing  crest; 

Saw  on  his  helm,  her  virgin  hands  inwove. 

Bright  stars  of  gold,  and  mystic  knots  of  love  ; 

Heard  the  exulting  shout,  ‘ They  run  ! they  run  !’ 
‘Great  God!’  she  cried,  ‘He’s  safe!  the  battle’s  won!* 
A ball  now  hisses  through  the  airy  tiile.s, 

(Some  fury  winged  it,  and  some  demon  guides!) 

Parts  the  fine  locks  her  graceful  head  that  deck. 
Wounds  her  fair  ear,  and  sinks  into  her  neck; 

The  red  stream,  issuing  from  her  azure  veins. 

Dyes  her  white  veil,  her  ivory  bosom  stains. 

‘ Ah  me  !’  she  cried,  and  sinking  on  the  ground, 

Kissed  her  dear  babes,  regardless  of  the  wound  ; 

‘ Oh,  cease  not  yet  to  beat,  thou  vital  urn  ! 

Wait,  gushing  life,  oh  wait  my  love’s  return  !’ 

Hoarse  barks  the  wolf,  the  vulture  screams  from  fa:  i 
The  angel  pity  shuns  the  walks  of  war! 

‘ Oh  .spare,  ye  war-hounds,  spare  their  tender  age ; 

On  me,  on  me,’  she  cried,  ‘ exhaust  your  rage  !’ 

Then  with  weak  arms  her  weeping  babes  caressed. 
And,  sighing,  hid  them  in  her  blood-stained  vest. 

P'rom  tent  to  tent  the  impatient  warrior  flies. 

Fear  in  his  heart  and  frenzy  in  his  eyes ; 


27a 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


<>um. 


Eliza's  name  along  the  camp  he  calls, 

‘ Kliza’  eclioes  through  the  canvass  walls  ; 

Quick  through  the  murmuring  gloom  his  footsteps 
tread, 

O’er  groaning  heaps,  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

Vault  o’er  the  jdain,  and  in  the  tangled  wood, 

Lo!  dead  Kliza  weltering  in  her  blood  ! 

Soon  hears  his  listening  son  the  welcome  sounds. 

With  open  arms  and  sparkling  eye  he  bounds  : 

‘ Speak  low,’  he  cries,  and  gives  his  little  hand, 

‘ Eliza  sleeps  upon  the  acw-cold  sand 

Poor  wee])ing  babe  with  bloody  fingers  pressed. 

And  tried  with  pouting  lips  her  milkless  breast ; 
‘Alas!  we  both  with  cold  and  hunger  quake — 

\\  by  do  you  weep  ! — Mamma  will  soon  awake.’ 
‘She’ll  wake  no  more  1’  the  hapless  mourner  cried. 
Upturned  his  eyes,  and  clasped  his  hands,  and 
sighed  ; 

] Stretched  on  the  ground,  a while  entranced  he  lay. 
And  pressed  warm  kisses  on  the  lifeless  clay  ; 

And  then  upsprung  with  wild  convulsive  start. 

Ami  all  the  father  kindled  in  his  heart ; 

‘ Oh  heavens!  he  cried,  ‘ my  first  rash  vow  forgive ; 
These  bind  to  earth,  for  those  1 pray  to  live  1’ 

Round  his  chill  babes  he  wrapped  his  crimson  vest. 
And  clasi 'd  them  sobbing  to  his  aching  breast.* 

[Philanthropy — Mr  Hoioa/rd.'] 

[From  the  ‘ Loves  of  the  Plants.’] 

And  now,  philanthropy!  thy  rays  divine 
D.art  round  the  globe  from  Zembla  to  the  line ; 

O’er  each  dark  prison  plays  the  cheering  light. 

Like  northern  lustres  o’er  the  vault  of  night. 

From  realm  to  realm,  with  cross  or  crescent  crowned. 
Where’er  mankind  and  misery  are  found. 

O’er  burning  sands,  deep  waves,  or  wilds  of  snow. 

Thy  Howard  journeying  seeks  the  house  of  wo. 

Down  many  a winding  step  to  dungeons  dank. 

Where  aiiguisi.  vails  aloud,  and  fetters  clank  ; 

To  caves  bestrewed  with  many  a mouldering  bone. 
And  cells  whose  echoes  only  learn  to  groan  ; 

Where  no  kind  bars  a whispering  friend  disclose. 

No  sunbeam  enters,  and  no  zephyr  blows. 

He  treads,  unemulous  of  fame  or  wealth. 

Profuse  of  toil,  and  prodigal  of  health. 

With  soft  assuasive  eloquence  expands 
Power’s  rigid  heart,  and  opes  his  clenching  hands ; 
Leads  stern-eyed  Justice  to  the  dark  domains. 

If  not  to  sever,  to  relax  the  chains  ; 

Or  guides  awakened  mercy  through  the  gloom. 

And  shows  the  prison,  sister  to  the  tomb  1 
Gives  to  her  babes  the  self-devoted  wife. 

To  her  fond  husband  liberty  and  life  1 
The  spirits  of  the  good,  who  bend  from  high 
M’ide  o’er  these  earthly  scenes  their  partial  eye. 
When  first  arrayed  in  Virtue’s  purest  robe. 

They  saw  her  Howard  traversing  the  globe  ; 

Saw  round  his  brows  her  sun-like  glory  blaze 
In  arrowy  circles  of  unwearied  rays; 

Mistook  a mortal  for  an  angel  guest. 

And  asked  what  seraph  foot  the  earth  impressed. 
Onw’ard  he  moves  1 Disease  and  Death  retire, 

And  murmuring  demons  hate  him  and  admire  ! 

* Those  who  have  the  opportunity  may  compare  this  death 
BCcne  (inueh  to  the  advantage  of  the  living  author)  with  that 
of  Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  which  may  have  been  suggested,  very 
remotely  and  quite  unconsciously,  by  Darwin’s  Eliza.  Sir 
M'alter  Scott  excels  in  painting  battle-pieces,  as  overseen  by 
Bonie  interested  spectator.  Eliza  at  Minden  is  circumstanced 
so  nearly  like  Clara  at  Flodden,  that  the  mighty  Minstrel  of 
the  North  may  possibly  have  caught  the  idea  of  the  latter  from 
the  Lichfield  Botanist ; but  oh,  how  has  he  triumphed  — 
Monlgomerif't  Lectures  on  Poetry. 

60 


HRS  CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 


Song  tc  May. 

[From  the  same.] 

Born  in  yon  blaze  of  orient  sky. 

Sweet  May  1 thy  radiant  form  unfold ; 

Unclose  thy  blue  voluptuous  eye. 

And  wave  thy  shadowy  locks  of  gold. 

For  thee  the  fragrant  zephyrs  blow. 

For  thee  descends  the  sunny  shower ; 

The  rills  in  softer  murmurs  flow. 

And  brighter  blcssoms  gem  the  bower. 

Light  graces  decked  in  flowery  wreaths 
And  tiptoe  joys  their  hands  combine; 

And  Love  his  sweet  contagion  breathes. 

And,  laughing,  dances  round  thy  shrine. 

Warm  with  new  life,  the  glittering  throng 
On  quivering  fin  and  rustling  wing. 

Delighted  join  their  votive  song. 

And  hail  thee  Goddess  of  the  Spring! 

Song  to  Echo. 

[From  the  same.] 

I. 

Sweet  Echo!  sleeps  thy  vocal  .shell. 

Where  this  high  arch  o’erhangs  the  dell ; 

While  Tweed,  with  sun-reflecting  stream*. 
Chequers  thy  rocks  with  dauciug  beams  I 

II. 

Here  may  no  clamours  harsh  iiitr’ade. 

No  brawling  hound  or  clarion  rude  ; 

Here  no  fell  beast  of  midnight  prowl. 

And  teach  thy  tortured  cliffs  to  howl. 

III. 

Be  thine  to  pour  these  vales  along 
Some  artless  shepherd’s  evening  song ; 

While  night’s  sweet  bird  from  yon  high  spray 
Responsive  listens  to  his  lay. 

IV. 

And  if,  like  me,  some  love-lorn  maid 
Should  sing  her  sorrows  to  thy  shade. 

Oh  1 sooth  her  breast,  ye  rocks  around. 

With  softest  sympathy  of  sound. 

MRS  CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 

This  lady  (whose  admirable  prose  fictions  vill 
afterwards  be  noticed)  was  the  daughter  of  Mr 
Turner  of  Stoke  House,  in  Surrey,  and  was  born  on 
the  4th  of  May  1749.  She  was  remarkable  for  pre- 
cocity of  talents,  and  for  a lively  playful  humour 
that  showed  itself  in  conversation,  ami  in  composi- 
tions both  in  prose  and  verse.  Being  early  deprived 
of  her  mother,  she  was  carelessly  though  expensively 
educated,  and  introduced  into  society  at  a very  early 
age.  Her  father  having  decided  on  a second  mar- 
riage, the  friends  of  the  young  and  admired  poetess 
endeavoured  to  establish  her  in  life,  and  she  was 
induced  to  accept  the  hand  of  Mr  Smith,  the  son 
and  partner  of  a rich  West  India  merchant.  The 
husband  was  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  his  wife 
fifteen  1 This  rash  union  was  productive  of  mutual 
discontent  and  misery.  Mr  Smith  was  careless  and 
extravagant,  business  was  neglected,  and  his  father 
dying,  left  a will  so  complicated  and  voluminous 
that  no  two  lawyers  understood  it  in  the  same  sense. 
Lawsuits  and  embarrassments  were  therefore  the 
portion  of  this  ill-starred  pair  for  all  their  after-lives. 
Mr  Smith  was  ultimately  forced  to  sell  the  greater 

273 


ennyi  !780 


CYCLOPil^DIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIKS. 


part  of  liis  property,  after  he  had  been  thrown  into 
prison,  and  Ids  faithful  wife  liad  shared  with  him 
tlie  ndsery  and  diseoinfort  of  his  confinement.  A 
numerous  family  also  {rathered  around  them,  to  add 
to  tlieir  solicitude  and  difficulties.  In  1782  Mrs 
'jith  published  a volume  of  sonnets,  irregular  in 
structure,  but  marked  by  poetical  feeling  and  ex- 
pression. They  were  favourably  received  by  the 
public,  and  at  length  passed  through  no  less  than 
eleven  editions,  besides  being  translated  into  French 
and  Italian.  After  an  unhappy  union  of  twenty- 
three  years,  Mrs  Smith  separated  from  her  husband, 
and,  taking  a cottage  near  Chichester,  applied  her- 
self to  her  literary  occupations  with  cheerful  assi- 
duity, supplying  to  her  children  the  duties  of  both 
parents.  In  eight  months  she  completed  her  novel 
of  Emmeline,  juiblished  in  1788.  In  the  following 
year  a])peared  another  novel  from  her  pen,  entitled 
Elhdinite ; and  in  1791  a third  under  the  name  of 
Celeslina.  She  imbibed  the  opinions  of  the  French 
Ilevolution,  and  embodied  them  in  a romance  en- 
titled Desmond.  This  work  arrayed  against  her 
many  of  her  friends  and  readers,  but  she  regained 
the  public  favour  by  her  tale,  the  Old  Manor  House, 
which  is  the  best  of  her  novels.  Part  of  this  w-ork 
Tvas  written  at  Eartham,  the  residence  of  Ilayley, 
during  the  period  of  Cowper’s  visit  to  that  poetical 
retreat.  ‘ It  was  delightful,’  says  Hayley,  * to  hear 
her  read  what  she  had  just  written,  for  she  read, 
as  she  wrote,  with  simplicity  and  grace.’  Cowper 
was  also  astonished  at  the  rapidity  and  excellence 
of  her  composition.  Mrs  Smith  continued  her 
literary  labours  amidst  private  and  family  distress. 
She  wrote  a valuable  little  compendium  for  chil- 
dren, under  the  title  of  Conversations;  A History 
of  British  Birds;  a descriptive  poem  on  Beuchy 
Head,  &c.  The  delays  in  the  settlement  of  her 
property,  which  had  been  an  endless  source  of 
vexation  and  anxiety  to  one  possessing  all  the  sus- 
ceptibility and  ardour  of  the  poetical  temperament, 
were  adjusted  by  a compromise;  but  Mrs  Smith 
had  sunk  into  ill  health.  She  died  at  Tilford,  near 
Farnham,  on  the  28th  of  October  1806.  The  poetry 
of  Mrs  Smith  is  elegant  and  sentimental,  and  gene- 
rally of  a pathetic  cast.  She  wrote  as  if  ‘ melancholy 
had  marked  her  for  her  own.’  The  keen  satire  and 
observation  evinced  in  her  novels  do  not  appear  in 
her  verse,  but  the  same  powers  of  description  are 
displayed.  Her  sketches  of  English  scenery  are  true 
and  pleasing.  ‘ But  while  we  allow,’  says  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  ‘ high  praise  to  the  sweet  and  sad  effusions  of 
Mrs  Smith’s  muse,  we  cannot  admit  that  by  these 
alone  she  could  ever  have  risen  to  the  height  of 
eminence  which  we  are  disposed  to  claim  for  her  as 
tuthoress  of  her  prose  narratives.’ 

Flora's  Horologe. 

In  every  copse  and  sheltered  dell. 

Unveiled  to  the  observant  eye. 

Are  faithful  monitors  who  tell 

How  pass  the  hours  and  seasons  by. 

The  green-robed  children  of  the  spring 
M'ill  mark  the  periods  as  they  pass, 

Mingle  with  leaves  Time’s  feathered  wing. 

And  bind  with  flowers  his  silent  glass. 

Mark  where  transparent  waters  glide. 

Soft  flowing  o’er  their  tranquil  bed; 

There,  cradled  on  the  dimpling  tide, 

Nymphaea  rests  her  lovely  head. 

But  conscious  of  the  earliest  beam, 

She  rises  from  her  humid  nest. 

And  sees,  reflected  in  the  stream. 

The  virgin  whiteness  of  her  breast. 


Till  the  bright  day-star  to  the  west 
Ucclines,  in  ocean’s  surge  to  lave; 

Then,  folded  in  her  modest  vest, 

She  slumbers  on  the  rocking  wave. 

See  Hieracium’s  various  tribe. 

Of  plumy  seed  and  radiate  flowers,  | 

The  course  of  Time  their  blooms  describe,  | 

And  wake  or  sleep  appointed  hours.  j 

Broad  o’er  its  imbricated  cup  ! 

The  goatsbeard  spreads  its  golden  rays, 

But  shuts  its  cautious  petals  up. 

Retreating  from  the  noontide  blaze. 

Pale  as  a pensive  cloistered  nun. 

The  Bethlem  star  her  face  unveils. 

When  o’er  the  mountain  peers  the  sun. 

But  shades  it  from  the  vesper  gales. 

Among  the  loose  and  arid  jands 
The  humble  arenaria  creeps  ; 

Slowly  the  purple  star  expands. 

But  soon  within  Its  calyx  sleeps. 

And  those  small  bells  so  lightly  rayed 
With  young  Aurora’s  rosy  hue, 

Are  to  the  noontide  sun  disi>laycd. 

But  shut  their  plaits  against  the  dew. 

On  upland  slopes  the  shepherds  mark 
The  hour  when,  as  the  dial  true, 

Cichoriura  to  the  towering  lark 
Lifts  her  soft  eyes  serenely  blue. 

And  thou,  ‘ Wee  crimson  tipped  flower,’ 

Gatherest  thy  fringed  mantle  round 
Thy  bosom  at  the  closing  hour, 

When  night-drops  bathe  the  turfy  ground.  , 
Unlike  silene,  who  declines 

The  garish  noontide’s  blazing  light ; i 

But  when  the  evening  crescent  shines,  _ 1 

Gives  all  her  sweetness  to  the  night.  ; 

Thus  in  each  flower  and  simple  bell,  | 

That  in  our  path  betrodden  lie,  | 

Are  sweet  remembrancers  who  tell  I 

How  fast  their  winged  moments  fly.  ! 

Sonnets.  I 

On  the  Departure  of  the  Nightingale.  i 

Sweet  poet  of  the  woods,  a long  adieu  1 i 

Farewell  soft  minstrel  of  the  early  year!  | 

Ah  ! ’twill  be. long  ere  thou  shalt  sing  anew. 

And  pour  thy  music  on  the  night’s  dull  ear.  I 

Whether  on  spring  thy  wandering  flights  await,  I 

Or  whether  silent  in  our  groves  you  dwell,  | 

The  pensive  muse  shall  own  thee  for  her  mate,  | 

And  still  protect  the  song  she  loves  so  well.  | 

With  cautious  .step  the  love-lorn  youth  shall  glide  . 

Through  the  lone  brake  that  shades  thy  mossy  neat;  | 
And  shepherd  girls  from  eyes  profane  shall  hide  [ 

The  gentle  bird  who  sings  of  pity  best : | 

For  still  thy  voice  shall  soft  affections  move,  1 

And  still  be  dear  to  sorrow  and  to  love  1 | 

Written  at  the  Close  of  Spring.  i 

The  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove ; | 

Each  simple  flower,  which  she  had  nursed  in  dew  j 
Anemonies  that  spangled  every  grove,  j 

The  primrose  wan,  and  harebell  mildly  blue.  | 

No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell,  j 

Or  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain,  | 

Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell,  ' 

And  dress  with  humid  hands  her  wreaths  again.  | 
Ah,  poor  humanity  ! so  frail,  so  fair,  ‘ i 

Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day,  | 

Till  tyrant  passion  and  corrosive  care 
Bid  all  thy  fairy  colours  fade  away  1 
Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers  shall  bring; 

Ah  1 why  has  happiness  no  second  Spring  1 


274 


roBW. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HISS  BI.AHISB. 


I Should  the  lone  wanderer,  fainting  on  his  way, 

I Host  for  a moment  of  the  sultry  hours, 

! .\nd,  though  his  path  through  thorns  and  roughness 

1 lay, 

I riuok  the  wild  rose  or  woodbine’s  gadding  flowers ; 

I \^'caving  gay  wreaths  beneath  some  sheltering  tree, 

! The  sense  of  sorrow  he  a while  may  lose ; 

I So  have  I sought  thy  flowers,  fair  Poesy  ! 

1 So  charmed  my  ivay  with  friendship  and  the  Muse, 
j Cut  darker  now  grows  life’s  unhappy  day. 

Dark  with  new  clouds  of  evil  yet  to  come; 

Her  pencil  sickening  Fancy  throws  away. 

And  weary  Hope  reclines  upon  the  tomb. 

And  points  my  wishes  to  that  tranquil  shore. 

Where  the  pale  spectre  Care  pursues  no  more  1 

[^Recollections  of  English  Sce:neryJ\ 

[From  ‘ Bcachy  Head,'  a Poem.] 

! Haunts  of  ray  youth  I 

Scenes  of  fond  day-dreams,  1 behold  ye  yet ! 

Where  ’twas  so  pleasant  by  thy  northern  slopes, 

To  climb  the  winding  sheep-path,  aided  oft 
By  scattered  thorns,  whose  spiny  branches  bore 
Small  woolly  tufts,  spoils  of  the  vagrant  lamb. 

There  seeking  shelter  from  the  noon-day  sun  : 

And  pleasant,  seated  on  the  short  soft  turf, 

To  look  beneath  upon  the  hollow  way. 

While  heavily  upward  moved  the  labouring  wain. 
And  stalking  slowly  by,  the  sturdy  hind. 

To  case  his  panting  team,  stopped  with  a stone 
The  grating  wheel. 

Advancing  higher  still. 

The  prospect  widens,  and  the  village  church 
But  little  o’er  the  lowly  roofs  around 
Rears  its  gray  belfry  and  its  simple  vane ; 

Those  lowly  roofs  of  thatch  are  half  concealed 
By  the  rude  arms  of  trees,  lovely  in  spring ; 

When  on  each  bough  the  rosy  tinctured  bloom 
Sits  thick,  and  promises  autumnal  plenty. 

For  even  those  orchards  round  the  Norman  farms, 

I Which,  as  their  owners  marked  the  promised  fruit. 
Console  them,  for  the  vineyards  of  the  south 
I Surpass  not  these. 

I Where  woods  of  ash  and  beech. 

And  partial  copses  fringe  the  green  hill  foot. 

The  upland  shepherd  rears  his  modest  home ; 

There  wanders  by  a little  nameless  stream 
That  from  the  hill  wells  forth,  bright  now,  and 
clear. 

Or  after  rain  with  chalky  mixture  gray. 

But  still  refreshing  in  its  shallow  course 
The  cottage  garden  ; most  for  use  designed. 

Yet  not  of  beauty  destitute.  The  vine 
Mantles  the  little  casement ; yet  the  brier 
Drops  fragrant  dew  among  the  July  flowers ; 

And  pansies  rayed,  and  freaked,  and  mottled  pinks, 
Grow  among  balm  and  rosemaiy  and  rue ; 

There  honeysuckles  flaunt,  and  roses  blow 
Almost  uncultured  ; some  with  dark  green  leaves 
Contrast  their  flowers  of  pure  unsullied  white; 

Others  like  velvet  robes  of  regal  state 
Of  richest  crimson  ; while,  in  thorny  moss 
Enshrined  and  cradled,  the  most  lovely  wear 
The  hues  of  youthful  beauty’s  glowing  cheek. 

With  fond  regret  I recollect  e’en  now 
In  spring  and  summer,  what  delight  I felt 
Amuig  these  cottage  gardens,  and  how  much 
Such  artless  nosegays,  knotted  with  a rush 
By  village  housewife  or  her  ruddy  maid. 

Were  welcome  to  me ; soon  and  simply  pleased. 

An  early  worshipper  at  nature’s  shrine, 

I I loved  her  rudest  scenes — warrens,  and  heaths, 

And  yellow  commons,  and  birch-shaded  hollows. 

And  hedgerows  bordering  unfrequented  lanes, 
Bowered  with  wild  roses  and  the  clasping  woodbine. 


MISS  BLAMIRE. 

Miss  Susanna  Blamire  (1747-1794),  a Cumber- 
land lady,  was  distinguished  for  the  excellence  of 
her  Scottish  poetry,  which  lias  all  the  idiomatic  ease 
and  grace  of  a native  minstrel.  Miss  Blamire  was 
born  of  a respectable  family  in  Cumberland,  at  Car- 
dew  Hall,  near  Carlisle,  where  she  resided  till  her 
twentieth  year,  beloved  by  a circle  of  friends  and 
acquaintances,  with  whom  she  associated  in  what 
were  called  merry  neets,  or  merry  evening  parties,  in 
her  native  district.  Her  sister  becoming  the  wife  of 
Colonel  Graham  of  Duchray,  Perthshire,  Susanna 
accompanied  the  pair  to  Scotland,  where  she  re- 
mained some  years,  and  imbibed  that  taste  for  Scot- 
tish melody  and  music  which  prompted  her  beautiful 
lyrics.  The  Nabob,  The  Siller  Croun,  &c.  She  also 
wrote  some  pieces  in  the  Cumbrian  dialect,  and  a 
descriptive  poem  of  some  length,  entitled  Stockle- 
walh,  or  the  Cumbrian  Village.  Miss  Blamire  died 
unmarried  at  Carlisle,  in  her  forty-seventh  year, 
and  her  name  had  almost  faded  from  remembrance, 
when,  in  1842,  her  poetical  works  were  collected  and 
published  in  one  volume,  with  a preface,  memoir, 
and  notes  by  Patrick  MaxweU. 

The  Nabob. 

When  silent  time,  wi’  lightly  foot. 

Had  trod  on  thirty  years, 

I sought  again  my  native  land 
Wi’  mony  hopes  and  fears. 

Wha  kens  g^  the  dear  friends  I left 
May  still  continue  mine? 

Or  gin  1 e’er  again  shall  taste 
The  joys  1 left  langsyne! 

As  I drew  near  my  ancient  pile, 

My  heart  beat  a’  the  way  ; 

Ilk  place  I passed  seemed  yet  to  speak 
O’  some  dear  former  day  ; 

Those  days  that  followed  me  afar, 

Those  happy  days  o’  mine, 

Whilk  made  me  think  the  present  joya 
A’  naething  to  langsyne  1 

The  ivied  tower  now  met  my  eye. 

Where  minstrels  used  to  blaw  ; 

Nae  friend  stepped  forth  wi’  open  hand, 

Nae  weel-kenned  face  I saw  ; 

Till  Donald  tottered  to  the  door, 

Wham  1 left  in  his  prime. 

And  grat  to  see  the  lad  return 
He  here  about  langsyne. 

I ran  to  ilka  dear  friend’s  ro^m, 

As  if  to  find  them  there, 

I knew  where  ilk  ane  used  to  sit. 

And  hang  o’er  mony  a chair; 

Till  soft  remembrance  threw  a veil 
Across  these  een  o’  mine, 

I closed  the  door,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

To  think  on  auld  langsyne  1 

Some  pensy  chiels,  a new  sprung  race. 

Wad  next  their  welcome  pay, 

Wha  shuddered  at  my  Gothic  wa’s, 

And  wished  my  groves  away. 

‘ Cut,  cut,’  they  cried,  ‘ those  aged  elms. 

Lay  low  yon  mournfu’  pine.’ 

Na  ! na  1 our  fathers’  names  grow  there. 
Memorials  o’  langsyne. 

To  wean  me  frae  these  waefu’  thoughts. 

They  took  me  to  the  town ; 

But  sair  on  ilka  weel-kenned  face 
1 missed  the  youthfu’  bloom. 


275 


PROM  1780  C YCI^OI’il';i)l  A OF  till  the  present  timr. 

At  balls  they  pointed  to  a nymjih 
Wham  a’  declared  divine  ; 

Hut  sure  her  mother’s  blushing  cheeks 
Were  fairer  far  langsynci 

In  vain  I sought  in  music’s  sound 
To  find  that  magic  art, 

Which  oft  in  Scotland’s  ancient  lays 
Has  thrilled  through  a’  my  heart. 

The  sang  had  mony  an  artfu’  turn  ; 

My  ear  confessed  ’twas  fine  ; 

But  missed  the  simple  melody 
I listened  to  langsyne. 

Y e sons  to  comrades  o’  my  youth, 

Forgie  an  auld  man’s  spleen, 

Wha  ’midst  your  gayest  scenes  still  mourns 
The  days  he  ance  has  seen. 

When  time  has  passed  and  seasons  fled. 

Your  hearts  will  feel  like  mine; 

And  aye  the  sang  will  maist  delight 
That  minds  ye  o’  langsyne  1 

What  Ails  this  Heart  o’  Mine  1 

F This  song  seems  to  have  been  a favourite  with  the  author- 
ess, for  I have  met  with  it  in  various  forms  among  her  papers ; 
and  the  labour  bestowed  upon  it  has  been  well  repaid  by  the 
popularity  it  has  all  along  enjoyed.’ — Maxwell's  Memoir  of 
Miss  Dlamire.'] 

What  alls  this  heart  o’  mine  1 
What  ails  this  watery  ee  ? 

What  gars  me  a’  turn  pale  as  death 
When  I take  leave  o’  thee  ? 

When  thou  art  far  awa’, 

Thou’lt  dearer  grow  to  me  ; 

But  change  o’  place  and  change  o’  folk 
May  gar  thy  fancy  jee. 

When  I gae  out  at  e’en. 

Or  walk  at  morning  air. 

Ilk  rustling  bush  will  seem  to  say 
I used  to  meet  thee  there. 

Then  I’ll  sit  dou'n  and  cry. 

And  live  aneath  the  tree. 

And  when  a leaf  fa’s  i’  my  lap, 

I’ll  ca’t  a word  frae  thee. 

I’ll  hie  me  to  the  bower 
That  thou  wi’  roses  tied. 

And  where  wi’  mony  a blushing  bud 
1 strove  myself  to  hide. 

I’ll  doat  on  ilka  spot 

Where  I ha’e  been  wi’  thee  ; 

And  ca’  to  mind  some  kindly  word 
By  ilka  burn  and  tree. 

As  an  ex.ample  of  the  Cumberland  dialect — 

Auld  Rohm  Forbes. 

And  auld  Robin  Forbes  hes  gien  tern  a dance, 

I pat  on  my  speckets  to  see  them  aw  prance  ; 

I thout  o’  the  days  when  I was  but  fifteen. 

And  skipp’d  wi’  the  best  upon  Forbes’s  green. 

Of  aw  things  that  is  I think  thout  is  meast  queer. 

It  brings  that  that’s  by-past  and  sets  it  down  here ; 

I see  Willy  as  plain  as  I dui  this  bit  leace. 

When  he  tuik  his  cwoat  lappet  and  deeghted  his  feace. 
The  lasses  aw  wondered  what  Willy  cud  see 
In  yen  that  was  dark  and  hard  featured  leyke  me ; 
And  they  wondered  ay  mair  when  they  talked  o’  my 
wit. 

And  slily  telt  Willy  that  cudn’t  be  it. 

But  Willy  he  laughed,  and  he  meade  me  his  weyfe. 
And  whea  was  mair  happy  thro’  aw  his  lang  leyfe  ? 

It’s  e’en  my  great  comfort,  now  Willy  is  geane. 

That  he  offen  said — nea  pleace  was  leyke  his  awn 
heame  ! 

I mind  when  I carried  my  wark  to  yon  steyle. 

Where  Willy  was  deyken,  the  time  to  beguile. 

He  wad  fling  me  a daisy  to  put  i’  my  breast. 

And  I hammered  my  noddle  to  mek  out  a jest. 

But  merry  or  grave,  Willy  often  wad  tell 
There  was  nin  o’  the  leave  that  was  leyke  my  awn  sel 
And  he  spak  what  he  thout,  for  I’d  hardly  a plack 
When  we  married,  and  nobbet  ae  gown  to  my  back. 

When  the  clock  had  struck  eight  I expected  him 
heame. 

And  wheyles  went  to  meet  him  as  far  as  Dumleane ; 
Of  aw  hours  it  telt,  eight  was  dearest  to  me. 

But  now  when  it  streykes  there’s  a tear  i’  my  ee. 

0 Willy  ! dear  Willy  ! it  never  can  be 

That  age,  time,  or  death,  can  divide  thee  and  me  1 

For  that  S[)Ot  on  earth  that’s  aye  dearest  to  me. 

Is  the  turf  that  has  covered  my  Willie  frae  me. 

MRS  BARBAULD. 

Anna  Letitia  Barbauli),  the  daughter  of  Dr 
.Tobn  Aikin,  was  born  at  Kibworth  Ilareourt,  in 
Leicestershire,  in  174.8.  Her  father  at  this  time 
kept  a seminary  for  the  education  of  boys,  and  Anna 
received  the  same  instruction,  being  early  initiated 
into  a knowledge  of  classical  literature.  In  IT.'iS 
Dr  Aikin  undertaking  the  office  of  classical  tutor 
in  a dissenting  academy  at  Warrington,  his  daughter 
accompanied  him,  and  resided  tliere  fifteen  years. 
In  1773  she  published  a volume  of  miscellaneous 
poems,  of  which  four  editions  were  called  for  in  one 
year,  and  also  a collection  of  pieces  in  prose,  some 
of  which  w'ere  written  by  her  brother.  In  j\Iay  1774 
she  was  married  to  the  Rev.  Rochenount  Barliauld, 
a French  I’rotestant,  who  was  minister  of  a dissent- 
ing congregation  at  Palgrave,  near  Diss,  and  who 
had  just  opened  a boarding-scliool  at  the  neighbour- 
ing village  of  Palgrave,  in  Suffolk.  The  poetess  par- 
ticipated with  her  husband  in  the  task  of  instruction, 
and  to  her  talents  and  exertions  the  seminary  was 
mainly  indebted  for  its  success.  In  1775  she  came 
forward  with  a volume  of  devotional  pieces  conqiiled 
from  the  Psalms,  and  another  volume  of  Ihjmns  in 
Pras-efor  children.  In  1780,  after  a tour  to  the  con- 
tinent, Mr  and  Mrs  Barbauld  established  themsclven 
at  Hampstead,  and  there  several  tracts  proceeded 
from  the  pen  of  our  authoress  on  the  toydes  of  the 
day,  in  all  which  she  esyiouscd  the  yu  inciydes  of  the 
Whigs.  She  also  assisted  her  father  in  yireyiaring  a 
series  of  tales  for  children,  entitled  Evoiinys  at 
Home,  and  she  wrote  critical  essays  on  Akenside  and 
Collins,  prefixed  to  editions  of  their  works.  In  1802 
Mr  Barbauld  became  pastor  of  the  congregation 
(formerly  Dr  Price’s)  at  Newington  Green,  also  in 
the  vicinity  of  London  ; and  quitting  Ilamyistead, 
they  took  up  their  abode  in  the  village  of  Stoke 
Newington.  In  1803  Mrs  Barbauld  comyiiled  a 
selection  of  essay's  from  the  ‘ Spectator,’  ‘ T'atler,’ 
and  ‘ Guardian,’  to  wdiich  she  prefixed  a yireliminary 
essay  ; and  in  the  following  year  she  edited  the  cor- 
respondence of  Richardson,  and  wrote  an  interesting 
and  elegant  life  of  the  novelist.  Her  husband  died 
in  1808,  and  Mrs  Barbauld  has  recorded  her  feelings 
on  this  melancholy  event  in  a yioetical  dirge  to  his 
memory,  and  also  in  her  poem  of  Eighteen  Hundred 
and  Eleven.  Seeking  relief  in  literary  occuyiation, 
she  also  edited  a collection  of  the  British  novelists, 
published  in  1810,  with  an  introductory  essay,  and 
biographical  and  critical  notices.  After  a gradual 
decay,  this  accomplished  and  e.xcellent  woman  died 
on  the  9th  of  March  1825.  Some  of  the  lyrical 
pieces  of  Mrs  Barbauld  are  flowing  and  harmonious, 
and  her  ‘ Ode  to  Spring’  is  a happy  imitation  of 
Collins.  She  wrote  also  several  poems  in  blank 
verse,  characterised  by  a serious  tenderness  and 

276 

PORTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  BARBADLD. 


elevation  of  thought.  ‘Her  earliest  pieces,’  says 
her  niece,  Mrs  Lucy  Aikin,  ‘as  well  as  her  more 
recent  ones,  exhibit  in  their  imagery  and  allusions 
tlie  fruits  of  extensive  and  varied  reading.  In  youth, 
the  power  of  her  imagination  was  counterbalanced 
by  the  activity  of  her  intellect,  which  exercised  itself 
in  rai>id  but  not  unprofitable  excursions  over  almost 
every  field  of  knowledge.  In  age,  when  this  activity 
abated,  intagination  appeared  to  exert  over  her  an 
undiminished  sway.’  Cliarles  James  Fox  is  said  to 
have  been  a great  admirer  of  Mrs  Barbauld’s  songs, 
but  they,  are  by  no  means  the  best  of  her  composi- 
tions, being  generally  artificial,  and  unimpassioned 
in  their  ch.aracter. 

Ode  to  Spring, 

Sweet  daughter  of  a rough  and  stormy  sire. 

Hoar  Winter’s  blooming  child,  delightful  Spring! 
Whose  unshorn  locks  with  leaves 
And  swelling  buds  are  crowned  ; 

From  the  green  islands  of  eternal  youth 
(Crowned  with  fresh  blooms  and  ever-springing  shade), 
Turn,  hither  turn  thy  step, 

0 thou,  whose  powerful  voice 

More  sweet  than  softest  touch  of  Doric  reed 
Or  Lydian  flute,  can  soothe  the  madding  winds, 

And  through  the  stormy  deep 
Breathe  thy  own  tender  calm. 

Thee,  best  beloved ! the  virgin  train  await 
With  songs  and  festal  rites,  and  joy  to  rove 
Thy  blooming  wilds  among. 

And  vales  and  dewy  lawns. 

With  untired  feet ; and  cull  thy  earliest  sweets 
To  weave  fresh  garlands  for  the  glowing  brow 
Of  him,  the  favoured  youth 
That  prompts  their  whispered  sigh. 

Unlock  thy  copious  stores  ; those  tender  showers 
That  drop  their  sweetness  on  the  infant  buds. 

And  silent  dews  that  swell 
The  milky  ear’s  green  stem. 

And  feed  the  flowering  osier’s  early  shoots  ; 

And  call  those  winds,  which  through  the  whispering 
boughs 

With  warm  and  pleasant  breath 
Salute  the  blowing  flowers. 

Now  let  me  sit  beneath  the  whitening  thorn. 

And  mark  thy  spreading  tints  steal  o’er  the  dale  ; 
And  watch  with  patient  eye 
Thy  fair  unfolding  charms. 

0 nymph,  approach  ! while  yet  the  temperate  sun 
With  bashful  forehead,  through  the  cool  moist  air 
Throws  his  young  maiden  beams, 

I And  with  chaste  kisses  woos 

I The  earth’s  fair  bosom  ; while  the  streaming  veil 
j Of  lucid  clouds,  with  kind  and  frequent  shade, 

I Protects  thy  modest  blooms 

From  his  severer  blaze. 

Sweet  is  thy  reign,  but  short : the  red  dog-star 
Shall  scorch  thy  tresses,  and  the  mower’s  scythe 
Thy  greens,  thy  flowerets  all. 

Remorseless  shall  destroy. 

Reluctant  shall  I bid  thee  then  farewell ; 

For  0 1 not  all  that  Autumn’s  lap  contains. 

Nor  Summer’s  ruddiest  fruits. 

Can  aught  for  thee  atone. 

Fair  Spring!  whose  simplest  promise  more  delights 
Than  all  their  largest  wealth,  and  through  the  heart 
Each  joy  and  new-born  hope 
With  softest  iufluea:e  breathes-, 


To  a Lady,  with  lome  Painted  Flowers. 

Flowers  to  the  fair:  to  you  these  flowers  I bring. 

And  strive  to  greet  you  with  an  earlier  spring. 
Flowers  sweet,  and  gay,  and  delicate  like  you; 
Emblems  of  innocence,  and  beauty  too. 

With  flowers  the  Graces  bind  their  yellow  hair, 

And  flowery  wreaths  consenting  lovers  wear. 

Flowers,  the  sole  luxury  which  nature  knew, 

In  Eden’s  pure  and  guiltless  garden  grew. 

To  loftier  forms  are  rougher  tasks  assigned  ; 

The  sheltering  oak  resists  the  stormy  wind. 

The  tougher  yew  repels  invading  foes. 

And  the  tall  pine  for  future  navies  grows  : 

But  this  soft  family  to  cares  unknown, 

W ere  born  for  i)leasure  and  delight  alone. 

Gay  without  toil,  and  lovely  without  art. 

They  spring  to  cheer  the  sense  and  glad  the  heart. 
Nor  blush,  my  fair,  to  own  you  copy  these ; 

Your  best,  your  sweetest  empire  is — to  please. 

Hymn  to  Content. 

natura  beatos 

Omnibus  esse  dedit,  si  quis  eognoverit  uti. — Claudiate. 
0 thou,  the  nymph  with  placid  eye  ! 

0 seldom  found,  yet  ever  nigh  ! 

Receive  my  temperate  vow  : 

Not  all  the  storms  that  shake  the  pole 
Can  e’er  disturb  thy  halcyon  soul. 

And  smooth  the  unaltered  brow. 

0 come,  in  simple  vest  arrayed. 

With  all  thy  sober  cheer  displayed. 

To  bless  my  longing  sight  ; 

Thy  mien  composed,  thy  even  pace. 

Thy  meek  regard,  thy  matron  grace, 

And  chaste  subdued  delight. 

No  more  by  varying  passions  beat, 

0 gently  guide  my  pilgrim  feet 
To  find  thy  hermit  cell ; 

Where  in  some  pure  and  equal  sky, 

Beneath  thy  soft  indulgent  eye. 

The  modest  virtues  dwell. 

Simplicity  in  Attic  vest. 

And  Innocence  with  candid  breast. 

And  clear  undaunted  eye  ; 

And  Hope,  who  points  to  distant  years. 

Fair  opening  through  this  vale  of  tears, 

A vista  to  the  sky. 

There  Health,  through  whose  calm  bosom  glila 
The  temperate  joys  in  even-tide. 

That  rarely  ebb  or  flow  ; 

And  Patience  there,  thy  sister  meek. 

Presents  her  mild  unvarying  cheek 
To  meet  the  offered  blow. 

Her  influence  taught  the  Phrygian  sage 
A tyrant  master’s  wanton  rage 
With  settled  smiles  to  wait : 

Inured  to  toil  and  bitter  bread. 

He  bowed  his  meek  submissive  head. 

And  kissed  thy  sainted  feet. 

But  thou,  oh  nymph  retired  and  coyl 
In  what  brown  hamlet  dost  thou  joy 
To  tell  thy  tender  tale? 

The  lowliest  children  of  the  ground. 

Moss-rose  and  violet,  blossom  round. 

And  lily  of  the  vale. 

0 say  what  soft  propitious  hour 

1 best  may  choose  to  hail  thy  power 

And  court  thy  gentle  sway? 

When  autumn,  friendly  to  the  Muse, 

Shall  thy  o\vn  modest  tints  diffuse. 

And  shed  thy  milder  day. 


277 


moM  1780 


CYCLOPiLDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  niOk 


When  eve,  her  dewy  star  beneath, 

Thy  balmy  spirit  loves  to  breathe, 

And  every  storm  is  laid  ; 

Jf  sueli  an  hour  was  e’er  thy  choice. 

Oft  let  me  hear  tliy  soothing  voice 

Low  whispering  through  the  shade. 

Wasldng  Day. 

The  Muses  are  turned  gossips  ; they  have  lost 
The  buskined  step,  and  clear  high-sounding  phrase, 
Ijanguagc  of  gods.  Come,  then,  domestic  Muse, 

In  slip-shod  measure  loosely  prattling  on. 

Of  farm  or  orchard,  pleasant  curds  and  cream. 

Or  droning  flies,  or  shoes  lost  in  the  mire 
By  little  whimpering  boy,  with  rueful  face — 

Come,  Muse,  and  sing  the  dreaded  wa.shing  day. 

Ye  who  beneath  the  yoke  of  wedlock  bend. 

With  bowed  soul,  full  well  ye  ken  the  day 
Which  week,  smooth  sliding  after  week,  brings  on 
Too  soon  ; for  to  that  day  nor  peace  belongs. 

Nor  comfort  ; ere  the  first  gray  streak  of  dawn. 

The  red-armed  washers  come  and  chase  repose. 

Nor  pleasant,  smile,  nor  quaint  device  of  mirth, 

Kre  visited  that  day ; the  very  cat. 

From  the  wet  kitchen  scared,  and  reeking  hearth. 
Visits  the  parlour,  an  unwonted  guest. 

Th'S  silent  breakfast  meal  is  soon  despatched. 
Uninterrupted,  save  by  an.xious  looks 
Cast  at  the  louring  sky,  if  .sky  should  lour. 

From  that  last  evil,  oh  preserve  us,  heavens  ! 

P’or  .should  the  skies  pour  down,  adieu  to  all 

Remains  of  quiet ; then  expect  to  hear 

Of  sad  disasters — dirt  and  gravel  stains 

Hard  to  efface,  and  loaded  lines  at  once 

Snapped  short,  and  linen  horse  by  dog  thrown  down, 

And  all  the  petty  miseries  of  life. 

Saints  have  been  calm  while  stretched  upon  the  rack, 
^-•‘d  Montezuma  smiled  on  burning  coals; 

,..,1  never  yet  did  housewife  notable 
Greet  with  a smile  a rainy  washing  day. 

But  grant  the  welkin  fair,  require  not  thou 
Who  call’st  thyself,  perchance,  the  master  there, 

Or  study  swept,  or  nicely  dusted  co.at. 

Or  usual  ’tendance  ; ask  not,  indiscreet. 

Thy  stockings  mended,  though  the  yawning  rents 
Gape  wide  as  Erebus  ; nor  hope  to  find 
Some  snug  recess  impervious.  Should’st  thou  try 
The  ’customed  garden  walks,  thine  eye  shall  rue 
The  budding  fragrance  of  thy  tender  shrubs. 

Myrtle  or  ro.se,  all  crushed  beneath  the  weight 
fff  coanse-checked  apron,  with  impatient  hand 
Twitched  off  when  showers  impend  ; or  crossing  lines 
Sh.all  mar  thy  musing.s,  as  the  wet  cold  sheet 
Flaps  in  thy  face  abrupt.  Wo  to  the  friend 
Whose  evil  stars  have  urged  him  forth  to  claim 
On  such  a day  the  hospitable  rites ; 

Looks  blank  at  best,  and  stinted  courtesy 
Shall  he  receive ; vainly  he  feeds  his  hopes 
With  dinner  of  roast  chicken,  savoury  pie. 

Or  tart  or  pudding;  pudding  he  nor  tart 
That  day  shall  eat ; nor,  though  the  husband  try — 
Mending  what  can’t  be  helped — to  kindle  mirth 
From  cheer  deficient,  shall  his  consort’s  brow 
Clear  up  propitious  ; the  unlucky  guest 
In  silence  dines,  and  early  slinks  away. 

1 well  remember,  when  a child,  the  awe 
This  day  struck  into  me ; for  then  the  maids, 

I scarce  knew  why,  looked  cross,  and  drove  me  from 
them  ; 

Nor  soft  caress  could  I obtain,  nor  hope 
Usu  al  indulgences  ; jelly  or  creams, 

Relique  of  eostly  suppers,  and  set  by 
For  me  their  petted  one ; or  buttered  toast, 


When  butter  was  forbid  ; or  thrilling  tale 
Of  ghost,  or  witch,  or  murder.  So  I went 
And  sheltered  me  beside  the  parlour  fire  ; 

There  my  dear  grandmother,  eldest  of  all  forms, 

Tended  the  little  ones,  and  watched  from  harm  ; ^ 

Anxiously  fond,  though  oft  her  spectacles 

With  elfin  cunning  hid,  and  oft  the  pins 

Drawn  from  her  ravelled  stocking  might  have  soured 

One  le.ss  indulgent.  i 

At  intervals  my  mother’s  voice  was  heard 
Urging  despatch  ; briskly  the  work  went  on. 

All  hands  employed  to  wash,  to  rinse,  to  wring. 

Or  fold,  and  starch,  and  clap,  and  iron,  and  plait. 

Then  would  I sit  me  down,  and  ponder  much 

Why  washings  were  ; sometimes  through  hollow  holt 

Of  pipe  amused  we  blew,  and  sent  aloft 

The  floating  bubbles  ; little  dreaming  then 

To  see,  Montgolfier,  thy  silken  ball 

Ride  buoyant  through  the  clouds,  so  near  approach 

The  sports  of  children  and  the  toils  of  men. 

Earth,  air,  and  sky,  and  ocean  hath  its  bubbles. 

And  verse  is  one  of  them — this  most  of  all. 

MIS3  SEWARD — MRS  HUNTER — MRS  OPIE — MRS 
GRANT — MRS  TIGHE. 

Several  other  poetesses  of  this  period  are  deserving  j 
of  notice,  though  their  works  are  now  almost  faded  i 
from  remembrance.  With  much  that  is  delicate  | 
in  sentiment  and  feeling,  and  with  considerable  j 
powers  of  poetical  fancy  and  expression,  their  lead- 
ing defect  is  a want  of  energy  or  of  genuine  passion, 
and  of  tliat  originality  which  can  alone  forcibly 
arrest  the  public  attention.  One  of  the  most  con- 
spicuous of  these  was  Miss  Anna  Seward  (1747- 
1809),  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Mr  Seward,  eanon- 
residentiary  of  Lichfield,  himself  a poet,  and  one  of 
the  editors  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  This  lady 
w.as  early  trained  to  a tasfe  for  poetr}',  and,  before 
she  was  nine  years  of  age,  she  could  repeat  the  three 
first  books  of  Paradise  Lost.  Even  at  this  time,  she 
says,  she  was  charmed  with  the  numbers  of  Milton. 
Miss  Seward  wrote  several  elegiac  poems — an  Elegy 
to  the  Memory  of  Captain  Cook,  a Monody  on  the  Death 
of  3IaJor  Andre,  &c. — which,  from  the  pcpular  nature 
of  the  subjects,  and  the  animated  tbcugh  inflated  I 
style  of  the  composition,  enjoyed  great  celebrity.  | 
Darwin  complimented  her  as  ‘ the  inventress  of  i 
epic  elegy  ;’  and  she  was  known  by  the  name  of  the  | 
Swan  of  Lichfield.  A poetical  novel,  entitled  Louisa,  j 

was  published  by  Miss  Seward  in  1782,  and  passed  | 

through  several  editions.  After  bandying  comph-  j 

ments  witli  the  poets  of  one  generation.  Miss  Seward  | 

engaged  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  a literary  correspon-  | 

deuce,  and  bequeathed  to  him  for  publication  three  [ 

volumes  ofher  poetry,  which  he  pronounced  e.xecrable.  l 

At  the  same  time  she  left  her  correspondence  to  Con-  ! 

stable,  and  that  publisher  gave  to  the  world  six  j 

volumes  of  her  letters.  Botli  collections  were  un-  | 

successful.  The  applauses  of  IMiss  Seward’s  early 
admirers  were  only  calculated  to  excite  ridicule, 
and  the  vanity  and  affectation  which  w.^re  her  be- 
setting sins,  destroyed  equidly  her  poetry  and  prose.  ! 

Some  of  her  letters,  however,  are  written  with  spirit  j 

and  discrimination.  In  contrast  to  Miss  Seward  ^ 

was  Mrs  .John  Hunter  (1742-1821),  a retired  but  j 

highly  accomplished  lady,  sister  of  Sir  Everard  | 

Home,  and  wife  of  John  Hunter,  the  celebrated 
surgeon.  Having  written  several  copies  of  verses, 
which  were  extensively  circulated,  and  some  .songs 
that  even  Haydn  had  married  to  immortal  music, 

Mrs  Hunter  was  induced,  in  1806,  to  collect  her 
pieces  and  commit  them  to  the  press.  In  1802,  Mas 
Amelia  Opie,  whose  pathetic  and  iiitereating  Tales 

278 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MISS  SKWARO. 


are  so  justly  distinguished,  publislied  a volume  of 
niisoellaneous  poems,  characterised  by  a simple  and 
placid  tenderness.  Her  Orphan  Boy  is  one  of  those 
touching  domestic  effusions  which  at  once  finds  its 
way  to  the  hearts  of  all.  In  the  following  year  a 
volume  of  miscellaneous  poems  was  published  by 
Mas  Anne  G iiant,  widow  of  the  minister  of  Laggan, 
in  Inverness-shire.  l\Irs  Grant  (1754-1838)  was 
author  of  sevend  able  and  interesting  prose  works. 
She  wrote  Letters  from  the  Mountains,  giving  a de- 
scription of  Highland  scenery  and  manners,  with 
which  she  was  conversant  from  her  residence  in 
the  country ; also  Memoirs  of  an  American  Lady 
(1810)  ; and  Essays  on  the  Superstitions  of  the  High  - 
landers, which  appeared  in  1811.  The  writings  of 
this  lady  display  a lively  and  observant  fancy,  and 
considerable  powers  of  landscape  painting.  They 
first  drew  attention  to  the  more  striking  and  ro- 
mantic features  of  the  Scottish  Highlands,  after- 
wards so  fertile  a theme  for  the  genius  of  Scott. 
An  Irish  poetess,  Mas  Mary  Tighe  (1773-1810), 
evinced  a more  passionate  and  refined  imagination 
than  any  of  her  tuneful  sisterhood.  Her  poem  of 
Psyche,  founded  on  the  classic  fable  related  by 
Apuleius,  of  the  loves  of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  or  the 
allegory  of  Love  and  the  Soul,  is  characterised  by 
a graceful  voluptuousness  and  brilliancy  of  colouring 
rarely  excelled.  It  is  in  six  cantos,  and  wants  only 
a little  more  concentration  of  style  and  description 
to  be  one  of  the  best  poems  of  the  period.  Mrs 
Tighe  was  daughter  of  the  Rev.  W.  Blackford, 
county  of  Wicklow.  Her  history  seems  to  be  little 
known,  unless  to  private  friends;  but  her  early  death, 
after  six  years  of  protracted  suffering,  has  been 
commemorated  by  Moore,  in  his  beautiful  lyric — • 

‘ I saw  thy  form  in  youthful  prime.’ 

We  subjoin  some  selections  from  the  works  of 
each  of  the  above  ladies : — 

The  Anniversary. 

[By  Miss  Seward.] 

Ah,  lovely  Lichfield  ! that  so  long  hast  shone 
In  blended  charms  peculiarly  thine  own  ; 

Stately,  yet  rural ; through  thy  choral  day, 

Though  shady,  cheerful,  and  though  quiet,  gay  ; 

How  interesting,  how  loved,  from  year  to  year, 

Kow  more  than  beauteous  did  thy  scenes  appear! 

Still  as  ..he  m.li  Spring  chased  the  wintry  gloom, 
Devolved  her  leaves,  and  waked  her  rich  perfume. 
Thou,  with  thy  fields  and  groves  aiocnd  thee  spread, 
•bift’st,  in  unlessened  grace,  thy  spiry  head ; 

But  many  a loved  inhabitant  of  thine 
Sleeps  where  no  vernal  sun  will  ever  shine. 

Why  fled  ye  all  so  fast,  ye  happy  hours. 

That  saw  Honora’s'  eyes  adorn  these  bowers? 

These  darling  bowers,  that  much  she  loved  to  hail. 
The  spires  she  called  ‘ the  Ladies  of  the  Vale!’ 

Fairest  and  best  ! — Oh  ! c.an  I e’er  forget 
To  thy  dear  kindness  my  eternal  debt  1 
Life’s  opening  paths  how  tenderly  it  smoothed. 

The  joys  it  heightened,  and  the  pains  it  soothed? 

No,  no  ! my  heart  its  sacred  memory  bears. 

Bright  mid  the  shadows  of  o’erwhelming  years; 

When  mists  of  deprivation  round  me  roll, 

’Tis  the  soft  sunbeam  of  ray  clouded  soul. 

Ah,  dear  Ilonora!  that  remembered  day. 

First  on  these  eyes  when  shone  thy  early  ray! 

Scarce  o’er  my  head  twice  seven  gay  springs  had  gone, 
Scarce  five  o’er  thy  unconscious  childhood  flown, 

I Ilonora  Sneyd,  the  object  of  Major  Andre’s  attachment, 
afterwards  Mrs  Ed.cewortli,  and  mother  of  the  distinguished 
novelist,  Maria  Edge  vorth. 


When,  fair  as  their  young  flowers,  thy  infant  frame 
To  our  glad  walls  a liapiiy  inmate  came. 

0 summer  morning  of  unrivalled  light ! 

Fate  wrapt  thy  rising  in  prophetic  white ! 

.Line,  the  bright  month,  when  nature  joys  to  wear 
The  livery  of  the  gay,  consummate  year. 

Clave  that  envermiled  dayspring  all  her  powers, 
Gemmed  the  light  leaves,  and  glowed  upon  the  flowerej 
Bade  her  plumtsl  nations  hail  the  rosy  ray 
With  warbled  orisons  from  every  spray. 

Purpureal  Tempe,  not  to  thee  belong 
More  poignant  fragrance  or  more  jocund  song. 

Thrice  happy  day ! thy  clear  auspicious  light 
Gave  ‘ future  years  a tincture  of  thy  white  ;’ 

Well  may  her  strains  thy  votive  hymn  decree. 

Whose  sweetest  pleasures  found  their  source  in  th&s  ; 
The  purest,  best  that  memory  explores, 

Safe  in  the  p.ast’s  inviolable  stores. 

The  ardent  progress  of  thy  shining  hours 

Beheld  me  rove  through  Lichfield’s  verdant  bowers. 

Thoughtless  and  gay,  and  volatile  and  vain. 

Circled  by  nymphs  and  youths,  a frolic  train  ; 

Though  con.scious  that  a little  orphan  child 
Had  to  my  parents’  guidance,  kind  and  mild. 

Recent  been  summoned,  when  disease  and  death 
Shed  dark  stagnation  o’er  her  mother’s  breath. 

While  eight  sweet  infants’  wailful  cries  deplore 
IV’hat  not  the  tears  of  innocence  restore  ; 

And  while  the  husband  inoumed  his  widowed  dooin. 
And  hung  despondent  o’er  the  closing  tomb. 

To  us  this  loveliest  scion  he  con.signed. 

Its  beauty  blossoming,  its  opening  mind. 

His  heartfelt  loss  had  drawn  my  April  tears. 

But  childish,  womanish,  ambiguous  years 
Find  all  their  griefs  as  vanishing  as  keen  ; 

Y outh’s  rising  sun  soon  gilds  the  showery  scene. 

On  the  expected  trust  no  thought  1 bent. 

Unknown  the  day,  unheeded  the  event. 

One  sister  dear,  from  spleen,  from  falsehood  free. 

Rose  to  the  verge  of  womanhood  with  me  ; 

Gloomed  by  no  envy,  by  no  discord  jarred. 

Our  pleasures  blended,  and  our  studies  shared  ; 

And  when  with  day  and  waking  thoughts  they  closed, 
On  the  same  couch  our  agile  limbs  reposed. 

Amply  in  friendship  by  her  virtues  blest, 

1 gave  to  youthful  gaiety  the  rest ; 

Considering  not  how  near  the  period  drew 

When  that  transplanted  branch  should  me  it  our  view 
Whose  intellectual  fruits  were  doomed  to  rise, 

I’ood  of  the  future’s  heart-expanding  joys  ; 

Born  to  console  me  when,  by  Fate  severe. 

The  Much-Beloved*  should  press  a timeless  bier. 

My  friend,  my  sister,  from  my  arms  be  torn. 
Sickening  and  sinking  on  her  bridal  morn  ; 

While  Hymen,  speeding  from  this  mournful  dome, 
Should  drop  his  darkened  torch  upon  her  tomb. 

’Twas  eve  ; the  sun,  in  setting  glory  drest. 

Spread  his  gold  skirts  along  the  crimson  west ; 

A Sunday’s  eve  I Ilonora,  bringing  thee. 

Friendship’s  soft  Sabbath  long  it  rose  to  me. 

When  on  the  wing  of  circling  seasons  borne. 

Annual  1 hailed  its  consecrated  mom. 

In  the  kird-iiiterclm.nge  of  mutual  thouehr. 

Our  home  myself,  and  gentle  sister  sought ; 

Our  pleasant  home,-  round  which  the  ascending  gale 
Breathes  all  the  freshness  of  the  sloping  vale  ; 

On  her  green  verge  the  spacious  walls  arise, 

V’iew  her  fair  fields,  and  catch  her  balmy  sighs  ; 

See  her  near  hills  the  bounded  prospect  close. 

And  her  blue  lake  in  gla.ssy  breadth  repose. 

With  arms  entwined,  and  smiling  as  we  talked. 

To  the  maternal  room  we  careless  walked, 

I Miss  Sarah  Seward,  wlio  died  o her  nineteenth  year,  tah 
on  the  eve  of  nuirriiige. 

I ' The  bishop’s  palace  at  Lichfield. 

27d 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  ntO, 


vV  here  sat  its  honoured  mistress,  and  with  smile 
Of  love  indulgent,  from  a Horal  pile 
The  fjayest  ftlory  of  the  summer  bower 
Culled  for  the  new-arrived — the  human  flower, 

A lovely  infant-girl,  who  pensive  stood 

Close  to  her  knees,  and  charmed  us  as  w’e  viewed. 

O ! hast  thou  marked  the  summer’s  budded  rose, 
When  ’mid  the  veiling  moss  its  crimson  glows? 

So  bloomed  the  beauty  of  that  fairy  form. 

So  her  dark  locks,  «ith  golden  tinges  warm, 

Playeil  round  the  timid  curve  of  tiiat  white  neck, 
Ami  sweetly  shaded  half  her  blushing  check. 

() ! hast  thou  seen  the  star  of  eve  on  high. 

Through  the  soft  dusk  of  summer’s  balmy  sky 
Shed  its  green  light,’  and  in  the  glassy  stream 
Eye  the  mild  reflex  of  its  trembling  beam? 

So  looked  on  us  with  tender,  b.ashful  gaze. 

The  destined  charmer  of  our  youthful  days; 

Whose  soul  its  native  elevation  joined 
To  the  gay  wildness  of  the  infant  mind  ; 

Esteem  and  saeved  confluence  impressed. 

While  our  fond  arms  the  beauteous  child  caressed. 

Sonff. 

[From  Mrs  Hunter’s  Poems-j 
The  season  comes  when  first  we  met, 

Hut  you  return  no  more  ; 

Why  cannot  1 the  days  forget. 

Which  time  can  ne’er  restore? 

0 days  too  sweet,  too  bright  to  laat. 

Are  you  indeed  for  ever  past? 

The  fleeting  shadows  of  delight, 

In  memory  I trace; 

In  fancy  stop  their  rapid  flight. 

And  all  the  past  replace : 

But,  ah  ! 1 wake  to  endless  woea. 

And  tears  the  fading  visions  close ! 

Song. 

[From  the  same.] 

0 tuneful  voice  ! I still  deplore 
Those  accents  which,  though  heard  no  more. 
Still  vibrate  on  my  heart ; 

In  echo’s  cave  I long  to  dwell. 

And  still  would  hear  the  sad  farewell, 

W'hen  we  were  doomed  to  part. 

Bright  eyes,  0 that  the  task  were  mine 
To  guard  the  liquid  fires  that  shine. 

And  round  your  orbits  play  ; 

To  watch  them  with  a vestal’s  care. 

And  feed  with  smiles  a light  so  fair. 

That  it  may  ne’er  decay  1 

The  Death  Song,  Written  for,  and  Adapted  to,  an 
Original  Indian  Air. 

[From  the  same.J 

The  sun  sets  in  n’ght,  and  the  stars  shun  the  day. 
But  glory  remains  when  their  lights  fade  away. 
Begin,  you  tormentors  ! your  threats  are  in  vain. 

For  the  son  of  Alknomook  will  never  complain. 
Remember  the  arrows  he  shot  from  his  bow. 
Remember  your  chiefs  by  his  hatchet  laid  low. 

Why  so  slow?  Do  you  wait  till  I shrink  from  the 
pain  ? 

No  ; the  son  of  Alknomook  shall  never  complain. 
Remember  the  wood  where  in  ambush  we  lay. 

And  the  scal]is  which  we  bore  from  your  nation  away. 
Now  the  flame  rises  fast ; you  exult  in  iny  ]>ain  ; 

But  the  son  of  Alknomook  can  never  complain. 

' The  lustre  of  the  brightest  of  the  stars  (says  Miss  Seward, 
In  a note  on  her  ninety-third  sonnet)  always  appeared  to  me 
of  a green  hue  ; and  they  are  so  described  by  Ossian. 


I go  to  the  land  where  my  father  is  gone, 

II  is  ghost  shall  rejoice  in  the  fame  of  his  son  ; 

Death  comes,  like  a frieml,  to  relieve  me  from  pain; 
And  thy  son,  0 Alknomook  ! has  scorned  to  complain. 

To  my  Daughter,  on  heing  Separated  from  her  on,  her 
MamuAje. 

[From  the  same.] 

Dear  to  iny  heart  as  life’s  warm  stream 
W’hich  animates  this  mortal  clay. 

For  thee  I court  the  waking  dream. 

And  deck  with  smiles  the  future  day; 

And  thus  beguile  the  present  pain 
With  hopes  that  we  shall  meet  again. 

Yet,  will  it  be  as  when  the  past 

Twined  every  joy,  and  care,  and  thought, 

And  o’er  our  minds  one  mantle  cast 
Of  kind  affections  finely  wrought? 

Ah  no  1 the  groundless  hope  were  vain. 

For  so  we  ne’er  can  meet  again  ! 

May  he  who  claims  thy  tender  heart 
Deserve  its  love,  as  1 have  done ! 

For,  kind  and  gentle  as  thou  art. 

If  so  beloved,  thou’rt  fairly  won. 

Bright  may  the  sacred  torch  remain. 

And  cheer  thee  till  we  meet  again  I 

The  Lot  of  Thousands. 

[From  the  same.] 

When  hope  lies  dead  within  the  heart. 

By  secret  sorrow  close  concealed. 

We  shrink  lest  looks  or  words  impart 
What  must  not  be  revealed. 

“Tis  hard  to  smile  when  one  would  weep; 

To  speak  when  one  would  silent  be  ; 

To  w.ake  when  one  should  wish  to  sleep. 

And  wake  to  agony. 

Yet  such  the  lot  by  thousands  cast 
Who  wander  in  this  world  of  care. 

And  bend  beneath  the  bitter  blast. 

To  save  them  from  despair. 

But  nature  waits  her  guests  to  greet. 

Where  disappointment  cannot  come; 

And  time  guides  with  unerring  feet 
The  weary  wanderers  home. 

The  Orphan  Boy's  Tale. 

[From  Mrs  Opie’s  Poems.] 

Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy’s  sake. 

And  hear  a helple.ss  orphan’s  tale. 

Ah  1 sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake, 

’Tis  want  that  n)akes  my  cheek  so  pale. 

Yet  I was  once  a mother’s  pride. 

And  my  brave  father’s  hope  and  joy; 

But  in  the  Nile’s  proud  flght  he  died. 

And  1 am  now  an  orphan  boy. 

Poor  foolish  child  ! how  pleased  was  I 
When  news  of  Nelson’s  victory  came. 

Along  the  crowded  streets  to  fly. 

And  see  the  lighted  windows  flame ! 

To  force  me  home  my  mother  sought. 

She  could  not  bear  to  see  my  joy  ; 

For  with  my  father’s  life  ’twas  bought. 

And  made  mo  a poor  orphan  boy. 

The  people’s  shouts  were  long  and  loud. 

My  mother,  shuddering,  clo.sed  her  ears; 
‘Rejoice!  rejoice!’  still  cried  the  crowd; 

My  mother  answered  with  her  tears. 

‘ Why  are  you  crying  thus,’  said  I, 

‘ While  others  laugh  and  shout  with  joy  ?* 

She  kissed  me — and  with  such  a .sigh  1 
She  called  me  her  poor  orphan  boy. 

280 


roETS.  ENGLISH  LITERATUKE.  mrs  osAirb 

‘ Wliat  is  an  orplian  boy  ?’  1 cried, 

As  in  her  face  1 looked,  and  smiled ; 

My  niotlier  (hrough  her  tears  replied, 

‘ You’ll  know  too  soon,  ill-fated  child  !* 

And  now  they’ve  tolled  iny  mother’s  knell, 

And  I’m  no  more  a parent’s  joy; 

0 lady,  I have  learned  too  well 
What  ’tis  to  be  an  orphan  boy  ! 

Oh  ! were  1 by  your  bounty  fed! 

Nay,  gentle  lady,  do  not  chide — 

Trust  me,  I mean  to  earn  ray  bread ; 

The  sailor’s  orphan  boy  has  pride. 

Lady,  you  weep  ! — ha? — this  to  rae? 

You’ll  give  me  clothing,  food,  employ! 

Look  down,  dear  parents!  look,  and  see 
Y' our  happy,  happy  orphan  boy  I 

Song* 

[From  the  same.] 

Go,  youth  beloved,  in  distant  glades 

New  friends,  new  hopes,  new  joys  to  find ! 

Yet  sometimes  deign,  ’midst  fairer  maids, 

To  think  on  her  thou  leav’st  behind. 

Thy  love,  tliy  fate,  dear  youth,  to  share, 

Alust  never  be  ray  happy  lot ; 

But  thou  mayst  grant  this  humble  prayer. 

Forget  me  not ! forget  me  not ! 

Yet,  should  the  thought  of  my  distress 
Too  painful  to  thy  feelings  be. 

Heed  not  the  wish  1 now  express. 

Nor  ever  deign  to  think  on  me: 

But  oh  ! if  grief  thy  steps  attend. 

If  want,  if  sickness  be  thy  lot. 

And  thou  require  a soothing  friend. 

Forget  me  not  ! forget  me  not ! 

[0»  a Sprig  of  Heath.'] 

[From  Mrs  Grant’s  Poems.] 

Flower  of  the  waste!  the  heath -fowl  shuns 
For  thee  the  brake  and  tangled  wood — 

To  thy  protecting  shade  she  runs. 

Thy  tender  buds  supply  her  food ; 

Her  young  forsake  her  downy  plumes. 

To  rest  upon  thy  opening  blooms. 

Flowiv  of  the  desert  though  thou  art! 

The  deer  that  range  the  mountain  free. 

The  graceful  doe,  the  stately  hart. 

Their  food  and  shelter  seek  from  thee ; 

The  bee  thy  earliest  blossom  greets. 

And  draws  from  thee  her  choicest  sweets. 

Gera  of  the  heath  ! whose  modest  bloom 
Sheds  beauty  o’er  the  lonely  moor ; 

Though  thou  dispense  no  rich  perfume. 

Nor  yet  with  splendid  tints  allure. 

Both  valour’s  crest  and  beauty’s  bower 
Oft  hast  thou  decked,  a favourite  flower. 

Flower  of  the  wild  ! whose  purple  glow 
Adorns  the  dusky  mountain’s  side. 

Not  the  gay  hues  of  Iris’  bow. 

Nor  garden’s  artful  varied  pride. 

With  all  its  wealth  of  sweets  could  cheer. 

Like  thee,  the  hardy  mountaineer. 

Flower  of  his  heart ! thy  fragrance  mild 
Of  peace  and  freedom  seem  to  breathe ; 

To  pluck  thy  blossoms  in  the  wild. 

And  deck  his  bonnet  with  the  wreath. 

Where  dwelt  of  old  his  rustic  sires. 

Is  all  his  simple  wish  requires. 

* A writer  in  the  F.dinburgh  Review  styles  this  production 
of  Mrs  Opie's  one  of  the  finest  songs  in  our  language. 

Flower  of  his  dear-loved  native  land  ! 

Alas,  when  distant  far  more  dear! 

When  he  from  some  cold  foreign  strand. 

Looks  homeward  through  the  blinding  tear, 
How  must  his  aching  heart  deplore. 

That  home  and  thee  he  sees  no  more  1 

[The  Highland  Poor.] 

[From  Mrs  Grant’s  poem  of  ‘ The  Ilighlander.’] 

Where  yonder  ridgy  mountains  bound  the  scene. 

The  narrow  opening  glens  that  intervene 
Still  shelter,  in  some  lowly  nook  obscure. 

One  poorer  than  the  rest — where  all  are  poor; 

Some  widowed  matron,  hopeless  of  relief. 

Who  to  her  secret  breast  confines  her  grief; 

Dejected  sighs  the  wintry  night  away. 

And  lonely  muses  all  the  summer  day: 

Her  gallant  sons,  who,  smit  with  honour’s  charms, 
Pursued  the  phantom  Fame  through  war’s  alarms. 
Return  no  more;  stretched  on  Hindostan’s  plain. 

Or  sunk  beneath  the  unfathomable  main  ; 

In  vain  her  eyes  the  watery  waste  ex])lore 
For  heroes — fated  to  return  no  more  ! 

Let  others  bless  the  morning’s  reddening  beam, 

Foe  to  her  j>eace — it  breaks  the  illusive  dream 
That,  in  their  prime  of  manly  bloom  confest. 

Restored  the  long-lost  warriors  to  her  breast ; 

And  as  they  strove,  with  smiles  of  filial  love, 

Their  widowed  parent’s  anguish  to  remove. 

Through  her  small  casement  broke  the  intrusive  dsy, 
And  chased  the  pleasing  images  away  ! 

No  time  can  e’er  her  banished  joys  restore. 

For  ah  ! a heart  once  broken  heals  no  more. 

The  dewy  beams  that  gleam  froin  pity’s  eye. 

The  ‘ still  small  voice’  of  sacred  synqiathy. 

In  vain  the  mourner’s  sorrows  would  beguile, 

Or  steal  from  weary  wo  one  languid  smile ; 

Yet  what  they  can  they  do — the  scanty  st)re. 

So  often  opened  for  the  wandering  poor. 

To  her  each  cottager  complacent  deals. 

While  the  kind  glance  the  melting  heart  reveals ; 
And  still,  when  evening  streaks  the  west  with  gold. 
The  milky  tribute  from  the  lowing  fold 
With  cheerful  haste  officious  children  bring. 

And  every  smiling  flow'er  that  decks  the  spring: 

Ah!  little  know  the  fond  attentive  train. 

That  spring  and  flowerets  smile  for  her  in  vain  : 

Yet  hence  they  learn  to  reverence  modest  wo, 

And  of  their  little  all  a part  bestow. 

Let  those  to  wealth  and  proud  distinction  bom. 

With  the  cold  glance  of  insolence  and  scorn 
Regard  the  suppliant  wretch,  and  harshly  grieve 
The  bleeding  heart  their  bounty  would  relieve  : 

Far  different  these  ; while  from  a bounteous  heart 
With  the  poor  sufferer  they  divide  a part ; 

Humbly  they  own  that  all  they  have  is  given 
A boon  precarious  from  indulgent  Heaven  : 

And  the  next  blighted  crop  or  frosty  spring. 
Themselves  to  equal  indigence  may  bring. 

[From  Mrs  Tighe's  ‘Psyche.’] 

[The  marriage  of  Cupid  and  Psyche  in  tlie  Palace  of  Love. 
Psyche  afterwards  gazes  on  Love  while  asleep,  ai.d  is  banMhoi 
from  the  Island  of  Pleasure.] 

She  rose,  and  all  enchanted  gazed 

On  the  rare  beauties  of  the  pleasant  scene: 
Conspicuous  far,  a lofty  palace  bla'zed 
Upon  a sloping  bank  of  .softe.st  green  ; 

A fairer  edifice  was  never  seen  ; 

The  high-ranged  columns  own  no  mortal  hand. 

But  seem  a temple  meet  for  Beauty’s  queen  ; 

Like  polished  snow  the  marble  |)illars  siana. 

In  grace-attempered  majesty,  sublimely  grand. 

231 

FROM  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


Gently  asccmling  from  a Hilvery  flood. 

Above  the  jialace  rose  the  sliaded  lull, 

The  lofty  eminence  was  crowned  with  wood. 

And  the  rich  lawns,  adorned  by  nature’s  skill, 

The  passing  breezes  with  their  odours  fill ; 

Here  ever-blooming  groves  of  orange  glow, 

And  here  all  flowers,  which  from  their  leaves  distil 
Ambrosial  dew,  in  sweet  succession  blow. 

And  trees  of  matchless  size  a fragrant  shade  bestow. 
The  sun  looks  glorious  ’mid  a sky  serene, 
ynui  bids  bright  lustre  sparkle  o’er  the  tide ; 

The  clear  blue  ocean  at  a distance  seen, 

Hounds  the  gay  landscape  on  the  western  side, 
While  closing  round  it  with  majestic  pride, 

The  lofty  rocks  mid  citron  groves  arise  ; 

‘ Sure  some  divinity  must  here  reside,’ 

As  tranced  in  some  bright  vision.  Psyche  cries. 

And  scarce  believes  the  bliss,  or  trusts  her  charmed  eyes. 
When  lo  ! a voice  divinely  sweet  die  hears. 

From  unseen  lips  )iroceeds  the  heavenly  sound  ; 
‘Psyche  ai>proach,  dismiss  thy  timid  fears. 

At  length  his  bride  thy  longing  spouse  has  foufld. 
And  bids  for  thee  immortal  joys  abound  ; 

For  thee  the  palace  rose  at  his  command, 

For  thee  his  love  a bridal  banquet  crowned  ; 

He  bids  attendant  nymphs  around  thee  stand. 
Prompt  every  wish  to  serve — a fond  obedient  band.’ 
Increasing  wonder  filled  her  ravished  soul. 

For  now  the  pompous  portals  opened  wide. 

There,  pausing  oft,  with  timid  foot  she  stole 
Through  halls  high-domed,  enriched  with  sculp- 
tured ]iride. 

While  gay  saloons  appeared  on  either  side. 

In  splendid  vista  opening  to  her  sight ; 

And  all  with  precious  gems  so  beautified, 

And  furnished  with  such  exquisite  delight. 

That  scarce  the  beams  of  heaven  emit  such  lustre  bright. 
The  amethyst  was  there  of  violet  hue. 

And  there  the  topaz  shed  its  golden  ray. 

The  chrysoberyl,  and  the  sapphire  blue 
As  the  clear  azure  of  a sunny  day. 

Or  the  mild  eyes  where  amorous  glances  play; 

The  snow-white  jasper,  and  the  opal’s  flame. 

The  blushing  ruby,  and  the  agate  gray. 

And  there  the  gem  which  bears  his  luckless  name 
Whose  death,  by  Phoebus  mourned,  insured  him  death- 
less fame. 

There  the  green  emerald,  there  cornelians  glow, 

AtkI  rich  carbuncles  pour  eternal  light, 

With  all  that  India  and  Peru  can  show. 

Or  Labrador  can  give  so  flaming  bright 
To  the  charmed  mariner’s  half-dazzled  sight : 

'fhe  coral-paved  baths  with  diamonds  blaze; 

And  all  that  can  the  female  heart  delight 
Of  fair  attire,  the  last  recess  displays. 

And  all  that  luxury  can  ask,  her  eye  surveys. 

Now  through  the  hall  melodious  music  stole. 

And  self-prejiared  the  splendid  banquet  stands. 
Self-poured  the  nectar  sparkles  in  the  bowl. 

The  lute  and  viol,  touched  by  unseen  hands. 

Aid  the  soft  voices  of  the  choral  bands; 

O’er  the  full  board  a brighter  lustre  beams 
Than  Persia’s  monarch  at  his  feast  commands : 

For  sweet  refreshment  all  inviting  seems 
To  taste  celestial  food,  and  pure  ambrosial  streams. 
But  when  meek  eve  hung  out  her  dewy  star. 

Anil  gently  veiled  with  gradual  hand  the  sky, 

Lo  ! the  bright  folding  doors  retiring  far. 

Display  to  Psyche’s  captivated  eye 

All  that  vohqituous  ease  could  e’er  supply 

To  soothe  the  spirits  in  serene  repose : 

Beneath  the  velvet’s  purple  eanopy. 

Divinely  formed,  a downy  couch  arose. 

While  alabaster  lamps  a milkv  light  disclose. 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  Tllft. 


Once  more  she  hears  the  hymeneal  strain ; 

Far  other  voices  now  attune  the  lay  ; 

The  swelling  sounds  approach,  awhile  remain, 

And  then  retiring,  faint  dissolved  away ; 

The  expiring  lamps  emit  a feebler  rayj^ 

And  soon  in  fragrant  death  extinguished  lie: 

Then  virgin  terrors  Psyche’s  soul  dismay, 

M’hen  through  the  obscuring  gloom  she  nought  can  spy, 
But  softly  rustling  sounds  declare  some  being  nigh. 
Oh,  you  for  whom  I write  ! whose  hearts  can  melt 
At  the  soft  thrilling  voice  whose  power  you  prove. 
You  know  what  charm,  unutterably  felt. 

Attends  the  unexpected  voice  of  love  : 

Above  the  lyre,  the  lute’s  soft  notes  above. 

With  sweet  enchantment  to  the  soul  it  steals. 

And  bears  it  to  Klysium’s  happy  grove  ; 

You  best  can  tell  the  rapture  Psyche  feels. 

When  Love’s  ambrosial  liji  the  vows  of  Hymen  seals. 

‘ ’Tis  he,  ’tis  my  deliverer!  deep  imprest 
Upon  my  heart  those  sounds  1 well  recall,’ 

The  blushing  maid  exclaimed,  and  on  his  breast 
A tear  of  trembling  ecstacy  let  fall. 

But,  ere  the  breezes  of  the  morning  call 
Aurora  from  her  purple,  humid  bed. 

Psyche  in  vain  explores  the  vacant  hall ; 

Her  tender  lover  from  her  arms  is  fled. 

While  sleep  his  downy  wings  had  o’er  her  eyeliil 
spread. 

* * * 

Illumined  bright  now  shines  the  splendid  dome. 
Melodious  accents  her  arrival  hail : 

But  not  the  torch’s  blaze  can  chase  the  gloom. 

And  all  the  soothing  powers  of  music  fail ; 
Trembling  she  seeks  her  couch  with  horror  pale. 

But  first  a lamp  conceals  in  secret  shade. 

While  unknown  terrors  all  her  soul  assail. 

Thus  half  their  treacherous  counsel  is  obeyed. 

For  still  her  gentle  soul  abhors  the  murderous  blade. 
And  now  with  softest  whispers  of  delight, 

Love  welcomes  Psyche  still  more  fondly  dear ; 

Not  unobserved,  though  hid  in  deepest  night. 

The  silent  anguish  of  her  secret  fear. 

He  thinks  that  tenderness  excites  the  tear. 

By  the  late  image  of  her  parent’s  grief. 

And  half  offended  seeks  in  vain  to  eheer ; 

Yet,  while  he  speaks,  her  sorrows  feel  relief. 

Too  soon  more  keen  to  sting  from  this  suspension  brief  I 

Allowed  to  settle  on  celestial  eyes. 

Soft  sleep,  exulting,  now  exerts  his  sway. 

From  Psyche’s  anxious  pillow  gladly  flies 
To  veil  those  orbs,  whose  pure  and  lambent  ray 
The  powers  of  heaven  submissively  obey. 

Trembling  and  breathless  then  she  softly  rose. 

And  seized  the  lamp,  where  it  obscurely  lay. 

With  hand  too  rashly  daring  to  disclose 
The  sacred  veil  which  hung  mysterious  o’er  her  woes. 
Twice,  as  with  agitated  step  she  went. 

The  lamp  expiring  shone  with  doubtful  gleam. 

As  though  it  warned  her  from  her  rash  intent : 

And  twice  she  paused,  and  on  its  trembling  beam 
Gazed  with  suspended  breath,  while  voices  seem 
With  murmuring  sound  along  the  roof  to  sigh  ; 

As  one  just  waking  from  a troublous  dream. 

With  palpitating  heart  and  straining  eye. 

Still  fixed  withfearremains,still  thinks  the  danger  nigh. 
Oh,  daring  Muse  ! wilt  thou  indeed  essay 
To  paint  the  wonders  which  that  lamp  could  show  I 
And  canst  thou  hope  in  living  words  to  say 
The  dazzling  glories  of  that  heavenly  viewl 
Ah  ! well  I ween,  that  if  with  ]iencil  true 
That  splendid  vision  could  be  well  expressed. 

The  fearful  awe  imprudent  Psyche  knew 
Would  seize  with  rapture  every  wondering  breast. 
When  Love’s  all-potent  charms  divinely  stood  confesseii, 

282 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


roir^. 


All  imperceptible  to  human  touch. 

His  wings  display  celestial  essence  light; 

The  clear  effulgence  of  the  blaze  is  such. 

The  brilliant  plumage  shines  so  heavenly  bright, 
That  mortal  eyes  turn  dazzled  from  the  sight ; 

A youth  he  seems  in  manhood’s  freshest  years ; 
Round  his  fair  neck,  as  clinging  with  delight, 

Each  golden  curl  resplendently  appears, 

Or  shades  his  darker  b-nw,  which  grace  majestic  wears : 

Or  o’er  his  guileless  front  the  ringlets  bright 
Their  rays  of  sunny  lustre  seem  to  throw. 

That  front  than  polished  ivory  more  white  1 
His  blooming  cheeks  with  deeper  blushes  glow 
Than  roses  scattered  o’er  a bed  of  snow : 

While  on  his  lips,  distilled  in  balmy  dews, 

(Those  lips  divine,  that  even  in  silence  know 
The  heart  to  touch),  persuasion  to  infuse. 

Still  hangs  a rosy  charm  that  never  vainly  sues. 

The  friendly  curtain  of  indulgent  sleep 
Disclosed  not  yet  his  eyes’  resistless  sway. 

Rut  from  their  silky  veil  there  seemed  to  peep 
Some  brilliant  glances  with  a softened  ray. 

Which  o’er  his  features  exquisitely  play. 

And  all  his  polished  limbs  suffuse  with  light. 

Thus  through  some  narrow  space  the  azure  da}-, 
Sudden  its  cheei-ful  rays  diffusing  bright. 

Wide  darts  its  lucid  beams,  to  gild  the  brow  of  night. 

Ilis  fatal  arrows  and  celestial  bow 
Beside  the  couch  were  negligently  thrown. 

Nor  needs  the  god  his  dazzling  arms  to  show 
Ilis  glorious  birth  ; such  beauty  round  him  shone 
As  sure  could  spring  from  Beauty’s  self  alone  ; 

The  bloom  which  glowed  o'er  all  of  soft  desire 
Could  well  proclaim  him  Beauty’s  cherished  son  : 
And  Beauty’s  self  will  oft  those  charms  admire. 
And  steal  his  witching  smile,  his  glance’s  living  fire. 

Speechless  with  awe,  in  tr.ansport  strangely  lost. 
Long  Psyche  stood  with  fixed  adoring  eye; 

Her  limbs  immovable,  her  senses  tossed 
Between  amazement,  fear,  and  ecstacy. 

She  hangs  enamoured  o’er  the  deity. 

Till  from  her  trembling  hand  extinguished  falls 
The  fatal  lamp — he  starts — and  suddenly 
Tremendous  thunders  echo  through  the  halls. 
While  ruin’s  hideous  crash  bursts  o’er  the  affrighted 
walls. 

Dread  horror  seizes  on  her  sinking  heart, 

A mortal  chillness  shudders  at  her  breast. 

Her  soul  shrinks  fainting  from  death’s  icy  d.art. 
The  groan  scarce  uttered  dies  but  half  expressed. 
And  down  she  sinks  in  deadly  swoon  oppressed  : 
But  when  at  length,  awaking  from  her  trance. 

The  terrors  of  her  fate  stand  all  confessed. 

In  vain  she  casts  around  her  timid  glance ; 

The  rudely  frowning  scenes  her  former  joys  enhance. 

No  traces  of  those  joys,  alas,  remain! 

A desert  solitude  alone  appears ; 

No  verdant  shade  relieves  the  sandy  plain. 

The  wide-spread  waste  no  gentle  fountain  cheers  ; 
One  barren  face  the  dreary  prospect  wears ; 

Nought  through  the  vast  horizon  meets  her  eye 
To  calm  the  dismal  tumult  of  her  fears  ; 

No  trace  of  human  habitation  nigh  ; 

A sandy  wild  beneath,  above  a threatening  sky. 

The  Lily. 

• [By  Mrs  Tighe.] 

How  withered,  perished  seems  the  form 
Of  yon  obscure  unsightly  root ! 

Yet  from  the  blight  of  wintry  storm. 

It  hides  secure  the  precious  fruit. 


nODERT  m,OOMPIKI,» 


The  careless  eye  can  find  no  grace. 

No  beauty  in  the  scaly  folds. 

Nor  see  within  the  dark  embrace 
What  latent  loveliness  it  holds. 

Yet  in  that  bulb,  those  sapless  scales. 

The  lily  wraps  her  silver  vest. 

Till  vernal  suns  and  vernal  gales 

Shall  kiss  once  more  her  fragrant  breast. 

Yes,  hide  beneath  the  mouldering  heap 
The  undelighting  slighted  thing  ; 

There  in  the  cold  earth  buried  deep. 

In  silence  let  it  wait  the  spring. 

Oh!  many  a stormy  night  shall  close 
In  gloom  upon  the  barren  earth. 

While  still,  in  undisturbed  repose. 

Uninjured  lies  the  future  birth  : 

And  Ignorance,  with  sceptic  eye, 

Hope’s  patient  smile  shall  wondering  view; 

Or  mock  her  fond  credulity. 

As  her  soft  tears  the  spot  bedew. 

Sweet  smile  of  hope,  delicious  tear  1 
The  sun,  the  shower  indeed  shall  come ; 

The  promised  verdant  shoot  appear. 

And  nature  bid  her  blossoms  bloom. 

And  thou,  0 virgin  queen  of  spring  ! 

Shalt,  from  thy  dark  and  lowly  bed. 

Bursting  thy  green  sheath’s  silken  string. 

Unveil  thy  charms,  and  perfume  shed; 

Unfold  thy  robes  of  purest  white. 

Unsullied  from  their  darksome  grave. 

And  thy  soft  petals’  silvery  light 
In  the  mild  breeze  unfettered  wave. 

So  Faith  shall  seek  the  lowly  dust 
Where  humble  Sorrow  loves  to  lie. 

And  bid  her  thus  her  hopes  intrust. 

And  watch  with  patient,  cheerful  eye; 

And  bear  the  long,  cold  wintry  night. 

And  bear  her  own  degraded  doom  ; 

And  wait  till  Heaven’s  reviving  light. 

Eternal  spring!  shall  burst  the  gloom. 

ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 

Robert  Bloomfield,  author  of  The  Farmer's  Boy. 
and  other  poems  illustrative  of  English  rural  life  and 
customs,  was  born  at  Honington,  near  Bury  St 
Edmunds,  Suffolk,  in  the  year  1766.  His  father,  a 
tailor,  died  whilst  the  poet  was  a child,  and  he  was 
placed  under  his  uncle,  a farmer.  Here  he  remained 
only  two  years,  being  too  weak  and  diminutive  for 
field  labour,  and  he  was  taken  to  London  by  .an 
elder  brother,  and  brought  up  to  the  trade  of  a shoe- 
maker. His  two  years  of  country  service,  and  oc- 
casional visits  to  his  friends  in  Suffolk,  were  of  in- 
estimable importance  to  him  as  a poet,  for  they 
afforded  materials  for  his  ‘ E’armer’s  Boy,’  and  gave 
a freshness  and  reality  to  his  descriptions.  It  was 
in  the  shoemaker’s  garret,  however,  that  his  poetry 
was  chiefly  composed ; and  the  merit  of  introducing 
it  to  the  world  belongs  to  Mr  Capel  Lofft,  a lite- 
rary gentleman  residing  at  Troston,  near  Bury,  to 
whom  the  manuscript  was  shown,  after  being  re- 
jected by  several  London  booksellers.  Mr  Loflft 
warmly  befriended  the  poet,  and  had  the  s.atisfactioo 
of  seeing  his  prognostications  of  success  fully  verified. 
At  this  time  Bloomfield  was  thirty-two  years  of  age, 
was  married,  and  had  three  children.  The  ‘ Far 
mer’s  Boy’  immediately  became  popular ; the  Duke 
of  Grafton  patronised  the  poet,  settling  on.  him  a 

28  i 


FllOM  17ti0 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OE 


TILL  THE  I'EESENT  TIME. 


iiiimiity,  and  thruugli  tlic  iidlucncti  of  tlii.s 
iiuliloiimn  he  was  ap]iointed  to  a situation  in  the 
Seal  ofliee.  In  1810  Hloonifielil  iniblislied  a collee- 
tion  of  Itural  Tales,  which  fully  supported  his  re- 
putation ; and  to  these  were  afterwards  added  Wild 
Fluiccm,  llazlciuoud  Hull,  a villatje  drama, 'and  May- 


Austin’s  Farm,  the  early  residence  of  Bloomfield. 


day  with  the  3fuses.  The  last  was  published  in  the 
year  of  his  death,  and  opens  with  a fine  burst  of 
poetical,  though  melancholy  feeling — 

0 for  the  strength  to  paint  my  joy  once  more! 

That  joy  I feel  when  winter’s  reign  is  o’er; 

When  the  dark  despot  lifts  his  hoary  brow, 

And  seeks  his  polar  realm’s  eternal  snow  : 

Though  bleak  November’s  fogs  oppress  ray  brain, 
Shake  every  nerve,  and  struggling  fancy  chain  ; 
Though  time  creeps  o’er  me  with  his  palsied  hand. 
And  frost-like  bids  the  stream  of  passion  stand. 

The  worldly  circumst.ances  of  the  author  seem  to 
have  been  such  as  to  confirm  the  common  idea  as 
to  the  infelicity  of  poets.  His  situation  in  the  Seal- 
oflace  was  irksome  and  laborious,  and  he  was  forced 
to  resign  it  from  ill  health.  He  engaged  in  the 
bookselling  business,  but  was  unsuccessful.  In  his 
latter  years  he  resorted  to  making  jEolian  harps, 
which  he  sold  among  his  friends.  We  have  been 
informed  by  the  poet’s  son  (a  modest  and  intelligent 
man,  a printer),  that  Mr  Itogers  exerted  himself  to 
procure  a pension  for  Bloomfield,  and  Mr  Southey 
also  took  much  interest  in  his  welfare  ; but  his  last 
days  were  imbittered  by  ill  health  and  poverty.  So 
severe  were  the  sufferings  of  Bloomfield  from  con- 
tinual headache  and  nervous  irritability,  that  fears 
were  entertained  for  his  reason,  when,  happily,  death 
stepped  in.  and  released  him  from  ‘ the  world’s  poor 
strife.’  He  died  at  Shefford,  in  Bedfordshire,  on  the 
19th  of  August  1823.  The  first  remarkable  feature 
in  the  poetry  of  this  humble  bard  is  the  easy  smooth- 
ness and  correctness  of  his  versification.  His  ear 
was  attuned  to  harmony,  and  his  taste  to  the  beauties 
of  expression,  before  he  had  learned  anything  of 


criticism,  or  had  enjoyed  opportunities  for  study. 
This  may  be  seen  from  the  opening  of  his  pr.ncipal 
poem  : — 

O come,  blest  Spirit ! whatsoe’er  thou  art. 

Thou  kindling  warmth  that  hover’st  round  my  heart] 
Sweet  inmate,  hail ! thou  source  of  sterling  joy. 

That  poverty  itself  can  not  destroy. 

Be  thou  my  Muse,  and  faithful  still  to  me, 

Kevrace  the  stejis  of  wild  obscurity. 

No  deeds  of  arms  my  humble  lines  rehearse; 

No  Alpine  wonders  thunder  through  my  verse, 

The  roaring  cataract,  the  snow-topt  hill. 

Inspiring  awe  till  breath  itself  stands  still  : 

Nature’s  sublimer  scenes  ne’er  charmed  mine  eyes, 

Nor  science  led  me  through  the  boundless  skies; 

From  meaner  objects  far  my  raptures  flow : 

0 point  these  raptures ! bid  my  bosom  glow. 

And  lead  my  soul  to  ecstacies  of  praise 
For  all  the  blessings  of  my  infant  days  ! 

Bear  me  through  regions  where  gay  Fancy  dwells ; 

But  mould  to  Truth’s  fair  form  what  memory  teUj. 

Live,  trifling  incidents,  and  grace  my  song, 

That  to  the  humblest  menial  belong: 

To  him  whose  drudgery  unheeded  goes. 

His  joys  unreckoned,  as  his  cares  or  woes: 

Though  joys  and  cares  in  every  |>ath  are  sown. 

And  youthful  minds  h.ave  feelings  of  their  own, 
Quick-springing  sorrows,  transient  as  the  dew. 

Delights  from  trifles,  trifles  ever  new. 

’Twas  thus  with  Giles,  meek,  fatherless,  and  pool, 
Labour  his  portion,  but  he  felt  no  more  ; 

No  stripes,  no  tyranny  his  stejis  pursued. 

His  life  was  constant  cheerful  servitude  ; 

Strange  to  the  world,  he  wore  a bashful  look. 

The  fields  his  study,  nature  was  his  book ; 

And  as  revolving  seasons  ch.anged  the  scene 
From  heat  to  cold,  tempestuous  to  serene. 

Through  every  change  still  varied  his  employ. 

Yet  each  new  duty  brought  its  share  of  joy. 

It  is  interesting  to  contrast  the  cheerful  tone  of 
Bloomfield’s  descriptions  of  rural  life  in  its  hardest 
and  least  inviting  forms,  with  those  of  Crabbe,  also 
a native  of  Suftidk.  Both  are  true,  but  coloured 
with  the  respective  peculiarities,  in  their  style  of  i 
observation  and  feeling,  of  the  two  poets.  Bloom-  | 
field  describes  the  various  occupations  of  a farm  boy  ; 
in  seed-time,  at  harvest,  tending  cattle  and  sheep, 
and  other  occupations.  In  his  tales,  he  embodies 
more  moral  feeling  and  painting,  and  his  inciilents 
are  pleasing  and  well  arranged.  His  want  of  vigour 
and  passion,  joined  to  the  humility  of  his  themes,  is 
perhaps  the  cause  of  his  being  now  little  read  ; but 
he  is  one  of  the  most  characteristic  and  faithful  of 
our  national  poets. 

[Tumlp-Smeiny — }Yhcnt  Iili>cniny — Sparrows — TnsecU 
— The  Sky-Lark — Reayiny,  <l'C. — Uarvesl  Field.] 

The  farmer’s  life  disphays  in  every  part 
A moral  lesson  to  the  sensual  heart. 

Though  in  the  lap  of  plenty,  thoughtful  still. 

He  looks  beyond  the  present  good  or  ill ; 

Nor  estimates  alone  one  blessing’s  worth. 

From  changeful  seasons,  or  capricious  earth  ! 

But  views  the  future  with  the  present  hours. 

And  looks  for  failures  as  he  looks  for  showers; 

For  casual  as  for  certain  want  prcjiares. 

And  round  his  yard  the  reeking  haystacK  rears ; 

Or  clover,  blossomed  lovely  to  the  sight. 

His  team’s  rich  store  through  many  a wintry  night. 
What  though  abundance  round  his  dwelling  spreads. 
Though  ever  moist  his  self-improving  meads 
Supply  his  dairy  with  a eo])ious  flood. 

And  seem  to  promise  une.\hausted  food ; 

284 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  BLOOMFIELB. 


That  proiiiiso  fails  when  buried  deep  in  snow, 

And  vegetative  juices  cease  to  flow. 

Kor  this  his  plough  turns  up  the  destined  lands, 
Whence  stormy  winter  draws  its  full  demands; 

Kor  this  the  seed  minutely  small  he  sows, 

^Vhenc<',  sound  and  sweet,  the  hardy  turnip  grows. 
But  unlike  to  April’s  closing  days  ! 

High  climbs  the  sun  and  darts  his  powerful  rays  ; 
Whitens  the  fresh-drawn  mould,  and  pierces  through 
The  cumbrous  clods  that  tumble  round  the  plough. 
O’er  heaven’s  bright  azure,  hence  with  joyful  eyes 
The  farmer  sees  dark  clouds  assembling  rise  ; 

Borne  o’er  his  fields  a heavy  torrent  falls. 

And  strikes  the  earth  in  hasty  driving  squalls. 
‘Bight  welcome  down,  ye  precious  drops,’  he  cries ; 
But  soon,  too  soon,  the  partial  blessing  flies. 

‘ Boy,  bring  the  harrows,  try  how  deep  the  rain 
Has  forced  its  way.’  He  comes,  but  comes  in  Tain; 
Dry  dust  beneath  the  bubbling- surface  lurks. 

And  mocks  his  pains  the  more  the  more  he  works. 
Still,  ’midst  huge  clods,  he  plunges  on  forlorn. 

That  laugh  his  harrows  and  the  showers  to  scorn. 
E’en  thus  the  living  clod,  the  stubborn  fool. 

Resists  the  stormy  lectures  of  the  school. 

Till  tried  with  gentler  means,  the  dunce  to  please. 
His  head  imbibes  right  reason  by  degrees  ; 

As  when  from  eve  till  morning’s  wakeful  hour. 

Light  constant  rain  evinces  secret  power, 

And,  ere  the  day  resumes  its  wonted  smiles, 

Presents  a cheerful  easy  task  for  Giles. 

Down  with  a touch  the  mellow  soil  is  laid. 

And  yon  tall  crop  ne.xt  claims  his  timely  aid  ; 
Thither  well-pleased  he  hies,  assured  to  find 
Wild  trackless  haunts,  and  objects  to  his  mind. 

Shut  up  from  broad  rank  blades  that  droop  below. 
The  nodding  wheat-ear  forms  a graceful  bow. 

With  milky  kernels  starting  full  weighed  down. 

Ere  yet  the  sun  hath  tinged  its  head  with  brown  : 
There  thousands  in  a flock,  for  ever  gay. 

Loud  chirping  sparrows  welcome  in  the  day. 

And  from  the  mazes  of  the  leafy  thorn 
Drop  one  by  one  upon  the  bending  corn. 

Giles  with  a pole  assails  their  close  retreats;. 

And  round  the  grass-grown  dewy  border  beats. 

On  either  side  completely  overspread. 

Here  branches  bend,  there  corn  o’erstoops  his  head. 
Green  covert  hail!  for  through  the  varying  year 
No  hours  so  sweet,  no  scene  to  him  so  dear. 

Here  Wisdom’s  placid  eye  delighted  sees 
His  frequent  intervals  of  lonely  ease. 

And  with  one  ray  his  infant  soul  inspires. 

Just  kindling  there  her  never-dying  fires. 

Whence  solitude  derives  peculiar  charms, 

And  heaven-directed  thought  his  bosom  warms. 

Just  where  the  parting  bough’s  light  shadows  play. 
Scarce  in  the  shade,  nor  in  the  scorching  day. 
Stretched  on  the  turf  he  lies,  a peopled  bed. 

Where  srvarming  insects  creep  around  his  head. 

The  small  dust-coloured  beetle  climbs  with  pain 
O’er  the  smooth  plantain  leaf,  a spacious  plain  1 
Thence  higher  still,  by  countless  steps  conveyed. 

He  gains  the  summit  of  a shivering  blade. 

And  flirts  his  filmy  wings,  and  looks  around. 
Exulting  in  his  distance  ft-om  the  ground. 

The  tender  speckled  moth  here  dancing  seen. 

The  vaulting  grasshopper  of  glossy  green. 

And  all  prolific  Summer’s  sporting  train. 

Their  little  lives  by  various  powers  sustain. 

But  what  can  unassisted  vision  do ! 

What  but  recoil  where  most  it  would  pursue ; 

His  patient  gaze  but  finish  with  a sigh. 

When  Alusic  waking  speaks  the  skylark  nigh. 

Just  starting  from  the  corn,  he  cheerily  sings. 

And  trusts  with  conscious  pride  his  downy  wings ; 
Still  louder  breathes,  and  in  the  face  of  day 
Mounts  up,  and  calls  on  Giles  to  mark  his  way. 


Close  to  his  eyes  his  hat  he  instant  bends. 

And  forms  a friendly  telescope,  that  lends 
Just  aid  enough  to  dull  the  glaring  liirht. 

And  place  the  wandering  bird  before  his  sight. 

That  oft  beneath  a light  cloud  sweeps  along. 

Lost  for  a while,  yet  ])Ours  the  varied  song ; 

The  eye  still  follows,  and  the  cloud  moves  by. 

Again  he  stretches  up  the  clear  blue  sky  ; 

His  form,  his  motion,  undistinguished  quite. 

Save  when  he  wheels  direct  from  shade  to  light : 

E’en  then  the  songster  a mere  speck  became. 

Gliding  like  fancy’s  bubbles  in  a dream. 

The  gazer  sees  ; but  yielding  to  repose, 

Unwittingly  his  jaded  eyelids  close. 

Delicious  sleep!  Krom  sleep  who  could  forbear. 
With  guilt  no  more  than  Giles,  and  no  more  care; 
Peace  o’er  his  slumbers  waves  her  guardian  wing. 

Nor  Conscience  once  disturbs  him  with  a sting; 

He  wakes  refreshed  from  every  trivial  pain. 

And  takes  his  pole,  and  brushes  round  again. 

Its  dark  green  hue,  its  sicklier  tints  all  fail, 

And  ripening  harvest  rustles  in  the  gale. 

A glorious  sight,  if  glory  dwells  below. 

Where  heaven’s  munificence  makes  all  things  show. 
O’er  every  field  and  golden  prospect  found, 

That  glads  the  ploughman’s  r unday  morning’s  round  ; 
When  on  some  eminence  he  takes  his  stand. 

To  judge  the  smiling  produce  of  the  land. 

Here  V’anity  slinks  back,  her  head  to  hide  ; 

What  is  there  here  to  flatter  human  pride  ? 

The  towering  fabric,  or.  the  dome’s  loud  roar. 

And  steadfast  columns  may  astonish  more. 

Where  the  charmed  gazer  long  delighted  stays. 

Yet  traced  but  to  the  architect  the  praise  ; 

Whilst  here  the  veriest  clown  that  treads  the  sod. 
Without  one  scruple  gives  the  praise  to  God  ; 

And  twofold  joys  possess  his  raptured  mind. 

From  gratitude  and  admiration  joined. 

Here,  ’midst  the  boldest  triuni])hs  of  her  worth. 
Nature  herself  invites  the  reapers  forth  ; 

Dares  the  keen  sickle  from  its  twelvemonth’s  rest. 

And  gives  that  ardour  which  in  every  breast 
From  infancy  to  age  alike  appear.s. 

When  the  first  sheaf  its  plumy  top  uprears. 

No  rake  takes  here  what  Heaven  to  all  bestows — 
Children  of  want,  for  you  the  bounty  flows  1 
And  every  cottage  from  the  plenteous  store 
Receives  a burden  nightly  at  its  door. 

Hark  ! where  the  sweei>ing  scythe  now  rips  along; 
Each  .sturd}'  mower,  emulous  and  strong. 

Whose  writhing  form  meridian  heat  defies, 

Bends  o’er  his  work,  and  every  sinew  tries  ; 

Prostrates  the  waving  treasure  at  his  feet. 

But  .spares  the  rising  clover,  short  and  sweet. 

Come  Health!  come  Jollity  ! light-footed  come  ; 

Here  hold  your  revels,  and  make  this  your  home. 

Each  heart  awaits  and  hails  you  as  its  own  ; 

Each  moistened  brow  that  scorns  to  wear  a frowm  : 
The  unpeopled  dwelling  mourns  its  tenants  strayed: 
E’en  the  domestic  laughing  dairymaid 
Hies  to  the  field  the  general  toil  to  share. 

Meanwhile  the  farmer  quits  his  elbow-chair. 

His  cool  brick  floor,  his  pitcher,  and  his  case. 

And  braves  the  sultry  beams,  and  gladly  sees 
His  gates  thrown  open,  and  his  team  abroad. 

The  ready  group  attendant  on  his  word 
To  turn  the  swath,  the  quivering  load  to  rear. 

Or  ply  the  busy  rake  the  land  to  clear. 

Summer’s  light  garb  itself  now  cumbrous  grown. 

Each  his  thin  doublet  in  the  shade  throw's  down; 
Where  oft  the  mastilf  skulks  with  half-shut  eye. 

And  rouses  at  the  stranger  passing  by  ; 

While  unrestrained  the  social  converse  flows. 

And  every  breast  Love’s  powerful  impulse  know*, 

And  rival  wits  with  more  than  rustic  grace 
Confess  the  presence  of  a pretty  face. 


FROM  1700 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


Rosy  Hannah, 

A spring,  o’crhung  with  many  a flower, 

Tlie  gray  sand  dancing  in  its  bed, 

Embanked  beneath  a hawthorn  bower. 

Sent  forth  its  waters  near  my  head. 

A rosy  lass  approached  iny  view ; 

I caught  her  blue  eyes’  modest  beam; 

The  stranger  nodded  ‘ llow-d’ye-doP 
And  leaped  across  the  infant  stream. 

Tne  water  heedless  passed  away  ; 

With  me  her  glowing  image  stayed ; 

1 strove,  from  that  auspicious  day. 

To  meet  and  bless  the  lovely  maid. 

I met  her  where  beneath  our  feet 
Through  downy  moss  the  wild  thyme  grew; 
Nor  moss  elastic,  flowers  though  sweet. 

Matched  Hannah’s  cheek  of  rosy  hue. 

I met  her  where  the  dark  woods  wave. 

And  shaded  verdure  skirts  the  plain  ; 

And  when  the  pale  moon  rising  gave 
New  glories  to  her  rising  train. 

From  her  sweet  cot  upon  the  moor. 

Our  plighted  vows  to  heaven  are  flown; 

Truth  made  me  welcome  at  her  door. 

And  rosy  Hannah  is  my  own. 

IAv.es  addressed  to  my  Children. 

[OccisioncJ  by  a visit  to  ttTiittlebury  Forest,  Northampton- 
ehire,  in  August  1800.] 

Genius  of  the  forest  shades. 

Lend  thy  power,  and  lend  thine  ear; 

A stranger  trod  thy  lonely  glades, 

Amid.st  thy  dark  and  bounding  deer; 

Inquiring  childhood  claims  the  verse, 

0 let  them  not  inquire  in  vain; 

Be  with  me  while  1 thus  rehearse 
The  glories  of  thy  sylvan  reign. , 

Thy  dells  by  wintry  currents  worn, 

Secluded  haunts,  how  dear  to  me  I 
From  all  but  nature’s  converse  borne. 

No  ear  to  hear,  no  eye  to  .see. 

Their  honoured  leaves  the  green  oaks  reared. 

And  crowned  the  upland’s  graceful  swell ; 

While  answering  through  the  vale  was  heard 
Each  distant  heifer’s  tinkling  bell. 

Hail,  greenwood  shades,  that,  stretching  far, 

Defy  e’en  summer’s  noontide  power. 

When  August  in  his  burning  car 

Withholds  the  clouds,  withholds  the  shower. 

The  deep-toned  low  from  either  hill, 

Down  hazel  aisles  and  arches  green 
(The  herd’s  rude  tracks  from  rill  to  rill). 

Roared  echoing  through  the  solemn  scene. 

From  my  charmed  heart  the  numbers  sprung. 
Though  birds  had  ceased  the  choral  lay; 

I poured  wild  raptures  from  my  tongue. 

And  gave  delicious  tears  their  way. 

Then,  darker  shadows  seeking  still. 

Where  human  foot  had  seldom  strayed, 

I read  aloud  to  every  hill 

Sweet  Emma’s  love,  ‘ the  Nut-brown  maid.’ 

Shaking  his  matted  mane  on  high. 

The  gazing  colt  would  raise  his  head. 

Or  timorous  doe  would  rushing  fly. 

And  leave  to  me  her  grassy  bed  ; 

Where,  as  the  azure  sky  appeared 
Through  bowers  of  ever  varying  form. 

Midst  the  deep  gloom  methought  1 heard 
The  daring  progress  of  the  storm. 


TIU.  THE  rUESENT  TIMK. 


How  would  each  sweeping  ponderous  bough 
Resist,  when  straight  the  whirlwind  cleaves. 
Dashing  in  strengthening  eddies  through 
A roaring  wilderne.ss  of  leaves  ? 

How  would  the  prone  descending  shower 
From  the  green  canopy  rebound  ? 

How  would  the  lowland  torrents  pour? 

How  deep  the  pealing  thunder  sound  ? 

But  peace  was  there  : no  lightnings  blazed; 

No  clouds  obscured  the  face  of  heaven  ; 

Down  eaqli  green  opening  whiie  I gazed. 

My  thoughts  to  home  and  you  were  given. 

0,  tender  minds  ! in  life’s  gay  morn, 

Some  clouds  must  dim  your  coming  day; 

Y et  bootless,  pride  and  falsehood  scorn. 

And  peace  like  this  shall  cheer  your  way. 
Now,  at  the  dark  wood’s  stately  side. 

Well  pleased  I met  the  sun  again ; 

Here  fleeting  fancy  travelled  wide  ; 

My  seat  was  destined  to  the  main. 

For  many  an  oak  lay  stretched  at  length. 

Whose  trunks  (with  bark  no  longer  sheathed) 
Had  reached  their  full  meridian  strength 
Before  your  father’s  father  breathed  1 
Perhaps  they’ll  many  a conflict  brave, 

And  many  a dreadful  storm  defy  ; 

Then,  groaning  o’er  the  adverse  wave. 

Bring  home  the  flag  of  victory. 

Go,  then,  proud  oaks ; we  meet  no  more  ! 

Go,  grace  the  scenes  to  me  denied. 

The  white  cliffs  round  my  native  shore, 

And  the  loud  ocean’s  swelling  tide. 

‘Genius  of  the  forest  shades,’ 

Sweet  from  the  heights  of  thy  domain, 

When  the  gray  evening  shadow  fade.s. 

To  view  the  country’s  golden  grain ; 

To  view  the  gleaming  village  spire 

’Midst  distant  groves  unknown  to  me — 
Groves  that,  grown  bright  in  borrowed  fire, 

Bow  o’er  the  peopled  vales  to  thee. 

Where  was  thy  elfin  train,  that  play 

Round  Wake’s  huge  oak,  their  favourite  tree. 
Dancing  the  twilight  hours  away? 

Why  were  they  not  revealed  to  me  ? 

Yet,  smiling  fairies  left  behind. 

Affection  brought  you  all  to  view; 

To  love  and  tendernes.s  resigned. 

My  heart  heaved  many  a sigh  for  you. 

When  morning  still  unclouded  rose. 

Refreshed  with  sleep  and  joyous  dreams, 
Where  fruitful  fields  with  woodlands  close, 

I traced  the  births  of  various  streams. 

From  beds  of  clay,  here  creeping  rills. 

Unseen  to  parent  Ouse,  would  steal ; 

Or,  gushing  from  the  northward  hills. 

Would  glitter  through  Tove’s  winding  dale. 

But  ah  1 ye  cooling  springs,  farewell ! 

Herds,  I no  more  your  freedom  share; 

But  long  my  grateful  tongue  shall  tell 
What  brought  your  gazing  stranger  them. 

‘ Genius  of  the  forest  shades,’ 

Lend  thy  power,  and  lend  thine  ear ; 

But  dreams  still  lengthen  thy  long  glades. 

And  bring  thy  peace  and  silence  here. 

\_Dcscription  of  a Blind  Youth.'] 

For  from  his  cradle  he  had  never  seen 
Soul-cheering  sunbeams,  or  wild  nature’s  gresn. 

But  all  life’s  blessings  centre  not  in  sight ; 

For  Providence,  that  dealt  him  one  long  night. 

Had  given,  in  pity,  to  the  blooming  boy 
Feelings  more  exquisitely  tuned  to  joy. 

286 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 


Fond  to  e.\cess  was  he  of  all  that  grew ; 

The  morning  blossom  sjirinkled  o’er  with  dew, 

Across  his  path,  as  if  in  playful  freak, 

Would  dash  his  brow  and  weep  upon  his  cheek ; 

Each  varying  leaf  that  brushed  where’er  he  came. 
Pressed  to  his  rosy  lip  he  called  by  name ; 

He  grasped  the  saplings,  measured  every  bough. 
Inhaled  the  fragrance  that  the  spring’s  months  throw 
Profusely  round,  till  his  young  heart  confessed 
That  all  was  beauty,  and  himself  was  blessed. 

Yet  when  he  traced  the  wide  extended  plain. 

Or  clear  brook  side,  he  felt  a transient  pain ; 

The  keen  regret  of  goodness,  void  of  pride. 

To  think  he  could  not  roam  without  a guide. 

May-Day  with  tht  Muta. 

[Banquet  of  an  English  Squire.'\ 

Then  came  the  jovial  day,  no  streaks  of  red 
O’er  the  broad  portal  of  the  morn  were  spread, 

But  one  high-sailing  mist  of  dazzling  white, 

A screen  of  gossamer,  a magic  light, 

Doomed  instantly,  by  simplest  shepherd’s  ken. 

To  reign  awhile,  and  be  exhaled  at  ten. 

O’er  leaves,  o’er  blossoms,  by  his  power  restored. 

Forth  came  the  conquering  sun  and  looked  abroad; 
Millions  of  dew-drops  fell,  yet  millions  hung. 

Like  words  of  transport  trembling  on  the  tongue. 

Too  strong  for  utterance.  Thus  the  infant  boy. 

With  rosebud  cheeks,  and  features  tuned  to  joy, 
Weeps  while  he  struggles  with  restraint  or  pain  ; 

But  change  the  scene,  and  make  him  laugh  again. 

His  heart  rekindles,  and  his  cheek  appears 
A thousand  times  more  lovely  through  his  tears. 

From  the  first  glimpse  of  day,  a busy  scene 
Was  that  high-swelling  lawn,  that  destined  green. 
Which  shadowless  expanded  far  and  wide. 

The  mansion’s  ornament,  the  hamlet’s  pride ; 

To  cheer,  to  order,  to  direct,  contrive. 

Even  old  Sir  Ambrose  had  been  up  at  five ; 

There  his  whole  household  laboured  in  his  view — 

But  light  is  labour  where  the  task  is  new. 

Some  wheeled  the  turf  to  build  a grassy  throne 
Round  a huge  thorn  that  spread  his  boughs  alone, 
Rough-rined  and  bold,  as  master  of  the  place ; 

Five  generations  of  the  Higham  race 
Had  plucked  his  flowers,  and  still  he  held  his  sway, 
Waved  his  white  head,  and  felt  the  breath  of  May. 
Some  from  the  greenhouse  ranged  exotics  round. 

To  bask  in  open  day  on  English  ground : 

‘And  ’midst  them  in  a line  of  splendour  drew 
Long  wreaths  and  garlands  gathered  in  the  dew. 

Some  spread  the  snowy  canvass,  propped  on  high 
O’er  sheltering  tables  with  their  whole  supply  ; 

Some  swung  the  biting  scythe  with  merry  face. 

And  cropped  the  daisies  for  a dancing  space ; 

Some  rolled  the  mouldy  barrel  in  his  might. 

From  prison  darkness  into  cheerful  light. 

And  fenced  him  round  with  cans ; and  others  bore 
The  creaking  hamper  with  its  costly  store  ; 

Well  corked,  well  flavoured,  and  well  taxed,  that  came 
From  Lusitanian  mountains  dear  to  fame. 

Whence  Gama  steered,  and  led  the  conquering  way 
To  eastern  triumphs  and  the  realms  of  day. 

A thousand  minor  tasks  filled  every  hour. 

Till  the  sun  gained  the  zenith  of  his  power. 

When  every  path  was  thronged  with  old  and  young. 
And  many  a skylark  in  his  strength  upsprung 
To  bid  them  welcome.  Not  a face  was  there 
But,  for  May-day  at  least,  had  banished  care ; 

No  cringing  looks,  no  pauper  tales  to  tell, 

No  timid  glance — they  knew  their  host  too  well — 
Freedom  was  there,  and  joy  in  every  eye : 

Such  scenes  were  England’s  boast  in  days  gone  by. 
Beneath  the  thorn  was  good  Sir  Ambrose  found. 

His  guests  an  ample  crescent  formed  around ; 


Nature’s  oivn  carpet  spread  the  space  between. 

Where  blithe  domestics  plied  in  gold  and  green. 

The  venerable  chaplain  waved  his  wand. 

And  silence  followed  as  he  stretched  his  hand  : 

The  deep  carouse  can  never  boast  the  bliss. 

The  animation  of  a scene  like  this. 

At  length  the  damasked  cloths  were  whisked  away 
Like  fluttering  sails  upon  a summer’s  day ; 

The  hey-day  of  enjoyment  found  repose ; 

The  worthy  baronet  majestic  rose. 

They  viewed  him,  while'  his  ale  was  filling  round. 

The  monarch  of  his  own  paternal  ground. 

His  cup  was  full,  and  where  the  blossoms  bowed 
Over  his  head.  Sir  Ambrose  spoke  aloud. 

Nor  stopped  a dainty  form  or  phrase  to  cull. 

His  heart  elated,  like  his  cup  was  full: — 

‘ Full  be  your  hopes,  and  rich  the  crops  that  fall ; 
Health  to  my  neighbours,  happiness  to  all.’ 

Dull  must  that  clomi  be,  dull  as  winter’s  sleet. 

Who  would  not  instantly  be  on  his  feet  : 

An  echoing  health  to  mingling  shouts  give  place, 

‘ Sir  Ambrose  Higham  and  his  noble  race  !’ 

May-Day  with  the  Muaet, 

[The  Soldier’s  Home.'] 

[‘  The  topic  is  trite,  hut  in  Mr  Bloomfield's  hands  it  almost 
assumes  a character  of  novelty.  Burns’s  Soldier's  Return  is  not, 
to  our  taste,  one  whit  superior.’ — Professor  inison.] 

My  untried  Muse  shall  no  high  tone  assume. 

Nor  strut  in  arms — farewell  my  cap  and  plume ! 

Brief  be  my  verse,  a task  within  my  power ; 

I tell  my  feelings  in  one  happy  hour : 

But  what  an  hour  was  that ! when  from  the  main 
I reached  this  lovely  valley  once  again  ! 

A glorious  harvest  filled  my  eager  sight. 

Half  shocked,  half  waving  in  a flood  of  light ; 

On  that  poor  cottage  roof  where  I was  boi'n. 

The  sun  looked  dotvn  as  in  life’s  early  mom. 

I gazed  around,  but  not  a soul  appeared  ; 

I listened  on  the  threshold,  nothing  heard  ; 

I called  liny  father  thrice,  but  no  one  came ; 

It  was  not  fear  or  grief  that  shook  my  frame. 

But  an  o’erpowering  sense  of  peace  and  home. 

Of  toils  gone  by,  perhaps  of  joys  to  come. 

The  door  invitingly  stood  open  wide  ; 

I shook  my  dust,  and  set  my  staff  aside. 

How  sweet  it  was  to  breathe  that  cooler  ail. 

And  take  possession  of  my  father’s  chair! 

Beneath  ray  elbow,  on  the  solid  frame, 

Appeared  the  rough  initials  of  my  name. 

Cut  forty  years  before  ! The  same  old  clock 
Struck  the  same  bell,  and  gave  my  heart  a shick 
I never  can  forget.  A short  breeze  sprung. 

And  while  a sigh  was  trembling  on  my  tongue. 
Caught  the  old  dangling  almanacs  behind. 

And  up  they  flew  like  banners  in  the  win<l ; 

Then  gently,  singly,  down,  down,  down  they  went. 
And  told  of  twenty  years  that  I had  spent 
Far  from  my  native  land.  That  instant  came 
A robin  on  the  threshold ; though  so  tame. 

At  first  he  looked  distru.stful,  almost  shy, 

And  cast  on  me  his  coal-black  steadfast  eye. 

And  seemed  to  say  (past  friendship  to  renew) 

‘ Ah  ha  ! old  worn-out  soldier,  is  it  you  ?’ 

Through  the  room  ranged  the  imprisoned  humble  bee. 
And  bombed,  and  bounced,  and  struggled  to  be  free  ; 
Dashing  against  the  panes  with  sullen  roar. 

That  threw  their  diamond  sunlight  on  the  floor ; 

That  floor,  clean  sanded,  where  my  fancy  strayed. 
O’er  undulating  waves  the  broom  had  made ; 
Reminding  me  of  tho.se  of  hideous  forms 
That  met  us  as  we  passed  the  Cape  of  storms, 

Where  high  apd  loud  they  break,  and  peace  comes 
never ; 

They  roll  and  foam,  and  roll  and  foam  for  ever. 

as7 


PROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


r.LL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


Itiit  here  was  peace,  that  peace  which  liomecan  yield  ; 
The  graHhlioppcr,  the  i>artiid;'e  in  the  field, 

And  ticking  clock,  were  all  at  once  become 
The  siihstitute  for  clarion,  fife,  and  drum. 

While  thus  1 mused,  still  gazing,  gazing  still, 

On  beds  of  moss  that  spread  the  window  sill, 

1 tleemed  no  moss  my  eyes  had  ever  seen 
Had  been  so  lovely,  brilliant,  fresh,  and  green-. 

And  guessed  some  infant  hand  had  placed  it  there, 
And  prized  its  hue,  so  exquisite,  so  rare. 

Feelings  on  feelings  mingling,  doubling  rose; 

My  heart  felt  everything  but  calm  repose  ; 

1 could  not  reckon  minutc.s,  hours,  nor  years, 
lint  rose  at  once,  and  bursted  into  tears ; 

Then,  like  a fool,  confused,  sat  down  again. 

And  thought  upon  the  past  with  shame  and  pain; 

1 raved  at  war  and  all  its  horrid  cost. 

And  glory’s  quagmire,  where  the  brave  are  lost. 

On  carnage,  hre,  and  plunder  long  1 mused. 

And  cursed  the  murdering  weapons  1 had  used. 

Two  shadows  then  1 saw,  two  voices  heard. 

One  bespoke  age,  and  one  a child’s  appeared. 

In  stepped  my  father  with  convulsive  start. 

And  in  an  instant  clasped  me  to  his  heart. 

Close  by  him  stooil  a little  blue-eyed  maid; 

And  stooping  to  the  child,  the  old  man  said, 

‘ Come  hither,  Nancy,  kiss  me  once  again. 

This  is  your  uncle  Charles,  come  home  from  Spain.’ 
The  child  approached,  and  with  her  fingers  light, 
Stroked  my  old  eyes,  almost  deprived  of  sight. 

I5ut  why  thus  spin  my  tale — thus  tedious  be? 

Happy  old  soldier!  what’s  the  world  to  mel 

[Tolas  Wife.'] 

I rise,  dear  Mary,  from  the  soundest  rest, 

A wandering,  way-worn,  musing,  singing,guest. 

I claim  the  privilege  of  hill  and  plain  ; 

Mine  are  the  woods,  and  all  that  they  contain  ; 

The  unpolluted  gale,  which  sweeps  the  glade; 

All  the  cool  blessings  of  the  solemn  shade; 

Health,  and  the  flow  of  happiness  sincere  ; 

Yet  there’s  one  wish — I wisli  that  thou  wert  here; 
Free  from  the  trammels  of  domestic  care. 

With  me  these  dear  autumnal  sweets  to  share ; 

To  share  my  heart’s  ungovernable  joy. 

And  keep  the  birthday  of  our  poor  lame  boy. 

Ah  ! that’s  a tender  string  ! Yet  since  I find 
That  scenes  like  these  can  soothe  the  harassed  mind, 
Trust  me,  ’twould  set  thy  jaded  spirits  free. 

To  wander  thus  through  vales  and  woods  with  me. 
I'hou  know'st  how  much  1 love  to  steal  away 
From  noise,  from  uproar,  and  the  blaze  of  day; 

With  double  transport  would  my  heart  rebound 
To  lead  thee  where  the  clustering  nuts  are  found; 

No  toilsome  efforts  would  our  task  demand. 

For  the  brown  treasure  stoops  to  meet  the  hand. 
Hound  the  tall  hazel  beds  of  moss  appear 
In  green  swards  nibbled  by  the  forest  deer. 

Sun,  and  alternate  shade;  while  o’er  our  heads 
The  caving  rook  his  glossy  pinions  spreads  ; 

The  noisy  jay,  his  wild  woods  dashing  through; 

The  ring-dove’s  chorus,  and  the  rustling  bough  ; 

1'he  far  resounding  gate;  the  kite’s  shrill  scream; 

'The  distant  ])loughman’s  halloo  to  his  team. 

This  is  the  chorus  to  my  soul  so  dear ; 

It  would  delight  thee  too,  wert  thou  but  here: 

For  w’e  might  talk  of  home,  and  muse  o’er  days 
Of  sad  distress,  and  Heaven’s  mysterious  ways; 

Our  chequered  fortunes  with  a smile  retrace. 

And  build  new  hopes  upon  our  infant  race; 

Four  our  thanksgivings  forth,  and  weep  the  while; 

Or  pray  for  blessings  on  our  native  isle. 

Rut  vain  the  wish!  ^lary,  thy  sighs  forbear. 

Nor  grudge  the  pleasure  which  thou  canst  not  share; 
Make  home  delightful,  kindly  wish  for  me. 

And  I’ll  leave  hills,  and  dales,  and  woods  for  thee. 


JOHN  I.EYDE.V. 

.Tohn  Leyden,  a distinguished  orient.al  scholar  as 
well  as  a poet,  was  a native  of  Denholm,  Roxburgh- 
shire. He  was  the  son  of  humble  parent.s,  hut  the 
ardent  borderer  fought  his  way  to  learning  and  eele- 
brity.  His  parents,  seeing  his  desire  for  instruction, 
determined  to  educate  him  for  the  church,  and  he 
was  entered  of  Fdinburgh  college  in  1790,  in  the  fif- 
teenth year  of  his  age.  He  made  rapid  progress  ; was 
an  excellent  Latin  and  Greek  scholar,  and  acquired 
also  the  F'reneh,  Spanish,  Italian,  and  German,  be- 
sides studying  the  Ilebrew,  Arabic,  and  I'ersian.  He 
became  no  mean  proficient  in  mathematics  and  va- 
rious branches  of  science.  Indeed,  every  difliculty 
seemed  to  vanish  before  his  commanding  talents,  his 
retentive  memory,  and  robust  application.  His 
college  vacations  were  spent  at  home ; and  as  his 
father’s  cottage  afforded  him  little  opportunity  for 
quiet  and  seclusion,  he  looked  out  for  accommoda- 
tions abroad.  ‘In  a wild  recess,’  says  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  ‘ in  the  den  or  glen  wide  h gives  name  to  the 
village  of  Denholm,  he  contrived  a sort  of  furnace 
for  the  purpose  of  such  chemical  experiments  as  he 
was  adequate  to  performiTig.  Rut  his  chief  place  of 
retirement  was  the  small  parish  church,  a gloomy 
and  ancient  building,  generally  believed  in  the 
neighbourhood  to  be  haunted.  To  this  chosen 
place  of  study,  usually  hadeed  during  week  days, 
Leyden  made  entrance  by  means  of  a window, 
read  there  for  many  hours  in  the  day,  and  depo- 
sited his  books  and  specimens  in  a retired  pew.  It 
was  a w'ell-chosen  spot  of  seclusion,  for  the  kirk  I 
(excepting  during  divine  service)  is  rather  a place 
of  terror  to  the  Scottish  rustic,  and  that  of  Cavers 
was  rendered  more  so  by  many  a tale  of  ghosts  ano 
witchcraft,  of  which  it  was  the  supposed  .scene,  and 
to  which  Leyden,  partly  to  indulge  his  humour,  and 
partly  to  secure  his  retirement,  contrived  to  make 
some  modern  additions.  The  nature  of  his  abstruse 
studies,  some  specimens  of  natural  history’,  as  toads 
and  adders,  left  exposed  in  their  spirit-vials,  and 
one  or  two  pnietieal  jests  j)Iayed  off  upon  the  more 
curious  of  the  pe.asantry.  rendered  his  gloomy  haunt 
not  only  venerated  by  the  wise,  but  feared  by  the 
simple  of  the  parish.’  F'rom  this  singular  and  ro- 
mantic study,  I.eyden  sallied  forth,  with  his  curious 
and  various  stores,  to  astonish  his  college  associates. 
He  already  numbered  among  his  friends  the  most 
distinguished  literary  and  scientific  men  of  Edin- 
burgh. On  the  expiration  of  his  college  studies, 
Leyden  accepted  the  situation  of  tutor  to  the  sons 
of  Mr  Camphell  of  Fairfielil,  whotn  he  accompanied 
to  the  university  of  St  Andrews.  '1  here  he  pur- 
sued his  own  researches  connected  with  oriental 
letirning,  and  in  1799  imblished  a sketch  of  the 
Discoveries  and  Settlements  of  the  Kuropeiws  in 
Northern  and  Western  Africa.  He  wrote  also  vari- 
ous copies  of  verses  and  translations  from  the 
northern  and  oriental  latuinages,  which  he  pub- 
lished in  the  Edinburgh  M.igazine.  In  1800  Ley- 
den was  ordaitied  for  the  church.  He  continued, 
however,  to  study  atid  compose,  tind  contributed  to 
Lewis’s  Tales  of  Wonder  and  Scott’s  Minstrelsy  of 
the  Scottish  Horder.  So  ardent  was  he  in  assisting 
the  editor  of  the  Minstrelsy,  that  he  on  one  occa- 
sion walked  between  forty  and  fifty  tniles,  atid  back 
again,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  visiting  tin  old  person 
who  pos.sessed  an  ancient  historicid  balbid.  His 
next  publication  was  a new  edition  of  The  Comphn/nt 
of  Scotland,  an  ancient  work  written  about  1.548, 
which  Leyden  enriched  with  a preliminary  disser- 
tation, notes,  and  a glossary.  He  also  undertook 
the  management,  for  otie  year,  of  the  Scots  Maga- 
zine, His  strong  desire  to  visit  foreign  countrie* 

288 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  I F-VnEN. 


I ; induced  his  friends  to  apidyto  government  for  some 
I ' apiKiintment  for  him  connected  with  tlie  learning 
! and  languages  of  the  East.  The  only  situation  whicli 
they  couhi  i)nK‘ure  was  tliat  of  surgeon’s  assistant ; 
i anci  in  live  or  six  months,  by  incredible  labour, 
Leyden  qualified  himself,  and  obtained  his  diploma. 

1 ‘ The  sudden  change  of  his  profession,’  says  Scott, 

] ‘ gave  great  amusement  to  some  of  his  friends.’  In 
1 l)eceml>er  1802,  Leyden  was  summoned  to  join  the 
I Christmas  fleet  of  Indiamen,  in  consequence  of  his 
ajipointtnent  as  assistant-surgeon  on  the  Madras 
1 establishment.  lie  finished  his  poem.  The  Scenes  of 
j Infavct/,  descriptive  of  his  native  vale,  and  left 
I ' Scotland  for  ever.  After  his  arrival  at  Madras,  the 
I ' health  of  laiyden  gave  way,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
1 1 remove  to  Prince  of  Wales  Island.  He  resided  there 
j for  some  time,  visiting  Sumatra  and  the  Malayan 
1 1 peninsula,  and  amassing  the  curious  information 
I concerning  the  language,  literature,  and  descent  of 
j i the  Indo-Chinese  tribes,  which  afterwards  enabled 
him  to  lay  a most  vahiable  dissertation  before  the 
Asiatic  Society  at  Calcutta.  Leyden  quitted  Prince 
of  Wales  Island,  and  was  appointed  a professor  in 
the  Bengal  college.  This  was  soon  exchanged  for 
a more  lucrative  appointment,  namely,  that  of  a 
judge  in  Calcutta.  Ills  spare  time  was,  as  usual, 
devoted  to  oriental  manuscripts  and  antiquities.  ‘ I 
may  die  in  the  attempt,’  he  wrote  to  a friend,  ‘ but 
if  I die  without  surpassing  Sir  Wjlliam  Jones  a hun- 
dredfold in  oriental  learning,  let  never  a tear  for  me 
profane  the  eye  of  a borderer.’  The  possibility  of 
an  early  death  in  a distant  land  often  crossed  the 
mind  of  the  ambitious  student.  In  his  ‘ Scenes  of 
Infancy,’  he  expresses  his  anticipation  of  such  an 
event  in  a passage  of  great  melody  and  pathos. 

The  silver  moon  at  midnight  cold  and  still. 

Looks,  sad  and  silent,  o’er  you  western  hill ; 

While  largo  and  pale  the  ghostly  structures  grow, 
Reared  on  the  confines  of  the  world  below. 

Is  that  dull  sound  the  hum  of  Teviot’s  stream  ? 
j Is  that  blue  light  the  moon’s,  or  tomb-fire’s  gleam? 

I By  which  a mouldering  pile  is  faintly  seen, 

1 The  old  deserted  church  of  Hazeldean, 

Where  slept  my  fathers  in  their  natal  clay. 

Till  Teviot’s  waters  rolled  their  bones  away  ? 

Their  feeble  voices  from  the  stream  they  raise — 

‘ Rash  youth  ! unmindful  of  thy  early  days. 

Why  didst  thou  quit  the  peasant’s  simple  lot  ? 

M’hy  didst  thou  leave  the  peasant’s  tui-f-built  cot, 

The  ancient  graves  where  all  thy  fathers  lie. 

And  Teviot’s  stream  that  long  has  murmured  by? 

And  we — when  death  so  long  has  closed  our  eyes, 

How  wilt  thou  bid  us  from  the  dust  arise. 

And  bear  our  mouldering  bones  across  the  main. 

From  vales  that  knew  our  lives  devoid  of  stain? 

1 Rash  youth ! beware,  thy  home-bred  virtues  save, 

I And  sweetly  sleep  in  thy  paternal  grave.’ 

j In  181 1 Leyden  accompanied  the  governor-general 
j 1 to  Java.  ‘ His  spirit  of  romantic  adventure,’  says 
! Scott,  ‘ led  him  literally  to  rush  upon  death ; for, 

! with  another  volunteer  who  attended  the  expedition, 

I he  threw  himself  into  the  surf,  in  order  to  be  the 
first  Briton  of  the  expedition  who  should  set  foot 
1 upon  Java.  When  the  success  of  the  well -concerted 
I movements  of  the  invaders  had  given  them  posses- 
sion of  the  town  of  Batavia,  Leyden  displayed  the 
same  ill-omened  precipitation,  in  his  haste  to  exa- 
mine a library,  or  rather  a warehouse  of  books,  in 
which  many  Indian  manuscripts  of  value  were  said 
to  be  deposited.  A library  in  a Dutch  settlement 
was  not,  as  might  have  been  expected,  in  the  best 
order ; the  apartment  had  not  been  regularly  venti- 
lated, and  either  from  this  circumstance,  or  already 
affected  by  the  fatal  sickness  peculiar  to  Batavia, 

61 


Leyden,  when  he  left  the  place,  had  a fit  of  shiver- 
ing, ami  declared  the  atmosphere  was  enough  to  give 
any'  mortal  a fever.  The  presage  was  too  just : he 
took  his  bed,  and  died  in  three  days  (August  28, 
1811),  on  the  eve  of  the  battle  which  gave  .Java  to 
the  British  empire.’  The  Poetical  Remains  of  Ley- 
den were  published  in  1819,  with  a Memoir  of  his 
Life,  by  the  Rev.  James  Morton.  Sir  John  Malcolm 
and  Sir  Walter  Scott  both  honoured  his  memory 
with  notices  of  his  life  and  genius.  The  Great 
Minstrel  has  also  alhided  to  his  untimely  death 
in  his  ‘ Lord  of  the  Isles.’ 

Scarba’s  Isle,  whose  tortured  shore 
Still  rings  to  Corrievreckin’s  roar. 

And  lonely  Colonsay ; 

Scenes  sung  by  him  who  sings  no  more, 

His  bright  and  brief  career  is  o’er. 

And  mute  his  tuneful  strains  ; 

Quenched  is  his  lamp  of  varied  lore. 

That  loved  the  light  of  song  to  pour: 

A distant  and  a deadly  shore 
Has  Leyden’s  cold  remains. 

The  allusion  here  is  to  a ballad  by  Leyden,  en- 
titled The  Mermaid,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  at 
Corrievreckin,  and  which  was  published  with  an- 
other, The  Cout  of  Keeldar,  in  the  Border  Min- 
strelsy. His  longest  poem  is  his  ‘ Scenes  of  In- 
fancy,’ descriptive  of  his  native  vale  of  Teviot.  His 
versification  is  soft  and  musical ; he  is  an  elegant 
rather  than  a forcible  poet.  His  ballad  strains  are 
greatly  superior  to  his  ‘ Scenes  of  Infancy.’  Sir 
Walter  Scott  has  praised  the  opening  of  ‘The  Mer- 
maid,’ as  exhibiting  a jxiwer  of  numbers  which,  for 
mere  melody  of  sound,  has  seldom  been  excelled  in 
EngUsh  poetry. 

Sonnet  on  Sahhath  Mom. 

With  silent  awe  I hail  the  sacred  morn. 

That  scarcely  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are  still ; 

A soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne, 

A graver  murmur  echoes  from  the  hill. 

And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn  ; 

The  skylark  warbles  in  a tone  less  shrill. 

Hail,  light  serene ! hail,  sacred  Sabbath  mon.  I 
The  sky  a placid  yellow  lustre  throws ; 

The  gales  that  lately  sighed  aiong  the  grove 
Have  hushed  their  drowsy  wings  in  dead  repose ; 
The  hovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to  move  : 

So  soft  the  day  when  the  first  morn  arose  1 * 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin. 

[Written  in  Cherical,  Malabar.] 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine  ! 

What  vanity  has  brought  thee  here  ? 

How  can  I love  to  see  thee  shine 

So  bright,  whom  I have  bought  so  dear? 

The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I hear 
For  twilight  converse,  arm  in  arm  ; 

The  jackal’s  shriek  bursts  on  mine  ear 
When  mirth  and  music  wont  to  cheer. 

By  Cherical’s  dark  wandering  streams. 

Where  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the  wild. 

Sweet  visions  haunt  my  waking  dreams 
Of  Teviot  loved  while  still  a child. 

Of  castled  rocks  stupendous  piled 
By  Esk  or  Eden’s  classic  wave. 

Where  loves  of  youth  and  friendships  smiled. 
Uncursed  by  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  ! 

* A writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  (1805)  considers  that 
Grahame  borrowed  the  opening  description  in  his  Sabbath 
from  the  above  sonnet  by  Leyden.  The  images  are  common 
to  poetry,  besides  being  congenial  to  Scottish  habits  and  feel- 
ings. 

289 


FROM  1700  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  present  tim<s. 


Fade,  day-dreams  sweet,  from  memory  fade  ! 

The  perislied  bliss  of  youth’s  first  prime, 
That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  played. 

Revives  no  more  in  after-time. 

Far  from  ray  sacred  natal  clime, 

I haste  to  an  untimely  grave ; 

The  daring  thoughts  that  soared  sublime 
Are  sunk  in  ocean’s  southern  wave. 

Slave  of  the  mine  ! thy  yellow  light 

Gleams  baleful  as  the  tomb-fire  drear. 

A gentle  vision  comes  by  night 

My  lonely  widowed  heart  to  cheer : 

Her  eyes  are  dim  with  many  a tear. 

That  once  were  guiding  stars  to  mine ; 

Her  fond  heart  throbs  with  many  a fear! 

I cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine. 

For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 

I left  a heart  that  loved  me  true ! 

I crossed  the  tedious  ocean-wave. 

To  roam  in  climes  unkind  and  new. 

The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 
Chill  on  my  withered  heart ; the  grave 
Dark  and  untimely  met  my  view — 

And  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  ! 

Ha  I com’st  thou  now  so  late  to  mock 
A wanderer’s  banished  heart  forlorn. 

Now  that  his  frame  the  lightning  shock 

Of  sun-rays  tipt  with  death  was  borne  ? 
From  love,  from  friendship,  country,  tom, 
To  memory’s  fond  regrets  the  prey  ; 

Vile  slave,  thy  yellow  dross  I scorn  1 
Go  mix  thee  with  thy  kindred  clay  I 

The  Mermaid. 

On  Jura’s  heath  how  sweetly  swell 
The  murmurs  of  the  mountain  bee ! 

How  softly  mourns  the  writhed  shell 
Of  Jura’s  shore,  its  parent  sea! 

But  softer  floating  o’er  the  deep. 

The  Mermaid’s  sweet  sea-soothing  lay. 
That  charmed  the  dancing  waves  to  sleep. 
Before  the  bark  of  Colonsay. 

Aloft  the  purple  pennons  wave. 

As,  parting  gay  from  Crinan’s  shore. 

From  Morven’s  wars,  the  seamen  brave 
Their  gallant  chieftain  homeward  bore. 

In  youth’s  gay  bloom,  the  brave  Macphail 
Still  blamed  the  lingering  bark’s  delay : 
For  her  he  chid  the  flagging  sail. 

The  lovely  maid  of  Colonsay. 

* And  raise,’  he  cried,  ‘ the  song  of  love. 

The  maiden  sung  with  tearful  smile. 
When  first,  o’er  Jura’s  hills  to  rove. 

We  left  afar  the  lonely  isle! 

“ When  on  this  ring  of  ruby  red 

Shall  die,”  she  said,  “ the  crimson  hue. 
Know  that  thy  favourite  fair  is  dead, 

' Or  proves  to  thee  and  love  untrue.’” 

Now,  lightly  poised,  the  rising  oar 
Disperses  wide  the  foamy  spray. 

And  echoing  far  o’er  Crinan’s  shore, 
Resounds  the  song  of  Colonsay. 

‘ Softly  blow,  thou  western  breeze. 

Softly  rustle  through  the  sail ! 

Soothe  to  rest  the  furrowy  seas. 

Before  my  love,  sweet  western  galel 

Where  the  wave  is  tinged  with  red. 

And  the  russet  sea-leaves  grow, 

Mariners,  with  prudent  dread. 

Shun  the  shelving  reefs  below. 


As  you  pass  through  Jura’s  sound. 

Bend  your  course  by  Scarba’s  shore; 

Shun,  O shun,  the  gulf  profound. 

Where  Corrievreckin’s  surges  roar! 

If  from  that  unbottomed  deep,  ^ 

With  wrinkled  form  and  wreathed  train,  I 

O’er  the  verge  of  Scarba’s  steep,  [ 

The  sea-snake  heave  his  snowy  mane,  j 

Unwarp,  unwind  his  oozy  coils. 

Sea-green  sisters  of  the  main. 

And  in  the  gulf  where  ocean  bolls. 

The  unwieldy  wallowing  monster  chain. 

Softly  blow,  thou  western  breeze. 

Softly  rustle  through  the  sail ! 

Soothe  to  rest  the  furrowed  seas. 

Before  my  love,  sweet  western  galel’ 

Thus  all  to  soothe  the  chieftain’s  wo. 

Far  from  the  maid  he  loved  so  dear. 

The  song  arose,  so  soft  and  slow. 

He  seemed  her  parting  sigh  to  hear. 

The  lonely  deck  lie  paces  o’er. 

Impatient  for  the  rising  day. 

And  still  from  Crinan’s  moonlight  shore, 

He  turns  his  eyes  to  Colonsay. 

The  moonbeams  crisp  the  curling  surge. 

That  streaks  with  foam  the  ocean  green ; 

While  forward  still  the  rowers  urge  | 

Their  course,  a female  form  was  seen. 

That  sea-maid’s  form,  of  pearly  light. 

Was  whiter  than  the  downy  spray. 

And  round  her  bosom,  heaving  bright. 

Her  glossy  yellow  ringlets  play. 

Borne  on  a foamy  crested  wave. 

She  reached  amain  the  bounding  prow, 

Then  clasping  fast  the  chieftain  brave. 

She,  plunging,  sought  the  deep  below.  i 

Ah ! long  beside  thy  feigned  bier. 

The  monks  the  prayer  of  death  shall  say. 

And  long  for  thee,  the  fruitless  tear. 

Shall  weep  the  maid  of  Colonsay ! 

But  downward  like  a powerless  corse. 

The  eddying  waves  the  chieftain  bear; 

He  only  heard  the  moaning  hoarse 
Of  waters  murmuring  in  his  ear. 

The  murmurs  sink  by  slow  degrees. 

No  more  the  waters  round  him  rave;  ; 

Lulled  by  the  music  of  the  seas. 

He  lies  within  a coral  cave. 

In  dreamy  mood  reclines  he  long. 

Nor  dares  his  tranced  eyes  unclose. 

Till,  warbling  wild,  the  sea-maid’s  song 
Far  in  the  crystal  cavern  rose. 

Soft  as  that  harp’s  unseen  control. 

In  morning  dreams  which  lovers  hear. 

Whose  strains  steal  sweetly  o’er  the  soul. 

But  never  reach  the  waking  ear. 

As  sunbeams  through  the  tepid  air. 

When  clouds  dissolve  the  dews  unseen. 

Smile  on  the  flowers  that  bloom  more  fair,  i 

And  fields  that  glow  with  livelier  green — 

So  melting  soft  the  music  fell  ; 

It  seemed  to  soothe  the  fluttering  spray — 

‘ Say,  heard’st  thou  not  these  wild  notes  swell  1 
Ah!  ’tis  the  song  of  Colonsay.’ 

Like  one  that  from  a fearful  dream 
Awakes,  the  morning  light  to  view, 

And  joys  to  see  the  purple  beam. 

Yet  fears  to  find  the  vision  true, 

290 


MM*. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  LEYDEN. 


He  heard  that  strain,  so  wildly  sweet, 

Which  hade  his  torpid  languor  fly ; 

He  feared  some  spell  had  bound  his  feet, 
And  hardly  dared  his  limbs  to  try. 

‘ This  yellow  sand,  this  sparry  cave. 

Shall  bend  thy  soul  to  beauty’s  sway; 
Can’st  thou  the  maiden  of  the  wave 
Compare  to  her  of  Colonsay  1’ 

Roused  by  that  voice  of  silver  sound. 

From  the  paved  floor  he  lightly  sprung, 
And  glancing  wild  his  eyes  around 
Where  the  fair  nymph  her  tresses  wrung. 

No  form  he  saw  of  mortal  mould  ; 

It  shone  like  ocean’s  snowy  foam  ; 

Her  ringlets  waved  in  living  goid. 

Her  mirror  crystal,  pearl  the  comb. 

Her  pearly  comb  the  siren  took. 

And  careless  bound  her  tresses  wild  ; 

Still  o’er  the  mirror  stole  her  look. 

As  on  the  wondering  youth  she  smiled. 

Like  music  from  the  greenwood  tree. 

Again  she  raised  the  melting  lay  ; 

‘ Fair  warrior,  wilt  thou  dwell  with  me, 

And  leave  the  maid  of  Colonsay  1 

Fair  is  the  crystal  hall  for  me 

With  rubies  and  with  emeralds  set ; 

And  sweet  the  music  of  the  sea 

Shall  sing,  when  we  for  love  are  met. 

How  sweet  to  dance  with  gliding  feet 
Along  the  level  tide  so  green. 

Responsive  to  the  cadence  sweet 

That  breathes  along  the  moonlight  scene  1 

And  soft  the  music  of  the  main 

Rings  from  the  motley  tortoise-shell. 
While  moonbeams  o’er  the  watery  plain 
Seem  trembling  in  its  fitful  swell. 

How  sweet,  when  billows  heave  their  head. 
And  shake  their  snowy  crests  on  high. 
Serene  in  Ocean’s  sapphire-bed 

Beneath  the  tumbling  surge  to  lie ; 

To  trace,  with  tranquil  step,  the  deep, 
Where  pearly  drops  of  frozen  dew 
In  concave  shells  unconscious  sleep. 

Or  shine  with  lustre,  silvery  blue  ! 

Then  all  the  summer  sun,  from  far. 

Pour  through  the  wave  a softer  ray  ; 
While  diamonds  in  a bower  of  spar. 

At  eve  shall  shed  a brighter  day. 

Nor  stormy  wind,  nor  wintry  gale. 

That  o’er  the  angry  ocean  sweep. 

Shall  e’er  our  coral  groves  assail. 

Calm  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 

Through  the  green  meads  beneath  the  sea, 
Enamoured  we  shall  fondly  stray — 

Then,  gentle  warrior,  dwell  with  me. 

And  leave  the  maid  of  Colonsay !’ 

• Though  bright  thy  locks  of  glistering  gold. 
Fair  maiden  of  the  foamy  main  1 
Thy  life-blood  is  the  water  cold. 

While  mine  beats  high  in  every  vein : 

If  I,  beneath  thy  sparry  cave. 

Should  in  thy  snowy  arms  recline, 
Inconstant  as  the  restless  wave. 

My  heart  would  grow  as  cold  as  thine.’ 

As  cygnet  down,  proud  swelled  her  breast. 
Her  eye  confessed  the  pearly  tear : 

His  hand  she  to  her  bosom  pressed, 

‘ Is  there  no  heart  for  rapture  here ! 


These  limbs,  sprung  fr  jm  the  lucid  sea. 

Does  no  warm  blood  their  currents  fill. 

No  heart-pulse  riot,  wild  and  free. 

To  joy,  to  love’s  delicious  thrill  1’ 

‘ Though  all  the  splendour  of  the  sea 
Around  thy  faultless  beauty  shine. 

That  heart,  that  riots  wild  and  free. 

Can  hold  no  sympathy  with  mine. 

These  sparkling  eyes,  so  wild  and  gay. 

They  swim  not  in  the  light  of  love  ; 

The  beauteous  maid  of  Colonsay, 

Her  eyes  are  milder  than  the  dove ! 

Even  now,  within  the  lonely  isle. 

Her  eyes  are  dim  with  tears  for  me ; 

And  canst  thou  think  that  siren  smile 
Can  lure  my  soul  to  dwell  with  thee  I’ 

An  oozy  film  her  limbs  o’erspread. 

Unfolds  in  length  lier  scaly  train  ; 

She  tossed  in  proud  disdain  her  head. 

And  lashed  with  webbiid  fin  the  main. 

‘Dwell  here  alone  !’  the  Mermaid  cried, 

‘ And  view  far  off  the  sea-nymphs  play ; 

The  prison-wall,  the  azure  tide. 

Shall  bar  thy  steps  from  Colonsay. 

Whene’er,  like  ocean’s  scaly  brood, 

I cleave  with  rapid  fin  the  wave. 

Far  from  the  daughter  of  the  flood. 

Conceal  thee  in  this  coral  cave. 

I feel  my  former  soul  return. 

It  kindles  at  thy  cold  disdain ; 

And  has  a mortal  dared  to  spurn 
A daughter  of  the  foamy  main  !’ 

She  fled,  around  the  crystal  cave 

The  rolling  waves  resume  their  road  ; 

On  the  broad  portal  idly  rave. 

But  enter  not  the  nymph’s  abode. 

And  many  a weary  night  went  by. 

As  in  the  lonely  cave  he  lay  ; 

And  many  a sun  rolled  through  the  sky. 

And  poured  its  beams  on  Colonsay. 

And  oft  beneath  the  silver  moon. 

He  heard  afar  the  Mermaid  sing  ; 

And  oft  to  many  a meting  tune. 

The  shell-formed  lyres  of  ocean  ring. 

And  when  the  moon  went  down  the  sky. 

Still  rose,  in  dreams,  his  native  plain. 

And  oft  he  thouglit  his  love  was  by. 

And  charmed  him  with  some  tender  strain  i 

And  heart-sick,  oft  he  waked  to  weep. 

When  ceased  that  voice  of  silver  sound. 
And  thought  to  plunge  him  in  the  deep 
That  walled  his  crystal  cavern  round. 

But  still  the  ring,  of  ruby  red. 

Retained  its  vivid  crimson  hue, 

And  each  despairing  accent  fled. 

To  find  his  gentle  love  so  true. 

When  seven  long  lonely  months  were  gon^ 
The  Mermaid  to  his  cavern  came. 

No  more  misshapen  from  the  zone. 

But  like  a maid  of  mortal  frame. 

‘ 0 give  to  me  that  ruby  ring. 

That  on  thy  finger  glances  gay. 

And  thou  shalt  hear  the  Mermaid  sing 
The  song  thou  lov’st  of  Colonsay.’ 

‘ This  ruby  ring,  of  cr  mson  grain. 

Shall  on  thy  finger  glitter  gay. 

If  thou  wilt  bear  me  through  the  main 
Again  to  visit  Colonsay.’ 


391 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOI’.^IDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  MMV 


‘ Kxcept  thou  quit  tliy  former  love, 
Content  to  dwell  for  aye  with  me, 

Thy  scorn  my  finny  frame  mi^ht  move 
To  tear  thy  limbs  amid  the  sea.’ 

‘ Then  hear  me  swift  along  the  main, 

The  lonely  isle  again  to  see. 

And  when  1 here  return  again, 

I plight  my  faitli  to  dwell  with  thee.’ 

An  oozy  film  her  limhs  o’erspread, 

While  slow  unfolds  her  scaly  train  ; 

With  gluey  fangs  her  hand.s  were  clad  ; 
She  lashed  with  webbiid  fin  the  main. 

He  grasps  the  Mermaid’s  scaly  sides. 

As  with  broad  fin  she  oars  her  way; 

Beneath  the  silent  moon  she  glides, 

That  sweetly  sleeps  on  Colonsay. 

Proud  swells  her  heart ! she  deems  at  last 
To  lure  him  with  her  silver  tongue. 

And,  as  the  shelving  rocks  she  passed. 

She  raised  her  voice,  and  sweetly  sung. 

In  softer,  sweeter  .strains  she  sung. 

Slow  gliding  o’er  the  moonlight  bay. 

When  light  to  land  the  chieftain  sprung. 
To  hail  the  maid  of  Colonsay. 

0 sad  the  Mermaid’s  gay  notes  fell. 

And  sadly  sink  remote  at  sea! 

So  sadly  mourns  the  writhed  shell 
Of  Jura’s  shore,  its  parent  sea. 

And  ever  as  the  year  returns. 

The  charm-bound  sailors  know  the  day; 

For  sadly  still  the  Mermaid  mourns 
The  lovely  chief  of  Colonsay. 


WILLIAM  GIFFORD. 

William  Gifford,  a poet,  translator,  and  critic, 
afforded  a remarkable  example  of  successful  appli- 
cation to  science  and  literature  under  the  most  un- 
favourable circumstances.  He  was  born  at  Ash- 
burton, in  Devonshire,  in  April  1756.  His  father 
had  been  a painter  and  glazier,  hut  both  the  parents 
of  the  poet  died  when  he  w.as  young;  and  after  some 
little  education,  he  was,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  placed 
on  board  a coasting  vessel  by  his  godfather,  a man 
who  was  supposed  to  have  benefited  himself  at  the 
expense  of  Gifford’s  parents.  ‘ It  will  be  easily  con- 
ceived,’ he  says,  ‘ that  my  life  was  a life  of  harilship. 
I was  not  only  “ a ship-boy  on  the  high  and  giddy 
mast,”  but  also  in  the  cabin,  where  every  menial 
office  fell  to  my  lot : yet  if  I was  restless  and  discon- 
tented, I can  safely  say  it  was  not  so  much  on 
account  of  this,  as  of  my  being  precluded  from  all 
possibility  of  reading ; as  my  master  did  not  possess, 
nor  do  I recollect  seeing,  during  the  whole  time  of 
my  abode  with  him,  a single  book  of  any  description, 
except  the  Coasting  Pilot.’  Whilst  thus  pursuing 
his  life  of  a cabin  boy,  Gifford  was  often  seen  by  the 
fishwomen  of  his  native  town  running  .about  the 
beach  in  a ragged  jacket  and  trousers.  They  men- 
tioned this  to  the  people  of  Ashburton,  and  never 
without  commiserating  his  change  of  condition. 
This  tale,  often  repeated,  awakened  at  length  the  pity 
of  the  auditors,  and,  as  the  next  step,  their  resent- 
ment against  the  man  who  had  reduced  him  to  such 
a state  of  wretchedness.  His  godfather  was,  on  this 
account,  induced  to  recall  him  from  the  sea,  and  put 
him  again  to  school  He  made  rapid  progress,  and 
even  hoped  to  succeed  his  old  and  infirm  school- 
master. In  his  fifteenth  year,  however,  his  god- 
father, conceiving  that  he  had  got  learning  enough, 
and  that  his  own  duty  towards  him  was  fairly 
iischarged,  put  him  apprentice  to  a shoemaker. 


Gifford  hated  his  new  profession  with  a perfect 
hatred.  At  this  time  he  possessed  but  one  book  in 
the  world,  and  that  was  a treatise  on  algebra,  of 
which  he  had  no  knowledge;  but  meeting  with  Fen- 
ning’s  Introduction,  he  mastered  both  works.  ‘Tliis 
w.as  not  done,’  he  states,  ‘ without  difficulty.  I had 
not  a farthing  on  earth,  nor  a friend  to  give  me  one: 
pen,  ink,  and  paper,  therefore  (in  despite  of  the  flip- 
pant remark  of  Lord  Orford),  were,  for  the  most 
part,  as  completely  out  of  my  reach  as  a crown  ;ind 
sceptre.  There  was  indeed  a resource,  but  the  ut- 
most caution  and  secrecy  were  necessary  in  ap[)ly- 
ing  it.  1 heat  out  pieces  of  leather  as  smoolh  as 
possible,  and  wrought  my  problems  on  them  with  a 
blunted  awl : for  the  rest,  my  memory  was  tenacious, 
and  I could  multiply  and  divide  by  it  to  a great  ex- 
tent.’ He  next  tried  poetry,  and  some  of  his  Tament- 
able  doggerel’  falling  into  the  hands  of  Mr  Cooke.sley 
a benevolent  surgeon  of  Ashburton,  that  gentleman 
set  about  a subscription  for  purchasing  the  re- 
mainder of  the  time  of  his  apprenticeship,  and  en- 
abling him  to  procure  a better  education.  The  scheme 
was  successful ; and  in  little  more  than  two  years, 
Gilford  had  made  such  extraordinary  application,  that 
he  was  pronounced  fit  for  the  university.  The  [ilace 
of  Biblical  Lecturer  was  procured  for  him  at  Exetet 
college,  and  this,  with  such  occasional  assistance 
from  the  country  as  klr  Cookesley  undertook  to 
provide,  was  thought  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  live, 
at  le.ast,  till  he  had  taken  a degree.  An  accidental 
circumstance  led  to  Gifford’s  advancement.  He  had 
been  accustomed  to  correspond,  on  liteniry  subjects, 
with  a person  in  London,  his  letters  being  enclosed 
in  covers,  and  sent,  to  save  postage,  to  Lord  Gros- 
venor.  One  day  he  inadvertently  omitted  the  direc- 
tion, and  his  lordship  necessarily  supposing  the 
letter  to  be  meant  for  himself,  opened  and  read  it. 
He  was  struck  with  the  contents,  and  after  seeing 
the  writer  and  hearing  him  relate  the  circumstances 
of  his  life,  undertook  the  charge  of  his  jiresent  sup- 
port and  future  establishment;  and,  till  this  last 
could  be  effected  to  his  wish,  invited  him  to  come 
and  reside  with  him.  ‘ These,’  s.ays  the  grateful 
scholar,  ‘ were  not  words  of  course : they  were  more 
than  fulfilled  in  every  point.  I did  go  and  reside 
with  him,  and  I experienced  a warm  and  cordial 
reception,  and  a kind  and  affectionate  esteem,  th.at 
has  known  neither  diminution  nor  interruption  from 
that  hour  to  this,  a period  of  twenty  years.’  I’art 
of  these,  it  may  be  rem;irked,  were  spent  in  attend- 
ing the  earl’s  eldest  son.  Lord  Belgrave,  on  a tour 
of  Europe,  which  must  have  tended  greatly  to  in- 
form and  expand  the  mind  of  the  scholar.  Gifford 
appeared  .as  an  author  in  1794.  His  first  production 
was  a satirical  poem  entitled  The  Baviaif,  which 
was  directed  against  a class  of  sentimental  poet;isters 
of  that  day,  usually  passing  under  the  collective 
appellation  of  the  Della  Crusca  School,  (Mrs  I’iozzi, 
.Mrs  Kobinson,  Mr  Greathead,  Mr  ilerrj',  Weston, 
Parsons,  &c.),  conspicuous  for  their  affectation  and 
bad  taste,  and  their  high-flown  compliments  on  one 
another.  ‘ There  was  a specious  brilliancy  in  these 
exotics,’  he  remarks,  ‘ which  dazzled  the  native 
grubs,  who  had  scarce  ever  ventured  beyond  :i  sheep, 
and  a crook,  and  a rose-tree  grove ; with  an  osten- 
tatious display  of  “ blue  hills,”  and  “ crashing  tor- 
rents,” and  “petrifying  suns.’”  Gifford’s  vigorous 
exposure  completely  demolished  this  set  of  rhyme- 
sters, who  were  probably  the  spawn  of  Darwin  and 
Lichfield.  Anna  Matild.a,  Laura  Maria,  Edwin, 
Orlando,  &c.,  sunk  into  instant  and  irretrievable 
contempt ; and  the  worst  of  the  number  (a  man 
Williams,  who  assumed  the  name  of  Pasquin  for  his 
‘ ribald  strains’)  w.as  nonsuited  in  an  action  against 
Gifford’s  publisher.  The  satire  was  universally  reaa 

292 


fOETs.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  william  giffobd. 


and  ndiniri'd.  In  tlie  present  day  it  seems  unneces- 
sarily merciless  and  severe,  yet  lines  like  the  follow- 
in',' still  possess  interest.  The  allusion  to  Pope 
IS  peculiarly  appropriate  and  beautiful : — 

Oh  for  the  <;ood  old  times!  when  all  was  new, 

And  every  hour  brought  prodigies  to  view, 

Our  sires  in  unaffected  language  told 
tlf  streams  of  amber  and  of  rocks  of  gold : 

I’nll  of  their  theme,  they  spurned  all  idle  art, 

And  the  plain  tale  was  trusted  to  the  heart. 

Now  all  is  ch.anged!  We  fume  and  fret,  poor  elves, 
Less  to  display  our  subject  than  ourselves  : 

Whate’er  we  paint — a grot,  a flower,  a bird, 

1 1 eavens,  how  we  sweat  1 laboriously  absurd  ! 

Words  of  gigantic  bulk  and  uncouth  sound, 

In  rattling  triads  the  long  sentence  bound  ; 

While  points  with  points,  with  periods  periods  jar, 
And  the  whole  work  seems  one  continued  war ! 

Is  not  this  sad? 

F. — ’Tis  pitiful,  heaven  knows  ; 

’Tis  wondrous  pitiful.  E’en  take  the  prose: 

But  for  the  poetry — oh,  that,  my  friend, 

I still  aspire — nay,  smile  not — to  defend. 

You  praise  our  sires,  but,  though  they  wrote  with  force. 
Their  rhymes  were  vicious  and  their  diction  coarse ; 
We  want  their  strength  ; agreed  ; but  we  atone 
For  that,  and  more,  by  sweetness  .all  our  own. 

For  instance — ‘ Hasten  to  the  lawny  vale. 

Where  yellow  morning  breathes  her  safi'ron  gale, 

And  bathes  the  landscape — ’ 

P. — Pshaw  ; I have  it  here. 

‘ A voice  seraphic  grasps  my  listening  ear : 
Wandering  I gaze  ; when  lo  ! methought  afar, 

More  bright  than  dauntless  day’s  imperial  star, 

A godlike  form  advances.’ 

F. — You  suppose 

These  lines  perhaps  too  turgid ; what  of  those? 

‘ The  mighty  mother — ’ 

P. — Now,  ’tis  plain  you  sneer, 

For  Weston’s  self  could  find  no  semblance  here: 
Weston  ! who  slunk  from  truth’s  imperious  light, 
Swells  like  a filthy  toad  with  secret  spite, 

And,  envying  the  fame  he  cannot  hope. 

Spits  his  black  venom  at  the  dust  of  Pope. 

Reptile  accursed  ! — 0 memorable  long, 

If  there  be  force  in  virtue  or  in  song, 

0 injured  bard  ! accept  the  grateful  strain. 

Which  I,  the  humblest  of  the  tuneful  train. 

With  glowing  heart,  yet  trembling  hand,  repay. 

For  many  a pensive,  many  a sprightly  lay ! 

So  may  thy  varied  verse,  from  age  to  age. 

Inform  the  simple,  and  delight  the  sage. 

The  contributions  of  Mrs  Piozzi  to  this  fantastic 
g.arland  of  exotic  verse  are  characterised  in  one  feli- 
citous couplet — 

See  Thrale’s  gray  widow  with  a satchel  roam, 

I And  bring,  in  pomp,  her  laboured  nothings  home  ! 

I The  tasteless  bibliomaniac  is  also  finely  sketched : — 
Others,  like  Kemble,  on  black  letter  pore. 

And  what  they  do  not  understand,  adore  ; 

Buy  at  vast  sums  the  trash  of  ancient  days. 

And  draw  on  prodigality  for  praise. 

These,  when  some  lucky  hit,  or  lucky  price. 

Has  blessed  them  with  '‘The  Poke  of  Gode  Advice^ 

For  ekes  and  algates  only  deign  to  seek. 

And  live  upon  a whilome  for  a week. 

The  ‘ B.avi.ad’  was  a paraphrase  of  the  first  satire 
of  Persius.  In  the  year  following,  encouraged  by 
its  success,  Gifford  produced  The  Mceviad,  an  iniita- 
- tion  of  Horace,  levelled  at  the  corruptors  of  dra- 
' matic  poetry.  Here  also  the  Della  Crusca  authors 
(wlio  attempted  dramas  as  well  as  odes  and  elegies) 
1 are  gibbeted  rii  satiric  verse ; but  Gifford  was  more 


critical  than  just  in  including  O’Keefe,  the  amusing 
farce  writer,  among  the  objects  of  his  condemnation. 
The  plays  of  Kotzebue  and  Schiller,  then  first  trans 
lated  and  much  in  vogue,  he  also  characterises  as 
‘ heavy,  lumbering,  monotonous  stupidity,’  a sentence 
too  unqualified  and  severe.  In  the  ‘Mseviad’  are 
some  touching  and  affectionate  allusions  to  the 
.author’s  history  and  friends.  Dr  Ireland,  dean  of 
Westminster,  is  thus  mentioned ; — 

Chief  thou,  my  friend  I who  from  my  earliest  years 
Hast  shared  my  joys,  and  more  than  shared  my  cares. 
Sure,  if  our  fates  hang  on  some  hidden  power. 

And  take  their  colour  from  the  natal  hour. 

Then,  Ireland,  the  same  planet  on  us  rose. 

Such  the  strong  sympathies  our  lives  disclose ! 

Thou  knowest  how  soon  we  felt  this  influence  bland. 
And  sought  the  brook  and  coppice,  hand  in  hand. 
And  shaped  rude  bows,  and  uncouth  whistles  blew. 
And  paper  kites  (a  last  great  effort)  flew  ; 

And  when  the  day  was  done,  retired  to  rest. 

Steep  on  our  eyes,  and  sunshine  in  our  breast. 

In  riper  years,  again  together  thrown. 

Our  studies,  as  our  sports  before,  were  one. 

Together  we  explored  the  stoic  page 

Of  the  Ligurian,  stern  though  beardless  sage  I 

Or  traced  the  Aquinian  through  the  Latine  road, 

And  trembled  at  the  lashes  he  bestowed. 

Together,  too,  when  Greece  unlocked  her  stores. 

We  roved  in  thought  o’er  Troy’s  devoted  shores. 

Or  followed,  while  he  .sought  his  native  soil, 

‘ That  old  man  eloquent’  from  toil  to  toil  ; 

Lingering,  with  good  Alcinous,  o’er  the  hale. 

Till  the  east  reddened  and  the  stars  grew  pale. 

Gifford  tried  a third  s.atire,  an  Epistle  to  Peter  Pin- 
dar (Dr  Wolcot),  which,  being  founded  on  personal 
animosity,  is  more  remarkable  for  its  passionate 
vehemence  and  abuse  than  for  its  felicity  or  correct- 
ness. Wolcot  replied  with ‘A  Cut  at  a Cobbler,’ 
equally  unworthy  of  his  fame.  These  satirical  la- 
bours of  our  author  pointed  him  out  as  a fit  person 
to  edit  ‘ The  Anti-Jacobin,’  a w'eekly  paper  set  up 
by  Canning  and  others  for  the  purpose  of  ridiculing 
and  exposing  the  political  agitators  of  the  times.  It 
was  eswblished  in  November  1797,  and  continued 
only  tiU  the  July  following.  The  connection  thus 
formed  with  politicians  and  men  of  rank  was  after- 
wards serviceable  to  Gifford.  He  obtained  the  situa- 
tion of  p,aymaster  of  the  gentlemen  pensioners,  and 
w.is  made  a commissioner  of  the  lottery,  the  emolu- 
ments of  the  two  otfiees  being  about  L.900  per  an- 
num. In  1802  he  published  a translation  of  Juvenal, 
to  which  was  prefixed  his  sketch  of  his  own  life,  one 
of  the  most  interesting  and  unaffectetof  autobio- 
graphies. He  also  translated  Persius,  and  edited 
the  plays  of  Massinger,  Ford,  and  Shirley,  and  the 
works  of  Ben  Jonson.  In  1808,  when  Sir  Walter 
Scott  and  others  resolved  on  starting  a revDw, 
in  opposition  to  the  celebrated  one  established  i. 
Edinburgh,  Mr  Gifford  was  selected  as  editor.  In 
his  hands  the  Quarterly  Review  became  a powerful 
political  and  literary  journal,  to  which  leading  states- 
men and  .authors  equally  contributed.  He  continued 
to  discharge  his  duties  as  editor  until  within  two 
years  of  his  death,  which  took  place  on  the  31st  of 
December  1826.  Gifford  claimed  for  himself 
a soul 

That  spurned  the  crowd’s  malign  control — 

A fixed  contempt  of  wrong.  • 

He  was  high  spirited,  courageous,  and  sincere.  In 
most  of  his  writings,  however,  there  was  a strong 
tinge  of  personal  acerbity  and  even  virulence.  He 
was  a good  hater,  and  as  he  was  opposed  to  all  poli- 
tical visionaries  and  reformers,  he  had  seldom  time 
to  cool.  His  literary  criticism,  also,  where  no  such 

293 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  TIIF,  PRESENT  TIMR, 


prcjuiliuGs  coultl  intorfure,  was  frequently  disfigured 
l)y  the  same  severity  of  style  or  temper;  and  who- 
ever, dead  or  living,  ventured  to  say  aught  against 
Hen  Jonson,  or  write  what  he  deemed  wrong  com- 
ments on  his  favourite  dramatists,  were  assailed 
witli  a vehemenee  that  was  ludicrously  dispropor- 
tioned  to  the  oflence.  Ills  attacks  on  Ilazlitt,  Lamb, 
Hunt,  Keats,  and  others,  in  the  Quarterly  Review, 
have  no  jiretensions  to  fair  or  candid  criticism.  Ilis 
object  was  to  crush  such  authors  as  were  opposed 
to  the  government  of  the  day,  or  who  departed  from 
his  canons  of  literary  propriety  and  good  taste.  Even 
the  best  of  his  criticisms,  though  acute  and  spirited, 
want  candour  and  comprehensiveness  of  design.  As 
a politician,  he  looked  with  distrust  and  suspicion 
on  the  growing  importance  of  America,  and  kept 
alive  among  the  English  aristocracy  a feeling  of  dis- 
like or  hostility  towards  that  country,  which  was 
as  unwise  as  it  was  ungenerous.  His  best  service  to 
literature  was  his  edition  of  Ben  Jonson,  in  which 
lie  successfully  vindicated  that  great  English  classic 
from  the  unjust  aspersions  of  his  countrymen.  His 
satirical  poetry  is  pungent,  and  often  happy  in  ex- 
pression, but  without  rising  into  moral  grandeur  or 
pathos.  His  small  but  sinewy  intellect,  as  some  one 
has  said,  was  well  employed  in  bruising  the  butter- 
flies of  the  Della  Cruscan  Muse.  Some  of  his  short 
copies  of  verses  possess  a quiet  plaintive  melancholy 
and  tenderness  ; but  his  fame  must  rest  on  his  in- 
fluence and  talents  as  a critic  and  annotator — or 
more  proiierly  on  the  story  of  his  life  and  early 
struggles — honourable  to  himself,  and  ultimately  to 
his  country — which  will  be  read  and  remembered 
when  his  other  writings  are  forgotten. 

The  Grave  tf  Anna. 

I wish  I was  where  Anna  lies. 

For  I am  sick  of  lingering  here  ; 

And  every  hour  affection  cries, 

Go  and  partake  her  humble  bier. 

I wish  I could  ! For  when  she  died, 

I lost  my  all  ; and  life  has  proved 
Since  that  sad  hour  a dreary  void ; 

A waste  unlovely  and  unloved. 

But  who,  when  I am  turned  to  clay, 

Shall  duly  to  her  grave  repair. 

And  pluck  the  ragged  moss  away. 

And  weeds  that  have  ‘ no  business  there  1’ 

And  who  with  pious  hand  shall  bring 

The  flowers  she  cherished,  snow-drops  cold, 

And  violets  that  unheeded  spring. 

To  scatter  o’er  her  hallowed  mould  ! 

And  who,  while  memory  loves  to  dwell 
Upon  her  name  for  ever  dear. 

Shall  feel  his  heart  with  passion  swell, 

And  pour  the  bitter,  bitter  tear  1 
I did  it ; and  would  fate  allow. 

Should  visit  still,  should  still  deplore — 

But  health  and  strength  have  left  me  now. 

And  1,  alas  1 can  weep  no  more. 

Take  then,  sweet  maid  1 this  simple  strain. 

The  last  I offer  at  thy  shrine  ; 

Thy  grave  must  then  undecked  remain, 

And  all  thy  memory  fade  with  mine. 

And  can  thy  soft  persuasive  look. 

Thy  voice  that  might  with  music  vie. 

Thy  air  that  every  gazer  took. 

Thy  matchless  eloquence  of  eye ; 

Thy  spirits  frolicsome  as  good. 

Thy  courage  by  no  ills  dismayed, 

Tliy  patience  by  no  wrongs  subdued. 

Thy  gay  good-humour,  can  they  fade  ! 


Fcrhaiis — but  sorrow  dims  my  eye  ; 

Cold  turf  which  1 no  more  must  view. 

Dear  name  which  I no  more  must  sigh, 

A long,  a last,  a sad  adieu! 

The  above  affecting  elegiac  stanzas  were  written 
by  Gifford  on  a faithful  attendant  who  died  in  his 
service.  He  erected  a tombstone  to  her  memory  in 
the  burying-ground  of  Grosvenor  chapel.  South 
Audley  Street,  with  the  following  inscrijition  and 
ejiitaph  : — 

‘ Here  lies  the  body  of  Ann  Davies,  (for  more  than 
twenty  years)  servant  to  William  Gifford.  She  died 
February  Gth,  181.5,  in  the  forty-third  year  of  her 
age,  of  a tedious  and  painful  malady,  which  she  bore 
with  exemplary  patience  and  resignation.  Her  deeply 
afflicted  master  erected  this  stone  to  her  memory,  as 
a painful  testimony  of  her  uncommon  worth,  and  of 
his  perpetual  gratitude,  respect,  and  affection  for  her 
long  and  meritorious  services. 

Though  here  unknown,  dear  Ann,  thy  ashes  rest. 

Still  lives  thy  memory  in  one  grateful  breast. 

That  traced  thy  course  through  many  a painful  year. 
And  marked  thy  humble  hope,  thy  pious  fear. 

0 ! when  this  frame,  which  yet,  while  life  remained. 
Thy  duteous  love,  with  trembling  hand  sustained. 
Dissolves  (as  soon  it  must),  may  that  bles.sed  Power 
Who  beamed  on  thine,  illume  my  parting  hour ! 

So  shall  I greet  thee  where  no  ills  annoy. 

And  what  was  sown  in  grief  is  reaped  in  joy  : 

Where  worth,  obscured  below,  bursts  into  day. 

And  those  are  paid  whom  earth  could  never  pay.’ 

Gi'eenwicTi  Hill. 

FIRST  OF  SAT. 

Though  clouds  obscured  the  morning  hour. 

And  keen  and  eager  blew  the  blast. 

And  drizzling  fell  the  cheerless  shower. 

As,  doubtful,  to  the  skiff  we  passed  : 

All  soon,  propitious  to  our  prayer. 

Gave  promise  of  a brighter  day  ; 

The  clouds  dispersed  in  purer  air. 

The  blasts  in  zephyrs  died  away. 

So  have  we,  love,  a day  enjoyed. 

On  which  we  both — and  yet,  who  knows  t— 
May  dwell  with  pleasure  unalloyed. 

And  dread  no  thorn  beneath  the  rose. 

How  pleasant,  from  that  dome-crowned  hill. 

To  view  the  varied  scene  below. 

Woods,  ships,  and  spires,  and,  lovelier  still. 

The  circling  Thames’  majestic  flow  ! 

How  sweet,  as  indolently  laid, 

W’e  overhung  that  long-drawn  dale. 

To  watch  the  chequered  light  and  shade 
That  glanced  upon  the  shifting  sail ! 

And  when  the  shadow’s  rapid  growth 
Proclaimed  the  noon-tide  hour  expired. 

And,  though  unwearied,  ‘ nothing  loath,’ 

We  to  our  simple  meal  retired  ; 

The  sportive  wile,  the  blameless  jest. 

The  careless  mind’s  spontaneous  flow. 

Gave  to  that  simple  meal  a zest 
Which  richer  tables  may  not  know. 

The  babe  that  on  the  mother’s  breast 
Has  toyed  and  wantoned  for  a while. 

And  sinking  in  unconscious  rest. 

Looks  up  to  catch  a parting  smile  ; 

Peels  less  assured  than  thou,  dear  maid. 

When,  ere  thy  ruby  lips  could  part 
(As  close  to  mine  thy  cheek  was  laid). 

Thine  eyes  had  opened  all  thy  heart. 


294 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  CANNING. 


While  I,  alas  ! no  distant  date, 

Mix  with  the  dust  from  whence  I came, 
Without  a friend  to  weep  my  fate, 
Without  a stone  to  tell  my  name. 


Then,  then  I marked  the  chastened  joy 
I That  lightly  o’er  thy  features  stole. 

From  vows  repaid  (my  sweet  employ). 

From  truth,  from  innocence  of  soul : 

While  every  word  dropt  on  my  ear 
So  soft  (and  yet  it  seemed  to  thrill). 

So  sweet  that  ’twas  a heaven  to  hear. 

And  e’en  thy  pause  had  music  still. 

And  O ! how  like  a fairy  dream 
To  gaze  in  silence  on  the  tide. 

While  soft  and  warm  the  sunny  gleam 
Slept  on  the  glassy  surface  wide  ! 

And  many  a thought  of  fancy  bred. 

Wild,  soothing,  tender,  undefined. 

Played  lightly  round  the  heart,  and  shed 
Delicious  languor  o’er  the  mind. 

So  hours  like  moments  winged  their  flight. 

Till  now  the  boatmen  on  the  shore. 

Impatient  of  the  waning  light. 

Recalled  us  by  the  dashing  oar. 

Well,  Anna,  many  days  like  this 
I cannot,  must  not  hope  to  share ; 

For  I have  found  an  hour  of  bliss 
Still  followed  by  an  age  of  care. 

Yet  oft  when  memory  intervenes — 

But  you,  dear  maid,  be  happy  still. 

Nor  e’er  regret,  midst  fairer  scenes. 

The  day  we  passed  on  Greenwich  Hill. 

To  a Tuft  of  Early  Violets. 

I Sweet  flowers  ! that  from  your  humble  beds 

I Thus  prematurely  dare  to  riso, 

And  trust  your  unprotected  heads 
To  cold  Aquarius’  watery  skies  ; 

Retire,  retire  ! these  tepid  airs 
Are  not  the  genial  brood  of  May  ; 

That  Sun  with  light  malignant  glares. 

And  flatters  only  to  betray. 

Stem  ivinter’s  reign  is  not  yet  past — 

Lo ! while  your  buds  prepare  to  blow. 

On  icy  pinions  comes  the  blast. 

And  nips  your  root,  and  lays  you  low. 

Alas,  for  such  ungentle  doom ! 

But  I will  shield  you,  and  supply 
A kindlier  soil  on  which  to  bloom, 

A nobler  bed  on  which  to  die. 

Come  then,  ere  yet  the  morning  ray 

Has  drunk  the  dew  that  gems  your  crest. 

And  drawn  your  balmiest  sweets  away  ; 

0 come,  and  grace  my  Anna’s  breast. 

Ye  droop,  fond  flowersi  but,  did  ye  know 
What  worth,  what  goodness  there  reside. 
Your  cups  with  liveliest  tints  would  glow. 

And  spread  their  leaves  with  conscious  pride ; 
For  there  has  liberal  naturejoined 
Her  riches  to  the  stores  of  art. 

And  added  to  the  vigorous  mind 
The  soft,  the  sympathising  heart. 

Come  then,  ere  yet  the  morning  ray 

Has  drunk  the  dew  that  gems  your  crest. 

And  drawn  your  balmiest  sweets  away  ; 

0 come,  and  grace  my  Anna’s  breast. 

O ! I should  think — that  fragrant  bed 
Might  I but  hope  with  you  to  share — 

Years  of  anxiety  repaid 

By  one  short  hour  of  transport  there. 

More  blessed  your  lot,  ye  there  shall  live 
Your  little  day ; and  when  ye  die, 

Rweet  flowers  ! the  grateful  Muse  shall  give 
A verse — the  sorrowing  maid  a sigh. 


We  have  alluded  to  the  Anti-Jacobin  weekly 
paper,  of  which  Mr  Gifford  was  editor.  In  this 
publication  various  copies  of  verses  were  inserted, 
chiefly  of  a satirical  nature.  The  poetry,  like 
the  prose,  of  the  Anti-Jacobin  was  designed  to 
ridicule  and  discountenance  the  doctrines  of  the 
French  Revolution ; and  as  party  spirit  ran  high, 
those  effusions  were  marked  occasionally  by  fierce 
personality  and  declamatory  violence.  Others,  how- 
ever, written  in  travesty,  or  contempt  of  the  bad 
taste  and  affectation  of  some  of  the  works  of  the 
day,  contained  well-directed  and  witty  satire,  aimed 
by  no  common  hand,  and  pointed  with  irresistible 
keenness.  Among  those  who  mixed  in  this  loyal 
warfare  was  the  late  English  minister,  the  Right 
Honourable  George  Canning  (1770-1827),  ivhose 
fame  as  an  orator  and  statesman  fills  so  large  a 
space  in  the  modern  history  of  Britain.  Canning 
was  then  young  and  ardent,  full  of  hope  and  ambi- 
tion. Without  family  distinction  or  influence,  he 
relied  on  his  talents  for  future  advancement;  and 
from  interest,  no  less  than  feeling  and  principle,  he 
exerted  them  in  support  of  the  existing  administra- 
tion. Previous  to  this  he  had  distinguished  himself 
at  Eton  school  for  his  classical  acquirements  and 
literary  talents.  Entering  parliament  in  1793,  he 
was,  in  1796,  appointed  under  secretar3'  of  state, 
and  it  was  at  the  close  of  the  following  year  that 
the  Anti- Jacobin  was  commenced.  The  contribu- 
tions of  Mr  Canning  consist  of  parodies  on  Southey 
and  Darwin,  the  greater  part  of  The  Rovers  (a 
burlesque  on  the  sentimental  German  drama),  and 
New  Morality,  a spirited  and  caustic  satire,  directed 
against  French  principles  and  their  supporters  in 
England.  As  party  effusions,  these  pieces  were 
highly  popular  and  effective ; and  that  they  are  still 
read  with  pleasure  on  account  of  their  wit  and 
humour,  is  instanced  by  the  fact  that  the  Poetry  oj 
the  Anti- Jacobin,  collected  and  publislied  in  a sepa- 
rate form,  has  attained  to  a sixth  edition.  The 
genius  of  Canning  found  afterwards  a more  appro- 
priate field  in  parliament.  As  a statesman,  ‘just 
alike  to  freedom  and  the  throne,’  and  as  an  oiator, 
eloquent,  witty,  and  of  consummate  taste,  his  repu- 
tation is  established.  He  had,  however,  a strong 
bias  in  favour  of  elegant  literature,  and  would  have 
become  no  mean  poet  and  author,  had  he  not  em- 
barked so  early  on  public  life,  and  been  so  inces- 
santly occupied  with  its  cares  and  duties. 

The  Fnend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-Orinder. 

[In  this  piece  Canning  ridicules  the  youthful  Jacobin  effu* 
sions  of  Southey,  in  which,  he  says,  it  was  sedulously  incul- 
cated that  there  was  a natural  and  eternal  warfare  between 
the  poor  and  the  rich.  The  Sapphic  rhymes  of  Southey  afforded 
a tempting  subject  for  ludicrous  parody,  and  Canning  quotes 
the  following  stanza,  lest  he  should  be  suspected  of  painting 
from  fancy,  and  not  from  life : — 

‘ Cold  was  the  night  wind  : drifting  fast  the  snows  fell ; 

Wide  were  the  downs,  and  shelterless  and  naked  ; 

When  a poor  wanderer  struggled  on  her  journey. 

Weary  and  way  sore.*] 

Friend  op  Homanitv. 

Needy  Knife-grinder  ! whither  are  you  going  ? 

Rough  is  your  road,  your  wheel  is  out  of  order  ; 

Bleak  blows  the  blast — your  hat  has  got  a hole  in’t, 
So  have  your  breechee  ( 
J95 


FROM  1780  CYCI/)P-7EOIA  OF  till  the  present  time. 


Weary  Knife-grinder!  little  think  the  proud  ones, 
Who  in  tlicir  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike- 
Uoad,  what  hard  work  ’tis  crying  all  day,  ‘ Knives  and 
Scissors  to  grind  O !’ 

Tell  me,  Knife-grinder,  how  came  you  to  grind  knives  ? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ! 

Was  it  the  squire,  or  parson  of  the  parish. 

Or  the  attorney  ? 

Was  it  the  squire,  for  killing  of  his  game?  or 
Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining? 

Or  roguish  lawyer,  made  you  lose  your  little 

All  in  a lawsuit? 

(Have  you  not  read  the  Rights  of  Man,  by  Tom 
Paine  ?) 

Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids. 

Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  story. 

Knife-Grinder. 

Story ! God  bless  you ! I have  none  to  tell,  sir  ; 

Only  last  night  a drinking  at  the  Chequers, 

This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 
Tom  in  a scuffle. 

Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody  ; they  took  me  before  the  justice  ; 

Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish- 

Stocks  for  a vagrant. 

I should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honour’s  health  in 
A pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence  ; 

But  for  my  part,  I never  love  to  meddle 

With  politics,  sir. 

Friend  op  Humanity. 

I give  thee  sixpence  ! I will  see  thee  d d first — 

Wretch  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse  to  ven- 
geance— 

Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded 

Spiritless  outcast ! 

IKicks  the  Knife-Grinder,  overturns  his  •wheel,  and  exit  in  a 
transport  of  republican  enthusiasm  and  universal  philan- 
thropy.'^ 

[5ony  hy  Royero  in  ‘ The  Rovers/] 

Whene’er  with  haggard  eyes  I view 
This  dungeon  that  I’m  rotting  in, 

1 think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[l^eepsand  pulls  out  a blue  kerchief,  with  which  he  wipes  his 
eyes  ; gazing  tenderly  at  it,  he  proceeds — ] 

Sweet  kerchief,  checked  with  heavenly  blue, 
Whicli  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in — 

Alas,  Matilda  then  was  true ! 

At  least  I thought  so  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

’At  the  repetition  of  this  line  Rogero  clanks  his  chains  in  cadence.'] 

Barbs ! barbs ! alas  ! how  swift  you  flew 
Her  neat  post- wagon  trotting  in  ! 

Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view ; 

Forlorn  I languished  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

I. 


This  faded  form  ! this  pallid  hue  I 
This  blood  my  veins  is  clotting  in. 

My  years  are  many — they  were  few 
When  first  I entered  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

There  first  for  thee  my  passion  giew. 

Sweet,  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen  ! 

Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  Tu- 
tor, law  professor  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

Sun,  moon,  and  thou  vain  world,  adieu. 

That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting  in : 

Here  doomed  to  starve  on  water  gru- 
el, never  shall  I see  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[During  the  last  stanza  Rogero  dashes  his  head  rqieaiedly  agamsi 
the  walls  of  his  jirison  / and  finally  so  hard  as  to  ]n-oduce  a 
visible  contusion,  lie  then  throws  himself  on  the  Jit>or  iiL  an 
agony.  The  curtain  drops,  the  music  still  continuing  to  i>lay 
till  it  is  wholly  fallen.] 


Lines  on  the  Death  of  his  Eldest  Son. 

[By  the  Right  Hon.  George  Canning.] 

Though  short  thy  span,  God’s  unimpeached  decrees. 
Which  made  that  shortened  span  one  long  disease; 

Yet,  merciful  in  chastening,  gave  thee  scope 
For  mild  redeeming  virtues,  faith  and  hope, 

Meek  resignation,  jiious  charity  ; 

And,  since  this  world  was  not  the  world  for  thee. 

Far  from  thy  path  removed,  with  partial  care. 

Strife,  glory,  gain,  and  pleasure’s  flowery  snare; 

Bade  earth’s  temptations  pass  thee  harmless  by. 

And  fixed  on  Heaven  thine  unreverted  eye! 

Oh  ! marked  from  birth,  and  nurtured  for  the  skies ! 

In  youth,  with  more  than  learning’s  wisdom  wise! 

As  sainted  martyrs,  patient  to  endure  ! 

Simple  as  unweaned  infancy,  and  pure  ! 

Pure  from  all  stain  (save  that  of  human  clay. 

Which  Christ’s  atoning  blood  hath  washed  away !) 

By  mortal  sufferings  now  no  more  oppressed. 

Mount,  sinless  spirit,  to  thy  destined  rest! 

AVhile  I — reversed  our  nature’s  kindlier  doom — 

Pour  forth  a father’s  sorrows  on  thy  tomb. 

Another  satirical  poem,  which  attracted  much 
attention  in  literary  circles  at  the  time  of  its  publi- 
cation, was  The  Pursuits  of  Literature,  in  four  parts, 
the  first  of  which  appeared  in  1794.  Though  pub- 
lished anonymously,  this  work  was  written  hy  Mr 
Thom.as  James  Mathias,  a distinguished  scholar, 
who  died  at  Naples  in  1835.  Mr  Mathias  was  some- 
time treasurer  of  the  household  to  her  majesty 
Queen  Charlotte.  He  took  his  degree  of  B.  A.  in 
Trinity  college,  Cambridge,  in  1774.  Besides  the 
‘ Pursuits  of  Literature,’  Mr  Mathias  was  autlior  of 
some  Runic  Odes,  imitated  from  the  Noi-se  Tongue, 

The  Imperial  Epistle  from  Kien  Long  to  George  III. 
(1794),  The  Shade  of  Alexander  Pope,  a satirical 
poem  (1798),  and  various  other  liglit  evanescent 
pieces  on  the  topics  of  the  day.  Mr  Matliias  also 
wrote  some  Latin  odes,  and  translated  into  Italian 
several  English  poems.  He  wrote  Italian  with  ele-  I ! 
gance  and  purity,  and  it  has  Ixien  said  that  no  Eng-  ! I 
lishman,  since  the  days  of  Milton,  has  cultivated  I 
that  language  with  so  niucli  success.  The  ‘ Ihirsuits  1 1 
of  Literature’  contains  some  pointed  satire  on  the 
author’s  poetical  couteinporaries,  and  is  enriched  ! I 
1 with  a vast  variety  of  notes,  in  which  there  is  a I 

296 


PUKT3. 


ENGLISH  LITERATUIIE. 


DR  JOHN  WOLOOt- 


uri'iit  display  of  learning.  George  Steevens  said 
tlie  poem  was  merely  ‘ a peg  to  hang  the  notes  on.’ 
The  want  of  true  poetical  genius  to  vivify  this  mass 
of  erudition  has  been  fatiU  to  Mr  Mathias.  His 
'■’urks  appear  to  be  utterly  forgotten. 

DR  JOHN  VrOLCOT. 

Dr  .John  Wolcot  was  a coarse  but  lively  satirist, 
who,  under  the  name  of  ‘ Peter  Pindar,’  published  a 
variety  of  effusions  on  the  topics  and  public  men  of 
Ins  times,  which  were  eagerly  read  and  wddely  cir- 
culated. Many  of  them  were  in  ridicule  of  the 
reigning  sovereign,  George  III.,  who  was  a good 
subject  for  the  poet ; though  the  latter,  as  he  him- 
self acknowledged,  was  a bad  subject  to  the  king. 
Wolcot  was  born  at  Dodbrooke,  a village  in  Devon- 
shire, in  the  year  1738.  His  uncle,  a respectable 
surgeon  and  apothecary  at  Fowey,  took  the  charge 
of  his  education,  intending  that  he  should  become 
his  own  assistant  and  successor  in  business.  Wolcot 
was  instructed  in  medicine,  and  ‘w'alked  the  hos- 
pitals’ in  London,  after  which  he  proceeded  to 
Jamaica  with  Sir  William  Trelawney,  governor  of 
that  island,  who  had  engaged  him  as  his  medical 
attendant.  The  social  habits  of  the  doctor  rendered 
him  a favourite  in  Jamaica ; but  his  time  being  only 
partly  employed  by  his  professional  avocations,  he 
solicited  and  obtained  from  his  patron  the  gift  of  a 
living  in  the  church,  which  happened  to  be  then 
vacant.  The  bishop  of  London  ordained  the  grace- 
less neophyte,  and  Wolcot  entered  upon  his  sacred 
duties.  His  congregation  consisted  mostly  of  negroes, 
and  Sunday  being  their  principal  holiday  and  mar- 
ket, the  attendance  at  the  church  was  very  limited. 
Sometimes  not  a single  person  came,  and  Wolcot 
and  his  clerk  (the  latter  being  an  e.xcellent  shot)  used 
at  such  times,  after  waiting  for  ten  minutes,  to  pro- 
ceed to  the  sea-side,  to  enjoy  the  sport  of  shooting 
ring-tailed  pigeons!  The  death  of  Sir  William 
Trelawney  cut  off  all  further  hopes  of  preferment, 
and  every  inducement  to  a longer  residence  in  the 
island.  Bidding  adieu  to  Jamaica  and  the  church, 
Wolcot  accompanied  Lady  Trelawney  to  England, 
and  established  himself  as  a physician  at  Truro,  in 
Cornw'all.  He  inherited  about  £2000  by  the  death 
of  his  uncle.  While  resident  at  Truro,  Wolcot  dis- 
covered the  talent.s  of  Opie — 

The  Cornish  boy  in  tin  mines  bred — 

whose  genius  as  an  artist  afterwards  became  so  dis- 
tinguished. He  also  materially  assisted  to  form  his 
taste  and  procure  him  patronage ; and  when  Opie’s 
name  was  well  established,  the  poet  and  his  pro- 
tege, forsaking  the  country,  repaired  to  London,  as 
affording  a wider  field  for  the  exertions  of  both. 
Wolcot  had  already  acquired  some  distinction  by 
his  satirical  efforts ; and  he  now  poured  forth  a 
series  of  odes  and  epistles,  commencing  with  the 
royal  academicians,  whom  he  ridiculed  with  great 
success  and  some  justice.  In  1785  he  produced  no 
less  than  twenty-three  odes.  In  1786  he  published 
The  Lousiad,  a Heroi-comic  Poem,  in  five  cantos, 
which  had  its  foundation  in  the  fact,  that  an  ob- 
noxious insect  (either  of  the  garden  or  the  body) 
had  been  discovered  on  the  king’s  plate  among  some 
green  peas,  which  produced  a solemn  decree  that 
all  the  servants  in  the  royal  kitchen  were  to  have 
their  heads  shaved.  In  the  hands  of  an  unscrupulous 
satirist  like  Wolcot,  this  ridiculous  incident  was  an 
admirable  theme.  The  publication  of  Boswell’s 
Journal  of  a Tour  to  the  Hebrides  afforded  another 
tempting  opportunity,  and  he  indited  a humorous 
poetical  epistle  to  the  biographer,  commencing — 


0 Boswell,  Bo/.zy,  Bruce,  whate’er  thy  name, 

Thou  mighty  shark  for  anecdote  and  fame ; 

Thou  jackal,  leading  lion  .Johnson  forth 
To  cat  Maepher-son  ’midst  his  native  north; 

To  frighten  grave  professors  with  his  roar, 

And  shake  the  Hebrides  from  shore  to  shore, 

All  hail ! 

Triumphant  thou  through  Time’s  vast  gulf  shall  sail. 
The  pilot  of  our  literary  whale  ; 

Close  to  the  classic  Rambler  shalt  thou  cling, 

Clo.se  as  a supple  courtier  to  a king  ; 

Fate  shall  not  shake  thee  off  with  all  its  power; 

Stuck  like  a bat  to  some  old  ivied  tower. 

Nay,  though  thy  Johnson  ne’er  had  blessed  thy  eyes, 
Paoli’s  deeds  had  raised  thee  to  the  skies  : 

Y es,  his  broad  wing  had  raised  thee  (no  bad  hack), 

A Tom-tit  twittering  on  an  eagle’s  back. 

In  addition  to  this  effusion,  Wolcot  levelled  another 
attack  on  Boswell,  entitled  Bozzy  and  Piozzi,  or  the 
British  Biographers.  The  personal  habits  of  the 
king  were  ridiculed  in  Peeps  at  St  James's,  Royal 
Visits,  Lyric  Odes,  &c.  Sir  Joseph  Banks  was  an- 
other subject  of  his  satire — 

A president,  on  butterflies  profound. 

Of  whom  all  insect-mongers  sing  the  praises. 

Went  on  a day  to  catch  the  game  profound 

On  violets,  dunghills,  violet-tops,  and  daisies,  &c. 

He  had  also  Instructions  to  a Celebrated  Laureate, 
Peter's  Pension;  Peter's  Prophecu , Epistle  to  a Fallen 
Minister;  Epistle  to  James  Bruce  hsq.,  the  Abyssinian 
Traveller;  Odes  to  Mr  Paine;  sides  to  Kien  Long, 
Emperor  of  China.;  Ode  to  the  Livery  of  London,  and 
brochures  of  a kindred  description  on  most  of  the 
celebrated  events  of  the  day.  From  1778  to  1808 
above  sixty  of  these  poetical  pamphlets  w'ere  issued 
by  Wolcot.  So  formidable  W'as  he  considered,  that 
the  ministry,  as  he  alleged,  endeavoured  to  bribe 
him  to  silence.  He  also  boasted  that  his  writings 
had  been  translated  into  six  different  languages.  In 

1795  he  obtained  from  his  booksellers  an  annuity  of 
£250,  payable  half-yearly,  for  the  copyright  of  his 
works.  This  handsome  allowance  he  enjoyed,  to 
the  heavy  loss  of  the  other  parties,  for  upwards  of 
twenty  years.  Neither  old  age  nor  blindness  could 
repress  his  witty  vituperative  attacks.  He  had  re- 
course to  an  amanuensis,  in  whose  absence,  however, 
he  continued  to  write  himself,  till  within  a short 
period  of  his  death.  ‘His  method  was  to  tear  a 
sheet  of  paper  into  quarters,  on  each  of  which  he 
wrote  a stanza  of  four  or  six  lines,  according  to  the 
nature  of  the  poem  : the  paper  he  placed  on  a book 
held  in  the  left  hand,  and  in  this  manner  not  only 
wrote  legibly,  but  with  great  ease  and  celerity.’  In 

1796  his  poetical  effusions  were  collected  and  pub- 
lished in  four  volumes  8vo.,  and  subsequent  editions 
have  been  issued;  but  most  of  the  poems  have  sunk 
into  oblivion,  i’ew  satirists  can  reckon  on  perma- 
nent popularity,  and  the  poems  of  Wolcot  were  in 
their  nature  of  an  ephemeral  description ; while  the 
recklessness  of  his  censure  and  ridicule,  and  the 
want  of  decency,  of  principle,  and  moral  feeling,  that 
characterises  nearly  the  whole,  preci])itated  their 
downfall.  He  died  at  his  house  in  Somers’  Town  on 
the  14th  January  1819,  and  was  buried  in  a vault  in 
the  churchyard  of  St  Paul’s,  Covent  Garden,  close  to 
the  grave  of  Butler.  Wolcot  was  equal  to  Churchill 
as  a satirist,  as  ready  and  versatile  in  his  powers, 
and  possessed  of  a quick  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  as 
well  as  a rich  vein  of  fancy  and  humour.  Some  of 
his  songs  and  serious  effusions  are  tender  and  pleas- 
ing ; but  he  could  not  write  long  without  sliding 
into  the  ludicrous  and  burlesque.  His  critical  acute- 
ness is  evinced  in  his  Odes  to  the  Royal  Acade- 

297 


PROM  1780  CYCLOPiEDIA  CF  Tir.i.  the  present  nii* 


luiciRtis.  and  in  various  passages  scattered  through- 
out liis  works  ; while  his  ease  and  felicity,  botli  of 
expression  and  illustration,  are  remarkable.  In  the 
following  terse  and  lively  lines,  w'e  have  a good  ca- 
ricature portrait  of  Dr  Johnson’s  style : — 

I own  I like  not  Johnson’s  turgid  style, 

That  gives  an  inch  the  importance  of  a mile, 

Casts  of  manure  a wagon-load  around. 

To  raise  a simple  daisy  from  the  ground  ; 

Uplifts  the  club  of  Hercules — for  what? 

To  crush  a butterfly  or  brain  a gnat ; 

Creates  a whirlwind  from  the  earth,  to  draw 
A goose’s  feather  or  exalt  a straw  ; 

Sets  wheels  on  wheels  in  motion — such  a clatter 
To  force  up  one  poor  nippcrkin  of  water ; 

Bids  ocean  labour  with  tremendous  roar, 

To  heave  a cockle-shell  upon  the  shore ; 

Alike  in  every  theme  his  pompous  art, 

Heaven’s  awful  thunder  or  a rumbling  cart  1 

\^Advice  to  Landscape  Painters. 

Whate’er  you  wish  in  landscape  to  excel, 

London’s  the  very  place  to  mar  it ; 

Believe  the  oracles  I tell. 

There’s  very  little  landscape  in  a garret. 
Whate’er  the  flocks  of  fleas  you  keep, 

’Tis  badly  copying  them  for  goats  and  sheep ; 

And  if  you’ll  take  the  poet’s  honest  word, 

A bug  must  make  a miserable  bird. 

A rushlight  in  a bottle’s  neck,  or  stick, 

111  represents  the  glorious  orb  of  mom  ; 

Nay,  though  it  were  a candle  with  a wick, 

’Twould  be  a representative  forlorn. 

I think,  too,  that  a man  would  be  a fool, 

For  trees,  to  copy  legs  of  a joint  stool ; 

Or  even  by  them  to  represent  a stump : 

Also  by  broomsticks — which,  though  well  he  rig 
Each  with  an  old  fox-coloured  wig. 

Must  make  a very  poor  autumnal  clump. 

You’ll  say,  ‘ Yet  such  ones  oft  a person  sees 
In  many  an  artist’s  trees ; 

And  in  some  paintings  we  have  all  beheld 
Green  baize  hath  surely  sat  for  a green  field : 
Bolsters  for  mountains,  hills,  and  wheaten  mows ; 
Cats  for  ram-goats,  and  curs  for  bulls  and  cows.’ 

All  this,  my  lads,  I freely  grant ; 

But  better  things  from  you  I want. 

As  Shakspeare  says  (a  bard  I much  approve), 

‘List,  list!  oh  list!  if  thou  dost  painting  love.’ 

Claude  painted  in  the  open  air ! 

Therefore  to  Wales  at  once  repair. 

Where  scenes  of  true  magnificence  you’ll  find  ; 
Besides  this  great  advantage — if  in  debt. 

You’ll  have  wdth  creditors  no  tete-a-tete  ; 

So  leave  the  bull-dog  bailiffs  all  behind ; 

Who,  hunt  you  with  what  noise  they  may. 

Must  hunt  for  needles  in  a stack  of  hay. 

The  Pilgrims  and  the  Peas. 

A brace  of  sinners,  for  no  good. 

Were  ordered  to  the  Virgin  Mary’s  shrine. 

Who  at  Loretto  dwelt  in  wax,  stone,  wood. 

And  in  a curled  white  wig  looked  wondrous  fine. 

Fifty  long  miles  had  these  sad  rogues  to  travel. 

With  something  in  their  shoes  much  worse  than  gravel : 
In  short,  their  toes  so  gentle  to  amuse. 

The  priest  had  ordered  peas  into  their  shoes. 


A nostrum  famous  in  old  popish  times 
For  purifying  souls  that  stunk  with  crimes, 

A sort  of  apostolic  salt. 

That  popish  parsons  for  its  powers  exalt. 

For  keeping  souls  of  sinners  sweet. 

Just  as  our  kitchen  salt  keeps  meat. 

The  knaves  set  off  on  the  same  day. 

Peas  in  their  shoes,  to  go  and  pray  ; 

But  very  different  was  their  speed,  I wot : 

One  of  the  sinners  galloped  on. 

Light  as  a bullet  from  a gun  ; 

The  other  limped  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

One  saw  the  Virgin,  soon  peccavi  cried  ; 

Had  his  soul  whitewashed  all  so  clever. 

When  home  again  he  nimbly  hied. 

Made  fit  with  saints  above  to  live  for  ever. 

In  coming  back,  however,  let  me  say. 

He  met  his  brother  rogue  about  half  way. 

Hobbling  with  outstretched  hams  and  bending  kneoB, 
Cursing  the  souls  and  bodies  of  the  peas ; 

His  eyes  in  tears,  his  cheeks  and  brow  in  sweat, 

Deej)  sympathising  with  his  groaning  feet. 

‘ How  now !’  the  light-toed  whitewashed  pilgrim 
broke, 

‘ Y ou  lazy  lubber !’ 

‘ Confound  it!’  cried  the  t’other,  ‘ ’tis  no  joke ; 

My  feet,  once  hard  as  any  rock. 

Are  now  as  soft  as  blubber. 

Excuse  me.  Virgin  Mary,  that  I swear : 

As  for  Loretto,  I shall  not  get  there ; 

No ! to  the  devil  my  sinful  soul  must  go. 

For  hang  me  if  I ha’n’t  lost  every  toe ! 

But,  brother  sinner,  do  explain 
How  ’tis  that  you  are  not  in  pain— 

VTiat  power  hath  worked  a wonder  for  your  toe»~ 
Whilst  I,  just  like  a snail,  am  crawling. 

Now  swearing,  now  on  saints  devoutly  bawling. 
Whilst  not  a rascal  comes  to  ease  my  woes  ? 

How  is’t  that  you  can  like  a greyhound  go. 

Merry  as  if  nought  had  happened,  burn  ye?’ 

‘ Why,’  cried  the  other,  grinning,  ‘ you  must  know, 
That  just  before  I ventured  on  my  journey. 

To  walk  a little  more  at  ease, 

I took  the  liberty  to  boil  my  peas.’ 

The  AppiU  Dumplings  and  a King 

Once  on  a time,  a monarch,  tired  with  whooping, 
Whipping  and  spurring. 

Happy  in  worrying 
A poor  defenceless  harmless  buck 
(The  horse  and  rider  tvet  as  muck). 

From  his  high  consequence  and  wisdom  stooping. 
Entered  through  curiosity  a cot. 

Where  sat  a poor  old  woman  and  her  pot. 

The  wrinkled,  blear-eyed,  good  old  granny. 

In  this  same  cot,  illumed  by  many  a cranny. 

Had  finished  apple  dumplings  for  her  pot : 

In  tempting  row  the  naked  dumplings  lay. 

When  lo  ! the  monarch,  in  his  usual  way. 

Like  lightning  spoke,  ‘ What’s  this  ? what’s  this  k 
what,  what  ?’ 

Then  taking  up  a dumpling  in  his  hand. 

His  ej’es  with  admiration  did  expand  ; 

And  oft  did  majesty  the  dumpling  grapple  : he  cried, 
‘ ’Tis  monstrous,  monstrous  hard,  indeed  ! 

What  makes  it,  pray,  so  hard!’  The  dame  replied. 
Low  curtsying,  ‘ Please  your  majesty,  the  a])ple.’ 

298 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


‘ Very  nstoiiisliing  indeed!  strange  thing!’ 

(Turning  tlje  diiinpling  round)  rejoined  the  king. 

‘ 'Tis  most  extraordinary,  then,  all  this  is — 

It  beats  Piifcette’s  conjuring  all  to  pieces; 

Strange  I should  never  of  a dumpling  dream  ! 

But,  goody,  tell  me  where,  where,  where’s  the  seam  I’ 

‘ Sir,  there’s  no  seam,’  quoth  she  ; ‘ I never  knew 
That  folks  did  apple  dumplings  scio;’ 

‘ No !’  cried  the  staring  monarch  with  a grin  ; 

‘ How,  how  the  devil  got  the  apple  ini’ 

On  which  the  dame  the  curious  scheme  revealed 
By  which  the  a]iple  lay  so  sly  concealed. 

Which  made  the  Solomon  of  Britain  start ; 

Who  to  the  palace  with  full  speed  repaired. 

And  queen  and  princesses  so  beauteous  scared 
All  with  the  wonders  of  the  dumpling  art. 

There  did  he  labour  one  whole  week  to  show 
The  wisdom  of  an  aiiple-durapling  maker ; 

And,  lo  I so  deep  was  majesty  in  dough. 

The  palace  seemed  the  lodging  of  a baker ! 

Whitbread’s  Brewery  visited  by  their  Majesties. 

Full  of  the  art  of  brewing  beer. 

The  monarch  heard  of  Whitbread’s  fame ; 

Quoth  he  unto  the  queen,  ‘ My  dear,  my  dear, 
Whitbread  hath  got  a marvellous  great  name. 
Charly,  we  must,  must,  must  see  Whitbread  brew — 
Rich  as  us,  Charly,  richer  than  a Jew. 

Shame,  shame  we  have  not  yet  his  brewhouse  seen  !’ 
Thus  sweetly  said  the  king  unto  the  queen ! 

Red  hot  with  novelty’s  delightful  rage, 

To  Mister  Whitbread  forth  he  sent  a page, 

To  say  that  miyesty  proposed  to  view. 

With  thirst  of  wcndrous  knowledge  deep  inflamed. 

His  vats,  and  tubs,  and  hops,  and  hogsheads  famed, 
And  learn  the  noble  secret  how  to  brew. 

Of  such  undreamt-of  honour  proud. 

Most  rev’rently  the  brewer  bowed  ; 

So  humbly  (so  the  humble  story  goes). 

He  touched  e’en  terra  firma  with  his  nose  ; 

Then  said  unto  the  page,  hight  Billy  Ramus, 

‘ Happy  are  we  that  our  great  king  should  name  us 
As  worthy  unto  majesty  to  show 
How  we  poor  Chiswell  people  brew.’ 

Away  sprung  Billy  Ramus  quick  as  thought : 

To  majesty  the  welcome  tidings  brought. 

How  Whitbread,  staring  stood  like  any  stake. 

And  trembled  ; then  the  civil  things  he  said  ; 

On  which  the  king  did  smile  and  nod  his  head ; 

For  monarchs  like  to  see  their  subjects  quake; 

Such  horrors  unto  kings  most  pleasant  are. 
Proclaiming  reverence  and  humility : 

High  thoughts,  too,  all  these  shaking  fits  declare. 

Of  kingly  grandeur  and  great  capability! 

People  of  worship,  wealth,  and  birth. 

Look  on  the  humbler  sons  of  earth. 

Indeed  in  a most  humble  light,  God  knows! 

High  stations  are  like  Dover’s  towering  cliffs. 

Where  ships  below  appear  like  little  skiffs. 

The  people  walking  on  the  strand  like  crows. 

Muse,  sing  the  stir  that  happy  Whitbread  made : 
Poor  gentleman  ! most  terribly  afraid 

He  should  not  charm  enough  his  guests  divine. 

He  gave  his  maids  new  aprons,  gowns,  and  smocks ; 
And  lo ! two  hundred  pounds  were  spent  in  frocks. 

To  make  the  apprentices  and  draymen  fine : 

Busy  as  horses  in  a field  of  clover. 

Dogs,  cats,  and  chairs,  and  stools,  were  tumbled  over. 
Amidst  the  Whitbread  rout  of  preparation, 

To  treat  the  lofty  ruler  of  the  nation. 


DR  JOHN  WOLCOT. 


Now  moved  king,  queen,  and  princesses  so  grand. 

To  visit  the  first  brewer  in  the  land ; 

Who  sometimes  swills  his  beer  and  grinds  his  meat 
In  a snug  corner,  christened  Chiswell  Street; 

But  oftener,  charmed  with  fashionable  air. 

Amidst  the  gaudy  great  of  Portman  Square. 

Lord  Aylesbury,  and  Denbigh’s  lord  also. 

His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Montague  likewise. 

With  Lady  Harcourt  joined  the  raree  show, 

And  fixed  all  Smithfield’s  wond’ring  eyes  : 

For  lo!  a greater  show  ne’er  graced  those  quarters, 
Since  Mary  roasted,  just  like  crabs,  the  martyrs. 

Thus  was  the  brewhouse  filled  with  gabbling  noise, 
Whilst  draymen,  and  the  brewer’s  boys. 

Devoured  the  questions  that  the  king  did  ask ; 

In  different  parties  were  they  staring  seen, 

Wond’ring  to  think  they  saw  a king  and  queen ! 
Behind  a tub  were  some,  and  some  behind  a cask. 

Some  draymen  forced  themselves  (a  pretty  luncheon) 
Into  the  mouth  of  many  a gaping  puncheon  : 

And  through  the  bung-hole  winked  wdth  curious  eye. 
To  view  and  be  assured  what  sort  of  things 
Were  princesses,  and  queens,  and  kings. 

For  whose  most  lofty  station  thousands  sigh  1 
And  lo  ! of  all  the  gaping  puncheon  clan. 

Few  were  the  mouths  that  had  not  got  a man ; 

Now  majesty  into  a pump  so  deep 
Did  with  an  opera-glass  so  curious  peep  : 

Examining  with  care  each  wond’rous  mattei 
That  brought  up  water ! 

Thus  have  I seen  a magpie  in  the  street, 

A chattering  bird  we  often  meet, 

A bird  for  curiosity  well  known. 

With  head  awry. 

And  cunning  eye. 

Peep  knowingly  into  a marrow-bone. 

And  now  his  curious  majesty  did  stoop 
To  count  the  nails  on  every  hoop  ; 

And  lo  ! no  single  thing  came  in  his  way. 

That,  full  of  deep  research,  he  did  not  say, 

‘ What’s  this  ? hae  hae  ? VVhat’s  that  2 What’s  this  I 
What’s  that!’ 

So  quick  the  words  too,  when  he  deigned  to  speak, 

As  if  each  syllable  would  break  its  neck. 

Thus,  to  the  world  of  great  whilst  others  crawl. 

Our  sov’reign  peeps  into  the  world  of  small: 

Thus  microscopic  geniuses  explore 
Things  that  too  oft  the  public  scorn ; 

Yet  swell  of  useful  knowledges  the  store, 

By  finding  systems  in  a peppercorn. 

Now  boasting  Whitbread  serious  did  declare. 

To  make  the  majesty  of  England  stare. 

That  he  had  butts  enough,  he  knew. 

Placed  side  by  side,  to  reach  to  Kew ; 

On  which  the  king  with  wonder  swiftly  cried, 

‘ What,  if  they  reach  to  Kew,  then,  side  by  side. 
What  would  they  do,  what,  what,  placed  end  to  end  I 
To  whom,  with  knitted  calculating  brow. 

The  man  of  beer  most  solemnly  did  vow. 

Almost  to  Windsor  that  they  would  extend : 

On  which  the  king,  with  wondering  mien. 

Repeated  it  unto  the  wondering  queen  ; 

On  which,  quick  turning  round  his  haltered  head. 
The  brewer’s  horse,  with  face  astonished,  neighed ; 

The  brewer’s  dog,  too,  poured  a note  of  thunder. 
Rattled  his  chain,  and  wagged  his  tail  for  wonder. 

Now  did  the  king  for  other  beers  inquire. 

For  Calvert’s,  Jordan’s,  Thrale’s  entire  ; 

And  after  talking  of  these  different  beers. 

Asked  Whitbread  if  his  porter  equalled  theirs. 

299 


FROM  17!!0 


CYCLOPiEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME 


Tliis  was  a puzzling  diHagreeing  question. 

Orating  like  arsenic  on  his  liost’s  digestion ; 

A kind  of  question  to  the  Man  of  Cask 
That  even  Solomon  himself  would  ask. 

Now  majesty,  alive  to  knowledge,  took 
A very  pretty  memorandum  book. 

With  gilded  leaves  of  asses’-skin  so  white, 

And  in  it  legibly  began  to  write — 

Memorandum. 

A charming  place  beneath  the  grates 
For  roasting  chestnuts  or  potates. 

Mem. 

’Tis  hops  that  give  a bitterness  to  beer. 

Hops  grow  in  Kent,  says  Whitbread,  and  elsewhere. 

Qwere. 

Is  there  no  cheaper  stufFI  where  doth  it  dwell  1 
Would  not  horse-aloes  bitter  it  as  well! 

Mem. 

To  try  it  soon  on  our  small  beer — 

’Twiil  save  us  several  pounds  a-year. 

Mem. 

To  remember  to  forget  to  ask 

Old  Whitbread  to  my  house  one  day. 

Mem. 

Not  to  forget  to  take  of  beer  the  cask. 

The  brewer  offered  me,  away. 

Now,  having  pencilled  his  remarks  so  shrewd, 

Sharp  as  the  point  indeed  of  a new  pin. 

His  majesty  his  watch  most  sagely  viewed. 

And  then  put  up  his  asses’-skin. 

To  Whitbread  now  deigned  majesty  to  say, 

‘ Whitbread,  are  all  your  horses  fond  of  hay  V 
‘ Yes,  please  your  majesty,’  in  humble  notes 
The  hrewer  answered — ‘ Also,  sire,  of  oats ; 

Another  thing  ray  horses,  too,  maintains. 

And  that,  an’t  please  your  majesty,  are  grains.’ 

‘Grains,  grains!’  said  majesty,  ‘ to  fill  their  crops? 
Grains,  grains! — that  comes  from  hops — yes,  hops, 
hops,  hops  ?’ 

Here  was  the  king,  like  hounds  sometimes,  at  fault — 
‘ Sire,’  cried  the  humble  brewer,  ‘ give  me  leave 
Your  sacred  majesty  to  undeceive  ; 

Grains,  sire,  are  never  made  from  hops,  but  malt.’ 

‘ True,’  said  the  cautious  monarch  with  a smile, 

‘ From  malt,  malt,  malt — I meant  malt  all  the  while.’ 
‘ Yes,’  with  the  sweetest  bow,  rejoined  the  brewer, 

‘ An’t  please  your  majesty,  you  did.  I’m  sure.’ 

‘ Yes,’  answered  majesty,  with  quick  reply, 

‘ I did,  I did,  I did,  I,  I,  I,  I.’ 

Now  did  the  king  admire  the  bell  so  fine, 

That  daily  asks  the  draymen  all  to  dine ; 

On  which  the  bell  rung  out  (how  very  proper !) 

To  show  it  was  a bell,  and  had  a clapper. 

Amd  now  before  their  sovereign’s  curious  eye — 
Parents  and  children,  fine  fat  hopeful  sprigs. 

All  snuffling,  squinting,  grunting  in  their  stye — 
Appeared  the  brewer’s  tribe  of  handsome  pigs ; 

On  which  the  observant  man  who  fills  a throne. 
Declared  the  pigs  were  vastly  like  his  own  ; 

On  which  the  brewer,  swallowed  up  in  joys. 

Fear  and  astonishment  in  both  his  eyes. 

His  soul  brimful  of  sentiments  so  loyal. 

Exclaimed,  ‘ 0 heavens  ! and  can  my  swine 
Be  deemed  by  majesty  so  fine  2 
Heavens  ! can  my  pigs  compare,  sire,  with  pigs  royal  2’ 
To  which  the  king  assented  with  a nod ; 

On  which  the  brewer  bowed,  and  said,  ‘ Good  God  1’ 
Then  winked  significant  on  Miss, 

Significant  of  wonder  and  of  bliss. 


Who,  bridling  in  her  chin  divine. 

Crossed  her  fair  hands,  a dear  old  maid,  . 

And  then  her  lowest  curtsy  made 
For  such  high  honour  done  her  father’s  swine. 

Now  did  his  majesty,  so  gracious,  say 
To  Mister  Whitbread  in  his  flying  way, 

‘ Whitbread,  d’ye  nick  the  excisemen  now  and  then  2 
Hae  2 what  2 Miss  Whitbread’s  still  a maid,  a maid! 
What,  what’s  the  matter  with  the  men  2 

D’ye  hunt  1 — hae,  hunt  2 No  no,  you  are  too  old ; 

You’ll  be  lord-mayor — lord-mayor  one  day  ; 

Yes,  yes,  I’ve  heard  so  ; yes,  yes,  so  I’m  told ; 

Don’t,  don’t  the  fine  for  sheriff'  pay  ; 

I’ll  prick  you  every  year,  man,  I declare ; 

Yes,  Whitbread,  yes,  yes,  you  shall  be  lord-mayor. 

Whitbread,  d’ye  keep  a coach,  or  job  one,  pray  2 
Job,  job,  that’s  cheapest ; yes,  that’s  best,  that’s 
best. 

You  put  your  liveries  on  the  draymen — hae  2 

Hae,  Whitbread!  you  have  feathered  well  your  nest. 
What,  what’s  the  price  now,  hae,  of  all  your  stock  2 
But,  Whitbread,  what’s  o’clock,  pray,  what’s  o’clock  2’ 
Now  Whitbread  inward  said,  ‘ May  1 be  curst 
If  I know  what  to  answer  first.’ 

Then  searched  his  brains  with  ruminating  eye ; 

But  e’er  the  man  of  malt  an  answer  found. 

Quick  on  his  heel,  lo,  majesty  turned  round. 

Skipped  off,  and  balked  the  honour  of  reply. 

Lord  Gregory. 

[Bums  admired  this  ballad  of  Wolcot’s,  and  wrote  another  on 
the  same  subject.] 

‘Ah  ope.  Lord  Gregory,  thy  door, 

A midnight  wanderer  sighs  ; 

Hard  rush  the  rains,  the  tempests  roar, 

And  lightnings  cleave  the  skies.’ 

‘ Who  comes  with  wo  at  this  drear  night, 

A pilgrim  of  the  gloom  2 
If  she  whose  love  did  once  delight, 

My  cot  shall  yield  her  room.’ 

‘ Alas  ! thou  heard’st  a pilgrim  mourn 
That  once  was  prized  by  thee : 

Think  of  the  ring  by  yonder  burn 
Thou  gav’st  to  love  and  me. 

But  should’st  thou  not  poor  Marion  know. 

I’ll  turn  ray  feet  and  part ; 

And  think  the  storms  that  round  me  blow, 

Far  kinder  than  thy  heart.’ 

May  Bay. 

The  daisies  peep  from  every  field. 

And  violets  sweet  their  odour  yield  ; 

The  purple  blossom  paints  the  thorn, 

And  streams  reflect  the  blush  of  mom. 

Then  lads  and  lasses  all,  be  gay. 

For  this  is  nature’s  holiday. 

Let  lusty  Labour  drop  his  flail. 

Nor  woodman’s  hook  a tree  assail ; 

The  ox  shall  cease  his  neck  to  bow, 

And  Clodden  yield  to  rest  the  plough. 

Then  lads,  &c. 

Behold  the  lark  in  ether  float. 

While  rapture  swells  the  liquid  note  1 
'W’hat  warbles  he,  with  merry  cheer! 

‘ Let  Love  and  Pleasure  rule  the  year!’ 

Then  lads,  &c. 

Lo!  Sol  looks  down  with  radiant  eye. 

And  throws  a smile  around  his  sky ; 

Embracing  hill,  and  vale,  and  stream. 

And  warming  nature  with  his  beam. 

Then  lads,  kc. 

300 


POKTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HKNIIY  KIKKP,  Wlini'.. 


The  insect  tribes  in  myriads  pour, 

And  kiss  with  zephyr  every  flower ; 

Shall  these  our  icy  hearts  reprove. 

And  tell  us  we  are  foes  to  Lovel 
Then  lads,  &c. 

Epigram  on  Sleep. 

(Thomas  tVarton  svrote  tho  following  Latin  epigram  to  be 
placed  under  the  statue  of  Somnus,  in  the  garden  of  Ilarris, 
tho  philologist,  and  Wolcot  translated  it  with  a beauty  and 
f'dicity  worthy  of  the  original.] 

Sonme  levis,  quanquara  certissima  mortis  imago 
Consortem  cupio  te  taraen  esse  tori ; 

Alma  quies,  optata,  veni,  nam  sic  sine  vita 
V'ivere  quain  suave  est ; sic  sine  morte  mori. 

Come,  gentle  sleep  ! attend  thy  votary’s  prayer, 
And,  though  death’s  image,  to  my  couch  repair ; 
How  sweet,  though  lifeless,  yet  with  life  to  lie. 

And,  without  dying,  0 how  sweet  to  die! 

To  my  Candle. 

Thou  lone  companion  of  the  spectred  night ! 

I wake  amid  thy  friendly  watchful  light, 

To  steal  a precious  hour  from  lifeless  sleep. 

Hark,  the  wild  uproar  of  the  winds  ! and  hark, 

Hell’s  genius  roams  the  regions  of  the  dark. 

And  swells  the  thundering  horrors  of  the  deep. 

From  cloud  to  cloud  the  pale  moon  hurrying  flies. 
Now  blackened,  and  now  flashing  through  the  skies ; 

But  all  is  silence  here  beneath  thy  beam. 

1 own  1 labour  for  the  voice  of  praise — 

For  who  would  sink  in  dull  oblivion’s  stream? 

Who  would  not  live  in  songs  of  distant  days  ? 

Thus  while  I wondering  pause  o’er  Shakspeare’s  page, 
I mark  in  visions  of  delight  the  sage. 

High  o’er  the  wrecks  of  man,  who  stands  sublime; 
A column  in  the  melancholy  waste 
(Its  cities  humbled  and  its  glories  past), 

Majestic  ’mid  the  solitude  of  time. 

Y et  now  to  sadness  let  me  yield  the  hour — 

Yes,  let  the  tears  of  purest  friendship  shower! 

I view,  alas ! what  ne’er  should  die — 

A form  that  wakes  my  deepest  sigh — 

A form  that  feels  of  death  the  leaden  sleep — 
Descending  to  the  realms  of  shade, 

1 view  a pale-eyed  panting  maid  ; 

I see  the  Virtues  o’er  their  favourite  weep. 

Ah ! could  the  Muse’s  simple  prayer 
Command  the  envied  trump  of  fame. 

Oblivion  should  Eliza  spare — • 

A world  should  echo  with  her  name. 

Art  thou  departing,  too,  my  trembling  friend  1 
Ah,  draws  thy  little  lustre  to  its  end  ? 

Yes,  on  thy  frame  Fate  too  shall  fix  her  seal — 

0 let  me  pensive  watch  thy  pale  decay  ; 

How  fast  that  frame,  so  tender,  wears  away, 

How  fast  thy  life  the  restless  minutes  steal ! 

How  slender  now,  alas ! thy  thread  of  fire ! 

Ah  I falling — falling — ready  to  expire ! 

In  vain  thy  struggles,  all  will  soon  be  o’er. 

At  life  thou  snatchest  with  an  eager  leap ; 

Now  round  I see  thy  flame  so  feeble  creep. 

Faint,  lessening,  quivering,  glimmering,  now 
no  more ! 

Thus  shall  the  sons  of  science  sink  away. 

And  thus  of  beauty  fade  the  fairest  flower — 

*"or  where’s  the  giant  who  to  Time  shall  say 
‘Destructive  tyrant.  I arrest  thy  power!’ 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

Henry  Kirke  White,  a young  poet,  wlio  has 
accomplished  more  by  the  example  of  his  life  than 
by  his  writings,  was  a native  of  Nottingham,  where 
he  was  born  on  the  21st  of  August,  178.5.  lliu 
father  was  a butcher — an  ‘ungentle  craft,’  which, 
however,  has  had  the  honour  of  giving  to  England 
one  of  its  most  distinguished  churchmen.  Cardinal 
Wolsey,  and  the  two  poets,  Akenside  and  White. 


Birthplace  of  II.  K.  VVTiite,  Nottingham. 


Henry  was  a rhymer  and  a student  from  his  earliest 
years.  He  assisted  at  his  father’s  business  for  some 
time,  but  in  his  fourteenth  year  was  put  apprentice 
to  a stocking-weaver.  Disliking,  as  he  said,  ‘ the 
thought  of  spending  seven  years  of  his  life  in  shining 
and  folding  up  stockings,  he  wanted  something  to 
occupy  his  brain,  and  he  felt  that  he  should  be 
wretched  if  he  continued  longer  at  this  trade,  or 
indeed  in  anything  except  one  of  the  learned  pro- 
fessions.’ He  was  at  length  placed  in  an  attorney’s 
office,  and  applying  his  leisure  hours  to  tlie  study  of 
languages,  he  was  able,  in  the  course  of  ten  months, 
to  read  Horace  with  tolerable  facility,  and  had  made 
some  progress  in  Greek.  At  tne  same  time  he 
acquired  a knowledge  of  Italian,  Spanish,  and  Por- 
tuguese, and  even  applied  himself  to  the  acquisition 
of  some  of  the  sciences.  His  habits  of  study  and 
application  were  unremitting.  A London  magazine, 
called  the  Monthly  Preceptor,  having  proposed 
prize  themes  for  the  youth  of  botli  sexes,  Henry 
became  a candidate,  and  while  only  in  his  fifteenth 
year,  obtained  a silver  medal  for  a translation  from 
Horace  ; and  the  following  year  a pair  of  twelve- 
inch  globes  for  an  imaginary  tour  from  London  to 
Edinburgh.  He  next  became  a correspondent  in  the 
Monthly  Mirror,  and  was  introduced  to  the  acquain- 
tance of  Mr  Capel  Lofft  and  of  Mr  Hill,  the  proprietor 
of  the  above  periodical.  Their  encouragement  induced 
him  to  prepare  a volume  of  poems  for  the  press 
which  appeared  in  1803.  The  longest  piece  in  the 
collection  is  a descriptive  poem  in  the  style  of  Gold 
smith,  entitled  Clifton  Grove,  which  shows  a remark- 
able proficiency  in  smooth  and  elegant  versification 
and  language.  In  his  preface  to  the  volume,  Henry 

301 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OK  till  the  present  TiMt. 


had  stated  that  the  poems  were  the  produetion  of  a 
youth  of  seventeen,  published  for  the  purpose  of  faeili- 
tatliig  his  future  studies,  and  enabling  him  ‘ to  pursue 
those  inelinations  whieh  might  one  day  place  him 
in  an  honourable  station  in  the  scale  of  society.’ 
Such  a declaration  should  have  disarmed  the  severity 
of  criticism ; but  the  volume  was  contemptuously 
noticed  in  the  Monthly  lleview,  and  Henry  felt  the 
most  exiiuisite  pain  from  the  unjust  and  ungenerous 
critique.  Fortunately  the  volume  fell  into  the  hands 
of  i\fr  Southey,  who  wrote  to  the  young  poet  to 
encourage  him,  and  other  friends  sprung  up  to  suc- 
cour his  genius  and  procure  for  him  what  was  the 
darling  object  of  his  ambition,  admission  to  the  uni- 
versity of  Cambridge.  His  opinions  for  some  time 
inclined  to  deism,  without  any  taint  of  immorality  ; 
but  a fellow-student  put  into  his  hands  Scott’s 
‘ Force  of  Truth,’  and  he  soon  became  a decided 
convert  to  the  spirit  and  doctrines  of  Christianity. 
He  resolved  upon  devoting  his  life  to  the  promulga- 
tion of  them,  and  the  Rev.  Mr  Simeon,  Cambridge, 
procured  for  him  a sizarship  at  St  John’s  college. 
This  benevolent  clergyman  further  promised,  with 
the  aid  of  a friend,  to  supply  him  with  £30  annually, 
and  his  own  family  were  to  furnish  the  remainder 
necessary  for  him  to  go  through  college.  Poetry 
was  now  abandoned  for  severer  studies.  He  com- 
peted for  one  of  the  university  scholarships,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  term  was  pronounced  the  first  man 
of  his  year.  ‘ Twice  he  distinguished  himself  in  the 
following  year,  being  again  pronounced  first  at  the 
great  college  examination,  and  also  one  of  the  three 
best  theme  writers,  between  whom  the  examiners 
could  not  decide.  The  college  offered  him,  at  their 
expense,  a private  tutor  in  mathematics  during  the 
long  vacation  ; and  Mr  Catton  (his  tutor),  by  pro- 
curing for  him  exhibitions  to  the  amount  of  £66 
per  annum,  enabled  him  to  give  up  the  pecuniary 
assistance  which  he  had  received  from  Mr  Simeon 
and  other  friends.’*  This  distinction  was  purchased 
at  the  sacrifice  of  health  and  life.  ‘ Were  I,’  he  said, 
‘to  paint  Fame  crowning  an  under- graduate  after 
the  senate-house  examination,  I would  represent 
him  as  concealing  a deatli’s  head  under  the  mask  of 
beauty.’  He  went  to  London  to  recruit  his  shattered 
nerves  and  spirits  ; but  on  his  return  to  college,  he 
was  so  comidetely  ill  that  no  power  of  medicine 
could  save  him.  He  died  on  the  19th  of  October 
1806.  Mr  Southey  continued  his  regard  for  White 
after  his  untimely  death.  He  wrote  a sketch  of  his 
life  and  edited  his  Remains,  which  proved  to  be 
highly  popular,  passing  through  a great  number  of 
editions.  A tablet  to  Henry’s  memory,  with  a 
medallion  by  Chantrey,  was  placed  in  All  Saints’ 
church,  Cambridge,  by  a young  American  gentle- 
man, Mr  Francis  Boot  of  Boston,  and  bearing  the 
following  inscription — so  expressive  of  the  tenderness 
and  regret  universally  felt  towards  the  poet — by 
Professor  Smyth : — 

Warm  with  fond  hope  and  learning’s  sacred  flame, 

To  Granta’s  bowers  the  youthful  poet  came  ; 
Unconquered  powers  the  immortal  mind  displayed. 
But  worn  with  anxious  thought,  the  frame  decayed. 
Pale  o’er  his  lamp,  and  in  his  cell  retired. 

The  martyr  student  faded  and  expired. 

Oh  ! genius,  taste,  and  piety  sincere. 

Too  early  lost  midst  studies  too  severe  1 
Foremost  to  mourn  was  generous  Southey  seen, 
lie  told  the  tale,  and  showed  what  White  had  been ; 
Nor  told  in  vain.  Far  o’er  the  Atlantic  wave 
A wanderer  came,  and  sought  the  poet’s  grave : 

On  yon  low  stone  he  saw  his  lonely  name, 

And  raised  this  fond  memorial  to  his  fame. 

* Southey’s  Memoir  prefixed  to  Remains  of  II.  K.  tVhite. 


Byron  has  also  consecrated  some  beautiful  lines  to  tlie 
memory  of  White.  Mr  Southey  considers  that  the 
death  of  the  young  poet  is  to  be  lamented  as  a loss 
to  English  literature.  To  society,  and  particularly 
to  the  church,  it  was  a greater  misfortune.  The 
poetry  of  Henry  was  all  written  before  his  twen- 
tieth year,  and  hence  should  not  be  severely  judged. 
If  compared,  however,  with  the  strains  of  Cowley  or 
Chatterton  at  an  earlier  age,  it  will  be  seen  to  be  in- 
ferior in  this,  that  no  indications  are  given  of  great 
future  genius.  There  are  no  seeds  or  traces  of  grand 
concejitions  and  designs,  no  fragments  of  wild  ori- 
ginal imagination,  as  in  the  ‘marvellous  boy’  of 
Bristol.  His  poetry  is  fluent  and  correct,  distin- 
guished by  a plaintive  tenderness  and  reflection,  and 
pleasing  powers  of  fancy  and  description.  Whether 
force  and  originality  would  have  come  with  manhood 
and  learning,  is  a point  which,  notwithstanding  the 
example  of  Byron  (a  very  different  mind),  may  fairly 
be  doubted.  It  is  enough,  however,  for  Henry  Kirke 
White  to  have  afforded  one  of  the  finest  examples  on 
reconl  of  youthful  talent  and  perseverance  devoted 
to  the  purest  and  noblest  objects. 

To  an  Early  Primrose, 

Mild  offspring  of  a dark  and  sullen  sire ! 

Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine. 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms. 

And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee,  when  young  Springfirst  questioned  Winter’s  sway, 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight. 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 
To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year. 

Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale. 

Unnoticed  and  alone. 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity  ; in  some  lone  walk 
Of  life  she  rears  her  head. 

Obscure  and  unobserved ; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows. 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast. 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 
Serene  the  ills  of  life. 

Sonnet. 

What  art  thou.  Mighty  One  ! and  where  thy  seat  ? 
Thou  broodest  on  the  calm  that  cheers  the  lands. 
And  thou  dost  bear  within  thine  awful  hands 
The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet ; 

Stern  on  thy  dark-wrought  car  of  cloud  and  wind, 
Thou  guid’st  the  northern  storm  at  night’s  dead 
noon. 

Or,  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  monsoon, 
Disturb’st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Ind. 

In  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 
Dost  thou  repose?  or  in  the  solitude 
Of  sultry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 

Hears  nightly  howl  the  tiger’s  hungry  brood? 

Vain  thought ! the  confines  of  his  throne  to  trace 
Who  glows  through  all  the  fields  of  boundless  space. 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

When  marshalled  on  the  nightly  plain, 

The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky  ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train. 

Can  fix  the  sinner’s  wandering  eye. 

Hark  ! hark ! to  God  the  chorus  breaks. 

From  every  host,  from  every  gem  j 
But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks. 

It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

.803 


POETO. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


J;tME.S  GRABAMR. 


Once  on  the  raging  seas  I rode, 

The  storm  was  loud — the  night  was  dark ; 

The  ocean  yawned — and  rudely  blowed 
The  wind  that  tossed  luy  foundering  bark. 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 
When  suddenly  a star  arose. 

It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all. 

It  bade  my  dark  forebodiugs  cease ; 

And  through  the  storm  and  dangers’  thrall, 

It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

Now  safely  moored — my  perils  o’er. 

I’ll  sing,  first  in  night’s  diadem. 

For  ever  and  for  evermore. 

The  Star — the  Star  of  Bethlehem  ! 

A Hymn  for  Family  Worship. 

O Lord ! another  day  is  flown. 

And  we,  a lonely  band, 

Are  met  once  more  before  thy  throne. 

To  bless  thy  fostering  hand. 

And  wilt  thou  bend  a listening  ear 
To  praises  low  as  ours? 

Thou  wilt ! for  thou  dost  love  to  hear 
The  song  which  meekness  pours. 

And,  Jesus,  thou  thy  smiles  wilt  deign, 

As  we  before  thee  pray  ; 

For  thou  didst  bless  the  infant  train. 

And  we  are  less  than  they. 

0 let  thy  grace  perform  its  part, 

And  let  contention  cease ; 

And  shed  abroad  in  every  heart 
Thine  everlasting  peace  I 

Thus  chastened,  cleansed,  entirely  thine, 

A flock  by  Jesus  led ; 

The  Sun  of  Holiness  shall  shine 
In  glory  on  our  head. 

And  thou  wdlt  turn  our  wandering  feet. 

And  thou  wilt  bless  our  way ; 

Till  worlds  shall  fade,  and  faith  shall  greet 
The  dawn  of  lasting  day. 

The  Christiad. 

[Concluding  stanzas,  written  shortly  before  his  death.] 

Thus  far  have  I pursued  my  solemn  theme, 

With  self-rewarding  toil ; thus  far  have  sung 
Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 
The  lyre  which  I in  early  days  have  strung ; 

And  now  ray  spirits  faint,  and  I have  hung 
The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour. 

On  the  dark  cypress  ; and  the  strings  which  rung 
With  Jesus’  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o’er, 
Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are  heard 
no  more. 

And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again  1 
Shall  I no  more  reanimate  the  lay  ? 

Oh  ! Thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men. 

Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray. 

One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day ; 

One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree ! 

I am  a youthful  traveller  in  the  way. 

And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee. 

Ere  I with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I am 
free. 


The  Shipwrecked  Solitary's  Song. — To  the  Night. 

Thou,  spirit  of  the  spangled  night ! 

I woo  thee  from  the  watch-tower  high. 

Where  thou  dost  sit  to  guide  the  bark 
Of  lonely  mariner. 

The  winds  are  whistling  o’er  the  wolds. 

The  distant  main  is  moaning  low ; 

Come,  let  us  sit  and  weave  a song — 

A melancholy  song ! 

Sweet  is  the  scented  gale  of  mom. 

And  sweet  the  noontide’s  fervid  beam. 

But  sweeter  far  the  solemn  calm 

That  marks  thy  mournful  reign. 

I’ve  passed  here  many  a lonely  year. 

And  never  human  voice  have  heard ; 

I’ve  passed  here  many  a lonely  year 
A solitary  man. 

And  I have  lingered  in  the  shade. 

From  sultry  noon’s  hot  beam ; and  I 
Have  knelt  before  my  wicker  door. 

To  sing  my  evening  song. 

And  I have  hailed  the  gray  mom  high 
On  the  blue  mountain’s  misty  brow. 

And  tried  to  tune  my  little  reed 
To  hymns  of  harmony. 

But  never  could  I tune  my  reed. 

At  morn,  or  noon,  or  eve,  so  sweet 
As  when  upon  the  ocean  shore 
I hailed  thy  star-beam  mild. 

The  day-spring  brings  not  joy  to  me. 

The  moon  it  whispers  not  of  peace  1 
But  oh  1 when  darkness  robes  the  heavens, 

My  woes  are  mixed  with  joy. 

And  then  I talk,  and  often  think 
Aerial  voices  answer  me ; 

And  oh ! 1 am  not  then  alone — 

A solitary  man. 

And  when  the  blustering  winter  winds 
Howl  in  the  woods  that  clothe  my  cave, 

I lay  me  on  my  lonely  mat. 

And  pleasant  are  my  dreams. 

And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  wile  ; 

And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  child ; 

She  gives  me  back  my  little  home. 

And  all  its  placid  joys. 

Then  hateful  is  the  morning  hour 
That  calls  me  from  the  dream  of  buss. 

To  find  myself  still  lone,  and  hear 
The  same  dull  sounds  again. 

JAMES  GRAHAME. 

The  Rev.  James  Grahame  w'as  born  in  Glasgow 
in  the  year  1765.  He  studied  the  law,  and  practised 
at  the  Scottish  bar  for  several  years,  but  afterwards  } 
took  orders  in  the  Church  of  England,  and  was  suc- 
cessively curate  of  Shipton,  in  Gloucestershire,  and 
of  Sedgefleld,  in  the  county  of  Durham.  HI  health 
compelled  him  to  abandon  his  curacy  when  his  vir- 
tues and  talents  had  attracted  notice  and  rendered 
him  a popular  and  useful  preacher ; and  on  revisit- 
ing Scotland,  he  died  on  the  14th  of  September  1811. 
The  works  of  Grahame  consist  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scotland,  a dramatic  poem  published  in  1801 ; The 
Sabbath,  Sabbath  Walks,  Biblical  Pictures,  The  Birds 

3il3 


FROM  17H0 


'■'.'('L()1’/KI)1a  (>1 


TUX  THE  IHIKSENT  TiMK 


of  ScdlldtuI,  iiiid  Jhiti\li  (icoiyirn,  all  in  blank  verse. 
I’lie  ‘ Sabbath’  is  the  best  of  his  ]iro<liictions,  and  the 
‘ (reorgic.s’  the  least  interesting  ; for  though  the  latter 
Contains  some  fine  descriptions,  the  Jioet  is  too  ininnte 
and  too  practical  in  his  rural  lessons.  The  amiable 
personal  teelings  of  the  author  constantly  appear. 
He  thus  warmly  and  tenderly  apostrophises  his 
native  country  : — 

IIow  pleasant  came  thy  rushing,  silver  Tweed  I 
Upon  my  ear,  when,  sifter  roaming  long 
Its  southern  |ilains,  I’ve  resiehed  thy  lovely  bank! 

How  bright,  renowned  Sark  ! thy  little  stream, 

Like  ray  of  eohimneil  light  (diasing  a shower, 

Would  cross  m\  homeward  path  ; how  sweet  the  sound. 
When  I,  to  hear  the  Doric  tongue’s  reply, 

Would  ask  tliy  well-known  name! 

And  must  I leave. 

Dear  land,  thy  bonny  brsies,  thy  dales, 

Kach  haunted  by  its  wizard  .stream,  o’erhung 
With  all  the  varied  charms  of  bush  and  tree  ? 

And  must  I leave  the  friends  of  youthful  years. 

Ami  mould  my  heart  anew,  to  take  the  stamp 
Of  foreign  friendships  in  a foreign  land, 

And  learn  to  love  the  music  of  strange  tongues  ! 

Yes,  I may  love  the  music  of  strange  tongues. 

And  mould  my  heart  anew  to  take  the  stamp 
Of  foreign  friendships  in  a foreign  land  : 

But  to  my  parched  mouth’s  roof  cleave  this  tongue, 
Jly  fancy  fade  into  the  yellow  leaf, 

And  this  oft-pausing  heart  forget  to  throb. 

If,  Scotland  ! thee  and  thine  I e’er  forget. 

An  anecdote  is  related  of  the  modest  poet  connected 
with  the  publication  of  the  ‘ Sabbath,’  which  affords 
an  interesting  illustration  of  his  character.  He  had 
not  prefixed  his  name  to  the  work,  nor  acquainted 
his  family'  with  the  secret  of  its  composition,  and 
taking  a copy  of  the  volume  home  with  him  one  day% 
he  left  it  on  the  table.  His  wife  began  reading  it, 
while  the  sensitive  author  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  ; and  at  length  she  broke  out  into  praise  of  the 
])oem,  adding,  ‘ Ah,  James,  if  you  could  but  produce 
a ])oem  like  this !’  The  joyful  acknowledgment  of 
his  Ijcing  the  author  was  then  made,  no  doubt  with 
the  most  exijuisite  pleasure  on  both  sides.  Grahame 
in  some  respects  resembles  Cowper.  He  has  no 
humour  or  satire,  it  is  true,  but  the  same  powers  of 
close  and  happy  observation  which  the  poet  of 
Olney  applied  to  English  scenery,  were  directed  by 
Grahame  to  that  of  Scotland,  and  both  were  strictly 
devout  and  national  poets.  There  is  no  author,  ex- 
cei)ting  Burns,  whom  an  intelligent  Scotsman,  resi- 
dent abroad,  would  read  with  more  delight  than 
Grahame.  The  ordinary  features  of  the  Scottish 
landscape  he  portrays  truly  and  distinctly,  with- 
out exaggeration,  and  often  imparting  to  his  de- 
scriptions a feeling  of  tenderness  or  solemnity.  He 
has,  however,  many  poor  prosaic  lines,  and  his 
versification  generally  wants  ease  and  variety.  He 
was  content  with  humble  things  ; but  he  paints  the 
charms  of  a retired  cottage  life,  the  sacred  calm  of  a 
Sabbath  morning,  a walk  in  the  fields,  or  even  a bird’s 
nest,  with  such  unfeigned  delight  and  accurate  obser- 
vation, that  the  reader  is  constrained  to  see  and  feel 
with  his  author,  to  rejoice  hi  the  elements  of  poetry 
and  meditation  that  are  scattered  around  him,  exist- 
ing in  the  humblest  objects,  and  in  those  humane 
and  pious  sentiments  which  impart  to  external 
nature  a moral  interest  and  beauty.  The  religion 
of  Grahame  was  not  sectarian  ; he  was  equally  im- 
pressed with  the  lofty  ritual  of  the  English  church, 
and  the  simple  hill  worship  of  the  Covenanters.  He 
is  sometimes  gloomy  in  his  seriousness,  from  intense 
-•digious  anxiety  or  sympathy  with  his  fellow-men 


Milleiiiig  undi-r  oppression  or  misl’urtune,  hut  he  has 
less  of  Ibis  harsh  fruit. 

Picked  from  the  thorns  and  briers  of  reproof, 
than  his  brother  poet  Cow[icr.  His  prevailing  tone 
is  that  of  implicit  trust  in  the  goodness  of  God,  aud 
enjoyment  in  his  creation. 

[From  the  Salhath.'] 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day! 

^lute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labour,  hushed 

'I'he  ploughboy’s  whistle  and  the  milkmaid’s  song. 

The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers, 

'I'hat  yester-morn  bloomed  waving  in  the  breeze. 
Sounds  the  most  faint  attract  the  ear — the  hum 
Of  early'  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  dew. 

The  distant  bleating  midway  uji  the  hill. 

Calmness  seems  throned  on  you  unmoving  cloud. 

To  him  who  wanders  o’er  the  upland  leas. 

The  blackbird’s  note  comes  mellower  from  the  dale  ; 
And  .sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heaven-tuned  song  ; the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-sunk  glen  ; 
While  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  curling  smoke 
O’ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard  at  intervals 
The  voice  of  psalms,  the  simple  song  of  praise. 

With  dove-like  wings  Peace  o’er  yon  village  broods  : 
The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests  ; the  anvil’s  din 
Hath  ceased;  all,  all  around  is  quietness. 

Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 
Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man, 
Her  deadliest  foe.  The  toil-worn  horse,  set  free, 
Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large; 

And,  as  his  stiff  unwieldy'  bulk  he  rolls. 

His  iron-armed  hoofs  gleam  in  the  morning  ray. 

But  chiefly  man  the  day  of  rest  enjoys. 

Hail,  Sabbath  ! thee  I hail,  the  poor  man’s  day. 

On  other  days,  the  man  of  toil  is  doomed 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread,  lonely,  the  ground 
Both  seat  and  board,  screened  from  the  winter’s  cold 
And  summer’s  heat  by  neighbouring  hedge  or  tree ; 
But  on  this  day,  embosomed  in  his  home. 

He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves  ; 

With  those  he  loves  he  sh.ares  the  heartfelt  joy 
Of  giving  thanks  to  God — not  thardrs  of  form, 

A word  and  a grimace,  but  reverently, 

AVith  covered  face  and  upward  earnest  ey'e. 

Hail,  Sabbath  ! thee  I hail,  the  poor  man’s  day  : 

The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 
The  morning  air  pure  from  the  city’s  smoke ; 

AA'hile  wandering  slowly  up  the  river  side. 

He  meditates  on  Him  whose  [lower  he  marks 
In  each  green  tree  that  proudly  spreads  the  bough. 

As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 
Around  the  roots ; and  while  he  thus  surveys 
AN'ith  elevated  joy'  each  rural  charm. 

He  hopes  (yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope) 

To  reach  those  realms  where  Sabbath  never  ends. 

But  now  his  steps  a welcome  sound  recalls : 

Solemn  the  knell,  from  y'onder  ancient  pile, 

Fills  all  the  air,  inspiring  joyful  awe: 

Slowly  the  throng  moves  o’er  the  tornb-jiaved  ground  ; 
The  aged  m.an,  the  bowed  down,  the  blind 
Led  by  the  thoughtless  boy,  and  he  who  breathes 
AVith  pain,  and  eyes  the  new-made  grave,  well-pleased  5 
These,  mingled  with  the  young,  the  gay,  approach 
The  hou.se  of  God — these,  spite  of  all  their  ills, 

A glow  of  gladness  feel  ; with  silent  praise 
They  enter  in  ; a placid  stillness  reigns. 

Until  the  m.an  of  God,  worthy  the  name, 

Opens  the  book,  and  reverentially 

The  st.ated  portion  reads.  A jiause  ensues. 

'I'he  organ  breathes  its  distant  thunder-notes. 

Then  swells  into  a diapason  full : 

304 


JAMES  GRAHAHE. 


POETS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURR 


The  ppople  rising  »ing,  ‘with  hiirp,  witli  harp, 

And  voice  of  psalms  harmoniously  attuned 
The  \arious  voices  blend  ; the  long-drawn  aisles, 

At  every  close,  the  lingering  strain  prolong. 

.And  now  the  tubes  a softened  stop  controls  ; 

In  softer  harmony  the  people  join. 

While  liquid  whispers  from  yon  orphan  band, 

Recall  the  soul  from  adoration’s  trance. 

And  fill  the  eye  with  pity’s  gentle  tears. 

Again  the  organ-peal,  loud,  rolling,  meets 
The  hallelujahs  of  the  quire.  Sublime 
A thousand  notes  symphoniously  ascend. 

As  if  the  whole  were  one,  suspended  high 
In  air,  soaring  heavenward ; afar  they  float. 

Wafting  glad  tidings  to  the  sick  man’s  couch: 

Raised  on  his  arm,  he  lists  the  cadence  close, 

Y et  thinks  he  hears  it  still  : his  heart  is  cheered  ; 

He  smiles  on  death ; but  ah  ! a wish  will  rise — 

‘ AA'ould  I were  now  beneath  that  echoing  roof! 

No  lukewarm  accents  from  my  lips  should  flow ; 

My  heart  would  sing ; and  many  a Sabbath-day 
My  steps  should  thither  turn  ; or,  wandering  far 
In  solitary  paths,  where  wild  flowers  blow. 

There  would  1 bless  His  name  who  led  me  forth 
Fi  )in  death’s  dark  vale,  to  walk  amid  those  sweets — 
\V  ho  gives  the  bloom  of  health  once  more  to  glow 
Upon  this  cheek,  and  lights  this  languid  eye.’ 

It  is  not  only  in  the  sacred  fane 
That  homage  should  be  paid  to  the  Most  High ; 

There  is  a temple,  one  not  made  with  hands. 

The  vaulted  firmament.  Far  in  the  woods. 

Almost  beyond  the  sound  of  city  chime. 

At  intervals  heard  through  the  breezeless  air ; 

When  not  the  limberest  leaf  is  seen  to  move. 

Save  whore  the  linnet  lights  upon  the  spray ; 

Where  not  a flow’ret  bends  its  little  stalk. 

Save  when  the  bee  alights  upon  the  bloom — 

There,  rapt  in  gratitude,  in  joy,  and  love. 

The  man  of  God  will  pass  the  Sabbath-noon ; 

Silence  his  praise : his  disembodied  thoughts, 

Loosed  from  the  load  of  words,  will  high  ascend 
Beyond  the  empyreal. 

Nor  yet  less  pleasing  at  the  heavenly  throne, 

The  Sabbath  service  of  the  shepherd  boy ! 

In  some  lone  glen,  where  every  sound  is  lulled 
To  slumber,  save  the  tinkling  of  the  rill. 

Or  bleat  of  lamb,  or  hovering  falcon’s  cry. 

Stretched  on  the  sward,  he  reads  of  Jesse’s  son  ; 

Or  sheds  a tear  o’er  him  to  Egypt  sold. 

And  wonders  why  he  weeps : the  volume  closed. 
With  thyme-sprig  laid  between  the  leaves,  he  sings 
The  sacred  lays,  his  weekly  lesson  conned 
With  raeikle  care  beneath  the  lowly  roof. 

Where  humble  lore  is  learnt,  where  humble  worth 
Pines  unrewarded  by  a thankless  state. 

Thus  reading,  hymning,  all  alone,  unseen. 

The  shepherd-boy  the  Sabbath  holy  keeps. 

Till  on  the  heights  he  marks  the  straggling  bands 
Returning  homeward  from  the  house  of  prayer. 

In  peace  they  home  resort.  Oh,  blissful  days  ! 

When  all  men  worship  God  as  conscience  wills. 

Far  other  times  our  fathers’  grandsires  knew, 

A virtuous  race  to  godliness  devote. 

What  though  the  sceptic’s  scorn  hath  dared  to  soil 
The  record  of  their  fame  ! What  though  the  men 
Of  worldly  minds  have  dared  to  stigmatise 
The  sister-cause.  Religion  and  the  Law, 

With  Superstition’s  name! — yet,  yet  their  deeds. 
Their  constancy  in  torture  and  in  death — 

These  on  tradition’s  tongue  still  live,  these  shall 
On  history’s  honest  page  be  pictured  bright 
To  latest  times.  Perhaps  some  bard,  whose  muse 
Disdains  the  servile  strain  of  fashion’s  quire. 

May  celebrate  their  unambitious  names. 

With  them  each  day  was  holy,  every  hour 
They  stood  prepared  t ' die,  a people  doomed 


To  death — old  men,  and  youths,  and  simple  maids. 
With  tliem  each  day  was  holy  ; but  that  morn 
On  which  the  angel  said,  ‘ See  where  the  Lord 
Was  laid,’  joyous  arose — to  die  that  day 
Was  bliss.  Long  ere  the  dawn,  by  devious  ways. 

O’er  hills,  through  woods,  o’er  dreary  wastes,  they 
sought 

The  upland  moors,  where  rivers,  there  but  brooks, 
Dispart  to  different  seas.  Fast  by  such  brooks 
A little  glen  is  sometimes  scooped,  a plat 
With  green  sward  gay,  and  flowers  that  strangers  seem 
Amid  the  heathery  wild,  that  all  around 
Fatigues  the  eye : in  solitudes  like  these 
Thy  persecuted  children,  Scotia,  foiled 
A tyrant’s  and  a bigot’s  bloody  laws ; 

There,  leaning  on  his  spear  (one  of  the  array 
That  in  the  times  of  old  had  scathed  the  rose 
On  England’s  banner,  and  had  powerless  struck 
The  infatuate  monarch  and  his  wavering  host, 

Yet  ranged  itself  to  aid  his  son  dethroned). 

The  lyart  veteran  heard  the  word  of  God 
By  Cameron  thundered,  or  by  Renwick  poured 
In  gentle  stream : then  rose  the  song,  the  loud 
Acclaim  of  praise  ; the  wheeling  plover  ceased 
Her  plmnt ; the  solitary  place  was  glad. 

And  on  the  distant  cairns,  the  watcher’s  ear 
Caught  doubtfully  at  times  the  breeze-borne  note. 

But  years  more  gloomy  followed,  and  no  more 
The  assembled  people  dared,  in  face  of  day, 

To  worship  God,  or  even  at  the  dead 
Of  night,  save  when  the  wintry  storm  raved  fierce. 
And  thunder-peals  compelled  the  men  of  blood 
To  couch  within  their  dens ; then  dauntlessly 
The  scattered  few  would  meet,  in  some  deep  dell 
By  rocks  o’er-canopied,  to  hear  the  voice. 

Their  faithful  pastor’s  voice : he  by  the  gleam 
Of  sheeted  lightning  oped  the  sacred  book. 

And  words  of  comfort  spake : over  their  souls 
His  accents  soothing  came — as  to  her  young 
The  heath-fowl’s  plumes,  when  at  the  close  of  eve 
She  gathers  in  mournful  her  brood  dispersed 
By  murderous  sport,  and  o’er  the  remnant  spreads 
Fondly  her  wings,  close  nestling  ’neath  her  breast 
They  cherished  cower  amid  the  purple  blooms. 

But  wood  and  wild,  the  mountain  and  the  dale. 
The  house  of  prayer  itself,  no  place  inspires 
Emotions  more  accordant  with  the  day. 

Than  does  the  field  of  graves,  the  land  of  rest. 

Oft  at  the  close  of  evening-prayer,  the  toll. 

The  funeral-toll,  announces  solemnly 

The  service  of  the  tomb  ; the  homeward  crowds 

Divide  on  either  hand  : the  pomp  draws  near ; 

The  choir  to  meet  the  dead  go  forth,  and  sing, 

‘ I am  the  resurrection  and  the  life.’ 

Ah  me ! these  youthful  bearers  robed  in  white. 

They  tell  a mournful  tale ; some  blooming  friend 
Is  gone,  dead  in  her  prime  of  years — ’twas  she. 

The  poor  man’s  friend,  who,  when  she  could  not  give. 
With  angel  tongue  pleaded  to  those  who  could ; 
With  angel-tongue  and  mild  beseeching  eye. 

That  ne’er  besought  in  vain,  save  when  she  prayed 
For  longer  life,  with  heart  resigned  to  die — 

Rejoiced  to  die,  for  happy  visions  blessed 
Her  voyage’s  last  days,  and  hovering  round, 

Alighted  on  her  soul,  giving  presage 
That  heaven  was  nigh.  Oh  what  a burst 
Of  rapture  from  her  lips  ! what  tears  of  joy 
Her  heavenward  eyes  suffused!  Those  eyes  are  closed 
Y et  all  her  loveliness  is  not  yet  flown  : 

She  smiled  in  death,  and  still  her  cold  pale  face 
Retains  that  smile  ; as  when  a waveless  lake. 

In  which  the  wintry  stars  all  bright  appear. 

Is  sheeted  by  a nightly  frost  with  ice. 

Still  it  reflects  the  face  of  heaven  unchanged. 
Unruffled  by  the  breeze  or  sweeping  blast. 

* * » 

305 


FnoM  17f!0  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  tilj,  the  present  time. 


Oh  Scotliuiil!  much  I love  thy  tranquil  dales; 

But  most  on  Sabbath  eve,  when  low  tlie  sun 
Slants  through  the  upland  copse,  ’tis  my  delight, 
Wandering  and  stop])ing  oft,  to  hear  the  song 
Of  kindred  praise  arise  from  humble  roofs ; 

Or  when  the  simple  service  ends,  to  hear 
The  lifted  latch,  and  mark  the  gray-haired  man, 

The  father  and  the  priest,  walk  forth  alone 
Into  his  garden-plat  or  little  field. 

To  commune  with  his  God  in  secret  prayer — 

To  bless  the  Lord,  that  in  his  downward  years 
His  children  are  about  him  : sweet,  meantime. 

The  thrush  that  sings  upon  the  aged  thorn. 

Brings  to  his  view  the  days  of  youthful  years. 

When  that  same  aged  thorn  was  but  a bush. 

Nor  is  the  contrast  between  youth  and  age 
To  him  a painful  thought ; he  joys  to  think 
His  journey  near  a close ; heaven  is  his  home. 

* * * 

And  he  who  cried  to  Lazarus  ‘ Come  forth  1’ 

Will,  when  the  Sabbath  of  the  tomb  is  past. 

Call  forth  the  dead,  and  reunite  the  dust 
(Transformed  and  purified)  to  angel  souls. 

Kcstatic  hope!  belief!  conviction  firm  ! 

How  grateful  ’tis  to  recollect  the  time 
When  hope  arose  to  faith  ! Faintly  at  first 
The  heavenly  voice  is  heard.  Then  by  degrees 
Its  music  sounds  perpetual  in  the  heart. 

Thus  he,  who  all  the  gloomy  winter  long 
Has  dwelt  in  city  crowds,  wandering  afield 
Betimes  on  Sabbath  morn,  ere  yet  the  spring 
Unfold  the  daisy’s  bud,  delighted  hears 
The  first  lark’s  note,  faint  yet,  and  short  the  song. 
Checked  by  the  chill  ungenial  northern  breeze; 

But,  as  the  sun  ascends,  another  springs. 

And  still  another  soars  on  loftier  wing. 

Till  all  o’erhead,  the  joyous  choir  unseen. 

Poised  welkin-high,  harmonious  fills  the  air. 

As  if  it  were  a link  ’tween  earth  and  heaven. 

[A  Spring  Sabbath  Walk.'] 

Most  earnest  was  his  voice  ! most  mild  his  look. 

As  with  raised  hands  he  blessed  his  parting  flock. 

He  is  a faithful  pastor  of  the  poor ; 

He  thinks  not  of  himself ; his  Master’s  words, 

‘ Feed,  feed  my  sheep,’  are  ever  at  his  heart. 

The  cross  of  Christ  is  aye  before  his  eyes. 

Oh  how  I love  with  melted  soul  to  leave 
The  house  of  prayer,  and  wander  in  the  fields 
Alone!  What  though  the  opening  spring  be  chill  I 
What  though  the  lark,  checked  in  his  airy  path. 

Eke  out  his  song,  perched  on  the  fallow  clod. 

That  still  o’ertops  the  blade  ! What  though  no  branch 
Have  spread  its  foliage,  save  the  willow  wand. 

That  dips  its  pale  leaves  in  the  swollen  stream  ! 

AYhat  though  the  clouds  oft  lower!  theirthreats  but  end 
In  sunny  showers,  that  scarcely  fill  the  folds 
Of  moss-couched  violet,  or  interrupt 
The  merle’s  dulcet  pipe — melodious  bird  ! 

He,  hid  behind  the  milk-white  sloe-thorn  spray 
(Whose  early  flowers  anticipate  the  leaf). 

Welcomes  the  time  of  buds,  the  infant  year. 

Sweet  is  the  sunny  nook  to  which  my  steps 
Have  brought  me,  hardly  conscious  where  I roamed. 
Unheeding  where — so  lovely,  all  around. 

The  works  of  God,  arrayed  in  vernal  smile  ! 

Oft  at  this  season,  musing  I prolong 
My  devious  range,  till,  sunk  from  view,  the  sun 
Emblaze,  with  upward-slanting  ray,  the  breast 
And  wing  unquivering  of  the  wheeling  lark. 
Descending  vocal  from  her  latest  flight. 

While,  disregardful  of  yon  lonely  star — 

The  harbinger  of  chill  night’s  glittering  host — 

Sweet  redbreast,  Scotia’s  Philomela,  chants 
tn  desultory  strains  his  evening  hymn. 


[A  Summer  Sabbath  Walk.'] 

Delightful  is  this  loneliness  ; it  calms 
My  heart  : pleasant  the  cool  beneath  these  elms 
That  throw  across  the  stream  a moveless  shade. 

Here  nature  in  her  midnoon  whisper  speaks  ; 

How  peaceful  every  sound  ! — the  ring-dove’s  plaint. 
Moaned  from  tlie  forest’s  gloomiest  retreat. 

While  every  other  woodland  lay  is  mute. 

Save  when  the  wren  flits  from  her  down-coved  nest. 
And  from  the  root-sprigs  trills  her  ditty  clear — 

'I’he  grasshopper’s  oft-pausing  cliirp — the  buzz. 
Angrily  shrill,  of  moss-entangled  bee. 

That  soon  as  loosed  booms  with  full  twang  away — 
The  sudden  rushing  of  the  minnow  shoal 
Scared  from  the  shallows  by  my  passing  tread. 
Dimpling  the  water  glides,  with  liere  and  there 
A glossy  fly,  skimming  in  circlets  gay 
The  treacherous  surface,  while  the  quick -eyed  trout 
Watches  his  time  to  spring  ; or  from  above. 

Some  feathered  dam,  purveying  ’mong  the  boughs. 
Darts  from  her  perch,  and  to  her  plumelcss  brood 
Bears  olF  the  prize.  Sad  emblem  of  man’s  lot  ! 

He,  giddy  insect,  from  his  native  leaf 
(Where  safe  and  hai>pily  he  might  have  lurked) 

Elate  upon  ambition’s  gaudy  wings. 

Forgetful  of  his  origin,  and  worse. 

Unthinking  of  his  end,  flies  to  the  stream. 

And  if  from  hostile  vigilance  he  ’scape. 

Buoyant  he  flutters  but  a little  while, 

IMistakes  the  inverted  image  of  the  sky 
For  heaven  itself,  and,  sinking,  meets  his  fate. 

Now,  let  me  trace  the  stream  up  to  its  source 
Among  the  hills,  its  runnel  by  degrees 
Diminishing,  the  murmur  turns  a tinkle. 

Closer  and  closer  still  the  banks  approach. 

Tangled  so  thick  with  pleaching  bramble  shoots. 
With  brier  and  hazel  branch,  and  hawthorn  spray. 
That,  fain  to  quit  the  dingle,  glad  I mount 
Into  the  open  air  ; grateful  the  breeze 
'rhat  fans  my  throbbing  temples  ! smiles  the  plain 
Spread  wide  below  : how  sweet  the  placid  view  ! 

But,  oh ! more  sweet  the  thought,  heart-soothing 
thought. 

That  thousands  and  ten  thousands  of  the  sons 
Of  toil  partake  this  day  the  common  joy 
Of  rest,  of  peace,  of  viewing  hill  and  dale. 

Of  breathing  in  the  silence  of  the  woods. 

And  blessing  him  who  gave  the  Sabbath-day. 

Y es  ! ray  heart  flutters  with  a freer  throb. 

To  think  that  now  the  townsman  wanders  forth 
Among  the  fields  and  meadows,  to  enjoy 
The  coolness  of  the  day’s  decline,  to  see 
His  children  sport  around,  and  simply  pull 
The  flower  and  weed  promiscuous,  as  a boon 
Which  proudly  in  his  breast  they  smiling  fix. 

Again  I turn  me  to  the  hill,  and  trace 
The  wizard  stream,  now  scarce  to  be  discerned. 
Woodless  its  banks,  but  green  with  ferny  leaves. 

And  thinly  strewed  with  heath-bells  up  and  down. 

Now,  when  the  downward  sun  has  left  the  glens, 
Each  mountain’s  rugged  lineaments  are  traced 
Upon  the  adverse  slope,  where  stalks  gigantic 
The  shepherd’s  shadow  thrown  athwart  the  chasm. 

As  on  the  topmost  ridge  he  homeward  hies. 

How  deep  the  hush  ! the  torrent’s  channel  dry. 
Presents  a stony  steep,  the  echo’s  haunt. 

But  hark  a plaintive  sound  floating  along  1 
’Tis  from  yon  heath-roofed  shieling  ; now  it  dies 
Away,  now  rises  full  ; it  is  the  song 
Which  He,  who  listens  to  the  hallelujahs 
Of  choiring  seraphim,  delights  to  hear  ; 

It  is  the  music  of  the  heart,  the  voice 
Of  venerable  age,  of  guilele.ss  youth. 

In  kindly  circle  seated  on  the  ground 
Before  their  wicker  door.  Behold  the  man  ! 

3oa 


POETS  l^NGLIoil  LITER  A 1 vJKIi/.  james  okaha.mk. 


The  graiulsirc  and  the  saint  ; his  silvery  locks 
Beam  ii\  the  parting  ray  ; before  him  lies, 

U)  m the  smooth-cropt  sward,  the  open  book, 
llis  comfort,  stay,  and  ever-new  delight  ; 

While  heedless  at  a side,  the  lisping  boy 
Fondles  the  lamb  that  nightly  shares  his  couch. 

[An  Autumn  Sahhath  Wallc.'\ 

When  homeward  bands  their  several  ways  disperse, 

1 love  to  linger  in  the  narrow  field 

Of  rest,  to  wander  round  from  tomb  to  tomb, 

And  think  of  some  who  silent  sleep  below. 

Sad  sighs  the  wind  that  from  these  ancient  elms 
Shakes  showers  of  leaves  upon  the  withered  grass  : 
The  sere  and  yellow  wreaths,  with  eddying  sweep. 
Fill  up  the  furrows  ’tween  the  hillocked  graves. 

But  list  that  moan  1 ’tis  the  poor  blind  man’s  dog. 
His  guide  for  many  a day,  now  come  to  mourn 
The  master  and  the  friend — conjunction  rare  1 
A man,  indeed,  he  was  of  gentle  soul. 

Though  bred  to  brave  the  deep  : the  lightning’s  flash 
Had  dimmed,  not  closed,  his  mild  but  sightless  eyes. 
He  was  a welcome  guest  through  all  his  range 
(It  was  not  wide)  ; no  dog  would  bay  at  him  : 
Children  would  run  to  meet  him  on  his  way, 

And  lead  him  to  sunny  seat,  and  climb 
His  knee,  and  wonder  at  his  oft-told  tales. 

Then  would  he  teach  the  elfins  how  to  plait 
The  rushy  cap  and  crown,  or  sedgy  ship  : 

And  I have  seen  him  lay  his  tremulous  hand 
Upon  their  heads,  while  silent  moved  his  lips. 

Peace  to  thy  spirit,  that  now  looks  on  me 
Perhaps  with  greater  pity  than  I felt 
To  see  thee  wandering  darkling  on  thy  way. 

But  let  me  quit  this  melancholy  spot. 

And  roam  where  nature  gives  a parting  smile. 

As  yet  the  blue  bells  linger  on  the  sod 

That  copse  the  sheepfold  ring  ; and  in  the  woods 

A second  blow  of  many  flowers  appears, 

Flowers  faintly  tinged,  and  breathing  no  perfume. 
But  fruits,  not  blossoms,  form  the  woodland  wreath 
That  circles  Autumn’s  brow.  The  ruddy  haws 
Now  clothe  the  half-leafed  thorn  ; the  bramble  bends 
Beneath  its  jetty  load  ; the  hazel  hangs 
With  auburn  bunches,  dipping  in  the  stream 
That  sweeps  along,  and  threatens  to  o’erflow 
The  leaf-strewn  banks : oft,  statue-like,  I gaze. 

In  vacancy  of  thought,  upon  that  stream. 

And  chase,  with  dreaming  eye,  the  eddying  foam. 

Or  rowan’s  clustered  branch,  or  harvest  sheaf. 

Borne  rapidly  adown  the  dizzying  flood. 

[4  Winter  Sabbath  Walk.'] 

How  dazzling  white  the  snowy  scene!  deep,  deep 
The  stillness  of  the  winter  Sabbath  day — 

Not  even  a foot-fall  heard.  Smooth  are  the  fields. 
Each  hollow  pathway  level  with  the  plain  ; 

Hid  are  the  bushes,  save  that  here  and  there 
Are  seen  the  topmost  shoots  of  brier  or  broom. 
High-ridged  the  whirled  drift  has  almost  reached 
The  powdered  key-stone  of  the  church-yard  porch. 
Mute  hangs  the  hooded  bell ; the  tombs  lie  buried  ; 
No  step  approaches  to  the  house  of  prayer. 

The  flickering  fall  is  o’er : the  clouds  disperse, 
And  show  the  sun,  hung  o’er  the  welkin’s  verge. 
Shooting  a bright  but  ineffectual  beam 
On  all  the  sparkling  waste.  Now  is  the  time 
To  visit  nature  in  her  grand  attire. 

Though  perilous  the  mountainous  ascent, 

A noble  recompense  the  danger  brings. 

How  beautiful  the  plain  stretched  far  below. 
Unvaried  though  it  be,  save  by  yon  stream 
With  azure  windings,  or  the  leafless  wood  ! 

But  what  the  beauty  of  the  plain,  compared 


To  that  sublimity  which  reigns  enthroned. 

Holding  joint  rule  with  solitude  divine. 

Among  yon  rocky  fells  that  bid  defiance 
To  steps  the  most  adventurously  bold? 

There  silence  dwells  profound  ; or  if  the  cry 
Of  high-poised  eagle  break  at  times  the  hush. 

The  mantled  echoes  no  response  return. 

But  let  me  now  explore  the  deep-sunk  dell. 

No  foot-print,  save  the  covey’s  or  the  flock’s, 

Is  seen  along  the  rill,  rvhere  marshy  springs 
Still  rear  the  grassy  blade  of  vivid  green. 

Beware,  ye  shepherds,  of  these  treacherous  haunts. 
Nor  linger  there  too  long  : the  wintry  day 
Soon  closes  ; and  full  oft  a heavier  fall. 

Heaped  by  the  blast,  fills  up  the  sheltered  glen. 
While,  gurgling  deep  below,  the  buried  rill 
Mines  for  itself  a snow-coved  way  ! Oh,  then. 

Your  helpless  charge  drive  from  the  tempting  spot. 
And  keep  them  on  the  bleak  hill’s  stormy  side. 
Where  night-winds  sweep  the  gathering  drift  away : 

So  the  great  Shepherd  leads  the  heavenly  flock 
From  faithless  pleasures,  full  into  the  storms 
Of  life,  where  long  they  bear  the  bit|er  blast. 

Until  at  length  the  vernal  sun  looks  forth. 

Bedimmed  with  showers ; then  to  the  pastures  green 
He  brings  them  where  the  quiet  waters  glide. 

The  stream  of  life,  the  Siloah  of  the  soul. 

A Scottish  Comitry  Wedding. 

[From  ‘ British  Georgies.’] 

Now,  ’mid  the  general  glow  of  opening  blooms. 

Coy  maidens  blush  consent,  nor  slight  the  gift 
From  neighbouring  fair  brought  home,  till  now  re- 
fused. 

Swains,  seize  the  sunny  hours  to  make  your  hay, 

For  woman’s  smiles  are  fickle  as  the  sky : 

Bespeak  the  priest,  bespeak  the  minstrel  too, 

Ere  May,  to  wedlock  hostile,  stop  the  banns. 

The  appointed  day  arrives,  a blithesome  day 
Of  festive  jollity ; yet  not  devoid 
Of  soft  regret  to  her  about  to  leave 
A parent’s  roof ; yes,  at  the  word,  join  handr 
A tear  reluctant  starts,  as  she  beholds 
Her  mother’s  looks,  her  father’s  silvery  hairs 
But  serious  thoughts  take  flight,  when  from  fhe  bam, 
Soon  as  the  bands  are  knit,  a jocund  sound 
Strikes  briskly  up,  and  nimble  feet  beat  fast 
Upon  the  earthen  floor.  Through  many  a reel 
With  various  steps  uncouth,  some  new,  some  old. 
Some  all  the  dancer’s  own,  with  Highland  flings 
Not  void  of  grace,  the  lads  and  lasses  strive 
To  dance  each  other  down  ; and  oft  when  quite 
Forespent,  the  fingers  merrily  cracked,  the  bound. 
The  rallying  shout  well-timed,  and  sudden  change 
To  sprightlier  tune,  revive  the  flagging  foot, 

And  make  it  feel  as  if  it  tripped  in  air. 

When  all  are  tired,  and  all  his  stock  of  reels 
The  minstrel  o’er  and  o’er  again  has  run. 

The  cheering  flagon  circles  round  ; meanwhile, 

A softened  tune,  and  slower  measure,  flows 
Sweet  from  the  strings,  and  stills  the  boisterous  joy 
Maybe  The  Bonny  Broom  of  Cowdenknoioes 
(If  simply  played,  though  not  with  master  hand). 

Or  Path’s  Mill,  or  Bush  Aboon  Traqnair, 

Inspire  a tranquil  gladness  through  the  breast ; 

Or  that  most  mournful  strain,  the  sad  lament 
For  Flodden-field,  drives  mirth  from  every  face, 

And  makes  the  firmest  heart  strive  hard  to  curb 
The  rising  tear ; till,  with  unpausing  bow. 

The  blithe  strathspey  springs  up,  reminding  some 
Of  nights  when  Gow’s  old  arm  (nor  old  the  tale). 
Unceasing,  save  when  reeking  cans  went  round. 
Made  heart  and  heel  leap  light  as  bounding  roe. 
Alas!  no  more  shall  we  behold  that  look 
So  venerable,  yet  so  blent  with  mirtn, 

S07 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOP^IDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMiU 


And  festive  joy  sedate ; that  ancient  garb 
Unvaried — tartan  hose  and  bonnet  blue  ! 

No  more  shall  beauty’s  partial  eye  draw  forth 
The  full  intoxication  of  his  strain, 

Mellitluous,  strong,  exuberantly  rich! 

No  more  amid  the  pauses  of  the  dance 
Shall  he  repeat  those  measures,  that  in  days 
Of  other  years  could  soothe  a falling  prince, 

And  light  his  visage  with  a transient  smile 
Of  melancholy  joy — like  autumn  sun 
Gilding  a sere  tree  with  a passing  beam  1 
Or  play  to  sportive  children  on  the  green 
Dancing  at  gloaming  hour  ; or  willing  cheer. 

With  strains  unbought,  the  shepherd’s  bridal  day  ! 

Hut  light  now  failing,  glimmering  candles  shine 
In  ready  chandeliers  of  moulded  clay 
Stuck  round  the  walls,  displaying  to  the  view 
The  ceiling  rich  with  cobweb-drapery  hung. 
Meanwhile,  from  mill  and  smiddy,  field  and  bam. 
Fresh  groups  come  hastening  in  ; but  of  them  all. 

The  miller  bears  the  gree,  as  rafter  high 

He  leaps,  and,  lighting,  shakes  a dusty  cloud  all  round. 

In  harmless  merriment,  jirotracted  long. 

The  hours  glide  by.  At  last,  the  stocking  thrmvn. 
And  duly  every  gossip  rite  performed, 

Y ouths,  maids,  and  matrons,  take  their  several  ways ; 
While  clrouthy  carles,  ivaiting  for  the  moon, 

Sit  down  again,  and  quatf  till  daylight  dawn. 

The  Impressed  Sailor  Boy. 

[From  the  ‘ Birds  of  Scotland.’] 

Low  in  a glen, 

Down  which  a little  stream  had  furrowed  deep, 

’Tween  meeting  birchen  boughs,  a shelvy  channel. 
And  brawling  mingled  with  the  western  tide ; 

Far  up  that  stream,  almost  beyond  the  roar 
Of  storm-bulged  breakers,  foaming  o’er  the  rocks 
With  furious  dash,  a lowly  dwelling  lurked. 
Surrounded  by  a circlet  of  the  stream. 

Before  the  wattled  door,  a greensward  plat. 

With  daisies  gay,  pastured  a playful  lamb; 

A pebbly  path,  deep  worn,  led  up  the  hill. 

Winding  among  the  trees,  by  wheel  untouched. 

Save  when  the  winter  fuel  was  brought  home — 

One  of  the  poor  man’s  yearly  festivals. 

On  every  side  it  was  a sheltered  spot. 

So  high  and  suddenly  the  woody  steeps 
Arose.  One  only  way,  downward  the  stream. 

Just  o’er  the  hollow,  ’tween  the  meeting  boughs. 

The  distant  wave  was  seen,  with  now  and  then 
The  glimpse  of  passing  sail ; but  when  the  breeze 
Crested  the  distant  wave,  this  little  nook 
Was  all  so  calm,  that,  on  the  limberest  spray. 

The  sweet  bird  chanted  motionless,  the  leaves 
At  times  scarce  fluttering.  Here  dwelt  a pair. 

Poor,  humble,  and  content ; one  son  alone. 

Their  William,  happy  lived  at  home  to  bless 
Their  downward  years  ; he,  simple  youth. 

With  boyish  fondness,  fancied  he  could  love 
A seaman’s  life,  and  with  the  fishers  sailed. 

To  try  their  ways  far  ’mong  the  western  isles. 

Far  as  St  Hilda’s  rock-walled  shore  abrupt. 

O’er  which  he  saw  ten  thousand  pinions  wheel 
Confused,  dimming  the  sky : these  dreary  shores 
Gladly  he  left — he  had  a homeward  heart : 

No  more  his  wishes  wander  to  the  waves. 

But  still  he  loves  to  cast  a backward  look. 

And  tell  of  all  he  saw,  of  all  he  learned ; 

Of  pillared  Staffa,  lone  Iona’s  isle. 

Where  Scotland’s  kings  are  laid  ; of  Lewis,  Skye, 

And  of  the  mainland  mountain-circled  lochs ; 

And  he  would  sing  the  rowers  timing  chant 
And  chorus  wild.  Once  on  a summer’s  eve. 

When  low  the  sun  behind  the  Highland  hills 
Was  almost  set,  he  sung  that  song  to  cheer 


The  aged  folks  ; upon  the  inverted  quern 
The  father  sat ; the  mother’s  spindle  hung 
Forgot,  and  backward  twirled  the  half-spun  thread  , 
Listening  with  partial,  well-pleased  look,  she  gazed 
Upon  her  son,  and  inly  blessed  the  Lord, 

That  he  was  safe  returned.  Sudden  a noise 
Bursts  rushing  through  the  trees ; a glance  of  steel 
Dazzles  the  eye,  and  fierce  the  savage  band 
Glare  all  around,  then  single  out  their  prey. 

In  vain  the  mother  clasps  her  darling  boy ; 

In  vain  the  sire  offers  their  little  all : 

William  is  bound  ; they  follow  to  the  shore. 

Implore,  and  weep,  and  pray  ; knee-deep  they  stand. 
And  view  in  mute  despair  the  boat  recede. 

To  My  Son. 

Twice  has  the  sun  commenced  his  annual  round. 
Since  first  thy  footsteps  tottered  o’er  the  ground  ; 
Since  first  thy  tongue  was  tuned  to  bless  mine  ear. 
By  faltering  out  the  name  to  fathers  dear. 

Oh ! nature’s  language,  with  her  looks  combined, 
More  precious  far  than  periods  thrice  refined  ! 

Oh  ! sportive  looks  of  love,  devoid  of  guile, 

I prize  you  more  than  beauty’s  magic  smile; 

Yes,  in  that  face,  unconscious  of  its  charm, 

I gaze  with  bliss  unmingled  with  alarm. 

Ah,  no  I full  oft  a boding  horror  flies 
Athw’art  my  fancy,  uttering  fateful  cries. 

Almighty  Power!  his  harmless  life  defend. 

And,  if  we  part,  ’gainst  me  the  mandate  send. 

And  yet  a wish  will  rise — would  I might  live, 

Till  added  years  his  memory  firmness  give! 

For,  oh  ! it  would  a joy  in  death  impart 
To  think  I still  survived  within  his  heart ; 

To  think  he’ll  cast,  midway  the  vale  of  years, 

A retrospective  look  bedimmed  with  tears. 

And  tell,  regretful,  how  I looked  and  spoke ; 

What  walks  I loved,  where  grew  my  favourite  oak ; 
How  gently  I would  lead  him  by  the  hand ; 

How  gently  use  the  accent  of  command  ; 

What  lore  I taught  him,  roaming  wood  and  wild. 
And  how  the  man  descended  to  the  child ; 

How  well  I loved  with  him,  on  Sabbath  mom. 

To  hear  the  anthem  of  the  vocal  thorn. 

To  teach  religion,  unallied  to  strife. 

And  trace  to  him  the  way,  the  truth,  the  life. 

But  far  and  farther  still  my  view  I bend. 

And  now  I see  a child  thy  steps  attend  ; 

To  yonder  churchyard-wall  thou  tak’st  thy  way. 
While  round  thee,  pleased,  thou  see’st  the  infant  play ; 
Then  lifting  him,  while  tears  suffuse  thine  eyes. 
Pointing,  thou  tell’st  him.  There  thy  grandsire  lies. 

The  Thanlcsgiving  off  Cape  Trafalgar. 

Upon  the  high,  yet  gently  rolling  wave. 

The  floating  tomb  that  heaves  above  the  brave. 

Soft  sighs  the  gale  that  late  trememlous  roared. 
Whelming  the  wretched  remnants  of  the  sword. 

And  now  the  cannon’s  peaceful  thunder  calls 
The  victor  bands  to  mount  their  wooden  walls, 

And  from  the  ramparts,  where  their  comrades  fell. 
The  mingled  strain  of  joy  and  grief  to  swell : 

Fast  they  ascend,  from  stem  to  stern  they  s{>read. 

And  crowd  the  engines  whence  the  lightnings  sped : 
The  white-robed  priest  his  upraised  hands  extends ; 
Hushed  is  each  voice,  attention  leaning  bends  ; 

Then  from  each  prow  the  grand  hosannas  rise, 

Float  o’er  the  deep,  and  hover  to  the  skies. 

Heaven  fills  each  heart ; yet  home  will  oft  Intrude- 
And  tears  of  love  celestial  joys  exclude. 

The  wounded  man,  who  hears  the  soaring  strain. 

Lifts  his  pale  visage,  and  forgets  his  pain  ; 

While  parting  spirits,  mingling  with  the  lay. 

On  hallelujahs  wing  their  heavenward  way. 

S08 


I’OKTS 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  CRABRE. 


GEORGE  CRABBE. 

The  Rev.  George  Crabbe,  whom  Byron  has 
ehariU'terised  as  ‘Nature’s  sternest  painter,  yet  the 
best,’  was  of  humble  origin,  and  born  at  Aldborough, 
in  SuUblk,  on  the  Christmas  eve  of  1754.  His 
fatlier  was  collector  of  the  salt  duties,  or  salt-master, 
as  he  was  termed,  and  though  of  poor  circum- 
stances and  violent  temper,  he  exerted  himself  to 
give  George  a superior  education.  It  is  pleasing  to 
know  that  the  old  man  lived  to  reap  his  reward,  in 


witnessing  the  celebrity  of  his  son,  and  to  transcribe, 
with  parental  fondness,  in  his  own  handwriting,  his 
poem  of  The  Library.  Crabbe  has  described  the 
unpromising  scene  of  liis  nativity  with  his  usual 
force  and  correctness : — 

Lo ! where  the  heath,  with  withering  brake  grown 
o’er, 

Lend.s  the  light  turf  that  warms  the  neighbouring  poor; 
From  thence  a length  of  burning  sand  appears, 

Where  the  thin  harvest  waves  its  withered  ears ; 

Rank  weeds,  that  every  art  and  care  defy, 

Reign  o’er  the  land,  and  rob  the  blighted  rye ; 

There  thistles  stretch  their  prickly  arms  afar, 

I And  to  the  ragged  infant  threaten  war  ; 
j There  poppies  nodding,  mock  the  hope  of  toil ; 

, There  the  blue  bugloss  paints  the  .sterile  soil ; 

Hardy  and  high,  above  the  slender  sheaf, 

The  slimy  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf  ; 

O’er  the  young  shoot  the  charlock  throws  a shade. 
And  clasping  tares  cling  round  the  sickly  blade; 
With  mingled  tints  the  rocky  coasts  abound. 

And  a sad  splendour  vainly  shines  around. 

So  looks  the  nymph  whom  wretched  arts  adorn. 
Betrayed  by  man,  then  left  for  man  to  scorn  ; 

Whose  cheek  in  vain  assumes  the  mimic  rose. 

While  her  sad  eyes  the  troubled  breast  disclose ; 
Whose  outward  splendour  is  but  folly’s  dress. 
Exposing  most,  when  most  it  gilds  distress. 

The  poet  was  put  apprentice  in  his  fourteenth  year 
to  a surgeon,  and  afterwards  practised  in  Aldborough ; 


but  his  prospects  were  so  gloomy,  that  he  abandoned 
his  profession,  and  proceeded  to  London  as  a literary 
adventurer.  His  whole  stock  of  money  amounted 


Birthplace  of  Crabbe. 

to  only  three  pounds.  Having  completed  some 
poetical  pieces,  lie  offered  them  for  publication,  but 
they  were  rejected.  In  the  course  of  the  year,  how- 
ever, he  issued  a poetical  epistle.  The  Candidate. 
addressed  to  the  authors  of  the  Monthly  Review.  It 
was  coldly  received,  and  his  publisher  failing  at  the 
same  time,  the  young  poet  was  plunged  into  great 
perplexity  and  want.  He  wrote  to  the  premier. 
Lord  North,  to  the  lord-chancellor  Thurlow,  and 
to  other  noblemen,  requesting  assistance ; but  in  no 
case  was  an  answer  returned.  At  length,  when  his 
affairs  were  desperate,  he  applied  to  Edmund  Burke, 
and  in  a modest  yet  manly  statement,  disclosed  to 
him  the  situation  in  which  he  stood.  Burke  re- 
ceived him  into  his  own  house,  and  exercised  towards 
him  the  most  generous  hospitality.  While  under 
his  happy  roof,  the  poet  met  Mr  Fox,  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  and  others  of  the  statesman’s  distinguished 
friends.  In  the  same  year  (1781)  he  published  his 
poem,  ‘ The  Library,’  which  was  favourably  noticed 
by  the  critics.  Lord  Thurlow  (who  now,  as  in  the 
case  of  Cow'per,  came  with  tardy  notice  and  un- 
graceful generosity)  invited  him  to  breakfast,  and  at 
parting,  presented  him  with  a bank-note  for  a hun- 
dred pounds.  Crabbe  entered  into  sacred  orders, 
and  was  licensed  as  curate  to  the  rector  of  his  native 
parish  of  Aldborough.  In  a short  time,  Burke  pro- 
cured for  him  the  situation  of  chaplain  to  the  Duke 
of  Rutland  at  Belvoir  castle.  This  was  a great 
advancement  for  the  poor  poet,  and  he  never  after- 
wards was  in  fear  of  want.  He  seems,  however,  to 
have  felt  all  the  ills  of  dependence  on  the  great,  and 
in  his  poem  of  The  Patron,  and  other  parts  of  his 
writings,  has  strongly  depicted  the  evils  of  such  a 
situation.  In  1783  appeared  his  poem.  The  Village, 
which  had  been  seen  and  corrected  by  Johnson  and 
Burke.  Its  success  was  instant  and  complete.  Some 
of  the  descriptions  in  the  poem  (as  that  of  the  parish 
workhouse)  were  copied  into  all  the  periodicals,  and 
took  that  place  in  our  national  literature  which  they 
still  retain.  Thurlow  presented  him  with  two  small 

300 


(fROM  17(i0  C YCFjOPil'jDrA  OF  Tii.r,  the  present  timh, 


livings  then  in  liis  gift,  telling  liini  at  the  same 


time,  with  an  oatli,  that  he  was  as  like  Parson 
Adams  as  twelve  to  a dozen.  The  poet  now  married 
a young  lady  of  SuHblk,  the  ohjeet  of  an  early  at- 
tachment, and  taking  the  euraey  of  Stathern,  ad- 
joining Belvoir  castle,  he  bade  adieu  to  the  ducal 
mansion,  and  transferred  himself  to  the  humble 
parsonage  in  the  village.  Four  happy  years  were 
spent  in  this  retirement,  when  the  poet  obtained 
the  exchange  of  his  two  small  livings  in  Dorset- 
shire for  two  of  superior  value  in  the  vale  of  Bel- 
voir. Crahhe  remained  silent  as  a poet  for  many 
years.  ‘ Out  of  doors,’  says  his  son,  ‘ he  had  always 
some  ohjeet.  in  view — a flower,  or  a pebble,  or  his 
note- hook  in  his  hand;  and  in  the  house,  if  he  w'as 
not  writing,  he  was  reading.  lie  read  ahjud  very 
often,  even  when  walking,  or  seated  by  the  side  of 
his  wife  in  the  huge  old-fashioned  one-horse  ehaise, 
heavier  than  a modern  chariot,  in  which  they  usually 
were  conveyed  in  their  little  excursions,  and  the 
comhict  of  which  he,  from  awkwardness  and  absence 
of  mind,  i)rudently  relinquished  to  my  mother  on 
all  occasions.’  In  1807  he  published  his  Parish 
liegister,  which  had  been  previously  submitted  to 
Mr  Fox,  and  parts  of  this  poem  (especially  the  story- 
of  Phoebe  Dawson)  were  the  last  compositions  of 
tiieir  kind  that  ‘engaged  and  amused  the  capacious, 
the  candid,  the  benevolent  mind  of  this  great  man.’ 
The  success  of  this  work  was  not  only  decided,  but 
nearly  unprecedented.  In  1810  he  came  forward 
with  The  Borough,  a poem  of  the  same  class,  and 
more  connected  and  complete ; and  two  years  after- 
wards he  produced  his  Tales  in  Verse,  containing 
perhaps  the  finest  of  all  his  humble  but  happy  deli- 
neations of  life  and  character.  ‘ The  public  voice,’ 
says  his  biographer,  ‘ was  again  highly  favourable, 
and  some  of  these  relations  were  spoken  of  with  the 
utmost  warmth  of  commendation,  as,  the  Parting 
Hour,  the  Patron,  Edward  Shore,  and  the  Confidant.’ 
In  1814  the  Duke  of  Rutland  appointed  him  to  the 
living  of  Trow-bridge,  in  Wiltshire,  and  he  went 
thither  to  reside.  His  income  amounted  to  about 
£800  per  annum,  a large  portion*  of  which  he  spent 
in  charity.  He  still  continued  his  attachment  to 
literature,  and  in  1817  and  1818,  was  engaged  on  his 
last  great  work,  the  Tales  of  the  Hall.  ‘ He  fancied 
that  autumn  was,  on  the  whole,  the  most  favourable 
season  for  him  in  the  composition  of  poetry  ; but 
there  was  something  in  the  effect  of  a sudden  fall  of 
snow  that  appeared  to  stimulate  him  in  a very  ex- 
traordinary manner,’  In  1819  the  Tales  were  pub- 
lished by  Mr  Murray,  who,  for  them  and  the  re- 
maining copyright  of  all  Crabbe’s  previous  poems, 
gave  the  munificent  sum  of  £3000.  In  an  account 
of  the  negotiation  for  the  sale  of  these  copyrights, 
written  by  Mr  Moore  for  the  life  of  his  brother 
poet,  we  have  the  following  amusing  illustr.ation  of 
Crabhe’s  simplicity  of  manner  : — ‘ When  he  received 
the  bills  for  £3000,  we  (Moore  and  Rogers)  earnestly 
advised  that  he  should,  without  delay-,  deposit  them 
in  some  safe  hands  ; but  no — he  must  “ take  them 
with  him  to  Trowbridge,  and  show  them  to  his  son 
John,  They  would  hardly  believe  in  his  good  luck 
at  home  if  they  did  not  see  the  bills,”  On  his  way 
down  to  Trowbridge,  a friend  at  Salisbury,  at  whose 
house  he  rested  (Mr  Everett,  the  banker),  seeing 
that  he  carried  these  hills  loosely  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  requested  to  be  allowed  to  take  charge  of 
them  for  him  ; but  with  equal  ill  success,  “ There 
] w.as  no  fear,”  he  said,  “ of  his  losing  them,  and  he 
must  show  them  to  his  son  John,”’  Another 
I poetical  friend,  Mr  Campbell,  who  met  him  at  this 
} time  in  London,  remarks  of  him — ‘ His  mildness  in 
liter.ary  argument  struck  me  with  surprise  in  so 
stern  a poet  of  nature,  and  I could  not  but  contrast 


the  unassumingness  of  his  m.anners  with  the  origi- 
nality of  his  powers.  In  what  may  be  called  the 
ready-money  small-talk  of  conversation,  his  facility 
might  not  perhaps  seem  equal  to  the  known  calibre 
of  his  talents  ; but  in  the  progress  of  conversation,  I 
recollect  remarking  that  there  was  a vigilant  shrewd- 
ness that  almost  eluded  you,  by  keeping  its  watch 
so  quietly.’  This  fine  remark  is  characteristic  of 
Crabbe’s  genius,  as  well  as  of  his  manners.  It 
gathered  its  materials  slowly-  and  silently  with  in- 
tent but  unobtrusive  observation.  The  ‘ Tales  of 
the  Hall’  were  received  with  that  pleasure  and  ap- 
probation due  to  an  old  and  established  favourite, 
but  with  less  enthusiasm  than  some  of  his  previous 
works.  In  1822,  the  now  venerable  poet  paid  a 
visit  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  Edinburgh  ; and  it  is 
worthy  of  remark,  that,  as  to  the  city  itself,  he  soon 
got  wearied  of  the  New  Town,  but  could  amuse 
liimself  for  ever  in  the  Old.  His  latter  years  were 
spent  in  the  discharge  of  his  clerical  duties,  and 
in  the  enjoyment  of  soci.al  intercourse.  His  at- 
tachment to  botany  and  geology  seemed  to  increase 
with  age ; and  at  threescore  and  ten,  he  was  busy, 
cheerful,  and  affectionate.  His  death  took  place  at 
Trowbridge  on  the  3d  of  February  1832,  and  his 
parishioners  erected  a monument  to  his  memory  in 
the  church  of  that  place,  where  he  had  officiated  for 
nineteen  years.  A complete  collection  of  his  works, 
with  some  new  pieces  and  an  admirable  memoir, 
was  published  in  1 834  by  his  son,  the  Rev.  G.  Crabbe. 

The  ‘ Village,’  ‘Parish  Register,’  and  shorter  tales 
of  Crabbe  are  his  most  popular  productions.  The 
‘ Tales  of  the  Hall’  are  less  interesting.  They  relate 
principally  to  the  higher  classes  of  society,  and  the 
poet  was  not  so  happy  in  describing  their  pecu- 
liarities as  when  supporting  his  character  of  the 
poet  of  the  poor.  Some  of  the  episodes,  however, 
are  in  his  best  style — Sir  Owen  Dale,  Ruth,  Ellen, 
and  other  stories,  are  all  marked  with  the  peculiar 
genius  of  Crabbe,  The  redeeming  and  distinguishing 
feature  of  that  genius  w-as  its  fidelity  to  nature,  even 
when  it  was  dull  and  unprepossessing.  His  power 
of  observation  and  description  might  be  limited,  but 
his  pictures  have  all  the  force  of  dramatic  represen- 
tation, and  may  be  compared  to  those  actual  and 
existing  models  which  the  sculptor  or  painter  works 
from,  instead  of  vague  and  general  conceptions. 
They-  are  often  too  true,  and  human  nature  being  ex- 
hibited in  its  naked  reality,  with  all  its  defects,  and 
not  through  the  bright  and  alluring  medium  of 
romance  or  imagination,  our  vanity  is  shocked  and 
our  pride  mortified.  His  anatomy  of  character  and 
passion  harrows  up  our  feelings,  and  leaves  us  in 
the  end  sad  and  ashamed  of  our  common  nature. 
The  j)ersonal  circumstances  and  experience  of  the 
poet  affected  the  bent  of  his  genius.  He  knew  how 
untrue  and  absurd  were  the  pictures  of  rural  life 
which  figured  in  poetry.  His  own  y-outh  was  dark 
and  painful — spent  in  low  society,  amidst  want  and 
misery-,  irascible  gloom  and  passion.  Latterly,  he 
had  more  of  the  comforts  and  elegances  of  social  life 
at  his  command  than  Cowper,  his  rival  as  a domestic 
painter.  He  not  only  could  have  ‘ wheeled  his  sofa 
round,’  ‘ let  fall  the  curtains,  and,  with  the  bubbling 
and  loud  hissing  urn’  on  the  table  ‘ welcome  peaceful 
evening  in,’ but  the  amenities  of  refined  and  intellec- 
tual society-  were  constantly  present  with  him,  or  at 
his  call.  Yet  he  did  not,  like  Cowper,  attenqit  to 
describe  them,  or  to  paint  their  manifold  charms. 
When  he  took  up  his  pen,  his  mind  turned  to  Aid- 
borough  and  its  wild  amphibious  race — to  the  ])arish 
workhouse,  where  the  wheel  hummed  doleful  through 
the  day — to  erring  damsels  and  luckless  swains,  the 
prey  of  overseers  or  justices — or  to  the  haunts  of 
desperate  poachers  and  smugglers,  gipsies  and 

310 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


rouTS. 


eimiblers,  where  vice  and  misery  stalked  undisguised 
in  their  darkest  forms.  He  stirred  up  the  dregs  of 
human  society,  and  e.xhibited  their  blackness  and 
deformity,  yet  worked  them  into  poetry.  Like  his 
own  Sir  Richard  Monday,  he  never  forgot  the  parUh. 
It  Is  true  that  village  life  in  England  in  its  worst 
form,  with  the  old  poor  and  game  laws  and  non- 
resident clergy,  was  composed  of  various  materials, 
some  bright  and  some  gloomy,  and  Crabbe  drew 
them  all.  His  Isaac  Ashford  is  as  honourable  to 
the  lowly  English  poor  as  the  Jeanie  Deans  or 
Dandic  Dinmont  of  Scott  are  to  the  Scottish  cha- 
racter. His  story  of  the  real  mourner,  the  faithful 
maid  who  watched  over  her  dying  sailor,  is  a beauti- 
ful tribute  to  the  force  and  purity  of  humble  affec- 
tion. In  the  ‘Parting  Hour’ and  the  ‘ Patron’ are 
also  passages  equally  honourable  to  the  poor  and 
middle  classes,  and  full  of  pathetic  and  graceful 
composition.  It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that 
Crabbe  was  in  general  a gloomy  painter  of  life — 
that  he  was  fond  of  depicting  the  unlovely  and  un- 
amiable — and  that,  either  for  poetic  effect  or  from 
painful  experience,  he  makes  the  bad  of  life  predo- 
minate over  the  good.  Ilis  pathos  and  tenderness 
are  generally  linked  to  something  eoarse,  startling, 
or  humiliating — to  disappointed  hopes  or  unavailing 
sorrow — 

Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way. 

The  present’s  still  a cloudy  day. 

The  minuteness  with  which  he  dwells  on  such  sub- 
jects sometimes  makes  his  descriptions  tedious,  and 
apparently  unfeeling.  He  drags  forward  every  de- 
fect, every  vice  and  failing,  not  for  the  purpose  of 
educing  something  good  out  of  evil,  but,  as  it  would 
seem,  merely  for  the  purpose  of  completing  the 
picture.  In  his  higher  flights,  where  scenes  of 
strong  passion,  vice  or  remorse,  are  depicted,  Crabbe 
is  a moral  poet,  jiurifying  the  heart,  as  the  object  of 
tragedy  has  been  defined,  by  terror  and  pity,  and  by 
fearful  delineations  of  the  misery  and  desolation 
caused  by  unbridled  passion.  His  story  of  Sir 
Eustace  Grey  is  a domestic  tragedy  of  this  kind, 
related  with  almost  terrific  power,  and  with  lyrical 
energy  of  versification.  His  general  style  of  versifi- 
cation is  the  couplet  of  Pope  (he  has  been  wittily 
called  ‘ Pope  in  worsted  stockings  ’),  but  less  flow- 
ing and  melodious,  and  often  ending  in  points  and 
quibbles.  Thus,  in  describing  his  cottage  furniture, 
he  says — 

No  wheels  are  here  for  either  wool  or  flax. 

But  packs  of  cards  made  up  of  sundry  packs. 

His  thrifty  housewife.  Widow  Goe,  falls  down  in 
sickness — 

Heaven  in  her  eye,  and  in  her  hand  her  keys. 

This  jingling  style  heightens  the  effect  of  his  humor- 
ous and  homely  descriptions ; but  it  is  too  mucli  of  a 
manner,  and  mars  the  finer  passages.  Crabbe  has 
high  merit  as  a painter  of  English  scenery.  He  is 
here  as  original  and  forcible  as  in  delineating  cha- 
racter. His  marine  landscapes  are  peculiarly  fresh 
and  striking;  and  he  invests  even  the  sterile  fens 
and  barren  sands  with  interest.  His  objects  are 
seldom  picturesque ; but  he  noted  every  weed  and 
plant — the  purple  bloom  of  the  heath,  the  dwarfish 
flowers  among  the  wild  gorse,  the  slender  grass  of 
the  sheep  walk,  and  even  the  pebbles,  sea-weed,  and 
shells  amid 

The  glittering  waters  on  the  shingles  rolled. 

rie  was  a great  lover  of  the  sea,  and  once,  as  his  son 
relates,  after  being  some  time  absent  from  it. 


GEORGE  CBS  DDE. 


mounted  his  horse  and  rode  alone  sixty  miles  from 
his  house,  that  he  might  inhale  its  freshness  and 
gaze  upon  its  waters, 

[The  Parish  Workhouse  and  Apothecary.^ 

[From  ‘ The  Village.’] 

Theirs  is  yon  house  that  holds  the  parish  poor, 
Whose  walls  of  mud  scarce  bear  the  broken  door ; 
There,  where  the  putrid  vapours  flagging,  play. 

And  the  dull  wheel  hums  doleful  through  the  day ; 
There  children  dwell  who  know  no  parents’  care; 
Parents,  who  know  no  children’s  love,  dwell  there ; 
Heart-broken  matrons  on  their  joyless  bed, 

Forsaken  wives  and  mothers  never  wed, 

Dejected  widows  with  unheeded  tears. 

And  crippled  age  with  more  than  childhood-fears  ; 
The  lame,  the  blind,  and,  far  the  happiest  they ! 

The  moping  idiot  and  the  m.adman  gay. 

Here  too  the  sick  their  final  doom  receive. 

Here  brought  amid  the  scenes  of  grief,  to  grieve. 
Where  the  loud  groans  from  some  sad  chamber  flow. 
Mixed  with  the  clamours  of  the  crowd  below ; 

Here  .sorrowing,  they  each  kindred  sorrow  scan. 

And  the  cold  charities  of  man  to  man : 

Whose  laws  indeed  for  ruined  age  provide. 

And  strong  compulsion  plucks  the  scrap  from  pride  ; 
But  still  that  scrap  is  bought  with  many  a sigh, 

And  pride  imbitters  what  it  can’t  deny. 

Say  ye,  oppressed  by  some  fantastic  woes, 

Some  jarring  nerve  that  baffles  your  repose  ; 

M’ho  press  the  downy  couch,  while  slaves  advance 
With  timid  eye,  to  read  the  distant  glance ; 

Who  with  sad  prayers  the  weary  doctor  tease. 

To  name  the  nameless  ever-new  disease  ; 

Who  with  mock  patience  dire  complaints  endure. 
Which  real  pain  and  that  alone  can  cure ; 

How  would  ye  bear  in  real  pain  to  lie. 

Despised,  neglected,  left  alone  to  die? 

How  would  ye  bear  to  draw  your  latest  breath 
Where  all  that’s  wretched  pave  the  w.ay  for  death  ? 

Such  is  that  room  which  one  rude  beam  divides. 
And  naked  rafters  form  the  sloping  sides  ; 

Where  the  vile  bands  that  bind  the  thatch  are  seen. 
And  lath  and  mud  are  all  that  lie  between;  ' 
Save  one  dull  pane,  that,  coarsely  patched,  gives  way 
To  the  rude  tempest,  yet  excludes  the  day: 

Here,  on  a matted  flock,  with  dust  o’erspread. 

The  drooping  wretch  reclines  his  languid  head; 

For  him  no  band  the  cordial  cup  applies. 

Or  wipes  the  tear  that  stagnates  in  bis  eyes ; 

No  friends  with  soft  discourse  his  pain  beguik, 

Or  promise  hope  till  sickness  wears  a smile. 

But  soon  a loud  and  hasty  summons  calls. 

Shakes  the  thin  roof,  and  echoes  round  the  walls  , 
Anon,  a figure  enters,  quaintly  neat. 

All  pride  and  business,  bustle  and  conceit. 

With  looks  unaltered  by  these  scenes  of  wo. 

With  speed  that,  entering,  .speaks  his  haste  to  go; 

He  bids  the  gazing  throng  around  him  fly. 

And  carries  fate  and  physic  in  his  eye  ; 

A potent  quack,  long  versed  in  human  ills. 

Who  first  insults  the  victim  whom  he  kills  ; 

Whose  murderous  hand  a drowsy  bench  protect. 

And  whose  most  tender  mercy  is  neglect. 

Paid  by  the  parish  for  attendance  here. 

He  wears  contempt  upon  his  sapient  sneer; 

In  haste  he  seeks  the  bed  where  misery  lies. 
Impatience  marked  in  his  averted  eyes ; 

And,  some  habitual  queries  hurried  o’er, 

M’ithout  reply',  he  rushes  on  the  door ; 

His  drooping  patient,  long  jnured  to  pain 
And  long  unheeded,  knows  remonstrance  va  n ; 

He  ceases  now  the  feeble  help  to  crave 
Of  man  ; and  silent  sinks  into  the  grave. 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TlME, 


FROM  1700  CYCLOl’TEDI A OF 


\_haac  Ashford,  a Nolle  Pcoutant.'^ 

[From  tlie  ‘ Parish  Kcgister.’] 

Next  to  these  ladies,  but  in  nought  allied, 

A noble  peasant,  lsaa<;  Ashford,  died. 

Noble  he  was,  contemning  all  things  mean, 

Ilis  truth  umpiestioned  and  his  soul  serene: 

Of  no  man’s  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid; 

At  no  man’s  question  Isaac  looked  dismayed: 

Shame  knew  him  not,  he  dreaded  no  disgrace; 
Truth,  simple  truth,  was  written  in  his  face; 

Yet  wliilc  the  serious  thought  his  soul  ai>proved, 
Cheerful  he  seemed,  and  gentleness  he  loved; 

To  bliss  ilomestic  he  his  heart  resigned. 

And  with  the  firmest,  had  the  fondest  mind: 

Were  others  joyful,  he  looked  smiling  on, 

And  gave  allowance  where  he  needed  none; 

Good  he  refused  with  future  ill  to  buy. 

Nor  knew  a joy  that  caused  rellection’s  sigh; 

A friend  to  virtue,  his  unclouded  breast 
No  envy  stung,  no  jealousy  distressed; 

(Bane  of  the  poor!  it  wounds  their  weaker  mind 
To  miss  one  favour  which  their  neighbours  find) 

Yet  far  was  he  from  stoic-pride  removed ; 

He  felt  humanely,  and  he  warmly  loved: 

I marked  his  action  when  his  infant  died. 

And  his  old  neighbour  for  offence  was  tried; 

The  still  tears,  stealing  down  that  furrowed  cheek. 
Spoke  pity  jdainer  than  the  tongue  can  speak. 

If  pride  were  his,  ’twas  not  their  vulgar  pride. 

Who,  in  their  base  contempt,  the  great  deride; 

Nor  pride  in  learning,  though  my  clerk  agreed. 

If  fate  should  call  him,  Ashford  might  succeed; 

Nor  pride  in  rustic  skill,  although  we  knew 
None  his  superior,  and  his  equals  few: 

But  if  that  spirit  in  his  soul  had  place. 

It  was  the  jealous  pride  that  shuns  disgrace; 

A pride  in  honest  fame,  by  virtue  gained. 

In  sturdy  boys  to  virtuous  labours  trained ; 

Pride  in  the  power  that  guards  his  country’s  coast, 
And  all  that  Englishmen  enjoy  and  boast; 

Priile  in  a life  that  slander’s  tongue  defied. 

In  fact,  a noble  passion,  misnamed  pride. 

He  had  no  party’s  rage,  no  sect’ry’s  whim; 
Christian  and  countryman  was  all  with  him; 

True  to  his  church  he  came  ; no  Sunday-shower 
Kept  him  at  home  in  that  important  hour; 

Nor  his  firm  feet  could  one  persuading  sect 
By  the  strong  glare  of  their  new  light  direct; 

‘ On  hope,  in  mine  own  sober  light,  I gaze. 

But  should  be  blind  and  lose  it  in  your  blaze.’ 

In  times  severe,  when  many  a sturdy  swain 
Felt  it  his  pride,  his  comfort  to  complain, 

Isaac  their  wants  would  soothe,  his  own  would  hide. 
And  feel  in  that  his  comfort  and  his  pride. 

At  length  he  found,  when  seventy  years  were  run, 
His  strength  departed  and  his  labour  done; 

A^’hen,  save  his  honest  fame,  he  kept  no  more; 

But  lost  his  wife  and  saw  his  children  poor; 

’Twas  then  a spark  of — say  not  discontent — 

Struck  on  his  mind,  and  thus  he  gave  it  vent: 

‘ Kind  are  your  laws  (’tis  not  to  be  denied). 

That  in  yon  house  for  ruined  age  provide. 

And  they  are  just ; when  young,  we  give  you  all, 
And  then  for  comforts  in  our  weakness  call. 

Why  then  this  proud  reluctance  to  be  fed. 

To  join  your  poor  and  eat  the  parish-bread? 

But  yet  I linger,  loath  with  him  to  feed 
Who  gains  his  plenty  by  the  sons  of  need: 

He  who,  by  contract,  all  your  paupers  took. 

And  gauges  stomachs  with  an  anxious  look  : 

On  .some  old  master  I could  well  depend; 

See  him  with  joy  and  thank  him  as  a friend; 

But  ill  on  him  who  doles  the  day’s  supply, 

And  counts  our  chances  who  at  night  may  die  : 


Yet  help  me.  Heaven  ! and  let  me  not  complain 
Of  what  befalls  me,  but  the  fate  Hustam.’ 

Sucli  were  his  thoughts,  and  so  resigned  he  grew; 
Daily  he  placed  the  workhouse  in  his  view! 

But  came  not  there,  for  sudden  M'as  his  fate. 

He  dropt  expiring  at  his  cottage-gate.  t 

I feel  his  absence  in  the  hours  of  prayer. 

And  view  his  seat,  and  sigh  for  Isaac  there; 

I see  no  more  those  white  locks  thinly  spread 
Round  the  bald  polish  of  that  honoured  head; 

No  more  that  awful  glance  on  jilayful  wight 
Compelled  to  kneel  and  tremble  at  the  sight; 

To  fold  his  fingers  all  in  dread  the  while. 

Till  Mister  Ashford  softened  to  a smile; 

No  more  that  meek  and  suppliant  look  in  prayer. 

Nor  the  jiure  faith  (to  give  it  force)  are  there  : . . 

But  he  is  blest,  and  1 lament  no  more, 

A wise  good  man  contented  to  be  poor. 

[Phoebe  DawsonJ] 

[From  the  ‘ Parish  Register.*] 

Two  summers  since,  I saw  at  Lammas  fair. 

The  sweete.st  flower  that  ever  blossomed  there; 

When  Phoebe  Dawson  gaily  crossed  the  green. 

In  haste  to  see  and  happy  to  be  seen; 

Her  air,  her  manners,  all  who  saw,  admired. 
Courteous  though  coy,  and  gentle  though  retired; 

The  joy  of  youth  and  health  her  eyes  displayed. 

And  case  of  heart  her  every  look  conveyed; 

A native  .skill  her  simple  robes  expressed. 

As  with  untutored  elegance  she  dressed; 

The  lads  around  admired  so  fair  a sight. 

And  Phoebe  felt,  and  felt  she  gave,  delight. 

Admirers  soon  of  every  age  she  gained. 

Her  beauty  won  them  and  her  worth  retained  ; 

Envy  itself  could  no  contempt  display. 

They  wished  her  well,  whom  yet  they  wished  away; 
Correct  in  thought,  she  judged  a servant’s  place 
Preserved  a ru.stic  beauty  from  disgrace; 

But  yet  on  Sunday-eve,  in  freedom’s  hour. 

With  secret  joy  she  felt  that  beauty’s  power; 

M’hen  some  proud  bliss  upon  the  heart  would  steal, 
That,  poor  or  rich,  a beauty  still  must  feel. 

At  length,  the  youth  ordained  to  move  her  breast, 
Before  the  swains  with  bolder  spirit  pressed; 

With  looks  less  timid  made  his  iiassion  known. 

And  pleased  by  manners,  most  unlike  her  own  ; 

Loud  though  in  love,  and  confident  though  young ; 
Fierce  in  his  air,  and  voluble  of  tongue; 

By  trade  a tailor,  though,  in  scorn  of  trade. 

He  served  the  squire,  and  brushed  the  coat  he  made; 
Yet  now,  would  Phoebe  her  consent  afford. 

Her  slave  alone,  again  he’d  mount  the  board  ; 

With  her  should  years  of  growing  love  be  spent. 

And  growing  wealth  : — she  sighed  and  looked  consent. 

Now,  through  the  lane,  up  hill,  and  cross  the  green, 
(Seen  by  but  few  and  blushing  to  be  seen — 

Dejected,  thoughtful,  anxious,  and  afraid) 

Led  by  the  lover,  walked  the  silent  maid  : 

Slow  through  the  meadows  roved  they  many  a mile. 
Toyed  by  each  bank  and  trifled  at  each  stile; 

Where,  as  he  painted  every  blissful  view. 

And  highly  coloured  what  he  strongly  drew. 

The  pensive  damsel,  prone  to  tender  fears. 

Dimmed  the  false  prospect  with  prophetic  tears: 

Thus  passed  the  allotted  hours,  till,  lingering  late, 
The  lover  loitered  at  the  master’s  gate; 

There  he  pronounced  adieu  I and  yet  would  stay. 

Till  chidden — soothed — intreated — forced  away  ! 

He  would  of  coldness,  though  indulged,  complain, 
And  oft  retire  and  oft  return  again ; 

When,  if  his  teasing  vexed  her  gentle  mind. 

The  grief  assumed  compelled  her  to  be  kind! 

For  he  would  proof  of  plighted  kiinlness  crave. 

That  she  resented  first,  and  then  forgave, 

312 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  CRABBKi 


POETS. 


Alul  to  )ii.s  grief  and  penance  yielded  more 
Than  his  presumption  had  required  before  : — 

Ah!  fly  temptation,  youth;  refrain!  refrain! 
Eaeh  yielding  maid  and  each  presuming  swain  ! 
Lo!  now  with  red  rent  cloak  and  bonnet  black, 
,\nd  torn  green  gown  loose  hanging  at  her  back, 

One  who  an  infant  in  her  arms  sustains, 

And  seems  in  patience  striving  with  her  pains; 
Pinched  are  her  looks,  as  one  who  pines  for  bread, 
^^'hose  cares  are  growing  and  whose  hopes  are  fled; 
Pale  her  j)arched  lips,  her  heavy  eyes  sunk  low. 

And  tears  unnoticed  from  their  channels  flow; 

Serene  her  manner,  till  some  sudden  pain 
Frets  the  meek  soul,  and  then  she’s  calm  again  ; 

Her  broken  pitcher  to  the  pool  she  takes. 

And  every  step  with  cautious  terror  makes ; 

For  not  alone  that  infant  in  her  arms. 

But  nearer  cause  her  anxious  soul  alarms  ; 

M'ith  water  burdened  then  she  picks  her  way. 

Slowly  and  cautious,  in  the  clinging  clay; 

Till,  in  mid-green,  she  trusts  a place  unsound. 

And  deeply  plunges  in  the  adhesive  ground; 

Thence,  but  with  pain,  her  slender  foot  she  takes. 
While  hope  the  mind  as  strength  the  frame  forsakes; 
For  when  so  full  the  cup  of  sorrow  grow.s. 

Add  but  a drop,  it  instantly  o’erflows. 

And  now  her  path  but  not  her  peace  she  gains. 

Safe  from  her  task,  but  .shivering  with  her  pains; 

Her  home  she  reaches,  open  leaves  the  door. 

And  placing  first  her  infant  on  the  floor, 

She  bares  her  bosom  to  the  wind,  and  sits. 

And  sobbing  struggles  with  the  rising  fits; 

In  vain,  they  come,  she  feels  the  inflating  grief. 

That  shuts  the  swelling  bosom  from  relief; 

That  speaks  in  feeble  cries  a soul  distressed. 

Or  the  sad  laugh  that  cannot  be  repressed; 

The  neighbour-matron  leaves  her  wheel,  and  fliea 
With  all  the  aid  her  poverty  supplies ; 

Unfee’d,  the  calls  of  nature  she  obeys. 

Not  led  by  profit,  not  allured  by  praise; 

And  waiting  long,  till  these  contentions  cease. 

She  speaks  of  comfort,  and  departs  in  peace. 

Friend  of  distress ! the  mourner  feels  thy  aid. 

She  cannot  pay  thee,  but  thou  wilt  be  paid. 

But  who  this  child  of  weakness,  want,  and  care ! 
Pis  Phoebe  Dawson,  piide  of  Lammas  fair; 

Who  took  her  lover  for  his  sparkling  eyes. 
Expressions  warm,  and  love-inspiring  lies  : 
Compassion  first  assailed  her  gentle  heart 
For  all  his  suffering,  all  his  bosom’s  smart : 

‘ And  then  his  prayers  ! they  would  a savage  move. 
And  win  the  coldest  of  the  sex  to  love  :’ 

But  ah  ! too  soon  his  looks  success  declared. 

Too  late  her  loss  the  marriage-rite  repaired ; 

The  faithless  flatterer  then  his  vows  forgot, 

A captious  tyrant  or  a noisy  sot : 

If  present,  railing  till  he  saw  her  pained  ; 

If  absent,  spending  what  their  labours  gained  ; 

Till  that  fair  form  in  want  and  sickness  pined. 

And  hope  and  comfort  fled  that  gentle  mind. 

Then  fly  temptation,  youth  ; resist  ! refrain ! 

Nor  let  me  preach  for  ever  and  in  vain ! 

\_Bream  of  the  Condemned  Felon.'\ 

[From  ‘ The  Borough.’] 

Yes  ! e’en  in  sleep  the  impressions  all  remain. 

He  hears  the  sentence  and  he  feels  the  chain; 

He  sees  the  judge  and  jury  when  he  shakes. 

And  loudly  cries,  ‘ not  guilty,’  and  awakes  : 

Then  chilling  tremblings  o’er  his  body  creep. 

Till  worn-out  nature  is  compelled  to  sleep. 

Now  comes  the  dream  again  : it  show’s  each  scene. 
With  each  small  circumstance  that  comes  between — 
The  call  to  suffering,  and  the  very  deed — 

There  crowds  go  with  him,  follow,  and  precede; 


Some  heartless  shout,  some  pity,  all  condemn. 

While  he  in  fancied  envy  looks  at  them  ; / 

He  seems  the  place  for  that  sad  act  to  see. 

And  dreams  the  very  thirst  which  then  will  be  ; 

A priest  attends — it  seems  the  one  he  knew 
In  his  best  days,  beneath  whose  care  he  grew. 

At  this  his  terrors  take  a sudden  flight; 

He  sees  his  native  village  w’itli  delight ; 

The  house,  the  chamber,  where  he  once  arrayed 
His  youthful  person,  where  he  knelt  and  prayed  ; 
Then,  too,  the  comforts  he  enjoyed  at  home. 

The  days  of  joy  ; the  joys  themselves  are  come  ; 

The  hours  of  innocence,  the  timid  look 

Of  his  loved  maid,  when  first  her  hand  he  took 

And  told  his  hope  ; her  trembling  joy  appears. 

Her  forced  reserve,  and  his  retreating  fears. 

All  now  are  present — ’tis  a moment’s  gleam 
Of  former  sunshine — stay,  delightful  dream  ! 

Let  him  within  his  pleasant  garden  walk. 

Give  him  her  arm,  of  blessings  let  them  talk. 

Yes  ! all  are  with  him  now,  and  all  the  while 
Life’s  early  prospects  and  his  Fanny’s  smile  ; 

Then  come  his  .sister  and  his  village  friend. 

And  he  will  now  the  sweetest  moments  spend 
Life  has  to  yield:  no,  never  will  he  find 
Again  on  earth  .such  pleasure  in  his  mind: 

He  goes  through  shrubby  walks  these  friends  amoc^. 
Love  in  their  looks  and  honour  on  the  tongue  ; 

Nay,  there’s  a charm  beyond  what  nature  shows. 

The  bloom  is  softer,  and  more  sweetly  glows  ; 

Pierced  by  no  crime,  and  urged  by  no  desire 
For  more  than  true  and  honest  hearts  require. 

They  feel  the  calm  delight,  and  thus  proceed 
Through  the  green  lane,  then  linger  in  the  mead. 
Stray  o’er  the  heath  in  all  its  purple  bloom, 

And  pluck  the  blossom  where  the  wild  bees  hum  ; 
Then  through  the  broomy  bound  with  ease  they  pass. 
And  press  the  sandy  sheep-walk’s  slender  grass. 
Where  dwarfish  flowers  among  the  gorse  are  spread. 
And  the  lamb  browses  by  the  linnet’s  bed  ; 

Then  ’cross  the  bounding  brook  they  make  their  way 
O’er  its  rough  bridge,  and  there  behold  the  bay; 

The  ocean  smiling  to  the  fervid  sun. 

The  waves  that  faintly  fall,  and  slowly  run, 

The  ships  at  distance,  and  the  boats  at  hand  ; 

And  now  they  walk  upon  the  sea-side  sand. 

Counting  the  number,  and  what  kind  they  be. 

Ships  softly  sinking  in  the  sleepy  sea  ; 

Now  arm  in  arm,  now  parted,  they  behold 
The  glittering  waters  on  the  shingles  rolled: 

The  timid  girl.s,  half  dreading  their  design. 

Dip  the  small  foot  in  the  retarded  brine. 

And  search  for  crimson  weeds,  which  spreading  flow, 
Or  lie  like  pictures  on  the  sand  below  ; 

With  all  those  bright  red  pebbles  that  the  sun 
Through  the  small  waves  so  softly  shines  upon  ; 

And  those  live  lucid  jellies  which  the  eye 
Delights  to  trace  as  they  swim  glittering  by ; 

Pearl  shells  and  rubied  star-fish  they  admire. 

And  will  arrange  above  the  parlour  fire. 

Tokens  of  bliss  ! ‘ Oh,  horrible  ! a wave 

Roars  as  it  rises — save  me,  Edw’ard,  save  !’ 

She  cries.  Alas  ! the  watchman  on  his  way 
Calls,  and  lets  in — truth,  terror,  and  the  day  ! 

{Story  of  a Betrothed  Pair  in  Humble  Life.~\ 
[From  ‘ The  Borough.’] 

Yes,  there  are  real  mourners  ; I have  seen 
A fair  sad  girl,  mild,  suffering,  and  serene; 

Attention  through  the  day  her  duties  claimed. 

And  to  be  useful  as  resigned  she  aimed; 

Neatly  she  dressed,  nor  vainly  seemed  to  expect 
Pity  for  grief,  or  pardon  for  neglect; 

But  when  her  wearied  parents  sunk  to  sleep. 

She  sought  her  place  to  meditate  and  weep: 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  present  rm*. 


Then  to  her  mind  was  all  the  past  displayed, 

That  faithful  memory  brings  to  sorrow’s  aid  ; 

For  then  slie  thought  on  one  regretted  youth. 

Her  tender  trust,  and  his  unquestioned  truth; 

In  every  plaex!  she  wandered  where  they’d  been. 

And  sadly-sacred  held  the  parting  scene 
M'here  last  for  sea  he  took  his  leave — that  place 
With  double  interest  would  she  nightly  trace; 

For  long  the  courtship  was,  and  he  would  say 
Each  time  he  sailed,  ‘This  once,  and  then  the 
day ;’ 

Yet  prudence  tarried,  but  when  last  he  went. 

He  drew  from  pitying  love  a full  consent. 

Haj)i)y  he  sailed,  and  great  the  care  she  took 
That  he  should  softly  sleep,  and  smartly  look ; 
White  was  his  better  linen,  and  his  check 
Was  made  more  trim  than  any  on  the  deck  ; 

And  every  comfort  men  at  sea  can  know. 

Was  hers  to  buy,  to  make,  and  to  bestow ; 

For  he  to  Greenland  sailed,  and  much  she  told 
How  he  should  guard  against  the  climate’s  cold. 

Yet  saw  not  danger,  dangers  he’d  withstood. 

Nor  could  she  trace  the  fever  in  his  blood. 

His  messmates  smiled  at  flushings  in  his  cheek. 

And  he,  too,  smiled,  but  seldom  would  he  speak  ; 

For  now  he  found  the  danger,  felt  the  pain. 

With  grievous  symptoms  he  could  not  e.xplain. 

He  called  his  friend,  and  prefaced  with  a sigh 
A lover’s  message — ‘ Thomas,  I must  die  ; 

Would  I could  see  my  Sally,  and  could  rest 
My  throbbing  temples  on  her  faithful  breast, 

/Ind  gazing  go  ! if  not,  this  trifle  take. 

And  say,  till  death  I wore  it  for  her  sake. 

Yes,  I must  die — blow  on,  sweet  breeze,  blow  on  ! 
Give  me  one  look  before  my  life  be  gone ; 

Oh,  give  me  that  ! and  let  me  not  despair— 

3ne  last  fond  look — and  now  repeat  the  prayer.’ 

He  had  his  wish,  and  more.  I will  not  paint 
The  lovers’  meeting : she  beheld  him  faint — 

With  tender  fears  she  took  a nearer  view. 

Her  terrors  doubling  as  her  hopes  withdrew ; 

He  tried  to  smile,  and  half-succeeding,  said, 

‘Yes,  I must  die’ — and  hope  for  ever  fled. 

Still  long  she  nursed  him  ; tender  thoughts  mean- 
time 

M'ere  interchanged,  and  hopes  and  views  sublime. 

To  hei  he  came  to  die,  and  every  day 
She  took  some  portion  of  the  dread  away  ; 

With  him  she  prayed,  to  him  his  Bible  read. 

Soothed  the  faint  heart,  and  held  the  aching  head  ; 
She  came  with  smiles  the  hour  of  pain  to  cheer. 
Apart  she  sighed,  alone  she  shed  the  tear ; 

Then,  as  if  breaking  from  a cloud,  she  gave 
Fresh  light,  and  gilt  the  prospect  of  the  grave. 

One  day  he  lighter  seemed,  and  they  forgot 
The  care,  the  diead,  the  anguish  of  their  lot ; 

They  spoke  with  cheerfulness,  and  seemed  to  think. 
Yet  said  not  so — ‘ Perhaps  he  will  not  sink.’ 

A sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appeared, 

A sudden  vigour  in  his  voice  was  heard ; 

She  had  been  reading  in  the  Book  of  Prayer, 

And  led  him  forth,  and  placed  him  in  his  chair  ; 
Lively  he  seemed,  and  spoke  of  all  he  knew. 

The  friendly  many,  and  the  favourite  few; 

Nor  one  that  day  did  he  to  mind  recall. 

But  she  has  treasured,  and  she  loves  them  all. 

When  in  her  way  she  meets  them,  they  appear 
Peculiar  people — death  has  made  them  dear. 

He  named  his  friend,  but  then  his  hand  she  pressed. 
And  fondly  whispered,  ‘ Thou  must  go  to  rest.’ 

‘ I go,’  he  said,  but  as  he  spoke  she  found 

His  hand  more  cold,  and  fluttering  was  the  sound  ; 

Then  gazed  atfrightened,  but  she  caught  a last, 

A dying  look  of  love,  and  all  was  past. 

She  placed  a decent  stone  his  grave  above. 

Neatly  engraved,  an  offering  of  her  love  : 


For  that  she  wrought,  for  that  forsook  her  .led, 

Awake  alike  to  duty  and  the  dead. 

She  would  have  grieved  had  they  jircsumed  to  spaio 
The  least  assistance — ’twas  her  j)roper  care. 

Here  will  she  come,  and  on  the  grave  will  sit. 

Folding  her  arms,  in  long  abstracted  fit ; 

But  if  observer  pass,  will  take  her  round. 

And  careless  seem,  for  she  would  not  be  found  ; 

Then  go  again,  and  thus  her  hour  employ. 

While  visions  please  her,  and  while  woes  destroy. 

[Art  Engliih  Fen — Gipsks.] 

[From  ‘ Tales’ — Lover’s  Journey.] 

On  either  side 

Is  level  fen,  a prospect  wild  and  wide. 

With  dikes  on  either  hand  by  ocean’s  self  supplied 
Far  on  the  right  the  distant  sea  is  seen. 

And  salt  the  springs  tliat  feed  the  marsh  between: 
Beneath  an  ancient  bridge,  the  straitened  flood 
Rolls  through  its  sloping  banks  of  slimy  mud; 

Near  it  a sunken  boat  resists  the  tide. 

That  frets  and  hurries  to  the  ojiposing  side; 

The  rushes  sharp  that  on  the  borders  grow. 

Bend  their  brown  flowerets  to  the  stream  below. 
Impure  in  all  its  course,  in  all  its  progress  slow; 

Here  a grave  Flora  scarcely  deigns  to  bloom. 

Nor  wears  a rosy  blush,  nor  sheds  perfume; 

The  few  dull  flowers  that  o’er  the  place  are  spread, 
Partake  the  nature  of  their  fenny  bed. 

Here  on  its  wiry  stem,  in  rigid  bloom. 

Grows  the  salt  lavender  that  lacks  perfume; 

Here  the  dwarf  sallows  creep,  the  septfoil  harsh, 

And  the  soft  slimy  mallow  of  the  marsh ; 

Low  on  the  ear  the  distant  billows  sound. 

And  just  in  view  appears  their  stony  bound; 

Nor  hedge  nor  tree  conceals  the  glowing  sun; 

Birds,  save  a watery  tribe,  the  district  shun. 

Nor  chiiq)  among  the  reeds  where  bitter  waters  ru::. 

Again,  the  country  was  inclosed,  a wide 
And  sandy  road  has  banks  on  either  side; 

Where,  lo  ! a hollow  on  the  left  aj)peared. 

And  there  a gipsy  tribe  their  tent  had  reared; 

’Twas  open  spread  to  catch  the  morning  sun. 

And  they  had  now  their  early  meal  begun. 

When  two  brown  boys  just  left  their  grassy  scat. 

The  early  traveller  with  their  prayers  to  greet; 

While  yet  Orlando  held  his  pence  in  hand. 

He  saw  their  sister  on  her  duty  stand; 

Some  twelve  years  old,  demure,  affected,  sly. 

Prepared  the  force  of  early  powers  to  try; 

Sudden  a look  of  languor  he  descries. 

And  well-feigned  apprehension  in  her  eyes; 

Trained,  but  yet  savage,  in  her  speaking  face 
He  marked  the  features  of  her  vagrant  race. 

When  a light  laugh  and  roguish  leer  expressed 
The  vice  implanted  in  her  youthful  breast; 

Forth  from  the  tent  her  elder  brother  came. 

Who  seemed  offended,  yet  forbore  to  blame 
The  young  designer,  but  could  only  trace 
The  looks  of  pity  in  the  traveller’s  face. 

Within  the  father,  who  from  fences  nigh. 

Had  brought  the  fuel  for  the  fire’s  su|iply. 

Watched  now  the  feeble  blaze,  and  stood  dejected  by; 
On  ragged  rug,  just  borrowed  from  the  bed. 

And  by  the  hand  of  coarse  indulgence  fed. 

In  dirty  patchwork  negligently  dressed. 

Reclined  the  wife,  an  infant  at  her  breast; 

In  her  wild  face  some  touch  of  grace  remained. 

Of  vigour  palsied,  and  of  beauty  stained; 

Her  bloodshot  eyes  on  her  unheeding  mate 
AVere  wrathful  turned,  and  seemed  her  wants  to  atatev 
Cursing  his  tardy  aid.  Her  mother  there 
M’ith  gipsy  state  engrossed  the  only  chair; 

Solemn  and  dull  her  look;  with  such  she  stands. 

And  reads  the  milkmaid’s  fortune  in  her  hands, 

3U 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  CRABB*. 


POETS. 


Tracing  tlie  lines  of  life;  assumed  through  years, 
Kach  feature  now  the  steady  falsehood  wears; 

With  hiud  and  savage  eye  she  views  the  food, 

And  grudging  pinches  their  intruding  brood. 

Last  in  the  group,  the  worn-out  grandsire  sits 
Neglected,  lost,  and  living  but  by  fits; 

Useless,  despised,  his  worthless  labours  done. 

And  half-proteeted  by  the  vicious  son. 

Who  half-supports  him,  he  with  heavy  glance 
Views  the  young  ruffians  who  around  him  dance, 

Aiid,  by  the  sadness  in  his  face,  appears 
To  trace  the  progress  of  their  future  years; 

Through  what  strange  course  of  misery,  vice,  deceit. 
Must  wildly  wander  each  unpractised  cheat; 

M'hat  shame  and  grief,  what  punishment  and  pain. 
Sport  of  fierce  passions,  must  each  child  sustain, 

Ere  they  like  him  approach  their  latter  end. 

Without  a hope,  a comfort,  or  a friend  1 

{Ch'adual  Approacltes  of  Age.~^ 

[From  ‘ Tales  of  the  Hall.’] 

Six  years  had  passed,  and  forty  ere  the  six, 

When  time  began  to  play  his  usual  tricks ; 

The  locks  once  comely  in  a virgin’s  sight. 

Locks  of  pure  brown,  displayed  the  encroaching  white ; 
The  blood,  once  fervid,  now  to  cool  began. 

Ami  Time’s  strong  pressure  to  subdue  the  man, 

I rode  or  walked  as  I was  wont  before. 

But  now  the  bounding  spirit  was  no  more ; 

A moderate  pace  would  now  my  body  teat ; 

A walk  of  moderate  length  distress  my  feet. 

I showed  my  stranger  guest  those  hills  sublime. 

But  said,  ‘ The  view  is  poor ; we  need  not  climb.’ 

At  a friend’s  mansion  I began  to  dread 
The  cold  neat  parlour  and  the  gay  glazed  bed : 

At  home  I felt  a more  decided  taste. 

And  must  have  all  things  in  my  order  placed. 

I ceased  to  hunt ; my  horses  pleased  me  less— 

My  dinner  more ; 1 learned  to  play  at  chess. 

1 took  my  dog  and  gun,  but  saw  the  brute 
Was  disappointed  that  1 did  not  shoot. 

My  morning  walks  I now  could  bear  to  lose. 

And  blessed  the  shower  that  gave  me  not  to  choose : 
In  fact,  I felt  a languor  stealing  on  ; 

The  active  arm,  the  agile  hand,  were  gone ; 

Small  dally  actions  into  habits  grew. 

And  new  dislike  to  forms  and  fashions  new. 

I loved  my  trees  in  order  to  dispose ; 

I numbered  peaches,  looked  how  stocks  arose ; 

Told  the  same  story  oft — in  short,  began  to  prose. 

\_Song  of  the  Crased  Maiden.'] 

[From  the  same.] 

Let  me  not  have  this  gloomy  view 
About  my  room,  about  my  bed ; 

But  morning  roses,  wet  with  dew. 

To  cool  my  burning  brow  instead  ; 

As  flowers  that  once  in  Eden  grew. 

Let  them  their  fragrant  spirits  shed. 

And  every  day  their  sweets  renew. 

Till  I,  a fading  flower,  am  dead. 

0 let  the  herbs  I loved  to  rear 

Give  to  my  sense  their  perfumed  breath! 

Let  them  be  placed  about  my  bier. 

And  grace  the  gloomy  house  of  death. 

I’ll  have  my  grave  beneath  a hill. 

Where  only  Lucy’s  self  shall  know. 

Where  runs  the  pure  pellucid  rill 
Upon  its  gravelly  bed  below : 

There  violets  on  the  borders  blow. 

And  insects  their  soft  light  display. 

Till,  as  the  morning  sunbeams  glow. 

The  cold  phosphoric  fires  decay. 


That  is  the  grave  to  Lucy  shown  ; 

The  soil  a pure  and  silver  sand ; 

The  green  cold  moss  above  it  grown. 

Unplucked  of  all  but  maiden  hand. 

In  virgin  earth,  till  then  unturned. 

There  let  my  maiden  form  be  laid ; 

Nor  let  my  changed  clay  be  spurned, 

Nor  for  new  guest  that  bed  be  made. 

There  will  the  lark,  the  lamb,  in  sport, 

In  air,  on  earth,  securely  play  : 

And  Lucy  to  my  grave  resort. 

As  innocent,  but  not  so  gay. 

I w’ill  not  have  the  churchyard  ground 
With  bones  all  black  and  ugly  grown. 

To  press  my  shivering  body  round. 

Or  on  my  wasted  limbs  be  thrown. 

With  ribs  and  skulls  I will  not  sleep. 

In  clammy  beds  of  cold  blue  clay. 

Through  which  the  ringed  earth-worms  creep, 
And  on  the  shrouded  bosom  prey. 

I will  not  have  the  bell  proclaim 

When  those  sad  marriage  rites  begin. 

And  boys,  without  regard  or  shame. 

Press  the  vile  mouldering  masses  in. 

Say  not,  it  is  beneath  my  care — 

I cannot  these  cold  truths  allow ; 

These  thoughts  may  not  afflict  me  there, 

But  oh ! they  vex  and  tease  me  now  ! 

Raise  not  a turf,  nor  set  a stone. 

That  man  a maiden’s  grave  may  trace. 

But  thou,  my  Lucy,  come  alone. 

And  let  affection  find  the  place  ! 

\_Shetches  of  Autumn.] 

[From  the  same.] 

It  was  a fair  and  mild  autumnal  sky. 

And  earth’s  ripe  treasures  met  the  admiring  eye, 

As  a rich  beauty  when  her  bloom  is  lost. 

Appears  with  more  magnificence  and  cost: 

The  wet  and  heavy  grass,  where  feet  had  strayed 
Not  yet  erect,  the  wanderer’s  way  betrayed  ; 

Showers  of  the  night  had  swelled  the  deepening  rill, 
The  morning  breeze  had  urged  the  quickening  mill ; 
Assembled  rooks  had  winged  their  seaward  flight. 

By  the  same  passage  to  return  at  night. 

While  proudly  o’er  them  hung  the  steady  kite. 

Then  turned  them  back,  and  left  the  noisy  throng. 
Nor  deigned  to  know  them  as  he  sailed  along. 

Long  yellow  leaves,  from  osiers,  strewed  around. 
Choked  the  dull  stream,  and  hushed  its  feeble  sound. 
While  the  dead  foliage  dropt  from  loftier  trees. 

Our  squire  beheld  not  with  his  wonted  ease  ; 

But  to  his  own  reflections  made  reply. 

And  said  aloud,  ‘ Yes  ; doubtless  we  must  die.’ 

‘ We  must,’  said  Richard  ; ‘ and  we  would  not  live 
To  feel  what  dotage  and  decay  will  give  ; 

But  we  yet  taste  whatever  we  behold; 

The  morn  is  lovely,  though  the  air  is  cold: 

There  is  delicious  quiet  in  this  scene. 

At  once  so  rich,  so  varied,  so  serene; 

Sounds,  too,  delight  us — each  discordant  tone 
Thus  mingled  please,  that  fail  to  please  alone; 

This  hollow  wind,  this  rustling  of  the  brook. 

The  farm-yard  noise,  the  woodman  at  you  oak — 

See,  the  axe  falls  ! — now  listen  to  tlie  stroke; 

That  gun  itself,  that  murders  all  this  peace. 

Adds  to  the  charm,  because  it  soon  must  cease. 


Cold  grew  the  foggy  morn,  the  day  was  brief. 

Loose  on  the  cherry  hung  the  crimson  leaf : 

The  dew  dwelt  ever  on  the  herb  ; the  woods 
Roared  with  strong  blasts,  with  mighty  showers  th{ 
floods: 

31 S 


FROM  17«0  CYCLOP 


All  green  wiis  vaniHlied  save  of  pine  and  yew, 

That  still  displayed  their  melancholy  hue; 

Save  the  green  holly  with  its  berries  red, 

And  the  green  moss  that  o’er  the  gravel  spread. 

SAMDEL  ROUERS. 

There  is  a poetry  of  taste  as  well  as  of  the  pas- 
sions, which  can  only  be  relished  by  the  intellectual 
classes,  but  is  capable  of  irn])arting  exquisite  plea- 
sure to  those  who  have  the  key  to  its  hidden 
mysteries.  It  is  somewhat  akin  to  that  delicate 
appreciation  of  the  fine  arts,  or  of  music,  which  in 
some  men  amounts  to  almost  a new  sense.  Mr 
Samuel  Rogers,  author  of  the  Pleasures  of  Memory, 
may  be  considered  a votary  of  this  school  of  refine- 
ment. We  have  everywhere  in  his  works  a classic 
and  graceful  beauty  ; no  slovenly  or  obscure  lines  ; 
fine  cabinet  pictures  of  soft  and  mellow  lustre;  and 
occasionally  trains  of  thought  and  association  that 
awaken  or  recall  tender  and  heroic  feelings.  Ilis 
diction  is  clear  and  polished — finished  with  great 
care  and  scrupulous  nicety.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
must  be  admitted  that  he  has  n'o  forcible  or  original 
invention,  no  deep  pathos  that  thrills  the  soul,  and 
no  kindling  energy  that  fires  the  imagination.  In 
his  shadowy  poem  of  Columbus,  he  seems  often  to 
verge  on  the  sublime,  but  does  not  attain  it.  His 
late  w'orks  are  his  best.  Parts  of  Human  Life  pos- 
sess deeper  feeling  than  are  to  be  found  in  the 
‘ Pleasures  of  Memory  and  in  the  easy  half  con- 
versational sketches  of  his  Italy,  there  are  delightful 
glimpses  of  Italian  life,  and  scenery,  and  old  tradi- 
tions. The  poet  was  an  accomplished  traveller,  a 
lover  of  the  fair  and  good,  and  a worshipper  of  the 
classic  glories  of  the  past.  The  life  of  Mr  Rogers 
has  been  as  calm  and  felicitous  as  his  poetry : he 
has  for  more  than  half  a century  maintained  his 
place  in  our  national  literature.  He  was  born  at 
Newington  Green,  a village  now  included  in  the 
growing  vastness  of  London,  in  the  year  1762.  His 
father  (well-known  and  respected  among  the  dissen- 
ters) was  a banker  by  profession ; and  the  poet, 
after  a careful  private  education,  w'as  introduced 
into  the  banking  establishment,  of  which  he  is  still 
a partner.  He  was  fixed  in  his  determination  of  be- 
coming a poet  by  the  perusal  of  Beattie’s  Minstrel, 
when  he  was  only  nine  years  of  age.  His  boyish 
enthusiasm  led  him  also  to  sigh  for  an  interview 
with  Dr  Johnson,  and  to  attain  this,  he  twice  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  door  of  Johnson’s  well-known 
house  in  Bolt  Court,  Fleet  Street.  On  the  first 
occasion  the  great  moralist  was  not  at  home  ; and 
the  second  time,  after  he  had  rung  the  bell,  the 
heart  of  the  young  aspirant  misgave  him,  and  he 
retreated  without  waiting  for  the  servant.  Rogers 

was  then  in  his  fourteenth  year.  Notwithstanding 
the  proverbial  roughness  of  Johnsons  manner,  we 
have  no  doubt  he  would  have  been  flattered  by  this 
instance  of  youthful  admiration,  and  w'ould  have 
received  his  intended  visitor  with  fatherly  kindness 
and  affection.  Mr  Rogers  appeared  as  an  author  in 
1786,  the  same  year  that  witnessed  the  glorious 
advent  of  Burns.  The  production  of  Rogers  was  a 
thin  quarto  of  a few  pages,  an  Ode  to  Superstition, 
and  other  poems.  In  1792  he  produced  the ‘Plea- 
sures of  Memory  ;’  in  1812  the  ‘Voyage  of  Colum- 
bus’ (a  fragment);  and  in  1814  Jacqueline,  z.  ta\e, 
published  in  conjunction  with  Byron’s  Lara- 
Like  morning  brought  by  night. 


il'lDIA  OF  TILL  THE  PRESE.NT  TIME. 


In  1819  appeared  ‘ Human  Life,’  and  in  1822  ‘Italy,’ 
a descriptive  poem  in  blank  verso.  The  collected  I 
works  of  Mr  Rogers  have  been  published  in  various  | 
forms — one  of  tliem  containing  vignette  engravings 
from  designs  by  Stotliard,  ami  forming  no  incon- 
siderable trophy  of  British  art.  'The  poet  has  been 
enabled  to  cultivate  his  favourite  tastes,  to  enrich 
his  house  in  St  James’s  I’lace  with  some  of  the 


House  of  Mr  Rogers  in  St  James’s  Place. 


finest  and  rarest  pictures,  busts,  books,  and  gems, 
and  to  entertain  his  friends  with  a generous  and 
unostentatious  hospitality.  His  conversation  is  rich 
and  various,  abounding  in  wit,  eloquence,  shrewd 
observation,  and  interesting  personal  anecdote.  He 
has  been  familiar  with  almost  every  distinguished 
author,  orator,  and  artist  for  the  last  forty  years. 
Perhaps  no  single  individual  has  had  so  many  works 
dedicated  to  him  as  memorials  of  friendship  or  ad- 
miration. It  is  gratifying  to  mention,  that  his 
benevolence  is  equal  to  his  taste  : his  bounty  soothed 
and  relieved  the  deathbed  of  Sheridan,  and  is  now 
exerted  to  a large  extent,  annually,  in  behalf  of  suf- 
fering or  unfriended  talent. 

Nature  denied  him  much. 

But  gave  him  at  his  birth  what  most  he  values : 

A passionate  love  for  music,  sculpture,  painting, 
For  poetry,  the  language  of  the  gods. 

For  all  things  here,  or  grand  or  beautiful, 

A setting  sun,  a lake  among  the  mountains. 

The  light  of  an  ingenuous  countenance. 

And,  what  transcends  them  all,  a noble  action. 

Italj,. 

[From  the  ‘ Pleasures  of  Memory.’] 

Twilight’s  .soft  dews  steal  o’er  the  village  green, 

With  magic  tin's  to  harmonise  the  scene. 

Stilled  is  the  hum  that  through  the  hamlet  broke, 
When  round  the  ruins  of  their  ancient  oak 

316 


fORTS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  Samuel  rocebs. 


The  peasants  flocked  to  hear  the  minstrel  play, 

Anil  j;ames  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 

Her  wheel  at  rest,  the  matron  thrills  no  more 
With  treasured  tales  and  legendary  lore. 

All,  all  are  fled ; nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 

All,  all  are  fled;  yet  still  1 linger  here! 

What  secret. eliarms  this  silent  spot  endear? 

Mark  yon  old  mansion  frowning  through  the  trees, 
Whose  hollow  turret  woos  the  whistling  breeze. 

That  casement,  arched  with  ivy’s  brownest  shade, 
First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  conveyed. 

The  mouldering  gateway  strews  the  grass-growm  court. 
Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a simple  sport; 

When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new. 

And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 

See,  through  the  fractured  pediment  revealed. 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely  sculptured  shield. 

The  martin’s  old  hereditary  nest. 

I.ongmay  the  ruin  spare  its  hallowed  guest! 

♦ * * 

Childhood’s  loved  group  revisits  every  scene. 

The  tangled  wood-walk  and  the  tufted  green! 
Indulgent  Memory  wakes,  and  lo,  they  live! 

Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  light  can  give. 

Thou  first,  best  friend  that  Heaven  assigns  below. 

To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know; 

Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm. 

When  nature  fades  and  life  forgets  to  charm; 

Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke! — to  thee  belong 
The  sage’s  precept  and  the  poet’s  song. 

What  softened  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 

When  o’er  the  landscape  Time’s  meek  twilight  steals! 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orh  of  day, 

Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play; 

Thy  tempered  gleams  of  happiness  resigned. 

Glance  on  the  darkened  mirror  of  the  mind. 

The  school’s  lone  porch,  with  reverend  mosses  gray. 
Just  tells  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
ilute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn. 
Quickening  my'truant  feet  across  the  latvn: 

Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air, 

When  the  slow  dial  gave  a pause  to  care. 

Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a tear. 

Some  little  friendship  formed  and  cherished  here; 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions  and  romantic  dreams. 

Down  by  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  gipsy’s  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed; 

Gazed  on  her  sun-burnt  face  with  silent  awe. 

Her  tattered  mantle  and  her  hood  of  straw; 

Her  moving  lips,  her  cauldron  brimming  o’er; 

The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore. 

Imps  in  the  barn  with  mousing  owlets  bred. 

From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed; 

Whose  dark  eyes  flashed  through  locks  of  blackest 
shade. 

When  in  the  breeze  the  distant  watch-dog  bayed: 

And  heroes  fled  the  sibyl’s  muttered  call, 

AVhose  elfin  prowess  scaled  the  orchard  wall. 

As  o’er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew. 

And  traced  the  line  of  life  with  searching  view. 

How  throbbed  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes  and  fears. 
To  learn  the  colour  of  my  future  years ! 

Ah,  then,  what  honest  triumph  flushed  my  breast; 
This  truth  once  kno^vn — to  bless  is  to  be  blest! 

M'e  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way 
(Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-gray). 

Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt. 

And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt: 

As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  little  store. 

And  sighed  to  think  that  little  was  no  more. 

He  breathed  his  prayer,  ‘Long  may  such  goodness  live !’ 
’Twas  all  he  gave — ’twas  all  he  had  to  give. 

* * 

Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore; 

From  Reason’s  faintest  ray  to  Newton  soar. 


Wliat  different  spheres  to  human  bliss  assigned! 
Wliat  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind  I 
Yet  mark  in  each  tliese  mystic  wonders  wrought; 

Oh  mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought ! 

The  adventurous  boy  that  asks  his  little  share. 

And  hies  from  home  with  many  a gossip’s  prayer. 
Turns  on  the  neighbouring  hill,  once  more  to  see 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  privacy  ; 

And  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees. 

The  smoke’s  blue  wreaths  ascending  with  the  breeze. 
The  village-common  spotted  white  with  sheep. 

The  churchyard  yews  round  which  his  fathers  sleep; 
All*rouse  Reflection’s  sadly  pleasing  train. 

And  oft  he  looks  and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

So,  when  the  mild  Tupia  dared  explore 
Arts  yet  untaught,  and  worlds  unknown  before, 

And,  with  the  sons  of  Science,  wooed  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swelled  their  strange  expanse  of  sail  ; 
So,  W'hen  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu. 

Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carved  canoe. 

And  all  his  soul  best  loved — such  tears  he  shed. 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer-beauty  fled. 

Long  o’er  the  wave  a wistful  look  he  cast. 

Long  watched  the  streaming  signal  from  the  mast; 
Till  twilight’s  dewy  tints  deceived  his  eye, 

And  fairy  forests  fringed  the  evening  sky. 

So  Scotia’s  queen,  as  slowly  dawned  the  day, 

Rose  on  her  couch,  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 

Her  eyes  had  blessed  the  beacon’s  glimmering  height 
That  faintly  tipped  the  feathery  surge  with  light; 
But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  portrayed 
Each  castled  cliff  and  brown  monastic  shade : 

All  touched  the  talisman’s  resistless  spring. 

And  lo,  what  busy  tribes  were  instant  on  the  wing! 

Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire, 

As  summer-clouds  flash  forth  electric  fire. 

And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of  youth. 
Warm  as  the  life,  and  with  the  mirror’s  truth. 

Hence  home-felt  pleasure  prompts  the  patriot’s 
sigh ; 

This  makes  him  wish  to  live,  and  dare  to  die. 

For  this  young  Foscari,  whose  hapless  fate 
Venice  should  blush  to  hear  the  Muse  relate, 

When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away. 

To  sorrow’s  long  soliloquies  a prey. 

When  reason,  justice,  vainly  urged  his  cause. 

For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws  ; 

Glad  to  return,  though  Hope  could  grant  no  more. 
And  chains  and  torture  hailed  him  to  the  shore. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart; 

Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 

Aerial  forms  in  Tempe’s  classic  vale 

Glance  through  the  gloom  and  whisper  in  the  gale; 

In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  Laura  dwell. 

And  w'atch  and  weep  in  Eloisa’s  cell. 

’Twas  ever  thus.  Y oung  Ammon,  when  he  sought 
Where  Ilium  stood,  and  where  Pelides  fought. 

Sat  at  the  helm  himself.  No  meaner  hand 
Steered  through  the  waves,  and  when  he  struck  the 
land. 

Such  in  his  soul  the  ardour  to  explore, 

Pelides-like,  he  leaped  the  first  ashore. 

’Twas  ever  thus.  As  now  at  Virgil’s  tomb 
W e bless  the  shade,  and  bid  the  verdure  bloom  : 

So  Tully  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time, 

On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  sublime  ; 

When  at  his  feet  in  honoured  dust  disclosed. 

The  immortal  sage  of  Syracuse  reposed. 

And  as  he  long  in  sweet  delusion  hung 
Where  once  a Plato  taught,  a Pindar  sung; 

Who  now  but  meets  him  musing,  when  he  rovee 
His  ruined  Tusculan’s  romantic  groves  ? 

In  Rome’s  great  forum,  who  hut  hears  him  roll 
His  moral  thunders  o’er  the  subject  soul? 

And  hence  that  calm  delight  the  portrait  give* : 
We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives! 

317 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


FROM  17f!0  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid; 

And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  his  shade ! 

Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep, 

When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep: 
Tremblingly  still,  she  lifts  his  veil  to  trace 
The  fatlicr’s  features  in  his  infant  face. 

The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away, 

Won  by  the  raptures  of  a game  at  play; 
lie  bends  to  meet  each  artless  burst  of  joy. 

Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 

What  though  the  iron  school  of  war  erase 
Each  milder  virtue,  and  each  softer  grace; 

What  though  tlie  fiend’s  torpedo-touch  arrest 
Each  gentler,  finer  impulse  of  the  breast; 

Still  shall  this  active  principle  preside. 

And  wake  the  tear  to  Pity’s  self  denied. 

The  intrepid  Swiss,  who  guards  a foreign  shore, 
Condemned  to  climb  his  mountain-cliffs  no  more. 

If  chance  he  hears  the  song  so  sweetly  wild 
Which  on  those  cliffs  his  infant  hours  beguiled. 
Melts  at  the  long-lost  .scenes  that  round  him  rise. 
And  sinks  a martyr  to  repentant  sighs. 

A.sk  not  if  courts  or  camps  di.ssolve  the  charm: 
Say  why  Vespasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm? 

Why  great  Navarre,  when  France  and  freedom  bled. 
Sought  the  lone  limits  of  a forest-shed? 

When  Dioclesi.an’s  self-corrected  mind 
The  imperial  fasces  of  a world  resigned. 

Say  why  we  trace  the  labours  of  his  spade 
In  calm  Salona’s  philosophic  shade? 

Say,  when  contentious  Charles  renounced  a throne, 
To  muse  with  monks  unlettered  and  unknown. 

What  from  his  soul  the  parting  tribute  drew  ? 

What  claimed  the  sorrows  of  a last  adieu? 

The  still  retreats  that  soothed  his  tranquil  breast 
Ere  grandeur  dazzled,  and  its  cares  oppressed. 

Undamped  by  time,  the  generous  Instinct  glows 
Far  as  Angola’s  .sands,  as  Zerabla’s  snows; 

Glows  in  the  tiger’s  den,  the  serpent’s  nest, 

On  every  form  of  varied  life  impressed. 

The  social  tribes  its  choicest  influence  hail : 

And  when  the  drum  beats  briskly  in  the  gale, 

The  war-worn  courser  charges  at  the  sound. 

And  with  young  vigour  wheels  the  pasture  round. 

Oft  has  the  aged  tenant  of  the  vale 
Le.aned  on  his  staff  to  lengthen  out  the  tale; 

Oft  have  his  lips  the  grateful  tribute  breathed. 

From  sire  to  son  wdth  pious  zeal  bequeathed. 

When  o’er  the  blasted  heath  the  day  declined. 

And  on  the  scathed  oak  warred  the  winter-wind; 
When  not  a distant  taper’s  twdnkling  ray 
Gleamed  o’er  the  furze  to  light  him  on  his  way ; 
When  not  a sheep-bell  soothed  his  listening  ear. 
And  the  big  rain-drops  told  the  tempest  near ; 

Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry. 

The  track  that  shunned  his  sad  inquiring  eye; 

And  win  each  wavering  purpose  to  relent. 

With  warmth  so  mild,  so  gently  violent. 

That  his  charmed  hand  the  careless  rein  resigned. 
And  doubts  and  terrors  vanished  from  his  mind. 

Recall  the  traveller,  whose  altered  form 
Has  borne  the  buffet  of  the  mountain-storm; 

And  who  will  first  his  fond  impatience  meet  ? 

His  faithful  dog’s  already  at  his  feet! 

Yes,  though  the  porter  .spurn  him  from  the  door. 
Though  all  that  knew  liim  know  his  face  no  more. 
His  faithful  dog  shall  tell  his  joy  to  each. 

With  that  mute  eloquence  which  passes  speech. 

And  see,  the  master  but  returns  to  die  ! 

Yet  w’ho  shall  bid  the  watchful  servant  fly? 

The  blasts  of  heaven,  the  drenching  dews  of  earth. 
The  wanton  insults  of  unfeeling  mirth. 

These,  when  to  guard  Misfortune’s  sacred  grave, 
WiT  firm  Fidelity  exult  to  brave. 

Led  by  what  chart,  tr.ansports  the  timid  dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest  or  the  vows  of  love  ? 


Say,  through  the  clouds  what  compass  points  her 
flight? 

Monarchs  have  gazed,  and  nations  blessed  the  sight. 
Pile  rocks  on  rock.s,  bid  woods  and  mountains  rise. 
Eclipse  her  native  shades,  her  native  skies : 

’Tis  vain!  through  ether’s  pathless  wild  she  goes. 

And  lights  at  last  where  all  her  cares  repose. 

Sweet  bird!  thy  truth  shall  Harlem’s  walls  attest, 
And  unborn  ages  consecrate  thy  nest. 

When,  with  the  silent  energy  of  grief. 

With  looks  that  asked,  yet  dared  not  hope  relief. 
Want  with  her  babes  round  generous  Valour  clung. 
To  wring  the  slow  surrender  from  his  tongue, 

’Twas  thine  to  animate  her  closing  eye ; 

Alas  ! ’twas  thine  perchance  tlie  first  to  die. 

Crushed  by  her  meagre  hand  when  welcomed  from  the 
sky. 

Hark!  the  bee  winds  her  small  but  mellow  bom. 
Blithe  to  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  morn. 

O’er  thymy  downs  she  bends  her  busy  course. 

And  many  a stream  allures  her  to  its  source. 

’Tis  noon — ’tis  night.  That  eye  so  finely  wrought. 
Beyond  the  search  of  sense,  the  soar  of  thought. 

Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind; 

Its  orb  so  full,  its  vision  so  confined  ! 

Who  guides  the  patient  pilgrim  to  her  cell? 

Who  bids  her  soul  with  conscious  triumph  swell  ? 
With  conscious  truth  retrace  the  mazy  clue 
Of  summer-scents,  that  charmed  her  as  she  flew  ? 

Hail,  Memory,  hail!  thy  universal  reign 
Guards  the  least  link  of  Being’s  glorious  chain. 

♦ * ♦ 

As  the  stem  grandeur  of  a Gothic  tower 
Awes  us  less  deeply  in  its  morning-hour. 

Than  when  the  shades  of  Time  serenely  fall 
On  every  broken  arch  and  ivied  wall ; 

The  tender  images  we  love  to  trace 
Steal  from  each  year  a melancholy  grace! 

And  as  the  sparks  of  social  love  expand. 

As  the  heart  opens  in  a foreign  land ; 

And,  with  a brother’s  warmth,  a brother’s  smile. 

The  stranger  greets  each  native  of  his  isle ; 

So  scenes  of  life,  when  present  and  confest. 

Stamp  but  their  bolder  features  on  the  breast ; 

Yet  not  an  image,  when  remotely  viewed. 

However  trivial,  and  however  rude. 

But  wins  the  heart,  and  wakes  the  social  sigh. 

With  every  claim  of  close  affinity ! 

* * * 

Hail,  Memory,  hail ! in  thy  exhaustless  mine 
From  age  to  age  unnumbered  treasures  shine  ! 
Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy  call  obey. 

And  Place  and  Time  are  subject  to  thy  sway ! 

Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel  when  most  alone ; 

The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 

Lighter  than  air,  Hope’s  summer-visions  die. 

If  but  a fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky ; 

If  but  a beam  of  sober  Reason  play, 

Lo,  Fancy’s  fairy  frost-work  melts  away  ! 

But  can  the  wiles  of  Art,  the  grasp  of  Power, 

Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a well-spent  hour? 

These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight. 
Pour  round  her  path  a stream  of  living  light ; 

And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of  rest. 

Where  Virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blest ! 

[Frcrni  ‘ Human  Zi/c.’] 

The  lark  has  sung  his  carol  in  the  .sky. 

The  bees  have  hummed  their  noontide  lullaby ; 

Still  in  the  vale  the  village  bells  ring  round. 

Still  in  Llewellyn  hall  the  jests  resound  ; 

For  now  the  c.audle-cup  is  circling  there. 

Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their  prayer, 
And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire 
The  babe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire. 

318 


rorn. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  ROGK»S. 


A few  short  years,  and  then  these  sounds  shall  hail 
The  day  again,  and  gladness  fill  the  vale ; 

So  soon  the  child  a youth,  the  youth  a man, 

Kagcr  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran. 

Then  the  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sirloin  ; 

Tlie  ale,  now  brewed,  in  floods  of  amber  shine ; 

And,  basking  in  the  chimney’s  ample  blaze, 

’Jlid  many  a tale  told  of  his  boyish  days. 

The  nurse  shall  cry,  of  all  her  ills  beguiled, 

‘ ’Twas  on  her  knees  he  sat  so  oft  and  smiled.’ 

And  soon  again  shall  music  swell  the  breeze  ; 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the  trees 
^’estures  of  nuptial  white;  and  hymns  be  sung. 

And  violets  scattered  round ; and  old  and  young, 

In  every  cottage-porch  with  garlands  green. 

Stand  still  to  gaze,  and,  gazing,  bless  the  scene, 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side. 

Moves  in  her  virgin  veil  the  gentle  bride. 

And  once,  alas  1 nor  in  a distant  hour. 

Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower ; 

When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  weeds  are  seen, 
And  weeping  heaid  where  only  joy  has  been  ; 

When,  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door. 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more. 

He  rests  in  holy  earth  with  them  that  went  before. 

And  such  is  human  life;  so  gliding  on. 

It  glimmers  like  a meteor,  and  is  gone  1 
Y et  is  the  tale,  brief  though  it  be,  as  strange. 

As  full,  methinks,  of  wild  and  wonderous  change. 
As  any  that  the  wandering  tribes  require. 

Stretched  in  the  desert  round  their  evening  fire ; 

As  any  sung  of  old,  in  hall  or  bower. 

To  minstrel-harps  at  midnight’s  witching  hour ! 

# » * 

The  day  arrives,  the  moment  wished  and  feared ; 
The  child  is  born,  by  many  a pang  endeared. 

And  now  the  mother’s  ear  has  caught  his  cry ; 

Oh  grant  the  cherub  to  her  asking  eye  1 

He  comes — she  clasps  him.  To  her  bosom  pressed. 

He  drinks  the  balm  of  life,  and  drops  to  rest. 

Her  by  her  smile  how  soon  the  stranger  knows  1 
How  soon  by  his  the  glad  discovery  shows! 

As  to  her  lips  she  lifts  the  lovely  boy, 

What  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy ! 

He  walks,  he  speaks.  In  many  a broken  word 
His  wants,  his  wishes,  and  his  griefs  are  heard. 

And  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies, 

AV'hen  rosy  Sleep  comes  on  with  sweet  surprise. 
Locked  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  flung 
(That  name  most  dear  for  ever  on  his  tongue). 

As  with  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clings. 

And,  cheek  to  cheek,  her  lulling  song  she  sings, 

How  blest  to  feel  the  beatings  of  his  heart. 

Breathe  his  sweet  breath,  and  kiss  for  kiss  impart ; 
Watch  o’er  his  slumbers  like  the  brooding  dove, 
And,  if  she  can,  exhaust  a mother’s  love! 

But  soon  a nobler  task  demands  her  care. 

Apart  she  joins  his  little  hands  in  prayer, 

Telling  of  Him  who  sees  in  secret  there  ! 

And  now  the  volume  on  her  knee  has  caught 
His  wandering  eye — now  many  a written  thought 
Never  to  die,  with  many  a lisping  sweet. 

His  moving,  murmuring  lips  endeavovir  to  repeat. 

I From  ‘ The  Voyage  of  Columhm.''\ 

The  sails  were  furled;  with  many  a melting  close. 
Solemn  and  slow  the  evening  anthem  rose. 

Rose  to  the  Virgin.  ’Twas  the  hour  of  day. 

When  setting  suns  o’er  summer  seas  display 
A path  of  glory,  opening  in  the  west 
To  golden  climes  and  islands  of  the  blest ; 

And  human  voices,  on  the  silent  air, 

W ent  o’er  the  waves  in  songs  of  gladness  there ! 

Chosen  of  men ! ’Twas  thine,  at  noon  of  night. 
First  from  the  prow  to  hail  the  glimmering  light : 


(Emblem  of  Truth  divine,  «hose  secret  ray 
Enters  the  soul  and  makes  the  darkness  day!) 

‘ Pedro ! Rodrigo ! there  methought  it  shone  ! 

There — in  the  west ! and  now,  alas!  ’tis  gone ! — 
’Twas  all  a dream ! we  gaze  and  gaze  in  vain ! 

But  mark  and  speak  not,  there  it  comes  again  I 
It  moves! — what  form  unseen,  what  being  there 
With  torch-like  lustre  fires  the  murky  air? 

His  instincts,  passions,  say,  how  like  our  own  I 
Oh ! when  will  day  reveal  a world  unknown  V 
Long  on  the  deep  the  mists  of  morning  lay. 

Then  rose,  revealing  as  they  rolled  away 
Half-circling  hills,  whose  everlasting  woods 
Sweep  with  their  sable  skirts  the  shadowy  floods : 
And  say,  when  all,  to  holy  transport  given. 

Embraced  and  wept  as  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 

W'hen  one  and  all  of  us,  repentant,  ran. 

And,  on  our  faces,  blessed  the  wondrous  man ; 

Say,  was  I then  deceived,  or  from  the  skies 
Burst  on  my  ear  seraphic  harmonies  1 
‘ Glory  to  God  !’  unnumbered  voices  sung, 

‘ Glory  to  God !’  the  vales  and  mountains  rung. 
Voices  that  hailed  creation’s  primal  morn. 

And  to  the  shepherds  sung  a Saviour  born. 

Slowly,  bareheaded,  through  the  surf  we  bore 
The  sacred  cross,  and,  kneeling,  kissed  the  shore. 

But  what  a scene  was  there  ! Nymphs  of  romance. 
Youths  graceful  as  the  fawn,  with  eager  glance. 
Spring  from  the  glades,  and  down  the  alleys  peep. 
Then  headlong  rush,  bounding  from  steep  to  steep. 
And  clap  their  hands,  exclaiming  as  they  run, 

‘ Come  and  behold  the  Children  of  the  Sun !’ 

When  hark,  a signal  shot ! The  voice,  it  came 
Over  the  sea  in  darkness  and  in  flame  ! 

They  saw,  they  heard;  and  up  the  highest  hill. 

As  in  a picture,  all  at  once  were  still ! 

Creatures  so  fair,  in  garments  strangely  wrought. 
From  citadels,  with  Heaven’s  own  thunder  fraught, 
Checked  their  light  footsteps — statue-like  they 
stood 

As  worshipped  forms,  the  Genii  of  the  Wood ! 

At  length  the  spell  dissolves!  The  warrior’s  lance 
Rings  on  the  tortoise  with  wild  dissonance ! 

And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  state ! 

Still  where  it  moves  the  wise  in  council  wait ! 

See  now  borne  forth  the  monstrous  mask  of  gold. 

And  ebon  chair  of  many  a serpent-fold ; 

These  now  exchanged  for  gifts  that  thrice  surpass 
The  wondrous  ring,  and  lamp,  and  horse  of  brass. 
What  long-drawn  tube  transports  the  gazer  home, 
Kindling  with  stars  at  noon  the  ethereal  dome ! 

’Tis  here:  and  here  circles  of  solid  light 
Charm  with  another  self  the  cheated  sight; 

As  man  to  man  another  self  disclose. 

That  now  with  terror  starts,  with  triumph  glows ! 
Then  Cora  came,  the  youngest  of  her  race. 

And  in  her  hands  she  hid  her  lovely  face ; 

Yet  oft  by  stealth  a timid  glance  she  cast. 

And  now  with  playful  step  the  mirror  passed. 

Each  bright  reflection  brighter  than  the  last ! 

And  oft  behind  it  flew,  and  oft  before  ; 

The  more  she  searched,  pleased  and  perplexed  the 
more ! 

And  looked  and  laughed,  and  blushed  with  quick 
surprise ! 

Her  lips  all  mirth,  all  ecstacy  her  eyes ! 

But  soon  the  telescope  attracts  her  view ; 

And  lo,  her  lover  in  his  light  canoe 
Rocking,  at  noontide,  on  the  silent  sea. 

Before  her  lies ! It  cannot,  cannot  be. 

Late  as  he  left  the  shore,  she  lingered  tbere, 

Till,  less  and  less,  he  melted  into  air ! 

Sigh  after  sigh  steals  from  her  gentle  frame. 

And  say — that  murmur — was  it  not  his  name  f 
She  turns,  and  thinks,  and,  lost  in  wild  amaze, 

Gazes  again,  and  could  for  ever  gaze ! 

31b 


PROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  TIIR  PRESENT  TUIR. 


[Ginevra.'] 

[From  ‘ Italy.”] 

If  thou  shouldst  ever  come  by  choice  or  chance 
To  Modena,  where  still  religiously 
Among  her  ancient  trophies  is  preserved 
Ilologna’s  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandiue), 

Stop  at  a palace  near  the  Heggio-gate, 

Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini. 

Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 

And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 

Will  long  detain  thee;  through  their  arched  walks, 
Dim,  at  noonday,  discovering  many  a glimpse 
Of  knights  and  dames,  such  as  in  old  romance, 

And  lovers,  such  as  in  heroic  song. 

Perhaps  the  two,  for  groves  were  tlieir  delight, 

That  in  the  spring-time,  as  alone  they  sat. 

Venturing  together  on  a tale  of  love. 

Read  only  part  that  day.  A .summer  sun 
Sets  ere  one  half  is  seen;  but,  ere  thou  go. 

Enter  the  house — prithee,  forget  it  not — 

And  look  awhile  upon  a picture  there. 

’Tis  of  a lady  in  her  earliest  youth. 

The  very  last  of  that  illustrious  race. 

Done  by  Zampieri — but  by  whom  I care  not. 
lie  who  observes  it,  ere  he  passes  on. 

Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again. 

That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak. 

Her  lips  half-open,  and  her  finger  up. 

As  though  she  said  ‘ Beware!’  Her  vest  of  gold 
’Broidered  with  flowers,  and  clasped  from  head  to  foot. 
An  emerald-stone  in  every  golden  clasp  ; 

And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 

A coronet  of  pearls.  But  then  her  face. 

So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth. 

The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart — 

It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a year  has  fled, 

Like  some  wild  melody  ! 

Alone  it  hangs 

Over  a mouldering  heir-loom,  its  companion, 

An  oaken-chest,  half  eaten  by  the  worm. 

But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  Scripture-stories  from  the  life  of  Christ ; 

A chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  ancestor. 

That  by  the  way — it  may  be  true  or  false — 

But  don’t  forget  the  picture;  and  thou  wilt  not. 

When  thou  hast  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child;  from  infancy 
The  jo}-,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  sire. 

Her  mother  dying  of  the  gift  she  gave. 

That  precious  gift,  what  else  remained  to  him  ? 

The  young  Ginevra  was  his  all  in  life. 

Still  as  she  grew,  for  ever  in  his  sight ; 

And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a bride. 

Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 

Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress. 

She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaiety. 

Her  pranks  tlie  favourite  theme  of  every  tongue. 

But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour ; 

Now,  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time. 

The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  decorum  ; 

And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy;  but  at  the  bridal  feast. 

When  all  sat  down,  the  bride  was  wanting  there. 

Nor  was  she  to  be  found ! Her  father  cried, 

‘ ’Tis  but  to  make  a trial  of  our  love !’ 

And  filled  his  glass  to  all ; but  his  hand  shook, 

And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 

’Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Franceses, 
Laughing  and  looking  ba/:k,  and  flying  still, 


Her  ivory-tooth  imprinted  on  bis  finger. 

But  now,  alas ! she  was  not  to  be  found  ; 

Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  be  guessed 
But  that  she  was  not  I VV'eary  of  his  life, 
Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and  forthwith 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk 
Orsini  lived;  and  long  miglitst  thou  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  aS  in  quest  of  something. 
Something  he  could  not  find — he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantlcss — then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgot, 

M'hen  on  an  idle  day,  a day  of  search 
’Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  gallery. 

That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed ; and  ’twas  said 
By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 

‘Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking  place?’ 

’Twas  done  as  soon  as  said;  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell;  and  lo,  a skeleton. 

With  here  and  there  a jiearl,  an  emerald-stone, 

A golden  clasp,  clasping  a shred  of  gold  ! 

All  else  had  perished — save  a nuptial  ring. 

And  a small  seal,  her  mother’s  legacy. 

Engraven  with  a name,  the  name  of  both, 

‘ Ginevra.’  There  then  had  she  found  a grave! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself. 
Fluttering  with  joy  the  happiest  of  the  happy; 
When  a spring-lock  that  lay  in  ambush  there. 
Fastened  her  down  forever! 

An  Italian  Song. 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale. 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there; 

Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 
To  every  passing  villager. 

The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree. 

And  shells  his  nuts  at  liberty. 

In  orange  groves  and  myrtle  bowers. 

That  breathe  a gale  of  fragrance  round, 

I charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 
With  my  loved  lute’s  romantic  sound; 

Or  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd’s  horn  at  break  of  day. 

The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade. 

The  canzonet  and  roundelay 
Sung  in  the  silent  greenwood  shade; 

These  simple  joys  that  never  fail. 

Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 

To  the  Hidtcrfly. 

Child  of  the  sun  I pursue  thy  rapturous  flight. 
Mingling  with  her  thou  lov’st  in  fields  of  light; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  paradise  unfold. 

Quaff  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold. 

There  shall  thy  w'ings,  rich  as  an  evening  sky. 
Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstacy ! 

Yet  wert  thou  once  a worm,  a thing  that  crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a tomb  and  slept 
And  such  is  man ; soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day. 

Written  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland — 1812. 

Blue  was  the  loch,  the  clouds  were  gone, 
Ben-Lomond  in  his  glory  shone. 

When,  Luss,  I left  thee ; when  the  breeze 
Bore  me  from  thy  silver  sands. 

Thy  kirkyard  wall  among  the  trees. 

Where,  gray  with  age,  the  dial  stands; 

That  dial  so  well-known  to  me  ! 

Though  many  a shadow  it  had  shed. 

Beloved  sister,  since  with  thee 
The  legend  on  the  stone  was  read. 

sao 


rOKTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


The  fairy  isles  fled  far  away; 

That  with  its  woods  and  uplands  green, 

Where  shepherd-huts  are  dimly  seen, 

And  songs  are  heard  at  close  of  day; 

That,  too,  the  deer’s  wild  covert  fled. 

And  that,  the  asylum  of  the  dead  ; 

While,  as  the  boat  went  merrily. 

Much  of  Rob  Roy  the  boatman  told; 

His  arm  that  fell  below  his  knee. 

His  cattle  ford  and  mountain  hold. 

Tarbat,'  thy  shore  1 climbed  at  last ; 

And,  thy  shady  region  passed. 

Upon  another  shore  I stood. 

And  looked  upon  another  flood 
Great  Ocean’s  self!  (’Tis  he  who  fills 
That  vast  and  awful  depth  of  hills) ; 

■Where  many  an  elf  was  playing  round, 

Who  treads  unshod  his  classic  ground; 

And  speaks,  his  native  rocks  among. 

As  Fingal  spoke,  and  Ossian  sung. 

Night  fell,  and  dark  and  darker  grew 
That  narrow  sea,  that  narrow  sky, 

As  o’er  the  glimmering  waves  we  flew. 

The  sea-bird  rustling,  wailing  by. 

And  now  the  grampus,  half-descried. 

Black  and  huge  above  the  tide; 

The  cliffs  and  promontories  there. 

Front  to  front,  and  broad  and  bare; 

Each  beyond  each,  with  giant  feet 
Advancing  as  in  haste  to  meet; 

The  shattered  fortress,  whence  the  Dane 
Blew  his  shrill  blast,  nor  rushed  in  vain. 

Tyrant  of  the  drear  domain; 

All  into  midnight  shadow  sweep. 

When  day  springs  upward  from  the  deep  ! 
Kindling  the  waters  in  its  flight. 

The  prow  wakes  splendour,  and  the  oar. 

That  rose  and  fell  unseen  before. 

Flashes  in  a sea  of  light; 

Glad  sign  and  sure,  for  now  we  hail 
Thy  flowers,  Glenfinnart,  in  the  gale ; 

And  bright  indeed  the  path  should  be. 

That  leads  to  Friendship  and  to  Thee! 

Oh  blest  retreat,  and  sacred  too ! 

Sacred  as  when  the  bell  of  prayer 
Tolled  duly  on  the  desert  air. 

And  crosses  decked  thy  summits  blue. 

Oft  like  some  loved  romantic  tale. 

Oft  shall  my  weary  mind  recall. 

Amid  the  hum  and  stir  of  men. 

Thy  beechen  grove  and  waterfall. 

Thy  ferry  with  its  gliding  sail. 

And  her — the  Lady  of  the  Glen  1 

Pcestum. 

[From  ‘ Italy."] 

They  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea;3 
Awful  memorials,  but  of  whom  we  know  not. 

The  seaman  passing,  gazes  from  the  deck, 

The  buffalo-driver,  in  his  shaggy  cloak. 

Points  to  the  work  of  magic,  and  moves  on. 

Time  was  they  stood  along  the  crowded  street. 
Temples  of  gods,  and  on  their  ample  steps 
What  various  habits,  various  tongues  beset 
The  brazen  gates  for  prayer  and  sacrifice  1 
Time  was  perhaps  the  third  was  sought  for  justice; 
At.d  here  the  accuser  stood,  and  there  the  accused. 
And  here  the  judges  sat,  and  heard,  and  judged. 

> Bignifjing  in  the  Gaelic  language  an  isthmus. 

* Loch  Long. 

n The  temples  of  Paestmn  are  three  in  number,  and  have 
eurvived,  nearly  nine  centuries,  the  total  destruction  of  the 
city.  Tradition  is  silent  concerning  them,  but  they  must  have 
txigted  now  between  two  and  three  thousand  years. 

63 


All  silent  now,  as  in  the  ages  past. 

Trodden  under  foot,  and  mingled  dust  with  dust. 

How  many  centuries  did  the  sun  go  round 
From  Mount  Alburnus  to  the  Tyrrhene  sea. 

While,  by  some  spell  rendered  invisible. 

Or,  if  approached,  approached  by  him  alone 
Who  saw  as  though  he  saw  not,  they  remained 
As  in  the  darkness  of  a sepulchre. 

Waiting  the  appointed  time  1 All,  all  within 
Proclaims  that  nature  had  resumed  her  right. 

And  taken  to  herself  what  man  renounced; 

No  cornice,  triglyph,  or  worn  abacus. 

But  with  thick  ivy  hung,  or  branching  fern. 

Their  iron-brown  o’erspread  with  brightest  verdure  I 
From  my  youth  upward  have  I longed  to  tread 
This  classic  ground;  and  am  1 here  at  last? 
Wandering  at  will  through  the  long  porticos. 

And  catching,  as  through  some  majestic  grove. 

Now  the  blue  ocean,  and  now,  chaos-like. 
Mountains  and  mountain-gulfs,  and,  half-way  up. 
Towns  like  the  living  rock  from  which  they  grew? 

A cloudy  region,  black  and  desolate. 

Where  once  a slave  withstood  a world  in  arras. 

The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  wild 
’Mid  broken  friezes  and  fallen  capitals ; 

Sweet  as  when  'fully,  writing  down  his  thought*. 
Those  thoughts  so  precious  and  so  lately  lost 
(Turning  to  thee,  divine  philosophy,  * 

Ever  at  hand  to  calm  his  troubled  soul), 

Sailed  slowly  by,  two  thousand  years  ago, 

For  Athens;  when  a ship,  if  north-cast  winds 
Blew  from  the  Psestan  gardens,  slacked  her  course. 

On  as  he  moved  along  the  level  shore. 

These  temples,  in  their  splendour  eminent 
’Mid  arcs  and  obelisks,  and  domes  and  towers. 
Reflecting  back  the  radiance  of  the  west. 

Well  might  he  dream  of  glory  1 Now,  coiled  up, 
The  serpent  sleeps  within  them  ; the  she-wolf 
Suckles  her  young  ; and  as  alone  I stand 
In  this,  the  nobler  pile,  the  elements 
Of  earth  and  air  its  only  fl('or  and  covering. 

How  solemn  is  the  stillness  I Nothing  stirs 
Save  the  shrill-voiced  cicala  flitting  round 
On  the  rough  pediment  to  sit  and  sing; 

Or  the  green  lizard  rustling  tl.rough  the  grass. 

And  up  the  fluted  shaft  with  short  quick  spring. 

To  vanish  in  the  chinks  that  time  has  made. 

In  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  sun’s  broad  disk 
Seen  at  his  setting,  and  a flood  of  light 
Filling  the  courts  of  these  old  sanctuaries 
(Gigantic  shadows,  broken  and  confused. 

Athwart  the  innumerable  columns  flung). 

In  such  an  hour  he  came,  who  saw  and  told. 

Led  by  the  mighty  genius  of  the  place.t 
Walls  of  some  capital  city  first  appeared, 

Half  razed,  half  sunk,  or  scattered  as  in  scorn; 

And  .what  within  them  ? What  but  in  the  midsi 
These  three  in  more  than  their  original  grandeur, 
And,  round  about,  no  stone  upon  another  ? 

As  if  the  spoiler  had  fallen  back  in  fear. 

And,  turning,  left  them  to  the  elements. 

To . 

Go — you  may  call  it  madness,  folly; 

You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away  I 
There’s  such  a charm  in  melancholy, 

I would  not,  if  1 could,  be  gay. 

Oh,  if  you  knew  the  pensive  pleasure 
That  fills  ray  bosom  when  1 sigh, 

You  would  not  rob  me  of  a treasure 
Monarchs  are  too  poor  to  buy. 

' They  are  said  to  have  been  discovered  by  accident  about 
middle  of  the  last  century. 


321 


rnoM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


A Winh. 

Mine  be  a cot  beside  the  hill ; 

A bee-hive’s  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear; 

A willowy  brook,  that  turns  a mill, 

With  many  a fall,  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow  oft  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest; 

Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch. 

And  share  my  meal,  a welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew; 

And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village  church,  among  the  trees. 

Where  first  our  marriage  vows  were  given, 

With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 

And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 

On  a Tear. 

Oh  that  the  chemist’s  magic  art 
Could  crystallise  this  sacred  treasure  ! 

Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 

A secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

*The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell. 

Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloe’s  eye ; 

Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell — 

The  spring  of  Sensibility  ! 

Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light. 

In  thee  the  rays  of  Virtue  shine  ; 

More  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright. 

Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul ! 

Who  ever  fliest  to  bring  relief. 

When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 
Of  Love  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief. 

The  sage’s  and  the  poet’s  theme. 

In  every  clime,  in  every  age  ; 

Thou  charm’st  in  Fancy’s  idle  dream. 

In  Reason’s  philosophic  page. 

That  very  law  which  moulds  a tear. 

And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, 

That  law  preserves  the  earth  a sphere. 

And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

William  Wordsworth,  the  greatest  of  meta- 
physical poets,  is  a native  of  Cockermouth,  in  the 
county  of  Cumberland,  where  he  was  born  on  the 
7th  of  April  1770.  Ills  parents  were  enabled  to 
bestow  upon  tbeir  children  the  advantages  of  a 
complete  education  (his  father  was  law-agent  to 
Lord  Lonsdale),  and  the  poet  and  his  brother  (now 
Dr  Christopher  Wordsworth,  long  master  of  Trinity 
college),  after  being  some  years  at  Haw'kesworth 
school,  in  Lancashire,  were  sent  to  the  university  of 
Cambridge.  William  was  entered  of  St  John’s  in 
1787.  Poetry  has  been  with  him  the  early  and 
almost  the  sole  business  of  his  life.  Having  finished 
his  academical  course,  and  taken  his  degree,  he  tra- 
velled for  a short  time ; and  marrying  an  amiable 
lady,  his  cousin,  settled  down  among  the  lakes  and 
mountains  of  Westmoreland.  A gentleman  dying 
in  his  neighbourhood  left  him  a handsome  legacy  ; 
other  bequests  follow-ed;  and  about  1814,  the  pa- 
tronage of  the  noble  family  of  Lowther  procured  for 
the  poet  the  easy  and  lucrative  situation  of  Distri- 
butor of  Stamps,  which  left  the  greater  part  of  his 
time  at  his  own  disposal.  In  1842  he  resigned  this 
situation  in  favour  of  his  son,  and  government  re- 


till the  present  /imb 


warded  the  venerable  poet  with  a pension  of  L.300 
per  annum.  In  April  1843  he  was  appointed  poet- 


lanreate,  in  the  room  of  his  deceased  and  illustriona 
friend  Southey,  llis  residence  at  Rydal  Mount  ha* 
been  truly  a poetical  retirement. 

Long  have  I loved  what  I behold. 

The  night  that  calms,  the  day  that  cheem; 

The  common  growth  of  mother  earth 
Suffices  me — her  tears,  her  mirth. 

Her  humblest  mirth  and  tears. 

The  dragon’s  wing,  the  magic  ring, 

I shall  not  covet  for  my  dower. 

If  I along  that  lowly  way 

With  sympathetic  heart  may  stray. 

And  with  a soul  of  power. 

Wordsworth  appeared  as  a poet  in  his  twentj'- third 
year,  1793.  The  title  of  his  first  work  was  TAe 
Evening  Walk,  and  Dexcriptive  Sketches.  The  w'alk 
is  among  the  mountains  of  Westmoreland ; the 
sketches  refer  to  a tour  made  in  Switzerland  by 
the  poet  and  his  friend,  the  Rev.  R.  Jones,  fellow  of 
St  .John’s  college.  The  poetry  is  of  the  style  of 
Goldsmith  ; but  description  predominates  over  re- 
flection. The  enthusiastic  dreams  of  liberty  which 
then  buoyed  up  the  young  poet,  and  his  associates 
Coleridge  and  Southey,  appear  in  such  lines  as  the 
following : — 

Oh  give,  great  God,  to  freedom’s  waves  to  ride 
Sublime  o’er  conquest,  avarice,  and  pride  ; 

To  .sweep  where  pleasure  decks  her  guilty  bowers. 

And  dark  oppression  builds  her  thick-ribbed  towers  ; 
Give  them,  beneath  their  breast,  while  ghulness  springs. 
To  brood  the  nations  o’er  with  Nile-like  wings ; 

And  grant  that  every  sceptred  child  of  clay 

Who  cries,  presumptuous,  ‘ Here  their  tides  shall  stay. 

Swept  in  their  anger  from  the  affrighted  shore. 

With  all  his  creatures  sink  to  rise  no  more  ! 

In  1798  was  published  a collection  of  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads, some  by  Coleridge,  but  the  greater  part  by 

322 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWOKTB. 


Wonlswortli,  ami  desif;ned  by  him  as  an  experiment 
how  far  a simpler  kind  of  poetry  than  that  in  use 
would  all'ord  jiermanent  interest  to  readers.  The 
humhlest  subjects,  he  contended,  were  tit  for  poetry, 
and  the  language  should  be  that  ‘ really  used  by 
men.’  The  fine  fabric  of  poetic  diction  which  gene- 
rations of  the  tuneful  tribe  had  been  laboriously 
rearing,  he  proposed  to  destroy  altogether.  The 
language  of  humble  and  rustic  life,  arising  out  of 
repeated  experience  and  regular  feelings,  he  con- 
sidered to  be  a more  permanent  and  far  more  philo- 
sophical languige  than  that  which  is  frequently 
substituted  for  it  by  poets.  The  attempt  of  Words- 
worth was  either  totally  neglected  or  assailed  with 
ridicule.  The  transition  from  the  refined  and  sen- 
timental school  if  verse,  with  select  and  polished 


diction,  to  such  themes  as  ‘ The  Idiot  Boy,’  and  n 
style  of  composition  disfigured  by  colloquial  plain- 
ness, and  by  the  mixture  of  ludicrous  images  and 
associations  with  passages  of  tenderness  and  pathos, 
was  too  violent  to  escape  ridicule  or  insure  general 
success.  It  was  often  impossible  to  tell  whether  the 
poet  meant  to  be  comic  or  tender,  serious  or 
ludicrous.;  while  the  choice  of  his  subjects  and  illus- 
trations, instead  of  being  regarded  as  genuine  sim- 
plicity, had  an  appearance  of  silliness  or  affectation. 
The  faults  of  his  worst  ballads  were  so  glaring, 
that  they  overpowered,  at  least  for  a time,  the 
simple  natural  beauties,  the  spirit  of  gentleness  and 
humanity,  with  which  they  were  accompanied.  It 
was  a first  experiment,  and  it  was  made  without 
any  regard  for  existing  prejudices  or  feelings,  or  any 


Rydal  Lake  and  Wordsworth’s  Honse. 


wish  to  conciliate.  The  poems,  however,  were  read 
by  some.  Two  more  volumes  were  added  in  1807  ; 
and  it  was  seen  that,  whatever  might  be  the  theory 
of  the  poet,  he  possessed  a vein  of  pure  and  exalted 
description  and  meditation  which  it  was  impossible 
not  to  feel  and  admire.  The  influence  of  nature 
upon  man  was  his  favourite  theme ; and  though 
sometimes  unintelligible  from  his  idealism,  he  was 
also,  on  other  occasions,  just  and  profound.  His 
worship  of  nature  was  ennobling  and  impressive.  In 
real  simplicity,  however,  Wordsworth  is  inferior  to 
Coirper,  Goldsmith,  and  many  others.  He  has 
triumphed  as  a poet,  in  spite  of  his  own  theory.  As 
the  circle  of  his  admirers  was  gradually  extending, 
he  continued  to  supply  it  with  fresh  materials  of  a 
higher  order.  In  1814  appeared  The  Excursion,  a 
philosophical  poem  in  blank  verse,  by  far  the  noblest 
production  of  the  author,  and  containing  passages 
of  sentiment,  description,  and  pure  eloquence,  not 
excelled  by  any  living  poet,  while  its  spirit  of  en- 
lightened humanity  and  Christian  benevolence — ex- 
tending over  all  ranks  of  sentient  and  animated 
being — imparts  to  the  poem  a peculiarly  sacred  and 


elevated  character.  The  influence  of  Wordsworth 
on  the  poetry  of  his  age  has  thus  been  as  beneficial 
as  extensive.  He  has  turned  the  public  taste  from 
pompous  inanity  to  the  study  of  man  and  nature ; 
he  has  banished  the  false  and  exaggerated  style  of 
character  and  emotion  which  even  the  genius  of 
Byron  stooped  to  imitate ; and  he  has  enlisted  the  sen- 
sibilities and  sympathies  of  his  intellectual  brethren 
in  favour  of  the  most  expansive  and  kindly  philan- 
thropy. The  pleasures  and  graces  of  his  muse 
are  all  simple,  pure,  and  lasting.  In  working  out 
the  plan  of  his  ‘ Excursion,’  the  poet  has  not,  how- 
ever, escaped  from  the  errors  of  his  early  poems. 
The  incongruity  or  want  of  keeping  in  most  of 
Wordsworth’s  productions  is  observable  in  this 
work.  The  principal  character  is  a poor  Scotch 
pedlar,  who  traverses  the  mountains  in  company 
with  the  poet,  and  is  made  to  discourse,  with  clerk- 
like fluency, 

Of  truth,  of  grandeur,  beauty,  love,  and  hope. 

It-  is  thus  that  the  poet  violates  the  conventional, 
rules  of  poetry  and  the  realities  of  life ; for  surely  i( 

323 


PROM  1780  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  till  i-he  present  time. 

w 


is  inconsistent  with  truth  and  proliahility,  that  a 
profound  moralist  and  dialectician  sliould  be  found 
in  such  a situation.  In  his  travels  with  the  ‘ Wan- 
derer,’ the  poet  is  introduced  to  a ‘ Solitary,’  who 
lives  secluded  from  the  world,  after  a life  of  busy 
adventures  and  high  hope,  ending  in  disappointment 
and  disgust.  They  all  proceed  to  the  house  of  the 
pastor,  who  (in  the  style  of  Crabbe’s  Parish  Register) 
recounts  some  of  the  deaths  and  mutations  that  had 
taken  place  in  his  sequestered  valley  ; and  with  a 
description  of  a visit  made  by  the  three  to  a neigh- 
bouring lake,  the  poem  concludes.  The  ‘ Excursion’ 
is  an  unfinished  work,  part  of  a larger  poem.  The  lie- 
cluse,  ‘ having  for  its  principal  object  the  sensations 
and  opinions  of  a poet  living  in  retirement’  Whether 
the  remainder  of  the  work  wilt  ever  be  given  to  the 
world,  or  completed  by  the  poet,  is  uncertain.  The 
want  of  incident  would,  we  fear,  be  fatal  to  its  suc- 
cess. 'file  narrative  part  of  the  ‘ Excursion’  is  a 
mere  framework,  rude  and  unskilful,  for  a series  of 
pictures  of  mountain  scenery  and  philosophical  dis- 
sertations, tending  to  show  how  the  extern.al  world 
is  adapted  to  the  mind  of  man,  and  good  educed  out 
of  evil  and  suffering — 

Within  the  soul  a faculty  abides, 

That  with  interpositions,  which  would  hide 
And  darken,  so  can  deal,  that  they  become 
Contingencies  of  pomp,  and  serve  to  exalt 
Her  native  brightness.  As  the  ample  moon 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  a summer  even 
Rising  behind  a thick  and  lofty  grove. 

Burns  like  an  unconsuming  fire  of  light 
In  the  green  trees ; and,  kindling  on  all  sides, 

Their  leafy  umbrage  turns  the  dusky  veil 
Into  a .substance  glorious  as  her  own, 

Y ea,  with  her  own  incorporated,  by  power 
Capacious  and  serene  ; like  power  abides 
In  man’s  celestial  spirit ; virtue  thus 
Sets  forth  and  magnifies  herself — thus  feeds 
A calm,  a beautiful,  and  silent  fire. 

From  the  encumbrances  of  mortal  life  ; 

From  error,  disappointment — nay,  from  guilt ; 

And  sometimes,  so  relenting  justice  wills, 

From  palpable  oppressions  of  despair. 

Book  IV. 

In  a still  loftier  style  of  moral  observation  on  the 
changes  of  life,  the  ‘gray -haired  wanderer’  ex- 
claims— 

So  falls,  so  languishes,  grows  dim,  and  dies, 

All  that  this  world  is  proud  of.  From  their  spheres 
The  stars  of  human  glory  are  cast  down  ; 

Perish  the  roses  and  the  flowers  of  kings. 

Princes,  and  emperors,  and  the  crowns  and  palms 
Of  all  the  mighty,  withered  and  consumed  1 
Nor  is  power  given  to  lowliest  innocence 
Long  to  protect  her  own.  The  man  himself 
Departs ; and  soon  is  spent  the  line  of  those 
Who,  in  the  bodily  image,  in  the  mind, 

In  heart  or  soul,  in  station  or  pursuit. 

Did  most  resemble  him.  Degrees  and  ranks. 
Fraternities  and  orders — heaping  high 
New  wealth  upon  the  burthen  of  the  old. 

And  placing  trust  in  privilege  confirmed 
And  re-confirmed — are  scoffed  at  with  a smile 
Of  greedy  foretaste,  from  the  secret  stand 
Of  desolation  aimed  ; to  slow  decline 
These  yield,  and  these  to  sudden  overthrow ; 

Their  virtue,  service,  happiness,  and  st>te 
Expire  ; and  Nature’s  pleasant  robe  of  green, 
Humanity’s  appointed  shroud,  enwraps 
Their  monuments  and  their  memory. 

Book  VII. 

Tli«  picturesque  parts  of  the  ‘ Excursion’  are  full  of  a 


quiet  and  tender  beauty  characteristic  of  the  author. 
We  subjoin  two  passages,  the  first  descriptive  of  a 
peasant  youth,  the  hero  of  his  native  vale ; — 

The  mountain  ash 
No  eye  can  overlook,  when  ’mid  a grove 
( )f  yet  unfaded  trees  she  lifts  her  head 
Decked  with  autumnal  berries,  that  outshine 
Spring’s  richest  blossoms ; and  ye  may  have  marked 
By  a brook  side  or  solitary  tarn. 

How  she  her  station  doth  adorn.  The  pool 
Glows  at  her  feet,  and  all  the  gloomy  rocks 
Are  brightened  round  her.  In  his  native  vale, 

Such  and  so  glorious  did  this  youth  appear; 

A sight  that  kindled  pleasure  in  all  hearts 
By  his  ingenuous  beauty,  by  the  gleam 
Of  his  fair  eyes,  by  his  capacious  brow. 

By  all  the  graces  with  which  nature’s  hand 
Had  lavishly  arrayed  him.  As  old  bards 
Tell  in  their  idle  songs  of  wandering  god.s. 

Ban  or  Apollo,  veiled  in  human  form  ; 

Yet,  like  the  sweet-breathed  violet  of  the  shade, 
Discovered  in  their  own  despite  to  sense 
Of  mortals  (if  such  fables  without  blame 
May  find  chance  mention  on  this  sacred  ground). 

So,  through  a simple  rustic  garb’s  di.sguise. 

And  through  the  impediment  of  rural  cares. 

In  him  revealed  a scholar’s  genius  shone; 

And  so,  not  wholly  hidden  from  men’s  sight. 

In  him  the  spirit  of  a hero  walked 
Our  unpretending  valley.  How  the  quoit 
Whizzed  from  the  stripling’s  arm!  If  touched  by  him, 
The  inglorious  football  mounted  to  the  pitch 
Of  the  lark’s  flight,  or  shaped  a rainbow  curve 
Aloft  in  prospect  of  the  shouting  field  ! 

The  indefatigable  fox  had  learned 
To  dread  his  perseverance  in  the  chase. 

With  admiration  would  he  lift  his  eyes 
To  the  wide-ruling  eagle,  and  his  hand 
Was  loath  to  assault  the  majesty  he  loved. 

Else  had  the  strongest  fastnesses  proved  weak 
To  guard  the  royal  brood.  The  sailing  glede. 

The  wheeling  swallow,  and  the  darting  snipe. 

The  sporting  sea-gull  dancing  with  the  waves. 

And  cautious  waterfowl  from  distant  climes. 

Fixed  at  their  seat,  the  centre  of  the  mere. 

Were  subject  to  young  Oswald’s  steady  aim. 

Book  VII. 

The  peasant  youth,  with  others  in  the  vale,  roused 
by  the  cry  to  arms,  studies  the  rudiments  of  war 
but  dies  suddenly : — 

To  him,  thus  snatched  away,  his  comrade  paid 
A soldier’s  honours.  At  his  funeral  hour 
Bright  was  the  sun,  the  sky  a cloudless  blue — ■ 

A golden  lustre  slept  upon  the  hills  ; 

And  if  by  chance  a stranger,  wandering  there. 

From  some  commanding  eminence  had  looked 
Down  on  this  spot,  well  pleased  would  he  have  seen 
A glittering  spectacle  ; but  every  face 
IV’as  pallid — seldom  hath  that  eye  been  moist 
AYith  tears  that  wept  not  then  ; nor  were  the  few 
Who  from  their  dwellings  came  not  forth  to  join 
In  this  sad  service,  less  disturbed  than  we. 

They  started  at  the  tributary  peal 
Of  instantaneous  thunder  which  announced 
Through  the  still  air  the  closing  of  the  grave  ; 

And  distant  mountains  echoed  with  a sound 
Of  lamentation  never  heard  before. 

A description  of  deafness  in  a peasant  would  seem 
to  be  a subject  hardly  susceptible  of  poetical  orna- 
ment; yet,  by  contrasting  it  with  the  surrounding 
objects — ^the  pleasant  sounds  and  stir  of  nature — 
and  by  his  vein  of  pensive  and  graceful  reflection, 
Wordsworth  has  made  this  one  of  his  finest  pic- 
tures : — 

324 


POETS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  william  wordsworth. 


Almost  at  the  root 

Of  that  tall  pine,  the  shadow  of  whose  bare 
And  slender  stem,  while  here  I sit  at  eve. 

Oft  stretches  towards  me,  like  a strong  straight  path 
Traced  faintly  in  the  greensward,  there,  beneath 
A plain  blue  stone,  a gentle  dalesman  lies. 

From  whom  in  early  childhood  was  withdratvn 
The  precious  gift  of  hearing.  lie  grew  up 
From  year  to  year  in  loneliness  of  soul ; 

And  tliis  deep  mountain  valley  was  to  him 
Soundless,  with  all  its  streams.  The  bird  of  dawn 
Uid  never  rouse  this  cottager  from  sleep 
With  startling  summons  ; not  for  his  delight 
The  venial  cuckoo  shouted  ; not  for  him 
Murmured  the  labouring  bee.  When  stormy  winds 
Were  working  the  broad  bosom  of  the  lake 
Into  a thousand  thousand  sparkling  waves. 

Rocking  the  trees,  or  driving  cloud  on  cloud 
Along  the  sharp  edge  of  yon  lofty  crags, 

The  agitated  scene  before  his  eye 

Was  silent  as  a picture  : evermore 

Were  all  things  silent,  wheresoe’er  he  moved. 

Yet,  by  the  solace  of  his  own  pure  thoughts 
Upheld,  he  duteously  pursued  the  round 
Of  rural  labours  : the  steep  mountain  side 
Ascended  with  his  staff  and  faithful  dog; 

The  plough  he  guided,  and  the  scythe  he  swayed ; 

And  the  ripe  corn  before  his  sickle  fell 
Among  the  jocund  reapers. 

Book  ril. 

By  viewing  man  in  connection  with  external  nature, 
the  poet  blends  his  metaphysics  with  pictures  of  life 
and  scenery.  To  build  up  and  strengthen  the  powers 
of  the  mind,  in  contrast  to  the  operations  of  sense, 
is  ever  his  object.  Like  Bacon,  Wordsworth  would 
rather  believe  all  the  fables  in  the  Talmud  and 
Alcoran  than  that  this  universal  frame  is  without 
a mind — or  that  that  mind  does  not,  by  its  external 
symbols,  speak  to  the  human  heart.  He  lives  under 
the  ‘ habitual  sw^ay’  of  nature. 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

The  subsequent  works  of  the  poet  are  numerous — 
The  While  Doe  of  liyhtone,  a romantic  narrative 
poem,  yet  coloured  with  his  peculiar  genius  ; Son- 
nets on  the  River  Duddon;  The  Waggoner;  Peter  Bell; 
Ecclesiastical  Sketches;  Yarrow  Revisited,  8ic.  Having 
made  repeated  tours  in  Scotland  and  on  the  conti- 
nent, the  poet  diversified  his  subjects  with  descrip- 
tions of  particular  scenes,  local  manners,  legends, 
and  associations.  The  whole  of  his  works  have 
been  arranged  by  their  author  according  to  their 
respective  subjects;  as  Poems  referring  to  the  Period 
of  Childhood  ; Poems  founded  on  the  Affections  ; 
Poems  of  the  Fancy;  Poems  of  the  Imagination,  &c. 
This  chassification  is  often  arbitrary  and  capricious; 
but  it  is  one  of  the  conceits  of  Wordswmrth,  that  his 
poems  should  be  read  in  a certain  continuous  order, 
to  give  full  effect  to  his  system.  Thus  classified 
and  published,  the  poet’s  works  form  six  volumes. 
A seventh  has  lately  (1842)  been  added,  consisting 
of  poems  written  very  early  and  very  late  in  life 
(as  is  stated),  and  a tragedy  which  had  long  lain 
past  the  author.  The  latter  is  not  happy,  for  Words- 
worth has  less  dramatic  power  than  any  other  living 
poet.  In  the  drama,  however,  both  Scott  and  Byron 
failed ; and  Coleridge,  with  his  fine  imagination  and 
pictorial  expression,  was  only  a shade  more  successful. 
The  fame  of  Wordsworth  is  daily  extending.  The 
few  ridiculous  or  puerile  pieces  which  excited  so 
much  sarcasm,  parody,  and  derision,  have  been 
I quietly  forgotten,  or  are  considered  as  mere  idiosyn- 
; cr;isies  of  the  poet  that  provoke  a smile,  while  his 
I higher  attributes  command  admiration,  and  have 


secured  a new  generation  of  readers.  A tribe  of  wor- 
shippers, in  the  young  poets  of  the  day,  have  arisen  to 
do  him  homage,  and  in  some  instances  have  carried 
the  feeling  to  a sectarian  and  bigotted  excess.  Many 
of  his  former  depreciators  have  also  joined  the  ranks 
of  his  admirers — partly  because  in  his  late  works 
he  has  done  himself  more  justice  both  in  his  style 
and  subjects.  He  is  too  intellectual,  and  too  little 
sensuous,  to  use  the  phrase  of  Milton,  ever  to  be- 
come generally  popular,  unless  in  some  of  his  smaller 
pieces.  His  peculiar  sensibilities  cannot  be  relished 
by  all.  His  poetry,  how'ever,  is  of  various  kinds. 
Forgetting  his  own  theory  as  to  the  proper  subjects 
of  poetry,  he  has  ventured  on  the  loftiest  themes, 
and  in  calm  sustained  elevation  of  thought,  appro- 
priate imagery,  and  intense  feeling,  he  often  re- 
minds the  reader  of  the  sublime  strains  of  Milton. 
His  Laodamia,  the  Vernal  Ode,  the  Ode  to  Lycoris 
and  Dion,  are  pure  and  richly  classic  poems  in  con- 
ception and  diction.  Many  of  his  sonnets  have  also 
a chaste  and  noble  simplicity.  In  these  short  com- 
positions, his  elevation  and  pow'er  as  a poet  are  per- 
haps more  remarkably  displayed  than  in  any  of  his 
other  productions.  They  possess  a winning  sweet- 
ness or  simple  grandeur,  without  the  most  distant 
approach  to  antithesis  or  straining  for  effect ; while 
that  tendency  to  prolixity  and  diffuseness  which 
characterise  his  longer  poems,  is  repressed  by  the 
necessity  for  brief  and  rapid  thought  and  concise 
expression,  imposed  by  the  nature  of  the  sonnet.  It 
is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  Milton  alone  has 
surpassed — if  even  he  has  surpassed — some  of  the 
noble  sonnets  of  Wordsworth  dedicated  to  liberty 
and  inspired  by  patriotism. 

Sonnets. 

London,  1802. 

Milton  ! thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour ; 
England  hath  need  of  thee  ; she  is  a fen 
Of  stagnant  waters  ; altar,  sword,  and  pen. 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.  We  are  selfish  men ; 

Oh!  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 

Thou  hadst  a voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea  ; 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens — majestic,  free, 
bo  didst  thou  travel  on  life’s  common  way 
In,cheerful  godliness ; and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  didst  lay. 

The  World  is  Too  Much  with  Us. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us ; late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 

Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours ; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a sordid  boon  ! 

This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon. 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  HI  hours. 

And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 

It  moves  us  not.  Great  God ! I’d  rather  be 
A pagan  suckled  in  a creed  outworn ; 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea ; 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge,  September  3, 180a 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 

This  city  now  doth  like  a garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning ; silent,  bare. 


FROM  17!!0  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  tim,  the  fiiesent  time. 


Shijis,  towcrH,  domes,  tlieatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky, 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep. 

In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 

Ne’er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a calm  so  deej)  1 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 

Dear  God  ! the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 

Ami  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 

On  King’s  College  Chapel,  Cambridge. 

Tax  not  the  royal  saint  with  vain  expense, 

With  ill-matched  aims  the  architect  who  planned, 

Albeit  labouring  for  a scanty  band 

Of  white-robed  scholars  only,  this  immense 

And  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence  1 

Give  all  thou  canst  ; high  Heaven  rejects  the  lore 

Of  nicely  calculated  less  or  more  ; 

So  deemed  the  man  who  fashioned  for  the  sense 
These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 
Self-poised,  and  scooped  into  ten  thousand  cells. 
Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music  dwells 
Lingering — and  wandering  on,  as  loath  to  die ; 

Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

Ills  Intimations  of  Immortality,  and  Lines  on 
Tintern  Abbey,  are  the  finest  examples  of  his  rapt 
imaginative  style,  blending  metaphysical  truth  with 
difluse  gorgeous  description  and  metaphor.  His 
simpler  effusions  are  pathetic  and  tender.  He  has 
little  strong  passion;  but  in  one  piece,  Vaudracour 
and  Julia,  he  has  painted  the  passion  of  love  with 
more  warmth  than  might  be  anticipated  from  his 
abstract  idealism — 

His  present  mind 
Was  under  fascination  ; he  beheld 
A vision,  and  adored  the  thing  he  saw. 

Arabian  fiction  never  filled  the  world 
With  half  the  wonders  that  were  wrought  for  him. 
Earth  breathed  in  one  great  presence  of  the  spring; 
Life  turned  the  meanest  of  her  implements 
Before  his  eyes,  to  price  above  all  gold  ; 

The  house  she  dwelt  in  was  a sainted  shrine  ; 

Her  chamber  window  did  surpass  in  glory 
The  portals  of  the  dawn ; all  paradise  , 

Could,  by  the  simple  opening  of  a door. 

Let  itself  in  upon  him  ; pathways,  walks, 

Swarmed  with  enchantment,  till  his  spirit  sank. 
Surcharged  within  him — overblest  to  move 
Beneath  a sun  that  wakes  a weary  world 
To  its  dull  round  of  ordinary  cares; 

A man  too  happy  for  mortality  ! 

The  lovers  parted  under  circumstances  of  danger, 
but  had  a stolen  interview  at  night — 

Through  all  her  courts 
Thf  vacant  city  slept ; the  busy  winds. 

That  keep  no  certain  intervals  of  rest. 

Moved  not ; meanwhile  the  galaxy  displayed 
Her  fires,  that  like  mysterious  pulses  beat 
Aloft — momentous  but  uneasy  bliss  ! 

To  their  full  hearts  the  universe  seemed  hung 
On  that  brief  meeting’s  slender  filament ! 

This  is  of  the  style  of  Ford  or  Massinger.  Living 
mostly  apart  from  the  world,  and  nursing  with 
solitary  complacency  his  poetical  system,  and  all  that 
could  bear  upon  his  works  and  pursuits  as  a poet, 
Wordsworth  fell  into  those  errors  of  taste  and  that 
want  of  discrimination  to  which  we  have  already 
alluded.  His  most  puerile  ballads  and  attempts  at 
humour  are  apparently  as  much  prized  by  him,  and 
classed  with  the  same  nicety  and  care,  as  the  most 
majestic  of  his  conceptions,  or  the  most  natural  and 
beautiful  of  his  descriptions.  The  art  of  condensa- 
tion is  also  rarely  practised  by  him.  But  if  the 


poet’s  retirement  or  peculiar  disposition  has  been  a 
cause  of  his  weakness,  it  lias  also  been  one  of  the 
sources  of  his  strength.  It  left  him  untouched  by 
the  artificial  or  mechanical  tastes  of  his  age  ; it  gave 
an  originality  to  his  conceptions  and  to  tlie  whole 
colour  of  his  thoughts ; and  it  completely  imbued 
him  with  that  purer  antique  life  and  knowledge  of 
the  phenomena  of  nature — the  sky,  lakes,  and  moun- 
tains of  his  native  district,  in  all  their  tints  and 
forms — which  he  has  depicted  with  such  power  and 
enthusiasm.  A less  complacent  poet  would  hav^ 
been  chilled  by  the  long  neglect  and  ridicule  he  ex- 
perienced. His  spirit  was  self-supported,  and  his 
genius,  at  once  observant  and  meditative,  was  left 
to  shape  out  its  own  creations,  and  extend  its  sym- 
pathies to  that  world  which  lay  beyond  his  happy 
mountain  solitude. 

Lines. 

My  heart  leaps  up  w’hen  I behold 
A rainbow  in  the  sky: 

So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 

So  is  it  now  I am  a man  ; 

So  be  it  when  I shall  grow  old. 

Or  let  me  die  ! 

The  child  is  father  of  the  man  ; 

And  I could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

Lucy. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways, 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 

A maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise. 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A violet  by  a mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye; 

Fair  as  a star  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh. 

The  difference  to  me! 

A.  Portrait. 

She  was  a phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

A lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a moment’s  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 

Like  twilight’s,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 

A dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A spirit,  yet  a woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free. 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty  ; 

A countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature’s  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles. 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiko. 

And  now  I see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 

A being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A traveller  betwixt  life  and  death  ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will. 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill, 

A perfect  woman,  nobly  planned. 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 

And  yet  a spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

326 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


Composed  afeiu  miles  above  Tinlem  Abbey,  on 
Ra'isiting  the  Banks  of  the  Wye,\ 


Tintem  Abbey. 

Five  years  have  passed ; five  summers,  with  the  length 
Of  five  long  winters ; and  again  I hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain  springs 
With  a sweet  inland  murmur.  Once  again 
Do  I behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs. 

Which  ^n  a wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion,  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I again  repose  ■ 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These  plots  of  cottage  ground,  these  orchard  tufts, 
Which,  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits. 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
Among  the  woods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 
The  wild  green  landscape.  Once  again  I see 
These  hedgerows,  hardly  hedgerows,  little  lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild  ; these  pastoral  farms 
Green  to  the  very  door ; and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up  in  silence  from  among  the  trees. 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem. 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods. 

Or  of  some  hermit’s  cave,  where,  by  his  fire. 

The  hermit  sits  alone. 

Though  absent  long. 

These  forms  of  beauty  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a landscape  to  a blind  man’s  eye  : 

But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  ’mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I have  owed  to  them. 

In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet. 

Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart. 

And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind 
With  tranquil  restoration — feelings,  too. 

Of  unremembered  pleasure  ; such,  perhaps. 

As  may  have  had  no  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a good  man’s  life, 

His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.  Nor  less,  I trust. 

To  them  I may  have  owed  another  gift. 

Of  aspect  more  sublime ; that  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery. 

In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lightened  ; that  serene  and  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on. 


Until  the  breath  of  this  coriiorcal  frame. 

And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a living  soul : 

VV’hile  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony  and  the  deep  power  of  joy. 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 

Be  but  a vain  belief,  yet,  oh  ! how  oft. 

In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight,  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world. 

Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart. 

How  oft  in  spirit  have  I turned  to  thee, 

0 sylvan  Wye ! — thou  wanderer  through  the  wood»— 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint. 

And  somewhat  of  a sad  perplexity. 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 

While  here  I stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.  And  so  1 dare  to  hope. 

Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I was  when  first 

1 came  among  these  hiUs  ; when,  like  a roe, 

I bounded  o’er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams. 

Wherever  nature  led  ; more  like  a man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.  For  nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 

To  me  was  all  in  all — 1 cannot  paint 
What  then  I W'as.  The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a passion  ; the  tall  rock. 

The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood. 

Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite  ; a feeling  and  a love 
That  had  no  need  of  a remoter  charm. 

By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye.  That  time  is  past. 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.  Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn,  nor  murmur  ; other  gifts 
Have  followed,  for  such  loss,  I would  believe. 
Abundant  recompense.  For  I have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still  sad  music  of  humanity. 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.  And  I have  felt 
A presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ; a sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 

And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air. 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 

A motion  and  a spirit  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 

And  rolls  through  all  things.  Therefore  am  I still 
A lover  of  the  meadows  and  tlie  woods 
And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth  ; of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 
And  what  perceive ; well  pleased  to  recognise 
In  nature,  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse. 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor,  perchance. 

If  I were  not  thus  taught,  should  I the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  : 

For  thou  art  with  me  here,  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river  ; thou,  my  dearest  friend. 

My  dear,  dear  friend,  and  in  thy  voice  1 catch 

327 


CYCLOP-® DI A OF 


IILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


PROM  1780 


The  language  of  iny  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.  Oh  ! yet  a little  while 
May  I behold  in  thee  what  1 was  once. 

My  dear,  dear  sister ! And  this  prayer  I make, 

Knowing  that  nature  never  did  betray 

The  heart  that  loved  her ; ’tis  her  privilege, 

Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
J'roin  joy  to  joy  ; for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 

Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men. 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life. 

Shall  e’er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.  Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk  ; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee  : and  in  after  years. 

When  the.se  wild  ecstacies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a mansion  for  all  lovely  forms. 

Thy  memory  be  as  a dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harjnonies  ; oh!  then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  paii\,  or  grief. 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me. 

And  these  my  exhortations  ! Nor,  perchance, 

If  I should  be  where  I no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence,  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 

We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  .so  long 

A worshipper  of  nature,  hither  came, 

Unwearied  in  that  service  : rather  say 
With  warmer  love,  oh  ! with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.  Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget. 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs. 

And  Ihis  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake.* 

* In  our  admiration  of  the  external  forms  of  nature,  the  mind 
is  redeemed  from  a sense  of  the  transitory,  which  so  often 
mixes  perturbation  with  pleasure;  and  there  is  perhaps  no 
feeling  of  the  human  heart  which,  being  so  intense,  is  at  the 
same  time  so  composed.  It  is  for  this  reason,  amongst  others, 
that  it  is  peculiarly  favourable  to  the  contemplations  of  a poeti- 
cal philosopher,  and  eminently  so  to  one  like  Mr  Wordsworth, 
in  whose  scheme  of  thought  there  is  no  feature  more  prominent 
than  the  doctrine,  that  the  intellect  should  be  nourished  by  the 
feelings,  and  that  the  state  of  mind  which  bestows  a gift  of 
genuine  insight,  is  one  of  profound  emotion  as  well  as  profound 
composure  ; or,  as  Coleridge  has  somewhere  expressed  himself — 
Deep  self-possession,  an  intense  repose. 

The  power  which  lies  in  the  beauty  of  nature  to  induce  this 
anion  of  the  tranquil  and  the  vivid  is  described,  and  to  every 
disciple  of  Wordsworth  has  been,  as  much  as  is  possible,  im- 
parted by  the  celebrated  ‘ Lines  w-ritten  in  1798,  a few  miles 
above  Tintem  Abbey,’  in  which  the  poet,  having  attributed  to 
his  intermediate  recollections  of  the  landscape  then  revisited 
a benign  influence  over  many  acts  of  daily  life,  describes  the 
particulars  in  which  he  is  indebted  to  them.  * * The  im- 
passioned love  of  nature  is  interfused  through  the  whole  of  Mr 
Wordsworth’s  system  of  thought,  filling  up  all  interstices,  pene- 
trating all  recesses,  colouring  all  media,  supporting,  associat- 
ing, and  giving  coherency  and  mutual  relevancy  to  it  in  all  its 
parts.  Though  man  is  his  subject,  yet  is  man  never  presented 
to  us  divested  of  his  relations  with  external  nature.  Man  is 
the  text,  but  there  is  always  a running  commentary  of  natural 
phenomena. — Quarterly  Review  for  1834.  In  illustration  of  this 
remark,  every  episode  in  the  ‘ Excursion  ’ might  be  cited  (par- 
ticularly the  affecting  and  beautiful  tale  of  Margaret  in  the 
first  book) ; and  the  poems  of  ‘ The  Cumberland  Beggar,’ 
* Michael,’  and  * The  Fountain ' (the  last  unquestionably  one 
of  the  finest  of  the  ballads),  aie  also  striking  instances. 


Piciuri  nf  Clirutimas  Etc. 

[Addressed  to  the  Ilev.  Dr  'Wordsworth,  with  Sonnets  to  the 
Kiver  Duddun,  &c.] 

The  minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune 
To-night  beneath  my  cottage  eave.s: 

While,  smitten  by  a lofty  moon, 

The  encircling  laurels,  thick  with  leaves. 

Gave  back  a rich  and  dazzling  sheen. 

That  overpowered  their  natural  green. 

Through  hill  and  valley  every  breeze 
Had  sunk  to  rest  with  folded  wings; 

Keen  was  the  air,  but  could  not  freeze. 

Nor  check  the  music,  of  the  strings  ; 

So  stout  and  hardy  were  the  band 

That  scraped  the  chords  with  strenuous  hand. 

And  who  but  listened  1 till  was  paid 
Respect  to  every  inmate's  claim  ; 

The  greeting  given,  the  music  played 
In  honour  of  each  household  name. 

Duly  pronounced  with  lusty  call. 

And  ‘ merry  Christmas  ’ wished  to  all ! 

0 brother ! 1 revere  the  choice 
That  took  thee  from  thy  native  hills ; 

And  it  is  given  thee  to  rejoice : 

Though  public  care  full  often  tills 
(Heaven  only  witness  of  the  toil) 

A barren  and  ungrateful  soil. 

Yet,  would  that  thou,  with  me  and  mine, 

Hadst  heard  this  never-failing  rite; 

And  seen  on  other  faces  shine 
A true  revival  of  the  light ; 

Which  nature,  and  these  rustic  powers, 

In  simple  childhood  spread  through  ours  I 

For  pleasure  hath  not  cea.sed  to  wait 
On  these  expected  annual  rounds. 

Whether  the  rich  man’s  sumptuous  gate 
Call  forth  the  unelaborate  sounds. 

Or  they  are  offered  at  the  door 
That  guards  the  lowliest  of  the  poor. 

How  touching,  when  at  midnight  sweep 
Snow-muffled  winds,  and  all  is  dark. 

To  hear — and  sink  again  to  sleep! 

Or,  at  an  earlier  call,  to  mark. 

By  blazing  fire,  the  still  suspense 
Of  self-complacent  innocence ; 

The  mutual  nod — the  grave  disguise 
Of  hearts  with  gladness  brimming  o’er; 

And  some  unbidden  tears  that  rise 

P'or  names  once  heard,  and  heard  no  more; 

Tears  brightened  by  the  serenade 
For  infant  in  the  cradle  laid! 

Ah!  not  for  emerald  fields  alone. 

With  ambient  streams  more  pure  and  bright 
Than  fabled  Cytherea’s  zone 
Glittering  before  the  thunderer’s  sight. 

Is  to  my  heart  of  hearts  endeared 

The  ground  where  we  were  born  and  reared ! 

Hail,  ancient  manners ! sure  defence. 

Where  they  survive,  of  wholesome  laws ; 
Remnants  of  love,  whose  modest  sense 
Thus  into  narrow  room  withdraws; 

Hail,  usages  of  pristine  mould. 

And  ye  that  guard  them,  mountains  old ! 

Bear  with  me,  brother,  quench  the  thought 
That  slights  this  passion  or  condemns  ; 

If  thee  fond  fancy  ever  brought 
From  the  proud  margin  of  the  Thames 
And  Lambeth’s  venerable  towers 
To  humbler  streams  and  greener  bowers. 

323 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


Yes,  they  can  make,  who  fail  to  find 
Short  leisure  even  in  busiest  days ; 

Moments — to  cast  a look  behind, 

And  profit  by  those  kindly  rays 

That  through  the  clouds  do  sometimes  steal, 

And  all  the  far-off  past  reveal. 

Hence,  while  the  imperial  city’s  din 
Beats  frequent  on  thy  satiate  ear, 

A pleased  attention  I may  win 
To  agitations  less  severe. 

That  neither  overwhelm  nor  cloy, 

But  fill  the  hollow  vale  with  joy  1 

Ruth. 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate. 

Her  father  took  another  mate  ; 

And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 

A slighted  child,  at  her  own  will 
Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill 
In  thoughtless  freedom  bold. 

And  she  had  made  a pipe  of  straw. 

And  music  from  that  pipe  could  draw 
Like  sounds  of  w inds  and  floods  ; 

Had  built  a bower  upon  the  green. 

As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 
An  infant  of  the  woods. 

Beneath  her  father’s  roof,  alone 

She  seemed  to  live  ; her  thoughts  her  own  ; 

Herself  her  own  delight  ; 

Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad,  nor  gay ; 

And,  passing  thus  the  live-long  day, 

She  grew  to  woman’s  height. 

There  came  a youth  from  Georgia’s  shore — 
A military  casque  he  wore. 

With  splendid  feathers  drest  ; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees  ; 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze. 

And  made  a gallant  crest. 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung: 
But  no  ! he  spake  the  English  tongue. 

And  bore  a soldier’s  name  ; 

And,  when  America  was  free 
From  battle  and  from  jeopardy, 

He  ’cross  the  ocean  came. 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek. 

In  finest  tones  the  youth  could  speak  : 
While  he  was  yet  a boy. 

The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun. 

And  streams  that  murmur  as  they  run. 

Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 

He  was  a lovely  youth  ! I guess 
The  panther  in  the  wilderness 
Was  not  so  fair  as  he  ; 

And,  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play. 

No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 
Upon  the  tropic  sea. 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought. 

And  with  him  many  tales  he  brought 
Of  pleasure  and  of  fear  ; 

Such  tales  as  told  to  any  maid 
By  such  a youth,  in  the  green  shade. 

Were  perilous  to  hear. 

He  told  of  girls — a happy  rout  1 

Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout. 

Their  pleasant  Indian  town. 

To  gather  strawberries  all  day  long  ; 
Returning  with  a choral  song 
'IVhen  daj'light  is  gone  down. 


He  spake  of  plants  that  hourly  change 
Their  blossoms,  through  a boundless  range 
Of  intermingling  hues  ; 

With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers. 

They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers 
From  morn  to  evening  dews. 

He  told  of  the  magnolia,  spread 
High  as  a cloud,  high  overhead  ! 

The  cypress  and  her  spire  ; 

Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 
' Cover  a hundred  le'agues,  and  seem 
To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 

The  youth  of  green  savannahs  spake. 

And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake. 

With  all  its  fairy  crowds 
Of  islands,  that  together  lie 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
.Among  the  evening  clouds. 

‘ How  pleasant,’  then  he  said,  ‘ it  were 
A fisher  or  a hunter  there. 

In  sunshine  or  through  shade 
To  wander  with  an  easy  mind. 

And  build  a household  five,  and  find 
A home  in  every  glade  ! 

What  days  and  what  bright  years  1 Ah  EM  • 
Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  thee 
So  passed  in  quiet  bliss. 

And  all  the  while,’  said  he,  ‘ to  know 
That  we  were  in  a world  of  wo. 

On  such  an  earth  as  this  !’ 

And  then  he  sometimes  interwove 
Fond  thoughts  about  a father’s  love  : 

‘ For  there,’  said  he,  ‘ are  spun 
Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties. 

That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes 
Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 

Sweet  Ruth  ! and  could  you  go  with  me 
My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be, 

Our  shed  at  night  to  rear  ; 

Or  run,  my  own  adopted  bride, 

A sylvan  huntress  at  my  side. 

And  drive  the  flying  deer  ! 

Beloved  Ruth  !’. — No  more  he  said. 

The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 
A solitary  tear  : 

She  thought  again — and  did  agree 
With  him  to  sail  across  the  sea, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer. 

* And  now,  as  fitting  is  and  right. 

We  in  the  church  our  faith  w.ll  plight, 

A husband  and  a wife.’ 

Even  so  they  did  ; and  I may  say 
That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 
Was  more  than  human  life. 

Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sinh. 
Delighted  all  the  while  to  think 
That  on  those  lonesome  floods. 

And  green  savannahs,  she  should  share 
His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 
His  name  in  the  wild  woods. 

But,  as  you  have  before  been  told. 

This  stripling,  sportive,  gay,  and  bold. 

And,  with  his  dancing  crest. 

So  beautiful,  through  savage  lands 
Had  roamed  about,  with  vagrant  bands 
Of  Indians  in  the  west. 

329 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  prksent  rriut 


The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high, 
'I'he  tumult  of  a tropic  sky, 

Miglit  well  be  dangerous  food 
For  him,  a youth  to  whom  was  given 
So  much  of  earth — so  much  of  heaven, 
And  such  impetuous  blood. 

Meanwhile,  as  thus  with  him  it  fared. 
They  for  the  voyage  were  i>rcparcd. 

And  went  to  the  sea-shore  ; 

But,  when  they  thither  came,  the  youth 
Deserted  his  poor  bride,  and  Ruth 
Could  never  find  him  more. 

Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found 
Irregular  in  sight  or  sound 
Did  to  his  mind  impart 
A kindred  impulse,  seemed  allied 
To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 
The  workings  of  his  heart. 

God  help  thee,  Ruth  ! — Such  p.ains  she  had, 
That  she  in  a half  year  was  mad. 

And  in  a prison  housed  ; 

And  there,  with  many  a doleful  song 
Made  of  wild  words,  her  cup  of  wrong 
She  fearfully  caroused. 

Nor  less,  to  feed  voluptuous  thought, 
The  beauteous  forms  of  nature  wrought. 
Fair  trees  and  lovely  flowers  ; 

The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent ; 

The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 
Into  those  gorgeous  bowers. 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours  she  knew, 
Nor  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  nor  dew. 
Nor  pastimes  of  the  May  ; 

They  all  were  with  her  in  her  cell  ; 
And  a clear  brook  with  cheerful  knell 
Did  o’er  the  pebbles  play. 

Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I ween 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent ; 

For  passions  linked  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment. 

When  Ruth  three  seasons  thus  had  lain, 
There  came  a respite  to  her  pain ; 

She  from  her  prison  fled  ; 

But  of  the  vagrant  none  took  thought ; 
And  where  it  liked  her  best,  she  sought 
Her  shelter  and  her  bread. 

But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw. 
With  men  to  whom  no  better  law 
Nor  better  life  was  knowm  ; 
Deliberately,  and  undeceived, 
Those  wild  men’s  vices  he  received. 
And  gave  them  back  his  own. 

Among  the  fields  she  breathed  again ; 
The  master-current  of  her  brain 
Ran  permanent  and  free  ; 

And,  coming  to  the  banks  of  Tone, 
There  did  she  rest ; and  dwell  alone 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 
Were  thus  impaired,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires  : 

A man  who,  without  self-control, 
Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 
Unworthily  admires. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  the  tools 

That  shaped  her  sorrow,  rocks  and  pools^ 

And  airs  that  gently  stir 

The  vernal  leaves — she  loved  them  still; 

Nor  ever  taxed  them  with  the  ill 

Which  had  been  done  to  her. 

And  yet  he  with  no  feigned  delight 
Had  wooed  the  maiden,  day  and  night 
Had  loved  her,  night  and  mom : 

What  could  he  less  than  love  a maid 
Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  played  1 
So  kind  and  so  forlorn  1 

A bam  her  winter  bed  supplies  ; 

But,  till  the  warmth  of  summer  skies 
And  summer  days  is  gone 
(And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree). 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 
And  other  home  hath  none. 

Sometimes,  most  earnestly,  he  said, 

‘ 0 Ruth  1 I have  been  worse  than  dead  ; 
False  thoughts,  thoughts  bold  and  vain. 
Encompassed  me  on  every  side 
When  first,  in  confidence  and  pride, 

I crossed  the  Atlantic  main. 

An  innocent  life,  yet  far  astray! 

And  Ruth  will,  long  before  her  day. 

Be  broken  down  and  old : 

Sore  aches  she  needs  must  have  ! but  less 
Of  mind  than  body’s  wretchedness. 

From  damp,  and  rain,  and  cold. 

It  was  a fresh  and  glorious  world — 

A banner  bright  that  shone  unfurled 
Before  me  suddenly : 

I looked  upon  those  hills  and  plains, 
And  seemed  as  if  let  loose  from  chains. 
To  live  at  liberty. 

If  she  is  pressed  by  want  of  food. 

She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 
Repairs  to  a road-side  ; 

And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place. 
Where  up  and  down  with  easy  pace 
The  horsemen-travellers  ride. 

But  wherefore  speak  of  this  ? For  now. 
Dear  Ruth  ! with  thee,  I know  not  how, 
I feel  my  spirit  burn  ; 

My  soul  from  darkness  is  released, 

Like  the  whole  sky  when  to  the  east 
The  morning  doth  return.’ 

That  oaten  pipe  of  hers  is  mute, 

Or  thrown  away ; but  with  a flute 
Her  loneliness  she  cheers : 

This  flute,  made  of  a hemlock  stalk. 
At  evening  in  his  homeward  walk 
The  Quantock  woodman  hears. 

Full  soon  that  purer  mind  was  gone  ; 
No  hope,  no  wish  remained,  not  one — 
They  stirred  him  now  no  more  ; 

New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give. 
And  once  again  he  wished  to  live 
As  lawless  as  before. 

I,  too,  have  passed  her  on  the  hills 
Setting  her  little  water-mills 
By  spouts  and  fountains  wild — 

Such  small  machinery  as  she  turned 
Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourned, 

A young  and  happy  child  ! 

330 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  "ft  Onr/SWORTn. 


POETS. 


Farewell!  aiul  when  thy  days  are  told, 
Ill-fated  Ruth,  in  hallowed  mould 
Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be  ; 

For  thee  a funeral  bell  shall  ring, 

And  all  tl.*3  congregation  sing 
A Christian  psalm  for  thee. 

To  a Highland  Girl. 

[At  Inversneyde,  upon  Loch  Lomond.] 

Sweet  Highland  girl  I a very  shower 
Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower  ! 

Twice  seven  con,senting  years  have  shed 
Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 

And  those  gray  rocks  ; that  household  lawn  ; 
Those  trees,  a veil  just  half  withdrawn; 

This  fall  of  water,  that  doth  make 
A murmur  near  the  silent  lake ; 

This  little  bay,  a quiet  road 
That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode — 

In  truth,  unfolding  thus,  ye  seem 
Like  something  fashioned  in  a dream ; 

Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 
When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep ! 

Y et,  dream  or  vision  as  thou  art, 

I bless  thee  with  a human  heart : 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years ! 

I neither  know  thee  nor  thy  peers ; 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I am  far  away  : 

For  never  saw  I mien  or  face, 

In  which  more  plainly  I could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 

Here  scattered,  like  a random  seed. 

Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress 
And  maidenly  shamefacedness : 

Thou  wear’st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a mountaineer : 

A face  with  gladness  overspread  1 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred! 

And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays  ; 

With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech  : 

A bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life! 

So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind. 

Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind. 

Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  ? 

0 happy  pleasure  ! here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell ; 

Adopt  your  homely  ways,  and  dress 
A shepherd,  thou  a shepherdess ! 

But  1 could  frame  a wish  for  thee 
More  like  a grave  reality  ; 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a wave 
Of  the  wild  sea ; and  I would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I could, 

Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see ! 

Thy  elder  brother  I would  be — 

Thy  father — anything  to  thee  ! 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven ! that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 

Joy  have  I had  ; and  going  hence, 

1 bear  away  my  recompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes  : 


Then,  why  should  I be  loath  to  stir  ? 

1 feel  this  place  was  made  for  her  ; 

To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past. 

Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 

Nor  am  I loath,  though  pleased  at  heart, 

Sweet  Highland  girl  ! from  thee  to  part ; 

For  I,  methink.s,  till  I grow  old. 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold. 

As  I do  now,  the  cabin  small, 

The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 

And  thee,  the  spirit  of  them  all  ! 

Laodamia. 

‘ With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  mom. 

Vows  have  I made  by  fruitless  hope  inspired ; 

And  from  the  infernal  gods,  ’mid  shades  forlorn 
Of  night,  my  slaughtered  lord  have  I required : 
Celestial  pity  I again  implore  ; 

Restore  him  to  my  sight — great  Jove,  restore  1’ 

So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 

With  faith,  the  suppliant  heavenward  lifts  her  hands 

White,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a cloud. 

Her  countenance  brightens  and  her  eye  e.vpands  ; 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature  grow's ; 
And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

0 terror ! what  hath  she  perceived  ? — 0 joy  ! 

What  doth  she  look  on  ? — whom  doth  she  behold  1 
Her  hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy  * 

His  vital  presence  ? his  corporeal  mould  ? 

It  is — if  sense  deceive  her  not — ’tis  he  ! 

And  a god  leads  him,  winged  Mercury  ! 

Mild  Hermes  spake,  and  touched  her  with  hjs  wand 
That  calms  all  fear,  ‘Such  grace  hath  crowned  thy 
prayer, 

Laodamia!  that  at  Jove’s  command 
Thy  husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  ai  r ; 

He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours’  space  ; 
Accept  the  gift,  behold  him  face  to  face !’ 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  queen  her  l.rd  to  clasp ; 
Again  that  consummation  she  essayed  ; 

But  unsubstantial  Form  eludes  her  grasp 
As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 

The  phantom  parts — but  parts  to  re-unite. 

And  re-assume  his  place  before  her  sight.  * 

‘ Protesildus,  lo  ! thy  guide  is  gone ! 

Confirm,  I pray,  the  vision  with  thy  voice. 

This  is  our  palace — yonder  is  thy  throne  ; 

Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  tread’st  on  will  ujoice. 

Not  to  appal  me  have  the  gods  bestowed 
This  precious  boon ; and  blest  a sad  abode.’ 

‘ Great  Jove,  Laodamia ! doth  not  leave 
His  gifts  imperfect.  Spectre  though  I be, 

1 am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive  ; 

But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity. 

And  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain  ; 

For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 

Thou  knowest,  the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 

That  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the  Trojan  strand 

Should  die : but  me  the  threat  could  not  withhold : 

A generous  cause  a victim  did  demand  ; 

And  forth  I leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain ; 

A self-devoted  chief — by  Hector  slain.’ 

‘ Supreme  of  heroes  ; bravest,  noblest,  best ! 

Thy  matchless  courage  I bewail  no  more, 
which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  deprest 
By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore ; 

Thou  found’st — and  I forgive  thee — here  thou  art— 
A nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

331 


rnoM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  present  tim» 

Hut  thou,  though  ciipable  of  sternest  deed, 

Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave; 

And  lie,  whose  power  restores  thee,  hath  decreed 
That  thou  shouldst  cheat  the  malice  of  the  grave. 
Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 
As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  air. 

No  spectre  greets  me — no  vain  shadow  this ; 

Come,  blooming  hero,  place  thee  by  my  side! 

Give,  on  this  well  known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 
To  me,  this  day,  a second  time  thy  bride  1’ 

Jove  frowned  in  heaven  ; the  conscious  I’arcai  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a Stygian  hue. 

‘ This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is  past ; 

Nor  should  the  change  be  mourned,  even  if  the  joys 
Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 
And  surely  as  they  vanish.  Earth  destroys 
Those  raptures  duly — Erebus  disdains  ; 

Calm  pleasures  there  abide — majestic  pains. 

Be  taught,  0 faithful  consort,  to  control 
Rebellious  passion  ; for  the  gods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul ; 

A fervent,  not  ungovernable  love. 

Thy  transports  moderate  ; and  meekly  mourn 
When  1 depart,  for  bri^  is  my  sojourn.’ 

‘ Ah,  wherefore  ? Did  not  Hercules  by  force 
Wrest  from  the  guardian  monster  of  the  tomb 
Alcestis,  a reanimated  corse. 

Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom  1 
Medea’s  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years. 

And  jEson  stood  a youth  ’mid  youthful  peers. 

The  gods  to  us  are  merciful ; and  they 
Yet  further  may  relent ; for  mightier  far 
Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the  sway 
Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star. 

Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest. 

And  though  his  favourite  seat  be  feeble  woman’s  breast. 

But  if  thou  goest,  I follow.’  ‘Peace!’  he  said; 

She  looked  upon  him,  and  was  calmed  and  cheered ; 
The  ghastly  colour  from  his  lips  had  fled. 

In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien  appeared 
Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace. 

Brought  from  a pensive  though  a happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  spirits  feel 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure ; 

No  fears  to  beat  away,  no  strife  to  heal. 

The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  future  sure ; 

Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 
Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued. 

Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous — imaged  there 
In  happier  beauty  ; more  pellucid  streams, 

An  ampler  ether,  a diviner  air. 

And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams ; 

Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  brightest  day 
Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Yet  there  the  soul  shall  enter  which  hath  earned 
That  privilege  by  virtue.  ‘ 111,’  said  he, 

* The  end  of  man’s  existence  I discerned, 

Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 
Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  delight. 

While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime,  day  and  night : 
And  while  my  youthful  peers  before  my  eyes 
(Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 

Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 
By  martial  sports  ; or,  seated  in  the  tent. 

Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  detained — 
What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained. 

The  wished-for  wind  was  given  : I then  revolved 
The  oracle  upon  the  silent  sea ; 

And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  resolved 
That,  of  a thousand  vessels,  mine  should  be 
The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand — ■ 

Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Trojan  sand. 

Yet  bitter,  ofttimes  bitter  was  the  pang. 

When  of  thy  loss  1 thought,  beloved  wife  1 
On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang. 

And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life  ; 

The  paths  which  we  had  trod — these  fountains,  flowers  ; 
My  new-planned  cities,  and  unfinished  towers. 

But  should  suspense  permit  the  foe  to  cry, 

“ Behold  they  tremble  1 haughty  their  array  ; 

Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die!” 

In  soul  I swept  the  indignity  away ; 

Old  frailties  then  recurred  ; but  lofty  thought. 

In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 

And  thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all  too  weak 
In  reason,  in  self-govemnfent  too  slow; 

I counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 
Our  blest  reunion  in  the  shades  below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympathised; 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnised. 

Learn,  by  a mortal  yearning,  to  ascend — 

Seeking  a higher  object.  Love  was  given. 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end ; 

For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven. 

That  self  might  be  annulled  : her  bondage  prove 
The  fetters  of  a dream,  opposed  to  love.’ 

Aloud  she  shrieked  ; for  Hermes  reappears! 

Round  the  dear  shade  she  wo.'.ld  have  clung ; ’tis  vain ; 
The  hours  are  past — too  brief  had  they  been  years ; 
And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain ; 

Swift  toward  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day. 
He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way. 

And  on  the  palace-floor  a lifeless  corse  she  lay. 

By  no  weak  pity  might  the  gods  be  moved  : 

She  who  thus  perished,  not  without  the  crime 
Of  lovers  that  in  reason’s  spite  have  loved. 

Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time 
Apart  from  happy  ghosts,  that  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  ’mid  unfading  bowers. 

— Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due  ; 

And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o’erthrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone, 

As  fondly  he  believes.  Upon  the  side 
Of  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  entertained) 

A knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 

From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she  died; 

And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  had  gained. 

That  Ilium’s  walls  were  subject  to  their  view. 

The  tree’s  tall  summits  withered  at  the  sight- — 

A constant  interchange  of  growth  and  blight! 

One  of  the  most  enthusiastic  admirers  of  Words- 
worth was  Coleridge,  so  long  his  friend  and  associate, 
and  who  looked  up  to  him  with  a sort  of  filial  vene- 
ration and  respect.  He  has  drawm  his  poetical 
character  at  length  in  the  Biographia  Literaria,  and 
if  we  consider  it  as  applying  to  the  higher  charac- 
teristics of  Wordsworth,  without  reference  to  the 
absurdity  or  puerility  of  some  of  his  early  fables,  in- 
cidents, and  language,  it  will  be  found  equally  just 
and  felicitous.  First,  ‘ An  austere  purity  of  lan- 
guage, both  grammatically  and  logically  ; in  short,  a 
perfect  appropriateness  of  the  w'ords  to  the  meaning. 
Secondly,  A correspondent  weight  and  sanity  of  the 
thoughts  and  sentiments  won,  not  from  books,  but 
from  the  poet’s  own  meditations.  They  are  fresh, 
and  have  the  dew  upon  them.  Even  throughout 
his  smaller  poems,  there  is  not  one  w hich  is  not  ren- 
dered valuable  by  some  just  and  original  reflection. 
Thirdly,  The  sinewy  strength  and  originality  of 
single  lines  and  paragraphs ; the  frequent  curiosa 
felicitas  of  his  diction.  Fourthly,  The  perfect  truth 
of  nature  in  his  images  and  descriptions,  as  taken 
immediately  from  nature,  and  proving  a long  and 
genial  intimacy  with  the  very  spirit  which  gives 

332 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  TAYIOR  COLERIDOK. 


a pliysiognoiuic  e.xpression  to  all  the  works  of  nature. 
Fiflidy,  A meditative  pathos,  a union  of  deep  and 
subtle  thought  with  sensibility  ; a sympathy  with 
man  as  man  ; the  sympathy,  indeed,  of  a contem- 
plator  rather  than  a fellow-sufferer  and  co-mate 
(spectator,  hand  particeps),  but  of  a contemi)lation  from 
whose  view  no  difference  of  rank  conceals  the  same- 
ness of  the  nature;  no  injuries  of  wind  or  weather, 
or  toil,  or  even  of  ignorance,  wholly  disguise  the 
human  face  divine.  Last,  and  pre-eminently,  I 
challenge  for  this  poet  the  gift  of  imagination  in  the 
highest  and  strictest  sense  of  the  word.  In  the  play 
of  fancy,  Wordsworth,  to  my  feelings,  is  always 
graceful,  and  sometimes  recondite.  The  likeness  is 
occasionally  too  strange,  or  demands  too  peculiar  a 
point  of  view,  or  is  such  as  appears  the  creature  of 
predetermined  research,  rather  than  spontaneous 
presentation.  Indeed,  his  fancy  seldom  displays 
itself  as  mere  and  unmodified  fancy'.  But  in  imagi- 
native power  he  stands  nearest  of  all  modern  writers 
to  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  and  yet  in  a mind  per- 
fectly unborrowed,  and  his  own.  To  employ  his  own 
words,  which  are  at  once  an  instance  and  an  illus- 
tration, he  does  indeed,  to  all  thoughts  and  to  all 
objects — 

Add  the  gleam, 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 

The  consecration  and  the  poet’s  dream.’ 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  a remarkable  man 
and  rich  imaginative  poet,  enjoyed  a high  reputation 
during  the  latter  years  of  his  life  for  his  colloquial 
eloquence  and  metaphysical  and  critical  powers,  of 
which  only  a few  fragmentary  specimens  remain.  His 
poetry  also  indicated  more  than  it  achieved.  Visions 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

of  grace,  tenderness,  and  majesty,  seem  ever  to  have 
haunted  him.  Some  of  these  he  embodied  in  exquisite 
verse;  but  he  wanted  concentration  and  steadiness  of 
purpose  to  avail  himself  sufficiently  of  his  intellectual 
riches.  A happier  destiny  was  also  perhaps  wanting; 
for  much  of  Coleridge’s  life  was  spent  in  poverty  and 
dependence,  amidst  disappointment  and  ill-health, 
ami  in  the  irregularity  caused  by  an  unfortunate  and 
excessive  use  of  opium,  which  tyrannised  over  him 
for  many  years  with  unrelenting  severity.  Amidst 


daily  drudgery  for  the  periodical  press,  and  in 
nightly  dreams  distempered  and  feverish,  he  wasted, 
to  use  his  own  expression,  ‘ the  i)rime  and  manhood 
of  his  intellect.’  The  poet  was  a native  of  Devon- 
shire, being  born  on  the  20th  of  October  1772  at 
Ottery  St  Maryq  of  which  parish  his  father  was 
vicar.  He  received  the  principal  j)art  of  his  educa- 
tion at  Christ’s  hospital,  where  he  had  Charles  I.amb 
for  a schoolfellow.  He  describes  himself  as  being, 
from  eight  to  fourteen,  ‘a  playless  day-dreamer, 
ahclluo  Ubrorum;  and  in  this  instance  ‘ the  child  was 
father  of  the  man,’  for  such  was  Coleridge  to  the 
end  of  his  life.  A stranger  whom  he  had  acci- 
dentally met  one  day  on  the  streets  of  London,  and 
who  was  struck  with  his  conversation,  made  him  free 
of  a circulating  library,  and  he  read  through  the 
catalogue,  folios  and  all.  At  fourteen,  he  had,  like 
Gibbon,  a stock  of  erudition  that  might  have  puzzled 
a doctor,  and  a degree  of  ignorance  of  which  a school- 
boy would  have  been  ashamed.  He  had  no  ambi- 
tion ; his  father  was  dead,  and  he  actually  thought 
of  apprenticing  himself  to  a shoemaker  who  lived 
near  the  school.  The  head  master,  Bowyer,  inter- 
fered, and  prevented  this  additional  honour  to  the 
craft  of  St  Crispin,  already  made  illustrious  by 
Gifford  and  Bloomfield.  Coleridge  became  deputy'- 
Grecian,  or  head  scholar,  and  obtained  an  exhibition 
or  presentation  from  Christ’s  hospital  to  Jesus’ 
college,  Cambridge,  where  he  remained  from  1791  to 
1793.  He  quitted  college  abruptly,  without  taking 
a degree,  having  become  obnoxious  to  his  superiors 
from  his  attachment  to  the  principles  of  the  French 
Revolution. 

When  France  in  wrath  her  giant-limbs  upreared. 

And  with  that  oath  which  smote  air,  earth,  and  sea. 
Stamped  her  strong  foot,  and  ,‘>aid  she  would  be  free. 
Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I hoped  and  feared  1 
With  what  a joy  my  lofty  gratulation 
Unawed  I sang,  amid  a slavish  band  : 

And  when  to  whelm  the  disenchanted  nation, 

Like  fiends  embattled  by  a wizard’s  wand, 

The  monarchs  marched  in  evil  day. 

And  Britain  joined  the  dire  array  ; 

Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling  ocean. 

Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful  loves 
Had  swollen  the  patriot  emotion. 

And  flung  a magic  light  o’er  all  her  hills  and  groves, 
Yet  still  my  voice,  unaltered,  sang  defeat 
To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling  lance, 

And  shame  too  long  delayed  and  vain  retreat  I 
For  ne’er,  0 Liberty  ! with  partial  aim 
I dimmed  thy  light,  or  damped  thy  holy  flame  ; 

But  blessed  the  pa;ans  of  delivered  France, 

And  hung  my  head,  and  wept  at  Britain’s  name. 

France,  an  Ode. 

In  London,  Coleridge  soon  elt  himself  forlorn  and 
destitute,  and  he  enlisted  as  a soldier  in  the  15th, 
Elliot’s  Light  Dragoons.  ‘ On  his  arrival  at  the 
quarters  of  the  regiment,’  says  his  friend  and 
biographer  Mr  Gillman,  ‘ the  general  of  the  district 
inspected  the  recruits,  and  looking  hard  at  Cole- 
ridge, with  a military  air,  inquired,  “What’s  your 
name,  sir  ?”  “ Comherbach.”  (The  name  he  had 
assumed.)  “ What  do  you  come  here  for,  sir  as  if 
doubting  whether  he  had  any  business  there.  “ Sir,’’ 
said  Coleridge,  “ for  what  most  other  persons  come 
— to  be  made  a soldier.”  “ Do  you  think,”  said  the 
general,  “ you  can  run  a Frenchman  through  the 
body?”  “ I do  not  know,”  replied  Coleridge,  “ as  I 
never  tried  ; but  I'll  let  a Frenchman  run  me  through 
the  body  before  I’ll  run  away.”  “ That  will  do,” 
said  the  general,  and  Coleridge  was  turned  into  the 
ranks.’  The  poet  made  a poor  dragoon,  and  never 
advanced  beyond  the  awkward  squad.  He  wrote 

333 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  till  the  rnnsEivT  Tiitiii 

letters,  liowevcr,  for  all  his  comrades,  and  they 
attended  to  liis  liorsc  and  accoutrements.  After 
four  months’  service  (December  1793  to  April  1794), 
tlie  history  and  circumstances  of  Coleridi;e  ’oecame 
known.  lie  had  written  under  his  saddle,  on  the 
stable  wall,  a Latin  sentence  (‘  Eheu!  quam  in- 
fortunii  niiserrimum  est  fuisse  felicem  !’)  which  led 
to  an  inquiry  on  the  part  of  the  captain  of  his  troop, 
who  had  more  regard  for  the  classics  than  Ensign 
Northerton  in  Tom  Jones.  Coleridge  was  dis- 
charged, and  restored  to  his  family  and  friends. 
The  same  year  he  published  his  Juvenile  Poems,  and 
a drama  on  the  Pall  of  llobespierre.  He  was  then  an 
ardent  republican  and  a Socinian — full  of  high  hopes 
and  anticipations,  ‘ the  golden  e.xhalations  of  the 
dawn.’  In  conjunction  with  two  other  poetical  en- 
thusiasts— Soutliey  and  Lloyd — he  resolved  on  emi- 
grating to  America,  where  the  party  were  to  found, 
amidst  the  wilds  of  Susquehanna,  a Pantisocraci/, 
or  state  of  society  in  which  all  things  were  to  be 
in  common,  and  neither  king  nor  priest  could 
mar  their  felicity.  ‘From  building  castles  in  the 
air,’  as  Southey  has  said,  ‘ to  framing  common- 
wealths, was  an  easy  transition.’  The  dream  was 
never  realised  (it  is  said  from  a very  prosaic  cause — 
the  want  of  funds),  and  Coleridge,  Southey,  and 
Lloyd  married  three  sisters — the  IMiss  Frickers  of 
Bristol.  Coleridge,  still  ardent,  wrote  two  political 
pamphlets,  concluding  ‘ that  truth  should  be  spoken 
at  all  times,  but  more  especially  at  those  times  when 
to  speak  truth  is  dangerous.’  He  established  also  a 
periodical  in  prose  and  verse,  entitled  The  Watchman, 
with  the  motto,  ‘ that  all  might  know  the  truth,  and 
that  the  truth  might  make  us  free.’  He  watched  in 
vain.  Coleridge’s  incurable  want  of  order  and  punc- 
tuality, and  his  philosophical  theories,  tired  out  and 
disgusted  his  readers,  and  the  work  was  discontinued 
after  the  ninth  number.  Of  the  unsaleable  nature 
of  this  publication,  he  relates  an  amusing  illiLstration. 
Happening  one  day  to  rise  at  an  earlier  hour  than 
usual,  he  observed  his  servant  girl  putting  an  extra- 
vagant quantity  of  jiaper  into  the  grate,  in  order  to 
light  the  fire,  and  he  mildly  checked  her  for  her 
wastefulness.  ‘ La,  sir,  (replied  Nanu}-)  why,  it  is  only 
Watchmen.’  He  went  to  reside  in  a cottage  at  Nether 
Stowey,  at  the  foot  of  the  Quantock  hills,  Somerset- 
shire, which  he  has  commemorated  in  bis  poetry. 
And  now,  beloved  Stowey ! I behold 
Thy  church  tower,  and,  inethinks,  the  four  huge  elms 
Clustering,  which  mark  the  mansion  of  my  friend  ; 
And  close  behind  them,  hidden  from  my  view, 

Is  my  own  lowly  cottage,  where  my  babe 

And  my  babe’s  mother  dwell  in  peace  ! With  light 

And  quickened  footsteps  thitherward  I tread. 

Mr  Wordsworth  lived  at  Allfoxden,  about  two 
miles  from  Stowey,  and  the  kindred  feelings  and 
pursuits  of  the  two  poets  bound  them  in  the  closest 
friendship.  At  Stowey,  Coleridge  wrote  some  of  his 
most  beautiful  poetry — his  Ode  on  the  Departing 
Year;  Fears  in  Solitude;  France,  an  Ode;  Frost  at 
Midnight;  the  first  part  of  Christabel;  the  Ancient 
Mariner ; and  his  tragedy  of  Remorse.  The  luxuriant 
fulness  and  individuality  of  his  poetry  show  that  he 
was  then  happy',  no  less  than  eager,  in  his  studies. 
The  two  or  three  years  spent  at  Stowey  seem  to  have 
been  at  once  the  most  felicitous  and  the  most  illus- 
trious of  Coleridge’s  literary  life.  He  had  established 
his  name  for  ever,  though  it  was  long  in  struggling 
to  distinction.  During  his  residence  at  Stowey, 
Coleridge  officiated  as  Unitarian  preacher  at  Taun- 
ton, and  afterwards  at  Shrewsbury.*  In  1798  the 

* Mr  ITazlitt  ha-s  described  his  walking  ten  miles  in  a winter 
lay  to  hear  Coleriilge  preach.  ‘ tVhen  I got  there,’  he  says, 
the  organ  was  p'.iying  the  lOOth  Psalm,  and  when  it  was  done, 

‘ gen(;rous  and  munificent  patronage’  of  Messrs  ’ 
.losiah  and  Thomas  Wedgewood,  Staffordshire,  en- 
abled the  poet  to  proceed  to  (Jermany  to  complete 
his  education,  and  he  resided  there  fourteen  months. 

At  Katzburg  and  Gottingen  he  acquired  a well- 
grounded  knowledge  of  the  German  language  and 
literature,  and  was  confirmed  in  his  bias  towards 
philosophical  and  metaphysical  studies.  On  his 
return  in  1800,  he  found  Southey'  established  at 
Keswick,  and  Wordsworth  at  Grassmere.  He  went 
to  live  with  the  former,  and  there  his  opinions 
underwent  a total  change.  The  .Jacobin  became  a 
royalist,  and  the  Unitarian  a warm  and  devoted 
believer  in  the  Trinity.  In  the  same  year  he  pub- 
lished his  translation  of  Schiller’s  ‘ Wallenstein,’  into 
which  he  had  thrown  some  of  the  finest  graces  of  his 
own  fancy.  The  following  passage  may  be  considered 
a revelation  of  Coleridge’s  poetical  faith  and  belief, 
conveyed  in  language  picturesque  and  musical : — 

Oh  ! never  rudely  will  I blame  his  faith 
In  the  might  of  stars  and  angels  ! ’Tis  not  merely 
The  human  being’s  pride  that  peoples  space 
With  life  and  mystical  predominance  ; 

Since  likewise  for  the  stricken  heart  of  love 
This  visible  nature,  and  this  common  world. 

Is  all  too  narrow : yea,  a deeper  import 
Lurks  in  the  legend  told  ray  infant  years, 

Than  lies  upon  that  truth  we  live  to  learn. 

For  fable  is  love’s  ivorld,  his  house,  his  birthplace; 
Delightedly  dwells  he  ’mong  fays,  and  talismans, 

And  sjiirits  ; and  delightedly  believes 
Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 

The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets. 

The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 

The  pjowei',  the  beauty,  and  the  majesty. 

That  had  their  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny  mountain. 

Or  forest,  by  slow  stream,  or  piebbly  spring. 

Or  chasms  and  watery  dej'iths ; all  these  have  vanished. 
They  lire  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason! 

But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a language ; still 
' Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names ; 

And  to  yon  starry  world  they  now  are  gone, 

Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  .share  this  earth 
With  man  as  with  their  friend  ; and  to  the  lover. 
Yonder  they  move,  from  y onder  visible  sky 
Shoot  influence  down ; and  even  at  this  day 
’Tis  Jupiter  who  brings  whate’er  is  great, 

And  Venus  who  brings  everything  that’s  fair. 

Mr  Coleridge  rose  and  gave  out  his  text — “ He  departed  again 
into  a mountain  himself  alone.”  As  he  gave  out  this  text,  his 
voice  rose  like  a stream  of  ricii  distilled  perfumes ; and  when  he 
came  to  the  two  last  words,  which  he  pronounced  loud,  deep, 
and  distinct,  it  seemed  to  me,  who  was  then  young,  as  if  the 
sounds  had  echoed  from  the  bottom  of  the  human  heart,  and 
as  if  that  prayer  might  have  floated  in  solemn  silence  through 
the  universe.  The  idea  of  St  John  came  into  my  mind,  of  one 
crying  in  the  wilderness,  who  had  his  loins  girt  about,  and 
whose  food  was  locusts  and  wild  honey.  The  preacher  then 
launched  into  his  subject  like  an  eagle  dallying  with  the  wind. 

The  sermon  was  upon  peace  and  war— upon  church  and  state 
—not  their  alliance,  but  their  separation— on  the  spirit  of  the 
world  and  the  spirit  of  Christianity,  not  as  the  same,  but  as 
opposed  to  one  another.  lie  talked  of  those  who  had  inscribed 
the  cross  of  Christ  on  banners  dripping  with  human  gore  i He 
made  a poetical  and  pastoral  excursion— and  to  show  the  fatal 
effects  of  war,  drew  a striking  contrast  between  the  simple 
shepherd-boy  driving  his  team  a-field,  or  sitting  under  the 
hawthorn,  piping  to  his  flock,  as  though  he  should  never  be 
old,  and  the  same  poor  country  lad,  crimped,  kidnapped, 
brought  into  town,  made  drunk  at  an  alehouse,  ttirned  into  a 
wretched  drummer-boy,  with  his  hair  sticking  on  end  with 
powder  and  pomatum,  a long  cue  at  his  back,  and  tricked  out 
in  the  finery  of  the  profession  of  blood ; 

“ Such  were  the  notes  our  once  loved  poet  sung 
and,  for  myself,  I could  not  have  been  more  delighted  if  I haa 
heard  the  music  of  the  spheres.’ 

534 

ENGLISH  LITEKATURE. 


SAMUEL  TATLOR  COLERIDGE. 


The  lines  which  we  have  printed  in  Italics  are  an 
expansion  of  two  of  Schiller’s,  which  Mr  Hayward 
(another  German  poetical  translator)  thus  literally 
venders : — 

The  old  fable-existences  are  no  more  ; 

The  fascinating  race  has  emigrated  (wandered  out  or 
away). 

As  a means  of  subsistence  Coleridge  reluctantly 
consented  to  undertake  the  literary  and  political 
department  of  the  Morning  Post,  in  which  he  sup- 
ported the  measures  of  government.  In  1804  we  find 
him  in  Malta,  secretary  to  the  governor.  Sir  Alex- 
ander Ball,  with  a salary  of  £800  per  annum.  He 
held  this  lucrative  office  only  nine  months,  having 
disagreed  with  the  governor ; and,  after  a tour  in 
Italy,  returned  to  England  to  resume  his  precarious 
labours  as  an  author  and  lecturer.  The  desultory 
irregular  habits  of  the  poet,  caused  partly  by  his 
addiction  to  opium,  and  the  dreamy  indolence  and 
procrastination  w-hich  marked  him  throughout  life, 
seem  to  have  frustrated  every  chance  and  oppor- 
tunity of  self-advancement.  Living  again  at  Grass- 
mere,  he  issued  a second  periodical.  The  Friend, 
w'hich  extended  to  twenty-seven  numbers.  The 
essays  were  sometimes  acute  and  eloquent,  but  as 
often  rhapsodical,  imperfect,  and  full  of  German 
mysticism.  In  1816,  chiefly  at  the  recommendation 
of  Lord  Byron,  the  ‘ wild  and  wondrous  tale’  of 
‘Christabel’  was  published.  The  first  part,  as  we 
have  mentioned,  was  written  at  Stowey  as  far  back 
as  1797,  and  a second  had  been  added  on  his 
return  from  Germany  in  1800.  The  poem  was 
still  unfinished ; but  it  would  have  been  almost  as 
diflScidt  to  complete  the  Eaery  Queen,  as  to  continue 
in  the  same  spirit  that  witching  strain  of  superna- 
tural fancy  and  melodious  verse.  Another  drama, 
Zapoyla  (founded  on  the  Winter’s  Tale),  was  pub- 
lished by  Coleridge  in  1818,  and,  with  the  exception 
of  some  minor  poems,  completes  his  poetical  works. 
He  wrote  several  characteristic  prose  disquisitions — ■ 
The  Statesman’s  Mamial,  or  the  Bible  the  Best  Guide 
to  Political  Skill  and  Foresight;  a Lay  5e?'»!oa  (1816)  ; 
a Second  Lay  Sermon,  addressed  to  the  Higher  and 
Middle  Classes  on  the  existing  Distresses  and  Discon- 
tents (1817),-  Biographia  Literaria,  two  volumes, 
1817;  Aids  to  Reflection  (1825);  On  the  Constitution 
of  the  Church  and  Stale  (1830)  ; &c.  He  meditated 
a great  theological  and  philosophical  work,  his  mag- 
num opus,  on  ‘ Christianity  as  the  only  revelation  of 
permanent  and  universal  validity,’  which  was  to 
‘ reduce  all  knowledge  into  harmony’ — to  ‘ unite  the 
insulated  fragments  of  truth,  and  therewith  to  frame 
a perfect  mirror.’  He  planned  also  an  epic  poem  on 
the  destruction  of  Jerusalem  which  he  considered 
the  only  subject  now  remaining  for  an  epic  poem  ; a 
subject  which,  like  Milton’s  Fall  of  IMan,  should  in- 
terest all  Christendom,  as  the  Homeric  War  of  Troy 
interested  all  Greece.  ‘ Here,’  said  he,  ‘ there  would 
be  the  completion  of  the  prophecies ; the  termination 
of  the  first  revealed  national  religion  under  the  vio- 
lent assault  of  paganism,  itself  the  immediate  fore- 
runner and  condition  of  the  spread  of  a revealed 
mundane  religion  ; and  then  you  would  have  the 
character  of  the  Roman  and  the  Jew ; and  the  awful- 
ness, the  completeness,  the  justice.  I schemed  it  at 
twenty-five,  but,  alas ! venturum  expectat.’  This 
ambition  to  execute  some  great  work,  and  his  consti- 
tutional infirmity  of  purpose,  which  made  him  defer 
or  recoil  from  such  an  effort,  he  has  portrayed  with 
great  beauty  and  pathos  in  an  address  to  Words- 
worth, composed  after  the  latter  had  recited  to  him 
a poem  ‘ on  the  growth  of  an  individual  mind :’ — 

Ah!  as  I listened  with  a heart  forlorn, 

The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew ; 


And  even  as  life  returns  upon  the  drowned, 

Life’s  joy  rekindling  roused  a throng  of  pains — 

Keen  pangs  of  love,  awakening  as  a babe 
Turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart ; 

And  fears  self-willed,  that  shunned  the  eye  of  hope; 
And  hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from  fear ; 
Sense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come  in  vain ; 

And  genius  given,  and  knowledge  won  in  vain  ; 

And  all  which  I had  culled  in  wood-walks  wild. 

And  all  which  patient  toil  had  reared,  and  all 
Commune  with  thee  had  opened  out — but  flowers 
Strewed  on  my  corse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier. 

In  the  same  coffin,  for  the  self-same  grave ! 

These  were  prophetic  breathings,  and  should  be  a 
warning  to  young  and  ardent  genius.  In  such  mag- 
nificent alternations  of  hope  and  despair,  and  in 
discoursing  on  poetry  and  philosophy — sometimes 
committing  a golden  thought  to  the  blank  leaf  of  a 
book  or  to  a private  letter,  but  generally  content 
with  oral  communication— the  poet’s  time  glided 
past.  He  had  found  an  asylum  in  the  house  of  a 
private  friend,  Mr  James  GiUman,  surgeon,  High- 
gate,  where  he  resided  for  the  last  nineteen  years  of 
his  life.  Here  he  was  visited  by  numerous  friends 


Mr  Gillman’s  House,  Highgate,  the  last  resideuee  of  Coleridge. 


and  admirers,  wdio  were  happy  to  listen  to  his  in- 
spired monologues,  which  he  p lured  forth  with 
exhaustless  fecundity.  ‘We  believe,’  says  one  of 
these  rapt  and  enthusiastic  listeners,  ‘ it  has  not  been 
the  lot  of  any  other  literary  man  in  England,  since 
Dr  Johnson,  to  command  the  devoted  admiration 
and  steady  zeal  of  so  many  and  such  widi  ly-differing 
disciples — some  of  them  having  become,  and  others 
being  likely  to  become,  fresh  and  independent  sources 
of  light  and  moral  action  in  themselves  upon  the 
principles  of  their  common  master.  One  half  of 
these  affectionate  disciples  have  learned  their  lessons 
of  philosophy  from  the  teacher’s  mouth.  He  has 
been  to  them  as  an  old  oracle  of  the  academy  or 
Lyceum.  The  fulness,  the  inwardness,  the  ultimate 
scope  of  his  doctrines,  has  never  yet  been  published 
in  print,  and,  if  disclosed,  it  has  been  from  time  to 

335 


FROM  17!!0  CYCLf)P^jI)IA  OF  till  thr  presrnt  timb. 


time  in  the  higlier  moments  of  conversation,  wlien 
occasion,  and  mood,  and  person,  liegot  an  exalted 
crisis.  More  than  once  has  Mr  Coleridge  said  that, 
with  jien  in  hand,  he  felt  a thousand  checks  and 
difliculties  in  the  expression  of  his  meaning;  hut 
that — authorship  aside — he  never  found  the  smallest 
hitch  or  imjiediment  in  the  fullest  utterance  of  his 
most  subtle  fancies  by  word  of  mouth.  His  ab- 
strusest  thoughts  became  rhythmical  and  clear  when 
chanted  to  their  own  music.’*  Mr  Coleridge  died 
at  llighgate  on  the  2.'5th  of  .July  18.34.  In  the  pre- 
ceding winter  he  had  written  the  following  epitaph, 
striking  from  its  simiilicity  and  humility,  for  him- 
self : — 

Stop,  Christian  passer-by  ! Stop,  child  of  God  ! 

And  read  with  gentle  breast.  Beneath  this  sod 
A poet  lies,  or  that  which  once  seemed  he — 

Oh  ! lift  a thought  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  C. ! 

That  he,  who  many  a year,  with  toil  of  breath, 

Found  death  in  life,  may  here  find  life  in  death ! 
Mercy  for  [iraise — to  be  forgiven  for  fame, 

He  asked  and  hoped  through  Christ — do  thou  the  same. 
Immediately  on  the  death  of  Coleridge,  several  com- 
pilations were  made  of  his  table-talk,  correspondence, 
and  literary  remains.  His  fame  had  been  gradually 
extending,  and  public  curiosity  was  excited  wit’i 
respect  to  the  genius  and  opinions  of  a man  v ..o 
combined  such  various  and  dissimilar  powers,  and 
who  was  suppo.sed  capable  of  any  task,  however 
gigantic.  Some  of  these  Titanic  fragments  are  valu- 
able— particularly  his  Shakspearian  criticism.  They 
attest  his  profound  thought  and  curious  erudition, 
and  display  his  fine  critical  taste  and  discernment. 
In  penetrating  into  and  embracing  the  whole  mean- 
ing of  a fivvourite  author — unfolding  the  nice  shades 
and  distinctions  of  thought,  character,  feeling,  or 
melody — darting  on  it  tlie  light  of  his  own  creative 
mind  and  suggestive  fancy — and  perhaps  linking  the 
whole  to  some  glorious  original  conception  or  image, 
Coleridge  stands  unrivalled.  He  does  not  appear  as 
a critic,  but  as  an  eloquent  and  gifted  expounder  of 
kindred  excellence  and  genius.  lie  seems  like  one 
who  has  the  key  to  every  hidden  chamber  of  pro- 
found and  subtle  thought  and  every  ethereal  concep- 
tion. We  cannot  think,  however,  that  he  could  ever 
have  built  up  a regular  system  of  ethics  or  criticism. 
He  wanted  the  art  to  combine  and  arrange  his  mate- 
rials. He  was  too  languid  and  irresolute.  He  had 
never  attained  the  art  of  writing  with  clearness  and 
precision;  for  he  is  often  unintelligible,  turgid,  and 
verbose,  as  if  he  struggled  in  vain  after  perspicacity 
and  method.  Ilis  intellect  could  not  subordinate  the 
‘ shaping  spirit’  of  his  imagination. 

The  poetical  works  of  Coleridge  have  been  col- 
lected and  ])ublished  in  three  volumes.  They  are 
various  in  style  and  manner,  embracing  ode,  tragedyq 
and  epigram,  love  poems,  and  strains  of  patriotism 
and  superstition — -a  wild  witchery  of  imagination, 
and,  at  other  times,  severe  and  st.ately  thought  and 
intellectual  retrospection.  His  language  is  often 
rich  and  musical,  highly  figurative  and  ornate.  Many 
of  his  minor  poems  are  characterised  by  tenderness 
and  beauty,  but  others  are  disfigured  by  passages  of 
turgid  sentimentalism  and  puerile  affectation.  The 
most  original  and  striking  of  his  productions  is  his 
well-known  tale  of  The  Ancient  Mariner.  Accord- 
ing to  De  Quincy,  the  germ  of  this  story  is  contained 
* Quarterly  Review,  vol.  lii.  p.  5.  With  one  so  impulsive  as 
Coleridge,  and  liable  to  fits  of  depression  and  to  ill-health,  these 
appearances  must  have  been  very  unequal.  We  have  known 
three  men  of  genius,  all  poets,  who  frequently  listened  to  him, 
and  yet  described  him  as  generally  obscure,  pedantic,  and 
tedious.  In  his  happiest  moods  he  must,  however,  have  been 
great  and  overwhelming.  His  voice  and  countenance  were 
barmonious  and  beautifuL 


in  a passage  of  Shclvocke,  one  of  the  classical  cir- 
cumnavigators of  the  earth,  who  states  that  his 
second  captain,  being  a melancboly  man,  was  pos- 
sessed by  a fancy  that  some  long  season  of  foul 
weather  was  owing  to  an  albatross  which  had 
steadily  pursued  the  sliip,  upon  which  he  shot  the 
bird,  but  without  mending  their  condition.  Cole- 
ridge makes  the  ancient  mariner  relate  the  circum- 
stances attending  his  act  of  inhumanity  to  one  of 
three  wedding  guests  whom  he  meets  and  detains  on 
his  way  to  the  marriage  feast.  ‘ He  holds  him  with 
his  glittering  eye,’  and  invests  his  narration  with  a 
deep  preternatural  character  and  interest,  and  with 
touches  of  exquisite  tenderness  and  energetic  de- 
scription. The  versification  is  irregular,  in  the  style 
of  the  old  ballads,  and  most  of  the  action  of  the  piece 
is  unnatural;  yet  the  poem  is  full  of  vivid  and  original 
imagination.  ‘Tliere  is  nothing  else  like  it,’  says 
one  of  his  critics  ; ‘it  is  a poem  by  itself ; between 
it  and  other  compositions,  in  pari  materia,  there  is  a 
chasm  which  you  cannot  overpass.  The  sensitive 
reader  feels  himself  insulated,  and  a sea  of  wonder 
and  mystery  flows  round  him  as  round  the  spell- 
stricken  ship  itself.’  Coleridge  further  illustrates  his 
theory  of  the  connection  between  the  material  and  the 
spiritual  world  in  his  unfinished  poem  of  ‘Christabel/ 
a romantic  supernatural  tale,  filled  with  wild  imagery 
and  the  most  remarkable  modulation  of  verse.  The 
versification  is  founded  on  what  the  poet  calls  a new 
principle  (though  it  was  evidently  practised  by 
Chaucer  and  Shakspeare),  namely,  that  of  counting 
in  each  line  the  number  of  accentuated  words,  not 
the  number  of  syllables.  ‘ Though  the  latter,’  he 
sayo,  ‘ may  vary  from  seven  to  twelve,  yet  in  each 
line  the  acxnts  will  be  found  to  be  only  four.’  This 
irregular  harmony  delighted  both  Scott  and  Byron, 
by  whom  it  was  imitated.  We  add  a brief  speci- 
men : — 

The  night  is  chill ; the  forest  bare ; 

Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  ? 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady’s  cheek  ; 

There  is  not  wdnd  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can. 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high. 

On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky. 
Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel  1 
Jesu  Maria  shield  her  well ! 

She  foldeth  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 

And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 

What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a damsel  bright. 

Dressed  in  a silken  robe  of  white. 

That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone  : 

The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan, 

Her  .stately  neck  and  arms  were  bare ; 

Her  blue-veined  feet  unsandalled  were  ; 

And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 

I guess  ’twas  frightful  there  to  see 
A lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 

Beautiful  exceedingly ! 

A finer  passage  is  that  describing  broken  friend- 
ships : — 

Alas  ! they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 

But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth ; 

And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 

And  life  is  thorny  ; and  youth  is  vain : 

And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love. 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 

And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I divine, 

With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 

336 


Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 

And  insult  to  his  heart’s  best  brother: 

They  parted — ne’er  to  meet  again  I 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining ; 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 

Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder: 

A dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I ween. 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

Til  is  metrical  harmony  of  Coleridge  exercises  a sort 
of  fascination  even  when  it  is  found  united  to  inco- 
herent images  and  absurd  conceptions.  Thus,  in 
Khubla  Khan,  a fragment  written  from  recollections 
of  a dream,  we  have  the  following  melodious  rhap- 
sody : — 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves  ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 

It  was  a miracle  of  rare  device, 

A sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  i 

A damsel  with  a dulcimer 
In  a vision  once  I saw : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid. 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song. 

To  such  deep  delight  ’twould  win  me, 

That  with  music  loud  and  long, 

I would  build  that  dome  in  air. 

That  sunny  dome,  those  caves  of  ice ! 

Ana  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there. 

And  all  should  cry.  Beware  ! Beware  ! 

His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 

Weave  a circle  round  him  thrice. 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 

For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  paradise. 

The  odes  of  Coleridge  are  highly  passionate  and 
elevated  in  conception.  That  on  France  was  con- 
sidered by  Shelley  to  be  the  finest  English  ode  of 
modern  times.  The  hymn  on  Chamouni  is  equally 
lofty  and  brilliant.  His  ‘ Genevieve’  is  a pure  and 
exquisite  love-poem,  without  that  gorgeous  ditfuse- 
ness  which  characterises  the  odes,  yet  more  chastely 
and  carefully  finished,  and  abounding  in  the  delicate 
and  subtle  traits  of  his  imagination.  Coleridge  was 
deficient  in  the  rapid  energy  and  strong  passion 
necessary  for  the  drama.  The  poetical  beauty  of 
certain  passages  would  not,  on  the  stage,  atone  for 
the  paucity  of  action  and  want  of  interest  in  his  two 
plays,  though,  as  works  of  genius,  they  vastly  excel 
those  of  a more  recent  date  which  prove  higlUy  suc- 
cessful in  representation. 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner. 

PAM  I. 

It  is  an  ancient  mariner. 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three; 

‘ By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp’st  thou  me  1 

The  bridegroom’s  doors  are  opened  wide. 

And  I am  next  of  kin; 

The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set; 

Mayst  hear  the  merry  din.’ 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand; 

‘ There  was  a ship,’  quoth  he. 

‘ Hold  off ; unhand  me,  gray-beard  loon;' 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

64 


He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye— 

The  wedding-guest  stood  still. 

And  listens  like  a three-years’  child  ; 

The  mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding-guest  sat  on  a stone, 

He  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  roan, 

The  bright-eyed  mariner. 

The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbour  cleared. 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill. 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he  ; 

And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day. 

Till  over  the  nia.st  at  noon 

The  wedding-guest  here  beat  his  breast. 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall. 

Red  as  a rose  is  she  ; 

Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  wedding-guest  he  beat  his  breast. 

Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  heiir  ; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  anci  jnt  man. 

The  bright-eyed  mariner. 

And  now  the  storm-blast  can  :,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong  ; 

He  struck  with  his  o’ertaking  wings. 

And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dripping  prow. 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe. 

And  forward  bends  his  head. 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow. 

And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  ; 

And  ice  mast-high  came  floating  by. 

As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifts  the  sunvy  cliffs 
Did  send  a dismal  sheen  ; 

Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  heasts  we  ken — 

The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  thue. 

The  ice  was  all  around  ; 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled. 
Like  noises  in  a swound  ! 

At  length  did  cross  an  albatross. 

Thorough  the  fog  it  came  ; 

As  if  it  had  been  a Christian  soul. 

We  hailed  it  in  God’s  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne’er  had  eat, 

And  round  and  round  it  flew ; 

The  ice  did  split  with  a thunder-fit; 

The  helmsman  steered  us  through! 

And  a good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind. 

The  albatross  did  follow. 

And  every  day  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariner’s  hollo  1 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud. 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 
Glimmered  the  white  moonshine. 

337 


FBOM  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TII.L  THE  PUESE.Vr  TIME 


‘ God  save  thee,  ancient  mariner, 

From  the  fiends  that  plague  thee  thus  ! 
Why  look’st  thou  so?’  With  my  cross-bow 
I shot  the  albatross. 

PART  II. 

The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right, 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he  ; 

Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
W'ent  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south-wind  still  blew  behind. 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow  ; 

Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariner’s  hollo  ! 

And  I had  done  a hellish  thing. 

And  it  would  work  ’em  wo; 

For  all  averred  I had  killed  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch,  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  1 


PART  MI. 

There  passed  a weary  time.  Each  throat 
Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A weary  time ! a weary  time  ! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye! 

When  looking  westward  1 beheld 
A something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seemed  a little  speck, 

And  then  it  seemed  a mist; 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A certain  shape,  1 wist. 

A speck,  a mist,  a shape,  I wist ! 

And  still  it  neared  and  neared: 

As  if  it  dodged  a water-sprite. 

It  plunged,  and  tacked,  and  veered. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked. 
We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail; 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood; 

I bit  my  arm,  I sucked  the  blood. 

And  cried,  A sail ! a sail  I 


Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God’s  own  head. 

The  glorious  sun  uprist; 

Then  all  averred  I had  killed  the  bird 
That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

’Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay 
That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew. 
The  furrow  followed  free  ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 
’Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 

And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea  ! 


With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked. 
Agape  they  heard  me  call ; 

Gramercy  they  for  joy  did  grin. 

And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in. 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 

See ! see ! I cried,  she  tacks  no  more. 

Hither  to  work  us  weal; 

W'ithout  a breeze,  without  a tide, 

She  steadies  with  upright  keel. 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame. 

The  day  was  well  nigh  done. 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  sun  ; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 


All  in  a hot  and  copper  sky, 

The  bloody  sun  at  noon 

Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 

No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion; 

As  idle  as  a painted  ship 
Upon  a painted  ocean. 

W^ater,  water  everywhere. 

And  all  the  boards  did  shrink; 

Water,  water  everywhere. 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot  ; 0 Christl 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 

Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night; 

The  water,  like  a witch’s  oils. 

Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so  ; 

Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought. 
Was  withered  at  the  root; 

We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah,  well-a-day ! what  evil  looks 
Had  I from  old  and  young! 

Instead  of  the  cross  the  albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


And  straight  the  sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven’s  mother  send  us  grace !) 

As  if  through  a dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas  ! thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud. 

How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ; 

Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a grate; 

And  is  that  woman  all  her  crew  ? 

Is  that  a death,  and  are  there  two  ? 

Is  death  that  woman’s  mate  ? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free. 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold; 

Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy. 

The  nightmare  Life-in-death  was  she. 

Who  thicks  man’s  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came. 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 

‘ The  game  is  done ! I’ve  won,  I’ve  won  !’ 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  sun’s  rim  dips,  the  stars  rush  out. 

At  one  stride  comes  the  dark; 

With  far-heard  whisper,  o’er  the  sea 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up; 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a cup. 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip. 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night. 

The  steersman’s  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  whit* 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 

Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  homed  moon,  with  one  bright  star 
Within  the  nether  tip. 

338 


pom. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLEB.IDOK. 


One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  moon, 

Toe  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 

Ea(  h turned  his  face  with  a ghastly  pang, 

And  cursed  n'o  with  his  eye. 

Four  times  fifty  living  men 
(And  I heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan). 

With  heavy  thump,  a lifeless  lump. 

They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly — 

They  fled  to  bliss  or  wo  ! 

And  every  s ml  it  passed  me  by 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow. 

PART  IV. 

‘ I fear  thee,  ancient  mariner, 

1 fear  thy  skinny  hand! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown. 

As  ’S  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

I fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 

And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown.’ 

Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  wedding-guest. 

This  body  dropped  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 

Alone  on  a wide  wide  sea ! 

And  never  a saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie : 

And  a thousand  thousand  slimy  things 
Lived  on,  and  so  did  I. 

I looked  upon  the  rotting  sea. 

And  drew  my  eyes  away; 

I looked  upon  the  rotting  deck. 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 

But  or  ever  a prayer  had  gushed, 

A wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close. 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky. 
Lay  like  a load  on  my  weary  eye. 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs. 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they; 

The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan’s  curse  would  drag  to  hell 
A spirit  from  on  high ; 

But  oh  ! more  horrible  than  that 
Is  a curse  in  a dead  man’s  eye ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I saw  that  curse. 

And  yet  I could  not  die. 

The  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky, 

And  nowhere  did  abide : 

Softly  she  was  going  up. 

And  a star  or  two  beside. 

Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main. 

Like  April  hoarfrost  spread  ; 

But  where  the  ship’s  huge  shadow  lay 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A still  and  awful  red. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
I watched  the  water  snakes : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 
Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 


Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
I watched  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black. 

They  coiled  and  swam;  and  every  track 
Was  a flash  of  golden  fire. 

0 happy  living  things  I no  tongue 
Their  beauty  might  declare  : 

A spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart. 

And  1 blessed  them  unaware : 

Sure  my  kind  S!iint  took  pity  on  me. 

And  I blessed  them  unaware. 

The  self-same  moment  I could  pray; 

And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

PART  V. 

0 sleep ! it  is  a gentle  thing. 

Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 

To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given  ! 

She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven, 

That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

1 dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew; 

And  w'hen  I woke  it  rained. 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold. 

My  garments  all  were  dank; 

Sure  I had  drunken  in  my  dreams. 

And  still  my  body  drank. 

I moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  : 

I was  so  light — almost 
I thought  that  I had  died  in  sleep, 

And  was  a blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I heard  a roaring  wind  : 

It  did  not  come  anear ; 

But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails. 

That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life  ! 

And  a hundred  fire-flags  sheen  ; 

To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ! 

And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out. 

The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  .oud. 

And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge; 

And  the  rain  poured  dorvn  from  one  black  cloud; 
The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  clouu  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  moon  was  at  its  side  : 

Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 

The  lightning  fell  with  never  a jag, 

A river  steep  and  wide. 

The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship. 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 

Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a groan. 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uproM, 

Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes  ; 

It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a dream. 

To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  mo>  sd  on. 

Yet  never  a breeze  up  blew; 

The  mariners  all  ’gan  work  the  ropes 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

We  were  a ghastlv  crew. 


339 


KROM  17ii0 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESEin  TIIU. 


The  body  of  iny  brother’s  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee : 

'J'he  body  and  I pulled  at  one  rope, 

Hut  he  said  nought  to  me. 

‘ I fear  thee,  ancient  mariner  1’ 

He  calm  thou  wedding-guest ! 

’Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 

Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 

But  a troop  of  spirits  blest : 

For  when  it  dawned,  they  dropped  their  arms, 
And  clustered  round  the  mast; 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths. 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound. 

Then  darted  to  the  sun; 

Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 

Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes,  a-dropping  from  the  sky, 

I heard  the  sky-lark  sing  ; 

Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are. 

How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air, 

With  their  sweet  jargoning! 

And  now  ’twas  like  all  instruments. 

Now  like  a lonely  flute  ; 

And  now  it  is  an  angel’s  song. 

That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 
A pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A noise  like  of  a hidden  brook 
In  the  leafy  month  of  .June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on. 

Yet  never  a breeze  did  breathe  ; 

Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship. 

Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep. 

From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

The  spirit  slid  ; and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 

The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune. 

And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  sun,  right  up  above  the  mast. 

Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean; 

But  in  a minute  she  ’gan  stir 
With  a short  uneasy  motion — 

Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 
With  a short  uneasy  motion. 

Then,  like  a pawing  horse  let  go. 

She  made  a sudden  bound; 

It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head. 

And  I fell  down  in  a swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I lay 
I have  not  to  declare ; 

But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 

I heard  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

‘ Is  it  he  ? ’ quoth  one  ‘ Is  this  the  man  I 
By  him  who  died  on  cross. 

With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  albatross. 

The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.’ 

The  other  was  a softer  voice. 

As  soft  as  honey-dew ; 

Quoth  he,  ‘ The  man  hath  penance  done. 

And  penance  more  will  do.’ 


PART  v:. 

First  Voice. 

But  tell  me ! tell  me  ! speak  again. 

Thy  soft  response  renewing — 

What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast! 
What  is  the  ocean  doing  ? 

Second  Voice. 

Still  as  a slave  before  his  lord. 

The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 

His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go  ; 

For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 

See,  brother,  see  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him. 

First  Voice. 

But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast. 

Without  or  wave  or  wind  ? 

Second  Voice. 

The  air  is  cut  away  before. 

And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly  ! more  high,  more  high  J 
Or  we  shall  be  belate<l ; 

For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go. 

When  the  mariner’s  trance  is  abated. 

I woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 
As  in  a gentle  weather ; 

’Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  moon  was  high ; 
The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck. 

For  a chamel-dungeon  fitter ; 

All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes. 

That  in  the  moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died. 
Had  never  passed  away  ; 

I could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs. 

Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt ; once  mor( 

I viewed  the  ocean  green. 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 
Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one  that  on  a lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread. 

And  having  once  turned  round,  walks  on. 

And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 

Because  he  knows  a frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a wind  on  me. 

Nor  sound  nor  motion  made  ; 

Its  p.ath  was  not  upon  the  sea, 

III  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a meadow-gale  of  spring — 

It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears. 

Yet  it  felt  like  a welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 

Y et  she  sailed  softly  too  : 

Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 

On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh!  dream  of  joy  ! is  this  indeed 
The  lighthouse  top  I see? 

Is  this  the  hill ? is  this  the  kirk? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 

We  drifted  o’er  the  harbour  bar. 

And  I with  sobs  did  pray — 

O let  me  be  awake,  my  God  ! 

Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 


340 


The  harbour-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 

So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 

And  on  *he  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 

And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less 
That  stands  above  the  rock  ; 

The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 

Till  rising  ft  )m  the  same, 

Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were. 

In  crimson  colours  came. 

A little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were : 

I turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 

Oh  Christ ! what  saw  I there  1 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat ; 

And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 

A man  all  light,  a seraph-man. 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand: 

It  was  a heavenly  sight ! 

They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land. 

Each  one  a lovely  light. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand. 

No  voice  did  they  impart — 

No  voice  ; but  oh  ! the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I heard  the  dash  of  oars, 

I heard  the  pilot’s  cheer ; 

My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 

And  I saw  a boat  appear. 

The  pilot  and  the  pilot’s  boy, 

I heard  them  coming  fast : 

Dear  Lord  in  heaven ! it  was  a joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I saw  a third — I heard  his  voice : 

It  is  the  hermit  good  ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hjmns 
That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He’ll  shrieve  my  soul,  he’ll  wash  away 
The  albatross’s  blood. 

PART  VII. 

This  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rearsl 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon  and  eve — 

He  hath  a cushion  plump  : 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat  neared : I heard  them  talk, 

‘ Why,  this  is  strange,  I trow ! 

Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair 
That  signal  made  but  now  V 

* Strange,  by  my  faith !’  the  hermit  said — 

‘ And  they  answered  not  our  cheer ! 

The  planks  looked  warped!  and  see  those  sails. 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere ! 

I never  saw  aught  like  to  them. 

Unless  perchance  it  were 
Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along ; 

When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 

And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below. 

That  eats  the  she-wolf’s  young.’ 


The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship. 

But  1 nor  spake  nor  stirred ; 

The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship. 

And  straight  a sound  was  heard. 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on. 

Still  louder  and  more  dread  : 

It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay ; 

The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 
Which  sky  and  ocean  smote. 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 
My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I found 
Within  the  pilot’s  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship. 

The  boat  spun  round  and  round  ; 

And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I moved  my  lips — the  pilot  shrieked. 

And  fell  down  in  a fit ; 

The  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes. 

And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I took  the  oars  ; the  pilot’s  boy. 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go. 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

‘ Ha!  ha !’  quoth  he,  ‘ full  plain  I see. 

The  devil  knows  how  to  row.’ 

And  now,  all  in  my  oivn  countree, 

I stood  on  the  firm  land! 

The  hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

‘ 0 shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man!’ 

The  hermit  crossed  his  brow. 

‘ Say  quick,’  quoth  he,  ‘ I bid  thee  say 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?’ 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 
With  a woful  agony. 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale ; 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour 
That  agony  returns ; 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told. 

This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land, 

I have  strange  power  of  speech ; 

That  moment  that  his  face  I see, 

I know  the  man  that  must  hear  me : 

To  him  my  tale  I teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door  i 
The  wedding-guests  are  there  : 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bridemaids  singing  are  : 

And  hark!  the  little  vesper  bell 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer. 

0 wedding-guest ! this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a wide  wide  sea : 

So  lonely  ’twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

0 sweetc'i  than  the  marriage-feast, 

’Tis  sweeter  far  to  me. 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a goodly  company ! 

341 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  samuel  taylor  coeebidox. 


‘ Dear  Lord  ! it  hath  a fiendish  look — 
(The  pilot  made  reply) 

I am  a-feared’ — ‘ push  on,  push  on  !’ 
Said  the  hermit  cheerily. 


FROM  17f!0  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  prusk.^t  ti«u4 


To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

Ami  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends. 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  1 

Farewell,  farewell ; but  this  I tell 
To  thee,  thou  wedding-guest : 

He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us. 

He  made  and  loveth  all. 

The  mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 

Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar. 

Is  gone : and  now  the  wedding-guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom’s  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 

And  is  of  sense  forloni : 

A sadder  and  a wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

Ode  to  the  Departing  Year  [1795.] 

I. 

Spirit  who  sweepest  the  wild  harp  of  time! 

It  is  most  hard,  with  an  untroubled  ear 
Thy  dark  inwoven  harmonies  to  hear  ! 

Yet,  mine  eye  fixed  on  heaven’s  unchanging  clime 
Long  when  I listened,  free  from  mortal  fear. 

With  inward  stillness,  and  submitted  mind  ; 

When  lo  ! its  folds  far  waving  on  the  wind, 

1 saw  the  train  of  the  departing  year  1 
Starting  from  my  silent  sadness. 

Then  with  no  unholy  madness. 

Ere  yet  the  entered  cloud  foreclosed  my  sight, 

I raised  the  impetuous  song,  and  solemnised  his  flight. 

II. 

Hither,  from  the  recent  tomb. 

From  the  prison’s  direr  gloom. 

From  Distemper’s  midnight  anguish  ; 

And  thence,  where  Poverty  doth  waste  and  languish; 
Or  where,  his  two  bright  torches  blending. 

Love  illumines  manhood’s  maze ; 

Or  where,  o’er  cradled  infants  bending, 

Hope  has  fixed  her  wishful  gaze. 

Hither,  in  perplexed  dance. 

Ye  Woes!  ye  young-eyed  Joys ! advance! 

By  Time’s  wild  harp,  and  by  the  hand 
Whose  indefatigable  sweep 
Raises  its  fateful  strings  from  sleep, 

I bid  you  haste,  a mixed  tumultuous  band  I 
From  every  private  bower. 

And  each  domestic  hearth. 

Haste  for  one  solemn  hour ; 

And  with  a loud  and  yet  a louder  voice. 

O’er  Nature  struggling  in  portentous  birth 
Weep  and  rejoice! 

Still  echoes  the  dread  name  that  o’er  the  earth 
Let  slip  the  storm,  and  woke  the  brood  of  hell  : 

And  now  advance  in  saintly  jubilee 
Justice  and  Truth  ! Thej^  too,  have  heard  thy  spell. 
They,  too,  obey  thy  name,  divinest  Liberty  I 

III. 

I marked  Ambition  in  his  war-array! 

I heard  the  mailed  monarch’s  troublous  cry — 
‘ Ah ! wherefore  does  the  northern  conqueress  stay  ! 
Groans  not  her  chariot  on  its  onward  way  V 
Fly,  mailed  monarch,  fly ! 

Stunned  by  Death’s  twice  mortal  mace. 

No  more  on  Murder’s  lurid  face 
The  insatiate  hag  shall  gloat  with  drunken  eye! 


Manes  of  the  unnumbered  slain! 

Ye  that  gasped  on  Warsaw’s  plain! 

Ye  that  erst  at  Ismail’s  tower. 

When  human  ruin  choked  the  streams, 

F'ell  in  conquest’s  glutted  hour, 

’Mid  women’s  shrieks  and  infants’  scream*! 

Spirits  of  the  uncoffined  slain. 

Sudden  blasts  of  triumph  swelling. 

Oft,  at  night,  in  misty  train. 

Rush  around  her  narrow  dwelling ! 

The  extenuinating  fiend  is  fled — 

(Foul  her  life,  and  dark  her  doom) 

Mighty  armies  of  the  dead 

Dance  like  death-fires  round  her  tomb  I 
Then  with  prophetic  song  relate 
Each  some  tyrant-murderer’s  fate  ! 

IV. 

Departing  year!  ’twas  on  no  earthly  shore 
My  soul  beheld  thy  vision ! Where  alone. 
Voiceless  and  stem,  before  the  cloudy  throne. 

Aye  Memory  sits  : thy  robe  inscribed  with  gore. 

With  many  an  unimaginable  groan 
Thou  storied’st  thy  sad  hours ! Silence  ensued. 
Deep  silence  o’er  the  ethereal  multitude. 

Whose  looks  with  wreaths,  whose  wreaths  with  glories 
shone. 

Then,  his  eye  wild  ardours  glancing. 

From  the  choired  gods  advancing, 

The  Spirit  of  the  earth  made  reverence  meet. 

And  stood  up,  beautiful,  before  the  cloudy  seat. 

T. 

Throughout  the  blissful  throng 
Hushed  were  harp  and  song : 

Till  wheeling  round  the  throne  the  Lampads  seven 
(The  mystic  words  of  Heaven) 

Permissive  signal  make : 

The  fervent  Spirit  bowed,  then  spread  his  wings  and 
spake : 

‘ Thou  in  stormy  blackness  throning 
Love  and  uncreated  Light, 

By  the  Earth’s  unsolaced  groaning. 

Seize  thy  terrors,  Arm  of  might ! 

By  Peace  with  proffered  insult  scared. 

Masked  Hate  and  envying  Scorn ! 

By  years  of  havoc  yet  unborn  ! 

And  Hunger’s  bosom  to  the  frost-winds  bared  ! 

But  chief  by  Afric’s  wrongs, 

Strange,  horrible,  and  foul! 

By  what  deep  guilt  belongs 
To  the  deaf  Synod,  “ full  of  gifts  and  lies  !” 

By  Wealth’s  insensate  laugh ! by  Torture’s  howl ! 
Avenger,  rise! 

For  ever  shall  the  thankless  island  scowl. 

Her  quiver  full,  and  with  unbroken  bow  ? 

Speak  ! from  thy  storm-black  heaven,  0 speak  aloud ! 
And  on  the  darkling  foe 

Open  thine  eye  of  fire  from  some  uncertain  cloud  ! 

0 dart  the  flash  ! 0 rise  and  deal  the  blow ! 

The  past  to  thee,  to  thee  the  future  cries ! 

Hark!  how  wide  Nature  joins  her  groans  below! 
Rise,  God  of  Nature  ! rise.’ 

VI. 

The  voice  had  ceased,  the  vision  fled ; 

Yet  still  I gasped  and  reeled  with  dread. 

And  ever,  when  the  dream  of  night 
Renews  the  phantom  to  my  sight. 

Cold  sweat-drops  gather  on  my  limbs  ; 

My  ears  throb  hot ; my  eyeballs  start ; 

My  brain  with  horrid  tumult  swims  ; 

Wild  is  the  tempest  of  my  heart ; 

And  my  thick  and  struggling  breath 
Imitates  the  toil  of  death ! 

342 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


No  stranger  agony  confounds 
The  soldier  on  the  war-field  spread, 

When  all  foredone  with  toil  and  wounds, 
Death-like  he  dozes  among  heaps  of  de^  I 
(The  strife  is  o’er,  the  daylight  fled. 

And  the  night-wdnd  clamours  hoarse  1 
Sec ! the  starting  wretch’s  head 
Lies  pillowed  on  a brother’s  corse !) 

VII. 

Not  yet  enslaved,  not  wholly  vile, 

0 Albion!  0 my  mother  isle! 

Thy  valleys,  fair  as  Eden’s  bowers, 

Glitter  green  with  sunny  showers  ; 

Thy  grassy  uplands’  gentle  swells 
Echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks 
(Those  grassy  hills,  those  glittering  dells 
Proudly  ramparted  with  rocks)  ; 

And  Ocean,  ’mid  his  uproar  wild. 

Speaks  safety  to  his  island-child ! 

Hence,  for  many  a fearless  age 
Has  social  Quiet  loved  thy  shore  ! 

Nor  ever  proud  invader’s  rage 
Or  sacked  thy  towers,  or  stained  thy  fields  with  gore. 

VIII. 

Abandoned  of  Heaven  ! mad  Avarice  thy  guide. 

At  cowardly  distance,  yet  kindling  with  pride — 

’Mid  thy  herds  and  thy  corn-fields  secure  thou  hast 
stood. 

And  joined  the  wild  yelling  of  Famine  and  Blood ! 
The  nations  curse  thee ! They  with  eager  wondering 
Shall  hear  Destruction,  like  a vulture,  scream  ! 
Strange-eyed  Destruction ! who  with  many  a dream 
Of  central  fires  through  nether  seas  upthundering 
Soothes  her  fierce  solitude  ; yet  as  she  lies 
By  livid  fount  or  red  volcanic  stream, 

If  ever  to  her  lidless  dragon-eyes, 

0 Albio- ! thy  predestined  ruins  rise. 

The  fiend-hag  on  her  perilous  couch  doth  leap. 
Muttering  distempered  triumph  in  her  charmed  sleep. 

IX. 

Away,  my  soul,  away  ! 

In  vain,  in  vain  the  birds  of  warning  sing — 

And  hark ! 1 hear  the  famished  brood  of  prey 
Flap  their  lank  pennons  on  the  groaning  wind ! 

Away,  my  soul,  away  ! 

I,  unpartaking  of  the  evil  thing. 

With  daily  prayer  and  daily  toil 
Soliciting  for  food  my  scanty  soil. 

Have  wailed  my  country  with  a loud  lament. 
Now  I recentre  my  immortal  mind 

In  the  deep  sabbath  of  meek  self-content ; 
Cleansed  from  the  vaporous  passions  that  bedim 
God’s  image,  sister  of  the  seraphim. 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chammtm. 

Hast  thou  a charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 
In  his  steep  course  ? So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  0 sovran  Blanc ! 

The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 

Rave  ceaselessly  ; but  thou,  most  awful  form ! 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines. 

How  silently ! Around  thee  and  above. 

Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black. 

An  ebon  mass ; methinks  thou  piercest  it. 

As  with  a wedge ! But  when  I look  again. 

It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine. 

Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0 dread  and  silent  mount ! I gazed  upon  thee. 

Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Did’st  vanish  from  my  thought : entranced  in  prayer, 

1 worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 


SAMUEL  TAVLOR  OOLERIDOE. 


Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody. 

So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it. 

Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought. 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life’s  own  secret  joy ; 

Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused. 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there. 

As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven  ! 

Awake,  my  soul ! not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest ! not  alone  these  swelling  tears. 

Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstacy.  Awake, 

Voice  of  sweet  song!  awake,  my  heart,  awake! 

Green  vales  and  icy  clilfs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  vale  ! 

O struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night. 

And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 

Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink ! 
Companion  of  the  morning  star  at  dami. 

Thyself  earth’s  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald ! wake,  0 wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 

Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 

Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 

Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  * 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad  ! 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death. 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks. 

For  ever  shattered,  and  the  same  for  ever? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life. 

Your  strength,  your  .speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy. 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 

And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came). 

Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest ! 

Ye  ice-falls!  ye  that  from  the  mountain’s  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 

Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a mighty  voice. 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents ! silent  cataracts  ! 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ? Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ? Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? 

God  ! let  the  torrents,  like  a shout  of  nations. 

Answer ! and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 

God  ! sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice ! 
Ye  pine  groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 
And  they,  too,  have  a voice,  yon  piles  of  snow. 

And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ! 

Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle’s  nest ! 

Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain  storm  ! 

Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 

Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise! 

Once  more,  hoar  mount!  with  thy  sky-pointing 
peaks. 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard. 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene. 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast — 

Thou  too,  again,  stupendous  mountain  ! thou. 

That  as  I raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base. 

Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears. 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a vapoury  cloud. 

To  rise  before  me — Rise,  0 ever  rise  ; 

Rise,  like  a cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth  ! 

Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills. 

Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven. 

Great  Hierarch ! tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 

And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun. 

Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 

34S 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  present  tims. 

Love. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights. 

Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame. 

Are  all  but  ministers  of  love. 

And  feed  his  sacred  dame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o’er  again  that  hajipy  hour, 

When  midway  on  the  mount  I lay, 

Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o’er  the  scene. 

Had  blended  witli  the  lights  of  eve  ; 

And  she  was  tlicre,  my  hope,  my  joy. 

My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man. 

The  statue  of  the  armed  knight  ; 

She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  bath  she  of  her  own. 

My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve  1 
She  loves  me  best  whene’er  I sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I played  a soft  and  doleful  air, 

I sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 

An  old  rude  song  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a flitting  blush. 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace; 

For  well  she  knew  I could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a burning  brand  ; 

And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  lady  of  the  laud. 

I told  her  how  he  pined  ; and  ah ! 

The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I sang  another’s  love. 

Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a flitting  blush. 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 

And  she  forgave  me  that  I gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I told  the  cruel  scorn 
Which  crazed  this  bold  and  lovely  knight. 

And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods. 

Nor  rested  day  nor  night  ; 

But  sometimes  from  the  savage  den. 

And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade. 

And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once. 

In  green  and  sunny  glade. 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright  ; 

And  that  he  knew  it  was  a iiend. 

This  miserable  knight  1 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
lie  leaped  amid  a murderous  band. 

And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  lady  of  the  laud  ; 

And  how  she  wept  and  clasped  his  knees. 

And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 

And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain. 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a cave  ; 

And  how  his  madness  went  away. 

When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
A dying  man  he  lay ; 

1 

His  dying  words — but  when  1 reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 

My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve— 

The  music  and  the  doleful  tale. 

The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope. 

An  undistinguishable  throng  ; 

And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued. 

Subdued  and  cherished  long  1 
She  wept  with  pity  and  delight. 

She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame; 

And  like  the  murmur  of  a dream 
I heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  she  stept  aside  ; 

As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 

Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye. 

She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms. 

She  pressed  me  with  a meek  embrace, 

And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

’Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear. 

And  partly  ’twas  a bashful  art. 

That  I might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I calmed  her  fears  ; and  she  was  calm, 

And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 

And  .so  I won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride  2 

[Picture  of  a Ihmyeon.'\ 

[From  the  tragedy  of  ‘ Remorse.’] 

And  this  place  our  forefathers  made  for  man  1 
This  is  the  process  of  our  love  and  wisdom 
To  each  poor  brother  who  offends  against  us — • 

Most  innocent,  perhaps — and  what  if  guilty} 

Is  this  the  only  cure  \ Merciful  God  ! 

Each  pore  and  natural  outlet  shrivelled  up 
By  ignorance  and  parching  iioi  erty. 

His  energies  roll  back  upon  his  heart 

And  stagnate  and  corrupt,  till,  clianged  to  poison, 

They  break  on  him  like  a loathsome  plague-spot! 

Then  we  call  in  our  pampered  mountebanks — 

And  this  is  their  best  cure  ! uncomforted 
And  friendless  solitude,  groaning  and  tears. 

And  savage  faces  at  the  clanking  hour. 

Seen  through  the  steam  and  vapours  of  his  dungeon 
By  the  lamp’s  dismal  twilight  ! So  he  lies 
’Circled  with  evil,  till  his  very  soul 
Unmoulds  its  essence,  hopele.ssly  deformed 
By  sights  of  evermore  deformity  ! 

With  other  ministrations  thou,  0 Nature, 

Healest  thy  wandering  and  distempered  child  : 

Thou  pourest  on  him  thy  soft  influences. 

Thy  sunny  hues,  fair  forms,  and  breathing  sweets  ; 

Thy  melodies  of  woods,  and  winds,  and  waters  ; 

Till  he  relent,  and  can  no  more  endure 
To  be  a jarring  and  a dissonant  thing 
Amid  this  general  dance  and  minstrelsy  ; 

But,  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way. 

His  angry  spirit  healed  and  harmonised 

By  the  benignant  touch  of  love  and  beauty.  j 

[From  ‘ FroH  at  Miciniffkt.’] 

Dear  babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side. 

Whose  gentle  breathings  heard  in  this  deep  calm  j 

Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies  j 

And  momentary  jiauses  of  the  thought ! | 

My  babe  so  beautiful ! it  thrills  my  heart 

344 

P0KT8. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  hev.  william  lisle  bow lks. 


With  tender  gladness  thus  to  look  at  thee, 

And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore, 

Ami  in  far  other  scene.s  ! For  1 was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  ’mid  cloisters  dim. 

And  saw  nought  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 

Hut  thou,  my  babe,  shalt  wander  like  a breeze 
Hy  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds. 

Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores 
And  mountain  crags : so  shalt  thou  see  and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 

Great  universal  teacher!  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and,  by  giving,  making  it  ask. 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee. 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw ; whether  the  eyedrops  fall. 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 

Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles. 

Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  moon. 

Lave,  Hope,  and  Patience  in  Education. 

O’er  wayward  childhood  wouldst  thou  hold  firm  rule. 
And  sun  thee  in  the  light  of  happy  faces  ; 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience,  these  must  be  thy  graces. 
And  in  thine  own  heart  let  them  first  keep  school. 
For  as  old  Atlas  on  his  broad  neck  places 
Heaven’s  starry  globe,  and  there  sustains  it,  so 
Do  these  upbear  the  little  world  below 
Of  education — Patience,  Love,  and  Hope. 

Methinks  I see  them  grouped  in  seemly  show. 

The  straitened  arms  upraised,  the  palms  aslope. 

And  robes  that  touching  as  adown  they  flow. 
Distinctly  blend,  like  snow  embossed  in  snow. 

0 part  them  never!  If  Hope  prostrate  lie. 

Love  too  will  sink  and  die. 

But  Love  is  subtle,  and  doth  proof  derive 
From  her  own  life  that  Hope  is  yet  alive ; 

And  bending  o’er,  with  soul-transfusing  eyes. 

And  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  mother  dove, 

Woos  back  the  fleeting  si>irit,  and  half  supplies ; 

Thus  Love  repays  to  Hope  what  Hope  first  gave  to  Love. 
Yet  haply  there  will  come  a weary  day. 

When  overtasked  at  length 
Both  Love  and  Hope  beneath  the  load  give  way. 

Then  with  a statue’s  smile,  a statue’s  strength. 

Stands  the  mute  sister.  Patience,  nothing  loath. 

And  both  supporting,  does  the  work  of  both. 

Youth  and  Age. 

Verse,  a breeze  ’mid  blossoms  straying. 

Where  Hope  clung  feeding  like  a bee — 

Both  were  mine ! Life  went  a-Maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I was  young  ! 

When  I was  young?  Ah,  woful  when  ! 

Ah,  for  the  change  ’twixt  now  and  then  ! 

This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands. 

This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong. 

O’er  airy  cliffs  and  glittering  sands. 

How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along : 

Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore. 

On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide. 

That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar. 

That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide  1 
Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather, 
When  Youth  and  I lived  in’t  together. 


Flowers  are  lovely;  Love  is  flower-like; 
Friendship  is  a sheltering  tree  ; 

0!  the  joys  that  came  down  shower-like. 

Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I was  old  ! 

Ere  I was  old  1 Ah,  woful  ere. 

Which  tells  me  Youth’s  no  longer  here  I 

0 Youth  ! for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 

’Tis  known  that  thou  and  I were  one ; 

I’ll  think  it  but  a fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone ! 

Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet' tolled. 

And  thou  wert  aye  a masker  bold ! 

What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on. 

To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

1 see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips. 

This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size  ; 

But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips. 

And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes! 

Life  is  but  thought ; so  think  I will 
That  Youth  and  I are  housemates  still. 

Dewdrops  are  the  gems  of  morning. 

But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve ! 

Where  no  hope  is,  life’s  a warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve. 

When  we  are  old  : 

That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking  leave ; 

Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest. 

That  may  not  rudely  be  dismissed. 

Yet  hath  outstayed  his  welcome  while. 

And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 

BEV.  WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES. 

The  Rev.  William  Lisle  Bowles  enjoyu  the 
distinction  of  having  ‘delighted  and  inspired’ the 
genius  of  Coleridge.  His  first  publication,  a volume 
of  sonnets,  was  published  in  1793;  and  falling  into 
the  hands  of  the  enthusiastic  young  poet,  converted 
him  from  some  ‘perilous  errors’  to  the  love  of  a 


Bremhill  Rectory,  in  'Wiltshire. 


style  of  poetry  at  once  tender  and  manly,  The 
pupil  outstripped  his  master  in  richness  and  luxu 
riance,  though  not  in  elegance  or  correctness.  In 
1805  Mr  Bowles  published  another  volume  of  poetry. 
The  Spirit  of  Discovery  by  Sea,  a narrative  poem  of 

345 


FUOM  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  FRIBENT  TIHo. 


\_S(yuth  American  Scenery. 


considerable  length  and  beauty.  He  has  also  pub- 
lished hymns  and  other  poems.  He  prepared  an 
edition  of  Pope’s  works,  which,  being  attacked  by 
Campbell  in  his  Specimens  of  the  Poets,  led  to  a 
literary  controversy,  in  which  Lord  Ilyron  and 
others  took  a part.  Howies  insisted  strongly  on 
descriptive  poetry  forming  an  indispensable  part  of 
the  poetical  character  ; ‘ every  rock,  every  leaf, 
every  diversity  of  hue  in  nature’s  variety.’  Camp- 
bell, on  the  other  hand,  objected  to  this  Dutch  mi- 
nuteness and  perspicacity  of  colouring,  and  claimed 
for  the  poet  (what  Bowles  never  could  have  denied) 
nature,  moral  as  well  as  external,  the  poetry  of  the 
passions,  and  the  lights  and  shades  of  human  rrtan- 
ners.  In  reality,  I’ope  occupied  a middle  position, 
inclining  to  the  artificial  side  of  life.  Mr  Bowles 
has  outlived  most  of  his  poetical  contemporaries, 
excepting  Rogers.  He  was  born  at  King’s-Sutton, 
Northamptonshire,  in  the  year  1762,  and  was  edu- 
cated first  at  Winchester  school,  and  subsequently 
at  Trinity  college,  Oxford.  He  has  long  held  the 
rectory  of  Bremhill,  in  Wiltshire. 

Sonnets. 

To  Time. 

0 Time ! who  know’st  a lenient  hand  to  lay 
Softest  on  sorrow’s  wound,  and  slowly  thence 
(Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense) 

The  faint  pang  stealcst,  unperceived,  arfhy ; 

On  thee  I rest  my  only  hope  at  last. 

And  think  when  thou  hast  dried  the  bitter  tear 
That  flows  in  vain  o’er  all  my  soul  held  dear, 

1 may  look  back  on  every  .sorrow  past, 

And  meet  life’s  peaceful  evening  with  a smile — 

As  some  lone  bird,  at  day’s  departing  hour. 

Sings  in  the  sunbeam  of  the  transient  shower. 
Forgetful,  though  its  wings  are  wet  the  while : 

Yet,  ah ! how  much  must  that  poor  heart  endure 
Which  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee  alone,  a cure  1 

Winter  Evening  at  Home. 

Fair  Moon ! that  at  the  chilly  day’s  decline 
Of  sharp  December,  through  my  cottage  pane 
Do.st  lovely  look,  smiling,  though  in  thy  wane ; 

In  thought,  to  scenes  serene  and  still  as  thine. 
Wanders  my  heart,  whilst  I by  turns  survey 
Thee  slowly  wheeling  on  thy  evening  way ; 

And  this  my  fire,  whose  dim,  unequal  light. 

Just  glimmering  bids  each  shadowy  image  fall 
Sombrous  and  strange  upon  the  darkening  wall. 
Ere  the  clear  tapers  chase  the  deepening  night  I 
Yet  thy  still  orb,  seen  through  the  freezing  haze. 
Shines  calm  and  clear  without ; and  whilst  I gaze, 

I think  around  me  in  this  twilight  gloom, 

I but  remark  mortality’s  sad  doom ; 

Whilst  hope  and  joy,  cloudless  and  soft,  appear 
In  the  sweet  beam  that  lights  thy  distant  sphere. 

Hope. 

As  one  who,  long  by  wasting  sickness  worn. 

Weary  has  watched  the  lingering  night,  and  heard. 
Heartless,  the  carol  of  the  matin  bird 
Salute  his  lonely  porch,  now  first  at  mom 
Goes  forth,  leaving  his  melancholy  bed ; 

He  the  green  slope  and  level  meadow  views, 
Delightful  bathed  in  slow  ascending  dews  ; 

Or  marks  the  clouds  that  o’er  the  mountain’s  head, 

In  varying  forms,  fantastic  wander  white ; 

Or  turns  his  ear  to  every  random  song 
Heard  the  green  river’s  winding  marge  along. 

The  whilst  each  sense  is  steeped  in  still  delight : 

With  such  delight  o’er  all  my  heart  I feel 
Sweet  Hope  1 thy  fragrance  pure  and  healing  incense 
steal. 


Beneath  aerial  clifts  and  glittering  snows. 

The  rush-roof  of  an  aged  warr’or  rose. 

Chief  of  the  mountain  tribes ; high  overhead, 

The  Andes,  wild  and  desolate,  were  spread. 

Where  cold  Sierras  sliot  their  icy  spires. 

And  Chilian  trailed  its  smoke  and  smouldering  fires. 

A glen  beneath — a lonely  spot  of  rest — 

Hung,  scarce  discovered,  like  an  eagle’s  nest. 

Summer  was  in  its  prime  ; the  parrot-flocks 
Darkened  the  passing  sunshine  on  the  rocks ; 

The  chrysomel  and  purple  butterfly. 

Amid  the  clear  blue  light,  are  wandering  hy ; 

The  humming-bird,  along  the  myrtle  bowers. 

With  twinkling  wing  is  spinning  o’er  the  flowers ; 
The  woodpecker  is  heard  with  busy  bill. 

The  mock-bird  sings — and  all  beside  is  still. 

And  look ! the  cataract  that  hursts  so  high. 

As  not  to  mar  the  deep  tranquillity. 

The  tumult  of  its  dashing  fall  suspends. 

And,  stealing  drop  by  drop,  in  mist  descends ; 
Through  who.se  illumined  spray  and  sprinkling  dews. 
Shine  to  the  adverse  sun  the  broken  rainbow  hues. 

Checkering,  with  partial  shade,  the  beams  of  noon, 
And  arching  the  gray  rock  with  wild  festoon. 

Here,  its  gay  network  and  fantastic  twine. 

The  purple  cogul  threads  from  pine  to  pine. 

And  oft,  as  the  fresh  airs  of  morning  breathe. 

Dips  its  long  tendrils  in  the  stream  beneath. 

There,  through  the  trunks,  with  moss  and  lichens  white. 
The  sunshine  darts  its  interrupted  light. 

And  ’mid  the  cedar’s  darksome  bough,  illumes, 

With  instant  touch,  the  lori’s  scarlet  plumes, 

Sun-Dial  in  a Churchyard. 

So  passes,  silent  o’er  the  dead,  thy  shade. 

Brief  Time ! and  hour  by  hour,  and  day  by  day. 
The  pleasing  pictures  of  the  present  fade. 

And  like  a summer  vapour  steal  away. 

And  have  not  they,  who  here  forgotten  lie 
(Say,  hoary  chronicler  of  ages  past). 

Once  marked  thy  shadow  with  delighted  eye. 

Nor  thought  it  fled— how  certain  and  how  fast  ? 

Since  thou  hast  stood,  and  thus  thy  vigil  kept. 

Noting  each  hour,  o’er  mouldering  stones  beneath 
The  pastor  and  his  flock  alike  have  slept. 

And  ‘ dust  to  dust  ’ proclaimed  the  stride  of  death. 

Another  race  succeeds,  and  counts  the  hour, 

Careless  alike  ; the  hour  still  seems  to  smile. 

As  hope,  and  youth,  and  life,  were  in  our  power ; 

So  smiling,  and  so  perishing  the  while. 

I heard  the  village  bells,  with  gladsome  sound 
(When  to  these  scenes  a stranger  1 drew  near). 
Proclaim  the  tidings  of  the  village  round. 

While  memory  wept  upon  the  good  man’s  bier. 

Even  so,  when  I am  dead,  shall  the  same  hells 
Ring  merrily  when  my  brief  days  are  gone ; 

While  still  the  lap.se  of  time  thy  shadow  tells. 

And  strangers  gaze  upon  my  humble  stone  1 

Enough,  if  we  may  wait  in  calm  content 
The  hour  that  bears  us  to  the  silent  sod ; 

Blameless  improve  the  time  that  Heaven  has  lent. 
And  leave  the  issue  to  thy  will,  0 God. 

The  Greenwich  Pensioners. 

When  evening  listened  to  the  dripping  oar. 

Forgetting  the  loud  city’s  ceaseless  roar. 

By  the  green  banks,  where  Thames,  with  conscious 
pride. 

Reflects  that  stately  structure  on  his  side, 

S46 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  SOUTIIET. 


Within  whose  walls,  as  their  long  labours  close, 

The  wanderers  of  the  ocean  find  repose, 

^^’e  wore  in  social  ease  the  hours  away. 

The  passing  visit  of  a summer’s  day. 

Whilst  some  to  range  the  breezy  hill  are  gone, 

1 lingered  on  the  river’s  marge  alone ; 

Mingled  with  groups  of  ancient  sailors  gray, 

And  watched  the  last  bright  sunshine  steal  away. 

As  thus  I mused  amidst  the  various  train 
Of  toil-worn  wanderers  of  the  perilous  main, 

Two  sailors — well  1 marked  them  (as  the  beam 
Of  parting  day  yet  lingered  on  the  stream. 

And  the  sun  sunk  behind  the  shady  reach) — 
Hastened  with  tottering  footsteps  to  the  beach. 

The  one  had  lost  a limb  in  Nile’s  dread  fight ; 

Total  eclipse  had  veiled  the  other’s  sight 
For  ever ! As  I drew  more  anxious  near, 

I stood  intent,  if  they  should  speak,  to  hear ; 

But  neither  said  a word  ! He  who  was  blind 
Stood  as  to  feel  the  comfortable  wind 
That  gently  lifted  his  gray  hair : his  face 
Seemed  then  of  a faint  smile  to  wear  the  trace. 

The  other  fixed  his  gaze  upon  the  light 
Parting ; and  when  the  sun  had  vanished  quite, 
hlethought  a starting  tear  that  Heaven  might  bless. 
Unfelt,  or  felt  with  transient  tenderness. 

Came  to  his  aged  eyes,  and  touched  his  cheek  ! 

And  then,  as  meek  and  silent  as  before. 

Back  hand-in-hand  they  went,  and  left  the  shore. 

As  they  departed  through  the  unheeding  crowd, 

A caged  bird  sung  from  the  casement  loud  ; 

And  then  I heard  alone  that  blind  man  say, 

‘ The  music  of  the  bird  is  sweet  to-day  1’ 

I said,  ‘ 0 Heavenly  Father ! none  may  know 
The  cause  these  have  for  silence  or  for  wo ! ’ 

Here  they  appear  heart-stricken  or  resigned 
Amidst  the  unheeding  tumult  of  mankind. 

There  is  a world,  a pure  unclouded  clime, 

Where  ( here  is  neither  grief,  nor  death,  nor  time  ! 

Nor  loss  of  friends  ! Perhaps,  when  yonder  bell 
Beat  slow,  and  bade  the  dying  day  farewell. 

Ere  yet  the  glimmering  landscape  sunk  to  night. 

They  thought  upon  that  world  of  distant  light ; 

And  when  the  blind  man,  lifting  light  his  hair. 

Felt  the  faint  wind,  he  raised  a warmer  prayer ; 

Then  sighed,  as  the  blithe  bird  sung  o’er  his  head, 

‘ No  morn  will  shine  on  me  till  I am  dead  !’ 

ROBERT  SOCTHET. 

One  of  the  most  voluminous  and  learned  authors 
of  this  period  was  Robert  Southey,  LL.D.,  the 
poet-laureate.  A poet,  scholar,  antiquary,  critic, 
and  historian,  Mr  Southey  wrote  more  than  even 
Scott,  and  he  is  said  to  have  burned  more  verses 
between  his  twentieth  and  thirtieth  year  than  he 
published  during  his  whole  life.  His  time  was 
entirely  devoted  to  literature.  Every  day  and  hour 
had  its  appropriate  and  select  task  ; his  library  was 
his  world  within  which  he  was  content  to  range,  and 
his  books  were  his  most  cherished  and  constant  com- 
panions. In  one  of  his  poems,  he  says — 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  passed ; 

Around  me  1 behold. 

Where’er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast 
The  mighty  minds  of  old  : 

My  never-failing  friends  are  they 
With  whom  I converse  night  and  day. 

It  is  melancholy  to  reflect,  that  for  nearly  three 
ears  preceding  his  death,  Mr  Southey  sat  among 
is  books  in  hopeless  vacuity  of  mind,  the  victim  of 
disease.  This  distinguished  author  was  a native  of 
Bristol,  the  son  of  a respectable  shopkeeper,  and 


was  born  on  the  12th  of  August  1774.  He  was  in- 
debted to  a maternal  uncle  for  most  of  his  education. 
Having  passed  with  credit  through  Westminster 
school,  he  was,  in  1792,  entered  of  Baliol  college, 
Oxford.  His  friends  designed  him  for  the  church ; 
but  the  poet  became  a Jacobin  and  Socinian,  and 
his  academic  career  was  abruptly  closed  in  1794. 


The  same  year  he  published  a volume  of  poems  in 
conjunction  with  Mr  Robert  Lovell,  under  the  names 
of  Moschus  and  Bion.  About  the  same  time  he 
composed  his  poem  of  Wat  Tyler,  a revolutionary 
brochure,  which  was  long  afterwards  published  sur- 
reptitiously by  a knavish  bookseller  to  annoy  its 
author.  ‘ In  my  youth,’  he  says,  ‘ when  my  stock 
of  knowledge  consisted  of  such  an  acquaintance  with 
Greek  and  Roman  history  as  is  acquired  in  the  course 
of  a scholastic  education ; when  my  heart  was  full  of 
poetry  and  romance,  and  Lucan  and  Akenside  were 
at  my  tongue’s  end,  I fell  into  the  political  opinions 
which  the  French  revolution  was  then  scattering 
throughout  Europe;  and  following  those  opinions 
with  ardour  wherever  they  led,  I soon  perceived 
that  inequalities  of  rank  were  a light  evil  compared 
to  the  inequalities  of  property,  and  those  more  fearful 
distinctions  which  the  want  of  moral  and  intellectual 
culture  occasions  between  man  and  man.  At  that 
time,  and  with  those  opinions,  or  rather  feelings  (for 
their  root  was  in  the  heart,  and  not  in  the  under- 
standing), I wrote  ‘ Wat  Tyler,’  as  one  who  was  im- 
patient of  all  the  oppressions  that  are  done  under 
the  sun.  The  subject  was  injudiciously  chosen,  and 
it  was  treated,  as  might  be  expected,  by  a youth  of 
twenty  in  such  times,  who  regarded  only  one  side  of 
the  question.’  The  poem,  indeed,  is  a miserable 
production,  and  was  harmless  from  its  very  inanity. 
Full  of  the  same  political  sentiments  an(j  ardour, 
Southey  composed  his  Joan  of  Arc,  an  epic  poem, 
displaying  fertility  of  language  and  boldness  of 
imagination,  but  at  the  same  time  diffuse  in  style, 
and  in  many  parts  wild  and  incoherent.  In  imita- 
tion of  Dante,  the  young  poet  conducted  Lis  heroine 
in  a dream  to  the  abodes  of  departed  spirits,  and 
dealt  very  freely  with  the  ‘ murderers  of  mankind,’ 
from  Nimrod  the  mighty  Inmter,  down  to  the  hero 
conqueror  of  Agincourt — ■ 

347 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  present  timr. 


A huge  and  massy  pile — 

Massy  it  seemed,  and  yet  in  every  blast 
As  to  its  ruin  shook.  Tliere,  porter  fit, 
llemorse  for  ever  his  sad  vigils  kept. 

I’ale,  hollow-eyed,  emaciate,  sleepless  wretch, 

Inly  he  groaned,  or,  starting,  wildly  shrieked. 

Aye  as  the  fabric,  tottering  from  its  base. 

Threatened  its  fall — and  so,  expectant  still. 

Lived  in  the  dread  of  danger  still  delayed. 

They  entered  there  a large  and  lofty  dome. 

O’er  whose  black  marble  sides  a dim  drear  light 
Struggled  with  darkness  from  the  unfrequent  lamp. 
Knthroned  around,  the  Murderers  of  Mankind — 
Monarchs,  the  great  1 the  glorious  ! the  august  1 
Kach  bearing  on  his  brow  a crown  of  fire — 

Sat  stern  and  silent.  Nimrod,  he  was  there. 

First  king,  the  mighty  hunter;  and  that  chief 
Who  did  belie  his  mother’s  fame,  that  so 
He  might  be  called  young  Ammon.  In  this  court 
Caisar  was  crowned — accursed  liberticide  ; 

And  he  who  murdered  Tully,  that  cold  villain 
Octavius — though  the  courtly  minion’s  lyre 
Hath  hymned  his  praise,  though  Maro  sung  to  him. 
And  when  death  levelled  to  original  cl.iy 
The  royal  carcass.  Flattery,  fawning  low. 

Fell  at  his  feet,  and  worshipped  the  new  god. 

Titus  was  here,  the  conqueror  of  the  Jews, 

He,  the  delight  of  human-kind  misnamed  ; 

Cte.sars  and  Soldans,  emperors  and  kings. 

Here  were  they  all,  all  who  for  glory  fought. 

Here  in  the  Court  of  Glory,  reaping  now 
The  meed  they  merited. 

As  gazing  round. 

The  Virgin  marked  the  miserable  train, 

A deep  and  hollow  voice  from  one  went  forth ; 

‘ Thou  who  art  come  to  view  our  punishment. 

Maiden  of  Orleans  ! hither  turn  thine  eyes  ; 

For  I am  he  whose  bloody  victories 

Thy  power  hath  rendered  vain.  Lo  1 I am  here. 

The  hero  conqueror  of  Azincour, 

Henry  of  England  I’ 

In  the  second  edition  of  the  poem,  published  in 
1798,  the  vision  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  and  every- 
thing miraculous,  was  omitted.  When  the  poem 
first  appeared,  its  author  was  on  his  way  to  Lisbon, 
in  company  with  his  uncle.  Dr  Herbert,  chaplain  to 
the  factory  at  Lisbon.  Previous  to  his  departure 
in  November  1795,  Mr  Southey  had  married  Miss 
Fricker  of  Bristol,  sister  of  the  lady  with  whom 
Coleridge  united  himself;  and,  according  to  De 
Quincy,  the  poet  parted  with  his  wife  immediately 
after  their  marriage  at  the  portico  of  the  church, 
to  set  out  on  his  travels.  In  1796  he  returned  to 
England,  and  entered  himself  of  Gray’s  Inn.  He 
afterivards  made  a visit  to  Spain  and  Portugal,  and 
published  a series  of  letters  descriptive  of  his  travels. 
In  1801  he  accompanied  Mr  E'oster,  chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer,  to  Ireland  in  the  capacity  of  private 
secretary  to  that  gentleman  ; and  the  same  year 
witnessed  the  publication  of  a second  epic,  Thalaba 
the  Destroyer,  an  Arabian  fiction  of  great  beauty  and 
magnificence.  The  style  of  verse  adopted  by  the 
poet  in  this  work  is  irregular,  without  rhyme;  and 
it  possesses  a peculiar  charm  and  rhythmical  h.ar- 
mony,  though,  like  the  redundant  descriptions  in 
the  work,  it  becomes  wearisome  in  so  long  a poem. 
The  opening  stanzas  convey  an  exquisite  picture 
of  a widowed  mother  wandering  over  the  sands  of 
the  east  during  the  silence  of  night : — 

I. 

How  beautiful  is  night ! 

A dewy  freshness  fills  the  silent  air; 

No  mist  obscures,  nor  cloud,  nor  speck,  nor  stain. 

Breaks  the  serene  of  heaven : 


In  full-orbed  glory,  yonder  moon  divine 
Rolls  through  the  dark-blue  depths. 

Beneath  her  steady  ray 
The  desert-circle  spreads, 

Like  the  round  ocean,  girdled  with  the  sky. 

How  beautiful  is  night! 

II. 

Who,  at  this  untimely  hour. 

Wanders  o’er  the  desert  sands? 

No  stavion  is  in  view. 

Nor  palm-grove  islanded  amid  the  waste. 

The  mother  and  her  child. 

The  widowed  mother  and  the  fatherless  boy. 

They,  at  this  untimely  hour. 

Wander  o’er  the  desert  sands. 

III. 

Alas  ! the  setting  sun 
Saw  Zeinab  in  her  bliss, 

Hodeirah’s  wife  beloved. 

The  fruitful  mother  late. 

Whom,  when  the  daughters  of  Arabia  named, 

They  wished  their  lot  like  hers : 

She  wanders  o’er  the  de.sert  sands 
A wretched  widow  now. 

The  fruitful  mother  of  so  fair  a race ; 

With  only  one  preserved. 

She  wanders  o’er  the  wilderness. 

IV. 

No  tear  relieved  the  burden  of  her  heart ; 

Stunned  with  the  heavy  wo,  she  felt  like  one 
Half-wakened  from  a midnight  dream  of  blood. 

But  sometimes,  when  the  boy 
Would  wet  her  hand  with  tears, 

And,  looking  up  to  her  fixed  countenance. 

Sob  out  the  name  of  Mother,  then  did  she 
Utter  a feeble  groan. 

At  length,  collecting,  Zeinab  turned  her  eyes 
To  Heaven,  exclaiming,  ‘ Praised  be  the  Lord! 

He  gave.  He  takes  away! 

The  Lord  our  God  is  good!* 

The  metre  of  ‘ Thalaba,’  as  may  be  seen  from  this 
specimen,  has  great  power,  as  well  as  harmony,  in 
skilful  hands.  It  is  in  accord, ance  with  the  subject 
of  the  poem,  and  is,  as  the  author  himself  remarks, 
‘the  Arabesque  ornament  of  an  Arabian  tale.’ 
Southey  had  now  cast  off  his  revolutionary  opinions, 
and  his  future  writings  were  all  marked  by  a some- 
what intolerant  attachment  to  church  and  state. 
He  established  himself  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
Gret.a,  near  Keswick,  subsisting  by  his  pen,  and  a 
pension  which  he  had  received  from  government. 
In  1804  he  published  a volume  of  Metrical  Tales, 
and  in  1805  Madoc,  an  epic  poem,  founded  on  a 
Welsh  story,  but  inferior  to  its  predecessors.  In 
1810  appeared  his  greatest  poetical  work.  The  Curse 
of  Kehama,  a poem  of  the  same  cl, ass  and  structure 
as  ‘ Thalab.a,’  but  in  rlnune.  With  characteristic 
egotism,  Air  Southey  jirefixed  to  ‘ The  Curse  of  Ke- 
hama’ a declaration,  t’aat  he  would  not  change  a syl- 
lable or  measure  for  any  one — 

Pedants  shall  not  tie  ray  strains 
To  our  antique  poets’  veins. 

Kehama  is  a Hindoo  r.ajah,  w'ho,  like  Dr  Faustus, 
obtains  and  sports  with  supeni.atural  power.  His 
adventures  are  sufficiently  startling,  and  afford  room 
for  the  author’s  striking  amplitude  of  description. 
‘ The  story  is  founded,’  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘upon 
the  Hindoo  mythology,  the  most  gigantic,  cumbrous, 
and  extravagant  system  of  idolatry  to  which  temples 
were  ever  erected.  The  scene  is  alternatelv  laid  in 

’348 


ENGLISH  LlTEUAi  Liu;. 


tl*c  terrestrial  paradise,  under  tlie  sea — in  the  heaven 
of  heavens — and  in  liell  itself.  The  principal  actors 
are,  a man  who  approaches  almost  to  omnipotence ; 
another  labouring  under  a strange  and  fearful  male- 
diction, which  exempts  him  from  the  ordinary  laws 
of  nature;  a good  genius,  a sorceress,  and  a ghost, 
with  several  llindostan  deities  of  different  ranks. 
Tlie  only  being  that  retains  the  usual  attributes  of 
humanity  is  a female,  who  is  gifted  with  immortality 
at  the  close  of  the  piece.’  Some  of  the  scenes  in  this 
strangely  magnificent  theatre  of  horrors  are  described 
with  the  power  of  Milton,  and  Scott  has  said  that 
the  following  account  of  the  approach  of  the  mortals 
to  I’adalon,  or  the  Indian  Hades,  is  equal  in  gran- 
deur to  any  passage  which  he  ever  perused : — 

Far  other  light  than  that  of  d.ay  there  shone 
Ltpon  the  travellers,  entering  I’adalon. 

They,  too,  in  darkness  entering  on  their  way, 

But  far  before  tlie  ear 
A glow,  as  of  a fiery  furnace  light. 

Filled  all  before  them.  ’Twas  a light  that  made 
Darkness  itself  appear 

A thing  of  conif 'rt ; and  the  sight,  dismayed, 

Shrank  inward  from  the  molten  atmosphere. 

Their  way  was  through  the  adamantine  rock 
Which  girt  the  world  of  wo  : on  either  side 
Its  massive  walls  arose,  and  overhead 
Arched  the  long  passage  ; onward  as  they  ride. 

With  stronger  glare  the  light  around  them  spread — 
And,  lo!  the  regions  dread — 

The  world  of  wo  before  them  opening  wide. 

There  rolls  the  fiery  flood. 

Girding  the  realms  of  I’adalon  .around. 

A sea  of  flame,  it  seemed  to  be 
Sea  without  bound  ; 

For  neither  mortal  nor  immortal  sight 
Could  pierce  across  through  that  intensest  light. 

Besides  its  wonderful  display  of  imagination  and  in- 
vention, and  its  vivid  scene-painting,  the  ‘ Curse  of 
Kehania’  possesses  the  recommendation  of  being  in 
manners,  sentiments,  scenery,  and  costume,  distinc- 
tively and  exclusively  Hindoo.  Its  author  was  too 
diligent  a student  to  omit  whatever  was  charac- 
teristic in  the  landscape  or  the  people.  Passing 
over  his  prose  works,  we  next  find  Mr  Southey 
appear  in  a native  poetical  dress  in  blank  verse. 
In  1814  he  published  Roderick,  the  Last  of  the  Goths, 
a noble  and  pathetic  poem,  though  li.able  also  to  the 
charge  of  redundant  description.  The  style  of  the 
versification  may  be  seen  from  the  following  account 
of  the  grief  and  confusion  of  the  aged  monarch,  when 
he  finds  his  throne  occupied  by  the  Moors  after  his 
long  absence ; — 

The  sound,  the  sight 
Of  turban,  girdle,  robe,  and  scimitar. 

And  tawny  skins,  awoke  contending  thoughts 
Of  anger,  shame,  and  anguish  in  the  Goth; 

The  unaccustomed  face  of  human  kind 
Confused  him  now — and  through  the  streets  he  went 
With  haggard  mien,  and  countenance  like  one 
Crazed  or  bewildered.  All  who  met  him  turned. 

And  wondered  as  he  passed.  One  stopped  him  short, 
Put  alms  into  his  hand,  and  then  desired. 

In  broker  Gothic  speech,  r.he  moonstruck  man 
To  bless  him.  With  a lock  of  vacancy, 

Roderick  received  the  .alms  ; his  wandering  eye 
Fell  on  the  money,  and  the  fallen  king. 

Seeing  his  royal  impress  on  the  piece. 

Broke  out  into  a quick  convulsive  voice. 

That  seemed  like  laughter  first,  but  ended  soon 
In  hollow  groan  suppressed : the  Mussulman 
Shrunk  at  the  ghastly  sound,  and  magnified 
The  name  of  Allah  as  he  hastened  on. 


ItOBERT  SOUTUET. 


A Cliristiau  woman,  spinning  at  her  door. 

Beheld  him — ami  with  sudden  pity  touched. 

She  laid  her  spindle  by,  and  running  in. 

Took  bread,  and  following  after,  called  him  hack — 
And,  placing  in  his  ptussive  hands  the  loaf. 

She  said,  Christ  Jesus  for  his  Mother’s  sake 
Have  mercy  on  thee!  With  a look  that  seemed 
Like  idiocy,  he  he.ard  her,  and  stood  still. 

Staring  awhile  ; then  bursting  into  tears. 

Wept  like  a child. 

Or  the  following  description  of  a moonlight  scene;— 
How  calmly,  gliding  through  the  dark  blue  sky. 

The  midnight  moon  ascends  ! Her  placid  beams, 
Through  thinly-scattered  leaves,  and  boughs  grotesque, 
Mottle  with  mazy  shades  the  orchard  slope ; 

Here  o’er  the  cheAnut’s  fretted  foliage,  gray 
And  massy,  motionless  they  spread  ; here  shine 
Upon  the  crags,  deepening  with  blacker  night 
Their  chasms  ; and  there  the  glittering  argeutry 
Ripples  and  glances  on  the  confluent  streams. 

A lovelier,  purer  light  than  that  of  day 
Rests  on  the  hills ; and  oh  ! how  awfully. 

Into  that  deep  and  tranquil  firmament. 

The  summits  of  Auseva  rise  serene  ! 

The  w.atchman  on  the  battlements  partakes 
The  stillness  of  the  solemn  hour;  he  feels 
The  silence  of  the  earth  ; the  endless  si-und 
Of  flowing  water  soothes  him  ; and  the  stars. 

Which  in  that  brightest  moonlight  well  uigh  quenchel. 
Scarce  visible,  as  in  the  utmost  depth 
Of  yonder  sapphire  infinite,  are  seen. 

Draw  on  with  elevating  influence 
Towards  eternity  the  attempered  mind. 

Musing  on  worlds  beyond  the  grave,  he  stands. 

And  to  the  V'irgin  Mother  silently 
Breathes  forth  her  hymn  of  praise. 

Mr  Southey’,  having,  in  1813,  accepted  the  office  of 
poet-laureate,  composed  some  courtly  strains  that 
tended  little  to  advance  his  reputation.  His  Carmen 
Triumphale,  and  The  Vision  of  Judgment,  provoked 
much  ridicule  at  the  time,  and  would  liave  passed 


Southey’s  ITouse. 

into  utter  oblivion,  if  Lord  Byron  had  not  published 
another  Vision  of  Judgement — one  of  the  most  power- 
ful, though  wild  and  profane  of  his  productions,  in 
which  the  laureate  received  a merciless  and  witty 

349 


FttOM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


castigation,  tliat  even  his  admirers  admitted  to  be 
not  unmerited.  The  latest  of  our  autlior’s  poetical 
works  was  a volume  of  narrative  verse,  All  for  Love, 
and  The  Pilyrim  of  Cotnpostella.  lie  continued  his 
ceaseless  round  of  study  and  composition,  writing  on 
all  subjects,  and  filling  ream  after  ream  of  paper 
with  his  lucubrations  on  morals,  philosophy,  poetry, 
and  politics.  He  was  offered  a baronetcy  and  a seat 
in  parliament,  both  of  which  he  prudently  declined. 
His  fame  and  his  fortune,  he  knew,  could  only  be 
preserved  by  adhering  to  his  solitary  studies;  but 
these  were  too  constant  and  uninterrupted.  The 
poet  forgot  one  of  his  own  maxims,  that  ‘ frequent 
change  of  air  is  of  all  things  tliat  which  most  con- 
duces to  joyous  health  and  long  life.’  Paralysis  at 
length  laid  prostrate  his  powers.*  He  sank  into  a 
state  of  insensibility,  not  even  recognising  those 
who  ministered  to  his  wants;  and  it  was  a matter  of 
satisfaction  rather  than  regret,  that  death  at  length 
stept  in  to  shroud  this  painful  spectacle  from  the  eyes 
of  affection  as  well  as  from  the  gaze  of  vulgar  curio- 
sity. He  died  in  his  house  at  Greta  on  the  21st  of 
March  1843.  Mr  Southey  had,  a few  years  before 
his  death,  lost  the  early  partner  of  his  affections,  and 
contracted  a second  marriage  witli  Miss  Caroline 
Bowles,  the  poetess.  He  left,  at  his  death,  a sum  of 
about  L.12,000  to  be  divided  among  his  children, 
and  one  of  the  most  valuable  private  libraries  in 
the  kingdom.  So  much  had  literature,  unaided  but 
by  prudence  and  worth,  accomplished  for  its  devoted 
follower!  The  following  inscription  for  a tablet  to 
the  memory  of  Mr  Southey,  to  be  placed  in  the 
clmrch  of  Crosthwaite,  near  Keswick,  is  from  the 
pen  of  the  venerable  Wordsworth  : — 

‘ Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Robert  Southey,  whose 
mortal  remains  are  interred  in  the  neighbouring 
churchyard.  He  was  born  at  Bristol,  October  4, 
1774,  and  died,  after  a residence  of  nearly  40  years, 
at  Greta  Hall,  in  this  parish,  March  21,  1843. 

Y e torrents  foaming  down  the  rocky  steeps. 

Ye  lakes  wherein  the  Spirit  of  Water  sleeps. 

Ye  vales  and  hills,  whose  beauty  hither  drew 
The  poet’s  steps,  and  fixed  him  here,  on  you 
His  eyes  have  closed  ; and  ye,  loved  books,  no  more 
Shall  Southey  feed  upon  your  precious  lore. 

To  works  that  ne’er  shall  forfeit  their  renown. 

Adding  immortal  labours  of  his  own  ; 

Whether  he  traced  historic  truth  with  zeal 
For  the  state’s  guidance,  or  the  church’s  weal ; 

Or  Fancy,  disciplined  by  studious  Art, 

Informed  his  pen,  or  Wisdom  of  the  heart. 

Or  Judgments  sanctioned  in  the  patriot’s  mind 
By  reverence  for  the  rights  of  all  mankind. 

Large  were  his  aims,  yet  in  no  human  breast 
Could  private  feelings  find  a holier  nest. 

His  joys,  his  griefs,  have  vanished  like  a cloud 
From  Skiddaw’s  top  ; but  he  to  Heaven  was  vowed 
Through  a long  life,  and  calmed  by  Christian  faith 
In  his  pure  soul  the  fear  of  change  and  death.’ 

Few  authors  have  written  so  much  and  so  well, 
with  so  little  real  popularity,  as  Mr  Southey.  Of  all 
his  prose  works,  admirable  as  they  are  in  purity  of 
style,  the  Life  of  Nelson  alone  is  a general  favourite. 
The  magnificent  creations  of  his  poetry — piled  up 
like  clouds  at  sunset,  in  the  calm  serenity  of  his  ca- 
pacious intellect — have  always  been  duly  appreciated 
by  poetical  students  and  critical  readers ; but  by  the 
public  at  large  they  are  neglected.  A late  attempt 
to  revive  them,  by  the  publication  of  the  whole 
poetical  works  in  ten  uniform  and  cheap  volumes, 
has  only  shown  that  they  are  unsuited  to  the  taste 
of  the  present  generation.  The  reason  of  this  may 
be  found  both  in  the  subjects  of  Southey’s  poetry. 


and  in  his  manner  of  treating  them.  His  fictions 
are  wild  and  supernatural,  and  have  no  hold  on 
human  affections.  Gorgeous  and  sublime  as  some 
of  his  images  and  descriptions  are,  they  ‘come  like 
shadows,  so  depart’  They  are  too  remote,  too  fanci- 
ful, and  often  too  learned.  Tlie  Grecian  mythology 
is  graceful  and  familiar;  but  Mr  Southey’s  Hindoo 
superstitions  are  extravagant  and  strange.  To  relish 
them  requires  considerable  previous  reading  and  re- 
search, and, this  is  a task  which  few  will  undertake. 
The  dramatic  art  or  power  of  vivid  delineation  is 
also  comparatively  unknown  to  Southey,  and  hence 
the  dialogues  in  Madoc  and  Roderick  are  generally 
ffat  and  uninteresting.  His  observation  was  of  books, 
not  nature.  Some  affectations  of  style  and  expres- 
sion also  marred  the  effect  of  his  conceptions,  and 
the  stately  and  copious  flow  of  his  versification,  un- 
relieved by  bursts  of  passion  or  eloquent  sentiment, 
sometimes  becomes  heavy  and  monotonous  in  its 
uniform  smoothness  and  dignity. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

This  gentleman,  the  representative  of  an  ancient 
family,  was  born  at  Ipsley  Court,  Warwickshire,  on 
the  30th  of  January  1775.  He  was  educated  at 
Rugby  school,  whence  he  w'as  transferred  to  Trinity 
college,  Oxford.  His  first  publication  was  a small 
volume  of  poems,  dated  as  far  back  as  1793.  The 
poet  was  intended  for  the  army,  but,  like  Southey, 
he  imbibed  republican  sentiments,  and  for  that  cause 
declined  engaging  in  the  profession  of  arms.  His 
father  then  offered  him  an  allowance  of  i!400  per 
annum,  on  condition  that  he  should  study  the  law, 
with  this  alternative,  if  he  refused,  that  his  income 
should  be  restricted  to  one-third  of  the  sum.  The 
independent  poet  preferred  the  smaller  income  with 
literature  as  his  companion.  On  succeeding  to  the 
family  estate,  Mr  Landor  sold  it  off,  and  purchased 
two  others  in  Monmouthshire,  where  it  is  said  he 
expended  nearly  £70,000  in  improvements.  The  ill 
conduct  of  some  of  his  tenants  mortified  and  exaspe- 
rated the  sensitive  land-owner  to  such  a degree, 
that  he  pulled  down  a fine  house  which  he  had 
erected,  and  left  the  country  for  Italy,  where  he  has 
chiefly  resided  since  the  year  1815.  Mr  Landor’s 
works  consist  of  Gehir,  a poem ; dramas  entitled 
Andrea  of  Hungary,  Giovanni  of  Naples,  Fra  Fupert, 
Pericles  and  Aspasia,  &c.  His  principal  prose  work 
is  a series  of  Imaginary  Conversations  of  Literary 
Men  and  Statesmen,  three  volumes  of  which  were 
published  in  1824,  and  three  more  in  1836.  In 
‘ Gebir’  there  is  a fine  passage,  amplified  by  Mr 
Wordsworth  in  his  Excursion,  which  describes  the 
sound  which  sea-shells  seem  to  make  when  placed 
close  to  the  ear : — 

And  I have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue  j 
Shake  one,  and  it  awakens,  then  apply 
Its  polished  lips  to  your  attentive  ear, 

And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes. 

And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there. 

In  Count  Julian,  a tragedy  founded  on  Spanish  story, 
Mr  Landor  adduces  the  following  beautiful  illustra- 
tion of  grief : — 

Wakeful  he  sits,  and  lonely  and  unmoved. 
Beyond  the  arrows,  views,  or  shouts  of  men ; 

As  oftentimes  an  eagle,  when  the  sun 
Throws  o’er  the  varying  earth  his  early  ray, 
Stands  solitary,  stands  immoveable. 

Upon  some  highest  cliff,  and  rolls  his  eye, 

Clear,  constant,  unobservant,  unabased. 

In  the  cold  light. 

His  smaller  poems  are  mostly  of  the  same  medita* 

.350 


ENGLISH  LITERATURR 


WALTER  SATAOE  LANnOR. 


POETS. 


five  and  intellectual  character.  An  English  scene 
is  thus  described  : — 

Clifton,  in  vain  thy  varied  scenes  invite — 

The  mossy  bank,  dim  glade,  and  dizzy  height ; 

The  sheep  that  starting  from  the  tufted  thyme, 
Untune  the  distant  churches’  mellow  chime  j 
As  o’er  each  limb  a gentle  horror  creeps, 

And  shake  above  our  heads  the  craggy  steeps, 
Pleasant  I’ve  thought  it  to  pursue  the  rower, 

While  light  and  darkness  seize  the  changeful  oar. 
The  frolic  Naiads  drawing  from  below 
A net  of  silver  round  the  black  canoe. 

Now  the  last  lonely  solace  must  it  be 
To  watch  pale  evening  brood  o’er  land  and  sea. 
Then  join  my  friends,  and  let  those  friends  believe 
My  checks  are  moistened  by  the  dews  of  eve. 

‘The  Maid’s  Lament’  is  a short  lyrical  flow  of 
picturesque  e.xpression  and  pathos,  resembling  the 
more  recent  effusions  of  Barry  Cornwall : — 

I loved  him  not ; and  yet,  now  he  is  gone, 

I feel  I am  alone. 

I checked  him  while  he  spoke ; yet  could  he  speak, 
Alas!  I would  not  check. 

For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I sought. 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him  : I now  would  give 
My  love  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and  when  he  found 
’Twas  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death  I 
I waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me ; but  mine  returns. 

And  this  lone  bosom  bums 
With  stifling  heat  heaving  it  up  in  sleep. 

And  waking  ne  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart : for  years 
Wept  he  as  bitter  tears  I 
‘ Merciful  God  I’  such  was  his  latest  prayer, 

‘ These  may  she  never  share !’ 

Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 
Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 

Where  children  spell  athwart  the  churchyard  gate 
His  name  and  life’s  brief  date. 

Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe’er  ye  be. 

And  oh ! pray,  too,  for  me  ! 

We  quote  one  more  chaste  and  graceful  fancy,  en- 
titled Sixteen : — 

In  Clementina’s  artless  mien 
Lucilla  asks  me  what  I see. 

And  are  the  roses  of  sixteen 
Enough  for  me  1 

Lucilla  asks  if  tnat  be  all. 

Have  I not  culled  as  sweet  before! 

Ah  yes,  Lucilla!  and  their  fall 
1 still  deplore. 

I now  behold  another  scene. 

Where  pleasure  beams  with  heaven’s  own  light. 
More  pure,  more  constant,  more  seren(5^. 

And  not  less  bright. 

Faith,  on  whose  breast  the  loves  repose, 

Whose  chain  of  flowers  no  force  can  sever. 

And  Modesty,  who,  when  she  goes. 

Is  gone  for  ever. 

Mr  Landor  will  be  remembered  rather  as  a prose 
writer  than  as  a poet,  and  yet  his  writings  of  that 
kind  are  marked  by  singular  and  great  blemishes. 
A moody  egotistic  nature,  ill  at  ease  with  the  com- 
mon things  of  life,  has  flourished  up  in  his  case  into 
a most  portentous  crop  of  crotchets  and  prejudices, 
which,  regardless  of  the  reprobation  of  his  fellow- 
men,  he  issues  forth  in  prodigious  confusion,  often 
tn  language  offensive  in  the  last  degree  to  good 
taete.  Eager  to  contradict  whatever  is  generally 


received,  he  never  stops  to  consider  how  far  his 
own  professed  opinions  may  be  consistent  with 
each  other:  hence  he  contradicts  himself  almost  as 
often  as  any  other  body.  Jeffrey,  in  one  of  his  most 
brilliant  papers,  has  characterised  in  happy  terms 
the  class  of  minds  to  which  Mr  Landor  belongs. 
‘ The  Work  before  us,’  says  he,  ‘ is  an  edifying  ex- 
ample of  the  spirit  of  literary  Jacobinism — flying 
at  all  game,  running  a-muck  at  all  opinions,  and  at 
continual  cross-purposes  with  its  own.  This  spirit 
admits  neither  of  equal  nor  superior,  follower  nor 
precursor : “ it  travels  in  a road  so  narrow,  where  but 
one  goes  abreast.”  It  claims  a monopoly  of  sense, 
wit,  and  wisdom.  To  agree  with  it  is  an  imperti- 
nence ; to  diflfer  from  it  a crime.  It  tramples  on  old 
prejudices ; it  is  jealous  of  new  pretensions.  It  seizes 
with  avidity  on  all  that  is  startling  or  obnqxious  in 
opinions,  and  when  they  are  countenanced  by  any 
one  else,  discards  them  as  no  longer  fit  for  its  use. 
Thus  persons  of  this  temper  affect  atheism  by  way  of 
distinction ; and  if  they  can  succeed  in  bringing  it 
into  fashion,  become  orthodox  again,  in  order  not  to 
be  with  the  vulgar.  Their  creed  is  at  the  mercy  of 
every  one  who  assents  to,  or  who  contradicts  it.  All 
their  ambition,  all  their  endeavour  is,  to  seem  wiser 
than  the  whole  world  besides.  They  hate  whatever 
falls  short  of,  whatever  goes  beyond,  their  favooite 
theories.  In  the  one  case,  they  hurry  on  before  ta 
get  the  start  of  you;  in  the  other,  they  suddenly 
turn  back  to  hinder  you,  and  defeat  themselves.  An 
inordinate,  restless,  incorrigible  self-love,  is  the  key 
to  alt  their  actions  and  opinions,  extravagances  and 
meannesses,  servility  and  arrogance.  Whatever 
soothes  and  pampers  this,  they  applaud  ; whatever 
wounds  or  interferes  with  it,  they  utterly  and  vin- 
dictively abhor.  A general  is  with  them  a hero 
if  he  is  unsuccessful  or  a traitor'  rf  he  is  a con- 
queror in  the  cause  of  liberty,  or  a martyr  to  it,  he 
is  a poltroon.  Whatever  is  doubtful,  remote,  vi- 
sionary in  philosophy,  or  wild  and  dangerous  in 
politics,  they  fasten  upon  eagerly,  “ recommending 
and  insisting  on  nothing  less reduce  the  one  to 
demonstration,  the  other  to  practice,  and  they  turn 
their  backs  upon  their  own  most  darling  schemes, 
and  leave  them  in  the  lurch  immediately.’  When  the 
reader  learns  that  Mr  Landor  justifies  Tiberius  and 
Nero,  speaks  of  Pitt  as  a poor  creature,  and  Fox  as 
a charlatan,  declares  Alfleri  to  have  been  the  great- 
est man  in  Europe,  and  recommends  the  Greeks,  in 
their  struggles  with  the  Turks,  to  discard  fire-arms^ 
and  return  to  the  use  of  the  bow,  he  will  not  deem 
this  general  description  far  from  inapplicable  in 
the  case.  And  yet  the  Imaginary  Conversations 
and  other  writings  of  Mr  Landor  are  amongst  the 
most  remarkable  prose  productions  of  our  age,  writ- 
ten in  pure  nervous  English,  and  full  of  thoughts 
which  fasten  themselves  on  the  mind,  and  are  ‘a  joy 
for  ever.’  It  would  require  many  specimens  from 
these  works  to  make  good  what  is  here  said  for  and 
against  their  author;  we  can  aflPord  room  for  only 
one,  but  in  it  are  both  an  example  of  his  love  of 
paradox,  and  of  the  extraordinary  beauties  of  thought 
by  which  he  leads  us  captive.  It  forms  part  of  a 
conversation  between  Lords  Chatham  and  Chester- 
field:— 

Chesterfield.  It  is  true,  my  lord,  we  have  not  always 
been  of  the  same  opinion,  or,  to  use  a better,  truer, 
and  more  significant  expression,  of  the  same  side  in 
politics  ; yet  I never  heard  a sentence  from  your 
lordship  which  I did  not  listen  to  with  deep  atten- 
tion. I understand  that  you  have  written  some  pieces 
of  admonition  and  advice  to  a young  relative ; they 
are  mentioned  as  being  truly  excellent ; I wish  I 
could  have  profited  by  them  when  I was  composing 
mine  on  a similar  occasion. 

351 


FIIOM  1700 


CYCLOPiEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMS 


Chatham.  My  lord,  you  certainly  would  not  liave 
done  it,  even  supposing  they  contained,  which  I am 
far  from  believing,  any  topics  that  could  have  escaped 
your  penetrating  view  of  manners  ami  morals  ; for 
your  lordship  and  1 set  out  diversely  from  the  very 
threshold.  Let  us,  then,  rather  hope  that  what  we 
have  written,  with  an  equally  good  intention,  may 
produce  its  due  effect;  which  indeed,  I am  afraiil, 
may  be  almost  as  doubtful,  if  we  consider  how  inef- 
fectual were  the  cares  and  e.xhortations,  and  even  the 
daily  example  and  high  renown,  of  the  most  zealous 
and  jirudent  men  on  the  life  and  conduct  of  their 
chil'Jieii  and  disciples.  Let  us,  however,  hope  the 
best  rather  than  fear  the  worst,  and  believe  that  there 
nevi‘1  was  a right  thing  done  or  a wise  one  spoken  in 
vain,  although  the  fruit  of  them  may  not  spring  up  in 
the  place  designated  or  at  the  time  expected. 

ChcsIei'JidJ  I’ray,  if  I am  not  taking  too  great  a 
leedc  11,  give  me  (he  outline  of  your  plan. 

Ch.itham  Willingly,  my  lord;  but  since  a greater 
ma>  ;han  either  of  us  nas  laid  down  a more  compre- 
bei  ive  .ue,  rentain.ng  all  I cculd  bring  forward, 
■yi  uld  if  .lot  b’  prefvable  to  consult  it  ! I differ  in 
nci.hiug  .foin  -jockt  unless  it  bs  that  1 would  recom- 
raund  t.ue  Ii;.nter  »s  wed  as  'he  graver  part  of  the 
aiicieiP  classics,  atd  the  constant  p actico  of  ii  litat- 
ing  them  ic  early  youth.  This  is  r.o  change  .n  the 
systen,,  and  uo  larger  an  adilition  than  a woodbine  to 
rv  saer  -d  gri  ve. 

Chc-  tufidd.  I do  not  admire  Mr  Locke. 

Chatham.  Nor  I — he  is  too  simply  grand  for  ad- 
miration— 1 contemplate  and  revere  him.  Equally 
deep  and  clear,  he  is  both  philosophically  and  gram- 
matically the  most  elegant  of  English  writers. 

Chasterfidd.  If  I expressed  by  any  motion  of  limb 
or  feature  my  surprise  at  this  remark,  your  lordship, 
I hope,  will  pardon  me  a slight  and  involuntary  trans- 
gression of  my  own  precept.  I must  intreat  you,  be- 
fore we  move  a step  farther  in  our  inquiry,  to  inform 
me  whether  I am  really  to  consider  him  in  style  the 
most  elegant  of  our  prose  authors  ? 

Chatham.  Your  lordship  is  capable  of  forming  an 
opinion  on  this  point  certainly  no  less  correct  than 
mine. 

Cheaterjidd.  Pray  assist  me. 

Chatham.  Education  and  grammar  are  surely  the 
two  driest  of  all  subjects  on  which  a conversation  can 
turn  ; yet  if  the  ground  is  not  promiscuously  sown,  if 
what  ought  to  be  clear  is  not  covered,  if  what  ought  to 
be  covered  is  not  bare,  and,  above  all,  if  the  plants  are 
choice  ones,  we  may  spend  a few  moments  on  it  not 
unpleasantly.  It  appears  then  to  me,  that  elegance 
in  prose  composition  is  mainly  this  ; a just  admission 
of  topics  and  of  words  ; neither  too  many  nor  too  few  of 
either ; enough  of  sweetness  in  the  sound  to  induce  us 
to  enter  and  sit  still;  enough  of  illustration  and 
reflection  to  change  the  posture  of  our  minds  when 
they  would  tire ; and  enough  of  sound  matter  in  the 
complex  to  repay  us  for  our  attendance.  I could 
perhaps  be  more  logical  in  my  definition  and  more 
concise  ; but  am  I at  all  erroneous? 

Chesterfield.  I see  not  that  you  are. 

Chatham.  My  ear  is  well  satisfied  with  Locke:  I 
find  nothing  idle  or  redundant  in  him. 

Chesterfield.  But  in  the  opinion  of  you  graver  men, 
would  not  some  of  his  principles  lead  too  far? 

Chatham.  The  danger  is,  that  few  will  be  led  by 
them  far  enough:  most  who  begin  with  him  .stop 
short,  and,  pretending  to  find  pebbles  in  their  shoes, 
throw  themselves  down  upon  the  ground,  and  com- 
plain of  their  guide. 

Chesterfield.  What,  then,  can  be  the  reason  why 
Plato,  so  much  less  intelligible,  is  so  much  more 
quoted  and  applauded? 

Chatham.  The  ditficultics  we  never  try  are  no  diffi- 
'ulties  to  us.  Those  who  are  upon  the  summit  of  a 


niounLain  know  ir,  noine  inrtt-surc  its  altitude,  by 
comi>aring  it  with  all  objects  around  ; but  those  who 
stand  at  the  bottom,  and  never  mounted  it,  can  com- 
pare it  with  few  only,  and  with  those  imperfectly. 
Until  a short  time  ago,  1 could  have  conversed  more 
fluently  about  Plato  than  I can  at  pre.scnt ; I had 
read  all  the  titles  to  his  dialogues,  and  several  scraps 
of  commentary ; these  I have  now  forgotten,  and  am 
indebted  to  long  attacks  of  the  gout  for  what  I have 
acquired  instead. 

Chesterfidd.  A very  severe  schoolmaster!  I hope 
he  allows  a long  valuation  ? 

Chatham.  Severe  he  is  indecil,and  although  he  .sets 
no  example  of  regularity,  he  exacts  few  observances, 
and  teaches  many  things.  Without  him  I should 
have  had  less  patience,  leas  learning,  less  reflection, 
less  leisure  ; in  short,  less  of  everything  but  of  sleep. 

ChesUrfidd.  Locke,  from  a deficiency  of  fancy,  is 
not  likely  to  attract  .so  many  listeners  as  Plato. 

Chatham.  And  yet  occasionally  his  language  is 
both  metaphorical  and  rich  in  images.  In  fact,  all 
our  great  philo.sophers  have  also  this  property  in  a 
wonderful  degree.  Not  to  speak  of  the  devotional, 
in  who.se  writings  one  might  expect  it,  we  find  it 
abundantly  in  Bacon,  not  sparingly  in  Hobbes,  the 
next  to  him  in  range  of  inquiry  and  potency  of  in- 
tellect. And  what  would  you  think,  my  lord,  if  you 
discovered  in  the  records  of  Newton  a sentence  in  the 
spirit  of  Shakspe.are? 

Chesterfidd.  I should  look  upon  it  as  upon  a won- 
der, not  to  say  a miracle;  Newton,  like  Barrow,  had 
no  feeling  or  respect  for  poetry. 

Chatham.  His  words  are  these: — ‘I  don’t  know 
what  I may  seem  to  the  world  ; but  as  to  myself,  I 
.seem  to  have  been  only  like  a boy  playing  on  the 
sea-shore,  and  diverting  my.self  in  now  ami  then  find- 
ing a smoother  pebble  or  a prettier  shell  than  ordi- 
nary, whilst  the  great  ocean  of  Truth  lay  all  undis- 
covered before  me.’ 

Chesterfield.  Surely  Nature,  who  had  given  him  the 
volumes  of  her  greater  mysteries  to  unseal ; who  had 
bent  over  him  and  taken  his  hand,  and  taught  him  to 
decipher  the  characters  of  her  sacred  language ; who 
had  lifted  up  before  him  her  glorious  veil,  higher 
than  ever  yet  for  mortal,  that  she  might  impress  her 
features  and  her  fondness  on  his  heart,  threw  it  back 
wholly  at  these  words,  and  gazed  upon  him  with  as 
much  admiration  as  ever  he  had  gazed  upon  her.* 

EDWIN  ATHERSTONE. 

Edwin  Atherstone  is  author  of  The  Last  Days 
of  Herculaneum  (1821)  and  The  Fall  of  Nineveh 
(1828),  both  poems  in  blank  verse,  and  remarkable 
for  splendour  of  diction  and  copiousness  of  descrip- 
tion. The  first  is  founded  on  the  well-known  de- 
struction of  the  city  of  Ilerculaneuin  by  an  eruption 
of  Mount  Vesuvius  in  the  first  3’ear  of  the  Emperor 
Titus,  or  the  79th  of  the  Christian  era.  Mr  Ather- 
stone has  followed  the  account  of  this  awful  occur- 
rence given  by  the  younger  Pliny  in  his  letters  to 
Tacitus,  and  has  drawn  some  powerful  pictures  of 
the  desolating  fire  and  its  attendant  circumstances. 

* A very  few  of  Mr  Landor’s  aphorisms  and  remarks  may 
be  added:  He  says  of  fame—*  Fame,  they  tell  you,  is  air; 
but  without  air  there  is  no  life  for  any ; without  fame  there 
is  none  for  the  best.’  * The  happy  man,’  he  says,  ‘ is  he 
who  distinguishes  the  boundary  between  desire  and  delight, 
and  stands  firmly  on  the  hipher  ground  ; he  who  knows  that 
pleasure  is  not  only  not  possession,  but  is  often  to  be  lost, 
and  always  to  be  endangered  by  it.*  Of  light  wit  or  sarcasm, 
he  observes—*  Quickness  is  amongst  the  least  of  the  mind’s 
properties.  I would  persuade  you  that  banter,  pun,  and 
quibble  are  the  properties  of  light  men  and  shallow  capa- 
cities; that  genuine  humour  and  true  wit  require  a sound  and 
capacious  mind,  which  is  always  a grave  one.’ 


352 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


EDWIN  ATHERSTONK. 


There  is  jiorhnps  too  much  of  terrible  and  gloomy 
painting,  yet  it  enchains  the  attention  of  the  reader, 
and  inijiresses  the  imagination  with  something  like 
dramatic  force.  Mr  Athcrstone’s  second  subject  is 
of  the  same  elevated  cast : the  downfall  of  an  Asiatic 
empire  afforded  ample  room  for  his  love  of  strong 
and  magnificent  description,  and  he  has  availed 
himself  of  this  license  so  fully,  as  to  border  in  many 
passages  on  extravagance  and  bombast  His  battle 
scenes,  his  banquets,  flowering  groves,  and  other 
descriptions  of  art  and  nature,  are  all  executed  with 
oriental  splendour  and  voluptuousness — often  with 
dazzling  vividness  and  beauty  and  true  poetical 
feeling.  The  failure  of  the  author  to  sustain  the 
I interest  of  the  reader  is  owing,  as  a contemporary 
I critic  jKiinted  out,  ‘ to  the  very  palpable  excess  in 
which  he  employs  all  those  elements  of  pleasing,  and 
I to  the  disproportion  which  those  ornaments  of  the 
i scene  bear  to  its  actual  business — to  the  slowness 
I with  which  the  story  moves  forward,  and  the  diffi- 
culty we  have  in  catching  a distinct  view  of  the 
characters  that  are  presented  to  us,  through  the 
glare  of  imagery  and  eloquence  with  which  they 
are  surrounded.’  This  is  the  fault  of  genius — espe- 
cially young  genius — and  if  Mr  Atherstone  could 
subdue  his  oriental  imagination  and  gorgeousness 
of  style,  and  undertake  a theme  of  more  ordinary 
life,  and  of  simple  natural  passion  and  description, 
he  might  give  himself  a name  of  some  importance 
in  the  literature  of  his  age. 

1 he  following  passages,  descriptive  of  the  splen- 
dour of  Sardanapalus’s  state,  have  been  cited  as 
haiqjy  specimens  of  Mr  Atherstone’s  style  : — 

The  moon  is  clear — the  stars  are  coming  forth — ■ 
The  evening  breeze  fans  pleasantly.  Retired 
Within  his  gorgeous  hall,  Assyria’s  king 
Sits  at  the  banquet,  and  in  love  and  wine 
Revt'ls  delighted.  On  the  gilded  roof 
A thousand  golden  lamps  their  lustre  fling. 

And  on  the  marble  walls,  and  on  the  throne 
Gem-bossed,  that  high  on  jasper-steps  upraised. 

Like  to  one  solid  diamond  quivering  stands, 
Sun-splendours  flashing  round.  In  woman’s  garb 
The  sensual  king  is  clad,  and  with  him  sit 
A crowd  of  beauteous  concubines.  They  sing. 

And  roll  the  wanton  eye,  and  laugh,  and  sigh, 

And  feed  his  ear  with  honeyed  flatteries, 

And  laud  him  as  a god.  * 

Like  a mountain  stream, 

Amid  the  silence  of  the  dewy  eve 

Heard  by  the  lonely  traveller  through  the  vale. 

With  dream-like  murmuring  melodious. 

In  diamond  showers  a crystal  fountain  falls. 

* Sylph-like  girls,  and  blooming  boys. 

Flower-crowned,  and  in  apparel  bright  as  spring. 
Attend  upon  their  bidding.  At  the  sign. 

From  bands  unseen,  voluptuous  music  breathes, 

Harp,  dulcimer,  and,  sweetest  far  of  all. 

Woman’s  mellifluous  voice. 

Through  all  the  city  sounds  the  voice  of  joy 
And  tipsy  merriment.  On  the  spacious  walls. 

That,  like  huge  sea-cliffs,  gird  the  city  in. 

Myriads  of  wanton  feet  go  to  and  fro  : 

Gay  garments  rustle  in  the  scented  breeze. 

Crimson,  and  azure,  purple,  green,  and  gold  ; 

Laugh,  jest,  and  passing  whisper  are  heard  there; 
Timbrel,  and  lute,  and  dulcimer,  and  song ; 

And  many  feet  that  tread  the  dance  are  seen. 

And  arms  upflung,  and  swaying  heads  plume-crowned. 
So  is  that  city  steeped  in  revelry. 

* # « 

Then  went  the  king. 

Hushed  with  the  wine,  and  in  his  pride  of  power 
Glorying ; and  with  his  own  strong  arm  upraised 
From  out  its  rost  the  Assyrian  banner  broad, 

65 


Purple  and  edged  with  gold  ; and,  standing  then 
Upon  the  utmost  summit  of  the  mount — 

Round,  and  yet  round — for  two  strong  men  a task 
Suflicient  deemed — he  waved  the  splendid  flag. 

Bright  as  a meteor  streaming. 

At  that  sight 

The  plain  was  in  a stir : the  helms  of  brass 
Were  lifted  up,  and  glittering  spear-points  waved. 

And  banners  shaken,  and  wide  trumpet  mouths 
Upturned  ; and  myriads  of  bright-harnessed  steed* 

Were  seen  uprearing,  shaking  their  proud  heads ; 

And  brazen  chariots  in  a moment  sprang. 

And  clashed  together.  In  a moment  more 
Up  came  the  monstrous  universal  shout. 

Like  a volcano’s  burst.  Up,  up  to  heaven 
The  multitudinous  tempest  tore  its  ivay. 

Rocking  the  clouds : from  all  the  swarming  plain 
And  from  the  city  rose  the  mingled  cry, 

‘ Long  live  Sardanapalus,  king  of  kings  ! 

May  the  king  live  for  ever !’  Thrice  the  flag 
The  monarch  waved  ; and  thrice  the  shouts  arose 
Enormous,  that  the  solid  walls  were  shook. 

And  the  firm  ground  made  tremble. 

Amid  the  far-off  hills. 

With  eye  of  fire,  and  shaggy  mane  upreared. 

The  sleeping  lion  in  his  den  sprang  up ; 

Listened  awhile— then  laid  his  monstrous  mouth 
Close  to  the  floor,  and  breathed  hot  roarings  out 
In  fierce  reply. 

* » * 

He  comes  at  length — 

The  thickening  thunder  of  the  wheels  is  heard  : 

Upon  their  hinges  roaring,  open  fly 

The  brazen  gates  : sounds  then  the  tramp  of  hoofs — 

And  lo!  the  gorgeous  pageant,  like  the  sun. 

Flares  on  their  startled  eyes.  Four  snow-white  steeds, 

In  golden  trappings,  barbed  all  in  gold. 

Spring  through  the  gate ; the  lofty  chariot  then. 

Of  ebony,  with  gold  and  gems  thick  strewn,  ! 

Even  like  the  starry  night.  The  spokes  were  gold,  | 
With  felloes  of  strong  brass  ; the  naves  were  brass,  ! 
With  burnished  gold  o’erlaid,  and  diamond  rimmed;  I 
Steel  were  the  axles,  in  bright  silver  case ; 

The  pole  was  cased  in  silver : high  aloft. 

Like  a rich  throne  the  gorgeous  seat  was  framed ; 

Of  ivory  part,  part  silver,  and  part  gold  : 

On  either  side  a golden  statue  stood  : 

Upon  the  right — and  on  a throm  of  gold — 

Great  Belus,  of  the  Assyrian  empire  first. 

And  worshipped  as  a god  ; but,  on  the  left. 

In  a resplendent  car  by  lions  drawn, 

A goddess.  * * 

Behind  the  car. 

Full  in  the  centre,  on  the  ebon  ground. 

Flamed  forth  a diamond  sun ; on  either  side, 

A horned  moon  of  diamond  ; and  beyond 
The  planets,  each  one  blazing  diamond. 

Such  was  the  chariot  of  the  king  of  kings. 

\The  Bower  of  Nekustda.l 
’Twas  a spot 

Herself  had  chosen,  from  the  palace  walls 
Farthest  removed,  and  by  no  sound  disturbed. 

And  by  no  eye  o’erlooked  ; for  in  the  midst 
Of  loftiest  trees,  umbrageous,  was  it  hid — 

Yet  to  the  sunshine  open,  and  the  airs 

That  from  the  deep  shades  all  around  it  breathed. 

Cool  and  sweet-scented.  Myrtles,  jessamine — 

Roses  of  varied  hues — all  climbing  shrubs. 

Green-leaved  and  fragrant,  had  she  planted  there. 

And  trees  of  slender  body,  fruit,  and  flower ; 

At  early  morn  had  watered,  and  at  eve. 

From  a bright  fountain  nigh,  that  ceaselessly 
Gushed  with  a gentle  coil  from  out  the  earth. 

Its  liquid  diamonds  flinging  to  the  sun 

353 


FROM  ]780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


With  a soft  whisper.  To  a graceful  arch 
The  pliant  hianches,  intertwined,  were  bent  ; 

Flowers  some,  and  some  rich  fruits  of  gorgeous  hues, 
Down  hanging  lavishly,  the  taste  to  please. 

Or,  with  rich  scent,  the  smell — or  that  fine  sense 
Of  beauty  that  in  forma  and  colours  rare 
Doth  take  delight.  With  fragrant  moss  the  floor 
Was  planted,  to  the  foot  a carpet  rich, 

Or,  for  the  languid  limbs,  a downy  couch. 

Inviting  slumber.  At  the  noon-tide  hour. 

Here,  with  some  chosen  maidens  would  she  come. 
Stories  of  love  to  listen,  or  the  deeds 
Of  heroes  of  old  days  : the  harp,  sometimes. 

Herself  would  touch,  and  with  her  own  sweet  voice 
Fill  all  the  air  with  loveliness.  Hut,  chief. 

When  to  his  green-wave  bed  the  wearied  sun 
Had  parted,  and  heaven’s  glorious  arch  yet  shone, 

A last  gleam  catching  from  his  closing  eye — 

The  palace,  with  her  maidens,  quitting  then. 

Through  vistas  dim  of  tall  trees  would  she  pass — 
Cedar,  or  waving  pine,  or  giant  palm — 

Through  orange  groves,  and  citron,  myrtle  walk.s. 
Alleys  of  ro.ses,  beds  of  sweetest  flowers. 

Their  richest  incense  to  the  dewy  breeze 
Dreathing  profusely  all — and  having  reached 
The  spot  beloved,  with  sport,  or  dance  awhile 
On  the  small  lawn  to  sound  of  dulcimer. 

The  pleasant  time  would  pa.ss  ; or  to  the  lute 
Give  ear  delighted,  and  the  plaintive  voice 
That  sang  of  hapless  love  : or,  arm  in  arm. 

Amid  the  twilight  saunter,  listing  oft 

The  fountain’s  murmur,  or  the  evening’s  sigh. 

Or  whisperings  in  the  leaves — or,  in  his  pride 
Of  minstrelsy,  the  sleepless  nightingale 
Flooding  the  air  with  beauty  of  sweet  sounds  : 

And,  ever  as  the  silence  came  again. 

The  distant  and  unceasing  hum  could  hear 
Of  that  magnificent  city,  on  all  sides 
Surrounding  them. 

In  18.3.1  appeared  two  cantos  of  a descriptive  poem. 
The  Heliotrope,  or  Pilgrim  in  Pursuit  of  Health,  being 
the  record  of  a poetical  wanderer  in  Liguria,  Hetru- 
ria,  Campania,  and  Calabria.  The  style  and  versi- 
fication of  Byron’s  Childe  Harold  are  evidently 
copied  by  the  author ; but  he  has  a native  taste  and 
elegance,  and  a purer  system  of  idiilosophy  than  the 
noble  poet.  Many  of  the  stanzas  are  musical  and 
picturesque,  presenting  Claude-like  landscapes  of  the 
glorious  classic  scenes  through  which  the  pilgrim 
passed.  We  subjoin  the  description  of  Pompeii — 
that  interesting  city  of  the  dead : — 

Pompeia!  disentombed  Pompeia!  Here 
Before  me  in  her  pall  of  ashes  spread — 

Wrenched  from  the  gulf  of  ages— she  whose  bier 
Was  the  unbowelled  mountain,  lifts  her  head 
Sad  but  not  silent  ! Thrilling  in  my  ear 
She  tells  her  tale  of  horror,  till  the  dread 
And  sudden  drama  mustering  through  the  air. 

Seems  to  rehearse  the  day  of  her  despair ! 

Joyful  she  feasted  ’neath  her  olive  tree. 

Then  rose  to  ‘ dance  and  play  :’  and  if  a cloud 
O’ershadowed  her  thronged  circus,  who  could  see 
The  impending  deluge  brooding  in  its  shroud  ? 

On  went  the  games  ! mirth  and  festivity 
Increased — prevailed  ; till  rendingly  and  loud 
The  earth  and  sky  with  consentaneous  roar 
Denounced  her  doom — that  time  should  be  no  more. 

Shook  to  its  centre,  the  convulsive  soil 
Closed  round  the  flying : Same’s  tortured  tide 
O’erleapt  its  channel — eager  for  its  spoil ! 

Thick  darkness  fell,  and,  wasting  fast  and  wide. 
Wrath  opened  her  dread  floodgates!  Brief  the  toil 
\nd  terror  of  lesistancc  : art  supplied 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMR 


No  subterfuge  ! The  pillared  crypt,  and  cave 
That  proffered  shelter,  proved  a living  gravel 

Within  the  circus,  tribunal,  and  shrine. 

Shrieking  they  perished  : there  the  usurer  sank 
Grasping  his  gold  ; the  bacchant  at  his  wine  ; 

The  gambler  at  his  dice  I age,  grade,  nor  rank. 

Nor  all  they  loved,  revered,  or  deemed  divine. 

Found  help  or  rescue ; unredeemed  they  drank 
Their  cup  of  horror  to  the  dregs,  and  fell 
With  Heaven’s  avenging  thunders  for  their  knell. 

Their  city  a vast  sepulchre — their  he.arth 
A charnel-house!  The  beautiful  and  brave. 

Whose  high  achievements  or  whose  charms  gave  birth 
To  songs  and  civic  wreath,  unheeded  crave 
A pause  ’twixt  life  and  death  : no  hand  on  earth, 

No  voice  from  heaven,  replied  to  close  the  grave 
Yawning  around  them.  Still  the  burning  shower 
Rained  down  upon  them  with  unslackening  power. 

’Tis  an  old  tale!  Yet  gazing  thus,  it  seems 
But  yesterday  the  circling  wine-cup  went 
Its  joyous  round!  Here  still  the  pilgrim  deems 
New  guests  arrive — the  reveller  sits  intent 
At  his  carousal,  quaffing  to  the  themes 
Of  Thracian  Orpheus  : lo,  the  cups  indent 
The  conscious  marble,  and  the  amphorie  still 
Seem  redolent  of  old  Falemo’s  hill ! 

It  seems  but  yesterday  ! Half  sculptured  there. 

On  the  paved  Forum  wedged,  the  marble  shaft 
Waits  but  the  workman  to  resume  his  care. 

And  reed  it  by  the  cunning  of  his  craft. 

The  chips,  struck  from  his  chisel,  fresh  and  fair. 

Lie  scattered  round  ; the  acanthus  leaves  ingraft 
The  half-wrought  capital ; and  Isis’  shrine 
Retains  untouched  her  implements  divine. 

The  streets  are  hollowed  by  the  rolling  car 
In  sinuous  furrows;  there  the  lava  stone 
Retains,  deep  grooved,  the  frequent  axle’s  .scar. 

Here  oft  the  pageant  passed,  and  triumph  shone; 
Here  warriors  bore  the  glittering  spoils  of  war. 

And  met  the  full  fair  city,  smiling  on 

With  wreath  and  pman ! — gay  as  those  who  drink 

The  draught  of  pleasure  on  destruction’s  brink. 

The  frescoed  wall,  the  rich  mosaic  floor. 

Elaborate,  fresh,  and  garlanded  with  flowers 
Of  ancient  fable  : — crypt,  and  lintelled  door 
Writ  with  the  name  of  their  last  tenant — towers 
That  still  in  strength  aspire,  as  when  they  bore 
Their  Roman  standard — from  the  whelming  showers 
That  formed  their  grave — return,  like  spectres  risen. 
To  solve  the  mysteries  of  their  fearful  prison  ! 

The  author  of  the  ‘ Heliotrope’  is  Dr  W.  Beattie, 
a London  physician  of  worth,  talent,  and  bene- 
volence, who  is  also  author  of  Scotland  Illustrated, 
Switzerland  Illustrated,  Residence  in  the  Court  of  Ger- 
many, &c. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 

Charles  Lamb,  a poet,  and  a delightful  essayist, 
of  quaint  peculiar  humour  and  fancy,  was  born  in 
London  on  the  18th  February  1775.  His  father 
was  in  humble  circumstances,  servant  and  friend  to 
one  of  the  benchers  of  the  Inner  Temple;  but  Charles 
was  presented  to  the  school  of  Christ’s  hospital, 
and  from  his  seventh  to  his  fifteenth  year  he  was 
an  inmate  of  that  ancient  and  munificent  asylum. 
Lamb  was  a nervous,  timid,  and  thoughtful  boy: 
‘ while  others  were  all  fire  and  play,  he  stole  along 
with  all  the  self-concentration  of  a monk.’  He  would 
have  obtained  an  exhibition  at  school,  admitting  him 

354 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


niAni.E<l  LAMB. 


rOETS. 


to  collcpc,  but  these  exliibitions  were  given  under 
tlie  implied  if  not  expressed  condition  of  entering 
into  the  elmreb,  and  Lamb  liad  an  impediment  in 
bis  speech,  wliieli  in  this  ease  proved  an  insuperable 
obstacle.  In  1792  lie  obtained  an  appointment  in 
tile  accountant's  oflice  of  tlie  East  India  Company, 
residing  witli  liis  parents;  and  ‘on  their  death,’ 
says  Sergeant  Talfourd,  ‘ lie  felt  himself  called 
upon  by  duty  to  repay  to  liis  sister  the  solicitude 
with  which  she  had  watched  over  his  infancy,  and 
well,  indeed,  he  performed  it.  To  her,  from  the  age 
of  twenty-one,  he  devoted  his  existence,  seeking 
thenceforth  no  connexion  which  could  interfere  with 
her  supremacy  in  his  affections,  or  impair  his  ability 
to  sustain  and  to  comfort  her.’  The  first  composi- 
tions of  Lamb  were  in  verse,  prompted,  probably, 
by  the  poetry  of  his  friend  Coleridge.  A warm  ad- 
miration of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists  led  him  to 
imitate  their  style  and  manner  in  a tragedy  named 
John  Woodvil,  which  was  published  in  1801,  and 
mercilessly  ridiculed  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  as  a 
specimen  of  the  rudest  state  of  the  drama.  There 
is  much  that  is  exquisite  both  in  sentiment  and  ex- 
pression in  Lamb's  play,  but  tlie  plot  is  certainly 
meagre,  and  the  style  had  then  an  appearance  of 
affectation.  The  following  description  of  the  sports 
in  the  forest  has  a truly  antique  air,  like  a passage 
in  Hey  wood  or  Shirley  : — 

To  see  the  sun  to  bed,  and  to  arise, 

Like  some  hot  amourist  with  glowing  eyes, 

Bursting  the  lazy  bonds  of  sleep  that  bound  him, 
With  all  his  fires  and  travelling  glories  round  him. 
Sometimes  the  moon  on  soft  night-clouds  to  rest, 

Like  beauty  nestling  in  a young  man’s  breast, 

And  all  the  winking  stars,  her  handmaids,  keep 
Admiring  silence  while  these  lovers  sleep.  • 

Sometimes  outstretched,  in  very  idleness. 

Nought  doing,  saying  little,  thinking  less. 

To  view  the  leaves,  thin  dancers  upon  air, 

Go  eddying  round  ; and  small  birds  how  they  fare. 
When  mother  Autumn  fills  their  beaks  with  corn, 
Filclied  from  the  careless  Amalthea’s  horn  ; 

And  how  the  woods  berries  and  worms  provide. 
Without  their  pains,  when  earth  has  nought  beside 
To  answer  their  small  wants. 

To  view  the  graceful  deer  come  tripping  by. 

Then  stop  and  gaze,  then  turn,  they  know  not  why, 
Like  bashful  younkers  in  society. 

To  mark  the  structure  of  a plant  or  tree. 

And  all  fair  things  of  earth,  how  fair  they  be. 

In  1802  Lamb  paid  a visit  to  Coleridge  at  Keswick, 
and  clambered  up  to  the  top  of  Skiddaw.  Notwith- 
standing his  partiality  for  a London  life,  he  was 
deeply  struck  with  the  solitary  grandeur  and  beauty 
of  the  lakes.  ( Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand,’  he  says, 
‘ are  better  places  to  live  in  for  good  and  all  than 
amidst  Skiddaw.  Still,  I turn  back  to  those  great 
places  where  I wandered  about  participating  in  their 
greatness.  I could  spend  a year,  two,  three  years 
among  them,  but  I must  have  a prospect  of  seeing 
Fleet  Street  at  the  end  of  that  time,  or  I should 
mope  and  pine  away.’  A second  dramatic  attempt 
was  made  by  Lamb  in  1804.  This  Avas  a farce  en- 
titled Mr  H.,  which  was  accepted  by  the  proprietors 
of  Drury  Lane  theatre,  and  acted  for  one  night ; but 
so  indifferently  received,  that  it  was  never  brought 
forward  afterwards.  ‘ Lamb  saw  that  the  case  was 
hopeless,  and  consoled  his  friends  Avith  a century  of 
puns  for  the  Avreck  of  his  dramatic  hopes.’  In  1807 
he  published  a series  of  tales  founded  on  the  plays 
of  Shakspeare,  AA-hich  he  had  written  in  conjunction 
with  his  sister,  and  in  the  following  year  appeared 
his  SpecimeTis  of  English  Dramatic  Poets  who  lived 
rtbovi  thfi  time  of  Shakspeare,  a work  evincing  a 


thorough  appreciation  of  the  spirit  of  the  old  dra- 
matists, and  a fine  critical  taste  in  analysing  tlieir 
genius.  Some  of  his  poetical  pieces  Averc  also  com- 
posed about  this  time  ; but  in  these  efforts  Lamb 
barely  indicated  his  poAvers,  Avhich  Avere  not  fully 
displayed  till  the  publication  of  his  essays  signed 
Elia,  originally  printed  in  the  London  jiagazine. 
In  these  his  curious  reading,  nice  observation,  and 
poetical  conceptions,  found  a genial  and  befitting 
field.  ‘They  are  all,’  says  his  biographer.  Sergeant 
Talfourd,  ‘ carefully  elaborated ; yet  never  Avere 
AA'orks  written  in  a higher  defiance  to  the  conven- 
tional pomp  of  style.  A sly  hit,  a happy  pun,  a 
humorous  combination,  lets  the  light  into  the  intri- 
cacies of  the  subject,  and  supplies  the  place  of  pon- 
derous sentences.  Seeking  his  materials  for  the 
most  part  in  the  common  paths  of  life — often  in  the 
humblest — he  gives  an  importance  to  everything, 
and  sheds  a grace  over  all.’  In  182.5  Lamb  was 
emancipated  from  the  drudgery  of  his  situation  as 
clerk  in  the  India  House,  retiring  Avith  a handsome 
pension,  Avhich  enabled  him  to  enjoy  the  comforts, 
and  many  of  the  luxuries  of  life.  In  a letter  to 
WordsAvorth,  he  thus  describes  his  sensations  after 
his  release  : — ‘ I came  home  for  f;ver  on  Tuesday 
week.  The  incomprehensibleness  of  my  condition 
overAvhelmed  me.  It  Avas  like  passing  from  life 
into  eternity.  Every  year  to  be  as  long  as  three  ; 
that  is,  to  have  three  times  as  much  real  time — 
time  that  is  my  OAvn — in  it ! I Avandered  about 
thinking  I Avas  happy,  but  feeling  I Avas  not.  But 
that  tumultuousness  is  passing  off,  and  I begin 
to  understand  the  nature  of  the  gift.  Holidays, 
even  the  annual  month,  Avere  always  uneasy  joys, 
Avith  their  conscious  fugitiveness,  the  craving  after 
making  the  most  of  them.  Noav,  Avhen  all  is  holi- 
day, there  are  no  holidays.  I can  sit  at  home,  in 
rain  or  shine,  Avithout  a restless  impulse  for  Avalkings. 
I am  daily  steadying,  and  shall  soon  find  it  as  natural 
to  me  to  be  my  OAvn  master,  as  it  has  been  irksome 
to  have  had  a master.’  He  removed  to  a cottage 
near  Islington,  and  in  the  following  summer,  Avent 
with  his  faithful  sister  and  companion  on  a long 
visit  to  Enfield,  Avhich  ultimately  led  to  his  giving 
up  his  cottage,  and  becoming  a constant  resident  at 
that  place.  There  he  lived  for  about  five  years, 
delighting  his  friends  with  his  correspondence  and 
occasional  visits  to  London,  displa3'ing  his  social 
racy  humour  and  active  benevolence.  In  1830  he 
committed  to  the  press  a small  volume  of  poems, 
entitled  Album  Verses,  the  gleanings  of  several  years, 
and  he  occasionally  sent  a contribution  to  some 
literary  periodical.  In  September  1835.  Avhilst 
taking  his  daily  Avalk  on  the  London  road,  he 
stumbled  against  a stone,  fell,  and  slightly  injured 
his  face.  The  accident  appeared  trifling,  but  erysi- 
pelas in  the  face  came  on,  and  in  a ferv  days  proved 
fatal.  He  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  at  Edmon- 
ton, amidst  the  tears  and  regrets  of  a circle  of  warmly 
attached  friends,  and  his  memory  Avas  consecrated 
by  a tribute  from  the  muse  of  Wordsworth.  A 
complete  edition  of  Lamb’s  Avorks  has  been  published 
by  his  friend  Mr  Moxon,  and  his  reputation  is  still 
on  the  increase.  For  this  he  is  mainly  indebted  to 
his  essays.  We  cannot  class  him  among  the  favoured 
sons  of  Apollo,  though  in  heart  and  feeling  he  might 
sit  with  the  proudest.  The  peculiarities  of  his  style 
were  doubtless  grafted  upon  him  by  his  constant 
study  and  life-long  admiration  of  the  obi  English 
Avriters.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Massinger,  Jeremy 
Taylor,  Browne,  Fuller,  and  others  of  the  elder 
worthies  (down  to  Margaret,  Duchess  of  Newcastle), 
were  his  chosen  companions.  He  kneAv  all  their 
fine  sayings  and  noble  thoughts ; and,  consulting 
his  own  heart  after  his  bard  day's  plodding  at  the 

a55 


pnoM  1780  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  till  the  present  time. 


India  House,  at  his  quiet  fireside  (ere  his  reputation 
was  establisiied,  and  he  came  to  be  ‘ over-compa- 
nied’  by  social  visitors),  he  invested  liis  original 
tlioughts  and  fancies,  and  drew  up  his  curious  ana- 
logies and  speculations  in  a garb  similar  to  that 
wiiich  his  favourites  wore.  Then  Lamb  was  essen- 
tially a town-man — a true  Londoner — fond  as  John- 
son of  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand — a frequenter 
of  the  theatre,  and  attached  to  social  habits,  cour- 
tesies, and  observances.  Ilis  acute  powers  of  obser- 
vation were  constantly  called  into  jilay,  and  his 
warm  sympathies  excited  by  the  shifting  scenes 
around  him.  His  kindliness  of  nature,  his  whims, 
puns, 'and  prejudices,  give  a strong  individuality 
to  his  writings ; while  in  playful  himiour,  critical 
taste,  and  choice  expression,  Charles  Lamb  may 
be  considered  among  English  essayists  a genuine 
and  original  master. 

To  Hester. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 

Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 

Though  ye  among  a thousand  try. 

With  vain  endeavour. 

A month  or  more  she  hath  been  dead. 

Yet  cannot  I by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed. 

And  her  together. 

A springy  motion  in  her  gait, 

A rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate. 

That  flushed  her  spirit. 

I know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I shall  it  call : — if  ’twas  not  pride. 

It  was  a joy  to  that  allied. 

She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule. 

Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool ; 

But  she  was  trained  in  Nature’s  school  5 
Nature  had  blest  her. 

A waking  eye,  a prying  mind, 

A heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind, 

A hawk’s  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind. 

Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbour!  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore. 

Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore. 

Some  summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a ray 
Hath  struck  a bliss  upon  the  day, 

A bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 

A sweet  fore-warning? 

T!te  Old  Familiar  Faces. 

I have  had  pla3rmates,  I have  had  companions. 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I have  been  laughing,  I have  been  carousing. 

Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I loved  a love  once,  fairest  among  women ; 

Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I must  not  see  her  ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I have  a friend,  a kinder  friend  has  no  man ; 

Like  an  ingrate  I left  my  friend  abruptly ; 

Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood ; 
Earth  seemed  a desert  I was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 


Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a brother. 

Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  ray  father’s  dwelling? 

So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left 
me. 

And  some  are  taken  from  me  ; all  are  depa;  ted  ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

A Farewell  to  Tobacco. 

May  the  Babylonish  curse 

Straight  confound  my  stammering  vs’^ 

If  I can  a passage  see 
In  this  word-perplexity. 

Or  a fit  expression  find. 

Or  a language  to  my  mind 
(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant). 

To  take  leave  of  thee.  Great  Plant  I 

Or  in  any  tenns  relate 

Half  my  love,  or  half  ray  hate  : 

For  1 hate,  yet  love  thee  so, 

That,  whichever  thing  I show. 

The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 
A constrained  hyperbole. 

And  the  passion  to  proceed 
More  from  a mistress  than  a weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine, 

Bacchus’  black  servant,  negro  fine  ; 

Sorcerer,  that  mak’st  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion. 

And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake. 

More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
’Gainst  women  : thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much  too  in  the  female  way. 

While  thou  suck’st  the  lab’ring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a cloud  dost  bind  us. 

That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us. 

And  ill  fortune,  that  would  thwart  us. 

Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us  ; 

While  each  man,  through  thy  height’ning 
steam. 

Does  like  a smoking  Etna  seem. 

And  all  about  us  does  express 
(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 

A Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a mist  dost  show  us. 

That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us. 

And,  for  those  allowed  features. 

Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 

Liken’st  us  to  fell  Chimeras, 

Monsters  that,  who  see  us,  fear  us  ; 

Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 

Or,  who  first  loved  a cloud,  Ixion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tip.sy  rites.  But  what  art  thou, 

That  but  by  reflex  canst  show 
What  his  deity  can  do. 

As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle? 

Some  few  vapours  thou  raayst  raise. 

The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze, 

But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart, 

Canst  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  bom. 

The  old  world  was  sure  forlorn 
Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 
The  god’s  victories  than  before 
All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 

These,  as  stale,  we  disallow. 

Or  judge  of  ikee  meant : only  thou 


FOI5T9.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  Charles  lamb. 

His  true  Indian  conquest  art ; 

And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart, 

The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne’er  presume  ; 

Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 

None  so  sov’reign  to  the  brain  : 

Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel. 

Framed  again  no  second  smell. 

Roses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys, 

(Jr  for  greener  damsels  meant  ; 

Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent. 

Stinking’st  of  the  stinking  kind, 

Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind, 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foison. 

Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison  ; 

Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together. 

Hemlock,  aconite 

Nay,  rather, 

Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue  ; 

Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you. 

’Twas  but  in  a sort  I blamed  thee  ; 

None  e’er  prospered  who  defamed  thee  ; 

Irony  all,  and  feigned  abuse. 

Such  as  perplexed  lovers  use 
At  a need,  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 

Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike, 

They  borrow  language  of  dislike  ; 

And,  instead  of  Dearest  Miss, 

Jewel,  Honey,  Sweetheart,  Bliss, 

And  those  forms  of  old  admiring. 

Call  her  Cockatrice  and  Siren, 

Basilisk,  and  all  that’s  evil. 

Witch,  Hyena,  Mermaid,  Devil, 

Ethiop,  Wench,  and  Blackamoor, 

Monkey,  Ape,  and  twenty  more  ; 

Friendly  Trait’ress,  loving  Foe — 

Not  that  she  is  truly  so. 

But  no  other  way  they  know 
A contentment  to  express, 

Borders  so  upon  excess,  ^ 

That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  pain  or  not. 

Or,  as  men,  constrained  to  part 
With  what’s  nearest  to  their  heart. 

While  their  sorrow’s  at  the  height. 

Lose  discrimination  quite. 

And  their  hasty  r\Tath  let  fall, 

To  appease  their  frantic  gall, 

On  the  darling  thing  whatever, 

Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever. 

Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce. 

Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

For  I must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee. 

Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I must)  leave  thee  ; 
For  thy  sake.  Tobacco,  I 
Would  do  anything  but  die. 

And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 

But  as  she,  who  once  hath  been 
A king’s  consort,  is  a queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  tittle  of  her  state. 

Though  a widow,  or  divorced, 

So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced. 

The  old  name  and  style  retain, 

A right  Katherine  of  Spain  ; 

And  a seat,  too,  ’mongst  the  oys 
Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Boys  ; 

Where,  though  I,  by  sour  physician. 

Am  debarred  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favours,  I may  catch 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 
Sidelong  odours,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a neighbour’s  wife  ; 

And  still  live  in  the  by-places 
And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces  ; 

And  in  thy  borders  take  delight. 

An  unconquered  Canaanite. 

The  following  are  selections  from  Lamb’s  Essays, 
which  contain  more  of  the  exquisite  materials  of 
poetry  than  his  short  occasional  verses. 

Dream-Children — A Reverie. 

Children  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their  elders, 
when  they  were  children  ; to  stretch  their  imagination 
to  the  conception  of  a traditionary  great-uncle,  or 
grandame,  whom  they  never  saw.  It  was  in  this 
spirit  that  ray  little  ones  crept  about  me  the  other 
evening  to  hear  about  their  great-gi'andmother  Field, 
who  lived  in  a great  house  in  Norfolk  (a  hundred 
times  bigger  than  that  in  which  they  and  papa  lived), 
which  had  been  the  scene — so  at  least  it  was  generally 
believed  in  that  part  of  the  country — of  the  tragic  in- 
cidents which  they  had  lately  become  familiar  with 
from  the  ballad  of  the  Children  in  the  Wood.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  the  whole  story  of  the  children  and 
their  cruel  uncle  was  to  be  seen  fairly  carved  out  in 
wood  upon  the  chimney-piece  of  the  great  hall,  the 
whole  story  down  to  the  Robin  Redbreasts,  till  a 
foolish  rich  person  pulled  it  down  to  set  up  a marble 
one  of  modern  invention  in  its  stead,  with  no  story 
upon  it.  Here  Alice  put  out  one  of  her  dear  mother’s 
looks,  too  tender  to  be  called  upbraiding.  Then  I went 
on  to  say  how  religious  and  how  good  their  great- 
grandmother Field  was,  how  beloved  and  respected  by 
everybody,  though  she  was  not  indeed  the  mistress  of 
this  great  house,  but  had  only  the  charge  of  it  (and 
yet  in  some  respects  she  might  be  said  to  be  the  mis- 
tress of  it  too)  committed  to  her  by  the  owner,  who 
preferred  living  in  a newer  and  more  fashionable 
mansion  which  he  had  purchased  somewhere  in  the 
adjoining  county  ; but  still  she  lived  in  it  in  a man- 
ner as  if  it  had  been  her  own,  and  kept  up  the  dignity 
of  the  great  house  in  a sort  while  she  lived,  which 
afterwards  came  to  decay,  and  was  nearly  pulled 
down,  and  all  its  old  ornaments  stripped  and  carried 
away  to  the  owner’s  other  house,  where  they  were  set 
up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some  one  were  to 
carry  away  the  old  tombs  they  had  seen  lately  at  the 
abbey,  and  stick  them  up  in  Lady  C.’s  tawdry  gilt 
drawing-room.  Here  John  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say, 
‘ that  would  be  foolish  indeed.’  And  then  I told  how, 
when  she  came  to  die,  her  funeral  was  attended  by  a 
concourse  of  all  the  poor,  and  some  of  the  gentry  too, 
of  the  neighbourhood  for  many  miles  round,  to  show 
their  respect  for  her  memory,  because  she  had  been 
such  a good  and  religious  W'oman  ; so  good,  indeed, 
that  she  knew  all  the  Psalter  by  heart,  ay,  and  a 
great  part  of  the  Testament  besides.  Here  little  Alice 
spread  her  hands.  Then  1 told  what  a tall,  upright, 
graceful  person  their  great-grandmother  Field  once 
was  ; and  how  in  her  youth  she  was  esteemed  the 
best  dancer.  Here  Alice’s  little  right  foot  played  an 
involuntary  movement,  till,  upon  my  looking  grave, 
it  desisted — the  best  dancer,  I was  saying,  in  the 
county,  till  a cruel  disease,  called  a cancer,  came, 
and  bowed  her  down  with  pain  ; but  it  could  never 
bend  her  good  .spirits,  or  make  them  stoop,  but 
they  were  still  upright,  because  she  was  so  good  and 
religious.  Then  I told  how  she  was  used  to  sleep 
by  herself  in  a lone  chamber  of  the  great  lone  house  J 
and  how  she  believed  that  an  apparition  of  two  in- 
fants was  to  be  seen  at  midnight  gliding  up  and  down 

357 

FROM  1780 


CYCLOPJKDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  T.  UK. 


the  great  staircase  near  where  she  slept ; but  she 
said  ‘ those  innocents  would  do  her  no  harm  and 
how  frightened  1 used  to  be,  though  in  those  days  I 
had  my  maid  to  sleep  with  me,  because  I was  never 
half  so  good  or  religious  as  she — and  yet  1 never  saw 
the  infants.  Here  John  expanded  all  his  eyebrows, 
and  tried  to  look  courageous.  Then  1 told  how  good 
she  was  to  all  her  grandchildren,  having  us  to  the 
great  house  in  the  holidays,  where  I,  in  particular, 
used  to  spend  many  hours  by  myself  in  gazing  upon 
the  old  busts  of  the  twelve  Ciesars  that  had  been 
emperors  of  Rome,  till  the  old  marble  heads  would 
seem  to  live  again,  or  I to  be  turned  into  marble  with 
them  ; how  I never  could  he  tired  with  roaming  about 
that  huge  mansion,  with  its  vast  empty  rooms,  with 
their  w’orn-out  hangings,  fluttering  tapestry,  and 
carved  oaken  jiannels,  with  the  gilding  almost  rubbed 
out — sometimes  in  the  spacious  old-fashioned  gardens, 
which  1 had  almost  to  myself,  unless  wdien  now  and 
then  a solitary  gardening  man  would  cross  me — and 
how  the  nectarines  and  peaches  hung  upon  the  walls, 
without  my  ever  otfering  to  pluck  them,  because  they 
were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now  and  then,  and  because 
I had  more  pleasure  in  strolling  about  among  the  old 
melancholy-looking  yew  trees,  or  the  firs,  and  pick- 
ing up  the  red  berries  and  the  fir  apples,  which  were 
good  for  nothing  hut  to  look  at  ; or  in  lying  about 
upon  the  fresh  grass,  with  all  the  fine  garden  smells 
around  me ; or  basking  in  the  orangery,  till  I could 
almost  fancy  myself  ripening,  too,  along  with  the 
oranges  and  the  limes  in  that  grateful  warmth ; or  in 
watching  the  dace  that  darted  to  and  fro  in  the  fish- 
pond at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with  here  and  there 
a great  sulky  pike  hanging  midway  down  the  water 
in  silent  state,  as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent 
friskings.  I had  more  pleasure  in  these  busy-idle 
diversions  than  in  all  the  sweet  flavours  of  peaches, 
nectarines,  oranges,  and  such  like  common  baits  of 
children.  Here  John  slyly  deposited  back  upon  the 
plate  a bunch  of  grapes,  which,  not  unobserved  by 
Alice,  he  had  meditated  dividing  with  her,  and  both 
seemed  willing  to  relinquish  them  for  the  present  as 
irrelevant.  Then,  in  somewhat  a more  heightened 
tone,  I told  how,  though  their  great-grandmother 
Field  loved  all  her  grandchildren,  yet  in  an  especial 
manner  .she  might  be  said  to  love  their  uncle,  .John 

L , because  he  was  so  handsome  and  .spirited  a 

youth,  and  a king  to  the  rest  of  us  ; and,  instead  of 
moping  about  in  solitary  corners,  like  some  of  us,  he 
would  mount  the  most  mettlesome  horse  he  could  get, 
when  but  an  imp  no  bigger  than  themselves,  and  make 
it  carry  him  half  over  the  county  in  a morning,  and 
join  the  hunters  when  there  were  any  out ; and  yet  he 
loved  the  old  great  house  and  gardens  too,  but  had 
too  much  spirit  to  be  always  pent  up  within  their 
boundaries  ; and  how  their  uncle  grew  up  to  man’s 
estate  as  brave  as  he  was  handsome,  to  the  admiration 
of  everybody,  but  of  their  great-grandmother  Field 
most  especially ; and  how  he  used  to  carry  me  upon 
his  back  when  I was  a lame-footed  boy — for  he  was  a 
good  bit  older  than  me — many  a mile  when  I could 
not  walk  for  pain  ; and  how,  in  after  life,  he  became 
lame-footed  too,  and  I did  not  always,  I fear,  make 
allowances  enough  for  him  when  he  was  impatient 
and  in  pain,  nor  remember  sufficiently  how  conside- 
rate he  had  been  to  me  when  I was  lame-footed  ; and 
how,  when  he  died,  though  he  had  not  been  dead  an 
hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a great  while  ago, 
such  a distance  there  is  hetwixt  life  and  death  ; and 
how  I bore  his  death,  as  I thought,  pretty  well  at  first, 
but  afterwards  it  haunted  and  haunted  me ; and 
! though  1 did  not  cry  or  take  it  to  heart  as  some  do, 

! and  as  I think  he  would  have  done  if  I had  died,  yet 
' I missed  him  all  day  long,  and  knew  not  till  then  how 
^ much  I had  loved  him.  I missed  his  kindness,  and  I 
missed  his  crossness,  and  wished  him  to  be  alive  again. 


to  be  quarrelling  with  him  (for  we  quarrelled  some- 
times), rather  than  not  have  him  again  ; and  was  as 
uneasy  without  him,  as  he,  their  poor  uncle,  must 
have  been  when  the  doctor  took  off  his  limb.  Here 
the  children  fell  a-crying,  and  asked  if  their  little 
mourning  which  they  had  on  was  not  for  Uncle  John ; 
and  they  looked  up,  and  prayed  me  not  to  go  on  about 
their  uncle,  but  to  tell  them  some  stories  about  their 
pretty  dead  mother.  Then  I told  how,  for  seven  long 
years,  in  hope  sometimes,  sometimes  in  despair,  yet 
persisting  ever,  I courted  the  fair  Alice VV — n ; and,  as 
much  as  children  could  understand,  I explained  to 
them  what  coyness,  and  difficulty,  and  denial  meant 
in  maidens  ; when  suddenly  turning  to  Alice,  the 
soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  out  at  her  eyes  with  such 
a reality  of  re-presentment,  that  1 became  in  doubt 
which  of  them  stood  there  before  me,  or  whose  that 
bright  hair  was  ; and  while  I stood  gazing,  both  the 
children  gradually  grew  fainter  to  my  view,  receding, 
and  still  receding,  till  nothing  at  last  but  two  mourn- 
ful features  were  seen  in  the  uttermost  distance,  which, 
without  speech,  strangely  impressed  upon  me  the 
effects  of  speech  : ‘ We  are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of  thee  ; 
nor  are  we  children  at  all.  The  children  of  Alice 
call  Bartrum  father.  We  are  nothing,  less  than 
nothing,  and  dreams.  We  are  only  what  might  have 
been,  and  must  wait  upon  the  tedious  shores  of  Lethe 
millions  of  ages  before  we  have  existenee  and  a 
name and  immediately  awaking,  I found  myself 
quietly  seated  in  my  bachelor  arm-chair,  where  1 had 
fallen  asleep,  with  the  faithful  Bridget  unchanged  by 
my  side — but  John  L.  (or  James  Elia)  was  gone  for 
ever. 

Poor  Relations. 

A poor  relation  is  the  most  irrelevant  thing  in  na- 
ture, a piece  of  impertinent  correspondency,  an  odious 
approximation,  a haunting  conscience,  a preposterous 
shadow,  lengthening  in  the  noontide  of  your  prosperity, 
an  unwelcome  remembrancer,  a perpetually  recurring 
mortification,  a drain  on  your  purse,  a more  intoler- 
able dun  upon  your  pride,  a drawback  u]ion  success, 
a rebuke  to  your  rising,  a stain  in  your  blood,  a blot 
on  your  scutcheon,  a rent  in  your  garment,  a death’s 
head  at  your  banquet,  Agathocles’s  pot,  a Mordecai  in 
your  gate,  a Lazari^  at  your  door,  a lion  in  your  path, 
a frog  in  your  charmier,  a fly  in  your  ointment,  a mote 
in  your  eye,  a triumph  to  your  enemy,  an  apology  to 
your  friends,  the  one  thing  not  needful,  the  hail  in 
harvest,  the  ounce  of  sour  in  a pound  of  sweet. 

He  is  known  by  his  knock.  Your  heart  telleth 

you,  ‘ That  is  Mr .’  A rap  between  familiarity 

and  respect,  that  demands,  and  at  the  same  time 
seems  to  despair  of  entertainment.  He  entereth  smil- 
ing and  embarrassed.  He  holdeth  out  his  hand  to 
you  to  shake,  and  draweth  it  back  again.  He  casually 
looketh  in  about  dinner  time,  when  the  table  is  full. 
He  offereth  to  go  away,  seeing  you  have  company,  but 
is  induced  to  stay.  He  filleth  a chair,  and  your  visi- 
tor’s two  children  are  accommodated  at  a side  table. 
He  never  cometh  upon  open  days,  when  your  wife  says 

with  some  complacency,  ‘ My  dear,  perhaps  Mr 

will  drop  in  to-day.’  He  remembereth  birthdays, 
and  professeth  he  is  fortunate  to  have  stumbled  upon 
one.  He  declareth  against  fish,  the  turbot  being  small, 
yet  suffereth  himself  to  be  importuned  into  a slice 
against  his  first  resolution.  He  sticketh  by  the  port, 
yet  will  be  prevailed  upon  to  empty  the  remainder 
glass  of  claret,  if  a stranger  press  it  upon  him.  He 
is  a puzzle  to  the  servants,  who  are  fearful  of  being 
too  obsequious,  or  not  civil  enough  to  him.  The 
guests  think  ‘ they  have  seen  him  before.’  Every  one 
speculateth  upon  his  condition  ; and  the  most  part 
take  him  to  be  a tide-waiter.  He  calleth  you  by  your 
Christian  name,  to  imply  that  his  other  is  the  same 

358 


rom. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


with  your  own.  lie  is  too  faniiUiir  by  half,  yet  you 
wish  be  bad  less  ditlidence.  With  half  tbo  familiarity, 
he  mijibt  pass  for  a casual  dependent ; with  more 
boldness,  he  would  be  in  no  danger  of  being  taken  for 
what  he  is.  He  is  too  humble  for  a friend,  yet  taketh 
on  him  more  state  than  befits  a client.  He  is  a worse 
guest  than  a country  tenant,  inasmuch  as  he  bringeth 
up  no  rent  ; yet  ’tis  odds,  from  his  garb  and  demea- 
nour, that  your  guests  take  him  for  one.  He  is  asked 
to  make  one  at  the  whist  table ; refuseth  on  tlie  score 
of  poverty,  and  resents  being  left  out.  When  the  com- 
pany break  up,  he  proffereth  to  go  for  a coach,  and 
lets  the  servant  go.  He  recollects  your  grandfather  ; 
and  will  thrust  in  some  mean  and  quite  unimportant 
pnecdote  of  the  family.  He  knew  it  when  it  was  not 
quite  .so  flourishing  as  ‘ he  is  blest  in  seeing  it  now.’ 
He  reviveth  past  situations,  to  institutewhat  hecalleth 
favourable  contparisons.  With  a reflecting  sort  of 
congratulation  he  will  inquire  the  price  of  your  fur- 
niture ; and  insults  you  with  a special  commendation 
of  your  window-curtains.  He  is  of  opinion  that  the 
um  is  the  more  elegant  shape ; but,  after  all,  there 
was  something  more  comfortable  about  the  old  tea- 
kettle, which  you  must  remember.  Ho  dare  say  you 
i must  find  a great  convenience  in  having  a carriage  of 
I your  own,  and  appealeth  to  your  lady  if, it  is  not  so. 

■ Inquireth  if  3’ou  have  had  your  arms  done  on  vellum 
i yet ; and  did  not  know  till  lately  that  such  and  such 
/ had  been  the  crest  of  the  family.  His  memory  is  un- 
seasonable, his  compliments  pervei-se,  his  talk  a 
trouble,  his  stay  pertinacious ; and  when  he  goeth 
away,  you  dismiss  his  chair  into  a corner  as  precipi- 
j tately  as  possible,  and  feel  fairly  rid  of  two  nuisances. 

I There  is  a worse  evil  under  the  sun,  and  that  is  a 
female  poor  relation.  You  may  do  something  with 
the  other  ; you  may  pass  him  oft'  tolerably  well ; but 
j your  indigent  she-relative  is  hopeless.  ‘ He  is  an  old 
j humorist,’  you  may  say,  ‘ and  affects  to  go  thread- 
j bare.  His  circumstances  are  better  than  folks  would 
; take  them  to  be.  Y ou  are  fond  of  having  a character 
; at  your  table,  and  truly  he  is  one.’  Gut  in  the  indi- 

! cations  of  female  poverty  there  can  be  no  disguise. 

No  woman  dresses  below  herself  from  caprice.  The 
truth  must  out  W'ithout  shufiling.  ‘ She  is  plainly 

related  to  the  L s,  or  what  does  she  at  their 

house?’  She  is,  in  all  probability,  your  wife’s  cousin. 
Nine  times  out  of  ten,  at  least,  this  is  the  case.  Her 
garb  is  something  between  a gentlewoman  and  a beg- 
) gar,  yet  the  former  evidently  predominates.  She  is 
most  provokingly  humble,  and  ostentatiously  sensible 
to  her  inferiority.  He  may  require  to  be  repressed 
sometimes — aliquando  szifflaminandus  erat — but  there 
is  no  raising  her.  You  send  her  soup  at  dinner,  and 

she  begs  to  be  helped  after  the  gentlemen.  Mr 

requests  the  honour  of  taking  wine  with  her ; she 
hesitates  between  port  and  Madeira,  and  chooses  the 
former  because  he  does.  She  calls  the  servant  sir  ; 
and  insists  on  not  troubling  him  to  hold  her  plate. 
The  housekeeper  patronises  her.  The  children’s  go- 
verness takes  upon  her  to  correct  her  when  she  has 
mistaken  the  piano  for  a harpsichord. 

Richard  Anilet,  Esq.,  in  the  play,  is  a notable  in- 
stance of  the  disadvantages  to  which  this  chimerical 
notion  of  affinity  constituting  a claim  to  acquaint- 
ance may  subject  the  spirit  of  a gentleman.  A little 
foolish  blood  is  all  that  is  betwixt  him  and  a lady 
with  a great  estate.  His  stars  are  perpetually  crossed 
by  the  malignant  maternity  of  an  old  woman,  who 
persists  in  calling  him  ‘ her  son  Dick.’  But  she  has 
wherewithal  in  the  end  to  recompense  his  indignitie.s, 
and  float  him  again  upon  the  brilliant  surface,  under 
which  it  had  been  her  seeming  business  and  pleasure 
all  along  to  sink  him.  All  men,  besides,  are  not  of 
Dick’s  temperament.  I knew  an  Amlet  in  real  life, 
pho,  wanting  Dick’s  buoyancy,  sank  indeed.  Poor 
was  of  my  own  standing  at  Christ’s,  a fine 


classic,  and  a youth  of  promise.  If  he  had  a blemish, 
it  was  too  much  pride ; but  its  quality  was  inoft'en 
sive  ; it  was  not  of  that  sort  which  hardens  the  heart 
and  serves  to  keep  inferiors  at  a distance ; it  only 
sought  to  ward  off  derogation  from  itself.  It  was  the 
principle  of  self-respect  carried  as  far  as  it  coubl  go, 
without  infringing  upon  that  respect  which  he  would 
have  every  one  else  equally  maintain  for  himself.  He 
would  have  you  to  think  alike  with  him  on  this  topic. 
Many  a quarrel  have  I had  with  him  when  we  were 
rather  older  boys,  and  our  tallness  made  us  more  ob- 
noxious to  observation  in  the  blue  clothes,  because  I 
would  not  thread  the  alleys  and  blind  ways  of  the 
town  with  him  to  elude  notice,  when  we  have  been 
out  together  on  a holiday  in  the  streets  of  this  sneer- 
ing and  prying  metropolis.  W went,  sore  with 

these  notions,  to  Oxford,  where  the  dignity  and  sweet- 
ness of  a scholar’s  life,  meeting  with  the  alloy  of  a 
humble  introduction,  wrought  in  him  a passionate 
devotion  to  the  place,  with  a profound  aversion  from 
the  society.  The  servitor’s  gown  (worse  than  his  school 
array)  clung  to  him  with  Nessian  venom.  He  thought 
himself  ridiculous  in  a garb  under  which  Latimer  must 
have  walked  erect ; and  in  which  Hooker  in  his  young 
days  possibly  flaunted  in  a vein  of  no  discommendable 
vanity.  In  the  depth  of  college  shades,  or  in  his  lonely 
chamber,  the  poor  student  shrunk  from  observation. 
He  found  shelter  among  books  which  insult  not,  and 
studies  that  ask  no  questions  of  a youth’s  finances. 
He  was  lord  of  his  library,  and  seldom  cared  for  look- 
ing out  bej’ond  his  domains.  The  healing  influence 
of  studious  pursuits  w'as  ujx>n  him,  to  soothe  and  to 
abstract.  He  was  almost  a healthy  man,  when  the 
waywardness  of  his  fate  broke  out  against  him  with  a 

second  and  worse  malignity.  The  father  of  W 

had  hitherto  exercised  the  humble  profession  of  house 

painter  at  N , near  Oxford.  A supposed  interest 

with  some  of  the  heads  of  eolleges  had  now  induced 
him  to  take  up  his  abode  in  that  city,  with  the  hope 
of  being  employed  upon  some  public  works  which 
were  talked  of.  From  that  moment  I read  in  the 
countenance  of  the  young  man  the  determination 
which  at  length  tore  him  from  academical  pursuits 
for  ever.  To  a person  unacquainted  with  our  univer- 
sities, the  distance  between  the  gownsmen  and  the 
townsmen,  as  they  are  called — the  trading  part  of  the 
latter  especially — is  carried  to  an  excess  that  would 
appear  liar.sh  and  incredible.  The  temperament  of 

W ’s  father  was  diametrically  the  reverse  of  his 

own.  Old  W was  a little,  busy,  cringing  trades- 

man, who,  with  his  .son  upon  his  arm,  would  stand 
bowing  and  scraping,  cap  in  hand,  to  anything  that 
wore  the  semblance  of  a gown — insensible  to  the  winks 
and  opener  remonstrances  of  the  young  man,  to  whose 
chamber-fellow,  or  equal  in  standing,  perhaps,  he  was 
thus  obsequiously  and  gratuitously  ducking.  Such  a 

state  of  things  could  not  last.  W must  change 

the  air  of  Oxford,  or  be  suftbeated.  He  chose  the 
former  ; and  let  the  sturdy  moralist,  who  strains  the 
point  of  the  filial  duties  as  high  as  they  can  bear, 
censure  the  dereliction  ; he  cannot  estimate  the  strug- 
gle. 1 stood  with  W , the  last  afternoon  I ever 

saw  him,  under  the  eaves  of  his  paternal  dwelling. 
It  W’as  in  the  fine  lane  leading  from  the  High  Street 

to  the  back  of college,  where  W kept  his 

rooms.  He  seemed  thoughtful  and  more  reconciled. 
I ventured  to  rally  him — finding  him  in  a better 
mood — upon  a representation  of  the  Artist  Evangelist, 
which  the  old  man,  whose  affairs  were  beginning  to 
flourish,  had  caused  to  be  set  up  in  a splendid  sort  of 
frame  over  his  really  handsome  shop,  either  as  a token 
of  prosperity,  or  badge  of  gratitude  to  his  saint. 

W looked  up  at  the  Luke,  and,  like  Satan, 

‘ knew  his  mounted  sign,  and  fled.’  A letter  on  his 
father’s  table  the  next  morning  announced  that  he 
had  accepted  a commission  in  a regiment  about  to 

359 


FROM  17S0 


CYCLOPiKOIA  OF 


TIU,  tllE  I’UESENT  TIME, 


embark  for  Portugal.  He  was  among  the  first  who 
perished  before  tlie  walls  of  St  Sebastian. 

1 do  not  know  how,  upon  a subject  which  I began 
with  treating  half  seriously,  I should  have  fallen  upon 
a recital  so  eminently  painful ; but  this  theme  of  jioor 
relationship  is  replete  with  so  much  matter  for  tragic 
ns  well  as  comic  a.''.sociations,  that  it  is  difficult  to 
keep  the  account  distinct  without  blending.  'Die 
earlie.st  impressions  which  1 received  on  this  matter 
are  certainly  not  attended  with  anything  painful,  or 
very  liumiliating,  in  tlie  recalling.  At  my  father’s 
table  (no  very  splendiil  one)  was  to  be  found  every 
Saturday  the  mysterious  figure  of  an  aged  gentleman, 
clothed  in  neat  black,  of  a sad  yet  comely  appearance. 
His  deportment  was  of  the  e.ssence  of  gravity  ; his 
words  few  or  none ; and  I was  not  to  make  a noise  in 
his  [iresence.  1 had  little  inclination  to  have  done 
so — for  my  cue  was  to  admire  in  silence.  A parti- 
cular elbow-chair  wa.s  appropriated  to  him,  which  was 
in  no  case  to  be  violated.  A peculiar  sort  of  sweet 
pudding,  which  appeared  on  no  other  occasion,  dis- 
tinguished the  days  of  his  coming.  I u.sed  to  think 
him  a prodigiously  rich  man.  All  1 could  make  out 
of  him  was,  that  he  and  my  father  had  been  school- 
fellows a world  ago  at  Lincoln,  and  that  he  came  from 
the  Mint.  The  Mint  I knew  to  be  a place  where  all 
the  money  was  coined,  and  I thought  he  was  the  owner 
of  all  that  money.  Awful  ideas  of  the  Tower  twined 
themselves  about  his  presence.  He  seemed  above 
human  infirmities  and  pa.ssions.  A sort  of  melan- 
choly grandeur  invested  him.  From  some  inexplic- 
able doom  I fancied  him  obliged  to  go  about  in  an 
eternal  suit  of  mourning ; a cajitive — a stately  being 
let  out  of  the  Tower  on  Saturdays.  Often  have  I 
wondered  at  the  temerity  of  my  father,  who,  in  spite 
of  a habitual  general  respect  which  we  all  in  com- 
mon manifested  towards  him,  would  venture  now  and 
then  to  stand  up  against  him  in  some  argument 
touching  their  youthful  days.  The  houses  of  the 
ancient  city  of  Lincoln  are  divided  (as  most  of  my 
readers  know)  between  the  dwellers  on  the  hill  and 
in  the  valley.  This  marked  distinction  formed  an 
obvious  division  between  the  boys  who  lived  above 
(however  brought  together  in  a common  school)  and 
the  boys  whose  paternal  residence  was  on  the  plain — 
a sufficient  cause  of  hostility  in  the  code  of  the.se 
young  Grotiuses.  My  father  had  been  a leading 
mountaineer ; and  would  still  maintain  the  general 
superiority,  in  skill  and  hardihood,  of  the  above  boys 
(his  own  faction)  over  the  below  boys  (so  were  they 
called),  of  which  party  his  contemporary  had  been  a 
chieftain.  Many  and  hot  were  the  skirmishes  on  this 
topic — the  only  one  upon  which  the  old  gentleman 
was  ever  brought  out— and  bad  blood  bred ; even 
sometimes  almost  to  the  recommencement  (so  I ex- 
pected) of  actual  hostilities.  But  my  father,  who 
scorned  to  insist  upon  advantages,  generally  contrived 
to  turn  the  conversation  upon  some  adroit  by-com- 
mendation  of  the  old  minster ; in  the  general  prefer- 
ence of  which,  before  all  other  cathedrals  in  the 
island,  the  dweller  on  the  hill  and  the  plain-born 
could  meet  on  a conciliating  level,  and  lay  down 
their  less  important  differences.  Once  only  I saw  the 
old  gentleman  really  ruffled,  and  I remember  with 
anguish  the  thought  that  came  over  me — ‘perhaps  he 
will  never  come  here  again.’  He  had  been  pressed  to 
take  another  plate  of  the  viand  which  I have  already 
mentioned  as  the  indispensable  concomitant  of  his 
visits.  He  had  refused,  with  a resistance  amounting 
to  rigour,  when  my  aunt,  an  old  Lincolnian,  but  who 
had  something  of  this,  in  common  with  my  cousin 
Bridget,  that  she  would  sometimes  press  civility  out 
of  season — uttered  the  following  memorable  applica- 
tion : ‘ Do  take  another  slice,  Mr  Billet,  for  you  do 
not  get  pudding  every  day.’  The  old  gentleman  said 
•lothing  at  the  time — but  he  took  occasion  in  the 


course  of  the  evening,  when  some  argument  had  in- 
tervened between  them,  to  utter,  with  an  emphasis 
which  chilled  the  company,  and  which  chills  me  now 
as  I write  it — ‘ Woman,  you  are  superannuated.’ 
John  Billet  did  not  survive  long  after  the  digesting 
of  this  affront  ; but  he  survived  long  enough  to  as- 
sure me  that  peace  was  actually  restored  ! and,  if  I 
remember  aright,  another  pudding  was  discreetly  sub- 
stituted in  the,  place  of  that  wliich  had  occasioned  the 
offence.  He  died  at  the  lilint  (anno  17111),  where  he 
had  long  held,  what  he  accounted,  a comfortable  in- 
dependence ; and  with  five  pounds  fourteen  shillings 
and  a penny,  which  were  found  in  his  escrutoire  after 
his  decease,  left  the  world,  blessing  God  that  he  had 
enough  to  bury  him,  and  that  he  had  never  been 
obliged  to  any  man  for  a sixpence.  This  was — a 
Poor  Relation. 


■WILLIAM  SOTHEBY. 

William  Sotheby,  an  elegant  and  accomplished 
scholar  and  translator,  was  born  in  London  on  the 
9th  of  November  1757.  He  was  of  good  family,  and 
educated  at  Harrow  school.  At  the  age  of  seven- 
teen he  entered  the  army  as  an  officer  in  tlie  1 0th 
dragoons.  He  quitted  the  army  in  the  year  1780, 
and  purclia.sed  Bevis  Mount,  near  Southampton, 
where  he  continued  to  reside  for  the  next  ten  years. 
Here  Mr  Sotheby  cultiv.ated  his  taste  for  literature, 
and  translated  some  of  the  minor  Greek  and  Latin 
poets.  In  1788  he  made  a pedestrian  tour  through 
Wales,  of  which  he  wrote  a poetical  description, 
published,  together  w ith  some  odes  and  sonnets,  in 
1789.  'J'wo  years  afterwards  the  poet  removed  to 
London,  where  he  mixed  in  the  literary  and  scien- 
tific society  of  the  metropolis,  and  was  warmly 
esteemed  by  all  who  knew  him.  In  1798  he  pub- 
lished a translation  from  the  Oberon  of  Wielaiid, 
H'hich  greatly  e.xtended  his  reputation,  and  procured 
him  the  thanks  and  friendship  of  the  German  poet. 
He  now  became  a frequent  competitor  for  poetical 
fame.  In  1799  he  wrote  a poem  commemorative  of 
the  battle  of  the  Kile;  in  1800  ajipeared  liis  tran- 
slation of  the  Georgies  of  Virgil;  in  1801  he  pro- 
duced a Poetical  Epistle  on  the  Encourayement  of  the 
British  School  of  Painting;  and  in  1802  a tragedy 
on  the  model  of  the  ancient  Greek  drama,  entitled 
Orestes.  The  threatened  invasion  of  the  French 
roused  the  military  spirit  of  Sotheby,  and  he  entered 
with  zeal  upon  the  formation  of  a volunteer  corps. 
When  this  alarm  had  blown  over,  he  devoted  him- 
self to  the  composition  of  an  original  sacred  poem, 
in  blank  verse,  under  the  title  of  Saul,  which 
appeared  in  1807.  The  fame  of  Scott  induced  him 
to  attempt  the  romantic  metrical  style  of  narra- 
tive and  description;  and  in  1810  he  published 
Constance  de  Castille,  a poem  in  ten  cantos.  In 
1814  he  republished  his  ‘ Orestes,’  together  with 
four  other  tragedies  ; and  in  1815  a second  cor- 
rected edition  of  the  Georgies.  A tour  on  the 
continent  (during  which  Mr  Sotheby  w;is  absent 
for  eighteen  months)  gave  occasion  to  another 
poetical  work,  Italy,  descriptive  of  classic  scenes 
and  recollections.  He  next  began  a labour  which 
he  had  long  contemplated,  the  translation  of  the 
Iliad  and  Odyssey,  though  he  was  iqiwards  of 
seventy  years  of  age  before  he  entered  iiixm  the 
Herculean  task.  The  summer  and  autumn  of  1829 
w'ere  sjient  in  a tour  to  Scotland,  during  which  he 
visited  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  Abbotsford,  and  explored 
some  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  Highland  dis- 
tricts. T'he  following  ver.ses,  written  in  a steam- 
boat during  an  excursion  to  Staffa  and  Iona,  show 
the  undiiiiinished  powers  of  the  veteran  poet : — 

360 


P0)«T8. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Staffa,  I scaled  thy  summit  hoar, 

I passed  beneath  thy  arch  gigantic, 

Whose  pillared  cavern  swells  the  roar, 

When  thunders  on  thy  rocky  shore 
The  roll  of  the  Atlantic. 

That  hour  the  wind  forgot  to  rave. 

The  surge  forgot  its  motion. 

And  every  pillar  in  thy  cave 
Slept  in  its  shadow  on  the  wave. 

Unrippled  by  the  ocean. 

Then  the  past  ago  before  me  came. 

When  ’mid  the  lightning’s  sweep. 

Thy  isle  with  its  basaltic  frame, 

And  every  column  wreathed  with  flame. 

Burst  from  the  boiling  deep. 

When  ’mid  Iona’s  wrecks  meanwhile 
O’er  sculptured  graves  I trod. 

Where  Time  had  strewn  each  mouldering  aisle 
O’er  saints  and  kings  that  reared  the  pile, 

I hailed  the  eternal  God : 

Yet,  Staffa,  more  I felt  his  presence  in  thy  cave 
Than  where  Iona’s  cross  rose  o’er  the  western  wave. 

Mr  Sotheby’s  translation  of  the  Riad  was  published 
in  1831,  and  was  generally  esteemed  spirited  and 
faithful.  The  Odyssey  he  completed  in  the  follow- 
ing year.  This  was  the  last  production  of  the 
amiable  and  indefatigable  author.  He  still  enjoyed 
the  society  of  his  friends,  and  even  made  another 
tour  through  North  Wales  ; but  his  lengthened  life 
was  near  a close,  and  after  a short  illness,  he  died 
on  the  30th  of  December  1833,  in  the  seventy- 
seventh  year  of  his  age.  The  original  poetical 
productions  of  Mr  Sotheby  have  not  been  reprinted ; 
his  translations  are  the  chief  source  of  his  reputa- 
tion. Wieland,  it  is  said,  was  charmed  with  the 
genius  of  his  translator ; and  the  rich  beauty  of 
diction  in  the  Oberon,  and  its  facility  of  versifica- 
tion, notwithstanding  the  restraints  imposed  by  a 
diflScult  measure,  were  eulogised  by  the  critics.  In 
his  tragedies,  Mr  Sotheby  displays  considerable 
warmth  of  passion  and  figurative  language,  but  his 
plots  are  iU  constructed.  His  sacred  poem,  ‘ Saul,’ 
is  the  longest  of  his  works.  ‘ There  is  delicacy  and 
grace  in  many  of  the  descriptions,’  says  Jeffrey, 
‘ a sustained  tone  of  gentleness  and  piety  in  the 
sentiments,  and  an  elaborate  beauty  in  the  diction, 
which  frequently  makes  amends  for  the  want  of 
force  and  originality.’  The  versification  also  wants 
that  easy  flow  and  melody  which  characterise  Obe- 
ron. Passages  of  Sotheby’s  metrical  romance  are 
happily  versified,  and  may  be  considered  good  imi- 
tations of  Scott.  Indeed,  Byron  said  of  Mr  Sotheby, 
that  he  imitated  everybody,  and  occasionally  sur- 
passed his  models. 

[Approach  of  Saul  and  his  Guards  against  the 
Philistines. 1 

Hark ! hark  ! the  clash  and  clang 
Of  shaken  cymbals  cadencing  the  pace 
Of  martial  movement  regular  ; the  swell 
Sonorous  of  the  brazen  trump  of  war ; 

Shrill  twang  of  harps,  soothed  by  melodious  chime 
Of  beat  on  silver  bars  ; and  sweet,  in  pause 
Of  harsher  instrument,  continuous  flow 
Of  breath,  through  flutes,  in  symphony  with  song. 
Choirs,  whose  matched  voices  filled  the  air  afar 
With  jubilee  and  chant  of  triumph  hymn ; 

And  ever  and  anon  irregular  burst 

Of  loudest  acclamation  to  each  host 

Saul’s  stately  advance  proclaimed.  Before  him,  youths 

In  robes  succinct  for  swiftness  ; oft  they  struck 

Their  staves  against  the  ground,  and  warned  the  throng 

Backward  to  distant  homage.  Nest,  his  strength 


WII.UAlt  SOTIIEBT. 


Of  chariots  rolled  with  each  an  armed  band  • 

Earth  groaned  afar  beneath  their  iron  wheels  : 

Part  armed  with  scythe  for  battle,  part  adorned 
For  triumph.  Nor  there  wanting  a led  train 
Of  steeds  in  rich  caparison,  for  show 
Of  solemn  entry.  Round  about  the  king. 

Warriors,  his  watch  and  ward,  from  every  tribe 
Drawn  out.  Of  these  a thousand  each  selects. 

Of  size  and  comeliness  above  their  peers. 

Pride  of  their  race.  Radiant  their  armour:  some 
In  silver  cased,  scale  over  scale,  that  played 
All  pliant  to  the  litheness  of  the  limb ; 

Some  mailed  in  twisted  gold,  link  within  link 
Flexibly  ringed  and  fitted,  that  the  eye 
Beneath  the  yielding  panoply  pursued. 

When  act  of  war  the  strength  of  man  provoked, 

The  motion  of  the  muscles,  as  they  worked 
In  rise  and  fall.  On  each  left  thigh  a sword 
Swung  in  the  ’broidered  baldric  ; each  right  hand 
Grasped  a long-shadowing  spear.  Like  them,  their 

chiefs 

Arrayed  ; save  on  their  shields  of  solid  ore. 

And  on  their  helm,  the  graver’s  toil  had  wrought 
Its  subtlety  in  rich  device  of  war  ; 

And  o’er  their  mail,  a robe,  Punicean  dye. 

Gracefully  played  ; where  the  winged  shuttle,  shot 
By  cunning  of  Sidonian  virgins,  wove 
Broidure  of  many-coloured  figures  rare. 

Bright  glowed  the  sun,  and  bright  the  burnished  mail 
Of  thousands,  ranged,  whose  pace  to  song  kept  time  ; 
And  bright  the  glare  of  spears,  and  gleam  of  crests. 
And  flaunt  of  banners  flashing  to  and  fro 
The  noonday  beam.  Beneath  their  coming,  earth 
Wide  glittered.  Seen  afar,  amidst  the  pomp. 
Gorgeously  mailed,  but  more  by  pride  of  port 
Known,  and  superior  stature,  than  rich  trim 
Of  war  and  regal  ornament,  the  king. 

Throned  in  triumphal  car,  with  trophies  graced, 

StO'  J eminent.  The  lifting  of  his  lance 
Shone  like  a sunbeam.  O’er  his  armour  flowed 
A robe,  imperial  mantle,  thickly  starred 
With  blaze  of  orient  gems  ; the  clasp  that  bound 
Its  gathered  folds  his  ample  chest  athwart. 

Sapphire  ; and  o’er  his  casque,  where  rubies  burnt, 

A cherub  flamed  and  waved  his  wings  in  gold. 

[Noriy  of  the  Virgins  Celebrating  the  Victory  J 

Daughters  of  Israel ! praise  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ' 
Break  into  song ! With  harp  and  tabret  lift 
Your  voices  up,  and  weave  with  joy  the  dance  ; 

And  to  your  twinkling  footsteps  toss  aloft 
Your  arms  ; and  from  the  flash  of  cymbals  shake 
Sweet  clangour,  measuring  the  giddy  maze. 

^hout  ye  ! and  ye  ! make  answer,  Saul  hath  slam 
His  thousands ; David  his  ten  thousands  slain. 

Sing  a new  song.  I saw  them  in  their  rage  ; 

I saw  the  gleam  of  spears,  the  flash  of  swords. 

That  rang  against  our  gates.  The  warders’  watch 
Ceased  not.  Tower  answered  tower:  a warning  voice 
Was  heard  without ; the  cry  of  wo  within  : 

The  shriek  of  virgins,  and  the  wail  of  her. 

The  mother,  in  her  anguish,  who  fore-wej)t. 

Wept  at  the  breast  her  babe  as  now  no  more. 

Shout  ye  ! and  ye ! make  answer,  Saul  hath  slair, 
His  thousands  ; David  his  ten  thousands  slain. 

Sing  a new  song.  Spake  not  the  insulting  foe  ? 

I will  pursue,  o’ertake,  divide  the  spoil. 

My  hand  shall  dash  their  infants  on  the  stones ; 

The  ploughshare  of  my  vengeance  shall  draw  out 
The  furrow,  where  the  tower  and  fortress  rose. 

Before  my  chariot  Israel’s  chiefs  shall  clank 
Their  chains.  Each  side  their  virgin  daughters  groan, 
Erewhile  to  weave  my  conquest  on  their  looms. 

Shout  ye  ! and  ye ! make  answer,  Saul  hath  slain 
His  thousands  ; David  his  ten  thousands  slain. 

361 


— 

FROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  pbesest  iimri 

Thou  heardst,  0 God  of  battle  I Thou,  whose  look 
Snappcth  the  spear  in  sunder.  In  thy  strength 

Sonff  to  May. 

A youth,  thy  chosen,  laid  their  champion  low. 

Saul,  Saul  pursues,  o’crtakes,  divides  the  spoil ; 

May  I queen  of  blossoms. 

Wreathes  round  our  necks  these  chains  of  gold,  and 

And  fulfilling  flowers. 

robes 

With  what  pretty  music 

Our  limbs  with  floating  crimson.  Then  rejoice, 

Shall  we  charm  the  hours? 

Daughters  of  Israel ! from  your  cymbals  shake 

Wilt  thou  have  pipe  and  reed. 

Sweet  clangour,  hymning  God!  the  Lord  of  Hosts! 

Blown  in  the  open  mead  ? 

Ye!  shout!  and  ye!  make  answer,  Saul  hath  slain 

Or  to  the  lute  give  heed 

His  thousands;  David  his  ten  thousands  slain. 
Such  the  hymned  harmony,  from  voices  breathed 

In  the  green  bowers? 

Of  virgin  minstrels,  of  each  tribe  the  prime 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  us. 

For  beauty,  and  fine  form,  and  artful  touch 

Or  pipe  or  wire. 

Of  instrument,  and  skill  in  dance  and  song ; 

That  hast  the  golden  bee 

Choir  answering  choir,  that  on  to  Gibeah  led 

Ripened  with  fire  ; 

The  victors  back  in  triumph.  On  each  neck 

And  many  thousand  more 

Played  chains  of  gold  ; and,  shadowing  their  charms 

Songsters,  that  thee  adore. 

With  colour  like  the  blushes  of  the  morn. 

Filling  earth’s  grassy  floor 

Robes,  gift  of  Saul,  round  their  light  limbs,  in  toss 
Of  cymbals,  and  the  inany-mazed  dance. 

With  new  desire. 

Floated  like  roseate  clouds.  Thus,  these  came  on 

Thou  hast  thy  mighty  herds. 

In  dance  and  song ; then,  multitudes  that  swelled 

Tame,  and  free  livers  ; 

The  pomp  of  triumjih,  and  in  circles  ranged 

Doubt  not,  tliy  music  too 

Around  the  altar  of  Jehovah,  brought 

In  the  deep  rivers  ; | 

Freely  their  offerings  ; and  with  one  accord 
Sang,  ‘ Glory,  and  praise,  and  worship  unto  God.’ 

And  the  whole  plumy  flight. 

Warbling  the  day  and  night — 

Loud  rang  the  e.Nultation.  ’Twas  the  voice 

Up  at  the  gates  of  light. 

Of  a free  people  from  impending  chains 
Redeemed  ; a people  proud,  whose  bosom  beat 

See,  the  lark  quivers ! 

With  fire  of  glory  and  renorvn  in  arms 

When  with  the  jacinth 

Triumphant.  Loud  the  exultation  rang. 

Coy  fountains  are  tressed  ; 

There,  many  a wife,  whose  ardent  gaze  from  far 
Singled  the  warrior  whose  glad  eye  gave  back 

And  for  the  mournful  bird 

Greenwoods  are  dressed. 

Her  look  of  love.  There,  many  a grandsire  held 

That  did  for  Tereus  pine  ; 

A blooming  boy  aloft,  and  ’midst  the  array 

Then  shall  our  songs  be  thine. 

In  triumph,  pointing  with  his  staff,  exclaimed, 

To  whom  our  hearts  incline : 

‘ Lo,  my  brave  son  ! I now  may  die  in  peace.’ 
There,  many  a beauteous  virgin,  blushing  deep, 
Flung  back  her  veil,  and,  as  the  warrior  came. 

May,  be  thou  blessed ! 

Hailed  her  betrothed.  But,  chiefly,  on  one  alone 
All  dwelt. 

The  Sun-Flower. 

Behold,  my  dear,  this  lofty  flower. 
That  now  the  golden  sun  receives; 

J7te  Winter's  Morn. 

No  other  deity  has  power. 

But  only  Phoebus,  on  her  leaves ; 

Artist  unseen ! that,  dipt  in  frozen  dew. 

As  he  in  radiant  glory  burns. 

Hast  on  the  glittering  glass  thy  pencil  laid. 
Ere  from  yon  sun  the  transient  visions  fade. 

From  east  to  west  her  visage  turns. 

Swift  let  me  trace  the  forms  thy  fancy  drew! 

The  dial  tells  no  tale  more  true. 

Thy  towers  and  palaces  of  diamond  hue. 

Than  she  his  journal  on  her  leaves. 

Rivers  and  lakes  of  lucid  crystal  made. 

When  mom  first  gives  him  to  her  view. 

And  hung  in  air  hoar  trees  of  branching  shade. 

Or  night,  that  her  of  him  bereaves. 

That  liquid  pearl  distil  : thy  scenes  renew, 
Whate’er  old  bards  or  later  fictions  feign. 
Of  secret  grottos  underneath  the  wave. 

A dismal  interregnum  bids 

Her  weeping  eyes  to  close  their  lids. 

Where  nerelds  roof  with  spar  the  amber  cave ; 

Forsaken  of  his  light,  .she  pines 

Or  bowers  of  bliss,  where  sport  the  fairy  train. 

The  cold,  the  dreary  night  away. 

Who,  frequent  by  the  moonlight  wanderer  seen. 

Till  in  the  east  the  crimson  signs 

Circle  with  radiant  gems  the  dervy  green. 

Betoken  the  great  god  of  day  ; 
Then,  lifting  up  her  drooping  face. 
She  sheds  around  a golden  grace. 

EDWARD  LORD  TH0RLOW. 

0 Nature,  in  all  parts  divine ! 

What  moral  sweets  her  leaves  disclose  I 

Edward  Hovel  Thdrlow  (Lord  Thurlow)  has 

Then  in  my  verse  her  truth  shall  shine, 

published  several  small  volumes  of  poetry : Select 

And  be  immortal,  as  the  rose. 

Pocm.v  (1821);  Poems  on  Several  Occasions;  Angelica, 

Anacreon’s  plant ; arise,  thou  flower, 

or  the  Fate  of  Proteus ; Arcita  and  Palamon,  after 
Chaucer,  Sec.  Amidst  much  affectation  and  bad 

That  hast  fidelity  thy  dower ! 

taste,  there  is  real  poetry  in  the  works  of  this 
nobleman.  He  has  been  a source  of  ridicule  and 

Apollo,  on  whose  beams  you  gaze. 

Has  filled  mv  breast  with  golden  light ; 1 

sarcasm  to  various  reviewers  — and  not  unde- 

And  circled  me  witli  sacred  rays. 

servedly ; yet  in  pieces  like  the  following,  there 

To  be  a poet  in  his  sight : 

is  a freshness  of  fancy  and  feeling,  and  a richness 

Then,  thus  I give  the  crown  to  thee, 

(€  expression,  that  resemble  Herrick  or  Moore. 

M^hose  impress  is  fidelity. 

36) 

Fons. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  MUORE. 


Sonnets. 

The  Summer,  the  dirinest  Summer  burns, 

The  skies  are  briglit  with  azure  and  with  gold ; 
The  mavis,  a)id  the  nightingale,  by  turns. 

Amid  the  woods  a soft  enchantment  hold ; 

The  flowering  woods,  with  glory  and  delight. 
Their  tender  leaves  unto  the  air  have  spread  ; 
The  wanton  air,  amid  their  alleys  bright. 

Doth  softly  fly,  and  a light  fragrance  shed : 
The  nymphs  within  the  silver  fountains  play, 
Ihe  angels  on  the  golden  banks  recline, 
Wherein  great  Flora,  in  her  bright  array. 

Hath,  sprinkled  her  ambrosial  sweets  divine  : 
Or,  else,  I gaze  upon  that  beauteous  face, 

0 Amoret  1 and  think  these  sweets  have  place. 


Now  Summer  has  one  foot  from  out  the  world, 

Her  golden  mantle  floating  in  the  air  ; 

A.nd  her  love-darting  eyes  are  backward  hurled, 

To  bid  adieu  to  this  creation  fair : 

A flight  of  swallows  circles  her  before, 

And  Zephyrus,  her  jolly  harbinger. 

Already  is  a-wing  to  Heaven’s  door. 

Whereat  the  Muses  are  expecting  her ; 

And  the  three  Graces,  in  their  heavenly  ring, 

Are  d.ancing  with  delicious  harmony  ; 

And  Hebe  doth  her  flowery  chalice  bring. 

To  sprinkle  nectar  on  their  melody : 

Jove  laughs  to  see  his  angel.  Summer,  come, 
Warbling  his  praise,  to  her  immortal  home. 

The  crimson  Moon,  uprising  from  the  sea. 

With  large  delight  foretells  the  harvest  near : 

Y e shepherds,  now  prepare  your  melody, 

To  greet  the  soft  appearance  of  her  sphere ! 

Aiid,  like  a page,  enamoured  of  her  train, 

The  star  of  evening  glimmers  in  the  west : 

Then  raise,  ye  shepherds,  your  observant  strain. 
That  so  of  the  Great  Shepherd  here  are  blest ! 
Our  fields  are  full  with  the  time-ripened  grain. 
Our  vineyards  with  the  purple  clusters  swell : 
Her  golden  splendour  glimmers  on  the  main. 

And  vales  and  mountains  her  bright  glory  tell : 
Then  sing,  ye  shepherds ! for  the  time  is  come 
When  we  must  bring  the  enriched  harvest  home. 


0 Moon,  th.at  shinest  on  this  heathy  wild, 

And  light’st  the  hill  of  Hastings  with  thy  ray, 
How  am  I with  thy  sad  delight  beguiled, 

How  hold  with  fond  imagination  play ! 

By  thy  broad  taper  I call  up  the  time 

W’hen  Harold  on  the  bleeding  verdure  lay. 
Though  great  in  glory,  overstained  with  crime. 

And  fallen  by  his  fate  from  kingly  sway  ! 

On  bleeding  knights,  and  on  war-broken  arms. 

Torn  banners  and  the  dying  steeds  you  shone. 
When  this  fair  England,  and  her  peerless  charms. 
And  all,  but  honour,  to  the  foe  were  gone ! 

Here  died  the  king,  whom  his  brave  subjects  chose. 
But,  dying,  lay  amid  his  Norman  foes ! 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

A rare  union  of  wit  and  sensibility,  of  high  powers 
of  imagination  and  extensive  learning,  has  been  ex- 
emplified in  the  poetical  works  of  Thomas  Moore. 

I hir  Moore  is  a native  of  Dublin,  where  he  was  born 
on  tlie  28  th  of  May  1780.  He  early  began  to  rhyme, 
and  a sonnet  to  his  schoolmaster,  Mr  Samuel  Whyte, 
written  in  his  fourteenth  year,  was  published  in  a 
Dublin  magazine."*  The  parents  of  our  poet  were 

*Mr  tVTiyte  was  also  the  teacher  of  Sheridan,  and  it  is 
(mrious  to  learn  that,  after  about  a year's  trial.  Sherry  was 
pronounced,  both  by  tutor  and  parent,  to  be  an  incorrigible 


Roman  Catholics,  a body  then  proscribed  and  de- 
pressed by  penal  enactments,  and  they  seem  to  have 
been  of  the  number  who,  to  use  his  own  words, 
‘liailed  the  first  dazzling  outbreak  of  the  French 
Revolution  as  a signal  to  the  slave,  wherever  suffering, 
tliat  the  day  of  his  deliverance  was  near  at  hand.’ 
The  poet  states  that  in  1792  he  was  taken  by  his 
father  to  one  of  the  dinners  given  in  honour  of  that 
great  event,  and  sat  upon  the  knee  of  the  chairman 
while  the  following  toast  was  enthusiastically  sent 
round  : ‘ May  the  breezes  from  France  fan  our  Irish 


Oak  into  verdure.’  Parliament  having,  in  1793,  opened 
the  university  to  Catholics,  young  Moore  was  sent 
to  college,  and  distinguished  himself  by  his  classical 
acquirements.  In  1799,  while  in  his  nineteenth  year, 
he  proceeded  to  London  to  sWdy  law  in  the  Middle 
Temple,  and  publish  by  subscription  a translation  of 
Anacreon.  The  latter  appeared  in  the  following 
year,  dedicated  to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  At  a sub- 
sequent period,  Mr  Moore  was  among  the  keenest 
satirists  of  this  prince,  for  which  he  has  been  accused 
of  ingratitude  ; but  he  states  himself  that  the  whole 
amount  of  his  obligations  to  his  royal  highness  was 
the  honour  of  dining  twice  at  Carlton  House,  and 
being  admitted  to  a great  fete  given  by  the  prince 
in  1811  on  his  being  made  regent.  In  1803  Mr 
Moore  obtained  an  official  situation  at  Bermuda,  the 
duties  of  which  were  discharged  by  a deputy ; and 
this  subordinate  proving  unfaithful,  the  poet  incurred 
pecuniary  losses  to  a large  amount.  Its  first  effect, 
however,  was  two  volumes  of  poetry,  a series  of 
Odes  and  Epistles,  published  in  1806,  and  written 
during  an  absence  of  fourteen  months  from  Europe, 
while  the  author  visited  Bermuda.  The  descriptive 
sketches  in  this  work  are  remarkable  for  their 

dunce ! ' At  tbe  time,’  says  Mr  Moore,  ‘ when  I first  began  to 
attend  bis  sebool,  Mr  Wbyte  still  continued,  to  tbe  no  small 
alarm  of  many  parents,  to  encourage  a taste  for  acting  among 
bis  pupils.  In  this  line  I was  long  his  favourite  jAotc-scholar ; 
and  among  tbe  play-bills  introduced  in  bis  volume,  to  illustrate 
tbe  occasions  of  his  own  prologues  and  epilogues,  there  is  one  of 
a play  got  up  in  the  year  1790,  at  Lady  Borrowes's  private 
theatre  in  Dublin,  where,  among  the  items  of  the  evening’s 
entertainment,  is  “ An  Epilogue,  A Sqjieaee  to  St  Paul's,  Master 
Moore." 


363 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  present  timi 

fldi'lity,  no  less  than  their  poetical  beauty.  Tlie 
style  of  Moore  was  now-  formed,  and  in  all  his  writ- 
ings there  is  nothing  finer  than  the  opening  epistle 
to  Lord  Straiigford,  written  on  board  ship  by  moon- 
light 

Sweet  Moon  ! if,  like  Crotona’s  sage, 

Ity  any  spell  my  hand  could  dare 
To  make  thy  disk  its  ample  page, 

And  write  my  thoughts,  my  wishes  there  ; 

How  many  a friend  whose  careless  eye 
Now  wanders  o’er  that  starry  sky, 

Should  smile  upon  thy  orb  to  meet 
The  recollection  kind  and  sweet. 

The  reveries  of  fond  regret. 

The  promise  never  to  forget, 

And  all  my  heart  and  soul  would  send 
To  many  a dear-loved,  distant  friend. 

* • • 

Even  now,  delusive  hope  will  steal 
Amid  the  dark  regrets  1 feel. 

Soothing  as  yonder  placid  beam 
Pursues  the  murmurers  of  the  deep. 

And  lights  them  with  consoling  gleam. 

And  smiles  them  into  tranquil  sleep. 

Oh  ! such  a blessed  night  as  this 
1 often  think  if  friends  were  near. 

How  should  we  feel  and  gaze  with  bliss 
Upon  the  moon-bright  scenery  here  I 
The  sea  is  like  a silvery  lake. 

And  o’er  its  calm  the  vessel  glides. 

Gently,  as  if  it  feared  to  wake 
The  slumber  of  the  silent  tides. 

The  only  envious  cloud  that  lowers 
Hath  hung  its  shade  on  Pico’s  height. 

Where  dimly  ’mid  the  dusk  he  towers. 

And,  scowling  at  this  heaven  of  light. 

Exults  to  see  the  infant  storm 
Cling  darkly  round  his  giant  form  1 

The  warmth  of  the  young  poet’s  feelings  and 
imagination  led  him  in  these  epistles  to  make  some 
Blight  trespasses  on  delicacy  and  decorum,  and  a 
second  publication  of  poems,  two  years  afterwards, 
under  the  assumed  name  of  Thomas  Little — a playful 
allusion  to  his  diminutive  stature — aggravated  this 
offence  of  his  muse.  He  has  had  the  good  sense  to 
be  ashamed  of  these  amatory  Juvenilia,  and  genius 
enough  to  redeem  the  fault.  Mr  Moore  now  became 
a satirist — not  strong  and  masculine,  like  Dryden, 
nor  possessed  of  the  moral  dignity  of  Pope — but  lively 
and  pungent,  with  abundance  of  humorous  and  witty 
illustration.  The  man  of  the  world,  the  scholar,  and 
the  poetical  artist,  are  happily  blended  in  his  satiri- 
cal productions,  with  a rich  and  playful  fancy.  His 
Twopenny  Postbag,  The  Fudge  Family  in  Paris,  Fables 
for  the  Holy  Alliance,  and  numerous  small  pieces 
written  for  the  newspapers  on  the  passing  topics  of 
the  day,  to  serve  the  cause  of  the  Whig  or  liberal 
party,  are  not  excelled  in  their  own  peculiar  walk 
by  any  satirical  compositions  in  the  language.  It 
is  difficult  to  select  a specimen  of  these  exquisite 
productions  without  risk  of  giving  offence  ; but  per- 
haps the  following  may  be  found  sufficiently  irre- 
proachable in  this  respect,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
contains  a full  proportion  of  the  wit  and  poignancy 
distributed  over  all.  It  appeared  at  a time  when  an 
abundance  of  mawkish  reminiscences  and  memoirs 
had  been  showered  from  the  press,  and  bore  the 
title  of  ‘ Literary  Advertisement.’ 

Wanted — Authors  of  all  work  to  job  for  the  season. 
No  matter  which  party,  so  faithful  to  neither; 

Good  hacks,  who,  if  posed  for  a rhyme  or  a reason. 

Can  manage,  like  *******^  to  do  without  either. 

If  in  jail,  all  the  better  for  out-of-door  topics  ; 

Your  jail  is  for  travellers  a charming  retreat; 

They  can  take  a day’s  rule  for  a trip  to  the  Tropics, 
And  sail  round  the  world,  at  their  ease,  in  the  ITtet. 

For  a dramatist,  too,  the  most  useful  of  schools — 

He  can  study  high  life  in  the  King’s  Bench  com- 
munity ; 

Aristotle  could  scarce  keep  him  more  within  rules. 
And  of  place  he,  at  least,  must  adhere  to  the  unity. 

Any  lady  or  gentleman  come  to  an  age 

To  have  good  ‘ Reminiscences’  (three  score  or 
higher). 

Will  meet  with  encouragement — so  much  per  page. 
And  the  spelling  and  grammar  both  found  by  the 
buyer. 

No  matter  with  what  their  remembrance  is  stocked. 
So  they’ll  only  remember  the  quantum  desired  ; 
Enough  to  fill  handsomely  Two  Volumes  oct.. 

Price  twenty-four  shillings,  is  all  that’s  required. 

They  may  treat  us,  like  Kelly,  with  old  Jen  d’esprits, 
Like  Dibdin,  may  tell  of  each  fanciful  frolic ; 

Or  kindly  infonn  us,  like  Madame  Genlis, 

That  ginger-beer  cakes  always  give  them  the  cholic. 
« » « 

Funds,  Physic,  Corn,  Poetry,  Boxing,  Romance, 

All  excellent  subjects  for  turning  a penny; 

To  write  upon  all  is  an  author’s  sole  chance 

For  attaining  at  last  the  least  knowledge  of  any. 

Nine  times  out  of  ten,  if  his  title  is  good. 

The  material  within  of  .small  con.sequence  is  ; 

Let  him  only  write  fine,  and  if  not  understood. 

Why — that’s  the  concern  of  the  reader,  not  his. 

Nota  Bene — an  Essay,  now  printing,  to  show 

That  Horace,  as  clearly  as  word.s  could  express  it. 
Was  for  taxing  the  Fundholders,  ages  ago. 

When  he  wrote  thus — ‘ Quodcunque  in  Fund  is, 
assess -it.’* 

In  1813  Mr  Moore  entered  upon  his  noble  poeti- 
cal and  patriotic  task — w’riting  lyrics  for  the  ancient 
music  of  his  native  country.  His  Irish  Songs  dis- 
jdayed  a fervour  and  pathos  not  found  in  his  earlier 
works,  with  the  most  exquisite  melody  and  purity  of 
diction.  An  accomplished  musician  himself,  it  was 
the  effort,  he  relates,  to  translate  into  language  the 
emotions  and  passions  which  music  appeared  to  him 
to  express,  that  first  led  to  his  writing  any  poetry 
worthy  of  the  name.  ‘Dryden,’  he  adds,  ‘has  hap- 
pily described  music  as  being  “ inarticulate  poetry 
and  I have  always  felt,  in  adapting  words  to  an  ex- 
pressive air,  that  I was  bestowing  upon  it  the  gift  of 
articulation,  and  thus  enabling  it  to  speak  to  others 
all  that  was  conveyed,  in  its  wordless  eloquence,  to 
myself.’  Part  of  the  inspiration  must  also  bo  attri- 
buted to  national  feelings.  The  old  airs  were  con- 
secrated to  recollections  of  the  ancient  glories,  the 
valour,  beauty,  or  sufferings  of  Ireland,  and  became 
inseparably  connected  with  such  associations.  Of 
the  Irish  Melodies,  in  connection  with  Mr  Moore’s 
songs,  nine  parts  have  been  published  in  succession : 
they  are  understood  to  have  been  materially  useful 
to  the  poet’s  fortunes.  Without  detracting  from  the 
merits  of  the  rest,  it  appears  to  us  very  forcibly,  that 
the  particular  ditties  in  which  he  delicately  hints  at 
the  woes  of  his  native  country,  and  transmutes  into 
verse  the  breathings  of  its  unfortunate  patriots,  are 
the  most  real  in  feeling,  and  therefore  the  best.  This 
particularly  applies  to  ‘ When  he  who  adores  thee,’ 

‘ Oh,  blame  not  the  bard,’  and  ‘ Oh,  breathe  not  his 

* According  to  the  common  reading,  ‘ Quodcunque  infundis, 
aeesclt.’ 

3G4 

rOETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


TUOMAS  MOORK. 


name the  first  of  which,  referring  evidently  to  the 
fate  of  Mr  Kmmett,  is  ns  follows  : — 

M'hen  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 
Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrow  behind, 

Oh,  say,  wilt  thou  weep  when  they  darken  the  fame 
Of  a life  that  for  thee  was  resigned? 
y es,  weep ! and,  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  elfaee  the  decree  ; 

For  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee  1 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love. 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine ; 

In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above. 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine ! 

Oh,  blessed  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 
The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see  ; 

But  the  ne.\t  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give. 

Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee  I 

Ne.vt  to  the  patriotic  songs  stand  those  in  which 
a moral  reflection  is  conveyed  in  that  metaphorical 
form  which  only  Moore  has  been  able  to  realise  in 
lyrics  for  music — as  in  the  following  exquisite  ex- 
ample : — 

I saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 
A bark  o’er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on  : 

I came,  when  the  sun  o’er  that  beach  was  declining — 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 

Ah  ! such  is  the  fate  of  our  life’s  early  promise. 

So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  knorvn  : 
Each  wave  that  we  danced  on  at  morning,  ebbs  from  us. 
And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  black  shore  alone. 

Ne’er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night ; 
Give  me  back,  give  me  back,  the  wild  freshness  of 
morning. 

Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  evening’s  best 
light. 

Oh,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment’s  returning. 
When  passion  first  waked  a new  life  through  his 
frame. 

And  his  soul — like  the  wood  that  grows  precious  in 
burning — 

Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  Love’s  exquisite  flame ! 

In  1817  hlr  Moore  produced  his  most  elaborate 
poem,  Lalla  liookh,  an  oriental  romance,  the  accuracy 
of  which,  as  regards  topographical,  antiquarian,  and 
characteristic  details,  has  been  vouched  by  nume- 
rous competent  authorities.  The  poetry  is  brilliant 
and  gorgeous — rich  to  e.xcess  with  imagery  and  or- 
nament—and  oppressive  from  its  very  sweetness  and 
splendour.  Of  the  four  tales  which,  connected  by  a 
sliglit  narrative,  like  the  ballad  stories  in  Hogg’s 
Queen’s  Wake,  constitute  the  entire  poem,  the  most 
simple  is  Paradise  and  the  Peri,  and  it  is  the  one 
most  frequently  read  and  remembered.  Still,  the 
first — TIte  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan — though  im- 
probable and  extravagant  as  a fiction,  is  a poem  of 
great  energy  and  power.  The  genius  of  the  poet 
moves  with  grace  and  freedom  under  his  load  of 
Eastern  magnificence,  and  the  reader  is  fascinated 
by  his  prolific  fancy,  and  the  scenes  of  loveliness  and 
splendour  which  are  depicted  with  such  vividness 
and  truth.  Hazlitt  says  that  Moore  should  not  have 
written  ‘ Lalla  Rookh,’  even  for  three  thousand  guineas 
— the  price  understood  to  be  paid  by  the  booksellers 
for  the  copyright.  But  if  not  a great  poem,  it  is  a 
marvellous  work  of  art,  and  contains  paintings  of 
local  scenery  and  manners  unsurpassed  for  fidelity 
and  picturesque  elFect.  The  patient  research  and 
extensive  reading  required  to  gather  the  materials, 
would  have  damped  the  spirit  and  extinguished  the 


fancy  of  almost  any  other  poet.  It  was  amidst  the 
snows  of  two  or  three  Derbyshire  w'inters,  he  says, 
while  living  in  a lone  cottage  among  the  fields,  that 
he  was  enabled,  by  that  concentration  of  thought 
which  retirement  alone  gives,  to  call  up  around  him 
some  of  the  sunniest  of  those  Eastern  scenes  which 
have  since  been  welcomed  in  India  itself  as  almost 
native  to  its  clime.  The  poet  was  a diligent  stu- 
dent, and  his  oriental  reading  was  ‘ as  good  as  riding 
on  the  back  of  a camel.’  The  romance  of  ‘ Vathek’ 
alone  equals  ‘ Lalla  Rookh,’  among  English  fictions, 
in  local  fidelity  and  completeness  as  an  Eastern  tale. 
After  the  publication  of  his  work,  the  poet  set  off 
with  Mr  Rogers  on  a visit  to  Paris.  The  ‘ groups 
of  ridiculous  English  who  were  at  that  time  swarm- 
ing in  all  directions  throughout  France,’  supplied 
the  materials  for  his  satire  entitled  ‘ The  Fudge 
Family  in  Paris,’  which,  in  popularity,  and  tlie  run 
of  successive  editions,  kept  pace  with  ‘ Lalla  Rookh.’ 
In  1819  Mr  Moore  made  another  journey  to  the 
continent  in  company  with  Lord  John  Russell,  and 
this  furnished  his  Rhymes  on  the  Road,  a series  of 
trifles  often  graceful  and  pleasing,  but  so  conversa- 
tional and  unstudied  as  to  be  little  better  (to  use  his 
own  words)  than  ‘ prose  fringed  with  rhyme.’  From 
Paris  the  poet  and  his  companion  proceeded  by  the 
Simplon  to  Italy.  Lord  John  took  the  route  to 
Genoa,  and  kir  Moore  went  on  a visit  to  Lord  Byron 
at  Venice.  On  his  return  from  this  memorable  tour, 
the  poet  took  up  his  abode  in  Paris,  wliere  he  re- 
sided till  about  the  close  of  the  year  1822.  He  had 
become  involved  in  pecuniary  difficulties  by  the 
conduct  of  the  person  who  acted  as  Ids  deputy  at 
Bermuda.  His  friends  pressed  forward  with  eager 
kindness  to  help  to  release  him — one  offering  to  place 
£500  at  his  disposal ; but  he  came  to  the  resolutiog 
of  ‘ gratefully  declining  their  offers,  and  endeavour- 
ing to  work  out  his  deliverance  hy  his  own  efforts. 
In  September  1822  he  was  informed  that  an  ar- 
rangement had  been  m.ade,  and  that  he  might  with 
safety  return  to  England.  The  amount  of  the 
claims  of  the  American  merchants  had  been  re- 
duced to  the  sum  of  one  thousand  guineas,  and  to- 
wards the  payment  of  this  the  uncle  of  his  deputy — 
a rich  London  merchant — had  been  brought  to  con- 
tribute £300.  A friend  of  the  poet  immediately 
deposited  in  the  hands  of  a banker  the  remaining 
portion  (£750),  which  was  soon  rej)aid  by’  the  grate- 
ful bard,  who,  in  the  June  following,  on  receiving 
his  publisher’s  account,  found  £1'00  placed  to  his 
credit  from  the  sale  of  the  Loves  of  the  Angels,  and 
£500  from  the  ‘Fables  of  the  Holy  Alliance.’  The 
latter  were  partly  w’ritten  while  Mr  Moore  was 
at  Venice  with  Lord  Byron,  and  were  published 
under  the  nom  de  guerre  of  Thomas  Brown.  The 
‘Loves  of  the  Angels’ was  written  in  I’aris.  The 
poem  is  founded  on  ‘the  Eastern  story  of  the  angels 
Harut  and  Marut,  and  the  Rabbinical  fictions  of 
the  loves  of  Uzziel  and  Shamchazai,’  with  which 
kir  kloore  shadowed  out  ‘ the  fall  of  the  soul  from 
its  original  purity — the  loss  of  light  and  happiness 
which  it  suffers  in  the  pursuit  of  this  world’s  perish- 
able pleasures — and  the  punishments  both  from  con- 
science and  divine  justice  with  which  impurity, 
pride,  and  presumptuous  inquiry  into  the  awful 
secrets  of  heaven  are  sure  to  be  visited.’  The 
stories  of  the  three  angels  are  related  with  grace- 
ful tenderness  and  passion,  but  with  too  little  of 
' the  angelic  air’  about  them.  His  latest  imagi- 
native work  is  The  Epicurean,  an  Eastern  tale, 
in  prose,  but  full  of  the  spirit  and  materials  of 
poetry ; and  forming,  perhaps,  his  highest  and  best 
sustained  flight  in  the  regions  of  pure  romance. 
His  lives  of  Sheridan  and  Byron  w’e  shall  afterwards 
allude  to  in  the  list  of  biographical  writers.  Thus, 

36a 


FROM  1 TBS'  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  present  ti mb. 


rciuiirkable  for  industry,  genius,  and  acquirements, 
Mr  Moore’s  career  has  been  one  of  liigh  lionour  and 
success.  No  poet  has  been  more  universally  read, 
or  more  courted  in  society  by  individuals  distin- 
guished for  rank,  literature,  or  public  service.  Ilis 
political  friends,  when  in  office,  rewarded  him  with 
a pension  of  £.300  per  annum,  and  as  his  writings 
have  been  profitable  as  well  as  popular,  his  latter 
days  will  thus  be  spent  in  comfort,  without  the 
anxieties  of  protracted  authorship.  He  resides  in  a 
cottage  in  Wiltsliire,  preferring  a country  retire- 
ment to  those  gay  and  brilliant  circles  which  he 
occasionally  enriches  with  his  wit  and  genius  ; and 
he  has  recently  given  to  the  world  a complete  collec- 
tion of  his  poetical  works  in  ten  volumes,  to  which 


Moore’s  Cottage,  near  Devizes. 


ancient  fathers — now  diving  into  the  human  heart, 
and  now  skimming  the  fields  of  fancy — the  wit  or 
imagination  of  Moore  (for  they  are  compounded  to- 
gether) is  a true  Ariel,  ‘ a creature  of  the  elements,’ 
that  is  ever  buoyant  and  full  of  life  and  spirit.  His 
very  satires  ‘ give  delight,  and  hurt  not.’  They  are 
never  coarse,  and  always  witty.  When  stung  by  an 
act  of  oppression  or  intolerance,  he  can  be  bitter  or 
sarcastic  enough ; but  some  lively  thought  or  spor- 
tive image  soon  crosses  his  patli,  and  he  instantly 
follows  it  into  the  open  and  genial  region  where  he 
loves  most  to  indulge.  He  never  dips  his  pen  in 
malignity.  For  an  author  who  has  written  so  much 
as  Mr  Moore  has  done  on  the  subject  of  love  and 
the  g.ay  delights  of  good  fellowship,  it  was  scarce 
possible  to  be  always  natural  and  original.  Some 
of  his  lyrics  and  occasional  poems,  accordingly, 
present  far-fetched  metaphors  and  conceits,  with 
which  they  often  conclude,  like  the  final  flourish  or 
pirouette  of  a stage-dancer.  He  has  pretty  well 
exhausted  the  vocabulary  of  rosy  lips  and  sparkling 
eyes,  forgetting  that  true  passion  is  ever  direct  and 
simple — ever  concentrated  and  intense,  whether 
bright  or  melancholy.  This  defect,  however,  per- 
vades only  part  of  his  songs,  and  those  mostly  written 
in  his  youth.  The  ‘ Irish  Melodies’  are  full  of  true 
feeling  and  delicacy.  By  universal  consent,  and  by 
the  sure  test  of  memory,  these  national  strains  are 
the  most  popular  and  the  most  likely  to  be  immortal 
of  all  Moore’s  works.  They  are  musical  almost  be- 
yond parallel  in  words — graceful  in  thought  and 
sentiment — often  tender,  pathetic,  and  heroic — and 
they  blend  poetical  and  romantic  feelings  with  the 
objects  and  sympathies  of  common  life  in  language 
chastened  and  refined,  yet  apparently  so  simple  that 
every  trace  of  art  has  disappeiired.  The  most  fami- 
liar expressions  become,  in  his  hands,  instruments 
of  power  and  melody.  The  songs  are  read  and  re- 
membered by  all.  They  are  equally  the  delight  of 
the  cottage  and  the  saloon,  and,  in  the  poet’s  own 
country,  are  sung  with  an  enthusiasm  that  w'ill  long 
be  felt  in  the  hour  of  festivity,  as  well  as  in  periods 
of  suffering  and  solemnity,  by  that  imaginative  and 
warm-hearted  people. 


are  prefixed  some  interesting  literary  and  personal 
details.  When  time  shall  have  destroyed  the  at- 
tractive charm  of  Moore’s  personal  qualities,  and 
removed  his  works  to  a distance,  to  be  judged  of  by 
their  fruit  alone,  the  want  most  deeply  felt  will  be 
that  of  simplicity  and  genuine  passion.  He  has 
worked  little  in  the  durable  and  permanent  mate- 
rials of  poetry,  but  has  spent  his  prime  in  enrich- 
ing the  stately  structure  with  exquisite  ornaments, 
foliage,  flowers,  and  gems.  He  has  preferred  the 
myrtle  to  the  olive  or  the  oak.  His  longer  poems 
want  human  interest.  Tenderness  and  pathos  he 
undoubtedly  possesses ; but  they  are  fleeting  and  eva- 
nescent— not  embodied  in  his  verse  in  any  tale  of 
melancholy  grandeur  or  strain  of  affecting  morality 
or  sentiment.  He  often  throws  into  his  gay  and 
festive  verses,  and  his  fanciful  descriptions,  touches 
of  pensive  and  mournful  reflection,  which  strike  by 
their  truth  and  beauty,  and  by  the  force  of  contrast. 
Indeed,  one  effect  of  the  genius  of  Moore  has  been, 
to  elevate  the  feelings  and  occurrences  of  ordinary 
life  into  poetry,  rather  than  dealing  with  the  lofty 
abstract  elements  of  the  art.  His  w'it  answers  to  the 
definition  of  Pope  : it  is 

Nature  to  advantage  dressed, 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne’er  so  well  expressed. 

Its  combinations  are,  however,  wonderful.  Quick, 
subtle,  and  varied,  ever  suggesting  new  thoughts  or 
images,  or  unexpected  turns  of  expression  — now 
drawing  resources  from  classical  literature  or  the 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE. 

In  1817  Mr  Murray  published  a small  poetical 
volume  under  the  eccentric  title  of  Prospectus  and 
Specimen  of  an  intended  National  Work,  by  William 
and  Robert  Wkistlecraft,  of  Stowmarket  in  Suffolk, 
Harness  and  Collar-Makers.  Intended  to  comprise  the 
most  Interesting  Particulars  relating  to  King  Arthur 
and  bis  Round  Table.  The  world  was  surprised  to 
find,  under  this  odd  disguise,  a happy  imitation  of 
the  Pulci  and  Casti  school  of  the  Italian  poets.  The 
brothers  Whistlecr.aft  formed,  it  was  quicdrly  seen, 
but  the  mask  of  some  elegant  and  scholarly  wit  be- 
longing to  the  higher  circles  of  society,  who  had 
chosen  to  amuse  himself  in  comic  verse,  without  in- 
curring the  responsibilities  of  declared  authorship. 
To  two  cantos  published  in  the  above  year,  a third 
and  fourth  were  soon  after  added.  The  poem  opens 
with  a feast  held  by  King  Arthur  at  Carlisle  amidst 
his  knights,  who  are  thus  introduced : — 

They  looked  a manly  generous  generation  ; 

Beards,  shoulders,  eyebrows,  broad,  and  square,  and 
thick. 

Their  accents  firm  and  loud  in  conversation. 

Their  eyes  and  gestures  eager,  sharp,  and  quick. 
Showed  them  prepared,  on  proper  provocation. 

To  give  the  lie,  pull  noses,  stab  and  kick  ; 

And  for  that  very  reason  it  is  said 
They  were  so  very  courteous  and  well-bred. 

366 


POKTS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  john  hookrim  frere. 


In  n valley  near  Carlisle  lived  a race  of  giants ; 
ami  this  place  is  finely  described : — 

Huge  mountains  of  immeasurable  height 
Encompassed  all  the  level  valley  round 
With  mighty  slabs  of  rock,  that  sloped  upright, 

An  insurmountable  and  enormous  mound. 

The  very  river  vanished  out  of  sight, 

Absorbed  in  secret  channels  under  ground ; 

That  vale  was  so  sequestered  and  secluded, 

All  search  for  ages  past  it  had  eluded. 

A rock  was  in  the  centre,  like  a cone. 

Abruptly  rising  from  a miry  pool, 

Where  they  beheld  a pile  of  massy  stone, 

Which  masons  of  the  rude  primeval  school 
Had  reared  by  help  of  giant  hands  alone. 

With  rocky  fragments  unreduced  by  rule  : 

Irregular,  like  nature  more  than  art. 

Huge,  rugged,  and  compact  in  every  part. 

A wild  tumultuous  torrent  raged  around, 

Of  fragments  tumbling  from  the  mountain’s  height; 
The  whistling  clouds  of  dust,  the  deafening  sound, 
The  hurried  motion  that  amazed  the  sight. 

The  constant  quaking  of  the  solid  ground. 

Environed  them  with  phantoms  of  affright ; 

Yet  with  heroic  hearts  they  held  right  on, 

Till  the  last  point  of  their  ascent  was  won. 

The  giants  having  attacked  and  carried  off  some 
ladies  on  their  journey  to  court,  the  knights  deem  it 
their  duty  to  set  out  in  pursuit ; and  in  due  time 
they  overcome  these  grim  personages,  and  relieve 
the  captives  from  the  castle  in  which  they  had  been 
immured : — 

The  ladies  ? — They  were  tolerably  well, 

At  least  as  well  as  could  have  been  expected: 

Many  details  I must  forbear  to  tell ; 

Their  toilet  had  been  very  much  neglected ; 

But  by  supreme  good  luck  it  so  befell. 

That  when  the  castle’s  capture  was  effected, 

M’hen  those  vile  cannibals  were  overpowered. 

Only  two  fat  duennas  were  devoured. 

This  closes  the  second  canto.  The  third  opens  in 
the  following  playful  strain  : — 

I’ve  a proposal  here  from  Mr  Murray. 

He  offers  handsomely — the  money  down ; 

My  dear,  you  might  recover  from  your  flurry. 

In  a nice  airy  lodging  out  of  town, 

At  Croydon,  Epsom,  anywhere  in  Surrey ; 

If  every  stanza  brings  us  in  a crown, 

I think  that  I might  venture  to  bespeak 
A bedroom  and  front  parlour  for  next  week. 

Tell  me,  my  dear  Thalia,  what  you  think  ; 

Your  nerves  have  undergone  a sudden  shock ; 

Your  poor  dear  spirits  have  begun  to  sink  ; 

On  Banstead  Downs  you’d  muster  a new  stock. 

And  I’d  be  sure  to  keep  away  from  drink. 

And  always  go  to  bed  by  twelve  o’clock. 

We’ll  travel  down  there  in  the  morning  stages ; 

Our  verses  shall  go  down  to  distant  ages. 

And  here  in  town  we’ll  breakfast  on  hot  rolls. 

And  you  shall  have  a better  shawl  to  wear ; 

These  pantaloons  of  mine  are  chafed  in  holes ; 

By  Monday  next  I’ll  compass  a new  pair : 

Come  now,  fling  up  the  cinders,  fetch  the  coals. 

And  take  away  the  things  you  hung  to  air ; 

Set  out  the  tea-things,  and  bid  Phoebe  bring 
The  kettle  up.  Arms  and  the  Monks  I sing. 

Near  the  valley  of  the  giants  was  an  abbey,  con- 
taining fifty  friars,  ‘ fat  and  good,’  who  keep  for  a 
long  time  on  good  terms  with  their  neighbours.  Be- 
ing fond  of  music,  the  giants  would  sometimes  ap- 
proach the  sacred  pile,  attracted  by  the  sweet  sounds 
that  issued  from  it ; and  here  occurs  a beautiful 
piece  of  description : — 1 


Oft  that  wild  untutored  race  would  draw, 

Led  by  the  solemn  sound  and  sacred  light. 

Beyond  the  bank,  beneath  a lonely  shaw. 

To  listen  all  the  livelong  summer  night, 

Till  deep,  serene,  and  reverential  awe 
Environed  them  with  silent  calm  delight. 
Contemplating  the  minster’s  midnight  gleam, 
Reflected  from  the  clear  and  glassy  stream. 

But  chiefly,  when  the  shadowy  moon  had  shed 
O’er  woods  and  waters  her  mysterious  hue. 

Their  passive  hearts  and  vacant  fancies  fed 
With  thoughts  and  aspirations  strange  and  new. 

Till  their  brute  souls  with  inward  working  bred 
Dark  hints  that  in  the  depths  of  instinct  grew 
Subjective — not  from  Locke’s  associations, 

Nor  David  Hartley’s  doctrine  of  vibrations. 

Each  was  ashamed  to  mention  to  the  others 
One  half  of  all  the  feelings  that  he  felt. 

Yet  thus  far  each  would  venture — ‘ Listen,  brothers. 
It  seems  as  if  one  heard  Heaven’s  thunders  melt 
In  music !’ 

Unfortunately,  this  happy  state  of  things  is  broken 
up  by  the  introduction  of  a ring  of  bells  into  the 
abbey,  a kind  of  music  to  which  the  giants  had  an 
insurmountable  aversion : — 

The  solemn  mountains  that  surrounded 
The  silent  valley  where  the  convent  lay. 

With  tintinnabular  uproar  were  astounded 
When  the  first  peal  burst  forth  at  break  of  day. 
Feeling  their  granite  ears  severely  wounded. 

They  scarce  knew  wliat  to  think  or  what  to  say , 

And  (though  large  mountains  commonly  conceal 
Their  sentiments,  dissembling  what  they  feel, 

Yet)  Cader-Gibbrish  from  his  cloudy  throne 
To  huge  Loblommon  gave  an  intimation 
Of  this  strange  rumour,  with  an  awful  tone. 
Thundering  lus  deep  surprise  and  indignation  , 

The  lesser  hills,  in  language  of  their  own. 

Discussed  the  topic  by  reverberation  ; 

Discoursing  with  their  echoes  all  day  long. 

Their  only  conversation  was,  ‘ ding-dong.’ 

These  giant  mountains  inwardly  were  moved. 

But  never  made  an  outward  change  of  place ; 

Not  so  the  mountain  giants — (as  behoved 
A more  alert  and  locomotive  race)  ; 

Hearing  a clatter  which  they  disapproved, 

They  ran  straight  forward  to  besiege  the  placo; 

With  a discordant  universal  yell. 

Like  house-dogs  howling  at  a dinner-bell. 

This  is  evidently  meant  as  a good-humoured  satire 
against  violent  personifications  in  poetry.  Mean- 
while, a monk.  Brother  John  hj'  name,  who  had 
opposed  the  introduction  of  tlie  bells,  lias  gone  in  a 
fit  of  disgust  with  his  brethren  to  amuse  himself 
with  the  rod  at  a neiglibouring  stream.  Here 
occurs  another  beautiful  descriptive  passage  : — 

A mighty  current,  unconfined  and  free. 

Ran  wheeling  round  beneath  the  mountain’s  shade, 
Battering  its  wave-worn  base  ; but  you  might  see 
On  the  near  margin  many  a watery  glade. 

Becalmed  beneath  some  little  island’s  lee, 

All  tranquil  and  transparent,  close  embayed ; 

Reflecting  in  the  deep  serene  and  even 

Each  flower  and  herb,  and  every  cloud  of  heaven , 

The  painted  kingfisher,  the  branch  above  her. 

Stand  in  the  steadfast  mirror  fixed  and  true  ; 

Anon  the  fitful  breezes  brood  and  hover, 

Freshening  the  surface  with  a rougher  hue  ; 

Spreading,  withdrawing,  pausing,  passing  over. 

Again  returning  to  retire  anew  : 

So  rest  and  motion  in  a narrow  range. 

Feasted  the  sight  with  joyous  interchange. 

8S7 


PROM  1780  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  tiil  the  present  time 


Brodier  Jolin,  placed  here  by  mere  ebaiiee,  is  ap- 
prised of  the  approacli  of  the  giants  in  time  to  run 
lionie  and  give  the  alarm.  Amidst  the  preparations 
for  defence,  to  which  he  exhorts  his  brethren,  the 
abbot  dies,  and  .John  is  elected  to  succeed  him.  A 
stout  resistance  is  made  by  the  monks,  whom  their 
new  sui)crior  takes  care  to  feed  well  by  way  of 
keeiiing  them  in  heart,  and  the  giants  at  length 
withdraw  from  the  scene  of  action — 

And  now  the  gates  are  opened,  and  the  throng 
Forth  issuing,  the  deserted  camp  survey  ; 

‘ Here  Murdoinack,  and  Mangonel  the  strong, 

And  Oorbuduc  were  lodged,’  and  ‘ here,’  they  say, 

‘ This  pig-stye  to  Foldavy  did  belong  ; 

Here  Bundleback,  and  here  Phigander  lay.’ 

They  view  the  deep  indentures,  broad  and  round. 
Which  mark  their  postures  squatting  on  the  ground. 
Then  to  the  traces  of  gigantic  feet. 

Huge,  wide  apart,  with  half  a dozen  toes; 

They  track  them  on,  till  they  converge  and  meet 
(An  earnest  and  assurance  of  repose) 

Close  at  the  ford  ; the  cause  of  this  retreat 
They  all  conjecture,  hut  no  creature  knows; 

It  was  ascribed  to  causes  multifarious. 

To  saints,  as  Jeroin,  George,  and  Janu.arius, 

To  their  own  pious  founder’s  intercession, 

To  Ave-Maries,  and  our  Lady’s  psalter ; 

To  news  that  Friar  John  was  in  possession. 

To  new  wax  candles  placed  upon  the  altar. 

To  their  own  prudence,  valour,  and  discretion; 

To  relics,  rosaries,  and  holy  w’ater ; 

To  beads  and  psalms,  and  feats  of  arras — in  short. 
There  was  no  end  of  their  accounting  for’t. 

It  finally  appears  that  the  pagans  h.ave  retired  in 
order  to  make  the  attack  upon  the  ladie.s,  which  had 
formerly  been  described — no  bad  burlesque  of  the 
endless  episodes  of  the  Italian  romantic  poets. 

It  was  soon  discovered  that  the  author  of  this 
clever  jeu  d’esprit  was  the  Kight  Honourable  .John 
Hookham  Frere,  a person  of  high  political  conse- 
quence, who  had  been  employed  a few  years  before 
by  the  British  government  to  take  charge  of  di[)lo- 
matic  trans.actious  in  Spain  in  connexion  with  the 
army  under  General  Sir  John  Moore.  The  Whistle- 
cnift  poetry  was  carried  no  further;  hut  the  peculiar 
stanza  (the  ottava  rinia  of  Italy),  and  the  sarcastic 
pleasantry,  formed  the  immediate  exemplar  which 
guided  Byron  when  he  wrote  his  Beppo  and  Don 
Juan;  and  one  couplet — 

Adown  thy  slope,  romantic  Ashbourn,  glides 

The  Derby  dilly,  carrying  six  insides — 

became  at  a subsequent  period  the  basis  of  an  allu- 
sion almost  historical  in  importance,  with  reference 
to  a small  party  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Thus 
the  national  poem  has  actually  attained  a place,  of 
some  consequence  in  our  modern  literature.  It  is 
only  to  be  regretted  that  the  poet,  captivated  by  in- 
dolence or  the  elegances  of  a luxurious  taste,  has 
given  no  further  specimen  of  his  talents  to  the 
world. 

For  many  years  Mr  Frere  has  resided  in  Malta. 
In  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  there  are  some  par- 
ticulars respecting  the  meeting  of  the  declining 
novelist  with  his  friend,  the  author  of  Whistlecraft. 
We  there  learn  from  Scott,  that  the  remarkable 
war  song  upon  the  victory  at  Brunnenburg,  which 
appears  in  Mr  Ellis’s  Specimens  of  Ancient  English 
Poetry,  and  might  pass  in  a court  of  critics  as  a 
genuine  composition  of  the  fourteenth  century,  was 
written  by  Mr  F'rere  while  an  Eton  schoolboy,  as  an 
illustration  on  one  side  of  the  celebrated  Rowley 
controversy.  We  are  also  informed  by  Mrs  John 


Davy,  in  her  diary,  quoted  by  Mr  Lockhart,  that 
Sir  Walter  on  this  occasion  ‘repeated  a pretty  long 
passage  fror.:  his  version  of  one  of  the  romances  of 
the  Cid  (published  in  the  appendix  to  Southey’s 
quarto),  and  seemed  to  enjoy  a sj)irited  charge  of 
the  knights  therein  described  as  much  as  he  could 
have  done  in  his  best  days,  placing  his  walking- 
stick  in  rest  like  a lance,  “ to  suit  the  action  to  the 
word.”’  It  will  not,  we  hope,  he  deemed  improper 
that  we  redeem  from  comparative  obscurity  a piece 
of  poetry  so  n)uch  admired  by  Scott: — 

The  gates  were  then  thrown  open, 

and  forth  at  once  they  rushed. 

The  outposts  of  the  Moorish  hosts 

back  to  the  camp  were  pu.shed ; 

The  camp  was  all  in  tumult, 

and  there  was  such  a thunder 
Of  cymbals  and  of  drums, 

as  if  earth  would  cleave  in  sunder. 
There  you  might  see  the  Moors 

arming  theiraselves  in  haste, 

And  the  two  main  battles 

how  they  were  forming  fast ; 
Horsemen  and  footmen  raixt, 

a countless  troop  and  vast. 

The  Moors  are  moving  forward, 

the  battle  soon  must  join, 

‘ My  men  stand  here  in  order, 
ranged  upon  a line! 

Let  not  a man  move  from  his  rank 
before  I give  the  sign.’ 

Pero  Bermuez  heard  the  word, 

but  he  could  not  refrain, 

He  held  the  banner  in  his  hand, 

he  gave  his  horse  the  rein  ; 

‘ You  see  yon  foremost  squadron  there, 
the  thickest  of  the  foes. 

Noble  Cid,  God  be  your  aid, 

for  there  your  banner  goes ! 

Let  him  that  serves  and  honours  it, 

show  the  duty  that  he  owes.’ 
Earnestly  the  Cid  called  out, 

‘ For  heaven’s  sake  be  still!’ 
Bermuez  cried,  ‘ I cannot  hold,’ 
so  eager  was  his  will. 

He  spurred  his  horse,  and  drove  him  on 
amid  the  Moorish  rout: 

They  strove  to  win  the  banner, 

and  compassed  him  about. 

Had  not  his  armour  been  so  true, 

he  had  lost  either  life  or  limb ; 

The  Cid  called  out  again, 

‘ For  heaven’s  sake  succour  him !’ 
Their  shields  before  their  breasts, 
forth  at  once  they  go. 

Their  lances  in  the  rest 

levelled  fair  and  low; 

Their  banners  and  their  crests 
waving  in  a row. 

Their  heads  all  stooping  down 

towards  the  saddle  bow. 

The  Cid  was  in  the  midst, 

his  shout  was  heard  afar, 

‘ I am  Rui  Diaz, 

the  ch.amplon  of  Bivar; 

Strike  amongst  them,  gentlemen, 

for  sweet  mercies’  sake  !’ 

There  where  Bermuez  fought 

amidst  the  foe  they  brake ; 

Three  hundred  bannered  knights, 
it  was  a gallant  show  ; 

Three  hundred  kloors  they  killed, 
a man  at  every  blow : 

When  they  wheeled  and  turned, 

as  mauy  more  lay  slain, 

36S 


rOKTS. 


KNG LISI I LITER ATUUR. 


TUCMAS  CAMPBELL. 


You  might  see  thei.i  raise  tlicir  lances, 
and  level  them  again. 

There  you  might  see  the  breastplates, 

how  they  were  cleft  in  twain. 
And  many  a Moorish  shield 

lie  scattered  on  the  plain. 

The  pennons  that  were  white 

marked  with  a crimson  stain. 
The  horses  running  wild 

whose  riders  had  been  slain. 


THOMAS  CAMPDELL. 

I The  most  purely  correct  and  classical  poet  of  this 
period,  possessing  also  true  lyrical  fire  and  grandeur, 
! is  Thomas  Campbell,  born  in  the  city  of  Glasgow 
July  27,  1777.  Mr  Campbell's  father  had  been  an 
extensive  merchant,  but  was  in  advanced  years 
(sixty-seven)  at  the  time  of  the  poet’s  birth.  The 


latter  was  the  Benjamin  of  the  family,  the  youngest 
of  ten  children,  and  was  educated  with  great  care. 
At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  was  placed  at  the  univer- 
sity of  Glasgow,  where  he  remained  six  years.  In 
the  first  session  of  his  college  life  he  gained  a bur- 
sary for  his  proficiency  in  Latin.  He  afterwards 
received  a prize  for  the  best  translation  of  the  Clouds 
of  Aristophanes,  and  in  awarding  it.  Professor  Young 
pronounced  the  poet’s  translation  to  be  the  best 
exercise  which  had  ever  been  given  in  by  any  student 
of  the  university.  His  knowledge  of  Greek  litera- 
ture was  further  extended  by  several  months’  close 
study  in  Germany  under  Professor  Heyne ; but  this 
was  not  till  the  poet’s  twenty- second  year.  On 
leaving  the  university,  Campbell  resided  a twelve- 
month  in  Argyleshire.  His  father  was  the  youngest 
son  of  a Highland  laird — Campbell  of  Kernan — and 
the  wild  magnificent  scenery  of  the  West  Highlands 
was  thus  associated  in  his  imagination  with  recol- 
lections of  his  feudal  ancestors.  His  poem  on  visit- 
ing a scene  in  Argyleshire  will  occur  to  our  readers  ; 
it  opens  as  follows  : — 


At  the  silence  of  twilight’s  contemplative  hour, 

1 have  mused  in  asoironful  mood. 

On  the  wind-shaken  weeds  tliat  embosom  the  bower 
Where  the  home  of  my  forefntlieis  stood 
All  ruined  and  wild  is  their  roofless  abode, 

And  lonely  the  dark  raven’s  sheltering  tree; 

And  travelled  by  few  is  the  grass-eovered  road. 

Where  the  liunter  of  deer  and  tlie  warrior  trode 
To  his  hills  that  encircle  the  sea. 

A favourite  rock  or  crag,  the  scene  of  liis  mnsings, 
is  pointed  out  in  the  Island  of  Mull  as  tlie  ‘Poet’s 
Seat.’  While  living  in  the  Highlands,  Mr  Campbell 
wrote  his  poem  entitled  Luveiiml  Maihiess  (an  elegy  ! 
on  the  unfortunate  Miss  Broderick),  and  several  ' 
otlier  poems  now  neglected  by  their  author.  The  | 
local  celebrity  arising  from  tliese  early  fruits  of  his  i 
poetical  genius,  induced  Mr  Camphell  to  lay  aside  | 
tlie  study  of  the  law,  which  lie  seriously  cunteni-  , 
plated,  and  he  repaired  to  Edinburgh.  Tliere  he 
became  acquainted  with  James  Grahame,  author  of  ■ 
the  ‘ Sabbath,’  witli  Professor  Dugald  Stew  art,  Jef- 
frey, Brougham,  &e.  In  April  1799  he  published  ' 
tlie  Pleasures  of  Hope,  dedicated  to  Dr  Anderson, 
tlie  steady  and  generous  friend  of  literature.  The 
volume  went  through  four  editions  in  a twelvemonth. 

At  the  same  age  Pope  had  published  Us  ‘Essay  on 
Criticism,’  also  a marvellous  work  for  a j’outh  ; but 
the  production  of  Campbell  is  more  essentially  poeti- 
cal, and  not  less  correct  or  harmonious  in  its  num- 
bers. It  captivated  all  readers  by  its  varying  and 
exquisite  melody,  its  polislied  diction,  and  tlie  vein 
of  generous  and  lofty  sentiment  wliieli  seemed  to 
embalm  and  sanctify  the  entire  poem.  Tlie  touch- 
ing and  heantiful  episodes  with  wliich  it  abounds 
constituted  also  a source  of  deep  interest ; and  in 
picturing  tlie  horrors  of  war,  and  the  infamous  par- 
tition of  Poland,  the  poet  kindled  up  into  a strain  of 
noble  indignant  zeal  and  prophet-like  inspiration. 

Oil,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  time  1 
Sarinatia  fell,  unwept,  w'ithout  a crime; 

I’onnd  not  a generous  friend,  a pitying  foe. 

Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  wo  ! 

Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered  spei., 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curbed  her  high  career : 

Hope  for  a season  bade  the  world  farewell. 

And  freedom  shrieked  as  Kosciusko  fell ! 

The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceased  the  carnage  there; 
Tumultuous  murder  ebook  the  midnight  air — 

On  Prague’s  proud  arch  the  fires  of  ruin  glow. 

His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below. 

The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  a way. 

Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay  ! 

Hark  ! as  the  smouldering  piles  w ith  tliunder  fall, 

A thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call ! 

Earth  shook,  red  meteors  flashed  along  the  sky, 

And  conscious  nature  shuddered  at  the  cry  ! 

These  energetic  apostrophes  are  contrasted  with 
sketclies  of  domestic  tenderness  and  beauty,  finislied 
witli  the  most  perfect  taste  in  picturesque  delinea- 
tion, and  with  highly  musical  expression.  Traces 
of  juvenility  may  no  doubt  be  found  in  the  ‘ Plea- 
sures of  Hope’ — a want  of  connection  between  the 
difterent  parts  of  tlie  poem,  some  florid  lines  and  im- 
perfect metaphors ; but  such  a series  of  beautiful 
and  dazzling  pictures,  so  pure  and  elevated  a tone 
of  moral  feeling,  and  such  terse,  vigorous,  and 
polished  versification,  were  never  perhaps  before 
found  united  in  a poem  written  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
one.  Shortly  after  its  publication  Mr  Campbell 
visited  the  continent.  He  went  to  Bavaria,  tlien  the 
seat  of  war,  and  from  the  iiionafitery  of  St  Jacob 
witnessed  tlie  battle  of  Holienliiiden.  in  which  (De- 
cember 3,  1800)  the  French  under  Aloreau  gained  a 
victory  over  the  Austrians.  In  a letter  written  at 

369 


66 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  Tl«». 


tliis  time,  lie  says,  ‘ Tlie  sight  of  Ingoldstat  in  ruins, 
and  Ilohonlinden  covered  with  fire,  seven  miles  in 
circumference,  were  spectacles  never  to  be  forgotten.’ 
tie  has  made  the  memory  of  llohenlinden  immortal, 
for  his  stanzas  on  that  conflict  form  one  of  the 
grandest  battle-pieces  that  ever  was  drawn.  In  a 
few  verses,  flowing  like  a choral  melody,  tlie  [loet 
brings  before  us  the  silent  midnight  scene  of  engage- 
ment wrapt  in  the  snows  of  winter,  the  sudden  arm- 
ing for  the  battle,  the  press  and  shout  of  charging 
squadrons,  the  flashing  of  artillery,  and  the  too  cer- 
tain and  dreadful  death  which  falls  upon  the  crowded 
ranks  of  the  combatants. 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet! 

The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet ; 

And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a soldier’s  sepulehre  ! 

The  poet  intended  to  pass  into  Italy — a pilgrim  at 
the  shrine  of  classic  genius ; but  owing  to  the  exist- 
ing hostilities,  he  could  not  proceed,  and  was  stopped 
both  on  his  way  to  Vienna,  and  by  the  route  of  the 
Tyrol.  He  returned  to  Hamburg  in  1801,  and  re- 
sided there  some  weeks,  composing  his  Exile  of  Erin, 
and  Ye  Mariners  of  Enyl and.  The  former  was  sug- 
gested by  an  incident  like  that  which  befell  Smollett 
at  Boulogne,  namely,  meeting  with  a party  of  exiles 
who  retained  a strong  love  of  their  native  country, 
and  a mournful  remembrance  of  its  wrongs  and 
sufferings.  So  jealous  was  the  British  government 
of  that  day,  tliat  tlie  poet  was  suspected  of  being  a 
spy;  and  on  his  arrival  in  Edinburgh,  was  subjected 
to  an  examination  by  the  authorities!  He  lived  in 
Edinburgh,  enjoying  its  literarj’  society  for  upwards 
of  a year,  and  there  wrote  his  LochkVs  Warning. 


Alison  Square,  Edinburgh.* 


This  poem  being  read  in  manuscript  to  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  he  requested  a perusal  of  it  himself,  and  then 
repeated  the  whole  from  memory — a striking  in- 
stance of  the  great  minstrel’s  powers  of  recollection. 
In  1803  Mr  Campbell  repaired  to  London,  and  de- 
voted himself  to  literature  as  a profession.  He  re- 
sided for  some  time  in  the  house  of  his  friend,  Mr 
Telford,  the  celebrated  engineer.  Telford  continued 
his  regard  for  the  poet  throughout  a long  life,  and 
remembered  him  in  his  will  by  a legacy  of  £500.f 

♦ The  Pleasures  of  Hope  were  written  in  this  square. 

t A similar  amount  was  bequeathed  to  Mr  Southey,  and, 
*ith  s good  luck  which  one  would  wish  to  see  always  attend 


Mr  Campbell  wrote  several  papers  for  the  Edinburgh 
Encyclopaidia  (of  which  Telford  had  some  share), 
including  poetical  biograidiies,  an  account  of  the 
drama,  and  an  elaborate  historical  notice  of  Great 
Britain.  He  also  compiled  Annals  of  Great  Bri- 
tain, from  the  Accession  of  George  III.  to  the  Peace 
of  Amiens,  in  three  volumes.  Such  comjiilations  can 
only  be  considered  in  the  light  of  mental  drudgery ; 
but  Campbell,  like  Goldsmith,  could  impart  grace 
and  interest  to  task-work.  In  1806.  through  the 
influence  of  Mr  Fox,  the  government  granted  a 
pension  to  the  poet — a well-merited  tribute  to  the 
author  of  those  national  strains.  Ye  Mariners  of 
I'ingland,  and  the  Battle  of  the  Baltic.  In  1809  was 
published  his  second  great  poem,  Gertrude  of  Wyom- 
ing, a Pennsylvanian  Tale.  The  subsequent  literary 
labours  of  Mr  Campbell  have  only,  as  regards  his 
poetical  fame,  been  subordinate  efforts.  The  best  of 
them  were  contributed  to  the  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine, which  he  edited  for  ten  years  (from  1820  to 
1830)  ; .and  one  of  these  minor  poems,  the  Last  Man, 
may  be  ranked  among  his  greatest  conceptions ; it  is 
like  a sketch  by  Michael  Angelo  or  Rembrandt 
Previous  to  this  time  the  poet  had  visited  Paris  ib 
company  with  Mrs  Siddons  and  John  Kenjble,  and 
enjoyed  the  sculptured  forms  and  other  works  of  art 
in  the  Louvre  with  such  intensity,  that  they  seemed 
to  give  his  mind  a new  sense  of  the  harmony  of  art 
— a new  visual  power  of  enjoying  beauty.  ‘ Every 
step  of  approach,’  he  says,  * to  the  presence  of  the 
A))ollo  Belvidere,  added  to  my  sensations,  and  all 
recollections  of  his  name  in  classic  poetry  swarmed 
on  my  mind  as  spontaneously  as  the  associations 
that  are  conjured  up  by  the  sweetest  music.’  In 
1818  he  again  visited  Germany,  and  on  his  return 
the  following  year,  he  published  his  Specimens  of  tin 
British  Poets,  with  biograjihical  and  critical  notices, 
in  seven  volumes.*  The  justness  and  beauty  of  his 
critical  dissertations  have  been  universally  admitted; 
some  of  them  are  perfect  models  of  clmste  yet  ani-  ; 
mated  criticism.  In  1820  Mr  Campbell  delivered  a | 
course  of  lectures  on  poetry  at  the  Surrey  institu-  ' 
tion;  in  1824  he  published  Theodric,  and  other  Poems;  | 
and,  though  busy  in  establishing  the  London  uni- 
versity, he  was,  in  1827,  honoured  with  the  griiceful  ' 
compliment  of  being  elected  lord  rector  of  the  uni-  ' 
versity  of  his  native  city.  This  distinction  was  i 

poets’  lega<^ies,  the  sums  were  nearly  doubled  in  consequence  ' 
of  the  testator’s  effects  far  exceeding  what  he  believed  to  be  { 
their  value.  Thomas  Telford  (1755-1834)  was  himself  a j 
rhjTTiester  in  his  youth.  lie  was  born  on  poetic  ground,  amidst  1 
the  scenes  of  old  Scottish  song,  green  hills,  and  the  other  ad- 
juncts of  a landscape  of  gieat  sylvan  and  pastoral  beauty. 
Eskdale,  his  native  district  (where  he  lived  till  nearly  twenty, 
first  as  a shepherd,  and  afterwards  as  a stone-mason),  was  also 
the  birthplace  of  Armstrong  and  Mickle.  Telford  wrote  a 
poem  descriptive  of  this  classic  dale,  but  it  is  only  a feeble 
paraphrase  of  Goldsmith.  He  addressed  an  epistle  to  Burns, 
part  of  which  is  published  by  Currie,  These  boyish  studies  j 
I and  predilections  contrast  strangely  with  the  severer  pursuits  | 
of  his  after  years  as  a mathematician  and  engineer.  In  hie  j 
original  occuj)ation  of  a stone-mason,  cutting  names  on  tomb-  | 
stones  (in  which  he  excelled),  we  can  fancy  him  cheering  his 
solitary  labours  with  visions  of  literary  eminence,  rivalling  the 
fame  of  Milton  or  Shakspeare;  but  it  is  dithcult  to  conceive 
him  at  the  same  time  dreaming  of  works  like  the  Menai 
Bridge  or  the  Pont-cy-sylte  aqueduct  in  Wales.  We  should  as 
soon  expect  to  see  the  ‘ gnarled  and  unwedgeable  oak  ‘ spring 
from  a graft  on  a myrtle.  He  had,  however,  received  an  early 
architectural  or  engineering  bias  by  poring  over  tlie  plates  and 
descriptions  in  Ilollin’s  history,  which  he  read  by  his  mother’s 
fireside,  or  in  the  open  air  while  herding  sheep.  Telford  was  a 
liberal-minded  and  benevolent  man. 

* A second  edition  of  this  work  was  publisned  in  1841,  in  on« 
large  volume,  edited,  with  care  and  taste,  by  Mr  Peter  Cun- 
ningham. 


370 


«JKTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


contimicd  and  heightened  by  liis  re-election  the  two 
followiiif;  years.  He  afterwards  (with  a revival  of 
his  early  love  of  wanderitijr)  made  a voyage  to 
Algiers,  of  w)\ich  he  jmblislied  an  account  in  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine,  since  collected  and  printed 
I in  two  volumes.  In  1842  he  published  the  Pilyrim 
of  Glencoe,  and  other  l^oems.  He  has  issued  various 
editions  of  his  poetical  works,  some  of  them  illus- 
trated by  Turner  and  Harvey ; and  they  continue  to 
delight  new  generations  of  readers,  by  whom  the  poet 
' is  regarded  with  the  veneration  due  to  an  established 
. and  popular  English  classic. 

The  genius  and  taste  of  Campbell  resemble  those 
I of  Gr.iy.  He  displays  the  same  delicacy  and  purity 
of  sentiment,  the  same  vivid  perception  of  beauty 
' and  ideal  loveliness,  equal  picturesqueness  and  ele- 
' vation  of  imagery,  and  the  same  lyrical  and  con- 
I centrated  power  of  expression.  The  diction  of  both 
, is  elaborately  choice  and  select.  Campbell  has 
greater  sweetness  and  gentleness  of  ptithos,  springing 
I ! from  deep  moral  feeling,  and  a refined  sensitiveness 
I i of  nature.  Neither  can  be  termed  boldly  original  or 
I inventive,  but  they  both  possess  sublimity — Gray  in 
! I his  two  magnificent  odes,  and  Campbell  in  various 
! I passages  of  the  ‘ Pleasures  of  Hope,’  and  especially 
in  his  war-songs  or  lyrics,  which  form  the  richest 
offering  ever  made  by  poetry  at  the  shrine  of  pa- 
triotism. The  gener.al  tone  of  his  verse  is  calm, 
uniform,  and  mellifluous — a stream  of  mild  harmony 
and  delicious  fancy  flowing  through  the  bosom- 
scenes  of  life,  with  images  scattered  separately,  like 
flowers,  on  its  surface,  and  beauties  of  expression 
interwoven  with  it — certain  words  and  phrases  of 
magical  power — which  never  quit  the  memory.  His 
style  rises  and  falls  gracefully  with  his  subject,  but 
without  any  appearance  of  imitative  harmony  or 
direct  resemblance.  In  his  highest  pulse  of  excite- 
ment, the  cadence  of  his  verse  becomes  deep  and 
strong,  without  losing  its  liquid  smoothness ; the 
stream  expands  to  a flood,  but  never  overflows  the 
limits  prescribed  by  a correct  taste  and  regulated 
magnificence.  The  Pindaric  flights  of  Gray  justi- 
fied bolder  and  more  rapid  transitions.  Description 
is  not  predominant  in  either  poet,  but  is  adopted  as 
an  auxiliary  to  some  deeper  emotion  or  sentiment. 
Campbell  seems,  however,  to  have  sympathised  more 
e.xtensively  with  nature,  and  to  have  studied  her 
phenomena  more  attentively  than  Gray.  His  resi- 
dence in  the  Highlands,  in  view  of  the  sea  and  wild 
Hebrides,  had  given  expansiveness  as  well  as  in- 
tensity to  his  solitary  contemplations.  His  sym- 
I pathies  are  also  more  widely  diversified  with  respect 
to  the  condition  of  humanity,  and  the  hopes  and 
I prospects  of  society.  With  all  his  classic  predilec- 
tions, he  is  not — as  he  has  himself  remarked  of 
Crabbe — a laudator  temporis  acti,  but  a decided  lover 
of  later  times.  Age  has  not  quenched  his  zeal  for 
public  freedom  or  the  unchained  exercise  of  the 
I human  intellect;  and,  with  equal  consistency  in 
j tastes  as  in  opinions,  he  is  now  meditating  a work 
on  Greek  literature,  by  which,  fifty  years  since,  he 
! first  achieved  distinction. 

Many  can  date  their  first  love  of  poetry  from  their 
perusal  of  Campbell.  In  youth,  the  ‘ Pleasures  of 
Hope’  is  generally  preferred  Like  its  elder  brother, 

I the  ‘ Pleasures  of  Imagination,’  the  poem  is  full  of 
i visions  of  romantic  beauty  and  unchecked  enthu- 
I siasm — 

! The  bloom  of  young  Desire,  and  purple  light  of  Love. 

I In  riper  years,  when  the  taste  becomes  matured, 
‘ Gertrude  of  Wyoming’  rises  in  estimation.  Its 
beautiful  home-scenes  go  more  closely  to  the  heart, 
jfiA  its  delineation  of  character  and  passion  evinces  a 
more  luxuriant  and  perfect  genius.  The  portrait  of 


the  savage  chief  Outalissi  is  finished  with  inimitable 
skill  and  truth : — 

Far  differently  the  mute  Oneyda  took 
His  calumet  of  peace  and  cup  of  joy  ; 

As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look  ; 

A soul  that  pity  touched,  but  never  shook ; 

Trained  from  his  tree-rocked  cradle  to  his  bier 
The  fierce  extreme  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive — fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 

A stoic  of  the  woods — a man  without  a tear. 

The  loves  of  Gertrude  and  Waldegrave,  the  pa- 
triarchal Albert,  and  the  sketches  of  rich  sequestered 
Pennsylvanian  scenery,  also  show  tlie  finished  art  of 
the  poet.  The  concluding  description  of  the  battle, 
and  the  death  of  the  heroine,  are  superior  to  any- 
thing in  the  ‘ Pleasures  of  Hope ;’  and  though  the 
plot  is  simple,  and  occasionally  obscure  (as  if  the 
fastidiousness  of  the  poet  had  made  him  reject  the 
ordinary  materials  of  a story),  the  poem  has  alto- 
gether so  much  of  the  dramatic  spirit,  that  its  cha- 
racters are  distinctly  and  vividly  impressed  on  the 
mind  of  the  reader,  and  the  valley  of  Wyoming, 
with  its  green  declivities,  lake,  and  forest,  instantly 
takes  its  place  among  the  imperishable  treasures  of 
the  memory.  The  poem  of  O'Connor’s  Child  is  an- 
other exquisitely  finished  and  pathetic  tale.  The 
rugged  and  ferocious  features  of  ancient  feudal 
manners  and  family  pride  ai.  there  dbplayed  in 
connection  with  female  suffering,  love,  and  beauty, 
and  with  the  romantic  and  warlike  colouring  suited 
to  the  country  and  the  times.  It  is  full  of  antique 
grace  and  passionate  energy — the  mingled  light  and 
gloom  of  the  wild  Celtic  character  and  imagination. 
Recollecting  the  dramatic  effect  of  these  tales,  and 
the  power  evinced  in  Lochiel  and  the  naval  odes,  we 
cannot  but  regret  that  Campbell  did  not,  in  his  days 
of  passion,  venture  into  the  circle  of  the  tragic 
drama,  a field  so  well  adapted  to  his  genius,  and 
essayed  by  nearly  all  his  great  poetical  contempo- 
raries. 

[Picture  of  Domestic  Lcnie.  | 

[From  the  ‘ Pleasures  of  Hope.’] 

Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  lover’s  thought 
Some  cottage-home,  from  towns  and  toil  remote, 
Where  love  and  lore  may  claim  alternate  hour*, 

With  peace  embosomeii  in  Idalian  bowers! 

Remote  from  busy  life’s  bewildered  way, 

O’er  all  his  heart  shall  Taste  and  Beauty  sway; 

Free  on  the  sunny  slope  or  winding  shore. 

With  hermit-steps  to  wander  and  adore! 

There  shall  he  love,  when  genial  morn  appears, 

Like  pensive  Beauty  smiling  in  her  tears. 

To  w-atch  the  brightening  roses  of  the  sky. 

And  muse  on  nature  with  a poet’s  eye ! 

And  when  the  sun’s  last  splendour  lights  the  deep. 
The  woods  and  waves,  and  murmuring  winds  asleep. 
When  fairy  harps  the  Hesperian  planet  hail. 

And  the  lone  cuckoo  sighs  along  the  vale. 

His  path  shall  be  where  streamy  mountains  swell 
Their  shadowy  grandeur  o’er  the  narrow  dell ; 

Where  mouldering  piles  and  forests  inten-ene, 
Mingling  with  darker  tints  the  living  green ; 

No  circling  hills  his  ravished  eye  to  bound. 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean  blazing  all  around ! 

The  moon  is  up — the  watch-tower  dimly  bums- 
And  down  the  vale  his  sober  step  returns ; 

But  pauses  oft  as  w-inding  rocks  convey 
The  still  sweet  fall  of  music  far  away ; 

And  oft  he  lingers  from  his  home  awhile. 

To  watch  the  dying  notes,  and  start,  and  smile  I 
Let  winter  come  I let  polar  spirits  sweep 
The  darkening  world,  and  tempest-trcubled  deep; 

871 


FIIOM  1780 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TII.L  THE  I’llESENl  T Jlfc 


Though  boundless  snows  the  withered  heath  deform, 
And  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders  through  the  storm. 
Vet  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  repay. 

With  mental  light,  the  melancholy  day! 

And  when  its  short  and  sullen  noon  is  o’er. 

The  ice-chained  waters  slumbering  on  the  shore, 

How  bright  the  faggots  in  his  little  hall 
Blaze  on  the  hearth,  and  warm  the  pictured  wall  I 
How  blest  he  names,  in  love’s  familiar  tone. 

The  kind  fair  friend  by  nature  marked  his  own  ; 

And,  in  the  waveless  mirror  of  his  mind. 

Views  the  fleet  years  of  pleasure  left  behind. 

Since  when  her  empire  o’er  his  heart  began — 

Since  first  be  called  her  his  before  the  holy  man  ! 

Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rustic  dome. 

And  liglit  the  wintry  paradise  of  home  ; 

And  let  the  half-uncurtained  window  hail 
Some  wayworn  man  benighted  in  the  vale! 

Now,  while  the  moaning  night-wind  rages  high, 

As  sweep  the  shot-stars  down  the  troubled  sky; 
While  fiery  hosts  in  heaven’s  wide  circle  play. 

And  bathe  in  lurid  light  the  milky  way ; 

Safe  from  the  storm,  the  meteor,  and  the  shower. 
Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the  solemn  hour  ; 
With  pathos  shall  command,  with  wit  beguile 
A generous  tear  of  anguish,  or  a smile  1 

[Battle  of  Wyoming,  and  Death  of  Gertrude.'\ 

Heaven’s  verge  extreme 
Reverberates  the  bomb’s  descending  star — 

And  sounds  that  mingled  laugh,  and  shout,  and 
scream. 

To  freeze  the  blood,  in  one  discordant  jar. 

Rung  to  the  pealing  thunderbolts  of  war. 

Whoop  after  whooj)  with  rack  the  ear  assailed. 

As  if  unearthly  fiends  had  burst  their  bar  ; 

While  rapidly  the  marksman’s  shot  prevailed: 

And  aye,  as  if  for  death,  some  lonely  trumpet  wailed. 

Then  looked  they  to  the  hills,  where  fire  o’erhung 
The  bandit  groups  in  one  Vesuvian  glare  ; 

Or  swept,  far  seen,  the  tower,  whose  clock  unrung. 
Told  legible  that  midnight  of  despair. 

She  faints — she  falters  not — the  heroic  fair. 

As  he  the  sword  and  plume  in  haste  arrayed. 

One  short  embrace — he  clasp’d  his  dearest  care  ; 

But  hark  ! what  nearer  war-drum  shakes  the  glade  ! 
Joy,  joy ! Columbia’s  friends  are  trampling  through 
the  shade  1 

Then  came  of  every  race  the  mingled  swarm. 

Far  rung  the  groves  and  gleamed  the  midnight  grass 
With  flambeau,  javelin,  and  naked  arm  ; 

As  warriors  wheeled  their  culverins  of  brass. 

Sprung  from  the  woods,  a bold  athletic  mass, 

Whom  virtue  fires,  and  liberty  combines  : 

And  first  the  wild  Moravian  yagers  pass. 

His  plumed  host  the  dark  Iberian  joins  ; 

And  Scotia’s  sword  beneath  the  Highland  thistle 
shines. 

And  in  the  buskined  hunters  of  the  deer 
To  Albert’s  home  with  shout  and  cymbal  throng: 
Roused  by  their  warlike  pomp,  and  mirth,  and  cheer, 
Old  Outalissi  woke  his  battle-song, 

And,  beating  with  his  war-club  cadence  strong. 

Tells  how  his  deep-stung  indignation  smarts ; 

Of  them  that  wrapt  his  house  in  flames,  erelong 
To  whet  a dagger  on  their  stony  hearts. 

And  smile  avenged  ere  yet  his  eagle  spirit  part*. 

Calm,  opposite  the  Christian  father  rose, 

Sale  on  his  venerable  brow  its  rays 
f martyr-light  the  conflagration  throws; 

One  hand  upon  his  lovely  child  he  lays. 


And  one  the  uncovered  crowd  to  silence  sways  ; 
While,  though  the  battle-flash  is  faster  driven — 
Unawed,  with  eye  unstartled  by  the  blaze. 

He  for  his  bleeding  country  prays  to  Heaven, 

Prays  that  the  men  of  blood  themselves  may  be  for- 
given. 

Short  time  is  now  for  gratulating  speech  : 

And  yet,  beloved  Gertrude,  ere  began 

Thy  country’s  flight  yon  distant  towers  to  reach. 

Looked  not  on  thee  the  rudest  partisan 

With  brow  relaxed  to  love  ? And  murmurs  ran. 

As  round  and  round  their  willing  ranks  they  drew. 
From  beauty’s  sight  to  shield  the  hostile  van. 
Grateful  on  them  a placid  look  she  threw. 

Nor  wept,  but  as  she  bade  her  mother’s  grave  adieu  ! 

Past  was  the  flight,  and  welcome  seemed  the  tower, 
That  like  a giant  standard-bearer  frowned 
Defiance  on  the  roving  Indian  power. 

Beneath,  each  bold  and  promontory  mound 
With  embrasure  embossed  and  armour  crowned. 

And  arrowy  frize,  and  wedged  ravelin. 

Wove  like  a diadem  its  tracery  round 
The  lofty  summit  of  that  mountain  green  ; 

Here  stood  secure  the  group,  and  eyed  a distant  scene, 

A scene  of  death ! where  fires  beneath  the  sun. 

And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow; 

And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done. 

Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seemed  to  blow  : 

There,  sad  spectatress  of  her  country’s  wo  ! 

The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm, 

Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasped  her  hands  of  snow 
On  Waldegrave’s  shoulder,  half  within  his  arm 
Enclosed,  that  felt  her  heart,  and  hushed  its  wild 
alarm  ! 

But  short  that  contemplation — sad  and  short 
The  pause  to  bid  each  much-loved  scene  adieu  1 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort. 

Where  friendly  swords  were  drawn,  and  banners  flew  ; 
Ah  ! who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 
Was  near  ? — yet  there,  with  lust  of  murderous  deeds. 
Gleamed  like  a basilisk,  from  woods  in  view. 

The  ambushed  foeman’s  eye — his  volley  speeds, 

."kiid  Albert,  Albert  falls  ! the  dear  old  father  bleedo  ! 

And  tranced  in  giddy  horror,  Gertrude  swooned  ; 

Yet,  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone. 

Say,  burst  they,  borrowed  from  her  father’s  wound. 
These  drops?  Oh  God  ! the  lifc-blpod  is  her  own  1 
And  faltering,  on  her  Waldegrave’s  bosom  thrown — 

‘ Weep  not,  U love  !’  she  cries,  ‘ to  see  me  bleed  ; 
Thee,  Gertrude’s  sad  survivor,  thee  alone 
Heaven’s  peace  commiserate  ; for  scarce  I heed 
These  wounds;  yet  thee  to  leave  is  death,  is  death 
indeed  ! 

Clasp  me  a little  longer  on  the  brink 
Of  fate  ! while  I can  feel  thy  dear  caress  ; 

And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat — oh ! think. 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  wo’s  excess. 

That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness. 

And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 

Oh  ! by  that  retrospect  of  happiness. 

And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 

God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs — when  I am  laid  in  dust ! 

Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I depart. 

The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, 
Where  ray  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart. 

And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstacy  to  rove 
With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 
Of  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 
In  heaven  ; for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 

And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last  1 

No  ! I shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is  past. 

372 


ENGLISH  LITEllATURE. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


Half  could  I bear,  metliinks,  to  leave  this  earth, 

And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun, 

If  1 had  lived  to  smile  hut  on  the  birth 

Of  one  dear  pledge.  But  shall  there  then  be  none, 

In  future  times — no  gentle  little  one 
To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me  ? 

Yet  seems  it,  even  while  life’s  last  pulses  run, 

A sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be. 

Lord  of  my  bosom’s  love  1 to  die  beholding  thee  !’ 
Hushed  were  his  Gertrude’s  lips!  but  still  their  bland 
And  beautiful  expression  seemed  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die  1 and  still  his  hand 
She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 

Ah,  heart ! where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt. 

And  features  yet  that  spoke  a soul  more  fair. 

JIute,  gazing,  agonizing  as  he  knelt — 

Of  them  that  stood  encircling  his  despair 
He  heard  some  friendly  words ; but  knew  not  what 
they  were. 

For  now  to  mourn  their  judge  and  child  arrives 
A faithful  band.  With  solemn  rites  between, 

’Twas  sung  how  they  were  lovely  in  their  lives. 

And  in  their  deaths  had  not  divided  been. 

Touched  by  the  music  and  the  melting  scene. 

Was  scarce  one  tearless  eye  amidst  the  crowd — 

Stern  warriors,  resting  on  their  swords,  were  seen 
To  veil  their  eyes,  as  passed  each  much-loved  shroud — 
While  woman’s  softer  soul  in  wo  dissolved  aloud. 
Then  mournfully  the  parting  bugle  bid 
Its  farewell  o’er  the  grave  of  worth  and  truth  ; 

Prone  to  the  dust  afflicted  Waldegrave  hid 
His  face  on  earth ; him  watched,  in  gloomy  ruth. 

His  woodland  guide : but  words  had  none  to  soothe 
The  grief  that  knew  not  consolation’s  name ; 

Casting  his  Indiati  mantle  o’er  the  youth. 

He  watched,  beneath  its  folds,  each  burst  that  came. 
Convulsive,  ague-like,  across  his  shuddering  frame  1 
‘ And  I could  weep,’  the  Oneyda  chief 
His  descant  wildly  thus  begun  ; 

‘ But  that  I may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  my  father’s  son. 

Or  bow  this  head  in  wo  ! 

For,  by  my  wrongs,  and  by  my  wrath. 

To-morrow  Affiouski’s  breath. 

That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death. 

Shall  light  us  to  the  foe : 

And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy. 

The  foeman’s  blood,  the  avenger’s  joy  1 
But  thee,  my  flower,  whose  breath  was  given 
By  milder  genii  o’er  the  deep. 

The  spirits  of  the  white  man’s  heaven 
Forbid  not  thee  to  weep  : 

Nor  will  the  Christian  host. 

Nor  will  thy  father’s  spirit  grieve, 

To  see  thee,  on  the  battle’s  ere. 

Lamenting,  take  a mournful  leave 
Of  her  who  loved  thee  most : 

She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight! 

Thy  sun — thy  heaven — of  lost  delight! 

To-morrow  let  us  do  or  die. 

But  when  the  bolt  of  death  is  hurled. 

Ah  ! whither  then  with  thee  to  fly. 

Shall  Outalissi  roam  the  world? 

Seek  we  thy  once-loved  home  ? 

The  hand  is  gone  that  cropt  its  flowers ; 

Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours  ; 

Cold  is  the  hearth  within  their  bowers; 

And  should  we  thither  roam. 

Its  echoes  and  its  empty  tread 

Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead!  , 

Or  shall  we  cross  yon  mountains  blue,  ' 

Whose  streams  my  kindred  nation  quaffed. 

And  by  my  side,  in  battle  true, 

A thousand  warriors  drew  the  shaft  ? 


Ah!  there,  in  desolation  cold. 

The  desert  serpent  dwells  alone. 

Where  grass  e’ergrows  each  mouldering  bone, 
And  stones  themselves  to  ruin  grown. 

Like  me,  are  death-like  old. 

Then  seek  we  not  their  camp  ; for  there 
The  silence  dwells  of  my  despair ! 

But  hark,  the  trump  ! to-morrow  thou 
In  glory’s  fires  shalt  dry  thy  tears : 

Even  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father’s  awful  ghost  appears 
Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll; 

He  bids  my  soul  for  battle  thirst — 

He  bids  me  dry  the  last — the  first — 

The  only  tears  that  ever  burst 
From  Outalissi’s  soul ; 

Because  I may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief !’ 

Ye  Mariners  of  England, 

Ye  mariners  of  England! 

That  guard  our  native  seas ; 

VMiose  flag  has  braved  a thousand  years, 
The  battle  and  the  breeze  I 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep 
While  the  stormy  tempests  blow  ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 
And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 
Shall  start  from  every  wave  ! 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame^ 
And  ocean  was  their  grave  ; 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow. 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep 
While  the  .stormy  tempests  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark. 

No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 

Her  march  is  o’er  the  mountain-waves. 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 
She  quells  the  floods  below. 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore 
When  the  stormy  tempests  blow ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 
And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 
Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 

Till  danger’s  troubled  night  depart. 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  oceai'  warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  s lall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name. 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more. 
And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ! 

Hoheril  inden. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low. 

All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow. 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight. 

When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night. 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

373 


TROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


By  torcli  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 

Kach  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 

And  furious  every  charger  neighed 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 

Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven. 

And  louder  than  the  bjlts  of  heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden’s  hills  of  stained  snow, 

And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

’Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun. 

Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.  f)n,  ye  brave. 

Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 

Wave,  Munich  ! all  thy  banners  wave. 

And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry. 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet  ! 

The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet  ; 

And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a soldier’s  sepulchre. 

[From  ‘ The  Last  Man.’’'] 

All  worldly  snapes  sh.all  melt  in  gloom — 

The  sun  himself  must  die. 

Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 
Its  immortality  ! 

I saw  a vision  in  my  sleep. 

That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 
Adown  the  gulf  of  time! 

I saw  the  last  of  human  mould 
That  shall  creation’s  death  behold. 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime  1 

The  sun’s  eye  had  a sickly  glare. 

The  earth  with  age  was  wan ; 

The  skeletons  of  nations  were 
Around  that  lonely  man  ! 

Some  had  expired  in  fight — the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands — 

In  plague  and  famine  some: 

Earth’s  cities  had  no  sound  or  tread. 

And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 
To  shores  where  all  was  dumb  ! 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood. 

With  dauntless  words  and  high. 

That  shook  the  sere  lea’es  from  the  wood. 

As  if  a storm  passed  by  ; 

Saying,  ‘ Vt’e  are  twins  in  death,  proud  sun ; 

Tuy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

’Tis  mercy  bids  thee  go. 

For  thou,  ten  thousanil  thousand  years. 

Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears. 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 
That  gave  its  heavenly  spark  ; 

Yet  think  not,  sun,  it  shall  be  dim. 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark  ! 

No!  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine. 

By  Him  recalled  to  breath. 

Who  captive  led  captivity. 

Who  robbed  the  grave  of  victory. 

And  took  the  sting  from  death  !* 

* As  Mr  Campbell’s  poetical  works  are  small  in  bulk,  how- 
ever valuable,  we  should  not  have  quoted  even  so  many  as  the 
limited  number  of  specimens,  had  we  not  obtained  the  express 
oermissiun  of  the  author. 


MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS. 

Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  author  of  The 
Monk,  was  born  in  London  in  the  year  1773.  His 
father  was  deputy  secretary  in  the  war-office — a 
lucrative  situation — and  was  owner  also  of  extensive 
West  Indian  possessions.  Matthew  was  educated 
at  Westminster  school,  where  he  was  more  remark- 
able for  his  love  of  theatrieal  exhibitions  than  for 
his  love  of  learning.  On  leaving  Westminster,  he 
was  entered  of  Christ  Chureh  college,  Oxford,  but 
remained  only  a short  period,  being  sent  to  Germany 
with  the  view  of  acquiring  a knowledge  of  the  lan- 
guage of  that  country.  When  a child,  Lewis  had 


Matthew  Gregory  Lewis. 


pored  over  Glanville  on  Witches,  and  other  books 
of  diablerie ; and  in  Germany  he  found  abundant 
food  of  the  same  description,  llomance  and  the 
drama  were  his  favourite  studies ; and  whilst  resi- 
dent abroad,  he  composed  his  story  of  ‘ The  Monk,’ 
a work  more  extravagant  in  its  use  of  supernatural 
machinery  than  any  previous  English  tale  of  mo- 
dern times,  and  disfigured  with  passages  of  great 
licentiousness.  The  novel  was  published  in  1795,  and 
attracted  much  attention.  A prosecution,  it  is  said, 
was  threatened  on  account  of  the  peccant  scenes 
and  descriptions ; to  avert  which,  Lewis  pledged 
himself  to  recall  the  printed  copies,  and  to  recast 
the  work  in  another  edition.  The  author  continued 
through  life  the  same  strain  of  marvellous  and 
terrific  composition — now  clothing  it  in  verse,  now 
infusing  it  into  the  scenes  of  a drama,  and  at  other 
times  expanding  it  into  regular  tales.  His  Feudal 
Tyrants,  liomantic  Tales,  his  Tales  of  Terror,  and 
Tales  of  Wonder,  and  his  numerous  plays,  all  be- 
speak the  same  parentage  as  ‘ The  Monk,’  and  none 
of  them  excel  it.  His  best  poetry,  as  well  as  prose, 
is  to  be  found  in  this  novel;  for,  like  Mrs  Radcliffe, 
Lewis  introduced  poetical  compositions  into  his  tales ; 
and  his  ballads  of  Alonzo  the  Brave  and  Durandarte 
were  as  attractive  as  any  of  the  adventures  of  Am- 
brosio  the  monk.  Flushed  with  the  brilliant  success 
of  his  romance,  and  fond  of  distinction  and  high 
society,  Lewis  procured  a seat  in  parliament,  and 
was  returned  for  the  borough  of  Hindon.  He  found 
himself  disqualified  by  nature  for  playing  the  part 
of  an  orator  or  politician ; and  though  he  retained 

374 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MATTHEW  GREGORT  LEWI*. 


his  seat  till  the  ilissolution  of  parliament,  he  never 
attempted  to  address  the  house.  The  tlieatres  oHered 
a more  attractive  field  for  his  genius;  and  his  play 
of  The  Castle  Spectre,  produced  in  1797,  was  ap- 
plauded as  enthusiastically  and  more  universally 
than  his  romance.  Connected  with  his  dramatic 
fame  a very  interesting  anecdote  is  related  in  the 
Memoirs  and  Correspondence  of  Lewis,  published  in 
1839.  It  illustrates  his  native  benevolence,  which, 
amidst  all  the  frivolities  of  fashionable  life,  and  the 
excitement  of  misapplied  talents,  was  a conspicuous 
feature  in  his  character  : — 

‘ Being  oi  e autumn  on  his  w-ay  to  participate  in 
the  enjoyments  of  the  season  with  the  rest  of  the 
fashionable  world  at  a celebrated  watering-place,  he 
passed  through  a small  country  town,  in  w hich  chance 
occasioned  his  temporary  sojourn : here  also  were 
located  a company  of  strolling  players,  whose  per- 
formance he  one  evening  witnessed.  Among  them 
was  a young  actress,  whose  benefit  was  on  the  tapis, 
and  who,  on  hearing  of  the  arrival  of  a person  so 
talked  of  as  Monk  Lewis,  waited  upon  him  at  the 
inn,  to  request  the  very  trifling  favour  of  an  original 
piece  from  his  pen.  The  lady  pleaded  in  terms  that 
urged  the  spirit  of  benevolence  to  .advocate  her  cause 
in  a heart  never  closed  to  such  a])peal.  Lewis  had 
by  him  at  that  time  an  unpublished  trifle,  called 
“ The  Hindoo  Bride,”  in  which  a w idow  was  immo- 
lated on  the  funeral  pile  of  her  husband.  The  sub- 
ject was  one  well  suited  to  attract  a country  audience, 
and  he  determined  thus  to  appropriate  the  drama. 
The  delighted  suppliant  departed  all  joy  and  grati- 
tude at  being  requested  to  call  for  the  manuscript  the 
next  day.  Lewis,  however,  soon  discovered  that  he 
h.ad  been  reckoning  without  his  host,  for,  on  searching 
( the  travelling- desk  which  contained  many  of  his  pa- 
pers, “The  Bride”  w.as  nowhere  to  be  found,  having, 
in  fact,  lieen  left  behind  in  town.  Exceedingly  an- 
noyed by  this  circumstance,  which  there  was  no  time 
to  remedy,  the  dramatist  took  a pondering  stroll 

through  the  rural  environs  of  B A sudden 

shower  obliged  him  to  take  refuge  within  a huckster’s 
shop,  where  the  usual  curtained  half-glass  door  in 
the  rear  opened  to  an  adjoining  apartment : from 
this  room  he  heard  two  voices  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion, and  in  one  of  them  recognised  that  of  his  thea- 
trical petitioner  of  the  morning,  apparently  replying 
to  the  feebler  tones  of  age  and  infirmity.  “ There 
now’,  mother,  always  that  old  story — when  I’ve  just 
brought  such  good  news  too — after  I’ve  had  the 
face  to  c,all  on  Mr  Monk  Lewis,  and  found  him  so 
different  to  what  I expecteil ; so  good-humoured,  so 
affable,  and  willing  to  assist  me.  I did  not  say  a 
word  about  you,  mother;  for  though  in  some  respects 
it  might  have  done  good,  I thought  it  would  seem 
so  like  a begging  .affair;  so  I merely  represented  my 
late  ill-success,  and  he  promised  to  give  me  an  origi- 
nal drama,  which  he  had  with  him,  for  my  benefit. 
I hope  he  did  not  think  me  too  bold!”  “I  hope  not, 
Jane,”  replied  the  feeble  voice;  “ only  don’t  do  these 
things  again  without  consulting  me ; for  you  don’t 
know  the  world,  and  it  m.ay  be  thought — - — ” The 
sun  just  then  gave  a broad  hint  that  the  shower  liad 
ceased,  and  the  sympathising  author  returned  to  his 
inn,  and  having  penned  the  following  letter,  ordered 
post-horses,  and  despatched  a porter  to  the  young 
actress  with  the  epistle. 

“ Madam — I am  truly  sorry'  to  acquaint  you  that 
my  Hindoo  Bride  has  behaved  most  improperly — 
in  fact,  whether  the  lady  has  eloped  or  not,  it  seems 
she  does  not  choose  to  make  her  appearance,  either 
for  your  benefit  or  mine:  and  to  say  the  truth,  I 
don’t  at  this  moment  know  where  to  find  her.  I 
take  the  liberty  to  jest  upon  the  subject,  because  I 
really  do  not  thinl  you  will  have  any  cause  to  regret 


her  non-appc:irance;  having  had  an  opportunity  of 
witnessing  your  very  .adminible  i)crformance  of  a far 
supericr  character,  in  a style  true  to  nature,  and 
which  reflects  upon  you  the  highest  credit.  I allude 
to  a most  interesting  scene,  in  which  you  lately  sus- 
tained the  character  of  “ The  Daughter!”  Brides  of 
all  denominations  but  too  often  prove  their  empire 
delusive  ; but  the  character  you  have  chosen  will 
improve  upon  every  representation,  both  in  the  esti- 
mation of  the  public  and  the  satisfaction  of  your 
own  excellent  he,art.  For  the  infinite  gratification  I 
have  received,  I must  long  consider  myself  in  your 
debt.  Trusting  you  will  permit  the  enclosed  (fifty 
pounds)  in  some  measure  to  discharge  the  same,  I 
remain,  madam,  (with  sentiments  of  respect  and  ad- 
miration), your  sincere  well-wisher — M.  G.  Lewis.”’ 

In  1801  appeared  Lewis’s  ‘Tales  of  Wonder.’  A 
ghost  or  a witch  was,  he  said,  a sine  qua  non  ingre- 
dient in  all  the  dishes  of  which  he  meant  to  compose 
his  hobgoblin  repast,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  contributed 
to  It  some  of  his  noble  ballads.  Scott  met  Lewis  in 
Edinburgh  in  1798,  and  so  humble  were  then  his 
own  aspirations,  and  so  brilliant  the  reputation  of 
the  ‘ Monk,’  that  he  declared,  thirty  years  after- 
wards, he  never  felt  such  elation  as  when  Lewis 
asked  him  to  dine  with  him  at  bis  hotel ! Lewis 
schooled  the  great  poet  on  his  incorrect  rhyme,  and 
proved  himself,  as  Scott  says,  ‘a  martinet  in  the 
accur.acy  of  rhymes  and  numbers.’  Sir  Walter  has 
recorded  that  Lewis  was  fonder  of  great  people  than 
he  ought  to  have  been,  either  as  a man  of  talent  or 
as  a man  of  fashion.  ‘ He  had  always,’  he  says, 

‘ dukes  and  duchesses  in  bis  mouth,  and  was  pathe- 
tically fond  of  any  one  that  had  a title : you  would 
have  sworn  he  had  been  a parvenu  of  yesterday;  yet 
he  had  lived  all  his  life  in  good  society.’’’’  Yet  Scott 
regarded  Lewis  with  no  small  affection.  ‘ He  was,’ 
added  be,  ‘one  of  the  kindest  and  best  creatures 
that  ever  lived.  His  father  and  mother  lived  sepa- 
rately. Jlr  Lewis  allowed  his  son  a handsome  in- 
come, but  reduced  it  by  more  than  one-half  when 
he  found  th.at  he  paid  his  mother  a moiety  of  it. 
Mat.  restricted  himself  in  all  bis  expenses,  and 
shared  the  diminished  income  with  her  as  before. 
He  did  much  good  by  stealth,  and  w'as  a most  gene- 
rous creature.’  The  sterling  worth  of  his  character 
has  been  illustrated  by  the  publication  of  his  cor- 
respondence, which,  slumbering  twenty  years  after 
his  death,  first  disclosed  to  the  public  the  calm  good 
sense,  discretion,  and  right  feeling  which  were  con- 
cealed by  the  exaggerated  romance  of  bis  writings, 
and  his  gay  .and  frivolous  appearance  and  manners. 
The  death  of  Lewis’s  father  made  the  poet  a man  of 

* Of  this  weakness  Byron  records  an  amusing  instance  : — 
‘ Lewis,  at  Oatlands,  was  observed  one  morning  to  have  his 
eyes  red  and  liis  air  sentimental : being  asked  vhy?  he  replied, 
that  alien  people  said  anytliing  kind  to  Inm  it  affected  him 
deeply,  “ and  just  now  tlie  Duchess  (of  York)  has  said  some- 
thing so  kind  to  me,  that—"  liere  tears  began  to  How.  “ Never 
mind,  Lewis,"  said  Colonel  Armstrong  to  him,  “never  mind 
— don't  cry — she  could  not  mean  it.’’’  Lewis  was  of  e.\treme!y 
diminutive  statin-e.  ‘ I remember  a picture  of  him,’  says  Scott, 
‘ hy  Saunders,  being  handed  round  at  Dalkeith  house.  The 
artist  had  ingeniously  flung  a dark  folding  mantle  around  the 
form,  under  which  was  half  hid  a dagger,  a dark  lantern,  or 
some  such  cut-throat  appurten.ance.  With  all  this,  the  fea- 
tures were  preserved  and  ennobled.  It  passed  from  hand  to 
hand  into  that  of  Henry  Duke  of  Buceleuch,  who,  hearing  the 
general  voice  aflirm  that  it  was  very  like — said  aloud,  “ Like 
Mat.  Lewis!  Why,  tliat  picture's  like  a Man!"  He  looked, 
and  lo ! Mat.  Lewis’s  liead  was  at  his  elbow-.  This  boyishness 
went  through  life  with  him.  He  was  a child,  and  a spoiled 
child — but  a chdd  of  high  imagination,  and  so  he  wasted  him- 
self on  ghost  stories  and  German  romances.  He  had  the  finest 
ear  for  the  rhythm  of  verse  I ever  met  w-ith-^finer  tbaa 
Byron’s.’ 

375 


FROM  1780 


cyclop71<:dia  of 


T.  IL  TIIK  PRESENT  riMT. 


imlependcnt  fortuiip.  lie  succeeded  to  coiisideriible 
plantations  in  the  West  Indies,  besides  a lar(;e  sum 
of  money;  and  in  order  to  ascertain  personally  the 
condition  of  the  slaves  on  bis  estate,  be  sailed  for 
the  West  Indies  in  18I.1.  Of  this  voyage  he  wrote 
a narrative,  and  kept  journals,  forming  the  most 
interesting  and  valuable  jiroduetion  of  his  pen.  'J’be 
manner  in  which  the  negroes  received  him  on  his 
arrival  amongst  them  he  thus  describes: — 

‘As  soon  as  the  carriage  entered  my  gates,  the 
uproar  and  confusion  which  ensued  sets  all  descrip- 
tion at  defiance.  The  works  were  instantly  all 
abandoned  ; everything  that  had  life  came  flocking 
to  the  house  from  all  quarters;  and  not  only  the 
men.  ami  the  women,  and  the  children,  but,  “by  a 
bland  assimilation,”  the  hogs,  and  the  dogs,  and  the 
geese,  and  the  fowls,  and  the  turkeys,  all  came 
hurrying  ;ilong  hy  instinct,  to  see  what  could  pos- 
sibly be  the  matter,  and  seemed  to  be  afraid  of 
arriving  too  late.  Whether  the  pleasure  of  the 
negroes  was  sincere,  may  Ije  doubted  ; but,  certainly, 
it  was  the  loudest  that  I ever  witnessed;  they  all 
talked  together,  sang,  danced,  shouted,  and,  in  the 
violence  of  their  gesticulations,  tumbled  over  each 
other,  and  rolled  about  upon  the  grouncL  Twenty 
voices  at  once  inquired  after  uncles,  and  aunts,  and 
grandfathers,  and  gre;it-grandmotbers  of  mine,  who 
luul  been  buried  long  before  I was  in  existence,  and 
whom,  I verily  helieve,  most  of  them  only  knew  by 
tradition.  One  woman  held  up  her  little  naked 
black  cbild  to  me,  grinning  from  car  to  ear — “ Look, 
massa,  look  here!  him  nice  lilly  neger  for  massa !” 
Another  complained — “ So  long  since  none  come  see 
we,  massa ; good  massa  come  at  last.”  As  for  the 
old  people,  they  were  all  in  one  and  the  same  story: 
now  they  had  lived  once  to  see  massa,  they  were 
ready  for  dying  to-morrow — “ them  no  care.” 

The  shouts,  the  gaiety,  the  wild  laughter,  their 
strange  and  sudden  bursts  of  singing  and  dancing, 
and  several  old  women,  wrapped  uj)  in  large  cloaks, 
their  heads  bound  round  with  different-coloured 
handkerchiefs,  leaning  on  a staff,  and  standing  mo- 
tionless in  the  middle  of  the  hubbub,  with  their  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  portico  which  I occupied,  formed  an 
exact  counterpart  of  the  festivity  of  the  witches  in 
Macbeth.  Nothing  could  be  more  odd  or  more 
novel  than  the  whole  .scene ; and  yet  there  was 
something  in  it  by  wiiich  I could  not  help  being 
affected.  Perhaps  it  was  the  consciousness  that  all 
these  human  beings  were  my  slaves.  To  lx;  sure,  I 
never  saw  people  look  more  happy  in  my  life,  and  I 
believe  their  condition  to  be  much  more  comfortable 
than  that  of  the  labourers  of  Great  Britain : and, 
after  all,  slavery  in  their  case  is  but  another  name 
for  servitude,  now  that  no  more  negroes  can  be  for- 
cibly carried  away  from  Africa,  and  subjected  to  the 
horrors  of  the  voyage,  and  of  the  se.asoning  after 
their  arrivid.  But  still  I had  already  experienced, 
in  the  morning,  that  .Juliet  was  wrong  in  saying 
“ What’s  in  a name?”  for,  soon  after  my  reaching 
the  lodging-house  at  Savannah  la  Mar,  a remarkably 
clean-looking  negro  lad  presented  himself  with  some 
w'ater  and  a towel.  I concluded  him  to  belong  to 
the  inn  ; and  on  my  returning  the  towel,  as  he  found 
that  I took  no  notice  of  him,  he  at  length  ventured 
to  introduce  himself,  by  s.aying,  “ Massa  not  know 
me — me  your  slave!”  and  really  the  sound  made  me 
feel  a pang  at  the  heart.  The  lad  appeared  all 
gaiety  and  good  humour,  and  his  whole  countenance 
expressed  anxiety  to  recommend  himself  to  my 
notice  ; but  the  word  “ slave”  seemed  to  imply  that, 
although  lie  did  feel  pleasure  then  in  serving  me,  if 
he  had  detested  me  he  must  have  served  me  still. 
I really  felt  quite  humiliated  at  the  moment,  and 
>fas  tempted  to  tell  him — “ Do  not  say  that  again  ; 


say  that  you  are  my  negro,  but  do  not  call  yourself 
my  slave.”’ 

Lewis  returned  to  Enghind  in  1816,  but  went  back 
to  .Jamaica  the  following  year.  He  found  th.at  his 
attorney  had  grossly  mismanaged  his  property,  being 
generally  absent  on  business  of  bis  own,  and  intrust- 
ing the  whole  to  an  overseer,  who  was  of  a tyrannical 
disposition.  Having  adjusted  his  affairs  the  ‘ Monk’ 
embarked  on  his  return  home.  'J'he  climate,  how- 
ever, had  impaired  his  health,  and  he  died  of  fever 
while  the  ship  w:is  passing  through  the  Gulf  of 
Florida,  in  .July  1818.  J.ewis  may  thus  be  said  to 
have  fallen  a martyr  to  his  love  of  justice  and  hu- 
tnanity,  and  the  circumstance  sheds  a lustre  on  his 
memory  far  surp;issing  mere  literary  fame.  His 
poetical  merits  are  thus  fairly  summed  up  : ‘ Pretty 
conceits  airily  tricked  out  in  what  are  called  songs; 
in  his  more  elaborate  efforts  melodious,  skilfully- 
varied  versification,  and  here  and  there  a line  of 
such  happy  ease  in  construction,  that  it  is  sure  to 
linger  on  the  ear;  but  a slender  command  either  of 
imagery  or  of  passion.  As  a poet,  Ix*wis  is  to  a 
Byron  what  a scene-painter  is  to  a Hobbima.  He 
produces  a startling  grotesque  of  outline,  and  some 
grand  massy  contrasts  of  light  and  shade;  but  he 
has  no  notion  of  working  in  detail — no  atmosphere, 
no  middle  tints  to  satisfy  a ihiylight  spectator.  'I'lie 
subject  of  the  Isle  of  Devils  (a  poem  of  mure  than 
a thousand  lines,  which  Lewis  wrote  in  the  course 
of  his  homeward  voyage  in  1816)  would,  in  Lord 
Byron's  hands,  have  at  least  rivalled  the  effect  of 
Manfred  ; from  Lewis  it  comes  only  in  the  shape  of  a 
sketchy  e.xtravaganza,  in  which  no  feeling  is  seriously 
grapjiled  with,  and  a score  of  magnificent  situations 
are,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  except  that  of  filling 
the  ear  with  a succession  of  delicious  sounds,  thrown 
away.  The  truth  is,  that  though  Sir  Walter  Scott 
talks  of  the  “ high  imagination”  of  Lewis,  it  was  only 
in  his  very  first  flights  that  he  ever  was  able  to  main- 
tain a really  enthusiastic  elevation  ; and  he  did  so 
more  successfully  in  the  prose  of  the  ‘ Monk’  than  in 
the  best  of  his  early  ver.ses.  Had  he  lived,  in  all  like- 
lihood he  would  have  turned  in  earnest  to  prose  com- 
position ; and  we  think  no  reader  of  his  West  India 
Journals  can  doubt  that,  if  he  had  undertaken  a 
novel  of  manners  in  mature  age,  he  would  have  cast 
immeasurably  into  the  shade  even  the  happiest 
efforts  of  his  boyish  romance.’  * 

Durandarte  and  Belerma. 

Sad  and  fearful  is  the  story 
Of  the  Ronocvalles  fight ; 

On  those  fatal  plains  of  glory 
Perished  many  a gallant  knight. 

There  fell  Durand.arte;  never 
Ver.se  a nobler  chieftain  named; 

He,  before  his  lips  for  ever 
Closed  in  silence,  thus  exclaimed : 

‘ Oh,  Belerma  ! oh,  my  dear  one. 

For  my  pain  and  pleasure  born  ; 

Seven  long  years  1 served  thee,  fair  ote. 

Seven  long  years  ray  fee  was  scorn. 

And  when  now  thy  heart,  replying 
To  my  wishes,  burns  like  mine. 

Cruel  fate,  my  bliss  denying. 

Bids  me  every  hope  resign. 

Ah ! though  young  I fall,  believe  me. 

Death  would  never  claim  a sigh  ; 

’Tis  to  lo.se  thee,  ’tis  to  leave  thee, 

Makes  me  think  it  hard  to  die  ! 

* Qnaiterly  Review  for  1834. 


376 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Oh!  niy  cuusiii,  Montc.sinos, 

Ry  that  friendship  firm  and  dear, 

Which  from  youth  has  lived  between  us, 
Now  my  last  petition  hear. 

When  my  soul,  these  limbs  forsaking, 
Kager  seeks  a purer  air, 

From  my  breast  the  cold  heart  taking. 
Give  it  to  Relerma’s  care. 

Say,  I of  my  lands  possessor 
Named  her  with  my  dying  breath; 

Say,  my  lips  1 eped  to  bless  her. 

Ere  they  closed  for  aye  in  death : 

Twice  a- week,  too,  how  sincerely 
I adored  her,  cousin,  say  ; 

Twice  a-week,  for  one  who  dearly 
Loved  her,  cousin,  bid  her  pray. 

Montesinos,  now  the  hour 
Marked  by  fate  is  near  at  hand ; 

Lo ! my  arm  has  lost  its  power ; 

Lo ! J Irop  my  trusty  brand. 

Eyes,  which  forth  beheld  me  going. 
Homewards  ne’er  shall  see  me  hie; 

Cousin,  stop  those  tears  o’erflowing. 

Let  me  on  thy  bosom  die. 

Thy  kind  hand  my  eyelids  closing. 

Yet  one  fav  >ur  I implore — 

Pray  thou  fir  my  soul’s  reposing. 

When  my  heart  shall  throb  no  more. 

So  shall  .Jesus,  still  attending, 

Gracious  to  a Christian’s  vow. 

Pleased  accept  my  ghost  ascending. 

And  a seat  in  heaven  allow.’ 

Thus  spoke  givllant  Durandarte ; 

Soon  his  brave  heart  broke  in  twain. 
Greatly  joyed  the  Moorish  party 
That  the  gallant  knight  was  slain. 

Bitter  weeping,  Montesinos 

Took  from  him  his  helm  and  glaive; 

Bitter  weeping,  Jlontesinos 
Dug  his  gallant  cousin’s  grave. 

To  perfirrm  his  promise  made,  he 
Cut  the  heart  from  out  the  breast. 

That  Belerma,  wretched  lady  1 
Might  receive  the  last  bequest. 

Sad  was  Montesinos'  heart,  he 
Felt  distre.ss  his  bosom  rend. 

‘ Oh  ! my  cousin,  Durandarte, 

Wo  is  me  to  view  thy  end  1 
Sweet  in  manners,  fair  in  favour. 

Mild  in  temper,  fierce  in  fight. 

Warrior  nobler,  gentler,  braver, 

Never  shall  behold  the  light. 

Cousin,  lo  ! ray  tears  bedew  thee  ; 

How  shall  I thy  lo.ss  survive? 

Durandarte,  he  who  slew  thee. 

Wherefore  left  he  me  alive  V 

Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  Fair  Imagine. 

A warrior  so  bold,  and  a virgin  so  bright. 
Conversed  as  they  sat  on  the  green  ; 

They  gazed  on  each  other  with  tender  delight ; 
Alonzo  the  Brave  was  the  name  of  the  knight — • 
The  maiden’s,  the  Fair  Imogine. 

‘ And,  oh  !’  said  the  youth,  ‘ since  to-morrow  I go 
To  fight  in  a far  distant  land. 

Your  tears  for  my  absence  soon  ceasing  to  flow. 
Some  other  will  court  you,  and  you  will  bestow 
On  a wealthier  suitor  your  hand  1’ 


MATTIIKW  OltnOORT  LEWIS. 


‘Oh!  hush  these  suspicions,’  Fair  Imogine  said, 

‘ Oft'ensive  to  love  and  to  me  ; 

For,  if  you  be  Living,  or  if  you  be  dead, 

I swear  by  the  Virgin  that  none  in  your  stead 
Shall  husband  of  Imogine  be. 

If  e’er  I,  by  lust  or  by  wealth  led  aside. 

Forget  my  Alonzo  the  Brave, 

God  grant  that,  to  punish  my  falsehood  and  pride. 
Your  ghost  at  the  marriage  may  sit  by  my  side. 

May  tax  me  with  perjury,  claim  me  as  bride. 

And  bear  me  away  to  the  grave !’ 

To  Palestine  hastened  the  hero  so  bold. 

His  love  she  lamented  him  sore ; 

But  scarce  had  a twelvemonth  elapsed,  when,  behold 
A baron,  all  covered  with  jewels  and  gold, 

Arrived  at  Fair  Iraogine’s  door. 

His  treasures,  his  presents,  his  spacious  domain. 

Soon  made  her  untrue  to  her  vows ; 

He  dazzled  her  eyes,  he  bewildered  her  brain  ; 

He  caught  her  affections,  so  light  and  so  vain. 

And  carried  her  home  as  his  spouse. 

And  now  had  the  marriage  been  blest  by  the  priest ; 

The  revelry  now  was  begun  ; 

The  tables  they  groaned  with  the  weight  of  the  feast. 
Nor  yet  had  the  laughter  and  merriment  ceased, 
When  the  bell  at  the  castle  tolled — one. 

Then  first  with  amazement  Fair  Imogine  found 
A stranger  was  placed  by  her  side : 

His  air  was  terrific  ; he  uttered  no  .sound — 

He  spake  not,  he  moved  not,  he  looked  not  around — 
But  earnestly  gazed  on  the  bride. 

His  vizor  was  closed,  and  gigantic  his  height. 

His  armour  was  sable  to  view  ; | 

All  pleasure  and  laughter  were  hushed  at  his  sight ; 
The  dogs,  as  they  eyed  him,  drew  back  in  affright; 
The  lights  in  the  chamber  burned  blue! 

His  presence  all  bosoms  appeared  to  dismay; 

The  guests  sat  in  silence  and  fear ; 

At  length  spake  the  bride — while  she  trembled — ‘ 1 
pray. 

Sir  knight,  that  your  helmet  aside  you  would  lay. 
And  deign  to  partake  of  our  cheer.’ 

The  lady  is  silent ; the  stranger  complies — • 

His  vizor  he  slowly  unclosed  ; 

Oh,  God  I what  a sight  met  Fair  Imogine’s  eyes ! 
What  words  can  express  her  dismay  and  surprise 
When  a skeleton’s  head  was  exposed  1 

All  present  then  uttered  a terrified  shout. 

All  turned  with  di.sgust  from  the  scene ; 

The  worms  they  crept  in,  and  the  worms  they  crept  out, 
And  sported  his  eyes  and  his  temples  about. 

While  the  spectre  addressed  Imogine  : 

‘ Behold  me,  thou  false  one,  behold  me !’  he  cried, 

‘ Remember  Alonzo  the  Brave  ! 

God  grants  that,  to  punish  thy  falsehood  and  pride. 
My  ghost  at  thy  marriage  should  sit  by  thy  side ; 
Should  tax  thee  with  perjury,  claim  thee  as  bride. 
And  bear  thee  away  to  the  grave  !’ 

Thus  saying,  his  arms  round  the  lady  he  wound, 
While  loudly  she  shrieked  in  dismay ; 

Then  sunk  with  his  prey  through  the  wide-yawning 
ground. 

Nor  ever  again  was  Fair  Imogine  found. 

Or  the  spectre  that  bore  her  away. 

Not  long  lived  the  baron  ; and  none,  since  Ih.at  t me. 
To  inhabit  the  castle  presume  ; 

For  chronicles  tell  that,  by  order  sublime. 

There  Imogine  suffers  the  pain  of  her  enme. 

And  mourns  her  deplor.able  doom. 

377 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOP-flilDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMU. 


At  midnight,  four  tiiims  in  each  year,  docs  her  sprite, 
W’lien  mortals  in  slumber  arc  bound, 

Arrayed  in  her  bridal  apparel  of  white, 

Aiijicar  in  tlie  hall  with  the  skeleton  knight, 

And  shriek  as  he  w hirls  her  around  ! 

While  they  drink  out  of  skulls  newly  tom  from  the 
grave. 

Dancing  round  them  the  spectres  are  seen  ; 

Their  liquor  is  blood,  and  this  horrible  stave 
They  howl : ‘ To  the  health  of  Alonzo  the  Brave, 

And  his  consort,  the  Fair  Irnogine  1’ 

The  Helmsman. 

Hark,  the  bell ! it  sounds  midnight!  all  hall,  thou  new 
heaven  ! 

llow  soft  sleep  the  stars  on  their  bosom  of  night ; 
While  o’er  the  full  moon,  as  they  gently  are  driven, 
Slowly  floating,  the  clouds  bathe  theirfleeces  in  light. 
The  warm  feeble  breeze  scarcely  ripples  the  ocean. 
And  all  seem  so  hushed,  all  so  happy  to  feel  ; 

So  smooth  glides  the  bark,  I perceive  not  her  motion, 
While  low  sings  the  sailor  who  watches  the  wheel. 

’Tis  so  sad,  ’tis  so  sweet,  and  some  tones  come  so 
swelling. 

So  right  from  the  heart,  and  so  pure  to  the  ear. 
That  sure  at  this  moment  his  thoughts  must  be  dwelling 
On  one  who  is  absent,  most  kind  and  most  dear. 

Oh  ! may  she,  who  now  dictates  that  ballad  so  tender. 
Diffuse  o’er  your  days  the  heart’s  solace  and  ease. 
As  yon  lovely  moon,  with  a gleam  of  mild  splendour. 
Pure,  tranquil,  and  bright,  over-silvers  the  seas! 

The  Hours. 

Ne’er  were  the  zephyrs  knowm  disclosing 
More  sweets,  than  when  in  Tempo’s  shades 
They  waved  the  lilies,  where  reposing. 

Sat  four-and-twenty  lovely  maids. 

Those  lovely  maids  were  called  ‘ the  Hours,’ 

The  charge  of  Virtue’s  Hock  they  kept ; 

And  each  in  turn  employed  her  powers 
To  guard  it  while  her  sisters  slept. 

False  Love,  how  simple  souls  thou  cheatest! 

In  myrtle  bower  that  traitor  near 
Long  watched  an  Hour — the  softest  sweetest — 

The  evening  Hour,  to  shepherds  dear. 

In  tones  so  bland  he  praised  her  beauty ; 

Such  melting  airs  his  pipe  could  play. 

The  thoughtless  Hour  forgot  her  duty, 

And  fled  in  Love’s  embrace  away. 

Meanwhile  the  fold  was  left  unguarded  ; 

The  wolf  broke  in,  the  lambs  were  slain  ; 

And  now  from  Virtue’s  train  discarded. 

With  tears  her  sisters  speak  their  pain. 

Time  flies,  and  still  they  weep  ; for  never 
The  fugitive  can  time  restore ; 

An  Hour  once  fled,  has  fled  for  ever. 

And  all  the  rest  shall  smile  no  more  1 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Walter  Scott  was  born  in  the  city  of  Edinburgh 
mine  own  romantic  town  ’)  on  the  1 5th  of  August 
1771.  His  father  w.as  a respectable  writer  to  the 
signet : his  mother,  Anne  Itutherford,  was  daughter 
of  a physician  in  extensive  practice,  and  professor 
of  medicine  in  the  university  of  lidinburgh.  By 
both  parents  the  poet  was  remotely  connected  with 
some  respectable  ancient  Scottish  families — a cir- 
cumstance gratifying  to  his  feelings  of  nationality, 
Wld  to  his  imagination.  Delicate  health,  arising 


chiefly  from  lamcnes.s,  led  to  his  being  placed  under 
the  charge  of  some  relations  in  the  country ; and 
when  a mere  cliild,  yet  old  enough  to  receive  im- 
pressions from  country  life  and  border  stories,  ho 
resided  with  his  grandfather  at  Sandy-Knowe,  a 
romantic  situation  a few  miles  from  Kelso.  The 
ruined  tower  of  Smailholm  (the  scene  of  Scott’s 
ballad,  the  Eve  of  St  John)  was  close  to  the  farm, 
and  beside  it  were  the  Eildon  Hills,  the  river  Tweed, 
Dryburgh  Abbey,  and  other  poetical  and  historical 
objects,  all  enshrined  in  the  lonely  contemplative 
boy’s  fancy  and  recollection.  He  afterwards  resided 
with  another  relation  at  Kelso,  and  here,  at  the  age 
of  thirteen,  he  first  read  I’ercy’s  Keliques,  in  an  an- 
tique garden,  under  the  shade  of  a huge  platanus,  or 
oriental  plane-tree.  This  work  had  as  great  an 
effect  in  making  him  a poet  as  Spenser  had  on 
Cowley,  but  with  Scott  the  seeds  were  long  in  ger- 
minating. Previous  to  this  he  had  indeed  tried  his 
hand  at  verse.  The  following,  among  other  lines, 
were  discovered  wrapped  up  in  a cover  inscribed  by 
Dr  Adam  of  the  High  School,  ‘Walter  Scott,  July 
1783.’ 

On  the  Setting  Sun. 

Those  evening  clouds,  that  .setting  ray, 

And  beauteous  tints,  sene  to  display 
Their  great  Creator’s  praise  ; 

Then  let  the  short-lived  thing  called  man, 

Who.se  life’s  comprised  within  a span. 

To  him  his  homage  raise. 

We  often  praise  the  evening  clouds. 

And  tints  so  gay  and  bold, 

But  seldom  think  upon  our  God, 

Who  tinged  these  clouds  with  gold. 

The  religious  education  of  Scott  may  be  seen  in 
this  effusion  : his  father  was  a rigid  Presbyterian. 
The  youthful  poet  passed  through  the  High  School 
and  university  of  Fldinburgh,  and  made  some  profi- 
ciency in  Latin,  and  in  the  classes  of  ethics,  moral 
philosophy,  and  history.  He  had  an  aversion  to 
Greek,  and  we  may  perhaps  regret,  with  Bulwer, 
that  he  refused  ‘ to  enter  into  that  chamber  in  the 
magic  palace  of  literature  in  which  the  sublimest 
relics  of  antiquity  are  stored.’  He  knew  generally, 
but  not  critically,  the  German,  French,  Italian,  and 
Spanish  languages.  He  was  an  insatiable  reader, 
and  during  a long  illness  in  his  youth,  stored  his 
mind  with  a vast  variety  of  miscellaneous  knowledge. 
Romances  were  among  his  chief  favourites,  and  he 
had  great  facility  in  inventing  and  telling  stories. 

He  also  collected  ballads  from  his  earliest  years. 
Scott  was  apprenticed  to  his  father  as  a writer,  after 
which  he  studied  for  the  bar,  and  put  on  his  gown 
in  his  twenty-first  year.  His  health  was  now  vi- 
gorous and  robust,  and  he  made  frequent  excursions 
into  the  country,  which  he  pleasantly  denominated 
raids.  The  knowledge  of  rural  life,  character,  tra- 
ditions, and  anecdotes,  which  he  picked  up  in  these 
rambles,  formed  .afterwards  a valuable  mine  to  him, 
both  as  a poet  and  novelist.  His  manners  were 
easy  and  agreeable,  and  he  was  always  a welcome 
guest.  Scott  joined  the  Tory  party  ; and  when  the 
dread  of  an  invasion  agitated  the  countr}',  he  became 
one  of  a band  of  volunteers,  ‘ brothers  true,’  in  which 
he  held  the  r.ank  of  qu.arter-master.  His  exercises 
as  a cavalry  officer,  and  the  jovialties  of  the  mess- 
room,  occupied  much  of  his  time  ; but  he  still  pur- 
sued, though  irregularly,  his  liter, ary  studies,  and 
an  attachment  to  a Perthshire  lady  (though  ulti-  |i 
nnately  unfortunate)  tended  still  more  strongly  to 
prevent  his  sinking  into  idle  frivolity  or  dissipation. 
Ilenry  Mackenzie,  the  ‘ Man  of  Feeling,’  had  intro- 
duced a taste  for  German  literature  into  theintellcc* 

378 


I 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


tuiil  classes  of  his  native  city,  and  Scott  was  one  of 
its  most  ea"cr  and  ardent  votaries.  In  1796  he 
pnblislicd  translations  of  Burger’s  Lenore  and  the 
Wild  Huntsman,  ballads  of  singular  wildness  and 
power.  Ne.xt  year,  wliile  fresh  from  his  first-love 
disappointment,  he  was  prepared,  like  Romeo,  to 
‘ take  some  new  infection  to  his  eye,’  and,  meeting  at 
Gilsland,  a watering-place  in  Cumberland,  with  a 
young  lady  of  French  parentage,  Charlotte  Jlargaret 
Carpenter,  he  paid  his  addresses  to  her,  Avas  accepted, 
and  married  on  the  24th  of  December.  Miss  Car- 
penter had  some  fortune,  and  the  young  couple 
retired  to  a cottage  at  I.asswade,  Avhere  they  seem 
to  have  enjoyed  sincere  and  unalloyed  happiness. 
The  ambition  of  Scott  was  now  fairly  wakened — his 
lighter  vanities  all  blown  away.  Ilis  life  hencefor- 
ward was  one  of  severe  but  cheerful  study  and  ap- 
plication. In  1799  appeared  his  translation  of 
Goethe’s  tragedy,  Goetz  von  Berlichingen,  and  the 
same  year  lu;  obtained  the  appointment  of  sheriff  of 
Selkirkshire,  wortli  .£.'500  per  annum.  Scott  now 
paid  a series  of  visits  to  Liddisdale,  for  the  purpose 
of  collecting  the  ballad  poetry  of  the  Border,  an 
object  in  wliich  he  Avas  eminently  successful.  In 
1802,  the  re.sult  appeared  in  his  Minstrelsy  of  the 
Scottish  Border,  Avhich  contained  upAvards  of  forty 
pieces  neA'er  before  published,  and  a large  quantity 
of  prose  illustration,  in  Avhich  might  have  been 
seen  the  germ  of  that  power  Avhich  he  subse- 
quently dcA-eloped  in  his  novels.  A third  volume 
was  added  next  year,  containing  some  imitations  of 
the  old  minstrels  by  the  poetical  editorand  his  friends. 
It  required  little  sagacity  to  foresee  that  Walter 
Scott  Avas  noAv  to  be  a great  name  in  Scotland.  His 
next  task  Avas  editing  the  metrical  romance  of  Sir 
Tristrem,  supposed  to  be  AA'ritten  by  Thomas  the 
Rhymer,  or  Thomas  of  Ercildoune,  Avho  flourished 
about  the  year  1280.  The  antiquarian  knoAv ledge 
of  Scott,  and  his  poetical  taste,  Avere  exhibited  in  the 
dissertations  Avhich  accompanied  this  Avork,  and  the 
imitation  of  the  original  Avhich  Avas  added  to  com- 
plete the  romance.  At  length,  in  January  1805, 
appeared  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.  Avhich  in- 
stantly stamped  him  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  the 
living  poets.  His  legendary  lore,  liis  loA'e  of  the 
chivalrous  and  supernatural,  and  his  descriptiA-e 
powers,  Avere  fully  brought  into  play ; and  though 
he  afterwards  improA’ed  in  versatility  and  freedom, 
he  achieA'cd  nothing  which  might  not  have  been 
predicted  from  this  first  performance.  His  concep- 
tion of  the  minstrel  was  inimitable,  and  Avon  all 
hearts — even  those  who  Avere  indifferent  to  the 
supernatural  part  of  the  tale,  and  opposed  to  the 
irregularity  of  the  ballad  style.  The  unprecedented 
success  of  the  poem  inclined  Scott  to  relax  any 
exertions  he  had  ever  made  to  advance  at  the  bar, 
although  his  cautious  disposition  made  him  at  all 
times  fear  to  depend  over  much  upon  literature. 
He  had  altogether  a clear  income  of  about  £1000 
per  annum ; but  his  vieAvs  stretched  beyond  this  easy 
competence ; he  Avas  ambitious  of  founding  a family 
that  might  vie  Avith  the  ancient  Border  names  he 
venerated,  and  to  attain  this,  it  Avas  necessary  to 
become  a landed  proprietor,  and  to  practise  a liberal 
and  graceful  hospitality.  Well  Avas  he  fitted  to  adorn 
and  dignify  the  character ! But  his  ambition,  though 
free  from  any  tinge  of  sordid  acquisition,  proved  a 
snare  for  his  strong  good  sense  and  penetration. 
Scott  and  his  family  had  gone  to  reside  at  Ashestiel, 
a beautiful  residence  on  the  banks  of  the  TAveed, 
as  it  Avas  necessary  for  him,  in  his  capacity  of  sheriff, 
to  live  part  of  the  year  in  the  county  of  Selkirk. 
Shortly  after  the  publication  of  the  Lay,  he  entered 
into  partnership  Avith  his  old  schoolfelloAv,  James 
Ballantyue,  then  rising  into  extensive  business  as  a 


printer  in  Edinburgh.  The  copartnery  Avas  kept  a 
secret,  and  few  things  in  business  that  require  secrecy 
are  prosperous  or  beneficial.  The  establishment, 
upon  Avhich  Avas  afterwards  engrafted  a publishing 
business,  demanded  large  advances  of  money,  and 
Scott’s  name  became  mixed  up  Avith  pecuniary 
transactions  and  losses  to  a great  amount.  In  1806, 
the  poAverful  friends  of  the  poet  procured  him  the 
appointment  of  one  of  the  jirincipal  clerkships  of  the 
Court  of  Session,  Avorth  about  £1300  per  annum; 
but  the  emoluments  Avere  not  received  by  Scott 
until  six  years  after  tlie  date  of  his  appointment, 
Avhen  his  predecessor  died.  In  his  share  of  the 
printing  business,  and  the  certainty  of  his  clerkship, 
the  poet  seemed,  however,  to  have  Laid  up  (in  addi- 
tion to  his  literary  gains  and  his  sheriffdom)  an 
honourable  and  even  opulent  provision  for  his  family. 
In  1808  appeared  his  great  poem  of  Marmion,  the 
most  magnificent  of  liis  chivalrous  tales,  and  the 
same  year  he  published  his  edition  of  Dryden.  In 
1810  appeared  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Avhicli  Avas  still 
more  popular  than  either  of  its  predecessors  ; in 
1811,  The  Vision  of  Don  Boderick;  in  1813,  Bohehy, 
and  The  Bridal  of  Triermain  ; in  1814,  The  Lord  of 
the  Isles;  in  1815,  The  Field  of  Waterloo;  and  in 
1817,  Harold  the  Dauntless.  Some  dramatic  pieces, 
scarcely  Avortliy  of  his  genius,  Avere  also  Avritten 
during  this  busy  period.  It  could  not  be  concealed, 
that  the  later  AA-orks  of  the  great  minstrel  Avere  in- 
ferior to  his  early  ones.  His  style  Avas  iioav  familiar, 
and  the  Avorld  had  become  tired  of  it.  Bj'ron  had 
made  his  appearance,  and  the  readers  of  poetry  AA-ere 
bent  on  the  new  AAmrship.  Scott,  however,  Avas  too 
dauntless  and  intrepid,  and  possessed  of  too  great 
resources,  to  despond  under  this  reverse.  ‘As  the 
old  mine  gave  symptoms  of  exhaustion,’  says  Bul- 
wer,  ‘ the  neAv  mine,  ten  times  moreafiluent,  at  least 
in  the  precious  metals.  Avas  discovered ; and  just  as 
in  “Rokehy”and  “Triermain”  the  Genius  of  the 
King  seemed  to  flag  in  its  poAvers,  came  the  more 
potent  Genius  of  the  Lamp  in  the  shape  of  Waverley.’ 
The  long  and  magnificent  series  of  his  prose  fictions 
Ave  shall  afterwards  advert  to.  'They  Avere  poured 
forth  even  more  prodigally  than  his  verse,  and  for 
seventeen  years — from  1814  to  1831 — the  world 
hung  Avith  delight  on  the  A'aricd  creations  of  the 
potent  enchanter.  Scott  had  iioav  removed  from  his 
pleasant  cottage  at  Ashestiel : the  territorial  dream 
was  about  to  be  realised.  In  1811  he  purchased  a 
hundred  acres  of  moorl.and  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tweed,  near  Melrose.  The  neighbourhood  As-as  full 
of  historical  associations,  but  the  spot  itself  was 
bleak  and  bare.  Four  thousand  pounds  AA-ere  ex- 
pended on  this  purchase ; and  the  interesting  and 
now  immortal  name  of  Abbotsford  Avas  substituted 
for  the  very  ordinary  one  of  Cartley  Hole.  Other  pur- 
ehases  of  land  folloAved,  generally  at  prices  consider- 
ably above  their  value — Kaeside,  £4100;  Outfield 
ofToftfield,  £6000;  Toftfield,  and  parks,  £10,000; 
Abbotslea,  £3000  ; field  at  Langside,  £500 ; Shearing 
Flat,  £3500 ; Broomilee.s,  £4200  ; Short  Acres  and 
Scrabtree  Park,  £700  ; &c.  From  these  farms  and 
pendicles  was  formed  the  estate  of  Abbotsford.  In 
planting  and  draining,  about  £5000  Avere  expended; 
and  in  erecting  the  mansion-house  (that  ‘ romance 
of  stone  and  mortar,’  as  it  has  been  termed),  and  con- 
structing the  garden,  &c.,  a sum  not  less  than 
£20,000  AA’as  spent.  In  ,iis  baronial  residence  the  poet 
received  innumerable  visitors — princes,  peers,  and 
poets — men  of  all  ranks  and  grades.  His  mornings 
were  devoted  to  composition  (for  he  had  long  prac- 
tised the  invaluable  habit  of  early  rising),  and  the 
rest  of  the  day  to  riding  among  his  plantations,  and 
entertaining  his  guests  and  family.  The  honour  of 
the  baronetcy  was  conferred  upon  him  in  1820  by 

379 


FROM  I'liO 


CYCLOPih:i)IA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMlw 


(iL'()rf;e  IV.,  «lm  had  taste  enntifih  to  ajipreciate 
cordially  his  genius.  Never,  certainly,  had  literature 
done  more  for  any  of  its  countless  votaries,  ancient 
or  modern.  Shakspeare  had  retired  early  on  an 
easy  competency,  and  also  become  a rural  siptire  : 
but  his  gaitis  must  have  been  ehielly  those  of  the 
fheatricid  manager,  not  of  the  poet.  Scott’s  splen- 
dour was  ])urely  the  result  of  his  pen  : to  this  he 
owed  his  acres,  his  castle,  and  his  means  of  hos[)i- 
t.ility.  Ilis  official  income  was  but  as  a feather  in 
the  balance.  Who  does  not  wish  that  the  dream 
h.id  continued  to  the  end  of  his  life?  It  was  sud- 
denly and  painfully  dissolved.  The  commercial 
distresses  of  182.'j-6  fell  upon  publishers  as  on  other 
classes,  and  the  bankruptcy  of  Constable  involved 
the  poet  in  losses  and  engagements  to  the  amount 
of  about  £00,000.  Ilis  wealth,  indeed,  had  been 
almost  wholly  illu.sory  ; for  he  had  been  paid  for  his 
works  chiefly  by  bills,  and  these  ultimately  proved 
valueless.  In  the  management  of  his  publish- 
ing house,  Scott’s  sagacity  seems  to  have  for- 
saken him : unsaleable  works  were  printed  in 
thotisands ; and  while  these  losses  were  yearly  ac- 


cumulating, the  princely  hospitalities  of  Abbotsford 
knew  no  cheek  or  pause.  Ileavy  was  the  day  of 
reckoning — terrible  the  reverse  ; for  when  the  spell 
broke  in  .January  1826,  it  was  found  that,  ijicluding 
the  Constable  engagements,  Scott,  under  the  com- 
mennal  denomination  of  .James  li.allantyne  and  Co., 
owed  £117,000.  If  this  was  ,a  blot  in  the  poet’s 
scutcheon,  never,  it  might  be  said,  did  man  make 
nobler  efforts  to  redeem  the  honour  of  his  name. 
He  would  listen  to  no  overtures  of  composition  with 
his  creditors — his  only  demand  was  for  tijiie.  He 
ceased  ‘ doing  the  honours  for  all  Scotland,’  sold  oil 
his  Hdinburgh  house,  and  taking  lodgings  there, 
laboured  incessantly  at  his  literary  task.s.  ‘ The 
fountain  was  awakened  from  its  inmost  rece.sses, 
as  if  the  spirit  of  affliction  had  troubled  it  in  his 
passage.’  In  four  years  he  had  realised  for  his 
creditors  no  less  than  £70,000. 

English  literature  presents  two  memorable  and 
striking  events  wdiich  have  never  been  paralleled  in 
any  other  nation.  The  first  is,  Milton  advanced  in 
years,  blind,  and  in  misfortune,  entering  upon  the 
composition  of  a great  epic  that  was  to  determine 


Abbotsford. 


his  future  fame,  and  hazard  the  glory  of  his  country  i 
in  competition  with  what  had  been  achieved  in  the  ! 
classic  ages  of  antiquity.  The  counterpart  to  this 
noble  picture  is  Walter  Scott,  at  nearly  the  same 
age,  his  private  affairs  in  ruin,  undertaking  to  liqui- 
date, by  intellectual  labours  alone,  a debt  of  £ 1 1 7,000. 
Both  tasks  m.ay  be  classed  with  the  moral  sublime 
of  life.  Glory,  pure  and  unsullied,  was  the  ruling 
aim  and  motive  of  Milton  ; honour  and  integrity 
formed  the  incentives  to  Scott.  Neither  shrunk 
from  the  steady  prosecution  of  his  gigantic  self-im- 
posed labour.  But  years  rolled  on,  seasons  returned 
and  passed  away,  amidst  public  cares  and  private 
calamity,  and  the  pressure  of  increasing  infirmities, 
ere  the  seed  sowm  amidst  clouds  and  storms  was 
w'h’.te  in  the  field.  In  si.x  years  Milton  had  realised 
the  object  of  his  hopes  and  prayers  by  the  comple- 
tion of  Paradise  Lost.  His  task  was  done ; the 
field  of  glory  was  gained ; he  held  in  his  hand  his 
passport  to  immortality.  In  six  years  Scott  had 
nearly  reached  the  goal  of  his  ambition.  He  had 
iMuged  the  wide  fields  of  romance,  and  the  public  I 


I had  liberally  rewarded  their  illustrious  favourite 
! The  ultim.ate  prize  was  within  view,  and  the  world 
cheered  him  on,  eagerly  anticipating  his  triumph; 
but  the  victor  sank  exhausted  on  the  course.  He 
had  spent  his  life  in  the  struggle.  The  strong  man 
was  bowed  down,  and  his  living  honour,  genius,  and 
integrity,  w'ere  extinguished  by  delirium  and  death. 

In  February  1830  Scott  had  an  attack  of  paralysis. 
He  continued,  however,  to  write  several  hours  every 
day.  In  April  1831  he  suffered  a still  more  severe 
attack  ; and  he  was  prevailed  upon,  as  a means  of 
withdrawing  him  from  mental  labour,  to  undert.ake 
a foreign  tour.  The  admiralty  furnished  a ship  of 
war,  and  the  poet  sailed  for  Malta  and  Naples.  At 
the  latter  place  he  resided  from  the  17th  of  Decem- 
ber 1831  to  the  16th  of  April  following.  He  still 
laboured  at  unfinished  romances,  but  his  mind  was 
in  ruins.  From  Naples  the  poet  went  to  Romo. 
On  the  nth  of  May  he  began  his  return  homewarus, 
and  reached  London  on  the  13th  of  June.  Another 
attack  of  apoplexy,  combined  with  paralysis,  had 
laid  prostrate  his  powers,  and  he  was  conveyed  to 

38i> 


fOETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  WALTKl!  SCOTT. 


Alibot.sfonl  a helpless  and  almost  unconscious  wreck, 
lie  lin<;ereil  on  for  some  time,  listening  occasionally 
to  passages  read  to  him  from  the  Bible,  and  from  his 
favourite  author  Crahbe.  Once  he  tried  to  write, 
hut  his  fingers  wouM  not  close  upon  the  pen.  He 
never  spoke  of  his  literary  labours  or  success.  At 
tunes  his  imagination  was  husy  preparing  for  the 
reception  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  at  Abbotsford  ; 
at  other  times  he  was  exercising  the  functions  of  a 
Scottish  judge,  as  if  presiding  at  the  trial  of  mem- 
hers  of  his  own  family.  His  mind  never  appeared 
to  wander  in  its  delirium  towards  those  works  which 
ha<i  filled  all  Europe  with  his  fame.  This  we  learn 
from  undoubted  authority,  and  the  fact  is  of  interest 
in  literary  history.  But  the  contest  was  soon  to  be 
over;  ‘the  plough  was  nearing  the  end  of  the  fur- 
row.’ ‘About  half-past  one,  p. m.,’  says  Mr  Lock- 
hart, ‘on  the  ‘21st  of  September  183‘2,  Sir  Walter 
breathed  his  last,  in  the  presence  of  all  his  chihiren. 
It  was  a beautiful  day — so  warm  that  every  window 
was  wide  open — and  so  perfectly  still  that  the  sound 
of  all  others  most  delicious  to  his  ear,  the  gentle 
ripple  of  tlie  Tweed  over  its  pebbles,  was  distinctly 
audible  as  we  knelt  around  the  bed,  and  his  eldest 
son  kissed  and  closed  his  eyes.’ 

Call  it  not  vain  ; they  do  not  err 
Who  sav,  that  when  the  poet  dies, 

Mute  nature  mourns  her  worshipper, 

And  celebrates  his  obsequies  ; 

M'ho  say  tall  cliff  and  cavern  lone. 

For  the  departed  bard  make  moan  ; 

I’hat  mountains  weep  in  crystal  rill ; 

That  llowers  in  tears  of  balm  distil  ; 

Thiougli  his  loved  groves  that  breezes  sigh, 

And  oaks,  in  deeper  groans,  reply  ; 

And  rivers  te.ach  their  rushing  wave 
To  murmur  dirges  round  his  grave. 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. 

The  novelty  and  originality  of  Scott’s  style  of 
poetry,  though  exhausted  by  himself,  and  debased 
by  imitators,  formed  his  first  passport  to  public 
favour  and  ap])lause.  The  English  reader  had  to 
go  back  to  Spenser  and  Chaucer  ere  he  could  find 
so  knightly  and  chivalrous  a poet,  or  such  paintings 
of  antique  manners  and  institutions.  The  works  of 
the  elder  worthies  were  also  obscured  by  a dim  and 
obsolete  phraseology  ; while  Scott,  in  expression,  sen- 
timent, and  description,  could  be  read  and  under- 
stood by  all.  T he  perfect  clearness  and  transparency 
of  his  style  is  one  of  his  distinguishing  features ; and 
it  was  further  aided  by  his  peculiar  versification. 
Coleridge  had  exemplified  the  fitness  of  the  octo- 
syllabic measure  for  romantic  narrative  poetry,  and 
parts  of  his  ‘Christabel’  having  betn  recited  to 
Scott,  he  iidopted  its  wild  rhythm  and  harmony, 
joining  to  it  some  of  the  abruptness  and  irregularity 
of  tiie  old  ballad  metre.  In  his  hands  it  became  a 
powerful  and  flexible  instrument,  whether  for  light 
narrative  and  pure  description,  or  for  scenes  of 
tragic  wildness  and  terror,  such  as  the  trial  and 
death  of  Constance  in  ‘ Marmion,’  or  tlie  swell  and 
agitation  of  a battle-field.  The  knowledge  and  en- 
thusiasm requisite  for  a chivalrous  poet  Scott  pos- 
sessed in  an  eminent  degree.  He  was  an  early  wor- 
shipper of  • hoar  antiquity.  He  was  in  the  maturity 
of  his  powers  (thirty-four  years  of  age)  when  the 
Lav  was  published,  and  was  perhaps  better  in- 
formed on  such  subjects  than  any  other  man  living. 
Border  story  and  romance  had  been  the  study  and 
the  passion  of  his  whole  life.  In  writing  ‘ Marmion  ’ 
and  ‘ Ivanhoe,’  or  in  building  Abbotsford,  he  was 
impelled  by  a natural  and  irresistible  impulse.  The 
baronial  castle,  the  court  and  camp — the  wild  High- 
land chase,  feud,  aud  foray — the  antique  blazonry. 


and  institutions  of  feudalism,  were  constantly  jiresenl 
to  his  thoughts  and  imagination.  Then,  his  jiowers 
of  description  were  unequalled — certainly  i.;,er  sur- 
passed. llis  landscapes,  his  characters  and  situa- 
tions, wore  all  real  delineations  ; in  general  cfiect  and 
individual  details,  they  were  equally  perfect.  None 
of  his  contemporaries  had  the  same  picturesqueness, 
fancy',  or  invention  ; none  so  graphic  in  depicting 
manners  and  customs;  none  so  fertile  in  inventing 
incidents  ; none  so  fasciiniting  in  narrative,  or  so 
various  and  powerful  in  description.  His  diction 
was  proverbially  careless  and  incorrect.  Neither  in 
prose  nor  poetry  was  Scott  a polished  writer.  He 
looked  only  at  broad  and  general  effects  ; his  words 
had  to  make  pictures,  not  melody.  Whatever  could 
be  grouped  and  described,  whatever  was  visible  and 
tangible,  lay  within  his  reach.  Below  the  surface 
he  had  less  power.  The  language  of  the  heart  was 
not  his  familiar  study  ; the  passions  did  not  obey 
his  call.  The  contrasted  effects  of  passion  and  situa- 
tion he  could  portray  vividly  and  distinctly — the  sin 
and  suffering  of  Constance,  the  remorse  of  Marmion 
and  Bertram,  the  pathetic  character  of  Wilfrid, 
the  knightly  grace  of  Eitz-James,  and  the  rugged 
virtues  and  savage  death  of  Roderick  Dhu,  are  all 
fine  specimens  of  moral  painting.  Byron  has  nothing 
better,  and  indeed  the  noble  jioct  in  some  of  his  tales 
copied  or  paraphrased  the  sterner  passages  of  Scott. 
But  even  in  these  gloomy  and  powerful  traits  of 
his  genius,  the  force  lies  in  the  situation,  not  in  the 
thoughts  and  expression.  There  are  no  talismanio 
words  that  pierce  the  heart  or  usurp  the  memory; 
none  of  the  iinjtassioned  and  reflective  style  of 
Byron,  the  melodious  pathos  of  Campbell,  or  the 
profound  sympathy  of  Wordsworth.  The  great 
strength  of  Scott  undoubtedly'  lay  in  the  prolific 
richness  of  his  fancy,  and  the  abundant  stores  of  his 
memory,  that  could  create,  collect,  and  arrange  such 
a multitude  of  scenes  and  adventures;  that  could 
find  materials  for  stirring  and  romantic  poetry  in 
the  most  minute  and  barren  antiquarian  details ; 
and  that  could  reanimate  the  past,  and  paint  the 
present,  in  scenery  and  manners  with  a vividness 
and  energy  unknown  since  the  [)erio  1 of  Homer. 

The  ‘ Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  ’ is  a Border  story 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  related  by'  a minstrel,  the 
last  of  his  race.  The  character  of  the  aged  minstrel, 
and  that  of  Margaret  of  Branksome,  are  very  finely 
drawn  : Deloraine,  a coarse  Border  chief,  or  moss- 
trooper, is  also  a vigorous  portrait ; and  in  the 
description  of  the  march  of  the  English  army,  the 
personal  combat  with  Musgrave,  and  the  other 
feudal  accessories  of  the  jnece,  we  have  finished 
pictures  of  the  olden  time.  The  goblin  page  is  no 
favourite  of  ours,  except  in  so  far  as  it  makes  the 
story  more  accordant  with  the  times  in  which  it  is 
placed.  The  introductory  lines  to  each  canto  form 
an  exquisite  setting  to  the  dark  feudal  tale,  and 
tended  greatly  to  cause  the  popularity  of  the  poeni- 
Tbe  minstrel  is  thus  described: — 

The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 

The  minstrel  was  infirm  and  old; 

His  withered  cheek  and  tresses  gray. 

Seemed  to  have  known  a better  day  ; 

The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 

AVas  carried  by  an  or])han  boy. 

The  last  of  all  the  bards  was  he 
M’ho  sung  of  Border  chivalry  ; 

For,  well-a-d.ay  ! their  date^was  fli  J ; 

His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead  ; 

And  he,  neglected  and  oppre.ssed, 

Wished  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 

No  more  on  prancing  palfry  borne, 

I He  carolled,  light  as  lark  at  morn ; 


38i 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESEN1  TIME. 


No  loii"cr  courted  and  caressed, 

High  placed  in  hall  a welcome  guest, 
lie  poured  to  lord  and  lady  gay 
The  unpremeditated  lay: 

Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone; 

A stranger  filled  the  Stuart’s  throne; 

The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 

Had  called  his  harmless  art  a crime. 

A ivandering  harper,  scorned  and  poor. 

He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door. 

And  tuned  to  please  a peasant’s  ear. 

The  harp  a king  had  loved  to  hear. 

Not  less  picturesque  are  the  following  passages, 
which  instantly  became  popular : — 

[Desa-iption  of  Melrose  Ahhcy.'\ 

If  thou  would’st  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 

Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight ; 

For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 

W'hen  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 

And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white ; 

When  the  cold  light’s  uncertain  shower 
Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower ; 

When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately. 

Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory  ; 

When  silver  edges  the  imagery. 

And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die ; 
Wiien  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave. 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o’er  the  dead  man’s  grave. 
Then  go — but  go  alone  the  while — 

Then  view  St  David’s  ruined  pile  ; 

.'^nd,  home  returning,  soothly  swear, 

AV'as  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair  1 
The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone. 

Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone, 

By  foliaged  tracery  combined  ; 

Thou  would’st  have  thought  some  fairy’s  hand 
’Twixt  poplars  straight  the  ozier  wand. 

In  many  a freakish  knot,  had  twined ; 

Then  framed  a spell,  when  the  work  was  done. 

And  changed  the  willow  wreaths  to  stone. 

The  silver  light,  so  pale  and  faint. 

Showed  many  a prophet  and  many  a saint. 
Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  dyed  ; 

Full  in  the  midst,  his  cross  of  red 
Triumphant  Michael  brandished, 

And  trampled  the  apostate’s  pride. 

The  moonbeam  kissed  the  holy  pane. 

And  threw  on  the  pavement  a bloody  stain. 

[Lore  of  Country. 

Breathes  there  a man  with  soul  so  dead. 

Who  never  to  himself  hath  said. 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land ! 

Whose  heart  hath  ne’er  within  him  burned. 

As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 
From  wandering  on  a foreign  strand  ? 

If  such  there  breathe,  go  mark  him  well : 

For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 

High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name. 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 

Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 

The  VTetch,  concentred  all  in  self. 

Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 

And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung. 

Unwept,  unhonoured,  and  unsung. 

0 Caledonia ! stern  and  wild. 

Meet  nurse  for  a poetic  child  ! 

I, and  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood. 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood. 

Land  of  my  sires!  what  mortal  hand 
Gan  e’er  untie  the  filial  band 
That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand ! 


Still  as  I view  each  well-known  scene. 

Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been. 

Seems  as  to  me,  of  all  bereft. 

Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were  left; 
And  thus  I love  them  better  still. 

Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 

By  Yarrow’s  stream  still  let  me  stray. 

Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way; 

Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break. 
Although  it  chill  my  withered  cheek; 

Still  lay  ray  head  by  Teviot  stone. 

Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone. 

The  bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 

‘ Marmion’  is  a tale  of  Flodden  Field,  the  fate  of 
the  hero  being  connected  with  that  memorable  en- 
gagement, The  poem  does  not  possess  the  unity  and 
completeness  of  the  Lay,  but  if  it  has  greater  faults, 
it  has  also  greater  beauties.  Nothing  can  be  more 
strikingly  picturesque  than  the  two  oiiening  stanaus 
of  this  romance: — 

Day  set  on  Norham’s  castled  steep. 

And  Tweed’s  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot’s  mountains  lone  ; 

The  battled  towers,  the  donjon  keep. 

The  loop-hole  grates  where  captives  weep, 

The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep. 

In  yellow  lustre  shone. 

The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high. 

Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky. 

Seemed  forms  of  giant  height  ; 

Their  armour,  as  it  caugl^t  the  rays. 

Flashed  back  again  the  western  blaze, 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light. 

St  George’s  banner,  broad  and  gay. 

Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 
Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung; 

The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  donjon  tower. 

So  heavily  it  hung. 

The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search. 

The  castle  gates  were  barred  ; 

Above  the  gloomy  portal  arch. 

Timing  his  footsteps  to  a march. 

The  warder  kept  his  guard. 

Low  humming,  as  he  paced  along. 

Some  ancient  border-gathering  song. 

The  same  minute  painting  of  feudal  times  charac- 
terises both  poems,  but  by  a strange  oversight  (soon 
seen  and  regretted  by  the  author)  the  hero  is  made 
to  commit  the  crime  of  forgery,  a crime  unsuited  to 
a chivalrous  and  half-civilized  age.  The  battle  of 
Flodden,  and  the  death  of  Marmion,  are  among 
Scott’s  most  spirited  descriptions.  The  former  is 
related  as  seen  from  a neighbouring  hill;  and  the 
progress  of  the  action — the  hurry,  impetuosity,  and 
confusion  of  the  fight  below,  as  the  different  armies 
rally  or  are  repulsed — is  given  with  such  :inimation, 
that  the  whole  scene  is  brought  before  the  reader 
with  the  vividness  of  reality.  The  first  tremendous 
onset  is  thus  dashed  off,  with  inimitable  powjr,  by 
the  mighty  minstrel: — 

[Battle  of  Flodden.'] 

‘ But  see ! look  up — on  Flodden  bent. 

The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent.’ 

And  sudden  as  he  spoke. 

From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill. 

All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till, 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke  ; 

Volumed  and  vast,  and  rolling  far. 

The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland’s  wai, 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke ; 

3W 


OKT", 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOrT. 


Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone, 

Announced  their  march  ; their  tread  alone, 

At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown, 

At  times  a stifled  hum. 

Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 
King  James  did  rushing  come. 

Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their  foes. 

Until  at  weapon  point  they  close. 

They  close  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 

With  swcrd-sway  and  with  lance’s  thrust; 

And  such  a yell  was  there. 

Of  sudden  .xnd  portentous  birth. 

As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth. 

And  fiends  in  upper  air. 

Long  looked  the  anxious  squires  ; their  eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  nought  descry. 

At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast ; 

And,  first,  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears  ; 

And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew. 

As  in  the  storm  the  while  sea-mew. 

Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far. 

The  broken  billows  of  the  war. 

And  plumdd  crests  of  chieftains  brave. 

Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave ; 

But  nought  distinct  they  see  : 

Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain  ; 

Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flashed  amain  ; 

Fell  England’s  arrow-flight  like  rain  ; 

Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again. 

Wild  and  disorderly. 

Evening  fell  on  the  deadly  struggle,  and  the  spectators  were 
forced  from  the  agitating  scene.] 

But  as  they  left  the  darkening  heath. 

More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 

The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hailed. 

In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assailed  : 

Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep, 

To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep. 

That  fought  around  their  king. 

But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow. 

Though  charging  knights  like  whirlwinds  go. 
Though  bill-men  ply  the  ghastly  blow. 

Unbroken  was  the  ring  ; 

The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood. 

Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood. 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 

No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight ; 

Linked  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight. 

Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight. 

As  fearlessly  and  well  ; 

Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 
O’er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  king. 

Then  skilful  Surrey’s  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shattered  bands ; 

And  from  the  charge  they  drew. 

As  mountain-waves  from  wasted  lands 
Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 

Then  did  their  loss  his  foemen  know ; 

Their  king,  their  lords,  their  mightiest  low. 

They  melted  from  the  field  as  snow. 

When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds  blow. 
Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 

Tweed’s  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash. 

While  many  a broken  band. 

Disordered,  through  her  currents  dash. 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land ; 

To  town  and  tower,  to  down  and  dale. 

To  tell  red  Flodden’s  dismal  tale. 

And  raise  the  universal  wail. 

Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song, 
fihall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong ; 


Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife  and  carnage  drear 
Of  Flodden’s  fatal  field. 

Where  shivered  was  fair  Scotland’s  spear. 

And  broken  was  her  shield! 

The  hero  receives  his  death-wound,  and  is  borne  off 
the  field.  The  description,  detached  from  the  context, 
loses  much  of  its  interest;  but  the  mingled  effects  of 
mental  agony  and  physical  suffering,  of  remorse  and 
death,  on  a bad  but  brave  spirit  trained  to  war,  i; 
described  with  much  sublimity : — 

[Death  of  Marmion."] 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 

Around  ’gan  Marmion  wildly  stare  ; I 

‘ Where’s  Harry  Blount  ? Fitz-Eustace  where ! 

Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare ! 

Redeem  my  pennon — charge  again  ! 

Cry — “ Marmion  to  the  rescue !” — Vain ! 

Last  of  my  race,  on  battle  plain 
That  shout  shall  ne’er  be  heard  again! 

Yet  my  last  thought  is  England’s: — fly; 

To  Dacre  bear  my  signet- ring  ; 

Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring. 

Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie  : 

Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field ; 

His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield: 

Edmund  is  down— my  life  is  reft ; 

The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 

Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire — 

With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 

Full  upon  Scotland’s  central  host. 

Or  victory  and  England’s  lost. 

Must  I bid  twice?  Hence,  varlets!  fly! 

Leave  Marmion  here  alone — to  die.’ 

They  parted,  and  alone  Le  lay  ; 

Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away. 

Till  pain  wrung  forth  a lowly  moan. 

And  half  he  murmured — ‘ Is  there  none, 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst. 

Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring, 

To  slake  my  dying  thirst !’ 

0,  woman  ! in  our  hours  of  ease. 

Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 

And  variable  as  the  shade 

By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made  ; 

When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 

A ministering  angel  thou  ! 

Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said. 

When,  with  the  baron’s  casque,  the  maid 
To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 

Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears  ; 

The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 

She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel’s  side, 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew  ; 

For,  oozing  from  the  mountain  wide. 

Where  raged  the  war,  a dark  red  tide 
Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 

Where  shall  she  turn  ! — behold  her  mark 
A little  fountain-cell. 

Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark, 

In  a stone  bason  fell. 

Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say, 

ISrink.  toearp.  pilgrim,  brink,  anb.  praj 
iFor.  tlje.  kinb.  kcuI.  of.  Spbil.  Grcp. 

fflSKfjo.  built,  ttjis.  crcsB.  anb.  tocU. 

She  filled  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied, 

And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A monk  supporting  Marmion’s  head  ; 

A pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought. 

To  shrieve  the  dying,  bless  the  dead.  , 


PROM  ITftO  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  tiu,  the  present  .imk. 

I'pop  drank  land  Miinninn  of  the  wave, 

Ami,  as  slie  stooped  his  hrow  to  lave — 

‘ l.s  it  tlie  hand  of  Clare,’  he  said, 

‘Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head?’ 

Then,  as  rcniemhrance  rose — 

‘ Speak  not  to  me  of  shiifl  or  prayer  1 
1 must  redress  her  woes. 

Short  space,  few  words,  are  mine  to  spare ; 

Forgive  and  listen,  eentle  Clare!’ 

‘ Alas  I’  she  said,  ‘the  while — 

0 think  of  your  immortal  weal  ! 

In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She died  at  Holy  Isle.’ 

Lord  Mann  ion  started  from  the  ground, 

As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound  ; 

'I'hough  in  the  action  burst  the  tide. 

In  torrents,  from  his  wounded  side. 

‘ Then  it  was  truth  I’ — he  said — ‘ 1 knew 
That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true. 

1 would  the  fiend,  to  whom  belongs 
The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 

Would  spare  me  but  a day  I 
For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan. 

And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone. 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 

It  may  not  be  ! — this  dizzy  trance — 

Curse  on  yon  base  marauder’s  lance. 

And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand  I 
A sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand.’ 

Then,  fair.ting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk, 

Sujiported  by  the  trembling  monk. 

With  fruitless  labour  Clara  bound. 

And  strove  to  stanch  the  gushing  wound: 

The  monk,  with  unavailing  cares, 

F,.\liausted  all  tlie  church’s  inayers  ; 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 

A lady’s  voice  was  in  his  ear. 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear. 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 

‘ In  the  h>t  battle,  borne  down  by  the  jlyinq. 

Where  mha/teK  war's  rattle  with  yroans  of  the  dylnyl’ 

So  the  notes  rung  ; 

‘ Avoid  thee,  fiend  ! — with  cruel  hand, 

Shake  not  the  dying  sinner’s  sand! 

0 look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Kedeemer’s  grace  divine  ; 

0 think  on  faith  and  bliss! 

By  many  a death-bed  1 have  been. 

And  many  a sinner’s  parting  seen. 

But  never  aught  like  this.’ 

Tlie  war.  that  for  a space  did  fail. 

Mow  trebly  thundering,  swelled  the  gale, 

And — Stanley!  was  the  cry; 

A. light  on  Marmion’s  visage  spread. 

And  tired  his  glazing  eye  : 

AVith  dying  hand  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted  ‘ Victory  ! 

Charge,  Chester,  charge  ! On,  Stanley,  on  1’ 

Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 

We  may  contrast  with  this  the  silent  and  appalling 
death-scene  of  Roderick  Dim,  in  the  ‘ Lady  of  the 
Lake.’  The  savage  chief  expires  while  listening  to 
a tale  chanted  by  the  bard  or  minstrel  of  his  elan: — 

At  first,  the  chieftain  to  his  chime 
AVith  lifted  hand  kept  feeble  time ; 

That  motion  ceased  ; yet  feeling  strong, 

A'aried  his  look  as  changed  the  song: 

At  length  no  more  his  deafened  ear 
The  minstrel’s  melody  can  hear ; 

His  face  grows  sharp  ; his  hands  are  clenched. 

As  if  some  pang  his  heart-strings  wrenched; 

Set  are  his  teeth,  his  fading  eye 
I«  sternly  fixed  on  vacancy : 

Thus  motionless  and  moanless  drew 
His  parting  breath,  stout  Roderick  Dim. 

The  ‘Lady  of  the  Lake’  is  more  richly  picturesque 
than  either  of  the  former  ])oems,  and  the  plot  is 
more  regular  and  interesting.  ‘'The  subject,’  says 
Sir  James  JIackintosh.  • is  a common  Highland 
irruption  ; hut  at  a point  where  tlie  neighbourhood 
of  the  Lowlands  aflbrds  the  best  contrast  of  manners 
— where  the  scenery  alfords  the  noblest  subject  of 
description — and  where  the  wild  clan  is  so  near  to 
the  eourt,  that  their  ndiheries  can  be  eonnected  with 
the  romantic  adventures  of  a disguised  king,  an 
exiled  lord,  and  a high-born  beauty.  The  whole 
narrative  is  very  fine.’  It  was  the  most  jiopular  of 
the  author’s  poems;  in  a few  months  twenty  thou- 
sand copies  were  sold,  and  the  district  where  the 
action  of  the  poem  lay  was  visited  hy  countless 
thousands  of  tourists.  AA’ith  this  work  closed  tlie 
great  jiopnlarity  of  Scott  as  a poet.  ‘ Rokeby,’  a tale 
of  the  English  Cavaliers  and  Roundheads,  was  con- 
sidered a failure,  though  dis|daying  the  utmost  art 
and  talent  in  the  delineation  of  character  and  pas- 
sion. ‘ Don  Roderick’  is  vastly  inferior  to  ‘ Rokehy ;’ 
and  ‘Harold’  and  ‘ 'Triermain  ’ are  but  faint  copies 
of  the  Gothic  epics,  however  finely  finished  in  some 
of  the  tender  jiassages.  'The  ‘Lord  of  the  Isles’  is 
of  a higher  mood.  It  is  a Scottish  story  of  the  days 
of  Bruce,  and  has  the  characteri-tic  fire  and  anima- 
tion of  the  minstrel,  when,  like  Rob  Hoy,  he  has  his 
foot  on  his  native  heath.  Bannockburn  may  be 
compared  with  Flodden  Field  in  energy  of  descrip- 
tion. though  the  jioet  is  sometimes  lost  in  the 
chronicler  and  antiquary.  'The  interest  of  the  tale  j 
is  not  well  sustained  throughout,  and  its  chief  at-  : 
traction  consists  in  the  deserijitive  ])owers  of  the 
author,  who,  besides  his  feudal  halls  and  battle.s,  has 
drawn  the  magnificent  scenery  of  the  West  High- 
lands (the  cave  of  Stafi'a.  and  the  dark  desolate  gran- 
deur of  the  Coriusk  lakes  and  mountains)  with  equal 
truth  and  sublimity.  'The  lyrical  pieces  of  Scott  are 
often  very  hapiiy.  The  obi  ballad  strains  may  be 
saiil  to  have  been  bis  original  nutriment  as  a poet, 
and  he  is  consequently  often  warlike  and  romantic 
in  his  songs.  But  he  has  also  gaiety,  archness,  and 
tenderness,  and  if  he  does  not  touch  decqily  the  heart, 
he  never  fails  to  paint  to  the  eye  and  imagination. 

Young  Lochinrar. 

[From  ‘ Marmion.’] 

Oh,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 

'Through  all  the  wide  Border  bis  steed  was  the  best ; 

And  save  his  good  broad-sword  he  weapon  had  none, 

He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone! 

So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 

There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar  I 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Esk  river  where  ford  there  was  none — 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

'I'he  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late  : 

For  a laggard  in  love,  and  a dastard  in  war, 

AVas  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  M'etherby  Hall, 

’Mong  bride’s-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all  1 
Then  spoke  the  bride’s  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword — 
For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a word — 

‘ 0 come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war? 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal  ? young  Lord  Lochinvar!’ 

‘ I long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied  : 

Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide! 

And  now  am  I come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 

'To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  eup  of  wine! 

There  be  maidens  in  Scotland,  more  lovely  by  far. 

That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar!' 

JH4 

ENCxLISH  LITERATURE. 


fOKTS 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ; the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup! 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh. 
With  a smile  on  her  lips  and  a tear  in  her  eye. 

He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar — 

‘ Now  tread  we  a measure!’  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  fonn,  and  so  lovely  her  face. 

That  never  a hall  such  a gallianl  did  grace ! 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume. 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and 
plume. 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  ‘ ’Twere  better  by 
far 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochin- 
var!’ 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
IVhen  they  reached  the  hall  door,  and  the  charger 
stood  near. 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung. 

So  light  tc  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 

‘ She  is  won  ! we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur ; 
They’ll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow  !’  quoth  young 
Lochinvar. 

There  was  moul  ting  ’roong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby 
clan  ; 

Fosters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they 
ran ; 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lea, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne’er  did  they  see! 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 

Have  ye  e’er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar  t 


Come  from  deep  glen,  and 
From  mountain  so  rocky  ; 

The  war-pipe  and  pennon 
Are  at  Inverlochy. 

Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 
True  heart  that  wears  one ; 

Come  every  steel  blade,  and 
Strong  hand  that  bears  one! 

Jjea.ve  untended  the  herd. 

The  flock  without  shelter; 

Leave  the  corpse  unintei  red. 

The  bride  at  the  altar. 

Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer. 
Leave  nets  and  barges  ; 

Come  with  your  fighting  gear. 
Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when 
Forests  are  rended : 

Come  as  the  waves  come,  when 
Navies  are  stranded. 

Faster  come,  faster  come. 

Faster  and  faster: 

Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom. 
Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come ; 

See  how  they  gather! 

Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume. 
Blended  with  heather. 

Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades. 
Forward  each  man  set ; 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 


Coronach. 


[From  the  ' Lady  of  the  Lake.’J 
He  is  gone  on  the  mountain. 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest. 

Like  a summer-dried  fountain, 

'A'hen  our  need  was  the  sorest. 

The  font,  reappearing. 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 

But  to  us  comes  no  cheering. 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  1 
The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 

Bat  the  voice  of  the  weeper 
Wails  manhood  in  glory; 

The  autumn  winds  rushing. 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  sparest. 

But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 
When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi,! 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber. 

Red  hand  in  the  foray. 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber! 

Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river. 

Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain. 

Thou  art  gone,  and  for  ever! 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  LX'i. 

[Written  for  Campbell's  ‘ AlbjTi's  Anthology,’  1816.3 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 

M ake  thy  wild  voice  anew. 

Summon  Clan  Conuil. 

Come  away,  come  away. 

Hark  to  the  summons ! 

Come  in  your  war  array. 

Gentles  and  Commons ! 

• Or  corri  r the  hollow  side  of  the  hill,  where  game  usually 

ea. 

67 


[TiW.] 

[From  the  ‘ Antiquary.’] 

Why  sitt’st  thou  by  that  ruined  hall. 

Thou  aged  carle  so  stern  and  gray ! 

Dost  thou  its  former  pride  recall. 

Or  ponder  how  it  passed  away  ? 

‘ Know’st  thou  not  me  V the  Deep  Voice  cried, 
‘ So  long  enjoyed,  so  oft  misused — 
Alternate,  in  thy  fickle  pride. 

Desired,  neglected,  and  accused ! 

Before  my  breath,  like  blazing  flax, 

Man  and  his  marvels  pass  away  ; 

And  changing  empires  wane  and  wax. 

Are  founded,  flourish,  and  decay. 

'tledeem  mine  hours — the  space  is  brief— 
While  in  ray  glass  the  sand-grains  shivex. 
And  measureless  thy  joy  or  grief,  > 

When  Time  and  thou  shall  part  for  ever!’ 

[Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid.~\ 

[From  ‘ Ivanhoe.’] 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved. 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came. 

Her  father’s  God  before  her  moved. 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 

By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands 
The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow  ; 

By  night,  Arabia’s  crimsoned  sands 
Returned  the  fiery  column’s  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise. 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen; 
And  Zion’s  daughters  poured  their  lays. 
With  priest’s  and  warrior’s  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze. 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  ; 

Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways. 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

385 


raoM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TII.I,  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


IJut,  presi-iit  Mtill,  thou"h  now  unseen  ! 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 

Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a cloudy  screen, 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 

And  oh,  when  stoops  on  Judah’s  path 
In  shade  anil  storm  the  frequent  night. 

Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A burning  and  a shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel’s  streams. 

The  tyrant’s  jest,  the  Gentile’s  scorn  ; 

No  censer  round  our  altar  beams. 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump,  and  horn. 

But  Thou  hast  said.  The  blood  of  goat. 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I will  not  prize; 

A contrite  heart,  a humble  thought. 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 

[Song from  the  Pirate^ 

Love  wakes  and  weeps 
While  Beauty  sleeps! 

O for  music’s  softest  numbers. 

To  prompt  a theme 
For  Beauty’s  dream. 

Soft  as  the  pillow  of  her  slumbers! 

Through  groves  of  palm 
Sigh  gales  of  balm. 

Fire-flies  on  the  air  are  wheeling; 

While  through  the  gloom 
Comes  soft  perfume. 

The  distant  beds  of  flowers  revealing. 

0 wake  and  live! 

No  dreams  can  give 
A shadowed  bliss  the  real  excelling ; 

No  longer  sleep. 

From  lattice  peep. 

And  list  the  tale  that  love  is  telling! 

LORD  BYRON. 

Scott  retreated  from  poetry  into  the  wide  and 
open  field  of  prose  fiction  as  the  genius  of  Byron 
bogan  to  display  its  strength  and  fertility.  A new. 
Or  at  least  a more  finished,  nervous,  and  lofty  style 
of  poetry  was  introduced  by  the  noble  author,  who 
was  as  much  a mannerist  as  Scott,  but  of  a different 
school.  He  excelled  in  painting  the  strong  and 
gloomy  passions  of  our  nature,  contrasted  with 
feminine  softness  and  delicacy.  Scott,  intent  upon 
the  development  of  his  plot,  and  the  chivalrous 
machinery  of  his  Gothic  tales,  is  seldom  personally 
present  to  the  reader.  Byron  delighted  in  self- 
portraiture, and  could  stir  the  depths  of  the  human 
heart.  His  philosophy  of  life  was  false  and  perni- 
cious ; but  the  splendour  of  the  artist  concealed  the 
deformity  of  his  design.  Parts  were  so  nobly 
finished,  that  there  w'as  enough  for  admiration  to 
rest  upon,  without  analysing  the  whole.  He  con- 
ducted his  readers  through  scenes  of  surpassing 
beauty  and  splendour — by  haunted  streams  and 
mountains,  enriched  whth  the  glories  of  ancient 
poetry  and  valour  ; but  the  same  dark  shadow  was 
ever  by  his  side — the  same  scorn  and  mockery  of 
human  hopes  and  ambition.  The  sententious  force 
and  elevation  of  his  thoughts  and  language,  his 
eloquent  expression  of  sentiment,  and  the  mournful 
and  solemn  melody  of  his  tender  and  pathetic  pas- 
sages, seemed,  however,  to  do  more  than  atone  for 
his  want  of  moral  truth  and  reality.  The  man  and 
the  poet  were  so  intimately  blended,  and  the  spec- 
tacle presented  bj'  both  was  so  touching,  mysterious, 
and  lofty,  that  Byron  concentrated  a degree  of 
interest  and  anxiety  on  his  successive  public  ap- 
Dearances,  which  no  author  ever  before  was  able  to 


boast.  Scott  had  created  the  public  taste  for  ani- 
mated poetry,  and  Byron,  taking  advantage  of  it, 
soon  engrossed  the  wliole  field.  F’or  a few  years  it 
seemed  as  if  the  world  held  only  one  great  poet 


The  chivalry  of  Scott,  the  philosophy  of  Words- 
worth, the  abstract  theory  and  imagination  of 
Southey,  and  even  the  lyrical  beauties  of  Moore 
and  Campbell,  were  fur  a time  eclipsed  by  this  new 
and  greater  light.  The  rank,  youth,  and  misfor- 
tunes of  Byron,  his  exile  from  England,  the  mys- 
tery which  he  loved  to  throw  around  his  history 
and  feelings,  the  apparent  depth  of  his  sutferings 
and  attachments,  and  his  very  misanthropy  and 
scepticism  (relieved  by  bursts  of  tenderness  and 
pity,  and  by  the  incidental  expression  of  high  and 
holy  feelings),  formed  a combination  of  personal 
circumstances  in  aid  of  the  legitimate  effects  of  his 
passionate  and  graceful  poetry,  which  is  unparalleled 
in  the  history  of  modern  literature.  Such  a result 
is  even  more  wonderful  than  the  laureled  honours 
awarded  to  Virgil  and  Petrarch,  if  we  consider  the 
difference  between  ancient  and  modern  manners, 
and  the  temperament  of  the  northern  nations  com- 
pared with  that  o'  the  ‘ sunny  south.’  Has  the 
spell  yet  broke?  Has  the  glory  faded  into  ‘the 
common  light  o-  lay?’  Undoubtedly  the  later 
writings  of  tlie  noble  bard  helped  to  dispel  the 
illusion.  To  competent  observers,  these  works  added 
to  the  impression  of  Byron’s  powers  as  an  original 
poet,  but  they  tended  to  exorcise  the  spirit  of  ro- 
mance from  his  name  and  history  ; and  what  Don 
Juan  failed  to  effect,  was  accomplished  by  tlie 
biography  of  Moore.  His  poetry,  however,  must 
always  have  a powerful  effect  on  minds  of  poetical 
and  warm  sensibilities.  If  it  is  a ‘ rank  unweeded 
garden,’  it  also  contains  glorious  fruits  and  plants 
of  celestial  seed.  The  art  of  the  poet  will  be  a 
study  for  the  ambitious  few ; his  genius  will  be  a 
source  of  wonder  and  delight  to  all  who  love  to  con- 
template the  workings  of  human  passion,  in  solitude 
and  society,  and  the  rich  effects  of  taste  and  in- 
spiration. 

'The  incidents  of  Byron’s  life  may  be  briefly  re- 
lated. He  was  born  in  Holies  Street,  London,  on 
the  22d  of  January  1788,  the  only  son  of  Captain 
John  Byron  of  the  Guards,  and  C.atherine  Gordon 

386 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


LORE  BVRO.N. 


I 

1 


I 


I 


of  Giglit,  an  Abcrdeershire  heiress.  The  lady’s  | 
fortune  was  soon  squandered  by  her  profliijate  hus- 
band, and  she  retired  to  the  city  of  Aberdeen,  to 
bring  up  her  son  on  a reduced  income  of  about  iiI30 
per  annum.  The  little  lame  boy,  endeared  to  all  in 
spite  of  his  mischief,  succeeded  his  grand-uncle, 
William  Lord  Byron,  in  his  eleventh  year;  and  the 
happy  mother  sold  off  her  etfects  (which  realised 
just  i'4,  17s.  4d.),  and  left  Aberdeen  for  Newstead 
Abbey.  The  seat  of  the  Byrons  was  a large  and 
ancient,  but  dilapidated  structure,  founded  as  a 
priory  in  the  twelfth  century  by  Henry  II.,  and 
situated  in  the  midst  of  the  fertile  and  interesting 
district  once  known  as  Sherwood  Forest.  On  the 
dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  it  was  conferred  by 


' Henry  VIII.  on  Sir  .John  Byron,  steward  of  Man- 
I Chester  and  Rochdale,  who  converted  the  venerable 
convent  into  a castellated  mansion.  The  family 
was  ennobled  by  Charles  I.,  in  consequence  of  high 
and  honourable  services  rendered  to  the  royal  cause 
during  the  civil  war.  On  succeeding  to  the  title, 
Byron  was  put  to  a private  school  at  Dulwich,  and 
from  thence  he  was  sent  to  Harrow.  During  his 
minority,  the  estate  was  let  to  another  party,  but  its 
youthful  lord  occasionally  visited  the  seat  of  his 
ancestors;  and  whilst  there  in  1803,  he  conceived  a 
passion  for  a young  lady  in  the  neighbourhood,  who, 
under  the  name  of  Alary  Chaworth,  has  obtained  a 
poetical  immortality.  So  early  as  his  eighth  year, 
Byron  fell  in  love  with  a simple  Scottish  niriden. 


Newstead  Abbey. 


Alary  Duff ; and  hearing  of  her  marriage,  several 
years  afterwards,  was,  he  says,  like  a thunder-stroke 
to  him.  He  had  also  been  captivated  with  a boyish 
love  for  his  cousin,  Margaret  Parker,  ‘ one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  evanescent  beings,’  who  died  about 
a year  or  two  afterwards.  He  was  fifteen  when  he 
met  Mary  Chaworth,  and  ‘conceived  an  attach- 
ment which,  young  as  he  was  even  then  for  such 
a feeling,  sunk  so  deep  into  his  mind  as  to  give  a 
colour  to  all  his  future  life.’  The  father  of  the 
lady  had  been  killed  in  a duel  by  Lord  Byron,  the 
eccentric  grand-uncle  of  the  poet,  and  the  union  of 
the  young  peer  with  the  heiress  of  Annesley  Hall 
‘ would,’  said  Byron,  ‘ have  healed  feuds  in  which 
blood  had  been  shed  by  our  fathers ; it  would  have 
joined  lands  broad  and  rich ; it  would  have  joined  at 
least  one  heart,  and  two  persons  not  ill  matched  in 
years  (she  was  two  years  my  elder),  and — and — • 
and — icAat  has  been  the  result?’  Alary  Chaworth 
saw  little  in  the  lame  boy,  and  became  the  betrothed 
of  another.  They  had  one  parting  interview  in  the 
following  year,  which,  in  his  poem  of  the  Dream, 
Byron  has  described  in  the  most  exquisite  colours 
I nf  descriptive  poetry : — 

I I saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
I Standing  upon  a hill ; a gentle  hill, 
j Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
I As  ’twere  the  cape  of  a long  ridge  of  such, 

i Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 


But  a most  living  landscape,  and  the  n»ve 
Of  woods  and  corn-fields,  and  the  abodes  of  mei. 
Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ; — the  hill 
Was  crowned  with  a peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fixed. 

Not  by  the  sport  of  i ature,  but  of  man  : 

These  two,  a maiden  and  a youth,  were  there 
Gazing — the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her ; 

And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful : 
And  both  were  young — yet  not  alike  in  youth. 

As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon’s  verge. 

The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood  ; 

The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 

And  that  was  shining  on  him. 

This  boyish  idolatry  nursed  the  spirit  of  poetry  in 
Byron’s  mind.  He  was  recalled,  however,  from  his 
day-dreams  and  disappointment,  by  his  removal  to 
Trinity  college,  Cambridge,  in  October  1805.  At  Har- 
row he  had  been  an  idle  irregular  scholar,  though 
he  eagerly  devoured  all  sorts  of  learning,  excepting 
that  which  was  prescribed  for  him  ; and  at  Cam- 
bridge he  pursued  the  same  desultory  course  of  study. 
In  1807  appeared  his  first  volume  of  poetry,  printed 
at  Newark,  under  the  title  of  Hours  of  Idleness. 
There  were  indications  of  genius  in  the  collection, 

387 


PROM  1700  CYCLOP-^IDIA  OF  till  the  presknt  tim» 


but  many  errors  of  taste  and  judgment.  'J'lie  vul- 
nerable points  were  fiercely  assailed,  the  merits  over- 
looked, in  a witty  critique  in  the  Eiiinburgh  Review 
(understood  to  be  written  by  Lord  Rrougbam),  and 
the  young  poet  replied  hy  his  vigorous  satire,  Eng- 
lish Ihtrds  and  Scotch  Reviewers,  which  disarme<l, 
if  it  did  not  discomfit,  his  opponent.  While  his 
name  was  thus  rising  in  renown,  Ryron  left  England 
for  a course  of  foreign  travel,  and  in  two  years 
visited  the  classic  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  and 
resided  some  time  in  Greece  and  Turkey.  In  the 
spring  of  1812  .appeared  the  two  first  cantos  of 
Chdde  Harold,  the  fruit  of  his  foreign  wanderings, 
and  his  splendidly  enriched  and  matured  poetical 
taste.  ‘ I awoke  one  morning,’  he  said,  ‘ and  found 
myself  famous.’  A rapid  succession  of  eastern  tales 
followed — the  Giaour  and  the  Bride  of  Abydos  in 
181.3;  the  Corsair  and  Lara  in  1814.  In  the  Childe, 
he  had  shown  his  mastery  over  the  complicated 
Spei. serial!  stanza : in  these  he  adopted  the  heroic 
couplet,  and  the  lighter  verse  of  Scott,  with  equal 
freedom  and  success.  No  poet  had  ever  more  com- 
mand of  the  stores  of  the  English  language.  At 
this  auspicious  and  exultant  period,  Byron  was  the 
idol  of  the  gay  circles  of  London.  He  indulged  in 
all  their  pleasures  and  excesses — studying  by  fits 
and  starts  at  midnight,  to  ni.aint.ain  the  splendour 
of  his  reputation.  Satiety  and  disgust  succeeded 
to  this  round  of  heartless  pleasures,  and  in  a better 
mood,  though  without  any  fixed  attachment,  he 
proposed  and  was  accepted  in  marriage  by  a northern 
heiress.  Miss  Jlilbanke,  daughter  of  Sir  Ralph  Mil- 
banke,  a baronet  in  the  county  of  Durham.  The 
union  cast  a shade  on  his  hitherto  bright  career. 
A twelvemonth’s  extravagance,  embarrassments, 
and  misunderstandings,  dissolved  the  union,  and 
the  lady  retired  to  the  country  seat  of  her  parents 
from  the  discord  and  perplexity  of  her  own  home. 
She  refused,  like  the  wife  of  Milton,  to  return,  and 
the  world  of  England  seemed  to  applaud  her  re.so- 
lution.  One  child  (now  the  Countess  of  Lovelace) 
was  the  fruit  of  this  unhappy  marriage.  Before 
tlie  separation  took  place,  Byron’s  muse,  which  had 
been  lulled  or  deadened  by  the  comparative  calm 
of  domestic  life,  was  stimulated  to  activity  by  his 
deepening  misfortunes,  and  he  produced  the  Siege 
of  Corinth  and  Parisina.  Miserable,  reckless,  yet 
con.scious  of  his  own  newly -awakened  strength, 
Byron  left  England — 

Once  more  upon  the  waters,  yet  once  more  ! — 

and  visiting  Fr.ance  .and  Brussels,  pursued  his  course 
along  the  Rhine  to  Genev,a.  Here,  in  six  months, 
he  had  composed  the  third  canto  of  ‘ Childe  Harold,’ 
and  the  Prisoner  of  Chillon.  Ilis  mental  energy 
gathered  force  from  the  loneliness  of  his  situ.ation, 
and  his  disgust  with  his  native  country.  The  scenery 
of  Switzerland  and  Italy  next  breathed  its  inspi- 
ration : Manfred  and  the  Lament  of  Tasso  were 
produced  in  1817.  In  the  following  year,  whilst 
residing  chiefly  at  Venice,  and  making  one  memor- 
able visit  to  Rome,  he  completed  ‘ Childe  Harold,’ 
and  threw  off  his  light  humorous  poem  of  Beppo, 
the  first  fruits  of  the  more  easy  and  geni.al  manners 
of  the  continent  on  his  e.xcitable  temperament. 
At  Venice,  and  afterw'ards  at  Ravenna,  Byron  re- 
iiided  till  1821,  writing  various  works — Mazeppa, 
the  first  five  cantos  of  Don  Juan,  and  his  dramas 
of  Marino  Faliero,  Sardanapalus,  the  Two  Foscari, 
Werner,  Cain,  the  Deformed  Transformed,  &c.  The 
year  1822  he  passed  chiefly  at  Pisa,  continuing  ‘ Don 
.luan,’  which  ultimately  extended  to  fifteen  cantos. 

I Wc  have  not  touched  on  his  private  history  or  in- 
dulgences. His  genius  h.ad  begun  to  ‘ pale  its  fire  :’ 
bis  dramas  were  stiff,  declamatory,  and  undramatic  ; 


and  the  successive  canto, s of  ‘ Don  .Juan’  betrayed 
the  downward  course  of  the  poet’s  habit.s.  Tlie  wit 
and  knowledge  of  that  wonderful  poem — its  jias.sion, 
variety,  and  originality  — were  now  debased  with 
inferior  matter;  and  the  world  saw  with  rejoicing 
the  poet  break  away  from  his  Circean  enchantments, 
and  enter  upon  a new  and  nobler  field  of  exertion. 
He  had  sympathised  deeply  with  the  Italian  Car- 
bonari in  their  efforts  for  freedom,  but  a still  more 
interesting  country  and  people  claimed  bis  support. 
His  youtliful  travels  and  poetical  enthusiasm  still 
endeared  the  ‘ blue  Olympus’  to  his  recollection,  and 
in  the  summer  of  1823  he  set  sail  for  Greece,  to  aid  in 
the  struggle  for  its  independence.  His  arrangements 
were  made  with  judgment,  as  well  as  generosity. 
Byron  knew  mankind  well,  and  his  plans  fur  the 
recovery  and  regeneration  of  Greece  evinced  a spirit 
of  patriotic  freedom  and  warm  sympathy  with  the 
oppressed,  happily  tempered  with  practical  wi.sdom 
and  discretion.  He  arrived,  after  some  danger  and 
del.ay,  at  Missolonghi,  in  Western  Greece,  on  the 
4th  of  .J.anuary  1824.  All  was  discord  and  confusion 
— a military  mob  and  contending  chiefs — turbulence, 
rapacity,  and  fraud.  In  three  months  he  had  done 
much,  by  his  influence  and  money,  to  comimse  diffe- 
rences, repress  cruelty,  and  introduce  order.  His 
fluctuating  and  uncertain  health,  however,  gave 
way  under  so  severe  a discijiline.  On  the  9th  ol 
April  he  was  overtaken  by  a heavy  shower  whilst 
taking  his  daily  ride,  and  an  attack  of  fever  and 
rheumatism  followed.  Prompt  and  copious  bleeding 
might  have  subdued  the  inflammation,  but  to  this 
remedy  Byron  was  strongly  opposed.  It  was  at 
length  resorted  to  after  seven  d.ays  of  increasing 
fever,  but  the  disease  was  then  too  powerful  for 
remedy.  The  patient  sank  into  a state  of  lethargy, 
and,  though  conscious  of  approaching  death,  could 
only  mutter  some  indistinct  expressions  about  bis 
wife,  his  sister,  and  child.  He  lay  insen.sible  for 
twenty-four  hours,  and,  opening  his  eyes  for  a 
moment,  shut  them  for  ever,  and  expired  on  the 
evening  of  the  19th  of  April  1824.  The  iieople  of 
Greece  publicly  mourned  tor  the  irreparable  loss 
they  had  sustained,  and  the  sentiment  of  grief  was 
soon  conveyed  to  the  poet’s  native  country,  where 
his  name  was  still  a talisman,  and  his  early  death 
was  felt  by  all  as  a personal  calamity.  The  body 
of  B_vron  was  brought  to  England,  and  after  lying 
in  state  in  London,  was  interred  in  the  family  vault 
in  the  village  church  of  Hucknall.  near  Newstead. 

Byron  has  been  sometimes  compared  with  Burns. 
Death  and  genius  have  levelled  mere  external  dis- 
tinctions, and  the  peer  and  peasant  stand  on  the 
same  elevation,  to  meet  the  gaze  and  scrutiny  of 
poster' ty.  Both  wrote  directly  from  strong  person.al 
feelings  and  impulses;  both  were  the  slaves  of  irre- 
gular, uncontrolled  passion,  and  the  prey  of  disap- 
pointed hopes  and  constitutional  melancholy;  and 
both  died,  after  a life  of  extraordinary  intellectual 
.activity  and  excitement,  at  the  same  early  age.  We 
allow  for  the  errors  of  Bnrns’s  position,  and  Byron’s 
demands  a not  less  tender  and  candid  construction. 
Neglected  in  his  youth — thwarted  in  his  first  love 
— left  without  control  or  domestic  influence  when 
his  passions  were  strongest — 

Lord  of  himself,  that  heritage  of  wo — 

intoxicated  with  early  success  and  the  incense  of 
almost  universal  admiration,  his  irregularities  must 
be  regarded  more  with  pity  than  reprehension. 
After  his  unhappy  marriage,  the  picture  is  clouded 
with  darker  shadows.  The  wild  license  of  bis  con- 
tinental life  it  would  be  impossible  to  justify.  His 
excesses  became  habitual,  and  impaired  both  his 
genius  and  liis  strength.  He  struggled  on  with 

388 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LOUD  Bvnon. 


untnmeil  i)n(Ie  and  trombling  susceiitibility,  but  he 
liad  idinust  exiiausted  the  springs  of  liis  poetry  and 
liis  life;  aii<l  it  is  too  obvious  that  the  pestilential 
elimate  of  Missolonghi  only  aecelerated  an  event 
which  a few  years  must  liave  consummated  in  Italy. 


Lord  Byron’s  Tomb. 

Tlie  genius  of  Byron  was  as  versatile  .as  it  was 
I energetic.  ‘ Childe  Ilarold’  and  ‘Hon  Juan’  are  per- 
haps the  greatest  poetical  works  of  this  century,  and 
in  the  noble  poet’s  tales  and  minor  poems  there  is 
a grace,  an  interest,  and  romantic  picturesqueness, 
that  render  them  peculiarly  fascinating  to  youthful 
readers.  The  ‘Giaour’  has  passages  of  still  higher 
description  and  feeling — particularly  that  fine  burst 
on  modern  Greece  contrasted  with  its  ancient  glory, 
and  the  e.xquisitely  pathetic  and  beautiful  compari- 
son of  the  same  country  to  the  human  frame  bereft 
of  life : — 

[Pi'ctare  of  Modem  Greece.'] 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o’er  the  dead, 

Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled — 

The  first  d.ark  day  of  nothingness, 

The  last  of  danger  and  distress — 

I Before  decay’s  effacing  fingers 

Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers. 

And  marked  the  mild  .angelic  air. 

The  rapture  of  repose  that’s  there — 

The  fixed  yet  tender  traits  th.at  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek — 

' And — but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye. 

That  fires  not — wins  not — weeps  not — now — 

And  but  for  that  chill  changeless  brow. 

Whose  touch  thrills  with  mortality. 

And  curdles  to  the  gazer’s  heart. 

As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 

The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon — 

Yes — but  for  these — and  these  alone — 

I Some  moments — ay — one  treacherous  hour, 

He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant’s  power. 

So  fair — so  calm — so  softly  sealed 
The  first — last  look — by  death  revealed  ! 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore  ; 
i Tis  Greece — but  living  Greece  no  more  1 

I So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  .air. 

We  start — for  soul  is  wantmg  there. 


Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death. 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath  ; 

But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom. 

That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb — • 
Expression’s  last  receding  ray, 

A gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 

The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  past  away  I 
Spark  of  that  flame — perchance  of  heavenly  birth— 
Which  gleams — but  warms  no  more  its  cherished 
earth ! 

The  ‘Prisoner  of  Chillon’  is  also  natunal  and  affect- 
ing : the  story  is  painful  and  hopeless,  but  it  is  told 
with  inimitable  tenderness  and  simplicity.  The 
reality  oi  the  scenes  in  ‘Don  Juan’  must  strike  every 
reader.  Byron,  it  is  well  known,  took  pains  to  col* 
lect  his  materials.  His  account  of  the  shipwreck  is 
drawn  from  narratives  of  actual  occurrences,  and  his 
Grecian  pictures,  feasts,  dresses,  and  holiday  p.as- 
times,  are  literal  transcripts  from  life.  Coleridge 
thought  the  character  of  Lambro,  and  especially  the 
description  of  his  return,  the  finest  of  all  Byron’s 
efforts : it  is  more  dramatic  and  life-like  than  any 
other  of  his  numerous  paintings.  Haidee  is  also  the 
most  captivating  of  all  his  heroines.  His  Gulnares 
and  Medoras,  his  corsairs  and  dark  mystf  rious  per- 
sonages— 

Linked  with  one  virtue  and  a thousand  crimes — 

are  monstrosities  in  nature,  and  do  not  possess  one 
tithe  of  the  interest  or  permanent  poetical  beauty 
that  centres  in  the  lonely  residence  in  the  Cyclades. 
The  English  descriptions  in  Juan  are  also  far  infe- 
rior. There  is  a palpable  falling  off  in  poetical 
power,  and  the  peculi.ar  prejudices  and  forced  ill- 
natured  satire  of  the  poet  are  brought  prominently 
forward.  Yet  even  liere  we  have  occasionally  a 
flash  of  the  early  light  that  ‘ led  astray.’  The 
sketch  of  Aurora  Raby  is  graceful  and  interesting 
(compared  with  Haidee,  it  is  something  like  Field- 
ing’s Amelia  coming  after  Sophia  Western),  and 
Newstead  Abbey  is  described  with  a ile.arness  and 
beauty  not  unw'orthy  the  author  of ‘tJiilde  Harold.’ 
The  Epicurean  philosophy  of  the  Childe  is  visible 
in  every  page  of  ‘ Don  Juan,’  but  it  is  no  longer  grave, 
dignified,  and  misanthropical : it  is  mixed  up  with 
w'it,  humour,  the  keenest  penetration,  and  the  most 
astonishing  variety  of  expression,  from  colloquial 
carelessness  and  ease,  to  the  highest  and  deepest 
tones  of  the  lyre.  The  poet  has  ti  e power  of  Me- 
pliistophiles  over  the  scenes  and  passions  of  human 
life  and  society — disclosing  their  secret  workings, 
and  stripping  them  of  all  conventiomd  allurements 
and  disguises.  Unfortunately,  his  knowledge  is  more 
of  evil  than  of  good.  The  distinctions  between  vir- 
tue and  vice  h.ad  been  broken  down  or  obscured  in 
his  own  mind,  and  tliey  are  undistinguishable  in  ‘Don 
Juan.’  Early  sensuality  had  tainted  his  whole  nature. 
He  portrays  generous  emotions  and  moral  feelings 
— distress,  suffering,  and  pathos — and  then  dashes 
them  with  burlesque  humour,  wild  profanity,  and 
unseasonable  merriment.  In  ‘Childe  Harold’  we  have 
none  of  this  moral  anatomy,  or  its  accompanying 
licentiousness  : but  there  is  abundance  of  scorn  and 
defiance  of  the  ordinary  pursuits  and  ambition  of 
mankind.  The  fairest  portions  of  the  earth  are 
traversed  in  a spirit  of  bitterness  and  desolation  by 
one  satiated  with  pleasure,  contemning  society,  tho 
victim  of  a dreary  and  hopeless  scepticism.  Such  a 
character  would  have  been  repulsive  if  the  poem 
had  not  been  adorned  with  the  graces  of  anirnaied 
description  .and  original  and  striking  sentiment.  The 
poet’s  sketches  of  Si>anish  and  Grecian  scenerj',  and 
his  glimpses  of  the  life  and  manners  of  the  classic 
mountaineers,  are  as  true  as  were  ever  transferred 

389 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


to  canvass  ; and  the  meditations  of  the  Pilgrim  on 
the  particular  events  whieh  adorned  or  cursed  the 
soil  he  trod,  are  marked  with  fervour  and  sublimity. 
Thus,  on  the  field  of  Albuera,  he  conjures  up  an  im- 
age of  war,  one  of  the  noblest  creations  in  poetry  : — 

[/mayc  of  War.'] 

Hark  ! heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dreadful  note  1 
Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict  on  the  heath  1 
Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote  ; 

Nor  saved  your  brethren  ere  they  sank  beneath 
Tyrants  and  tyrants’  slaves  ? — the  fires  of  death, 
The  bale-fires  Hash  on  high  ; — from  rock  to  rock 
Each  volley  tells  that  thousands  cease  to  breathe  ; 
Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc, 

Red  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel  the  shock. 

1,0  ! where  the  giant  on  the  mountain  stands, 

11  is  blood-red  tresses  deepening  in  the  sun. 

With  death-shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands. 

And  eye  that  .scorcheth  all  it  glares  upon. 

Restless  it  rolls,  now  fixed,  and  now  anon 
Flashing  afar — and  at  his  iron  feet 
Destruction  cowers  to  mark  what  deeds  are  done  ; 
For  on  this  morn  three  potent  nations  meet. 

To  shed  before  his  shrine  the  blood  he  deems  most 
sweet. 

In  surveying  the  ruins  of  Athens,  the  spirit  of 
liy-ron  soars  to  its  loftiest  flight,  picturing  its  fallen 
glories,  and  indulging  in  the  most  touching  and 
magnificent  strain  of  his  sceptical  philosophy  : — 

[Ancient  Greece^ 

Ancient  of  days  ! august  Athena  1 where. 

Where  are  thy  men  of  might?  thy  grand  in  soul  ? 
Gone — glimmering  through  the  dream  of  things 
that  were  : 

First  in  the  race  that  led  to  Glory’s  goal. 

They  won,  and  passed  away — is  this  the  whole  ? 

A schoolboy’s  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour  ! 

The  warrior’s  weapon,  and  the  sophist’s  stole. 

Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o’er  each  mouldering  tower. 
Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,  gray  flits  the  shade  of 
power. 

Son  of  the  morning,  rise  ! approach  you  here  ! 

Come,  but  molest  not  yon  defenceless  urn  : 

Look  on  this  spot — a nation’s  sepulchre  ! 

Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  burn. 

Even  gods  must  yield — religions  take  their  turn  : 
’Twas  Jove’s — ’tis  Mahomet’s — and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  with  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds  ; 

Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope  is  built 
on  reeds. 

Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven — 

Is’t  not  enough,  unhappy  thing!  to  know 
Thou  art  ? Is  this  a boon  so  kindly  given. 

That  being,  thou  wouldst  be  again,  and  go. 

Thou  know’st  not,  reck’st  not,  to  what  region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies? 

Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  future  joy  and  wo? 

Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  flies  : 

That  little  urn  saith  more  than  thousand  homilies. 

Or  burst  the  vanished  hero’s  lofty  mound  : 

Far  on  the  solitary  .shore  he  sleeps  : 

lie  fell,  and  falling,  nations  mourned  around  ; 

But  now  not  one  of  .saddening  thousands  weeps. 

Nor  warlike  worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where  Jemi-gods  appeared,  as  records  tell. 

Remove  yon  skull  from  out  the  scattered  heaps  : 

Is  that  a temple  where  a god  may  dwell  ? 

Why,  even  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shattered 
cell. 


Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruined  wall. 

Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul  : 

Yes,  this  was  once  ambition’s  airy  hall. 

The  dome  of  thought,  the  palace  of  tlie  soul  : 
Behold  through  each  lack-lustre  eyeless  hole. 

The  gay  recess  of  wi.sdom  and  of  wit. 

And  pa.Hsion’s  host,  that  never  brooked  control : 
Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ. 

People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit  ? 

Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena’s  wisest  son ! 

‘All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known.’ 

W hy  should  we  shrink  from  what  we  cannot  shun  t 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  groan 
With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 
Pursue  what  chance  or  fate  jiroclaimeth  best ; 
Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron  ; 

There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest, 
But  silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever-welcome  rest. 

Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deemed,  there  be 
A land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore. 

To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  .sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore. 

How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 

With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labours  light  ! 

To  hear  each  voice  we  feared  to  hear  no  more  ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  revealed  to  sight. 

The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  who  taught  the 
right  ! 

The  third  canto  of  ‘Childe  Harold’  is  more  deeply 
imbued  with  a love  of  nature  than  any  of  his  pre- 
vious productions.  A new  power  had  been  inip.arted 
to  him  on  the  shores  of  the  ‘ Leman  lake.’  He  had 
just  escaped  from  the  strife  of  London  and  his  orvn 
domestic  unhappiness,  and  his  conversations  with 
Shelley  might  also  have  turned  him  more  strongly 
to  this  pure  poetical  source.  An  evening  scene  by 
the  side  of  the  lake  is  thus  exquisitely  described  ; — 

It  is  the  hush  of  night  ; and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear. 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen — 

Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  capped  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep  ; and  drawing  near. 

There  breathes  a living  fragrance  from  the  shore. 

Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  : on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar. 

Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more  j 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill  ! 

At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes, 

Starts  into  voice  a moment — then  is  still. 

There  .seems  a floating  whisper  on  the  hill — 

But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  star-light  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil. 

Weeping  them.selves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  nature’s  breast  the  .spirit  of  her  hues. 

A forcible  contrast  to  this  still  scene  is  then  given 
in  a brief  description  of  the  same  landscape  during 
a thunder  storm  : — 

The  sky  is  changed ! — and  such  a change  I Oh  night. 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong. 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a dark  eye  in  woman  ! Far  along 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among. 

Leaps  the  live  thunder  I not  from  one  lone  cloud. 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a tongue. 

And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 

Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud! 

And  this  is  in  the  night  : most  glorious  night  I 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber  ! let  me  be 
A sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight — 

A portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 


390 


POETS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  iord  byron. 

How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a phosphoric  sea, 

And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth ! 

And  now  again  ’tis  black — and  now  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hill  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth. 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o’er  a young  earthquake’s  birth. 
In  the  fourth  canto  there  is  a greater  throng  of 
images  and  objects.  The  poet  opens  with  a sketch 
of  the  peculiar  beauty  and  departed  greatness  of 
Venice,  rising  from  the  sea,  ‘with  her  tiara  of  proud 
towers’  in  airy  distance.  He  then  resumes  his  pil- 
grimage— moralises  on  the  scenes  of  Petrarch  and 
Tasso,  Dante  and  Boccaccio — and  visits  the  lake  of 
Thrasimene  and  the  temple  of  Clitumnus.  His 
verses  on  the  latter  have  never  been  surpassed  : — 

[Temple  of  Clitumnus.] 

But  thou,  Clitumnus  ! in  thy  sweetest  wave 
Of  the  most  living  crystal  that  was  e’er 
The  haunt  of  river-nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
Her  limbs  where  nothing  hid  them,  thou  dost  rear 
Thy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white  steer 
Grazes  ; the  purest  god  of  gentle  waters  ! 

And  most  serene  of  aspect  and  most  clear  ! 

Surely  that  stream  was  unprofaned  by  slaughters, 

A mirror  and  a bath  for  Beauty’s  youngest  daughters! 
And  on  thy  happy  shore  a temple  still. 

Of  small  and  delicate  proportion,  keeps, 

Upon  a mild  declivity  of  hill. 

Its  memory  of  thee  ; beneath  it  sweeps 
Thy  current’s  calmness ; oft  from  out  it  leaps 
The  finny  darter  with  the  glittering  scales. 

Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  glassy  deeps  ; 

While,  chai\ce,  some  scattered  water-lily  sails 
Down  where  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bubbling 
tales. 

The  Greek  statues  at  Florence  are  then  inimitably 
described,  after  which  the  poet  visits  Home,  and 
revels  in  the  ruins  of  the  Ihdatine  and  Coliseum,  and 
the  glorious  remains  of  ancient  art.  His  dreams  of 
love  and  beauty,  of  intellectual  power  and  majesty, 
are  here  realised.  The  lustre  of  the  classic  age 
seems  reflected  back  in  his  glowing  pages,  and  we 
feel  that  in  this  intense  appreciation  of  ideal  beauty 
and  sculptured  grace — in  passionate  energy  and 
ecstacy — Byron  outstrips  all  his  contemporaries. 
The  poem  concludes  abruptly  with  an  apostrophe  to 
the  sea,  his  ‘joy  of  youthful  sports,’  and  a source  of 
lofty  enthusiasm  and  pleasure  in  his  solitary  wander- 
ings on  the  shores  of  Italy  and  Greece.  The  great- 
ness of  Byron’s  genius  is  seen  in  ‘ Childe  Harold’ — 
its  tenderness  in  the  tales  and  smaller  poems—  its 
rich  variety  in  ‘ Don  Juan.’  A brighter  garland  few 
poets  can  hope  to  wear — yet  it  wants  the  unfading 
flowers  of  hope  and  virtue ! 

[The  Gladiator.'] 

The  seat  is  set. — Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power ! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk’st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a deep  awe,  yet  all  di.stinct  from  fear ; 

Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a sense  so  deep  and  clear, 

That  we  become  a part  of  what  has  been. 

And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing,  but  unseen. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran. 

In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause, 

As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow-man. 

And  wherefore  slaughtered  ! wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  circus’  genial  laws. 

And  the  imperial  pleasure.  Wherefore  not? 

What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms — on  battle-plains  or  li,sted  spot! 

Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

I see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie  : 

He  leans  upon  his  hand  ; his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony. 

And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low: 

And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  rtjbing  slew 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  cne. 

Like  the  first  of  a thunder-shower ; ai.d  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  ; he  is  gone. 

Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the  wretch 
who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not ; his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away: 

He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize. 

But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay ; 

There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play. 

There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a Roman  holiday. 

All  this  rushed  with  his  blood.  Shall  he  expire, 
And  unavenged  ? Arise,  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire  1 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean. 

There  is  a pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 

There  is  a rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 

There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes. 

By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar ; 

I love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more. 

From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I steal 
From  all  I may  be,  or  have  been  before. 

To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I can  ne’er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — roll! 

Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 

Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ; upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A shadow  of  man’s  ravage,  save  his  own. 

When,  for  a moment,  like  a drop  of  rain. 

He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan — 
Without  a grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths — thy  fields 
Are  not  a spoil  for  him — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ; the  vile  strength  ha 
wields 

For  earth’s  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  shies. 

And  send’st  him,  shivering  jn  thy  playful  spray, 
And  howling  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 

And  dashest  him  again  to  earth : there  let  h.ra  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 

And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals. 

The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war : 

These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake. 

They'  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada’s  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  - 
As.syria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  } 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free. 

And  many  a tyrant  since ; their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  ; their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  de.serts : not  so  thou  ; 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves’  play. 

Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow  : 

Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty’s  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time. 

Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm. 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 

391 

FROM  1780  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  till  the  pr^ent  time. 


Dark-heiivin;'  ; boundlesa,  eiullcus,  ami  sublime — 
The  image  of  Mtcniity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ; even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  ■,  each  zone 
Obeys  thee  ; thou  gocst  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I have  loved  thee.  Ocean ! and  my  joy 
Of  youtliful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  he 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  : from  a boy 
I wantoned  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a delight ; and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a terror — ’twas  a pleasing  fear  ; 

For  I was  as  it  were  a cliild  of  tliee. 

And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near. 

And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I do  here. 

[Jn  Italian  Erenin;/  on  the  Hanks  of  the  HrentaJ\ 
[From  ‘ Chikle  Harold.*] 

The  moon  is  up,  and  3’et  it  is  not  night — 

Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her — a sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  al[)ine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli’s  mountains;  heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colours  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  west. 

Where  the  day  joins  the  past  eternity  ; 

AVhile  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian’s  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air — an  island  of  the  blest. 

A single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o’er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ; but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Rolled  o’er  the  peak  of  the  far  Khretiau  hill, 

As  day  and  night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaimed  her  order;  gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a new-born  rose. 

Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glassed  within  it 
glows. 

Filled  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar, 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters  ; all  its  hues, 

From  the  rich  sun.set  to  the  rising  star. 

Their  magical  variety  diffuse: 

And  now  they  change  ; a paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o’er  the  mountains  ; parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a new  colour  as  it  gasps  away. 

The  last  still  loveliest,  till — ’tis  gone — and  all  is  gray. 

[Midnight  Scene  in  Rome — the  Coliseum.'^  , 

[From  ‘ Manfred.’] 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains.  Beautiful! 

I linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man  ; and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  .solitary  loveliness, 

I learned  the  language  of  another  world. 

I do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth. 

When  1 was  wandering,  upon  such  a night 
I stood  within  the  Coliseum’s  wall, 

'Midst  the  chief  relics  of  all-mighty  Rome: 

The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rei\ts  of  ruin  ; from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bayed  beyond  the  Tiber ; and 
More  near,  from  out  the  Caesars’  palace  came 
The  owl’s  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly. 

Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-u’orn  breach 
Appeared  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 
Within  a bowshot.  Where  the  Caesars  dwelt, 

/knd  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 
* grove  which  springs  through  levelled  battlements, 

I 


And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths. 

Ivy  usurps  the  laurel’s  place  of  growth  ; 

But  the  gladiators’  bloody  circus  stands 
A noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection  ! 

While  Caesar’s  chambers  and  the  Augustan  halls 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  dec.ay. 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a wide  and  tender  light, 

Which  softened  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  de.solation,  and  filled  up. 

As  ’twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries  ; 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so. 

And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o’er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old — 

The  dead,  but  .sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns  ! 

[The  Shipwreck.'] 

[From  ‘ Don  Juan.’] 

’Twas  twilight,  and  the  sunless  day  went  down 
Over  the  waste  of  waters  ; like  a veil 
Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  di.sclose  the  frown 
Of  one  whose  hate  is  masked  but  to  assail. 

Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was  shown. 

And  grimly  darkled  o’er  the  faces  pale. 

And  the  dim  de.solate  ileep  ; twelve  days  had  Fear 
Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was  here. 

» » • 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farew’ell — 

Then  shrieked  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  bravfr— 
Then  some  leaped  overboard  with  dreadful  yell, 

As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave  ; 

And  the  sea  yawned  around  her  like  a hell. 

And  down  she  sucked  with  her  the  whirling  ware. 
Like  one  who  grajiples  with  his  enemy. 

And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rushed. 

Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a crash 
Of  echoing  thunder;  and  then  all  was  hushed. 

Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 
Of  billows  ; but  at  intervals  there  gu.shed. 
Accompanied  with  a convulsive  splash, 

A solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 
Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  liis  agony. 

>1.  « « 

There  were  two  fathers  in  this  ghastly  crew. 

And  with  them  their  two  sons,  of  whom  the  one 
Was  more  robust  and  hardy  to  the  view  ; 

But  he  died  early  ; and  when  he  w;us  gone. 

His  nearest  messmate  told  his  sire,  who  threw 

One  glance  on  him,  and  said,  ‘ Heaven’s  will  be 
done! 

I can  do  nothing;’  and  he  saw  him  thrown 
Into  the  deep  without  a tear  or  groan. 

The  other  father  had  a weaklier  child. 

Of  a soft  cheek,  and  a.spect  delicate  ; 

But  the  boy  bore  u]>  long,  and  with  a mild 
And  patient  spirit  held  aloof  his  fate  ; 

Little  he  said,  and  now  and  then  he  smiled. 

As  if  to  win  a part  from  off  the  weight 
He  saw  increasing  on  his  father’s  heart. 

With  the  deep  deadly  thought  that  they  must  pert. 

And  o’er  him  bent  his  sire,  and  never  rai.sed 
His  eyes  from  off  his  face,  but  wiped  the  foam 
From  his  pale  lips,  and  ever  on  him  gazed: 

And  when  the  wished-for  shower  at  length  was  coine^ 
And  the  boy’s  eyes,  which  the  dull  film  half  glazed. 
Brightened,  and  for  a moment  .seemed  to  roam. 

He  fqueezed  from  out  a rag  some  drops  of  rain 
Into  his  dving  child’s  mouth  ; but  iu  vain  1 

393 


1 

POKTS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  lord  uvron 

The  hoy  expired — the  father  held  the  clay, 
Aiid'looked  upon  it  lon^' ; and  when  at  last 
Death  left  no  doubt,  and  the  dead  burthen  lay 
Stitf  on  his  heart,  and  pulse  and  hope  were  past, 
lie  watched  it  wistfully,  until  away 

’Twas  borne  by  the  rude  wave  wherein  ’twas  cast ; 
Then  he  himself  sunk  down  all  dumb  and  shivering, 
And  gave  no  sign  of  life,  save  his  limbs  quivering. 

[Description  of  Ilaidee.^ 

[From  the  same.] 

Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold 
That  .sp.arkled  o’er  the  auburn  of  her  hair; 

Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were  rolled 
In  braids  behind  ; and  though  her  stature  were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a female  mould. 

They  nearly  reached  her  heels  ; and  in  her  air 
There  was  a something  which  bespoke  command, 

As  one  who  was  a lady  in  the  laud. 

Her  hair,  I said,  was  auburn  ; but  her  eyes 

tVere  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same  hue, 

Of  downcast  length,  in  who.se  silk  shadow  lies 
Deepest  attraction  ; for  when  to  the  view 
Forth  from  its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance  flies, 

Ne’er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow  flew: 

’Tis  as  the  snake  late  coiled,  who  pours  his  length. 
And  hurls  at  once  his  venom  and  his  strength. 

Her  brow  was  white  and  low  ; her  cheek’s  pure  dye. 
Like  twilight,  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun  ; 

Short  upper  lip — sweet  lips!  that  make  us  sigh 
Ever  to  have  seen  such  ; for  she  was  one 
Fit  for  the  model  of  a statuary 

(A  race  of  mere  impostors  when  all’s  done — 

I’ve  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  a,nd  real. 

Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal). 

[Haidee  Visits  tlie  Shipwrecked  Don  Juan.] 

And  down  the  cliff  the  island  virgin  came. 

And  near  the  cave  her  quick  light  footsteps  drew. 
While  the  sun  smiled  on  her  with  his  first  flame. 

And  young  Aurora  kissed  her  lips  with  dew. 

Taking  her  for  her  sister;  just  the  same 

hlistake  you  would  have  made  on  seeing  the  two. 
Although  the  mortal,  quite  as  fresh  and  fair. 

Had  all  the  advantage  too  of  not  being  air. 

And  when  into  the  cavern  Haidee  stepped 
All  timidly,  yet  rapidly,  she  saw 
That,  like  an  infant,  Juan  sweetly  slept : 

And  then  she  stopped  and  stood  as  if  in  awe, 

(For  sleep  is  awful)  and  on  tiptoe  crept 

And  wrapt  him  closer,  lest  the  air,  too  raw. 

Should  reach  his  blood  ; then  o’er  him,  still  as  death. 
Bent,  with  hushed  lips,  that  drank  his  scarce-drawn 
breath. 

And  thus,  like  to  an  angel  o’er  the  dying 

Who  die  in  righteousness,  she  leaned  ; and  there 
All  tranquilly  the  shipwrecked  boy  was  lying. 

As  o’er  him  lay  the  calm  and  stirless  air: 

But  Zoe  the  meantime  some  eggs  was  frying. 

Since,  after  all,  no  doubt  the  youthful  pair 
Mu.st  breakfast,  and  betimes — lest  they  should  ask  it. 
She  drew  out  her  provision  from  the  basket. 

• * * 

And  now,  by  dint  of  fingers  and  of  eyes. 

And  words  repeated  after  her,  he  took 
A lesson  in  her  tongue  ; but  by  surmise. 

No  doubt,  less  of  her  language  than  her  look  : 

As  he  who  .studies  fervently  the  skies. 

Turns  oftener  to  the  stars  than  to  his  book: 

Thus  Juan  learned  his  alpha  beta  better 
From  llaidee’s  glance  than  any  graven  letter. 

’Tis  pleasing  to  be  schooled  in  a strange  tongue 
By  female  lips  and  eyes — that  is,  1 mean 
When  both  the  teacher  and  the  taught  are  young ; 

As  was  the  case,  at  least,  where  1 have  been  ; 

They  smile  so  when  one’s  right,  and  when  one’s  wrong, 
They  smile  still  more,  and  then  there  iiuervoue 
Pressure  of  hands,  perhaps  even  a chaste  kiss ; — ■ 

I learned  the  little  that  I know  by  this. 

[TTaidee  and  Juan  at  the  Feast.] 

Haidee  and  Juan  carpeted  their  feet 

On  crimson  satin,  bordered  with  pale  blue; 

Their  sofa  occupied  three  parts  complete 

Of  the  apartment — and  appeared  quite  new ; 

The  velvet  cushions — for  a throne  more  meet — 

Were  .scarlet,  from  whose  glowing  centre  grew 
A .sun  embos.sed  in  gold,  whose  rays  of  tissue, 
Meridian-like,  were  seen  all  light  to  issue. 

Crystal  and  marble,  plate  and  porcelain, 

Had  done  their  work  of  splendour;  Indian  mats 
And  Persian  carpets,  which  the  heart  bled  to  stain. 
Over  the  floors  were  spread  ; gazelles  and  cats. 

And  dwarfs  and  blacks,  and  such-like  things,  that  gain 
Their  bread  as  ministers  and  favourites — that’s 
To  say,  by  degradation — mingled  there 
As  plentiful  as  in  a court  or  fair. 

There  was  no  want  of  lofty  mirrors,  and 
The  tables,  most  of  ebony  inlaid 
With  mother-of-pearl  or  ivory,  stood  at  hand. 

Or  were  of  tortoise-shell  or  rare  woods  made, 
Fretted  with  gold  or  silver— by  command. 

The  greater  part  of  these  were  ready  spread 
With  viands  and  sherbets  in  ice — and  wine — 

Kept  for  all  comers,  at  all  hours  to  dine. 

Of  all  the  dresses,  I select  Haidee’s  : 

She  wore  two  jelicks— one  was  of  pale  yellow  ; 

Of  azure,  pink,  and  white,  wa.j  her  chemise — 

’Neath  which  her  breast  heaved  like  a little  blll:wj 
With  buttons  formed  of  pearls  as  large  as  peas, 

All  gold  and  crimson  shone  her  jelick’s  fellow. 

And  the  striped  white  gauze  baracan  that  bound  her, 
Like  fleecy  clouds  about  the  moon  flowed  round  her. 

One  large  gold  bracelet  clasped  each  lovely  arm, 
Lockless — so  pliable  from  the  pure  gold 
That  the  hand  stretched  and  shut  it  without  harm. 
The  limb  which  it  adorned  its  only  mould ; 

So  beautiful — its  very  shape  would  charm. 

And  clinging  as  if  loath  to  lose  .ts  hold: 

The  purest  ore  enclosed  the  whitest  skin 
That  e’er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in. 

Around,  as  prince.ss  of  her  father’.s  land, 

A light  gold  bar  above  her  instep  rolled 
Announced  her  rank  ; twelve  rings  were  on  her  hand  , 
Her  hair  was  starred  with  gems  ; her  veil’s  fine  fold 
Below  her  breast  was  fastened  with  a band 

Of  lavish  pearls,  whose  worth  could  scarce  be  told  ; 
Her  orange-silk  full  Turkish  trousers  furled 
About  the  prettiest  ankle  in  the  world. 

Her  hair’s  long  aubuni  waves,  down  to  her  heel 
Flowed  like  an  alpine  torrent,  which  the  sun 
Dyes  with  his  morning  light — and  would  conceal 
Her  person  if  allowed  at  large  to  run. 

And  still  they  .seemed  resentfully  to  feel 
The  silken  fillet’s  curb,  and  sought  to  shun 
Their  bonds  whene’er  some  Zephyr  caught  began 
To  offer  his  young  pinion  as  her  fan. 

Round  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  life ; 

The  very  air  seemed  lighter  fro:n  her  eyes. 

They  were  so  soft,  and  beautiful,  and  rife. 

With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies. 

And  pure  as  P.syche  ere  she  grew  a wife — 

Too  pure  even  for  the  purest  human  tics  ; 

3'>3 

FROM  17B0  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  t:il  the  present  tim^ 

Her  ovorpoweriii"  prestnco  made  you  feel 
It  would  not  be  idolatry  to  kneel. 

Her  eyelashes,  though  dark  as  ni"ht,  were  tinged 
(It  is  the  country’s  custom),  but  in  vain  ; 

For  those  large  black  eyes  were  so  blackly  fringed, 
The  glossy  rebels  mocked  the  jetty  stain, 

Ami  in  her  native  beauty  stood  avenged  : 

Her  nails  were  touched  with  henna  ; but  again 
The  power  of  art  was  turned  to  nothing,  for 
They  could  not  look  more  rosy  than  before. 

The  henna  should  be  deeply  dyed,  to  make 
The  skin  relieved  .appear  more  fairly  fair ; 

She  had  no  need  of  this — d.ay  ne’er  will  break 
On  mountain-tops  more  heavenly  white  than  her; 
The  eye  might  doubt  if  it  were  well  awake. 

She  was  so  like  a vision  ; I might  err. 

Put  Shakspeare' also  says,  ’tis  very  silly 
‘ To  gild  refined  gold,  or  paint  the  lily.’ 

Ju.an  had  on  a shawl  of  bhack  and  gold. 

But  a white  baracan,  and  so  transparent 
The  sparkling  gems  beneath  you  might  behold. 

Like  small  stars  through  the  milky-way  apparent; 
His  turban,  furled  in  many  a graceful  fold. 

An  emerald  aigrette  with  Haidee’s  hair  in’t 
Surmounted  .as  its  clasp — a glowing  crescent. 

Whose  rays  shone  ever  trembling,  but  incessant. 

And  now  they  were  diverted  by  their  suite, 

Dwarfs,  dancing-girls,  black  eunuchs,  and  a poet ; 
Which  m.ade  their  new  establishment  complete ; 

The  last  w.as  of  great  fame,  and  liked  to  show  it  : 
His  verses  rarely  wanted  their  due  feet — 

And  for  his  theme — he  seldom  sung  below  it. 

He  being  paid  to  satirise  or  flatter. 

As  the  Psalms  say,  ‘ inditing  a good  matter.’ 

[The  Death  of  Ilaidee.] 

Afric  is  all  the  sun’s,  and  as  her  earth. 

Her  human  clay  is  kindled  ; full  of  power 
For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth. 

The  Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet’s  hour. 

And,  like  the  soil  beneath  it,  will  bring  forth : 

Beauty  and  love  were  Haidee’s  mother’s  dower; 
But  her  large  dark  eye  showed  deep  Passion’s  force. 
Though  sleeping  like  a lion  near  a source. 

Her  daughter,  tempered  with  a milder  ray, 

Like  summer  clouds  all  silvery,  smooth,  and 
fair, 

Till  slowly'  charged  with  thunder,  they  display 
Terror  to  e.arth  and  tempest  to  the  air. 

Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  w.ay  ; 

But,  overwrought  with  passion  and  despair, 

The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Numidian  veins. 

Even  as  the  simoom  sweeps  the  blasted  plains. 

The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan’s  gore. 

And  he  himself  o’ermastered  and  cut  down  ; 

His  blood  was  running  on  the  very  floor 
Where  late  he  trod  her  beautiful,  her  own ; 

Thus  much  she  viewed  an  instant  and  no  more — 

Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convulsive  groan  ; 

On  her  sire’s  arm,  which  until  now  scarce  held 
Her  writhing,  fell  she  like  a cedar  felled. 

A vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips’  pure  dyes 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which  ran 
o’er. 

And  her  head  drooped  as  when  the  lily  lies 

O’ercharged  with  rain  : her  summoned  handmaids 
bore 

Their  lady  to  her  couch  with  gushing  eyes  ; 

Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their  store  : 
But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ. 

Like  one  life  could  not  hold  nor  death  destroy. 

Days  lay  she  in  that  state  unchanged,  though  chill— 
With  nothing  livid,  still  her  lips  were  rod  ; 

She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  seeine<l  absent  still ; 

No  hideous  sign  proclaimed  her  surely  dead  • 
Corruption  came  not  in  each  mind  to  kill 
All  hope  : to  look  upon  her  sweet  face  bred 
New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seemed  full  of  soul-  — 

She  had  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim  the  whole. 

The  ruling  passion,  such  as  marble  shows 
When  exquisitely  chiselled,  still  lay  there. 

But  fixed  as  marble’s  unchanged  aspect  throws 
O’er  the  fair  Venus,  but  for  ever  fair; 

O’er  the  Lahcoon’s  all  eternal  throes. 

And  ever-dying  gladiator’s  air. 

Their  energy  like  life  forms  all  their  fame. 

Yet  looks  not  life,  for  they  are  still  the  same. 

She  woke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleepers  wake. 

Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seemed  something  new  ‘ 

A strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 
Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 
Struck  not  on  memory,  though  a heavy  ache 
Lay  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat  still  true 
Brought  back  the  st.ise  of  pain  without  the  cause— 

For,  for  a while,  the  furies  made  a pause. 

She  looked  on  many  a face  with  vacant  eye. 

On  many  a token,  without  knowing  what ; 

She  saw  them  watch  her  without  asking  why. 

And  recked  not  who  around  her  pillow  sat  : 

Not  speechless,  though  she  spoke  not ; not  a sigh 
■ Relieved  her  thoughts  ; dull  silence  and  quick  chat 
Were  tried  in  vain  by  those  who  served  ; she  gave 
No  sign,  save  breath,  of  having  left  the  grave. 

Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not  ; 

Her  father  watched,  she  turned  her  eyes  away  ; 

She  recognised  no  being,  and  no  spot. 

However  dear  or  cherished  in  their  day  ; 

They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but  all  forgot ; 

Gentle,  but  without  memory,  she  lay  ; 

At  length  those  eyes, which  they  would  fain  De  weanitg 
Back  to  old  thoughts,  waxed  full  of  fearful  meaning. 

And  then  a slave  bethought  her  of  a harp  ; 

The  harper  came  and  tuned  his  instrument . 

At  the  first  notes,  irregular  and  sharp. 

On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a moment  bent; 

Then  to  the  wall  she  turned,  as  if  to  warp 

Her  thoughts  from  sorrow  through  her  heart  re-seut  [ 
And  he  began  a long  low  island  song 
Of  ancient  days  ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 

Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall 

In  time  to  his  old  tune  ; he  changed  the  them!, 

And  sung  of  Love  ; the  fierce  name  struck  through  all 
Her  recollection  ; on  her  flashed  the  dream 
Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  call 
To  be  so  being  : in  a gushing  stream 
The  tears  rushed  forth  from  her  o’erclouded  brain. 

Like  mountain  mists  at  length  dissolved  in  rain. 

Short  solace,  vain  relief ! thought  came  too  quick. 

And  whirled  her  brain  to  madness  ; she  arose 
As  one  who  ne’er  had  dwelt  among  the  sick. 

And  flew  at  all  she  met,  as  on  her  foes  ; 

But  no  one  ever  heard  her  speak  or  shriek. 

Although  her  paroxysm  drew  towards  its  close  ; 

Hers  was  a frenzy  which  disdained  to  rave. 

Even  when  they  smote  her,  in  the  hope  to  save. 

Twelve  d.ays  and  nights  she  withered  thus ; at  last. 
Without  a groan,  or  sigh,  or  glance,  to  show 
A parting  pang,  the  spirit  from  her  passed  : 

And  they  who  watched  her  nearest  could  not  know 
The  very  instant,  till  the  change  that  c,ist 
Her  sweet  face  into  shadow,  dull  and  slow, 

Glazed  o’er  her  eyes — the  beautiful,  the  black — 

Oh  to  possess  such  lustre,  and  then  lack ! 

394 

1 

P0KT8. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


PEIICV  B’  !SIIE  SIIEU.ET. 


She  died,  but  not  alone  ; she  held  within 
A second  principle  of  life,  which  might 
Have  dawned  a fair  and  sinless  child  of  sin  ; 

Hut  closed  its  little  being  without  light. 

And  went  down  to  the  grave  unborn,  wherein 

Blossom  and  bough  lie  withered  with  one  blight ; 

In  vain  the  dews  of  heaven  descend  above 
The  bleeding  flower  and  blasted  fruit  of  love. 

Thus  lived — thus  died  she  ; never  more  on  her 
Shall  sorrow  light  or  shame.  She  was  not  made 
Through  j'ears  or  moons  the  inner  weight  to  bear, 
Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  they  are  laid 
By  age  in  earth  : her  days  and  pleasures  were 
Brief,  but  delightful — such  as  had  not  stayed 
Long  with  her  destiny  ; but  she  sleeps  well 
By  the  sea-shore  whereon  she  loved  to  dwell. 

That  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare. 

Its  dwellings  down,  its  tenants  passed  away  ; 

None  but  her  own  and  father’s  grave  is  there, 

And  nothing  outward  tells  of  human  clay  ; 

Ye  could  not  know  where  lies  a thing  so  fair; 

No  one  is  there  to  show,  no  tongue  to  say 
What  was  ; no  dirge  except  the  hollow  seas 
Mourns  o’er  the  beauty  of  the  Cyclades. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  was  the  son  and  heir  of 
a wealthy  English  baronet.  Sir  Timothy  Shelley  of 
Castle  Goring,  in  Sussex,  and  was  born  at  Field 
Place,  in  that  county,  on  the  4th  of  August  1792. 
In  worldly  prospects  and  distinction  the  poet  there- 
fore surpassed  most  of  his  tuneful  brethren  ; yet 
this  only  served  to  render  his  unhappy  and  strange 
destiny  the  more  conspicuously  wretched.  He  was 
first  educated  at  Eton,  and  afterwards  at  Oxford. 
His  resistance  to  all  established  authority  and 
opinion  displayed  itself  while  at  school,  and  in  the 
introduction  to  his  Revolt  of  Islam,  he  has  portrayed 
his  early  impressions  in  some  sweet  and  touching 
stanzas — 

Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear  friend, 
when  first 

The  clouds  which  wrap  this  world  from  youth  did 
pass. 

I do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 
My  spirit’s  sleep  : a fresh  May-dawn  it  was. 

When  1 walked  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass. 

And  wept,  I knew  not  why  : until  there  rose 
From  the  near  schoolroom  voices  that,  alas  I 
Were  but  one  echo  from  a world  of  woes — 

The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 
And  then  I clasped  my  hands  and  looked  around. 
But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes. 
Which  poured  their  warm  drops  on  the  sunny 
ground ; 

So,  without  shame,  I spake — ‘ I will  be  wise, 

And  just,  and'free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 
Such  power,  for  I grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannise 
Without  reproach  or  chock.’  I then  controlled 
My  tears,  my  heart  grew  calm,  and  I was  meek  and 
bold. 

And  from  that  hour  did  T with  earnest  thought 
Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore; 

Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
I cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 
Wrought  linked  armour  for  my  soul,  before 
It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind  ; 

Thus  power  and  hope  were  strengthened  more  and 
more 

Within  me,  till  there  came  upon  my  mind 
A sense  of  loneliness,  a thirst  with  which  I pined. 


With  these  feelings  and  predilections  Shelley  went 
to  Oxford.  He  studied  hard,  but  irregularly,  and 
spent  much  of  his  leisure  in  chemical  experiments. 
He  incessantly  speculated,  thought,  and  read,  as  he 
himself  has  stated.  At  the  .age  of  fifteen  he  wrote 
two  short  prose  romances.  He  had  also  great  faci- 
lity in  versification,  and  threw  off  various  effusions. 
The  ‘forbidden  mines  of  lore’  which  had  capfivated 
his  boyish  mind  at  Eton  were  also  diligently  ex- 
plored, and  he  w.as  soon  an  avowed  republican  and 
sceptic.  He  published  a volume  of  political  rhymes, 
entitled  Margaret  Nicholson’s  Remains,  the  said  Mar- 
garet being  the  unhappy  maniac  who  attempted  to 
stab  George  HI. ; and  he  issued  a syllabus  from 
Hume’s  Essays,  at  the  same  time  challenging  the 
authorities  of  Oxford  to  a public  controversy  on  the 
subject.  Shelley  was  at  this  time  just  seventeen 
years  of  age  ! The  consequence  of  his  conduct  was, 
that  he  was  expelled  the  university,  and  his  friends 
being  disgusted  with  him,  he  was  cast  on  the  world, 
a prey  to  the  undisciplined  ardour  of  youth  and 
passion.  His  subsequent  life  was  truly  a warfare 
upon  earth.  Mrs  Shelley,  widow  of  the  poet,  has 
thus  traced  the  early  bias  of  his  mind,  and  its  pre- 
disposing causes  : — • Refusing  to  fag  at  Eton,  he  was 
treated  with  revolting  cruelty  by  masters  and  boys  ; 
this  roused  instead  of  taming  his  spirit,  and  he  re- 
jected the  duty  of  obedience  when  it  was  enforced 
by  menaces  and  punishment.  To  aversion  to  the 
society  of  his  fellow-creatures — such  as  he  found 
them  when  collected  together  into  societies,  where 
one  egged  on  the  other  to  acts  of  tyranny — was 
joined  the  deepest  sympathy  and  compassion  ; while 
the  attachment  he  felt  for  individuals,  and  the  ad- 
mir.ation  with  which  he  regarded  their  powers  and 
their  virtues,  led  him  to  entertain  a high  opinion  of 
the  perfectibility  of  human  nature ; and  he  believed 
that  all  could  reach  the  highest  grade  of  moral  im- 
provement, did  not  the  customs  and  prejudices  of 
society  foster  evil  passions  and  excuse  evil  actions. 
The  oppression  which,  trembling  at  every  nerve,  yet 
resolute  to  heroism,  it  was  his  ill  fortune  to  encounter 
at  school  and  at  college,  led  him  to  dissent  in  m.any 
things  from  those  whose  arguments  were  blows, 
whose  faith  appeared  to  engender  blame  and  exe- 
cration. “ During  my  existence,”  he  wrote  to  a 
friend  in  1812,  “I  have  incessantly  speculated, 
thought,  and  read.”  His  readings  were  not  always 
well  chosen  ; among  them  were  the  works  of  the 
French  philosophers  : as  far  as  metaphysical  argu- 
ment went,  he  temporarily  became  a convert.  At  the 
same  time  it  was  the  cardinal  article  of  his  faith,  that, 
if  men  were  but  taught  and  induced  to  treat  their 
fellows  with  love,  charity,  and  equal  rights,  this 
earth  would  realise  Paradise.  He  looked  upon  reli- 
gion as  it  was  professed,  and,  above  all,  practised,  as 
hostile,  instead  of  friendly,  to  the  cultivation  of  those 
virtues  which  would  make  men  brothers,’  Mrs 
Shelley  conceives  that,  in  the  peculiar  circumstances, 
this  was  not  to  be  wondered  at.  ‘ At  the  age  of 
seventeen,  fragile  in  health  and  frame,  of  the  purest 
habits  in  morals,  full  of  devoted  generosity  and  uni- 
versal kindness,  glowing  with  ardour  to  attain  wis- 
dom, resolved,  at  every  personal  sacrifice,  to  do  right, 
burning  with  a desire  for  affection  and  sympathy,  he 
was  treated  as  a reprobate,  cast  forth  as  a criminaL 
The  cause  was,  that  he  was  sincere,  that  he  believed 
the  opinions  which  he  entertained  to  be  true,  and  he 
loved  truth  with  a martyr’s  love : he  was  ready  to 
sacrifice  station,  «and  fortune,  and  bis  dearest  affec- 
tions, at  its  shrine.  The  sacrifice  was  demanded 
from,  and  made  by,  a youth  of  seventeen.’ 

It  appears  that  in  his  youth  Shelley  was  equally 
inclined  to  poetry  and  metaphysics,  and  hesitated  to 
which  he  should  devote  himself.  He  ended  in  unit- 

395 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  pitesent  time. 


FROM  1780 


ins  tlicni,  by  no  niciins  to  tbe  adviintage  of  liis 
jxictry.  At  tlie  age  of  eigliteen  lie  procliieud  a 
wild  atheistical  jioein,  (Juivn  Mah,  written  in  the 
rhythm  of  Southey’s  'rindabii,  and  abounding  in 
passages  of  great  power  and  melody.  Shortly  after 
this  he  married  a young  woman  of  humble  station 
in  life,  which  still  further  exasperated  bis  jiarents 
and  relatives,  without  adding  to  his  own  happiness, 
lie  seems,  however,  to  have  been  free  from  pecuniary 
difficulties,  and  after  a tour  on  the  continent,  during 
which  he  visited  some  of  the  more  magnificent  scenes 
of  Switzeilaml,  he  settled  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Windsor  Forest,  and  in  this  woodland  retreat  com- 
posed his  poem,  Ahislor,  or  the  Spirit  oj  Solitude, 
designed,  as  he  states,  to  represent  a youth  of  un- 
corrupted feelings  and  adventurous  genius,  led  forth 
by  an  imagination  inflamed  and  purified  through 
familiarity  with  all  that  is  excellent  and  majestic, 
to  the  contemiilation  of  the  universe.  The  mind  of 
his  hero,  however,  becomes  awakened,  and  thirsts 
for  intercourse  with  an  intelligence  similar  to  itself. 
He  seeks  in  vain  for  a prototype  of  his  conception; 
and,  blasted  by  his  disappointment,  he  descends  to 
an  untimely  grave.  In  this  picture  Shelley  un- 
doubtedly drew  from  his  own  experience,  and  in 
none  of  his  subsequent  works  has  he  excelled  the 
descriptive  passages  in  ‘ Alastor.’  The  copious  pic- 
turesqueness of  Ids  language,  and  the  boldness  of 
his  imagination,  are  here  strikingly  exemplified. 
The  poet’s  fortunes  did  not  improve  with  his  genius. 
His  domestic  unhappiness  induced  him  to  separate 
from  his  wife,  by  whom  be  bad  two  children,  ami 
tbe  unfortunate  woman  afterwards  destroyed  her- 
self. Shelley  was  on  this  account  subjected  to  much 
obloquy  and  misrepresentation,  and  the  cup  of  his 
misery  was  filled  by  a chancery  decree,  depriving 
him  of  the  guardianship  of  his  children,  on  the 
ground  of  his  immorality  and  atheism.  He  felt  this 
deei>ly ; and  in  a poetical  fragment  on  tlie  subject, 
he  invokes  a curse  on  the  administrator  of  the  law, 

* by  a parent’s  outr.aged  love,’  and  in  one  exquisite 
verse — 

By  all  the  happy  see  in  children’s  growth, 

That  undeveloped  flower  of  budding  years, 

Sweetness  and  sadness  interwoven  both. 

Source  of  the  sweetest  hopes  and  saddest  fears ! 

Shelley  contracted  a second  marriage  with  the 
daughter  of  Mr  Godwin,  author  of  Caleb  Williams, 
and  established  himself  at  Marlow,  in  Buckingham- 
shire. Here  he  composed  the  ‘ Revolt  of  Islam,’  a 
poem  more  energetic  than  ‘Alastor,’  yet  containing 
the  same  allegorical  features  and  peculiarities  of 
thought  and  style,  and  rendered  more  tedious  by 
the  w'ant  of  human  interest.  It  is  honourable  to 
Shelley  that,  during  his  residence  at  Marlow,  he 
was  indefatigable  in  his  attentions  to  the  poor  ; his 
wddow  relates  that,  in  the  winter,  while  bringing 
out  his  poem,  he  bad  a severe  attack  of  ophthalmia, 
caught  while  visiting  the  poor  cottages.  This  cer- 
tainly stamps  with  reality  his  pleadings  for  the 
human  race,  though  the  nature  of  his  philosophy 
and  opinions  would  have  deprived  them  of  the  highest 
of  earthly  consolations.  The  poet  now  prepared  to 
go  abroad.  A strong  sense  of  injury,  and  a burning 
desire  to  redress  wliat  he  termed  the  wrongs  of 
in,eiety,  rendered  him  miserable  in  England,  and  he 
hoped  also  that  his  health  would  be  improved  by  a 
milder  climate.  Accordingly,  on  the  12th  of  March 
1818,  he  quitted  this  country,  never  to  return.  He 
went  direct  to  Italy,  and  whilst  residing  at  Rome, 
composed  his  classic  drama  of  Prometheus  Unbound. 

‘ This  poem,’  he  says,  ‘ was  chiefly  written  upon  the 
mountainous  ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  among 
the  flowery  glades  and  thickets  of  odoriferous  blos- 


soming trees,  which  are  extended  in  ever-winding 
latiyrinths  upon  its  immense  platforms  and  di/.zy 
arches  suspended  in  the  air.  The  bright  blue  sky 
of  Rome,  and  the  effect  of  the  vigorous  awakening 
of  spring  in  that  divinest  climate,  and  the  new  life 


Shelley’s  House. 

with  which  it  drenches  the  spirits  even  to  intoxica- 
tion, W’ere  the  inspiration  of  this  drama.’  No  change 
of  scene,  however,  could  permanently  affect  the 
nature  of  Shelley’s  speculations,  and  his  ‘Prometheus’ 
is  as  mystical  and  metaphysical,  and  as  daringly 
sceptical,  as  any  of  his  previous  works.  The  cardi- 
nal point  of  his  system  is  described  by  Mrs  Shelley 
as  a belief  that  man  could  be  so  perfectionised  as  to 
be  able  to  expel  evil  from  his  own  nature,  and  from 
the  greater  part  of  the  creation  ; and  the  subject  he  j 
loved  best  to  dwell  on,  was  the  image  of  one  warring  I 
with  the  evil  principle,  oppressed  not  oidy  by  it,  but 
by  all,  even  tlie  good,  who  were  deluded  into  con- 
sidering evil  a necessary  portion  of  humanity.  His 
next  work  was  The  Cenci,  a tragedy,  published  in 
1819,  and  dedicated  to  Mr  Leigh  Hunt.  ‘Those 
writings.’  he  remarks  in  the  dedication,  ‘which  I 
have  hitherto  published,  have  been  little  else  than 
visions  which  impersonate  my  own  apprehensions 
of  the  beautiful  and  the  just.  I can  also  iierceive  in 
them  the  literary  defects  incidental  to  youth  and 
impatience;  they  are  dreams  of  what  ought  to  be, 
or  may  be.  The  dr.ama  which  I now  present  to  you 
is  a sad  re.ality.  I lay  aside  the  presumptuous  atti- 
tude of  an  instructor,  and  am  content  to  jiaint,  with 
such  colours  as  my  own  heart  furnishes,  that  which 
has  been.’  Tlie  painting  is  dark  and  gloomy ; but, 
in  spite  of  a revolting  plot,  and  the  insane  unnatural 
character  of  the  Cenci,  Shelley’s  tragedy  is  one  of 
the  best  of  modern  times.  As  an  effort  of  intellec- 
tual strength,  and  an  embodiment  of  human  passion,  ' 
it  may  challenge  a comparison  with  any  dramatic 
work  since  Otway  ; and  it  is  incomparably  the  best 
of  the  poet’s  productions.  His  remaining  works  are 
Hellas;  The  Witch  of  Atlas  ; Adonais  ; Rosalind  and 
Helen;  and  a variety  of  shorter  productions,  with 
scenes  translated  from  Calderon  and  the  F'aust  of 
Goethe.  In  Italy  Shelley  renewed  his  acquaintance 
with  Lord  Byron,  who  thought  his  philosophy  ‘ too 

396 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Bpiritual  and  romantic.’  He  was  temperate  in  liis 
habits,  gentle,  airectionatc,  and  generous;  so  that 
even  those  .vlio  most  deeply  deplored  or  detested 
his  opinions,  were  charmed  with  the  intellectvial 
purity  and  benevolence  of  his  life.  His  favourite 
smusement  was  boating  and  sailing;  and  whilst 
returning  one  d:iy,  the  8th  of  July  1822,  from  Leg- 
horn (whither  he  laid  gone  to  welcome  Leigh  Hunt 
to  Italy),  the  boat  in  which  he  sailed,  accompanied 
by  Mr  Willi;ims,  formerly  of  the  8th  dragoons,  and 
a single  se;iman,  went  down  in  the  bay  of  Spezia, 
and  all  perished.  A volume  of  Keats’s  poetry  was 
found  open  in  Shelley’s  coat  pocket  when  his  body 
was  washed  ashore.  The  remains  of  the  poet  were 
reduced  to  ashes  by  fire,  and  being  taken  to  Rome, 
were  deposited  in  the  Protestant  burial  ground,  near 
those  of child  he  had  lost  in  that  city.  A complete 
edition  of  Slielley’s  Poetical  Works,  with  notes  by 
his  widow,  has  been  published  in  four  volumes:  and 
the  same  ;iccomplished  lady  has  given  to  the  world 
two  volumes  of  his  prose  Kss:iys,  Letters  from 
Abroad,  Translations  and  Fragments.  Shelley’s 
life  was  a dream  of  romance — a tale  of  mystery  and 
grief.  That  he  was  sincere  in  his  opinions,  and 
benevolent  in  his  intentions,  is  now  undoubted.  He 
looked  upon  the  world  with  the  eyes  of  a visionary, 
beut  on  unattainable  schemes  of  intellectual  e.xcel- 
lence  and  suprem.acy.  His  delusion  led  to  misery, 
and  made  him,  for  a time,  unjust  to  others.  It 
alienated  him  from  his  family  and  friends,  blasted 
his  prospects  in  life,  and  distempered  :dl  his  views 
and  opinions.  It  is  prob:ible  tliat,  had  he  lived  to  a 
riper  age,  he  might  have  modified  some  of  those 
extreme  speculative  and  pernicious  tenets,  and  we 
have  no  doubt  that  he  would  have  risen  into  a purer 
atmosphere  of  poetical  imagination.  The  troubled 
and  stormy  dawn  was  fast  yielding  to  the  calm  noon- 
day brightness.  He  had  worn  out  some  of  Ids  fierce 
antipathies  and  morbid  affections;  a happy  domestic 
circle  was  gathered  around  him  ; and  the  refined 
simplicity  of  his  tastes  and  habits,  joined  to  wider 
and  juster  views  of  human  life,  would  imperceptibly 
have  given  a new  tone  to  his  thoughts  and  studies. 
He  had  a high  idea  of  the  art  to  which  he  devoted 
his  faculties. 

‘Poetry,’  he  says  in  one  of  his  essays,  ‘ is  the  re- 
cord of  the  best  and  happiest  moments  of  the  hap- 
piest and  best  minds.  We  are  aware  of  evanescent 
visitations  of  thought  and  feeling,  sometimes  asso- 
ciated with  place  or  person,  sometimes  regarding 
our  own  mind  alone,  and  always  arising  unforeseen 
and  departing  unbidden,  but  elevating  and  delightful 
beyond  all  expression  ; so  that,  even  in  the  desire 
and  the  regret  they  leave,  there  cannot  but  be  plea- 
sure, participating  as  it  does  in  the  nature  of  its 
object.  It  is,  as  it  were,  the  interpenetration  of  a 
diviner  nature  through  our  own  ; but  its  footsteps 
are  like  those  of  a wind  over  the  sea,  which  the 
morning  calm  erases,  and  whose  traces  remain  only, 
as  on  the  wrinkled  sand  which  paves  it.  These  and 
corresponding  conditions  of  being  are  experienced 
principally  by  those  of  the  most  delicate  sensibility 
and  the  most  enlarged  imagination  ; and  the  state  of 
mind  produced  by  them  is  at  war  with  every  base 
desire.  The  enthusiasm  of  virtue,  love,  patriotism, 
and  friendship,  is  essentially  linked  with  such  emo- 
tions; and  whilst  they  last,  self  appears  as  what  it  is, 
an  atom  to  a universe.  Poets  are  not  only  subject 
to  these  experiences  as  spirits  of  the  most  refined 
organisation,  but  they  can  colour  all  that  they  com- 
bine with  the  evanescent  hues  of  this  ethereal  world ; 
a word,  a trait  in  the  representation  of  a scene  or 
passion,  will  touch  the  enchanted  chord,  and  re- 
animate, in  those  who  have  ever  experienced  those 
emotions,  the  sleeping,  the  cold,  the  buried  image  of 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


the  past.  Poetry  thus  makes  immortal  all  that  is 
best  and  most  beautiful  in  the  world  ; it  arrests  the 
v;inishingapp;iritions  which  haunt  the  interlunations 
of  life,  and  veiling  them,  or  in  language  or  in  form, 
sends  them  forth  among  mankind,  bearing  sweet 
news  of  kindred  joy  to  those  with  whom  their  sisters 
abide — abide,  bec;iuse  there  is  no  portal  of  expres- 
sion from  the  caverns  of  the  spirit  which  they  in- 
habit into  the  universe  of  things.  I’oetry  redeems 
from  decay  the  visitations  of  the  divinity  in  man.’ 
I'lie  remote  abstract  character  of  Shelley’s  poetry, 
and  its  general  want  of  anything  real  or  tangible, 
by  which  the  sympathies  of  the  heart  ara  awakened, 
must  always  prevent  its  becoming  popuiai.  His 
mystic  idealism  renders  him  obscure,  and  his  imagery 
is  sometimes  aceumulated,  till  both  precision  and 
effect  are  lost,  and  the  poet  becomes  harsh  and  in- 
volved in  expression.  He  sought  to  reason  high  in 
verse — not  like  Uryden,  Pope,  or  Johnson,  but  in 
cold  and  glittering  metaphysics,  where  the  idealism 
of  Berkeley  stood  in  the  place  of  the  moral  truths 
and  passions  of  actual  life.  There  is  no  melancholy 
grandeur  in  his  pictures,  or  sinqile  unity  in  his  de- 
signs. Another  fault  is  his  partiality  for  painting 
ghastly  and  repulsive  scenes.  He  liad,  however, 
many_  great  and  shining  qualities — a rich  and  fertile 
imagination,  a passionate  love  of  nature,  and  a dic- 
tion singularly  classic;d  and  imposing  in  sound  and 
structure.  The  descriptive  passages  in  ‘Alastor,’  and 
the  river-voyage  at  the  conclusion  of  the  ‘ Revolt  of 
Islam,’  are  among  the  most  finishe<l  of  his  productions. 
His  morbid  ghastliness  is  there  laid  aside,  and  his 
better  genius  leads  him  to  the  pure  waters  and  the 
depth  of  forest  shades,  which,  none  of  his  contempo- 
raries knew  better  how  to  describe.  Some  of  the 
minor  poems  are  also  imbued  with  a true  poetical 
spirit,  and  speak  the  genuine  feelings  of  mitiire.  Une 
striking  peculiarity  of  his  style  is  his  constant  per- 
sonification of  inanimate  objects.  In  the  ‘Cenci’  we 
have  a strong  and  almost  terrible  illustration  of  this 
original  feature  of  his  poetry  : — 

I remember. 

Two  miles  on  this  side  of  the  fort,  the  road 
Crosses  a deep  ravine ; ’tis  rough  and  narrow, 

And  winds  with  short  turns  down  the  precipice  ; 

And  in  its  dejjth  there  is  a mighty  rock 

Which  has  from  unimaginable  years 

Sustained  itself  with  terror  and  with  toil 

Over  a gulf,  and  with  the  agony 

With  which  it  clings,  seems  slowly  coming  down; 

Kven  as  a wretched  soul,  hour  after  hour. 

Clings  to  the  mass  of  life,  yet  clinging,  leans. 

And  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  dread  abyss 
In  which  it  fears  to  fall — beneath  this  crag. 

Huge  as  despair,  as  if  in  weariness, 

The  melancholy  mountain  y.awns  ; below 
You  hear,  but  see  not,  an  impetuous  torrent 
Raging  among  the  caverns,  and  a bridge 
Crosses  the  chasm  ; and  high  above  there  grow. 

With  intersecting  trunks,  from  crag  to  crag. 

Cedars  and  yews,  and  pines,  whose  tangled  hail 
Is  matted  in  one  solid  roof  of  shade 
By  the  dark  ivy’s  twine.  At  noonday  here 
’Tis  twilight,  and  at  sunset  blackest  night. 

The  Flight  of  the  Hours  in  ‘ Promethus’  is  equally 
vivid,  and  touched  with  a higher  grace  — 

Behoid  ! 

The  rocks  are  cloven,  and  through  the  purple  night 
I see  cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  stee  Is, 

\\  hich  trample  the  dim  winds  : in  each  there  stands 
A wild-eyed  chaiioteer  urging  their  flight. 

Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there. 

And  yet  I .see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars ; 

Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 

397 


FROM  17!i0  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  THE  PRESENT  TIMB. 


With  ca^cr  lii)s  the  wind  of  their  own  speed, 

As  if  tlie  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 

And  now,  even  now,  they  clasped  it.  Their  bright 
locks 

Stream  like  a comet’s  flashing  hair : they  all 
Sweep  onward. 

These  are  the  immortal  Hours, 

Of  whom  thou  didst  demand.  One  waits  for  thee. 

[Opening  of  Qveen  Mdb.^ 

How  wonderful  is  Death, 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep! 

One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue; 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 

When,  throned  on  ocean’s  wave, 

It  blushes  o’er  the  world  : 

Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful! 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power, 

Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres, 

Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ? 

Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a field  of  snow. 
That  lovely  outline,  which  is  fair 
As  breathing  marble,  perish? 

Must  putrefaction’s  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 
But  loathsomeness  and  ruin  ? 

Spare  nothing  but  a gloomy  theme 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moralise? 

Or  is  it  only  a sweet  slumber 
Stealing  o’er  sensation. 

Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 
Chaseth  into  darkness? 

Will  lanthe  wake  again, 

And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life,  and  rapture  from  her  smile  ? 

Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed, 

And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark  blue  orbs  beneath. 

The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed ; 

Her  golden  tresses  shade 
The  bosom’s  stainless  pride. 

Curling  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 
Around  a marble  column. 

Hark  ! whence  that  rushing  sound  I 
’Tis  like  the  wondrous  strain 
That  round  a lonely  ruin  swells. 

Which,  wandering  on  the  echoing  shore. 

The  enthusiast  hears  at  evening : » 

’Tis  softer  than  the  west  wind’s  sigh  ; 

’Tis  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Of  that  strange  lyre  whose  strings 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep  : 

Those  lines  of  rainbow  light  , 

Are  like  the  moonbeams  when  they  fall 
Through  some  cathedral  window,  but  the  teints 
Are  such  as  may  not  find 
Comparison  on  earth. 

Behold  the  chariot  of  the  fairy  queen  ! 

Celestial  coursers  paw  the  unyielding  air; 

Their  filmy  pennons  at  her  word  they  furl. 

And  stop  obedient  to  the  reins  of  light  : 

These  the  queen  of  spells  drew  in  ; 

She  spread  a charm  around  the  spot, 

Ind  leaning  graceful  from  the  ethereal  car. 

Long  did  she  gaze,  and  silently. 

Upon  the  slumbering  maid. 


Tile  Cloud* 

I bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers. 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams  ; 

I bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 
In  their  noonday  dreams. 

From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 
The  sweet  birds  every  one, 

When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother’s  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 

I wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under; 

And  then  again  I dissolve  it  in  rain. 

And  laugh  as  I pass  in  thunder. 

I sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 

And  all  the  night  ’tis  my  pillow  white. 

While  I sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 

Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers 
Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits  ; 

In  a caveni  under  is  fettered  the  thunder. 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ; 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion. 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 

Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 
In  the  depths  of  the  purjile  sea  ; 

Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills. 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 

Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  .stream. 

The  Spirit  he  loves,  remains  ; 

And  I all  the  while  bask  in  heaven’s  blue  smile. 
Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes. 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 

Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack 
When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 

As  on  the  jag  of  a mountain  crag. 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings. 

An  eagle  alit,  one  moment  may  sit 
In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings  ; 

And  when  sunset  may  breathe  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 
Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love. 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 
From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 

With  wmgs  folded  I rest  on  mine  airy  nest. 

As  still  as  a brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden. 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 

Glides  glimmering  o’er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 

And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet. 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent’s  thin  roof. 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer  ; 

And  I laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a swarm  of  golden  bees. 

When  I widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent. 

Till  the  calm  river,  lakes,  and  seas, 

* ‘ The  odes  to  the  Skylark  and  the  Cloud,  in  the  opinion  of 
many  critics,  bear  a purer  poeticai  stamp  than  any  other  of  his 
productions.  They  were  written  as  his  mind  prompted,  listen- 
ing to  the  carolling  of  the  bird  aloft  in  the  azure  sky  of  Italy  ; ot 
marking  the  cloud  as  it  sped  across  the  heavens,  while  he  floated 
in  his  boat  on  the  Thames.  No  poet  was  ever  warmed  by  a 
more  genuine  and  unforced  inspiration.  Ilis  extreme  sensibility 
gave  the  intensity  of  passion  to  his  intellectual  pursuits,  and 
rendered  his  mind  keenly  alive  to  every  perception  of  outward 
objects,  as  well  as  to  his  internal  sensations.  Such  a gift  is, 
among  the  sad  vicissitudes  of  human  life,  the  disappointmenls 
we  meet,  and  the  galling  sense  of  our  own  mistakes  and  errors, 
fraught  with  pain  ; to  escape  from  such  he  delivered  up  his 
soul  to  poetry,  and  felt  happy  when  he  sheltered  himself  fron 
the  influence  of  human  sympathies  in  the  wildest  regions  of 
fancy.’ — Mrt  Shelley,  Pref.  to  Poet.  IVorkt. 

398 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


PEnCY  DYSSIIE  SHEI.LEY. 


Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  mo  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I bind  the  sun’s  throne  with  a burning  zone. 

And  the  moon’s  with  a girdle  of  pearl ; 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 
When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 

From  cape  to  cape,  with  a bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a torrent  sea. 

Sunbeam  proof,  I hang  like  a roof. 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 

The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I march. 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 

When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair. 
Is  the  million-coloured  bow; 

The  sphere-fire  above,  its  soft  colours  wove. 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I am  the  daughter  of  the  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  ; 

I pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ; 

1 change,  but  1 cannot  die. 

For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 

And  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with  their  convex 
gleams. 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 

I silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 

Like  a child  from  the  womb,  like  a ghost  from  the 
tomb, 

I rise  and  upbuild  it  again. 

To  a Shylarlc. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert. 

That  from  heaven,  or  near  it. 

Poorest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still,  and  higher. 

From  the  earth  -*1:00  springest 
Like  a cloud  c/  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingost. 

And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever,  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightening 
Of  the  sunken  sun. 

O’er  which  clouds  are  brightening. 

Thou  dost  float  and  run. 

Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 
Melts  around  thy  flight ; 

Like  a star  of  heaven. 

In  the  broad  daylight 

Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere. 

Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear. 

Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 
With  thy  voice  is  loud. 

As,  when  night  is  bare. 

From  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  over* 
flowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 

From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see. 

As  from  thy  presence  showers  a rain  of  melody. 


Like  a poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought. 

Singing  hymns  unbidden. 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 

To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 

Like  a high-bom  maiden 
In  a palace  tower. 

Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 

With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bewer. 

Like  a glow-worm  golden 
In  a dell  of  dew. 

Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  j 
the  view. 

Like  a rose  embowered 
In  its  own  green  leaves. 

By  warm  winds  deflowered. 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass. 

Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 

Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird. 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thino ; 

I have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 

That  panted  forth  a flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  li3'meneal. 

Or  triumphal  chant, 

Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt — 

A thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 
Of  thy  happy  strain? 

What  fields,  or  wave.s,  or  mountains ! 

What  shapes  of  .sky  or  plain  ? 

What  love  of  thine  own  kind  2 what  ignorance  of  pain  2 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 
Languor  cannot  be  : 

Shadow  of  annoj’ance 
Never  came  near  thee : 

Thou  lovest ; but  ne’er  knew  love’s  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep. 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream. 

Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a crystal  stream ! 

We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 

Our  sincerest  laughter 
With  some  pain  is  fraught : 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 

If  we  were  things  bom 
Not  to  shed  a tear, 

I know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  could  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 
Of  delight  and  sound. 

Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found. 

Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scomer  of  the  ground ! 

399 


FHOM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  puesf-nt  tim» 


Teacl)  me  half  the  gliulnesa 
’i'hat  thy  brain  must  know, 

Such  harmonioua  ma<lnes3 
I'l'om  iny  lips  would  flow, 

The  world  should  listen  then,  as  1 am  listening  now. 

[From  ‘ The  Senniltre  Plant.'] 

A Sensitive  Plant  in  a garden  grew, 

And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew. 

And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light. 

And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night. 

And  the  spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair. 

Like  the  Spirit  of  Love  felt  everywhere  ; 

And  each  Hower  and  herb  on  earth’s  dark  breast 
Hose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

Hut  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wililerness. 

Like  a doe  in  the  noontide  with  love’s  sweet  want, 

As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snow-drop,  and  then  the  violet. 

Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet, 

And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odour,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip  tall, 

Aiid  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 

Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream’s  recess. 

Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness; 

And  the  Xaiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 

AN'hom  youth  makes  so  fair,  and  passion  so  pale, 

That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green  ; 

And  the  hyacinth  purple,  and  white,  and  blue. 

Which  flung  from  its  bells  a sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense. 

It  was  felt  like  an  odour  within  the  sense ; 

And  the  rose  like  a nymph  to  the  bath  addrest. 
Which  uineiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast. 

Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare  ; 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up, 

As  a Maenad,  its  moonlight-coloured  cup. 

Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 

Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky ; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose. 

The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows ; 

And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime. 

Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  praiikt  under  boughs  of  embowering  blossom, 

W ith  golden  and  green  light  slanting  through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a tangled  hue. 

Rro.ad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously, 

And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by, 

And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and  dance 
With  a motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance. 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss. 

Which  led  through  the  garden  along  and  across, 

Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze. 

Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming  trees. 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate  bells 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels  ; 

And  flowrets  which,  drooping  as  day  drooped  too. 

Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and  blue. 

To  roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  evening  dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 
The  flowers  (as  an  infant’s  awakening  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it), 


When  heaven’s  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them. 

As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a hidden  gem. 

Shone  smiling  to  heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  Joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun  ; 

For  each  one  was  interjienetrated 
With  the  light  and  the  odour  its  neighbour  shed. 
Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love  make  dear. 
Wrapt  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 

Hut  the  Sensitive  Plant,  which  could  give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root. 
Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than  ever. 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver; 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower; 
Radiance  and  odour  are  not  its  do.ver: 

It  loves,  even  like  Love,  its  deej)  heart  is  full. 

It  desires  what  it  has  not — the  beautiful ! 

The  light  winds  which,  from  unsustaining  wings, 

Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings; 

The  beams  which  dart  from  many  a star 
Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free. 

Like  golilen  boats  on  a sunny  sea. 

Laden  with  light  and  odour,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass  ; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  Howers  till  the  sun  rides  high. 

Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres, 

Kach  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears ; 

The  quivering  vapours  of  dim  noontide, 

Which  like  a sea  o’er  the  warm  earth  glide. 

In  which  every  sound,  and  odour,  and  beam, 

Move  as  reeds  in  a single  stream  ; 

Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 
I'or  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear. 

Whilst  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went  by. 

Like  windless  clouds  o’er  a tender  sky. 

And  when  evening  descended  from  heaven  above. 

And  the  earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was  all  love. 
And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far  more  deep. 
And  the  day’s  veil  fell  from  the  world  of  sleep, 

And  the  beasts,  and  the  birds,  and  the  insects  were 
drowned 

In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a sound  ; 

Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they  ever  impiess 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it — consciousness  ; 

(Only  overhead  the  sweet  nightingale 
Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might  fail. 

And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 

Were  mi.xed  with  the  dreams  of  the  Sensitive  Plant.) 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 

Up-gathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest; 

A sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight. 

The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favourite. 

Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  nighti 

[Forest  Scenery.'] 

[From  ‘ Alastor,  or  the  Spirit  of  Solitude. ’J 

A wandering  stream  of  wind, 

Hreathed  from  the  west,  has  caught  the  expanded  sail. 
And  lo  ! with  gentle  motion  between  banks 
Of  mossy  slope,  and  on  a placid  stream 
Beneath  a woven  grove,  it  sails  ; and  hark  ! 

The  ghastly  torrent  mingles  its  far  roar 
With  the  breeze  murmuring  in  the  musical  woods. 
Where  the  embowering  trees  recede,  and  leave 
A little  space  of  green  expanse,  the  cove 
Is  closed  by  meeting  banks,  whose  yellow  flowers 
For  ever  gaze  on  their  own  drooping  eyes 
Reflected  in  the  crystal  calm.  The  wave 
Of  the  boat’s  motion  marred  their  pensive  task, 

400 


rosrft. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


PERCT  BYSSHE  SRKLLKT. 


Which  nought  but  vagrant  bird,  or  wanton  wind, 

Or  fulling  spcar-gra-ss,  or  their  own  decay, 

I Had  e’er  disi  urbed  before.  The  poet  longed 
To  deck  with  their  bright  hues  his  withered  hair; 

! Hut  on  his  heart  its  solitude  rctunicd, 
i And  he  forbore.  Not  the  strong  impulse  hid 

In  those  Hushed  checks,  bent  eyes,  and  shadowy  frame, 
Had  yet  performed  its  ministry:  it  hung 
Upon  his  life  as  lightning  in  a cloud 
Cileams,  hovering  ere  it  vanish,  ere  the  floods 
Of  night  close  over  it. 

The  noonday  sun 

Now  shone  upon  the  forest,  one  vast  mass 
Of  mingling  shade,  whose  brown  magnificence 
A narrow  vale  embosoms.  There  huge  caves. 

Scooped  in  the  dark  base  of  those  airy  rocks, 

Mocking  its  moans,  respond  and  roar  for  ever. 

The  meeting  boughs  and  implicated  leaves 
Wove  twilight  o’er  the  poet’s  path,  as,  led 
By  love,  or  dream,  or  god,  or  mightier  death. 

He  sought  in  nature’s  dearest  haunt,  some  bank, 

Hci  cradle  and  his  .sepulchre.  More  dark 
And  dark  the  shades  accumulate — the  oak. 
Expanding  its  immense  and  knotty  arms. 

Embraces  the  light  beech.  The  p3’ramids 
Of  the  tall  cedar  overarching  frame 
Jlost  solemn  domes  within,  and  far  below. 

Like  clouds  suspended  in  an  emerald  sky. 

The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang. 

Tremulous  and  pale.  Like  restless  serpents  clothed 
In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  parasites, 

Starred  with  ten  thousand  blossoms,  flow  around 
The  gray  trunks  ; and,  as  gamesome  infants’  eyes, 
With  gentle  meanings  and  most  innocent  wiles. 

Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of  those  that  love, 
These  twine  their  tendrils  with  the  wedded  boughs. 
Uniting  their  close  union  ; the  woven  leaves 
Make  network  of  the  dark  blue  light  of  day 
And  the  night’s  noontide  clearness,  mutable 
As  shapes  in  the  weird  clouds.  Soft  mossy  lawns 
Beneath  tlie.se  canopies  extend  their  swells. 

Fragrant  with  perfume  ' herbs,  and  eyes  with  blooms 

Minute  j’et  beautiful,  cue  darkest  glen 

Sends  from  its  woods  of  musk-rose,  twined  with  jasmine, 

A soul -dissolving  odour,  to  invite 

To  some  more  lovely  mystery.  Through  the  dell 

Silence  and  twilight  here,  twin  sisters,  keep 

Their  noonday  watch,  and  sail  among  the  shades. 

Like  vaporous  shapes  half  seen  ; beyond,  a well. 

Dark,  gleaming,  and  of  most  translucent  wave. 

Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above  ; 

And  each  depending  leaf,  and  every  speck 
Of  azure  sky,  darting  between  their  chasms; 

Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  mirror  laves 
Its  portraiture,  but  some  inconstant  star 
Between  one  foliaged  lattice  twinkling  fair. 

Or  painted  bird,  sleeping  beneath  the  moon. 

Or  gorgeous  insect,  floating  motionless. 

Unconscious  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 
Have  spread  their  glories  to  the  gaze  of  noon. 

Hither  the  poet  came.  His  eyes  beheld 
Their  own  wan  light  through  the  reflected  lines 
Of  his  thin  hair,  distinct  in  the  dark  depth 
Of  that  still  fountain  ; as  the  human  heart. 

Gazing  in  dreams  over  the  gloomy  grave, 

Sees  its  own  treacherous  likeness  there.  He  heard 
The  motion  of  the  leaves  ; the  grass  that  sprung 
Startled,  and  glanced,  and  trembled  even  to  feel 
An  unaccustomed  presence,  and  the  sound 
Of  the  sweet  brook  that  from  the  secret  springs 
Of  that  dark  fountain  rose.  A .spirit  seemed 
To  staiid  beside  him — clothed  in  no  bright  robes 
Of  shadowy  silver  or  enshrining  light. 

Borrowed  from  aught  the  visible  world  afibrds 
Of  grace,  or  majesty,  or  mystery  ; 

But  undulating  woods,  and  silent  well, 

68 


And  rippling  rivulet,  and  evening  gloom 

Now  deepening  the  dark  shades,  for  speech  assuraiiig 

Held  commune  with  him,  as  if  he  and  it 

Were  all  that  was  ; only — when  his  regard 

M’iis  raised  by  intense  pensivenes,s — two  eyes. 

Two  starry  ej’es,  hung  in  the  gloom  of  thought. 

And  seemed  with  their  serene  and  azure  smiles 
To  beckon  him. 

Obedient  to  the  light 

That  shone  within  his  soul,  he  went,  pursuing 
The  windings  of  the  Uell.  The  rivulet, 

Wanton  and  wild,  through  many  a green  ravine 
Beneath  the  forest  flowed.  Sometimes  it  fell 
Among  the  moss  with  hollow  harmony. 

Dark  and  profound.  Now  on  the  polished  stones 
It  danced,  like  childhood,  laughing  as  it  went; 

Then,  through  the  plain  in  tranquil  wanderings  crept, 
Reflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud 
That  overhung  its  quietness.  ‘ 0 stream  ! 

Whose  source  is  inaccessibly  i>rofound. 

Whither  do  thy  mysterious  tvaters  tend  I 
Thou  imagest  my  life.  Thy  darksome  stillness. 

Thy  dazzling  w-aves,  thy  loud  and  hollow  gulfs. 

Thy  searchless  fountain  and  invisible  course. 

Have  each  their  type  in  me:  and  the  wide  sky 

And  measureless  ocean  may  declare  as  soon 

What  oozy  cavern  or  what  wandering  cloud 

Contains  thy  waters,  as  the  universe 

Tell  where  these  living  thoughts  reside,  when,  stretched 

Upon  thy  flowers,  my  bloodless  limbs  shall  waste 

I’  the  passing  wind ! ’ 

Beside  the  grassy  shore 
Of  the  small  stre.am  he  went ; he  did  impress 
On  the  green  moss  his  tremulous  step,  that  caught 
Strong  shuddering  from  his  burning  limb.s.  As  one 
Roused  by  some  joj’ous  madness  from  the  couch 
Of  fever,  he  did  move  ; yet,  not  like  him. 

Forgetful  of  the  grave,  where,  when  the  flame 
Of  his  frail  exultation  shall  be  spent. 

He  must  de.scend.  With  rapid  steps  he  went 
Beneath  the  shade  of  trees,  beside  the  flow 
Of  the  wild  babbling  rivulet  ; and  now 
The  forest’s  .solemn  canoi)ies  were  changed 
For  the  uniform  and  lightsome  evening  sky. 

Gray  rocks  did  peep  from  the  spare  moss,  and  stemmed 
The  struggling  brook  ; tall  spires  of  windlestrae 
Threw  their  thin  shadows  dorvn  the  rugged  slope. 

And  nought  but  gnarled  roots  of  ancient  pines. 
Branchless  and  blasted,  clenched  with  grasping  roou 
The  unwilling  soil.  A gradual  change  was  here, 

Yet  ghastly.  For,  as  fast  years  flow  away. 

The  smooth  brow  gathers,  and  the  hair  grows  thin 
And  white;  and  where  irradiate  dewy  eyes 
Had  shone,  gleam  stony  orbs : so  from  his  steps 
Bright  flowers  departed,  and  the  b'-autiful  shade 
Of  the  green  groves,  with  all  their  odorous  winds 
And  musical  motions.  Calm,  he  still  pursued 
The  stream,  that  with  a larger  volume  now 
Rolled  through  the  labyrinthine  dell ; and  there 
Fretted  a path  through  its  descending  curves 
With  its  wintry  .speed.  On  every  side  now  rose 
Rocks,  which,  in  unimaginable  forms. 

Lifted  their  black  and  barren  pinnacles 
In  the  light  of  evening,  and  its  precipice 
Obscuring  the  ravine,  disclosed  above, 

’Mid  toppling  stones,  black  gulfs,  and  yawning  caves, 
Who.se  windings  gave  ten  thousand  various  tongues 
To  the  loud  stream.  Lo  ! where  the  pass  expands 
Its  stony  jaws,  the  abrupt  mountain  breaks. 

And  seems,  with  its  accumulated  crags. 

To  overhang  the  world  ; for  wide  expand 
Beneath  the  wan  stars  and  descending  moon 
Islanded  seas,  blue  mountains,  mighty  streams. 

Dim  tracks  and  vast,  robed  in  the  lustrous  gloom 
Of  leaden-coloured  even,  and  fiery  hills 
Mingling  their  flames  with  twilight,  on  roe  verge 

401 


PBOM  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  Til 


Of  the  remote  horizon.  The  near  scene, 

In  nuked  ami  severe  siinplieity, 

Made  contrast  with  the  universe.  A pine. 
Rock-rooted,  stretched  athwart  the  vacancy, 

Its  swinging  boughs  to  each  inconstant  blast 
Yielding  one  only  response,  at  each  pau.se. 

In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl. 

The  thunder,  and  the  hiss  of  homeless  streams. 
Mingling  its  solemn  song ; whilst  the  broad  river, 
Foaming  and  hurrying  o’er  its  rugged  path. 

Fell  into  that  immeasurable  void. 

Scattering  its  waters  to  the  pa,ssing  winds. 

Yet  the  gray  precipice,  and  solemn  pine. 

And  torrent,  were  not  all ; one  silent  nook 

Was  there.  Even  on  the  edge  of  that  vast  mountain. 

Upheld  by  knotty  roots  and  fallen  rocks. 

It  overlooked,  in  its  serenity. 

The  dark  earth  and  the  bending  vault  of  stars. 

It  was  a tranquil  spot,  that  seemed  to  smile 
Even  in  the  lap  of  horror  ; ivy  clasped 
The  fissured  stones  with  its  entwining  arms. 

And  did  embower  with  leaves  for  ever  green. 

And  berries  dark,  the  smooth  and  even  space 

Of  its  inviolated  floor;  and  here 

The  children  of  the  autumnal  whirlwind  bore. 

In  wanton  sport,  those  bright  leaves  whose  decay. 
Red,  yellow,  or  ethereally  pale. 

Rival  the  pride  of  summer.  ’Tis  the  haunt 
Of  every  gentle  wind  whose  breath  can  teach 
The  wilds  to  love  tranquillity. 


Stanzas  Written  in  Dejection,  near  Naples. 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear. 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright. 

Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon’s  transparent  light. 

♦ » * 1 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds ; 

Like  many  a voice  of  one  delight. 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods. 

The  city’s  voice  itself  is  soft,  like  solitude’s. 

I see  the  deep’s  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown  ; 

I see  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers  thrown ; 

I sit  upon  the  sands  alone. 

The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion  ; 

How  sweet,  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion  I 

Alas  ! I have  nor  hope,  nor  health. 

Nor  peace  within,  nor  calm  around, 

Nor  that  content,  surpassing  wealth. 

The  sage  in  meditation  found. 

And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned  ; 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 

Others  I see  whom  these  surround — 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure ; 

To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Y'et  now  despair  itself  is  mild. 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 

I could  lie  down  like  a tired  child. 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I have  borne,  and  yet  must  hear. 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 

And  I might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o’er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

I A line  seems  to  have  been  lost  at  this  place,  probably  by 
an  oversight  of  thr  transcriber. 


Some  might  lament  that  I were  cold. 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 

W’hich  luy  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old. 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan  ; 

They  might  lament — for  1 am  one 
Whom  men  love  not ; and  yet  regret. 

Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun  ] 

Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set,  1 

Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory  yot.  I 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air. 

I arise  from  dreams  of  thee. 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night. 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright; 

I arise  from  dreams  of  thee. 

And  a spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me — who  knows  how? — 

To  thy  chamber  window,  sweet. 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark  and  silent  stream. 

The  Champak  odours  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a dream  ; 

The  nightingale’s  complaint. 

It  dies  upon  her  heart. 

As  I must  do  on  thine, 

0,  beloved  as  thou  art! 

O lift  me  from  the  grass ! j 

I die,  I faint,  1 fail  ; , 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 

My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  I 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ; 

Oh  ! press  it  close  to  thine  again. 

Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

To 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die. 

Vibrates  in  the  memory — 

Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken. 

Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead. 

Are  heajied  for  the  beloved’s  bed ; 

And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone. 

Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

JOH.V  KEATS. 

John  Keats  was  born  in  London,  October  29, 
1796,  in  the  house  of  his  grandfather,  who  kept  a 1 
livery  stable  at  Moorfields.  He  received  his  edu-  j 
cation  at  Enfield,  and  in  his  fifteenth  year  was  | 
apprenticed  to  a surgeon.  Most  of  his  time,  how-  I 
ever,  was  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  his  literary  | 
talents,  which  were  early  conspicuous.  During  his  j 
apprenticeship,  he  made  and  carefully  wrote  out  a | 
literal  translation  of  Virgil’s  Eneid,  and  instructed  j 
himself  also  in  some  knowledge  of  Greek  and 
Italian.  One  of  his  earliest  friends  and  critics  was 
Mr  Leigh  Hunt,  who,  being  shown  some  of  his 
poetical  pieces,  was  struck,  he  says,  with  the  exu- 
berant specimens  of  genuine  though  young  poetry 
that  were  laid  before  him,  and  the  promise  of  which 
was  seconded  by  the  fine  fervid  countenance  of  the 
writer.  In  1818  Keats  published  his  Endymion,  a 
Poetic  Bomance,  defective  in  many  parts,  but  evinc- 
ing rich  though  undisciplined  powers  of  imagina- 
tion. The  poem  was  criticised,  in  a strain  of  con- 
temptuous severity,  by  the  Quarterly  Review ; and 
such  was  the  sensitiveness  of  the  young  poet — pant- 
ing for  distinction,  and  flattered  by  a few  private 
friends — that  the  critique  embittered  his  existence, 
and  induced  a fatal  disease.  ‘ The  first  efiects,’  sayi 

402 


POKTB. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  KEATS. 


feliclley,  ‘ are  described  to  me  to  have  resembled  in- 
sanity, and  it  was  by  assiduous  watching  that  he  was 
restrained  from  effecting  purposes  of  suicide.  The 
agony  of  his  sufferings  at  length  produced  the  rup- 


John  Keuta. 


tnre  of  a blood-vessel  in  the  lungs,  and  the  usual 
process  of  consumption  appears  to  have  begun.’  The 
process  had  begun,  as  was  too  soon  apparent ; but 
Keats  continued  his  studies,  and  in  1820  brought 
out  his  second  volume — Lamia,  Isabella,  The  Eve  of 
St  Agnes,  and  other  Poetns.  These  falling  into  the 
hands  of  Jeffrey,  were  criticised  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review  in  a spirit  of  kindliness  and  just  apprecia- 
tion, which  must  have  soothed  the  wounded  feelings 
of  the  poet,  and,  with  an  author  of  a more  healthy 
and  robust  frame,  would  have  amply  atoned  for  the 
previous  injustice  that  had  been  done  him.  ‘ Mr 
Keats,’  sa3's  the  eloquent  critic,  ‘ is,  we  understand, 
still  a very  young  man ; and  his  whole  works,  in- 
deed, bear  evidence  enough  of  the  fact.  They  mani- 
festly require,  therefore,  all  the  indulgence  that  can 
be  claimed  for  a first  attempt ; but  we  think  it  no 
less  plain  that  they  deserve  it;  for  they  are  flushed 
all  over  with  the  rich  lights  of  fancy,  and  so  coloured 
and  bestrown  with  the  flowers  of  poetry,  that,  even 
while  perplexed  and  bewildered  in  their  labyrinths, 
it  is  impossible  to  resist  the  intoxication  of  their 
sweetness,  or  to  shut  our  hearts  to  the  enchantments 
the.v  so  lavishly  present.  The  models  upon  which  he 
1 has  formed  himself  in  the  “Endymion,”  the  earliest 
I and  by  much  the  most  considerable  of  his  poems,  are 
1 obviously  the  Faithful  Shepherdess  of  Fletcher,  and 
j the  Sad  Shepherd  of  Ben  Jonson,  the  exquisite 
metres  and  inspired  diction  of  which  he  has  copied 
I with  great  boldness  and  fidelity  ; and,  like  his  great 
I originals,  has  also  contrived  to  impart  to  the  whole 
I piece  that  true  rural  and  poetical  air  which  breathes 
I t»::ly  in  them  and  in  Theocritus — which  is  at  once 
homely  and  majestic,  luxurious  and  rude,  and  sets 
before  us  the  genuine  sights,  and  sounds,  and  smells 
of  the  country,  with  all  the  magic  and  grace  of  Ely- 
sium. His  subject  has  the  disadvantage  of  being 
mythological ; and  in  this  respect,  as  well  as  on  ac- 
i count  of  the  raised  and  rapturous  tone  it  conse- 
! quently  assumes,  his  poetry  may  be  better  compared 
. perhaps  to  the  Comus  and  the  Arcades  of  Milton,  of 
which,  also,  there  are  many  traces  of  imitation.  The 
great  distinction,  however,  between  him  and  these 


divine  authors  is,  that  imagination  in  them  is  sub- 
ordinate to  reason  and  judgment,  while,  with  him, 
it  is  paramount  and  supreme;  that  their  ornaments 
and  images  are  employed  to  embellish  and  recom- 
mend just  sentiments,  engaging  incidents,  and  natu- 
ral characters,  while  his  are  poured  out  without 
measure  or  restraint,  and  with  no  app.arent  design 
but  to  unburden  the  breast  of  the  .author,  and  give 
vent  to  the  overflowing  vein  of  his  fancy.  There  is 
no  work  from  which  a malicious  critic  could  cull 
more  matter  for  ridicule,  or  select  more  obscure,  un- 
natural, or  absurd  passages.  But  we  do  not  take 
that  to  be  our  office ; and  just  beg  leave,  on  the  con- 
trarj',  to  say,  that  any  one  who.  On  this  account, 
would  represent  the  whole  poem  as  despicable,  must 
either  have  no  notion  of  poetrj'  or  no  regard  to 
truth.’  The  readers  of  poetry  confirmed  this  judg- 
ment ; but  their  verdict,  however  grateful,  came  too 
late  to  save  the  poet.  He  was  now  far  gone  in 
consumption.  As  a last  resource,  he  resolved  to  try 
the  milder  climate  of  Italy — going  first  to  Naples, 
and  from  thence  to  Rome.  ‘ He  suffered  so  much  in 
his  lingering,’  says  Mr  Leigh  Hunt,  ‘ that  he  used 
to  watch  the  countenance  of  his  physician  for  the 
favourable  and  fatal  sentence,  and  express  his  regret 
when  he  found  it  delaj’ed.  Yet  no  impatience  escaped 
him — he  was  manly  and  gentle  to  the  last,  and  grate- 
ful for  all  services.  A little  before  he  died,  he  said 
that  he  felt  the  daisies  growing  over  him.’  He  died 
on  the  27th  of  December  1820,  and  was  buried,  as 
his  friend  Shelley  relates,  ‘ in  the  romantic  and  lonely 
cemeterj"  of  the  Protestants  in  that  city,  under  the 
pyramid  which  is  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  and  the  massy 
walls  and  towers,  now  mouldering  and  desolate,  which 
formed  the  circuit  of  ancient  Rome.  The  cemetery 
is  an  open  space  among  the  ruins,  covered  in  winter 
with  violets  and  daisies.  It  might  make  one  in  love 
with  death  to  think  that  one  should  be  buried  in  so 
sweet  a place.”'’ 

* Preface  to  Adonais ; an  elegy  on  the  death  of  Keats.  In 
Shelley's  correspondence  is  a letter  by  Mr  Finch,  giving  an  ac- 
count of  Keivts'B  last  moments,  less  pleasing,  but  mucli  more 
striking  than  that  of  Hunt.  ‘Almost  despairing  of  his  case, 
he  left  his  native  shores  by  sea  in  a merchant-vessel  for  Naples, 
where  he  arrived,  having  received  no  benefit  during  the  pas- 
sage, and  brooding  over  the  most  melancholy  and  mortifying 
reflections  ; and  nursing  a deeply-rooted  disgust  to  life  and  to 
the  world,  owing  to  having  been  infamously  treated  by  the  very 
persons  whom  his  generosity  had  rescued  from  want  and  wo. 
He  journeyed  from  Naples  to  Rome,  and  occupied,  at  the  lat- 
ter place,  lodgings  which  I had,  on  former  occasions,  more  than 
once  inhabited.  Here  he  soon  took  to  his  bed,  from  which  he 
never  rose  more.  His  passions  were  always  violent,  and  his 
sensibility  most  keen.  It  is  e.xtraordinary  that,  proportionally 
as  his  strength  of  body  declined,  these  acquired  fresh  vigour  ; 
and  his  temper  at  length  became  so  outrageously  violent,  as  to 
injure  himself,  and  annoy  every  one  around  him.  He  eagerly 
wished  for  death.  After  leaving  England,  1 believe  that  he  sel- 
dom courted  the  muse.  He  was  accompanied  by  a friend  of 
mine,  Mr  Severn,  a young  painter,  who  will,  I think,  one  day  be 
the  Coryphaeus  of  the  English  school.  He  left  all,  and  sacrifli  ed 
every  prospect,  to  accompany  and  watch  over  his  friend  Keats. 
For  many  weeks  previous  to  his  death,  he  would  see  no  one  but 
Mr  Severn,  who  had  almost  risked  his  own  life  by  unwearied 
attendance  upon  his  friend,  who  rendered  his  situation  doubly 
unpleasant  by  the  violence  of  his  passions,  exhibited  even  to- 
wards him,  so  much  that  he  might  be  judged  insane.  His  in- 
tervals of  remorse,  too,  were  poignantly  bitter.  I believe  that 
Mr  Severn,  the  heir  of  what  little  Keats  left  behind  him  at 
Rome,  has  only  come  into  possession  of  very  few  manuscripts 
of  his  friend.  The  poetical  volume  which  was  the  inseparable 
companion  of  Keats,  and  which  he  took  for  his  most  darling 
model  in  composition,  was  the  Minor  Poems  of  Shakspeare. 
ByTon  (who  thought  the  death  of  Keats  a loss  to  our  literature, 
and  who  said,  * His  fragment  of  Hyperion  seems  actually  in- 
spired by  the  Titans,  and  is  as  sublime  as  Eschylus  ')  allude*, 

403 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPil^DIA  OF  till  the  present  Ti3m 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  Keats,  as  a poet,  to  he 
citlier  extravagantly  praised  or  unmereifully  eon- 
denuied.  The  former  was  owing  to  tlie  generous 
partialities  of  friendship,  somewhat  obtrusively  dis- 
played ; the  latter,  in  some  degree,  to  resentment  of 
that  friendship,  connected  as  it  was  with  party  poli- 
ties and  peculiar  views  of  society  as  well  as  of  poetry. 
In  the  one  ease  his  faults,  and  in  the  other  his  merits, 
vrere  entirely  overlooked.  An  interval  of  more  than 
twenty  years  should  have  dispelled  tliese  illusions 
and  prejudiees.  Keats  was  a true  poet;  he  had  the 
creative  faney,  the  ideal  enthusiasm,  and  the  nervous 
suseeptibility  of  the  poetical  temperament.  If  we 
consider  his  extreme  youth  and  delicate  health,  his 
solitary  and  interesting  self-instruction,  the  severity 
of  the  attacks  made  upon  him  by  his  hostile  and 
powerful  critics,  and,  above  all,  the  original  richness 
and  picturesqueness  of  his  conceptions  and  imagery, 
even  when  they  run  to  waste,  he  appears  to  be  one 
of  the  greatest  of  the  young  self-taught  poets. 
Michael  Bruce  or  Henry  Kirke  White  cannot  for  a 
moment  be  compared  with  him  : he  is  more  like 
the  Milton  of  ‘ Lycidas,’  or  the  Spenser  of  the  ‘ Tears 
of  the  IMuses.’  What  easy,  finished,  statuesque 
beauty  and  classic  expression,  for  example,  are  dis- 
played in  this  picture  of  Saturn  and  Thea  1 — 

[Saturn  and  Thea.'\ 

[From  ‘ Hyperion.’] 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a vale 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  mom, 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve’s  one  .star, 

Sat  gray-haired  Saturn,  quiet  as  a stone, 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair  ; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 

Like  cloud  on  cloud.  No  stir  of  air  was  there, 

Not  .so  much  life  as  on  a summer’s  day 
Robs  one  light  seed  from  the  feathered  grass, 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 

A stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened  more 
By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 
Spreading  a shade  : the  Naiad  ’mid  her  reeds 
Prc.s.sed  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin  sand  large  footmarks  went 
No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  strayed. 

And  slept  there  since.  Upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred  ; and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed  ; 
While  his  bowed  head  seemed  listening  to  the  earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seemed  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his  place; 
But  there  came  one,  who  with  a kindred  hand 
Touched  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it  not. 

She  was  a goddess  of  the  infant  world ; 

By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 

Had  stood  a pigmy’s  height : she  would  have  ta’en 

Achilles  by  the  hair,  and  bent  his  neck ; 

Or  with  a finger  stayed  Ixion’s  wheel. 

Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Memphian  sphinx, 
Pedestaled  haply  in  a palace  court. 

When  sages  looked  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 

But  oh  ! how  unlike  marble  was  that  face  1 
How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made 

jdayfully  and  wittily,  in  his  Don  Juan,  to  the  death  of  the 
young  poet : — 

John  Keats,  who  was  killed  off  by  one  critique. 

Just  as  he  really  promised  something  great, 

If  not  intelligible,  without  Greek 
Contrived  to  talk  about  the  gods  of  late, 

Much  as  they  might  have  been  supposed  to  speak. 

Poor  fellow ! His  was  an  untoward  fate  ; 

•Tis  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particle, 

Bbould  let  itself  be  snuffed  out  by  an  article.  | 

Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty’s  self! 

There  was  a listening  fear  in  her  regard. 

As  if  calamity  had  but  begun  ; 

As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sulien  rear 
Was,  with  its  stored  thunder,  labouring  up. 

One  hand  she  jjressed  upon  that  aching  sjiot 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there. 

Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain; 

The  other  upon  Saturn’s  bended  neck 
She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she  spake 
In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ  tone  ; 

Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble  tongm 
Would  come  in  these  like  accents — 0 ! how  frail. 

To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  gods  ! — 

‘ Saturn,  look  up  1 though  wherefore,  poor  old 
king? 

I cannot  say,  “ 0 wherefore  sleepest  thou  ? ” 

For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  earth 
Knows  thee  not  thus  afflicted  for  a god ; 

And  ocean,  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise. 

Has  from  thy  sceptre  pa.ssed,  and  all  the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty. 

Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  command. 

Rumbles  reluctant  o’er  our  fallen  house  ; 

And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised  hands 
Scorches  and  bums  our  once  serene  domain. 

0 aching  time  ! 0 moments  big  as  years  ! 

All,  as  ye  pass,  swell  out  the  monstrous  truth. 

And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 
That  unbelief  has  not  a space  to  breathe. 

Saturn,  sleep  on  ! 0,  thoughtless,  why  did  I 
Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude? 

Why  should  I ope  thy  melancholy  eyes? 

Saturn,  sleep  on!  while  at  thy  feet  I weep.’ 

As  when,  upon  a tranced  summer  night. 

Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods. 

Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars. 

Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a stir, 

Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off. 

As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave ; I 

So  came  these  words  and  went. 

The  antique  grace  and  solemnity  of  passages  like 
this  must  be  felt  by  every  reader  of  i>oetry.  T he 
chief  defects  of  Keats  are  his  want  of  distinctness 
and  precision,  and  the  carelessness  of  his  stvle. 
There  would  seem  to  have  been  even  affectation  in 
his  disregard  of  order  and  regularity  ; and  he  heaps 
up  images  and  conceits  in  such  profusion,  that  they 
often  form  grotesque  and  absurd  combinations,  which 
fatigue  the  reader.  Deep  feeling  and  passion  are 
rarely  given  to  young  poets  redolent  of  fancy  and 
warm  from  the  perusal  of  the  ancient  authors.  'The 
difficulty  with  which  Keats  had  mastered  the  classic 
mythology  gave  it  an  undue  importance  in  his  mind : 
a more  perfect  knowledge  would  have  harmoni.sed 
its  m.aterials,  and  shown  him  the  beauty  of  chaste- 
ness and  simplicity  of  style — the  last  but  the  greatest 
advantage  of  classic  studies.  In  poets  like  Dray, 
Rogers,  and  Campbell,  we  see  the  ultimate  effects  of 
this  taste ; in  Keats  we  have  only  the  materials, 
unselected,  and  often  shapeless.  His  imagination 
was  prolific  of  forms  of  beauty  and  grandeur,  but 
the  judgment  was  wanting  to  symmetrise  and 
arrange  them,  assigning  to  each  its  due  proportion 
and  its  proper  place,  llis  fragments,  however,  are 
the  fragments  of  true  genius — rich,  original,  and 
various  ; and  Mr  Leigh  Hunt  is  right  in  his  opinion, 
that  the  poems  of  Keats,  with  all  their  defects,  will 
be  the  ‘sure  companions  in  field  and  grove’  of  those 
who  love  to  escape  ‘out  of  the  strife  of  common- 
places into  the  haven  of  solitude  and  imagination.’ 

404 

ENGLISH  LITER ATURR 


JOHN  KEA1S 


1*0  KTS. 


[The  Lady  Madeline  at  her  Devotime.^ 

[From  tho  ' Evo  of  St  Agnes.’] 

Out  wont  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 

Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died: 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air  and  visions  wide : 

No  uttered  syllable,  or,  wo  betide  1 
Rut  to  her  heart  her  heart  was  voluble, 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ; 

As  though  a tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die  heart-stifled  in  her  dell. 
A casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device 
Innumerable,  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 

As  are  the  tiger-moth’s  deep  damasked  wings ; 

And  in  the  midst,  ’mong  thousand  heraldries, 

And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 

A shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 

And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline’s  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven’s  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 

And  on  her  hair  a glory  like  a saint : 

She  seemed  a splendid  angel  newly  drest. 

Save  wings,  for  heaven  ; Porphyro  grew  faint : 

She  knelt,  so  pure  a thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 

[Ilymn  to  Pan.] 

[From  * Endymion.*] 

O thou  whose  mighty  palace-roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  tniiiks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness; 

Who  lovest  to  see  tlie  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken ; 

And  through  whose  solemn  hours  dost  sit  and  hearken 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds — 

In  desolate  i>laces,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth, 

Bethinking  thee  how  melancholy  loath 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx — do  thou  now, 

By  thy  love’s  milky  brow. 

By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran. 

Hear  us,  great  Pan  ! 

0 thou  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet  turtles 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  ’mong  myrtles. 

What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms : 0 thou  to  whom 
Broad-leaved  fig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripened  fruitage  ; yellow-girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs  ; our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blos.somcd  beans  and  poppied  com ; 

The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn. 

To  sing  for  thee  ; low  creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness  ; pent-up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings  ; yea,  the  fresh  budding  year 
All  its  completions — be  quickly  near. 

By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 

0 forester  divine ! 

Thou  to  whom  every  fawn  and  satyr  flies 
For  willing  service ; whetner  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half-sleeping  fit; 

Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 

To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle’s  maw; 

Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewildered  shepherds  to  their  path  again  ; 

Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main. 


And  gather  up  all  fancifullcst  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads’  cells. 

And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping; 

Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping. 

The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak-apples,  and  fir  cones  brown — 

By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring. 

Hear  us,  0 satyr  king ! 

0 hearkener  to  the  loud-clapping  shears. 

While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A ram  goes  bleating:  winder  of  the  horn. 

When  snouted  wild  boars  routing  tender  com 
\nger  our  huntsmen  : breather  round  our  farms, 

To  keep  oft’  mildews  and  all  weather  harms : 

Strange  mini.strant  of  undescribed  sounds. 

That  come  a-swooning  over  hollow  grounds. 

And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors : 

Dre.id  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see. 

Great  son  of  Dryope, 

The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows  ! 

Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings  ; such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven. 

Then  leave  the  naked  bsaiu  : be  still  the  leaven, 
That,  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth, 

Gives  it  a touch  ethereal — a new  birth : 

Be  still  a symbol  of  immensity  ; 

A firmament  reflected  in  a sea ; 

An  element  filling  the  space  between  ; 

An  unknown — but  no  more  : we  humbly  screen 
With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads  lowly  bending, 

And  giving  out  a shout  most  heaven-rending. 

Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  Pasan, 

Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean  ! 

Ode  to  a Nightingale. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I had  drunk. 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk: 

’Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness. 

That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  tree*. 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 

Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

0 for  a draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 
Cooled  a long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth. 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green. 

Dance  and  Provencal  song  and  sun-burnt  mirth  I 
0 for  a beaker  full  of  the  warm  south. 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 

With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim. 

And  purple-stained  mouth ; 

That  I might  drink  and  leave  the  world  unseen. 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim: 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs. 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 

Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for  I will  fly  to  thee 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards ; 

40a 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIHX. 


Already  with  thee ! tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  queen-moon  is  on  her  throne 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  fays; 

Hut  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  blooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 

I cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet. 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 

But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ; 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves; 

And  mid-May’s  eldest  child. 

The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine. 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

D.arkling  I listen  ; and  for  many  a time 

1 have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 

Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 

Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die. 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain. 

While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstacy! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  anej  I have  ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 

The  voice  1 hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 
In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 

Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 

The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn  ! the  very  word  is  like  a bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self  I 
Adieu!  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 

Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  hill-stream. 

Up  the  hill-side ; and  now  ’tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley’s  glades  : 

Was  it  a vision  or  a waking  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music : — do  I wake  or  sleep  1 

To  Autumn. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves 
run  ; 

To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage  trees. 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 

To  swell  the  gourd  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a sweet  kernel  ; to  set  budding  more. 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees. 

Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

F'or  summer  has  o’er-brimmed  their  clammy  cells. 

WTio  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  * 
Sometimes,  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a granary  floor. 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 

Or  on  a half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep. 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers ; 
And  sometimes  like  a gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a brook ; 

Or  by  a cider-press  with  patient  look. 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 


Where  are  the  songs  of  spring  ? Ay,  where  are  they  I 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too. 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft  dying  day. 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  ; 

Then  in  a wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  moum 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ; 

And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a garden  croft. 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  from  the  skies. 

Sonnets. 

[On  First  Looking  into  Chapman’s  Homer.] 

Much  have  I travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold. 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I been  told 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne: 
Yet  did  I never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 
Then  felt  I like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ; 

Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a peak  in  Darien. 

[The  Human  Seasons.] 

Four  sea.sons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year; 

There  are  four  sea.sons  in  the  mind  of  man  : 

He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 
Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span : 

He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 
Spring’s  honied  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  nigh 
Is  nearest  unto  heaven  : quiet  coves 
His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 
He  furleth  clo.se ; contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness — to  let  fair  things 
Pass  by  unheeded  as  a threshold  brook. 

He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  raisfeature, 

Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 

[On  England.] 

Happy  is  England  ! I could  be  content 
To  see  no  other  verdure  than  its  own  ; 

To  feel  no  other  breezes  than  are  blown 
Through  its  tall  woods  with  high  romances  blent ; 

Yet  do  I sometimes  feel  a languishment 
F’or  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  groan 
To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a throne. 

And  half  forget  what  world  or  worldling  nie.oiit. 
Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daughters  ; 
Enough  their  simple  loveliness  for  me  ; 

Enough  their  whitest  arms  in  silence  clinging : 

Yet  do  1 often  warmly  burn  to  see 
Beauties  of  deeper  glance,  and  hear  their  singing. 
And  float  with  them  about  their  summer  waters. 


Lines. 

[‘  The  poet  Keats  walked  in  the  Highlands,  not  with  the 
joyonsness,  the  rapture,  of  the  young  Rousseau,  but  in  that 
hallowed  pleasure  of  the  soul  which,  in  its  fulness,  is  akin  to 
pain.  The  following  extract  of  a poem,  not  published  in  his 
works,  proves  his  intensity  of  feeling,  even  to  the  dread  of 
madness.  It  was  written  while  on  his  journey,  soon  after  his 
pilgrimage  to  the  birthplace  of  Burns,  not  for  the  gaze  of  the 
world,  but  as  a record  for  himself  of  the  temper  of  his  mind  at 
the  time.  It  is  a sure  index  to  the  more  serious  traits  in  his 
character ; but  Keats,  neither  in  writing  nor  in  speaking,  could 
affect  a sentiment — his  gentle  spirit  knew  not  bow  to  counter- 
feit.’— A’cic  Monthly  Maijazine,  1822.] 

There  is  a charm  in  footing  slow 
Across  a silent  plain. 

Where  patriot  battle  has  been  fought, 

Where  glory  had  the  gain : 

4M 


KNGLISn  LITERATURE. 


DU  REfilNALD  IIUnEU. 


riiere  is  a pleasure  on  the  heath, 

Where  Druids  old  have  been, 

Where  mantles  gray  have  rustled  by, 

And  swept  the  nettles  green : 

There  is  a joy  in  every  spot, 

Made  known  in  days  of  old. 

New  to  the  feet,  although  each  tale 
A hundred  times  be  told. 

• » ♦ 

Ay,  if  a madman  could  have  leave 
To  pass  a healthful  day. 

To  tell  his  forehead’s  swoon  and  faint 
W'hen  first  began  decay. 

♦ » * 

One  hour  half  idiot  he  stands 
By  mossy  waterfall, 

But  in  the  very  next  he  reads 
His  soul’s  memorial. 

He  reads  it  on  the  mountain’s  height. 

Where  chance  he  may  sit  down 
Upon  rough  marble  diadem — 

That  hill’s  eternal  crown  ! 

Yet  be  his  anchor  e’er  so  fast. 

Room  is  there  for  a prayer. 

That  man  may  never  lose  his  mind  * 

On  mountains  black  and  bare. 

That  he  may  stray,  league  after  league. 

Some  great  birthplace  to  find. 

And  keep  his  vision  clear  from  speck. 

His  inward  sight  unblind! 

DR  REGINALD  HEBER. 

Dr  Reginald  Heber,  bishop  of  Calcutta,  was 
born  April  21,  1783,  at  Malpas  in  Cheshire,  where 
his  father  had  a living.  In  his  seventeenth  year 
he  was  admitted  of  Brazen-nose  college,  Oxford, 
and  soon  distinguished  himself  by  his  classical  at- 
tainments. In  1802  he  obtained  the  university  prize 
for  Latin  hexameters,  his  subject  being  the  Carmen 
Svculare.  Applying  himself  to  English  verse,  Heber, 
in  18o3,  composed  his  poem  of  Palestine,  which 
has  been  considered  the  best  prize  poem  the  uni- 
versity has  ever  produced.  Parts  of  it  were  set  to 
music  ; and  it  had  an  extensive  sale.  Previous  to 
its  recitation  in  the  theatre  of  the  university,  the 
young  author  read  it  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  then  on  a 
visit  to  Oxford ; and  Scott  observed,  that  in  the 
verses  on  Solomon’s  temple,  one  striking  circum- 
stance had  escaped  him — namely,  that  no  tools  were 
used  in  its  construction.  Reginald  retired  for  a 
few  minutes  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  returned 
with  the  beautiful  lines — 

No  hammer  fell,  no  ponderous  axes  rung ; 

Like  some  tall  palm  the  mystic  fabric  sprung. 

Maj  estic  silence ! 

His  picture  of  Palestine,  in  its  now  fallen  and  deso- 
late state,  is  pathetic  and  beautiful : — 

Reft  of  thy  sons,  amid  thy  foes  forlorn. 

Mourn,  widowed  queen  1 forgotten  Sion,  mourn  1 
Is  this  thy  place,  sad  city,  this  thy  throne. 

Where  the  wild  desert  rears  its  craggy  stone? 

While  suns  unblessed  their  angry  lustre  fling. 

And  wayworn  pilgrims  seek  the  scanty  spring ! 

Where  now  thy  pomp,  which  kings  with  envy  viewed  ? 
Where  now  thy  might,  which  all  those  kings  subdued  \ 
No  martial  myriads  muster  in  thy  gate  ; 

No  suppliant  nations  in  thy  temple  wait ; 

No  prophet-bards,  the  glittering  courts  among, 

W'ake  the  full  lyre,  and  swell  the  tide  of  song: 

But  lawless  Force,  and  meagre  Want  are  there. 

And  the  quick-darting  eye  of  restless  Fear, 

While  cold  Oblivion,  ’mid  thy  ruins  laid. 

Folds  his  dank  wing  beneath  the  ivy  shade. 


lie  has  also  given  a striking  sketch  of  the  Druses, 
the  hardy  mountain  race  descended  from  the  Cru- 
saders : — 

Fierce,  hardy,  proud,  in  conscious  freedom  bold. 

Those  stormy  seats  the  warrior  Druses  hold  ; 

From  Norman  blood  their  lofty  line  they  trace. 

Their  lion-courage  proves  their  generous  race. 

They,  only  they,  while  all  around  them  kneel 
In  sullen  homage  to  the  Thracian  steel. 

Teach  their  pale  despot’s  waning  moon  to  fear 
The  patriot  terrors  of  the  mountain  spear. 

Yes,  valorous  chiefs,  while  yet  your  sabres  shine^ 

The  native  guard  of  feeble  Palestine, 

O,  ever  thus,  by  no  vain  boast  dismayed. 

Defend  the  birthright  of  the  cedar  shade  1 
What  though  no  more  for  you  the  obedient  gale 
Swells  the  white  bosom  of  the  Tyrian  sail ; 

Though  now  no  more  your  glittering  marts  unfold 
Sidoiiian  dyes  and  Lusitanian  gold  ; 

Though  not  for  you  the  pale  and  sickly  slave 
Forgets  the  light  in  Ophir’s  wealthy  cave ; 

Yet  yours  the  lot,  in  proud  contentment  blest. 

Where  cheerful  labour  leads  to  tranquil  rest. 

No  robber-rage  the  ripening  harvest  knows ; 

And  unrestrained  the  generous  vintage  flows : 

Nor  less  your  sons  to  manliest  deeds  aspire ; 

And  Asia’s  mountains  glow  with  Spartan  fire. 

So  when,  deep  sinking  in  the  rosy  main. 

The  western  sun  forsakes  the  Syrian  plain. 

His  watery  rays  refracted  lustre  shed, 

And  pour  their  latest  light  on  Carmel’s  head. 

Yet  shines  your  praise,  amid  surrounding  gloom. 

As  the  lone  lamp  that  trembles  in  the  tomb ; 

For  few  the  souls  that  spurn  a tyrant’s  chain. 

And  small  the  bounds  of  freedom’s  scanty  reign. 

While  his  poem  of  ‘Palestine’  was  universally 
admired,  and  all  looked  forward  to  the  maturity  of 
a genius  so  rich  in  promise,  Heber  continued  his 
studies  w'ith  unabated  industry.  He  made  consider- 
able progress  in  mathematics  and  in  the  higher 
classics.  In  1805  he  took  his  degree  of  B.  A.,  and 
the  same  year  gained  the  prize  for  the  English 
essay ; the  subject,  The  Sense  of  Honour.  He  was 
elected  to  a fellowship  at  All  Souls  college,  and 
soon  after  went  abroad,  travelling  over  Germany, 
Russia,  and  the  Crimea.  On  his  return  he  tovk 
his  degree  of  A.  M.  at  Oxford.  He  appeared  again 
as  a poet  in  1809,  his  subject  being  Europe,  or  Lines 
on  the  Present  War.  The  struggle  in  Spain  formed 
the  predominating  theme  of  Heber’s  poem.  He  was 
now  presented  to  the  living  of  Hodnet ; and  at  the 
same  time  he  married  Amelia,  daughter  of  Dr 
Shipley,  dean  of  St  Asaph.  The  duties  of  a parish 
pastor  were  discharged  by  Heber  with  unosten- 
tatious fidelity  and  application.  He  also  applied 
his  vigorous  intellect  to  the  study  of  divinity,  and 
in  1815  preached  the  Banipton  Lecture,  the  subject 
selected  by  him  for  a course  of  sermons  being  the 
Personality  and  Office  of  the  Christian  Comforter. 
He  was  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  Quarterly 
Review ; and  in  1822  he  wrote  a copious  life  of 
Jeremy  Taylor,  and  a review  of  his  w'ritings  for 
a complete  edition  of  Taylor’s  works.  The  same 
year  he  was  elected,  by  the  benchers  of  Lincoln’s 
Inn,  preacher  to  their  society.  Here  he  had  cham  - 
bers in  London,  an  addition  of  about  £600  to  his 
yearly  income,  and  his  duty  was  only  preaching 
thirteen  sermons  in  the  year.  An  office  so  h-'nour- 
able,  from  the  high  character  and  talents  of  the 
electors,  and  the  eminent  persons  by  whom  it  hax 
been  held,  is  usually  considered  a stepping-stone  to 
a bishopric.  To  this  honour  in  its  highest  form — 
that  of  a spiritual  peer  of  the  realm — Heber  might 
now  have  looked  forward  with  confidence ; but  « 

i07 


FROM  I7B0 


CYCLOPiEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIHX 


Btronj;  sense  of  duty  ami  desire  of  Cliristian  useful- 
ness prevented  tlie  prospect  beinjf  realised.  It  was 
under  such  feeliof;s,  and  contrary  to  the  advice  of 
prudent  friends,  that  he  accepted,  in  1823,  the  diffi- 
cult task  of  bishop  of  Calcutta.  With  his  family 


Heber’s  Parish  Church* 


he  arrived  safely  at  his  destination  on  the  10th  of 
October ; and  no  man  could  have  entered  on  his  mis- 
sion with  a more  Christian  or  a|)Ostolic  s|)irit.  During 
the  ensuing  year,  he  was  engaged  in  visiting  the 
several  European  stations  in  Bengal  and  the  upper 
provinces  of  Ilindostan.  In  .January  1825  he  made 
a similar  tour  to  the  stations  under  the  Bombay  go- 
vernment. consecrating  churches  at  various  j)laees. 
In  May  1825  he  held  his  episcopal  visitation  at  Bom- 
bay. During  this  progress  he  laid  the  foundation 
of  two  central  schools.  He  also  visited  the  Deccan, 
Ceylon,  and  Madras,  on  his  return  to  Bengal,  per- 
forming at  each  station  the  active  duties  of  his 
sacred  office.  His  whole  energies  appear  to  have 
been  devoted  to  the  propagation  of  Christianity  in 
the  East.  In  1826  the  bishop  made  a journey  to 
Travencore,  ai'companied  by  the  Bev.  Mr  Doran,  of 
the  Church  Missionary  Society.  He  preached,  con- 
firmed, and  visited  his  Christian  communities  with 
his  usual  affection  and  ardour.  On  the  1st  of  April 
he  arrived  at  Trichinopoly,  and  ha<l  twice  service  on 
the  day  following.  He  went  the  next  day,  Monday, 
at  six  o’clock  in  the  morning,  to  see  the  native 
Christians  in  the  fort,  and  attend  divine  service. 
He  then  returned  to  the  house  of  a friend,  and  went 
into  the  bath  preparatory  to  his  dressing  for  break- 
fast. His  servant  conceiving  he  remained  too  long, 
entered  the  room,  and  found  the  bishop  dead  at  the 
bottom  of  the  bath.  Medical  assistance  wars  applied, 
but  every  effort  proved  ineffectual;  death  had  been 
caused  by  apoplexy.  The  loss  of  so  valuable  a 
public  man,  equally  beloved  and  venerated,  was 
mourned  by  all  classes,  and  every  honour  was  paid 
to  his  memory.  Much  might  have  been  anticipated, 
from  the  zeal  and  learning  of  lleber,  in  elucidation 
of  the  antiquities  of  India,  and  the  moral  and  reli- 
gious improvement  of  its  people,  had  his  valuable 
life  been  spared.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was 
only  in  his  forty-third  year — a period  too  short  to 
have  developed  those  talents  and  virtues  which,  as 


one  of  his  adhiirers  in  India  remarked,  rendered  his 
course  in  life,  from  the  moment  that  he  was  crowned 
with  academical  honours  till  the  day  of  his  death, 
one  track  of  light,  the  admiration  of  Britain  and  of 
India.  The  widow  of  Dr  lleber  has  published  a Me- 
moir of  his  Life,  with  selections  from  his  letters; 
and  also  a Narrative  of  his  .Journey  through  the 
Upiier  Provinces  of  India  from  Calcutta  to  Bombay. 
In  these  works  the  excellent  prelate  is  seen  to  great 
advantage,  as  an  acute  and  lively  observer,  graphic 
in  his  descriptions  both  of  scenery  and  manners, 
and  everywhere  animated  with  feelings  of  Christian 
zeal  and  benevolence.  As  a poet,  lleber  is  always 
elegant,  and  often  striking.  His  hymns  are  pecu- 
liarly touching  and  impressive,  and  musical  in  versi- 
fication. The  highest  honours  of  the  lyre  he  pro- 
bably never  could  have  attained  ; for  he  is  deficient 
in  originality,  and  is  more  rhetorical  than  passionate 
or  imaginative. 

Passage  of  the  Red  Sea. 

[From  * Palestine.’] 

For  many  a coal-black  tribe  and  cany  spear. 

The  hireling  guards  of  Misraini’s  throne,  were  there. 
From  distant  Cush  they  troo])ed,  a warrior  train, 
Siwah’s  green  isle  and  Senaar’s  marly  plain: 

On  cither  wing  their  fiery  coursers  check 
The  parched  and  sinewy  sons  of  Amalek  ; 

While  close  behind,  inured  to  feast  on  blood. 

Decked  in  Behemoth’s  spoils,  the  tall  Shangal la  strode. 
’Mid  blazing  helms  and  bucklers  rough  with  gold. 
Saw  ye  how  swift  the  scythed  chariots  rolled  ! 

Lo,  these  are  they  whom,  lords  of  .Afric’s  fates. 

Old  Thebes  hath  poured  through  all  her  hundred  gates, 
Mother  of  armies  ! How  the  emeralds  glowed. 

Where,  flushed  with  power  and  vengeance,  Phanvoh 
rode  ! 

And  stoled  in  white,  those  brazen  wheels  before, 
Osiris’  ark  his  swarthy  wizards  bore ; 

And  still  responsive  to  the  trumpet’s  cry. 

The  priestly  sistrum  murmured — Victory  ! 

Why  swell  these  shouts  that  rend  the  desert’s  gloom  1 
\Vhom  come  ye  forth  to  combat?— warriors,  whom  ? 
These  flocks  and  herds — this  faint  and  weary  train — 
Red  from  the  scourge,  and  recent  from  the  chain? 

God  of  the  poor,  the  poor  and  friendless  save  ! 

Giver  and  Lord  of  freedom,  help  the  slave  ! 

North,  south,  and  west,  the  sandy  whirlwinds  fly. 

The  circling  horns  of  Kgypt’s  chivalry. 

On  earth’s  last  margin  throng  the  weeping  train  ; 
Their  cloudy  guide  moves  on  : — ‘ And  must  we  swim 
the  main  V 

’Mid  the  light  spray  their  snorting  camels  stood. 

Nor  bathed  a fetlock  in  the  nauseous  flood ; 

He  comes — their  leader  comes! — the  man  of  God 
O’er  the  wide  waters  lifts  his  mighty  rod. 

And  onward  treads.  The  circling  waves  retreat. 

In  hoarse  deep  murmurs,  from  his  holy  feet; 

-And  the  chased  surges,  inly  roaring,  show 
The  hard  wet  sand  and  coral  hills  below. 

With  limbs  that  falter,  and  with  hearts  that  swell, 
Dcwn,  down  they  pass — a steep  and  slippery  dell; 
Aiound  them  rise,  in  pristine  chaos  hurled. 

The  ancient  rocks,  the  secrets  of  the  world  ; 

And  flowers  that  blush  beneath  the  ocean  green. 

And  caves,  the  sea-calves’  low-roofed  haunt,  are  seen 
Down,  safely  down  the  narrow  pass  they  tread ; 

The  beetling  waters  storm  above  their  head ; 

While  far  behind  retires  the  sinking  day. 

And  fades  on  Edom’s  hills  its  latest  ray. 

Yet  not  from  Israel  fled  the  friendly  light. 

Or  dark  to  them  or  cheerless  came  the  night. 

Still  in  their  van,  along  that  drea<lful  road. 

Blazed  broad  and  tierce  the  brandished  torch  of  Ood. 

403 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DR  REOIRALD  IIEBIA 


Its  meteor  glaro  a tenfold  lustre  gave 
On  the  long  mirror  of  the  rosy  wave; 

While  its  blest  beams  a sunlike  heat  supply, 

^^’arm  every  cheek,  and  dance  in  every  eye — 

To  them  alone — for  Misraim’s  wizard  train 
Invoke  for  light  their  monster-gods  in  vain  ; 

Clouds  heaped  on  clouds  their  struggling  sight  confine, 
And  tenfoid  darkne.ss  broods  above  their  line. 

Yet  on  they  fare  by  reckless  vengeance  led. 

And  range  unconscious  through  the  ocean’s  bed  ; 

Till  midway  now — that  strange  and  fiery  form 
Showed  his  dread  visage  lightening  through  the  storm  ; 
With  withering  .splendour  blasted  all  their  might, 
And  brake  their  chariot  wheels,  and  marred  their 
coursers’  flight. 

‘ Fly,  Misraim,  fly  !’  The  ravenous  floods  they  see, 
And,  fiercer  than  the  fiood.s,  the  Deity. 

‘ Fly,  Misraim,  fly  !’  From  Edom’s  coral  strand 
Again  the  prophet  stretched  his  dreadful  wand. 

M'ith  one  wild  crash  the  thundering  waters  sweep. 
And  all  is  waves — a dark  and  lonely  deep ; 

Yet  o’er  tho.se  lonely  waves  such  murmurs  past. 

As  mortal  wailing  swelled  the  nightly  blast. 

And  strange  and  sad  the  whispering  breezes  bore 
The  groans  of  Egypt  to  Arabia’s  shore. 

Oh  ! welcome  came  the  morn,  where  Israel  stood 
In  trustless  wonder  by  the  avenging  flood  ! 

Oh  ! welcome  came  the  cheerful  morn,  to  show 
The  drifted  wreck  of  Zoan’s  pride  below  ! 

The  mangled  limbs  of  men — the  broken  car — 

A few  sad  relics  of  a nation’s  war; 

.\la.s,  how  few  1 Then,  soft  as  Elini’s  well. 

The  precious  tears  of  new-born  freedom  fell. 

And  he,  whose  hardened  heart  alike  had  borne 
The  hou.se  of  bondage  and  the  oppressor’s  scorn. 

The  stubborn  slave,  by  hope’s  new  beams  subdued, 

In  faltering  accents  sobbed  his  gratitude, 

Till  kindling  into  warmer  zeal,  around 
The  virgin  timbrel  waked  its  silver  sound  ; 

And  in  fierce  joy,  no  more  by  doubt  supprest. 

The  struggling  spirit  throbbed  in  Miriam’s  breast. 
She,  with  bare  arms,  and  fixing  on  the  sky 
The  dark  transparence  of  her  lucid  eye. 

Poured  on  the  winds  of  heaven  her  wild  sweet  harmony. 
‘ Where  now,’  she  sang,  ‘ the  tall  Egyptian  spear? 
On’s  sunlike  shield,  and  Zoan’s  chariot,  where? 

Above  their  ranks  the  whelming  waters  spread. 

Shout,  Israel,  for  the  Lord  hath  triumphed!’ 

And  every  pause  between,  as  Miriam  sang. 

From  tribe  to  tribe  the  martial  thunder  rang. 

And  loud  and  far  their  stormy  chorus  spread — 
Shout,  Israel,  for  the  Lord  hath  triumphed  1’ 

Hymn. — Fifteenth  Sunday  after  Trinity. 

Lo,  the  lilies  of  the  field. 

How  their  leaves  instruction  yield! 

Hark  to  Nature’s  lesson,  given 
By  the  blessed  birds  of  heaven  ! 

Every  bush  and  tufted  tree 
Warbles  sweet  philosophy : 

‘Mortal,  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow: 

God  provideth  for  the  morrow ! 

Say,  with  richer  crimson  glows 
The  kingly  mantle  than  the  rose  ? 

Say,  have  kings  more  wholesome  fare 
Than  we  poor  citizens  of  air? 

Bams  nor  hoarded  grain  have  we, 

Yet  we  carol  merrily. 

Mortal,  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow : 

God  provideth  for  the  morrow ! 

One  there  lives,  whose  guardian  eye 
Guides  our  humble  destiny  ; 

One  there  lives,  who.  Lord  of  all. 

Keeps  our  feathers  lest  they  fall. 


Pass  we  blithely  then  the  time, 

E’earless  of  the  snare  and  lime. 

Free  from  doubt  and  faithless  sorrow: 

God  provideth  for  the  morrow !’ 

Missionary  Hymn. 

From  Greenland’s  icy  mountains, 

I’rom  India’s  coral  strand. 

Where  Afric’s  sunny  fountains 
Roll  down  their  golden  sand ; 

From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a balmy  plain. 

They  call  us  to  deliver 
Their  laud  from  error’s  chain. 

What  though  the  spicy  breezes 
Blow  soft  on  Ceylon’s  isle. 

Though  every  prospect  pleases, 

And  only  man  is  vile ; 

In  vain,  with  lavish  kindness. 

The  gifts  of  God  are  strown, 

The  Heathen,  in  his  blindness. 

Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone. 

Shall  we  whose  souls  are  lighted 
With  wisdom  from  on  high  ; 

Shall  we  to  man  benighted 
The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? 

Salvation  I Oh,  salvation  ! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim. 

Till  each  remotest  nation 
Has  learned  Messiah’s  name. 

[From  Bishop  Heber's  Journal.'^ 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love. 

How  fast  would  evening  fail 
In  green  Bengala’s  palmy  grove. 

Listening  the  nightingale ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

My  babies  at  my  knee. 

How  gaily  would  our  pinnace  glide 
O’er  Gunga’s  mimic  sea! 

I miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray. 

When  on  our  deck  reclined. 

In  careless  ease  my  limbs  1 lay. 

And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I miss  thee  when  by  Gunga’s  stream 
My  twilight  steps  I guide. 

But  most  beneath  the  lamp’s  pale  beam 
I miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try, 

The  lingering  noon  to  cheer. 

But  miss  thy  kind  approving  eyo. 

Thy  meek  attentive  ear. 

But  when  of  morn  or  eve  the  stai 
Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 

” feel,  though  thou  art  distant  fai. 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on  ! then  on  ! where  duty  leads. 

My  course  be  onward  still ; 

O’er  broad  Hindostan’s  sultry  meads. 

O’er  bleak  Almorah’s  hill. 

That  course,  nor  Delhi’s  kingly  gates, 

Nor  wild  Malwah  detain  ; 

For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 
By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they  say, 
Across  the  dark-blue  sea  ; 

But  ne’er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 
As  then  shall  meet  in  thee ! 


409 


/aoM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  TUP.  PRESENT  T!  Ma. 


An  Evening  Walk  in  Bengal. 


Our  task  is  done  ! — on  Gunga’s  breast 
Tlie  sun  is  sinking  down  to  rest ; 

And,  moored  beneath  the  tamarind  bough, 

Our  bark  has  found  its  harbour  now. 

With  furled  sail  and  painted  side, 
lleholj  the  tiny  frigate  ride  : 

Upon  her  deck,  ’mid  charcoal  gleams, 

The  Moslem’s  savoury  supper  steams  ; 

While  all  apart,  beneath  the  wood. 

The  Hindoo  cooks  his  simpler  food. 

Come,  walk  with  me  the  jungle  through — 

If  yonder  hunter  told  us  true. 

Far  olf,  in  desert  dank  and  rude. 

The  tiger  holds  its  solitude  ; 

Now  (taught  by  recent  harm  to  shun 
The  thunders  of  the  English  gun) 

A dreadful  guest  but  rarely  seen, 

Returns  to  scare  the  village  green. 

Come  boldly  on  ; no  venomed  snake 
Can  shelter  in  so  cool  a brake — 

Child  of  the  sun,  he  loves  to  lie 
’Midst  nature’s  embers,  parched  and  dry. 

Where  o’er  some  tower  in  ruin  laid. 

The  peepul  spreads  its  haunted  shade; 

Or  round  a tomb  his  scales  to  wreathe. 

Fit  warder  in  the  gate  of  Death. 

Come  on  ; yet  pause  ! Behold  us  now 
Beneath  the  bamboo’s  arched  bough. 

Where,  gemming  oft  that  .sacred  gloom. 

Glows  the  geranium’s  scarlet  bloom 
And  winds  our  path  through  many  a bower 
Of  fragrant  tree  and  giant  flower — 

The  ceiba’s  crimson  pomp  displayed 
O’er  the  broad  plantain’s  humbler  shade. 

And  dusk  anana’s  prickly  glade  ; 

While  o’er  the  brake,  so  wild  and  fair. 

The  betel  waves  his  crest  in  air  ; 

With  pendant  train  and  rushing  wings. 

Aloft  the  gorgeous  peacock  springs  ; 

And  he,  the  bird  of  hundred  dyes,^ 

Whose  plumes  the  dames  of  Ava  prize. 

So  rich  a shade,  so  green  a sod. 

Our  English  fairies  never  trod ! 

Yet  who  in  Indian  bowers  has  stood, 

But  thought  on  England’s  ‘good  greenwood;’ 
And  blessed,  beneath  the  palmy  shade, 

Her  hazel  and  her  hawthorn  glade; 

And  breathed  a prayer  (how  oft  in  vain !) 

To  gaze  upon  her  oaks  again  ? 

A truce  to  thought — the  jackal’s  cry 
Resounds  like  sylvan  revelry  ; 

And  through  the  trees  yon  failing  ray 
Will  scantly  serve  to  guide  our  way. 
y et  mark,  as  fade  the  upper  skies. 

Each  thicket  opes  ten  thousand  eyes — 

Before,  beside  us,  and  above. 

The  fire-fly  lights  his  lamp  of  love. 

Retreating,  chasing,  sinking,  soaring, 

The  darkness  of  the  copse  exploring; 

While  to  this  cooler  air  confe.st. 

The  broad  dhatura  bares  her  breast. 

Of  fragrant  scent  and  virgin  white, 

A pearl  around  the  locks  of  night! 

Still  as  we  pass,  in  softened  hum 

Along  the  breezy  alleys  come 

The  village  song,  the  horn,  the  drum : 

Still  as  we  pass,  from  bush  and  brier 
The  shrill  cigala  strikes  his  lyre ; 

And  what  is  she  whose  liquid  strain 
Thrills  through  yon  copse  of  sugar-cane ! ’ 

i A shrub  whose  deep  scarlet  flowers  very  much  resemble 
the  geranium,  and  thence  called  the  Indian  geranium, 

* Cbo  Muebarunga. 


I know  that  soul-entrancing  swell. 

It  is — it  must  be — Philomel ! 

Enough,  enough,  the  rustling  trees 
Announce  a shower  upon  the  breeze. 

The  flashes  of  the  summer  sky 
As.sume  a deeper,  ruddier  dye  ; 

Yon  lamp  that  trembles  on  the  stream. 

From  forth  our  cabin  sheds  its  beam ; 

And  we  must  early  sleep,  to  find 
Betimes  the  morning’s  healthy  wind. 

But  oh  ! with  thankful  hearts  confess 
E’en  here  there  may  be  happiness ; 

And  He,  the  bounteous  Sire,  has  given 
His  peace  on  earth — his  hope  of  heaven. 

CHARLES  WOLFE. 

The  Rev.  Charles  Wolfe  (1791-1823),  a native 
of  Dublin,  may  be  said  to  have  earned  a literary 
immortality  by  one  short  poem,  and  that  copied, 
w'ith  considerable  closeness,  from  a prose  account 
of  the  incident  which  it  relates.  Reading  in  the 
Edinburgh  Annual  Register  a description  of  the 
death  and  interment  of  Sir  John  Moore  on  the  battle- 
field of  Corunna,  this  amiable  young  poet  turned  it 
into  verse  with  such  taste,  pathos,  and  even  subli- 
mity, that  his  poem  has  obtained  an  imperishable 
place  in  our  literature.  The  subject  was  attractive 
— the  death  of  a brave  and  popular  general  on  the 
field  of  battle,  and  his  burial  by  his  companions  in 
arms — and  the  poet  himself  dying  when  young,  be- 
loved and  lamented  by  his  friends,  gave  additional 
interest  to  the  production.  The  ode  was  published 
anonymously  in  an  Irish  newspaper  in  1817,  and  was 
ascribed  to  various  authors  ; Shelley  considering  it 
not  unlike  a first  draught  by  Campbell.  In  1841  it 
was  claimed  by  a Scottish  student  and  teacher,  who 
ungenerously  and  dishonestly  sought  to  pluck  the 
laurel  from  the  grave  of  its  owner.  The  friends  of 
Wolfe  came  forward,  and  established  his  right  be- 
yond any  further  question  or  controversy  ; and  the. 
new  claimant  was  forced  to  confess  his  imposture, 
at  the  same  time  expressing  his  contrition  for  his 
misconduct.  Fame,  like  wealth,  is  sometimes  pur- 
sued with  unprincipled  covetousness ; but,  unless 
directed  by  proper  motives,  the  chase  is  never 
honourable,  and  very  seldom  safe.  The  great  duties 
of  life — its  moral  feelings  and  principles — are  some- 
thing more  important  than  even  the  brightest 
wreaths  of  fame  ! Wolfe  was  a curate  in  the  esta- 
blished church,  and  died  of  consumption.  His  lite- 
rary remains  have  been  published,  with  an  interest- 
ing memoir  of  his  life  by  Archdeacon  Russell,  one 
of  his  early  college  friends. 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore. 

Not  a drum  was  heard,  not  a funeral  note. 

As  his  corpse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O’er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night. 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning. 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam’s  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast. 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a warrior  taking  his  rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said. 

Ami  we  spoke  not  a word  of  sorrow  ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dtau, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

410 


POSTS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  Herbert  knowlk*. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

Th  it  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o’er  his 
head. 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they’ll  talk  of  the  spirit  that’s  gone. 

And  o’er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him — 

But  little  he’ll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done. 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down. 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  frosh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a line,  and  we  raised  not  a stone — 

But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory! 

The  passage  in  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register 
(1808)  on  which  Wolfe  founded  his  ode  is  as  fol- 
lows : — ‘ Sir  John  Moore  had  often  said  that  if  he 
was  killed  in  battle,  he  wished  to  be  buried  where 
he  fell.  The  body  was  removed  at  midnight  to  the 
citadel  of  Corunna.  A grave  was  dug  for  him  on 
the  ramparts  there  by  a body  of  the  9th  regiment, 
the  aides-de-camp  attending  by  turns.  No  coffin 
could  be  procured,  and  the  officers  of  his  staff 
wrapped  the  body,  dressed  as  it  wivs,  in  a military 
cloak  and  blankets.  The  interment  v/as  hastened ; 
for  about  eight  in  the  morning  some  firing  was 
heard,  and  the  officers  feared  that  if  a serious  attack 
were  made,  they  should  be  ordered  away,  and  not 
suffered  to  pay  him  their  last  duty.  The  officers  of 
his  family  bore  him  to  the  grave  j the  funeral  ser- 
vice was  read  hy  the  chaplain ; and  the  corpse  was 
covered  with  earth.’ 

Song. 

Oh  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold 
To  aught  that  once  could  warm  it ; 

That  Nature’s  form,  so  dear  of  old. 

No  more  has  power  to  charm  it ; 

Or  that  the  ungenerous  world  can  chill 
One  glow  of  fond  emotion 
For  those  who  made  it  dearer  still, 

And  shared  my  wild  devotion. 

Still  oft  those  solemn  scenes  I view 
In  rapt  and  dreamy  sadness ; 

Oft  look  on  those  who  loved  them  too 
With  Fancy’s  idle  gladness  ; 

Again  I longed  to  view  the  light 
In  Nature’s  features  glowing. 

Again  to  tread  the  mountain’s  height, 

And  taste  the  soul’s  o’erflowing. 

Stem  duty  rose,  and  frowning  flung 
His  leaden  chain  around  me  ; 

With  iron  look  and  sullen  tongue 
He  muttered  as  he  bound  me : 

‘ The  mountain  breeze,  the  boundless  heaven. 
Unfit  for  toil  the  creature  ; 

These  for  the  free  alone  are  given — 

But  what  have  slaves  with  Nature  1’ 

The  above  verses  were  written  while  Wolfe  attended 
the  university  of  Dublin,  where  he  greatly  distin- 
guished himself.  In  1817  he  took  orders,  and  was 
first  curate  of  Ballyclog,  in  Tyrone,  and  afterwards 
of  Donoughmore.  His  incessant  attention  to  his 
duties,  in  a wild  and  scattered  parish,  not  only 
quenched  his  poetical  enthusiasm,  but  hurried  him 
lo  an  untimely  grave. 

Song. 

[The  followinif  pathetic  lyric  is  adapted  to  the  Irish  air 
Grammachree.  Wolfe  said  he  on  one  occasion  sung  the  air 
over  and  over  till  he  burst  into  a flood  of  tears,  in  which  mood 
he  composed  the  song.] 

If  I had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I might  not  weep  for  thee ; 

But  I forgot,  when  by  thy  side. 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be : 

It  never  through  my  mind  had  past 
The  time  would  e’er  be  o’er. 

And  I on  thee  should  look  my  last. 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more  1 
And  still  upon  that  face  I look. 

And  think  ’twill  smile  again  ; 

And  still  the  thought  I will  not  brook. 

That  I must  look  in  vain ! 

But  when  I speak — thou  dost  not  say 
What  thou  ne’er  left’st  unsaid  ; 

And  now  1 feel,  as  well  I may. 

Sweet  Mary  ! thou  art  dead  ! 

If  thou  wouldst  stay  e’en  as  thou  art. 

All  cold  and  all  serene — 

I still  migjit  press  thy  silent  heart. 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been  ! 

While  e’en  thy  chill  bleak  corse  1 have. 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own  ; 

But  there  I lay  thee  in  thy  grave — 

And  I am  now  alone  1 
I do  not  think,  where’er  thou  art. 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me  ; 

And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart. 

In  thinking  too  of  thee  ; 

Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a dawn 
Of  light  ne’er  seen  before. 

As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn. 

And  never  can  restore ! 

HERBERT  KNOWLES. 

Herbert  Knowles,  a native  of  Canterbury  (1783- 
1817),  produced,  when  a youth  of  eighteen,  the 
following  fine  religious  stanzas,  which,  being  pub- 
lished in  the  Quarterly  Review,  soon  obtained 
general  circulation  and  celebrity : they  have  much 
of  the  steady  faith  and  devotional  earnestness  of 
Cowper. 

Lines  written  in  the  Churchyard  of  Richmond,  Yorkshire. 

It  is  good  for  us  to  bo  here : if  thou  wilt,  let  us  make  hero 
three  tabernacles ; one  for  thee,  and  one  for  Moses,  and  ona 
for  Elias Matthew,  xviL  4. 

Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here. 

If  thou  wilt,  let  us  build — but  for  whom  ? 

Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear ; 

But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encompass  with  gloom 
The  abode  of  the  dead  and  the  place  of  the  tomb. 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ? Ah  no  ! 

Affrighted,  he  shrinketh  away  ; 

For  see,  they  would  pin  him  below 
In  a small  narrow  cave,  and,  begirt  with  cold  clay. 

To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a peer  and  a prey. 

To  Beauty  ? Ah  no  ! she  forgets 
The  charms  which  she  wielded  before ; 

Nor  knows  the  foul  W’orm  that  he  frets 
The  skin  which  but  yesterday  fools  could  adore. 

For  the  smoothness  it  held  or  the  tint  which  it  wero. 

Shall  we  build  to  the  purple  of  Pride, 

The  trappings  which  dizen  the  proud  ? 

Alas  ! they  are  all  laid  aside. 

And  here’s  neither  dress  nor  adornments  allowed. 

But  the  long  winding-sheet  and  the  fringe  of  th* 
sh  roud. 

411 

rUOM  VI nO 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMS, 


To  Hiclips!  Ahis!  ’tis  in  vain; 

Will)  liiij  ill  tlicii-  turns  liavc  been  bid  ; 

'J  be  treasures  are  squandered  a^ain  ; 

And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  metals  forbid 
15ut  the  tinsel  that  shines  on  the  dark  coffin  lid. 

To  the  pleasures  which  Mirth  can  afford, 

The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer? 

Ah!  here  is  a plentiful  board! 

But  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful  cheer, 
And  none  but  the  worm  is  a reveller  here. 

Shall  we  build  to  Affection  and  Love? 

Ah  no!  they  have  withered  and  died, 

Or  fled  with  the  spirit  above. 

Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters  are  laid  side  by  side. 
Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have  replied. 

Unto  sorrow? — the  Dead  cannot  grieve; 

Not  a sob,  not  a sigh  meets  mine  car. 

Which  Compassion  itself  could  relieve. 

Ah,  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  love,  hope,  or  fear; 
Peace ! peace  is  the  watchword,  the  only  one  here. 

Unto  Death,  to  whom  monarchs  must  bowl 
Ah  no ! for  his  empire  is  known. 

And  here  there  are  trophies  enow  ! 

Beneath  the  cold  dead,  and  around  the  dark  stone. 
Are  the  signs  of  a sceptre  that  none  may  disown. 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  wdll  build. 

And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  to  rise  ! 

The  second  to  Faith,  which  insures  it  fulfilled; 
And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  great  sacrifice, 

W ho  bequeathed  us  them  both  when  He  rose  to  the 
skies. 


ROBERT  POLLOK. 

In  1827  appeared  a religious  poem  in  blank  verse, 
entitled  The  Course  of  Time,  by  Robert  Poi-lok, 
■which  speedily  rose  to  great  popularity,  especially 
among  the  more  serious  and  dissenting  classes  in 
Scotland.  The  author  was  a young  licentiate  of  the 
Scottish  Secession  church.  Many  who  scarcely  ever 
looked  into  modern  poetry  were  tempted  to  peruse 
a work  which  embodied  their  favourite  theological 
tenets,  set  off  with  the  graces  of  poetical  fancy  and 
description  ; while  to  the  ordinary  readers  of  ima- 
ginative literature,  the  poem  had  force  and  originality 
enough  to  challenge  an  attentive  perusal.  The 
‘ Course  of  Time  ’ is  a long  poem,  extending  to  ten 
books,  written  in  a style  that  sometimes  imitates  the 
lofty  march  of  Milton,  and  at  other  times  resembles 
that  of  Blair  and  Young.  The  object  of  the  poet  is 
to  describe  the  spiritual  life  and  destiny  of  man  ; 
and  he  varies  his  religious  speculations  with  episo- 
dical pictures  and  narratives,  to  illustrate  the  effects 
of  virtue  or  vice.  The  sentiments  of  the  author  are 
strongly  Calvinistic,  and  in  this  respect,  as  well  as 
in  a certain  crude  ardour  of  imagination  and  devo- 
tional enthusiasm,  the  poem  reminds  us  of  the  style 
of  Milton’s  early  prose  treatises.  It  is  often  harsh, 
turgid,  and  vehement,  and  deformed  by  a gloomy 
piety  which  repels  the  reader  in  spite  of  the  many 
splendid  passages  and  images  that  are  scattered 
throughout  the  work.  With  much  of  the  spirit  and 
the  opinions  of  Cowper,  Pollok  wanted  his  taste  and 
his  refinement.  Time  might  have  mellowed  the 
fruits  of  his  genius  j for  certainly  the  design  of  such 
an  extensive  poem,  and  the  possession  of  a poetical 
diction  so  copious  and  energetic,  by  a young  man 
reared  in  circumstances  by  no  means  favourable  for 
the  cultivation  of  a literary  taste,  indicate  remark- 
able intellectual  power  and  determination  of  cha- 
racter. 

Robert  Pollok  was  destined,  like  Henry  Kirke 


White,  to  an  early  grave.  He  was  born  in  the  year 
1799,  at  Muirhouse,  in  the  parish  of  ICaglesham, 
Renfrewshire,  and  after  the  usual  instruction  in 


Mid  Muirhouse,  the  Residenee  of  Pollok  in  B \hood 


country  schools,  was  sent  to  the  university  of  Glas- 
gow. He  studied  five  years  in  the  divinity  hall 
under  Dr  Dick.  Some  time  after  leaving  college, 
he  wrote  a series  of  Tales  of  the  Covenanters,  in 
prose,  which  were  published  anonymously.  His 
application  to  his  studies  brought  on  symptoms  of 
pulmonary  disease,  and  shortly  after  he  had  re- 
ceived his  license  to  preach,  in  the  spring  of  J827, 
it  was  too  apparent  that  his  health  was  in  a pre- 
carious and  dangerous  state.  This  tendency  was 
further  confirmed  by  the  composition  of  his  great 
poem,  ivhich  was  jmblished  by  Mr  Blackwood  of 
Edinburgh  about  the  time  that  the  author  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  sacred  office  for  which  he  was  so  well 
qualified.  The  greater  jiart  of  the  summer  was  spent  I 
by  Pollok  under  the  roof  of  a clerical  friend,  the 
Rev.  Dr  Belfrage  of  Slateford,  where  every  means  | 
was  tried  for  the  restoration  of  his  health.  The 
symptoms,  however,  continued  unabated,  and  the 
poet’s  friends  and  physicians  recommended  him 
to  try  the  climate  of  Italy.  Mr  Southey  has  re- 
marked of  Kirke  White,  that  ‘ it  was  his  fortune 
through  his  short  life,  as  he  was  worthy  of  the 
kindest  treatment,  always  to  find  it.’  The  same  may 
be  said  of  his  kindred  genius,  Pollok.  His  poetry 
and  his  worth  had  raised  him  up  a host  of  fond  and 
steady  friends,  wh.o  would  have  rejoiced  to  contri- 
bute to  his  comfort  or  relief.  Having  taken  his 
departure  for  London,  accompanied  by  a sister,  Pol- 
lok was  received  into  the  house  of  Mr  Pirie,  then 
sheriff  of  London.  An  immediate  removal  to  the 
south-west  of  England  was  pronounced  necessary, 
and  the  poet  went  to  reside  at  Shirley  Common, 
near  Southampton.  The  milder  air  of  this  place  ' 
effected  no  improvement,  and  after  lingering  on  a 
few  weeks,  Pollok  died  on  the  1 7th  of  September 
1827.  The  same  year  had  witnessed  his  advent  as 
a preacher  and  a poet,  and  his  untimely  death.  The 
‘Course  of  Time,’  however,  continued  to  be  a popu- 
lar poem,  and  has  gone  through  eighteen  editions, 
while  the  interest  of  the  public  in  its  author  has  led 
to  a memoir  of  his  life,  published  in  184.T  I’ollok 
was  interred  in  the  churchyard  at  Millbrook,  the 

4P2 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


ROIIEHT  POLLOK. 


parish  in  whii:l\  Sliirlcy  Common  is  sitnatcci,  ami 
gome  of  liis  admirers  liave  erected  an  obelisk  of 
granite  to  point  out  the  poet’s  grave. 

[Lore.] 

Hail  love,  first  love,  thou  word  that  sums  all  bliss! 
The  spaikliiig  cream  of  all  Time’s  ble.ssedness, 

The  silken  down  of  happiness  complete  I 
Discerner  of  the  ripest  grapes  of  joy 
She  gathered  and  selected  with  her  hand, 

All  finest  relishes,  all  fairest  sights. 

All  rarest  odours,  all  divinest  sounds. 

All  thoughts,  all  feelings  dearest  to  the  soul : 

And  brought  the  holy  mixture  home,  and  tilled 
The  heart  with  all  superlatives  of  bliss. 

But  who  would  that  expound,  which  words  transcends, 
Must  talk  in  vain.  Behold  a meeting  scene 
Of  early  love,  and  thence  infer  its  worth. 

Tt  was  an  eve  of  autumn’s  holiest  mood. 

The  corn  fields,  bathed  in  Cynthia’s  silver  light, 

Stood  ready  for  the  reaper’s  gathering  hand  ; 

And  all  the  winds  slept  soundly.  Nature  seemed 
In  silent  contemplation  to  adore 
Its  Maker.  Now  and  then  the  aged  leaf 
Fell  from  its  fellows,  rustling  to  the  ground; 

And,  as  it  fell,  bade  man  thiidi  on  his  end. 

On  vale  and  lake,  on  wood  and  mountain  high, 

AVith  pensive  wing  outspread,  sat  heavenly  Thought, 
Conversing  with  itself.  Vesper  looked  forth 
From  out  her  western  hermitage,  and  smiled; 

And  up  the  east,  unclouded,  rode  the  moon 
\V  -th  all  her  stars,  gazing  on  earth  intense. 

As  if  she  saw  some  wonder  working  there. 

Suet  was  the  night,  so  lovely,  still,  serene. 

When,  by  a hermit  thorn  that  on  the  hill 
Had  seen  a hundred  flowery  ages  pass, 

A damsel  kneeled  to  offer  up  her  prayer — 

Her  prayei  nightly  offered,  nightly  heard. 

This  ancient  thorn  had  been  the  meeting  place 
Of  love,  before  his  country’s  voice  had  called 
The  anient  youth  to  fields  of  honour  far 
Beyond  the  wave : and  hither  now  repaired. 

Nightly,  the  maid,  by  God’s  all-seeing  eye 
Seen  or’/,  while  she  sought  this  boon  alone — 

‘ Her  '.over’s  .safety,  and  his  quick  return.’ 

In  '.jly,  humble  attitude  she  kneeled, 

/ ,d  to  her  bosom,  fair  p.s  moonbeam,  pressed 
Ine  hand,  the  other  lifted  up  to  heaven, 
ler  eye,  upturned,  bright  as  the  star  of  morn. 

As  violet  meek,  excessive  ardour  streamed, 

AVafting  away  her  earnest  heart  to  God. 

Her  voice,  scarce  uttered,  soft  as  Zephyr  sighs 
On  morning’s  lily  cheek,  though  soft  and  low. 

Yet  heard  in  heaven,  heard  at  the  mercy-seat. 

A tear-drop  wandered  on  her  lovely  face  ; 

It  was  a tear  of  faith  and  lioly  fear. 

Pure  as  the  drops  that  hang  at  dawning-time 
On  yonder  willows  by  the  stream  of  life. 

On  her  the  moon  looked  steadfastly  ; the  stars 
Th.at  circle  nightly  round  the  eternal  throne 
Glanced  down,  well  pleased  ; and  everlasting  Love 
Gave  gracious  audience  to  her  prayer  sincere. 

0 had  her  lover  seen  her  thus  alone. 

Thus  holy,  wrestling  thus,  and  all  for  him ! 

Nor  did  he  not:  for  ofttimes  Providence 
With  unexpected  joy  the  fervent  prayer 
Of  faith  surprised.  Returned  from  long  delay, 

AA’ith  glory  crowned  of  righteous  actions  won. 

The  sacred  thorn,  to  memory  dear,  first  sought 
The  youth,  and  found  it  at  the  happy  hour 
Just  when  the  damsel  kneeled  herself  to  pray. 
AVrapped  in  devotion,  pleading  with  her  God, 

She  saw  him  not,  heard  not  his  foot  approach. 

All  holy  images  seemed  too  impure 


To  emblem  her  he  saw.  A seraph  kneeled. 

Beseeching  for  his  ward  before  the  throne. 

Seemed  fittest,  pleased  him  best.  Sweet  was  the 
thought! 

But  sweeter  still  the  kind  remembrance  came. 

That  she  was  flesh  and  blood  formed  for  himsolf. 

The  plighted  partner  of  his  future  life. 

And  ns  they  met,  embraced,  and  sat  embowered 
In  woody  chambers  of  the  starry  night, 

Spirits  of  love  about  them  ministered, 

Auid  God  approving,  blessed  the  holy  joy! 

[Jl/ominff.] 

In  ’customed  glory  bright,  that  morn  the  sun 
Rose,  visiting  the  earth  with  light,  and  heat. 

And  joy  ; and  seemed  as  full  of  youth,  and  strong 
To  mount  the  steep  of  heaven,  as  when  the  stars 
Of  morning  sung  to  his  first  dawn,  and  night 
Fled  from  his  face ; the  spacious  sky  received 
Him,  blushing  as  a bride  when  on  her  looked 
The  bridegroom ; and  spread  out  beneath  his  eye. 
Earth  smileil.  Up  to  his  warm  embrace  the  dews, 
That  all  night  long  had  wept  his  absence,  flew  ; 

The  herbs  and  flowers  their  fragrant  stores  unlocked. 
And  gave  the  wanton  breeze  that  newly  woke. 
Revelled  in  sweets,  and  from  its  wings  shook  health, 
A thousand  grateful  smells;  the  joyous  woods 
Dried  in  his  beams  their  locks,  wet  with  the  drops 
Of  night  ; and  all  the  sons  of  music  sung 
Their  matin  song — from  arboured  bower  the  thrusk 
Concerting  with  the  )aiU  tk.vt  i.ruuicu  oii  high. 

On  the  green  lull  the  flocks,  .and  in  the  vale 
The  herds,  rejoiced  ; and,  light  of  heart,  the  hina 
Eyed  amorously  the  milk-maid  as  she  passed, 

Not  heedless,  though  she  look  another  way. 

[Frtendsk7p.] 

Not  unremembered  is  the  hour  when  friends 

Met.  Friends,  but  few  on  e.arth,  and  therefor^  , 

Sought  oft,  and  sought  almo.st  as  oft  in  vain ; 

Yet  always  sought,  so  native  to  the  heart. 

So  much  desired  and  coveted  b}'  all. 

Nor  wonder  those — thou  wonderest  not,  not'  nced’sl. 
Much  beautiful,  and  excellent,  and  fair. 

Than  face  of  faithful  friend,  fairest  when  seeL 
In  darke.st  day  ; and  many  sounds  were  sweet. 

Most  ravishing  .and  pleasant  to  the  ear  ; 

But  sweeter  none  than  voice  of  faithful  friend. 

Sweet  alw.ays,  sweetest  heard  in  loudest  storm. 

Some  I remember,  and  will  ne’er  fr/get,; 

My  early  friends,  friends  of  my  c jl  day  ; 

Friends  in  my  mirth,  friends  in  my  misfry  too  ; 
Friends  given  by  God  in  mercy  and  in  love  ; 

My  coun.sellors,  my  comforters,  and  giiide.s  ; 

My  joy  in  grief,  my  second  bliss  in  joy  ; 

Companions  of  iny  young  desires  ; in  doubt. 

My  oracles,  my  wings  in  high  pursuit. 

0,  1 remember,  and  will  ne’er  forget 
Our  meeting  spots,  our  chosen  sacred  honns. 

Our  burning  words  that  uttered  all  the  soul. 

Our  faces  beaming  with  unearthly  love  ; 

Sorrow  with  sorrow  sighing,  hope  with  hope 
Exulting,  heart  embracing,  heart  entire. 

As  birds  of  social  feather  helping  each 
His  fellow’s  flight,  we  soared  into  the  skies. 

And  c.ast  the  clouds  beneath  our  feet,  and  earth, 
AA'ith  all  her  t.ardy  leaden-footed  cares. 

And  talked  the  speech,  and  ate  the  food  of  heaven  I 
These  I remember,  these  selectest  men. 

And  would  their  names  record  ; but  what  avails 
My  mention  of  their  names  ? Before  the  throne 
They  stand  illustrious  ’mong  the  loudest  harps. 

And  will  receive  thee  glad,  my  friend  and  theirs — 
For  all  are  friends  in  heaven,  all  faithful  friendB  ; 

413 


rnoM  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


And  many  fricndsliipa  in  the  days  of  time 
Ilcgiin,  are  lasting  here,  and  growing  still  ; 

So  grows  ours  evermore,  both  theirs  and  mine. 

Nor  is  the  hour  of  lonely  walk  forgot 
In  the  wide  desert,  where  the  view  was  large. 

Pleasant  were  many  scenes,  but  most  to  me 
The  solitude  of  vast  extent,  untouched 
Ily  haml  of  art,  where  nature  sowed  herself. 

And  reaped  her  crops  ; whose  garments  were  the  clouds  ; 
Whose  minstrels  brooks ; whose  lamps  the  moon  and 
stars ; 

Whose  organ-choir  the  voice  of  many  rvaters  ; 

Whose  banquets  morning  dews;  whose  heroes  storms; 
Whose  warriors  mighty  winds  ; whose  lovers  flowers  ; 
Whose  orators  the  thunderbolts  of  God  ; 

Whose  palaces  the  everlasting  hills ; 

Whoso  ceiling  heaven’s  unfathomable  blue; 

.\nd  from  whoso  rocky  turrets  battled  high 
Prospect  immense  spread  out  on  all  sides  round, 

Lost  now  beneath  the  welkin  and  the  main. 

Now  walled  with  hills  that  slept  above  the  storm. 
Most  fit  was  such  a place  for  musing  men. 

Happiest  sometimes  when  musing  without  aim. 

It  was,  indeed,  a wondrous  sort  of  bliss 
The  lonely  bard  enjoyed  when  forth  he  walked, 
Unpurposed  ; stood,  and  knew  not  why  ; sat  dotvn. 
And  knew  not  where  ; arose,  and  knew  not  when  ; 
Had  eyes,  and  saw  not ; ears,  and  nothing  heard  ; 

And  sought — sought  neither  heaven  nor  earth — sought 
nought. 

Nor  meant  to  think  ; but  ran  meantime  through  vast 
Of  visionary  things,  fairer  than  aught 
That  was  ; and  saw  the  distant  tops  of  thoughts, 
Whicii  men  of  common  stature  never  saw. 

Greater  than  aught  that  largest  worlds  could  hold. 

Or  give  idea  of,  to  those  who  read. 

He  entered  into  Nature’s  holy  place. 

Her  inner  chamber,  and  beheld  her  face 
Unveiled  ; and  heard  unutterable  things, 

And  incommunicable  visions  saw  ; 

Things  then  unutterable,  and  visions  then 
Of  incommunicable  glory  bright ; 

But  by  the  lips  of  after-ages  formed 
To  words,  or  by  their  pencil  pictured  forth  ; 

Who,  entering  farther  in,  beheld  again. 

And  heard  unspeakable  and  marvellous  things, 

AVhich  other  ages  in  their  turn  revealed. 

And  left  to  others  greater  wonders  still. 

[Ilappiness.'] 

Whether  in  crowds  or  solitudes,  in  streets 
Or  shady  groves,  dwelt  Happiness,  it  seems 
In  vain  to  ask  ; her  nature  makes  it  vain ; 

Though  poets  much,  and  hermits,  talked  and  sung 
Of  brooks  and  crystal  founts,  and  weeping  dews. 

And  myrtle  bowers,  and  solitary  vales. 

And  with  the  nymph  made  assignations  there. 

And  wooed  her  with  the  love-sick  oaten  reed ; 

And  sages  too,  although  less  positive. 

Advised  their  sons  to  court  her  in  the  shade. 

Delirious  babble  all!  Was  happiness. 

Was  self-approving,  God  approving  joy. 

In  drops  of  dew,  however  pure!  in  gales. 

However  sweet!  in  wells,  however  clear  ? 

Or  groves,  however  thick  with  verdant  shade  ? 

True,  these  were  of  themselves  exceeding  fair; 

How  fair  at  morn  and  even  I worthy  the  walk 
Of  loftiest  mind,  and  gave,  when  all  within 
Was  right,  a feast  of  overflowing  bliss  ; 

But  were  the  occasion,  not  the  cause  of  joy. 

They  waked  the  native  fountains  of  the  soul 
Which  slept  before,  and  stirred  the  holy  tides 
Of  feeling  up,  giving  the  heart  to  drink 
From  its  own  treasures  draughts  of  perfect  sweet. 

The  Christian  frith,  which  better  knew  the  heart 


Of  man,  him  thither  sent  for  peace,  and  thus! 
Declared  : Who  finds  it,  let  him  find  it  there; 

Who  finds  it  not,  for  ever  let  him  seek 
In  vain  ; ’tis  God’s  most  holy,  changeless  will. 

True  Happiness  had  no  localities. 

No  tones  provincial,  no  peculiar  garb. 

Where  Duty  went,  she  went,  with  .lustice  went, 

And  went  with  Meekness,  Charity,  and  Love. 
Where’er  a tear  was  dried,  a wounded  heart 
Bound  up,  a bruised  spirit  with  the  dew 
Of  sympathy  anointed,  or  a pang 
Of  honest  sulFering  soothed,  or  injury 
Bepeated  oft,  as  oft  by  love  forgiven  ; 

Where’er  an  evil  passion  was  subdued. 

Or  Virtue’s  feeble  embers  fanned  ; where’er 
A sin  was  heartily  abjured  and  left ; 

Where’er  a pious  act  was  done,  or  breathed 
A pious  prayer,  or  wished  a pious  wish ; 

There  was  a high  and  holy  place,  a spot 
Of  sacred  light,  a most  religious  fane. 

Where  Happiness,  descending,  .sat  and  smiled. 

But  there  apart,  in  sacred  memory  lives 
The  morn  of  life,  first  mom  of  endless  days. 

Most  joyful  morn!  Nor  yet  for  nought  the  joy. 

A being  of  eternal  date  commenced, 

A young  immortal  then  was  born  ! And  who 
Shall  tell  what  strange  variety  of  bliss 
Burst  on  the  infant  soul,  when  first  it  looked 
Abroad  on  God’s  creation  fair,  and  saw 
The  glorious  earth  and  glorious  heaven,  and  face 
Of  man  sublime,  and  saw  all  new,  and  felt 
All  new ! when  thought  awoke,  thought  never  more 
To  sleep ! when  first  it  saw,  heard,  reasoned,  willed, 
And  triumphed  in  the  warmth  of  conscious  life! 

Nor  happy  only,  but  the  cause  of  joy. 

Which  those  who  never  tasted  always  mourned. 
What  tongue ! — no  tongue  shall  tell  what  bliss  o’er 
flowed 

The  mother’s  tender  heart  while  round  her  hung 
The  offspring  of  her  love,  and  lisped  her  name 
As  living  jewels  dropped  unstained  from  heaven. 
That  made  her  fiiirer  far,  and  sweeter  seem 
Than  every  ornament  of  costliest  hue  ! 

And  who  hath  not  been  ravished,  as  she  passed 
With  all  her  playful  band  of  little  ones. 

Like  Luna  with  her  daughters  of  the  sky. 

Walking  in  matron  majesty  and  grace! 

All  who  had  hearts  here  pleasure  found : and  oft 
Have  I,  when  tired  with  heavy  task,  for  tasks 
Were  heavy  in  the  world  below,  relaxed 
My  weary  thoughts  among  their  guiltless  sports. 

And  led  them  by  their  little  hands  a-field. 

And  watch  them  run  and  crop  the  tempting  flower  - 
Which  oft.  unasked,  they  brought  me,  and  bestowed 
With  smiling  face,  that  waited  for  a look 
Of  praise — and  answered  curious  questions,  put 
In  much  simplicity,  but  ill  to  solve ; 

And  heard  their  observations  strange  and  new  ; 

And  settled  whiles  their  little  quarrels,  soon 
Ending  in  peace,  and  soon  forgot  in  love. 

And  still  I looked  upon  their  loveliness. 

And  sought  through  nature  for  similitudes 
Of  perfect  beauty,  innocence,  and  bliss. 

And  fairest  imagery  around  me  thronged  ; 

Dewdrops  at  day-.spring  cn  a seraph’s  locks, 

Roses  that  bathe  about  the  well  of  life. 

Young  Loves,  young  Hopes,  dancing  on  morniisg’s 
cheek. 

Gems  leaping  in  the  coronet  of  Love  ! 

So  beautiful,  so  full  of  life,  they  seemed 
As  made  entire  of  beams  of  angels’  eyes. 

Gay,  guileless,  sportive,  lovely  little  things! 

Playing  around  the  den  of  sorrow,  clad 
In  smiles,  believing  in  their  fairy  hopes. 

And  thinking  man  and  woman  true!  all  joy, 

Happy  all  day,  and  happy  all  the  night  1 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMKS  MONTGOMEBT. 


[Picturt  of  a Miser.'] 


But  there  was  one  in  folly  further  gone; 

With  eye  awry,  incurable,  and  wild. 

The  laughing-stock  of  devils  and  of  men. 

And  by  his  guardian-angel  quite  given  up— 

The  Miser,  who  with  dust  inanimate 

Held  wedded  intercourse.  Ill-guided  wretch  ! 

Thou  might’st  have  seen  him  at  the  midnight  hour, 
When  good  men  slept,  and  in  light-winged  dreams 
Ascended  up  to  God — in  wasteful  hall. 

With  vigilance  and  fasting  worn  to  skin 
And  bone,  and  wrapped  in  most  debasing  rags — 
Thou  inight’st  have  seen  him  bending  o’er  his  heaps. 
And  holding  strange  communion  with  his  gold  ; 

And  as  his  thievish  fancy  seemed  to  hear 

The  night-man’s  foot  approach,  starting  alarmed. 

And  in  his  old,  decrepit,  withered  hand. 

That  palsy  .shook,  grasping  the  yellow  earth 
To  make  it  sure.  Of  alt  God  made  upright. 

And  in  their  nostrils  breathed  a living  soul, 

Alost  fallen,  most  prone,  most  earthy,  most  debased. 
Of  all  that  sold  Eternity  for  Time, 

None  bargained  on  so  easy  terms  with  death. 
Illustrious  fool!  Nay,  most  inhuman  wretch! 

He  sat  among  his  bags,  and,  with  a look 
Which  Hell  might  be  ashamed  of,  drove  the  poor 
Away  unalmsed ; and  ’midst  abundance  died — 

1 Sorest  of  evils — died  of  utter  want  1 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

James  Montgomery,  a religious  poet  of  de- 
servedly high  reputation,  was  born  at  Irvine,  in 
Ayrshire,  in  1771.  His  father  was  a Moravian 
missionary,  who  died  whilst  propagating  Chris- 
tianity in  the  island  of  Tobago.  The  poet  was 
I educated  at  the  Moravian  school  at  Fulneck,  near 
I Leeds.  In  1792  he  established  himself  in  Sheffield 
(where  he  still  resides)  as  assistant  in  a newspaper 
office.  In  a few  years  the  paper  became  his  own 
I property,  and  he  continued  to  conduct  it  up  to  the 
I year  182.5.  His  course  did  not  always  run  smooth. 

I In  January  1794,  amidst  the  excitement  of  that 
j agitated  period,  he  was  tried  on  a charge  of  hav- 
j ing  printed  a ballad,  written  by  a clergyman  of 

j Belfast,  on  the  demolition  of  the  Bastile  in  1789; 

which  was  now  interpreted  into  a seditious  libel. 

I The  poor  poet,  notwithstanding  the  innocence  of  his 
I intentions,  was  found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to  three 
I months’  imprisonment  in  the  castle  of  York,  and  to 
! pay  a fine  of  £20.  In  January  1795  he  was  tried 
j for  a second  imputed  political  offence — a paragraph 
in  his  paper,  the  Sheffield  Iris,  which  reflected  on 
the  conduct  of  a magistrate  in  quelling  a riot  at 
Sheffield.  He  was  again  convicfed  and  sentenced 
to  six  months’  imprisonment  in  York  castle,  to  pay 
a fine  of  £30,  and  to  give  security  to  keep  the  peace 
for  two  years.  ‘ All  the  persons,’  sa3's  the  amiable 
poet,  writing  in  1840,  ‘ who  were  actively  concerned 
in  the  prosecutions  against  me  in  1794  and  1795, 
are  de.ad,  and,  without  exception,  they  died  in  peace 
with  me.  I believe  I am  quite  correct  in  saying, 
that  from  each  of  them  distinctly,  in  the  sequel,  I 
received  tokens  of  good-will,  and  from  several  of 
them  substantial  proofs  of  kindness.  I mention  not 
this  as  a plea  in  extenuation  of  offences  for  which 
I bore  the  penalty  of  the  law;  I rest  my  justifi- 
cation, in  these  cases,  now  on  the  same  grounds, 
and  no  other,  on  which  I rested  my  justification 
then.  I mention  the  circumstance  to  the  honour  of 
the  deceased,  and  as  an  evidence  that,  amidst  all  the 
yiolence  of  that  distracted  time,  a better  spirit  was 
Bot  extinct;  but  fi.ually  prevailed,  and  by  its  b.ealing 


influence  did  indeed  comfort  those  who  had  been 
conscientious  sufferers.’ 

Mr  Montgomery’s  first  volume  of  poetry  (he  had 
previously  written  occasional  pieces  in  his  news- 
paper) appeared  in  1800,  and  was  entitled  The 
Wanderer  of  Switzerland,  and  other  Poems,  It 
speedily  went  through  two  editions ; and  his  pub- 
lishers had  just  issued  a third,  when  the  Edinburgh 
Review  of  January  1807  ‘denounced  the  unfortu- 
nate volume  in  a style  of  such  authoritative  repro- 
bation as  no  mortal  verse  could  be  expected  to 
survive.’  The  critique,  indeed,  was  insolent  and 
offensive — written  in  the  worst  style  of  the  Review, 
when  all  the  sins  of  its  youth  were  full-blown  and 
unchecked.  Among  other  things,  the  reviewer  pre- 
dicted that  in  less  than  three  years  nobody  would 
know  the  name  of  the  ‘Wanderer  of  Switzerland,’ 
or  of  any  other  of  the  poems  in  the  collection. 
Within  eighteen  months  from  the  utterance  of  this 
oracle,  a fourth  Impression  (1500  copies)  of  the 
condemned  volume  was  passing  through  the  press 
whence  the  Edinburgh  Review  itself  was  issued, 
and  it  has  now  reached  thirteen  editions.  The 
next  work  of  the  poet  was  The  H’est  Indies,  a 
poem  in  four  parts,  written  in  honour  of  the 
abolition  of  the  African  slave  trade  by  the  British 
legislature  in  1807.  This  was  undertaken  at  the 
request  of  Mr  Bowyer,  the  publisher,  to  accompany 
a series  of  engravings  representing  the  past  suffer- 
ings and  the  anticipated  blessings  of  the  long- 
wronged  Africans,  both  in  their  own  land  and  in 
the  West  Indies.  The  poem  is  in  the  heroic  couplet, 
and  possesses  a vigour  and  freedom  of  description, 
and  a power  of  pathetic  painting,  much  superior  to 
anything  in  the  first  volume.  Mr  Montgomery 
afterwards  published  Prison  Amusements,  written 
during  his  nine  months’  confinement  in  York  castle 
in  1794  and  1795.  In  1813  he  came  forward  with  a 
more  elaborate  performance.  The  World  Before  the 
Flood,  a poem  in  the  heroic  couplet,  and  extending 
to  ten  short  cantos.  His  pictures  of  the  antediluvian 
patriarchs  in  their  happy  valley,  the  invasion  of 
Eden  by  the  descendants  of  Cain,  the  loves  of  Javan 
and  Zillah,  the  translation  of  Enoch,  and  the  final 
deliverance  of  the  little  band  of  patriarch  families 
from  the  hand  of  the  giants,  are  sweet  and  touching, 
and  elevated  by  pure  and  lofty  feeling.  Connected 
with  some  patriotic  individuals  in  his  own  neigh- 
bourhood ‘ in  many  a plan  for  lessening  the  sum  of 
human  misery  at  home  and  abroad,’  our  author 
next  published  Thoughts  on  H7iee/.v  (1817).  directed 
against  state  lotteries  ; and  The  Climbing  Boy’s  Soli- 
loquies, published  about  the  same  time,  in  a work 
written  by  different  authors,  to  aid  in  effecting  the 
abolition,  at  length  happily  accomplished,  of  the 
cruel  and  unnatural  practice  of  employing  boys  in 
sweeping  chimneys.  In  1819  he  published  Green- 
land, a poem  in  five  cantos,  containing  a sketch  of 
the  ancient  Moravian  church,  its  revival  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  the  origin  .if  the  missions 
by  that  people  to  Greenland  in  1733.  The  poem,  as 
published,  is  only  a part  of  the  author’s  original  plan, 
but  the  beauty  of  its  polar  descriptions  and  episodes 
recommended  it  to  public  favour.  The  only  other 
long  poem  by  Mr  Montgomery  is  The  Pelican  Island, 
suggested  by  a passage  in  Captain  Flinders’s  voyage 
to  Terra  Australis,  describing  the  existence  of  the 
ancient  haunts  of  the  pelican  in  the  sm.all  islands  on 
the  coast  of  New  Holland.  The  work  is  in  blank 
verse,  in  nine  short  cantos,  and  the  narrative  is  sup- 
posed to  be  delivered  by  an  imaginary  being  who 
witnesses  the  series  of  events  related  after  the  whole 
has  happened.  The  poem  abounds  in  minute  and 
delicate  description  of  natural  phenomena— has  great 
felicity  of  diction  and  expression — and  altogether 

4’5 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TI7.L  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


possessps  more  of  the  power  ami  fertility  of  tlie 
master  than  any  other  of  the  author’s  works. 

Hesides  the  works  we  have  enumerated,  Mr  Mont- 
gomery lias  thrown  off  a mimher  of  small  effusions, 
Imhli^he<i  in  different  periodieals,  and  short  transla- 
tions from  Dante  and  Petrarch.  On  his  retirement 
in  182.)  from  the  ‘invidious  station’  of  newspaper 
editor,  which  he  had  maintained  for  more  than  thirty 
years,  through  good  report  and  evil  report,  his  friends 
and  neighhoiirs  of  Sheflield,  of  every  shade  of  politi- 
cal and  religious  distinction,  invited  him  to  a puhlie 
entertainment,  at  which  the  present  Karl  Fitzwilliam 
presided.  'I'here  the  hapjiy  and  grateful  poet  ‘ ran 
through  the  story  of  his  life  even  from  his  hoyish 
days,’  when  he  came  amongst  them,  friendless  and  a 
stranger,  from  his  retirement  at  Kiilneck  among  the 
Moravian  brethren,  hy  whom  he  was  educated  in  all 
but  knowledge  of  the  world.  He  spoke  with  pardon- 
able pride  of  the  success  which  Inui  crowned  his 
labours  as  an  author.  ‘ Not,  indeed,’  he  said,  ‘ with 
fame  and  fortune,  as  these  were  lavished  on  my 
greater  contemporaries,  in  comiiarison  with  whose 
magnificent  possessions  on  the  British  Parnassus 
my  small  plot  of  ground  is  no  more  than  Naboth’s 
vineyard  to  Allah’s  kingdom  ; hut  it  is  my  own  ; it 
is  no  copyhold  ; 1 borrowed  it,  I leased  it  from  none. 
Every  foot  of  it  I enclosed  from  the  common  myself ; 
and  I can  say  that  not  an  inch  which  I had  once 
gained  have  I ever  lost.  * • j wrote  neither  to 

suit  the  manners,  the  taste,  nor  the  temper  of  the 
.age  ; but  I ai>pealed  to  universal  principles,  to  un- 
perishable affections,  to  iiriniary  elements  of  our 
eommon  nature,  found  wherever  man  is  found  in 
civilised  society,  wherever  his  mind  has  been  raised 
above  barbarian  ignorance,  or  his  passions  purified 
from  brutal  selfisliness.’  In  1830  and  1831  Mr 
Montgomery  was  selected  to  deliver  a course  of  lec- 
tures at  the  Uoyal  Institution  on  Poetry  and  Gene- 
ral Literature,  which  he  prepared  for  the  press,  and 
published  in  1833.  A pension  of  £200  per  annum 
has  since  been  conferred  on  Mr  Montgomery.  A 
collected  edition  of  his  works,  with  autobiographical 
and  illustrative  matter,  was  issued  in  1841  in  four 
volumes.  A tone  of  generous  and  enlightened  mo- 
rality pervades  all  the  writings  of  this  poet.  He  was 
the  enemy  of  the  slave  trade  and  of  every  form 
of  oppression,  and  the  warm  friend  of  every  scheme 
of  philanthropy  and  improvement.  The  pious  and 
devotional  feelings  displayed  in  his  early  effusions 
have  grown  with  his  growth,  and  form  the  staple  of 
his  poetry.  In  description,  however,  he  is  not  less 
ha[)py;  and  in  his  ‘ Greenland’ and  ‘ Pelican  Island’ 
there  are  passages  of  great  beauty,  evincing  a refined 
taste  and  judgment  in  the  selection  of  his  materials. 
His  late  works  have  more  vigour  and  variety  than 
those  by  which  he  first  became  distinguished.  In- 
deed, his  f.une  was  long  eonfined  to  what  is  termed 
the  religious  world,  till  he  showed,  by  his  cultivation 
of  different  styles  of  poetry,  that  his  depth  and  sin- 
cerity of  feeling,  the  simplicity  of  his  taste,  and  the 
picturesque  beauty  of  his  language,  were  not  re- 
stricted to  purely  spiritual  themes.  His  smaller 
poems  enjoy  a popularity  almost  equal  to  those  of 
Moore,  which,  though  differing  widely  in  subject, 
they  resemble  in  their  musical  flow,  and  their  com- 
pendious happy  expression  and  imagery. 

Greenland. 

’Tis  sunset  ; to  the  firmament  serene 

The  Atlantic  wave  reflects  a gorgeous  scene  ; 

Broad  in  the  cloudless  we.st,  a belt  of  gold 
Girds  the  blue  hemisphere  ; above  unrolled 
The  keen  clear  air  grows  palpable  to  sight, 

EmbodieJ  in  a flush  of  crimson  light, 


Through  which  the  evening  star.  With  milder  gleam. 
Descends  to  meet  her  image  in  the  stream. 

Ear  in  the  east,  what  K[)ectaele  unknown 
Allures  the  eye  to  gaze  on  it  alone  i 
Amidst  black  rocks,  that  lift  on  cither  hand 
1 heir  countless  peaks,  and  mark  receding  land  ; 
Amidst  a tortuous  labyrinth  of  seas. 

That  shine  around  the  .Arctic  Cyclades  ; 

.Amidst  a coast  of  dreariest  continent, 

In  many  a shajieless  promontory  rent  ; 

O’er  rocks,  seas,  islands,  promontories  spread. 

The  ice  blink  rears  its  umlulated  head,' 

On  which  the  sun,  beyond  the  horizon  shrined. 

Hath  left  his  richest  garniture  behind  ; 

Piled  on  a hundred  arches,  ridge  by  ridge, 

O’er  fixed  and  fluid  strides  the  alpine  bridge. 

Whose  blocks  of  sajiphire  seem  to  mortal  eye 
Hewn  from  cerulean  quarries  in  the  sky  ; 

W ith  glacier  baltleinents  that  crowd  the  spheref. 

The  slow  creation  of  six  thousand  years. 

Amidst  immensity  it  towers  sublime. 

Winter’s  eternal  palace,  built  by  Time  : 

All  human  structures  by  his  touch  are  borne 
Down  to  the  dust  ; mountains  themselves  are  worn 
\\  ith  his  light  footsteps  ; here  for  ever  grows. 

Amid  the  region  of  unmelting  snows, 

.A  monument  ; where  every  flake  that  falls 
Gives  adamantine  firmness  to  the  walks. 

The  sun  behohls  no  mirror  in  his  race. 

That  shows  a brighter  image  of  his  face  ; 

The  stars,  in  their  nocturnal  vigils,  rest 
Like  signal  fires  on  its  illumined  crest  ; 

The  gliding  moon  around  the  ramparts  wheels, 

And  all  its  magic  lights  and  shades  reveals  ; 

Beneath,  the  tide  with  equal  fury  raves. 

To  undermine  it  through  a thousand  caves  ; 

Bent  from  its  roof,  though  thundering  fragments  oft 
Plunge  to  the  gulf,  immovable  aloft. 

From  age  to  age,  in  air,  o’er  .sea,  on  land. 

Its  turrets  heighten  and  its  piers  expand. 

♦ * * 

Hark  ! through  the  calm  and  silence  of  the  scene, 
Slow,  .solemn,  sweet,  with  many  a pause  between. 
Celestial  music  swells  along  the  air! 

No  ! ’tis  the  ev'ening  hymn  of  praise  and  prayer 
From  yonder  deck,  where,  on  the  stern  retired. 

Three  humble  voyagers,^  with  looks  inspired, 

•And  hearts  enkindled  with  a holier  flame 
Than  ever  lit  to  empire  or  to  fame. 

Devoutly  stand  : their  choral  accents  rise 
On  wings  of  harmony  beyond  the  skies  ; 

.And,  ’midst  the  songs  that  seraph-minstrels  sing. 

Day  without  night,  to  their  immortal  king. 

These  simple  strains,  which  erst  Bohemian  hills 
Echoed  to  pathless  woods  and  desert  rills. 

Now  heard  from  Shetland’s  azure  bound — are  known 
In  heaven  ; and  he  who  sits  upon  the  throne 
In  human  form,  with  mediatorial  power. 

Remembers  Calvary,  and  hail.s  the  hour 
When,  by  the  Almighty  Father’s  high  decree. 

The  utmost  north  to  him  shall  bow  the  knee. 

And,  won  by  love,  an  unt.amed  rebel-race 
Ki.ss  the  victorious  scejitre  of  his  grace. 

Then  to  his  eye,  whose  instant  glance  pervades 
Heaven’s  heights,  earth’s  circle,  hell’s  profoundest 
shades. 

Is  there  a group  more  loveiy  than  those  three 
Night-watching  pilgrims  on  the  lonely  sea  ! 

' The  term  ice-blink  is  generally  applied  by  mariners  to  the 
nocturnal  illuniination  in  the  heavens,  which  denotes  to  them 
the  jiroximity  of  iee-inountains.  In  this  place  a descriiition  is 
attempted  of  the  most  stupendous  accumul.ation  of  ice  in  the 
known  world,  which  has  been  long  distinguished  by  this  pe- 
culiar n.ame  by  the  Danish  navigators. 

‘ The  first  Christian  missionaries  to  Greenland. 

411! 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  MONTOOMEBT. 


Or  to  his  car,  that  gathers,  in  one  sound, 

Tlic  voices  of  adoring  worlds  around, 

Conics  there  a breath  of  more  delightful  praise 
Than  the  taint  notes  his  poor  disciples  raise, 

Kre  on  the  treacherous  main  they  sink  to  rest, 

Secure  as  leaning  on  their  Master’s  breast  I 

They  slei-p ; but  memory  wakes  ; and  dreams  array 
Night  in  a lively  masquerade  of  day  ; 

The  laud  they  seek,  the  land  they  leave  behind, 

Meet  on  mid-ocean  in  the  plastic  mind  ; 

One  brings  forsaken  home  and  friends  so  nigh, 

That  tears  in  slumber  swell  the  unconscious  eye  : 

The  other  opens,  with  prophetic  view. 

Perils  wh'cli  e’en  their  fathers  never  knew 
(Though  schooled  by  suffering,  long  inured  to  toil. 
Outcasts  and  exiles  from  their  natal  soil) ; 

Strange  scenes,  strange  men  ; untold,  untried  distress ; 
Pain,  hardships,  famine,  cold,  and  nakedness. 

Diseases  ; death  in  every  hideous  form. 

On  shore,  at  sea,  by  fire,  by  flood,  by  storm  ; 

Wild  beasts,  and  wdlder  men — unmoved  with  fear. 
Health,  comfort,  safety,  life,  they  count  not  dear. 

May  they  but  hope  a Saviour’s  love  to  show. 

And  wani  one  spirit  from  eternal  wo  : 

Nor  will  they  faint,  nor  can  they  strive  in  vain, 

Since  thus  to  live  is  Christ,  to  die  is  gain. 

’Tis  morn  ; the  bathing  moon  her  lustre  shrotids; 
Wide  over  the  east  impends  an  arch  of  clouds 
That  spans  the  ocean  ; while  the  infant  dawn 
Peeps  through  the  portal  o’er  the  liquid  lawn. 

That  ruffled  by  an  April-gale  appears, 

Between  the  gloom  and  splendour  of  the  spheres. 
Dark-purple  as  the  moorland  heath,  when  rain 
Hangs  in  low  vapours  over  the  autumnal  plain  : 

Till  the  full  sun,  resurgent  from  the  flood. 

Looks  on  the  waves,  and  turns  them  into  blood  ; 

But  quickly  kindling,  as  his  beams  aspire, 

The  lambent  billows  play  in  forms  of  fire. 

Where  is  the  vessel  ? Shining  through  the  light. 
Take  the  white  sea  fowl’s  horizontal  flight. 

Yonder  she  wings,  and  skims,  and  cleaves  her  way 
Through  refluent  foam  and  iridescent  spray. 

Night. 

Night  is  the  time  for  rest  ; 

How  sweet,  when  labours  close. 

To  gather  round  an  aching  breast 
The  curtain  of  repose. 

Stretch  the  tired  limbs,  and  lay  the  head 
Upon  our  own  delightful  bed  1 
Night  is  the  time  for  dreams  ; 

The  gay  romance  of  life. 

When  truth  that  is  and  truth  that  seems. 

Blend  in  fantastic  strife  ; 

Ah  ! visions  less  beguiling  far 
Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are  1 
Night  is  the  time  for  toil  ; 

To  plough  the  classic  field. 

Intent  to  find  the  buried  spoil 
Its  wealthy  furrows  yield  ; 

Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught. 

That  poets  sang  or  heroes  wrought.'* 

Night  is  the  time  to  weep  ; 

To  wet  with  unseen  tears 
Those  graves  of  memory  where  sleep 
The  joys  of  other  years  ; 

Ho]ies  that  were  angels  in  their  birth. 

But  perished  young  like  things  on  earth  1 

♦ Without  any  wish  to  make  pedantic  objections,  we  may  be 
allowed  to  remark,  that  this  stanza  is  inconsistent  with  natural 
truth  and  a just  economy  of  life.  Day  is  the  time  for  toil- 
night  is  more  proper  for  repose,  and,  if  spent  in  mental  labour, 
in  addition  to  other  duties  pursued  during  the  day,  must  re- 
dound to  the  injury  of  health. — Ed. 

69 


Night  is  the  time  to  watch  ; 

On  ocean’s  dark  expanse 
To  hail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 
The  full  moon’s  earliest  glance. 

That  brings  unto  the  home-sick  mind 
All  we  have  loved  and  left  behind. 

Night  is  the  time  for  care ; 

Brooding  on  hours  mi.sspent. 

To  see  the  spectre  of  despair 
Come  to  our  lonely  tent ; 

Like  Brutus,  ’midst  his  slumbering  host, 

Startled  by  Csesar’s  stalwart  ghost. 

Night  is  the  time  to  muse  ; 

Then  from  the  eye  the  soul 
Takes  flight,  and  with  expanding  views 
Beyond  the  starry  pole. 

Descries  athwart  the  abyss  of  night 
The  dawn  of  uncreated  light. 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray  ; 

Our  Saviour  oft  withdrew 
To  desert  mountains  far  away  ; 

So  will  his  followers  do  ; 

Steal  from  the  throng  to  haunts  untrod. 

And  hold  communion  there  with  God. 

Night  is  the  time  for  death  ; 

When  all  around  is  peace. 

Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath. 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease  : 

Think  of  heaven’s  bliss,  and  give  the  sign 
To  parting  friends — such  death  be  mine  ! 

[Picture  of  a Poetical  Enihusiatti] 

[From  the  ‘ World  Before  the  Flood.'j 
Restored  to  life,  one  pledge  of  former  joy. 

One  source  of  bliss  to  come,  remained — her  boy  ! 
Sweet  in  her  eye  the  cherished  infant  rose. 

At  once  the  seal  and  solace  of  her  woes  ; 

When  the  pale  widow  clasped  him  to  her  breast. 
Warm  gushed  the  tears,  and  would  not  be  repressed  ; 
In  lonely  anguish,  when  the  truant  child 
Leaped  o’er  the  threshold,  all  the  mother  smiled. 

In  him,  while  fond  imagination  viewed 
Husband  and  parents,  brethren,  friends  renewed. 

Each  vanished  look,  each  well-remembered  grace 
That  pleased  in  them,  she  sought  in  Javan’s  face  ; 

For  quick  his  eye,  and  changeable  its  ray. 

As  the  sun  glancing  through  a vernal  day  ; 

And  like  the  lake,  by  storm  or  moonlight  seen. 

With  darkening  furrows  or  cerulean  mien. 

His  countenance,  the  mirror  of  his  breast. 

The  calm  or  trouble  of  his  soul  expressed. 

As  years  enlarged  his  form,  in  moody  hours 
His  mind  betrayed  its  weakness  with  its  powers  ; 
Alike  his  fairest  hopes  and  strangest  fears 
Were  nursed  in  silence,  or  divulged  with  tears  ; 

The  fulness  of  his  heart  repressed  his  tongue. 

Though  none  might  rival  Javan  when  he  sung. 

He  loved,  in  lonely  indolence  reclined. 

To  watch  the  clouds,  and  listen  to  the  wind. 

But  from  the  north  when  snow  and  tempest  came. 

His  nobler  spirit  mounted  into  flame  ; 

With  stern  delight  he  roamed  the  howling  woods. 

Or  hung  in  ecstacy  over  headlong  floods. 

Meanwhile,  excursive  fancy  longed  to  view 
The  worl  1,  which  yet  by  fame  alone  he  knew ; 

The  joys  of  freedom  were  his  daily  theme. 

Glory  the  secret  of  his  midnight  dream  ; 

That  dream  he  told  not ; though  his  heart  would  ache^ 
His  home  was  precious  for  his  mother’s  sake. 

With  her  the  lowly  paths  of  peace  he  ran, 

His  guardian  angel,  till  he  verged  to  man  ; 

But  when  her  weary  eye  could  watch  no  more. 

When  to  the  grave  her  lifeless  corse  he  bore. 

Not  Enoch’s  coun.sels  could  his  steps  restrain  ; 

He  fled,  and  sojourned  in  the  land  of  Cain. 

417 


fTIOM  17H0 


CYCLOI’i9<:i)IA  OF 


TILL  THE  J'RESEUT  TIMK 


There,  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  Jubal’s  lyre, 
Instinctive  fienius  caught  the  ethereal  fire  ; 

And  soon,  with  sweetly-modulating  skill, 
lie  learned  to  wind  the  passions  at  his  will  ; 

To  rule  the  chords  with  such  mysterious  art. 

They  seemed  the  life-strings  of  the  hearer’s  heart ! 
Thm  glory’s  opening  field  he  proudly  trod, 

Forsook  the  worship  and  the  ways  of  God, 

Round  the  vain  world  pursued  the  phantom  Fame, 
And  cast  away  his  birthright  for  a name. 

Yet  no  delight  the  minstrel’s  bosom  knevr. 

None  save  the  tones  that  from  his  harp  he  drew. 

And  the  warm  visions  of  a wayward  mind, 

Who.se  transient  splendour  left  a gloom  behind. 

Frail  as  the  clouds  of  sunset,  and  as  fair. 

Pageants  of  light,  resolving  into  air. 

The  world,  whose  charms  his  young  affections  stole. 
He  found  too  mean  for  an  immortal  soul  ; 

Wound  with  his  life,  through  all  his  feelings  wrought. 
Death  and  eternity  possessed  his  thought  : 

Remorse  impelled  him,  unremitting  care 
Harassed  his  path,  and  stung  him  to  despair. 

Still  was  the  secret  of  his  griefs  unknown  ; 

Amidst  the  universe  he  sighed  alone  ; 

The  fame  he  followed  and  the  fame  he  found. 

Healed  not  his  heart’s  immedicable  wound  ; 

Admired,  applauded,  crowned,  where’er  he  roved. 

The  bard  was  homeless,  friendless,  unbeloved. 

All  else  that  breathed  below  the  circling  sky. 

Were  linked  to  earth  by  some  endearing  tie  ; 

He  only,  like  the  ocean-weed  uptorn. 

And  loose  along  the  world  of  waters  borne. 

Was  cast,  companionless,  from  wave  to  wave. 

On  life’s  rough  sea — and  there  was  none  to  save. 

\The  Pelican  hland.~\ 

Light  as  a flake  of  foam  upon  the  wind. 

Keel-upward  from  the  deep  emerged  a shell. 

Shaped  like  the  moon  ere  half  her  horn  is  filled ; 
Fraught  with  young  life,  it  righted  as  it  rose. 

And  moved  at  will  along  the  yielding  water. 

The  native  pilot  of  this  little  bark 
Put  out  a tier  of  oars  on  either  side. 

Spread  to  the  wafting  breeze  a twofold  sail. 

And  mounted  up  and  glided  down  the  billow 
In  happy  freedom,  pleased  to  feel  the  air. 

And  wander  in  the  luxury  of  light. 

Worth  all  the  dead  creation,  in  that  hour. 

To  me  appeared  this  lonely  Nautilus, 

My  fellow-being,  like  myself  alive. 

Entranced  in  contemplation,  vague  yet  sweet, 

I watched  its  vagrant  course  and  rippling  wake. 

Till  I forgot  the  sun  amidst  the  heavens. 

It  closed,  sunk,  dwindled  to  a point,  then  nothing; 
While  the  last  bubble  crowned  the  dimpling  eddy. 
Through  which  mine  eyes  still  giddily  pursued  it, 

A joyous  creature  vaulted  through  the  air — 

The  aspiring  fish  that  fain  would  be  a bird. 

On  long,  light  wings,  that  flung  a diamond-shower 
Of  dewdrops  round  its  evanescent  form. 

Sprang  into  light,  and  instantly  descended. 

Ere  I could  greet  the  stranger  as  a friend. 

Or  mourn  his  quick  departure,  on  the  surge 
A shoal  of  dolphins,  tumbling  in  wild  glee, 

Glowed  with  such  orient  tints,  they  might  have  been 
The  rainbow’s  offspring,  when  it  met  the  ocean 
In  that  resplendent  vision  I had  seen. 

W’hileyet  in  ecstacy  I hung  o’er  these, 

VV’ith  every  motion  pouring  out  fresh  beauties. 

As  though  the  conscious  colours  came  and  went 
At  pleasure,  glorying  in  their  subtle  changes — 
Enormous  o’er  the  flood.  Leviathan 
Looked  forth,  and  from  his  roaring  nostrils  sent 
Two  fountains  to  the  sky,  then  plunged  amain 
In  headlong  pastime  through  the  closing  gulf. 


The  Recluse.  I 

A fountain  issuing  into  light  | 

liefore  a marble  palace,  threw  | 

To  heaven  its  column,  pure  and  bright,  1 

Returning  thence  in  showers  of  dew; 

But  soon  a humbler  course  <t  took. 

And  glid  away  a nameless  brook. 

I’lowers  on  its  grassy  margin  sprang. 

Flies  o’er  itr  eddying  surface  played, 

Birds  ’midst  the  alder-branches  sang. 

Flocks  through  the  verdant  meadows  strayed; 

The  weary  there  lay  down  to  rest. 

And  there  the  halcyon  built  her  nest. 

’Twas  beautiful  to  stand  and  watch 
The  fountain’s  crystal  turn  to  gems. 

And  from  the  sky  such  colours  catch 
As  if  ’twere  raining  diadems  ; 

Yet  all  was  cold  and  curious  art. 

That  charmed  the  eye,  but  missed  the  heart. 

Dearer  to  mo  the  little  stream 
Whose  uninvprisoned  waters  run. 

Wild  as  the  changes  of  a dream. 

By  rock  and  glen,  through  shade  and  sun; 

Its  lovely  links  had  jiower  to  bind 
In  welcome  chains  my  wandering  mind. 

So  thought  I when  I saw  the  face 
By  happy  portraiture  revealed. 

Of  one  adorned  with  every  grace. 

Her  name  and  date  from  me  concealed. 

But  not  her  story  ; she  had  been  r 

The  pride  of  many  a splendid  scene. 

She  cast  her  glory  round  a court,  | 

And  frolicked  in  the  gayest  ring. 

Where  fashion’s  high-born  minions  sport  ) 

Like  sparkling  fire-flies  on  the  wing;  | 

But  thence  when  love  had  touched  her  soul,  ' 

To  nature  and  to  truth  she  stole.  | 

From  din,  and  pageantry,  and  strife,  j 

’Midst  woods  and  mountains,  vales  and  plains,  j 
She  treads  the  paths  of  lowly  life. 

Yet  in  a bosom-circle  reigns,  | 

No  fountain  scattering  diamond-showers,  | 

But  the  sweet  streamlet  watering  flowers.  j 

The  Grave.  j 

There  is  a calm  for  those  who  weep,  I 

A rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found,  | 

They  softly  lie  and  sweetly  sleep  j 

Low  in  the  ground.  I 

The  storm  that  wrecks  the  winter  sky  j 

No  more  disturbs  their  deep  repose. 

Than  summer  evening’s  latest  sigh 

That  shuts  the  rose.  I 

I long  to  lay  this  painful  head  j 

And  aching  heart  beneath  the  soil,  ; 

To  slumber  in  that  dreamless  bed  | 

From  all  my  toil.  | 

For  misery  stole  me  at  my  birth,  i 

And  cast  me  helpless  on  the  wild : 

I perish  ; 0,  my  mother  earth! 

Take  home  thy  child  ! } 

On  thy  dear  lap  these  limbs  reclined,  I 

Shall  gently  moulder  into  thee  ; [ 

Nor  leave  one  wretched  trace  behind 
Resembling  me. 

Hark!  a strange  sound  affrights  mine  ear; 

My  pulse,  my  brain  runs  wild — I rave: 

Ah  ! who  art  thou  whose  voice  I hear  1 
‘ I am  the  Grave  1 


418 


rOETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  MONTCOHERT. 


The  Grave,  that  never  spake  before, 

Hath  found  at  length  a tongue  to  chide: 

0 listen!  I will  speak  no  more  : 

Be  silent,  pride! 

Art  thou  a wretch,  of  hope  forlorn, 

The  victim  of  consuming  care  ? 

Is  thy  distracted  conscience  torn 
By  fell  despair! 

Do  foul  misdeeds  of  former  times 
Wring  with  remorse  thy  guilty  breast! 

And  ghosts  of  unforgiven  crimes 

Murder  thy  rest! 

Lashed  by  the  furies  of  the  mind. 

From  >vrath  and  vengeance  wouldst  thou  flee  ! 
Ah  1 think  not,  hope  not,  fool ! to  find 
* A friend  in  me. 

By  all  the  terrors  of  the  tomb. 

Beyond  the  power  of  tongue  to  tell ! 

By  the  dread  secrets  of  my  womb  ! 

By  death  and  hell ! 

1 charge  thee  live  I repent  and  pray ; 

In  dust  thine  infamy  deplore ; 

There  yet  is  mercy  ; go  thy  way. 

And  sin  no  more. 

Art  thou  a mourner!  Hast  thou  known 
The  joy  of  innocent  delights! 

Endearing  days  for  ever  flown. 

And  tranquil  nights ! 

0 live ! and  deeply  cherish  still 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  the  past : 

Rely  on  I 'eaven’s  unchanging  will 
For  peace  at  last. 

Art  thou  a wanderer ! Hast  thou  seen 
O’erwhelming  tempests  drown  thy  bark ! 

A shipwiecked  sufferer,  hast  thou  been 
Misfortune’s  mark ! 

Though  long  of  winds  and  waves  the  sport, 
Condemned  in  wretchedness  to  roam. 

Live  ! thou  shalt  reach  a sheltering  port, 

A quiet  home. 

To  friendship  didst  thou  trust  thy  fame! 

And  was  thy  friend  a deadly  foe. 

Who  stole  ‘nto  thy  breast,  to  aim 
A surer  blow ! 

Lire  I and  rej  ’ne  not  o’er  his  loss, 

A loss  unwortiiy  to  be  told  : 

Thou  hast  mistaken  sordid  dross 

For  friendship’s  gold. 

Go,  seek  that  treasure,  seldom  found. 

Of  power  the  fiercest  griefs  to  calm, 

Aud  soothe  the  bosom’s  deepest  wound 

With  heavenly  balm. 

Did  woman’s  charms  thy  youth  beguile. 

And  did  the  fair  one  faithless  prove! 

Hath  she  betrayed  thee  with  her  smile. 

And  sold  thy  love ! 

Lire!  ’twas  a false  bewildering  fire : 

Too  often  love’s  insidious  dart 
Thrills  the  fond  soul  with  wild  desire. 

But  kills  the  heart. 

Thou  yet  shall  know  how  sweet,  how  deu, 

To  gaze  on  listening  beauty’s  eye  ! 

To  ask — and  pause  in  hope  and  fear 
Till  she  reply ! 

A nobler  flame  shall  warm  thy  breast, 

A brighter  maiden  faithful  prove ; 

Thy  youth,  thine  age,  shall  yet  be  blest 
In  woman’s  love. 


Whate’er  thy  lot,  whoe’er  thou  be. 
Confess  thy  folly — klsS  the  rod. 

And  in  thy  chastening  sorrows  see 
The  hand  of  God. 

A bruised  reed  he  will  not  break ; 
Aflflictions  all  his  children  feel  ; 

He  wounds  them  for  his  mercy’s  sake ; 

He  wounds  to  heal ! 

Humbled  beneath  his  mighty  hand. 
Prostrate  his  Providence  adore : 

’Tis  done  1 — Arise  1 He  bids  thee  stand. 
To  fall  no  more. 

Now,  traveller  in  the  vale  of  tears  I 
To  realms  of  everlasting  light. 

Through  time’s  dark  wilderness  of  years, 
Pursue  thy  flight. 

There  is  a calm  for  those  who  weep, 

A rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found  ; 

And  while  the  mouldering  ashes  sleep 
Low  in  the  ground ; 

The  soul,  of  origin  divine, 

God’s  glorious  image,  freed  from  clay. 

In  heaven’s  eternal  sphere  shall  shine 
A star  of  day  1 

The  sun  is  but  a spark  of  fire, 

A transient  meteor  in  the  sky ; 

The  soul,  immortal  as  its  sire. 

Shall  never  die.’ 


The  Field  of  the  World. 

Sow  in  the  mom  thy  seed. 

At  eve  hold  not  thine  hand  ; 

To  doubt  and  fear  give  thou  no  heed, 
Broad-cast  it  o’er  the  land. 

Beside  all  waters  sow ; 

The  highway  furrows  stock  ; 

Drop  it  where  thorns  and  thistles  grow ; 
Scatter  it  on  the  rock. 

The  good,  the  fruitful  ground. 

Expect  not  here  nor  there ; 

O’er  bill  and  dale,  by  plots,  ’tis  found; 

Go  forth,  then,  everywhere. 

Thou  know’st  not  which  may  thrive. 

The  late  or  early  sown  ; 

Grace  keeps  the  precious  germs  alive, 
When  and  wherever  strown. 

And  duly  shall  appear, 

In  verdure,  beauty,  strength. 

The  tender  blade,  the  stalk,  the  ea.. 

And  the  full  corn  at  length. 

Thou  canst  not  toil  in  vain : 

Cold,  heat,  and  moist,  and  dry. 

Shall  foster  and  mature  the  grain, 

For  garners  in  the  sky. 

Thence,  when  the  glorious  end. 

The  day  of  God  is  come. 

The  angel-reapers  shall  descend. 

And  heaven  cry — ‘ Harvest  home.* 

Aspirations  of  Youth. 

Higher,  higher,  will  we  climb. 

Up  to  the  mount  of  glory. 

That  our  names  may  live  through  time 
In  our  country’s  story  ; 

Happy,  when  her  welfare  calls. 

He  who  conquers,  he  who  falls, 

419 


moM  1780 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TILL  TUP.  PPESENl  TIMa 


Deeper,  deeper,  let  ua  toil 
In  the  iiiinea  of  knowledge  ; 

Nature’s  wealth  and  leaniing’s  spoil, 

Win  from  school  and  college; 

Delve  we  there  for  richer  gems 
Than  the  stars  of  diadems. 

Onward,  onw’ard,  may  we  prest 
Through  the  path  of  duty  ; 

Virtue  is  true  happiness. 

Excellence  true  beauty. 

Minds  are  of  celestial  birth. 

Make  we  then  a heaven  of  earth. 

Closer,  closer,  let  us  knit 
Hearts  and  hands  together, 

Where  our  fireside  comforts  sit. 

In  the  wildest  weather; 

O ! they  wander  wide  who  roam 
For  the  joys  of  life  from  home. 

The  Common  Lot. 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past. 

There  lived  a man  : and  who  was  he? 
Mortal ! howe’er  thy  lot  be  cast. 

That  man  resembled  thee. 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth. 

The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown : 

His  name  has  perished  from  the  earth 
This  truth  survives  alone  : 

That  joy,  and  grief,  and  hope,  and  fear. 
Alternate  triumphed  in  his  breast ; 

His  bless  and  wo — a smile,  a tear  ! 

Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

The  bounding  pulse,  the  languid  limb. 

The  changing  spirits’  rise  and  fall ; 

We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  him. 

For  these  are  felt  by  all. 

He  suffered — but  his  pangs  are  o’er; 

Enjoyed — but  his  delights  are  fled  ; 

Had  friends — his  friends  are  now  no  more  ; 

And  foes — his  foes  are  dead. 

He  loved — but  whom  he  loved  the  grave 
Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb : 

0 she  was  fair  ! but  nought  could  save 
Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen  ; 

Encountered  all  that  troubles  thee  : 

He  was — whatever  thou  hast  been ; 

He  is — what  thou  shalt  be. 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night. 

Sun,  moon,  and  .stars,  the  earth  and  main, 
Erewhile  his  portion,  life  and  light. 

To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o’er  his  eye 
That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw. 
Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 
No  vestige  where  they  flew. 

The  annals  of  the  human  race. 

Their  ruins,  since  the  world  began. 

Of  him  afford  no  other  trace 
Than  this — there  lived  a man  I 

Prayer. 

Prayer  is  the  soul’s  sincere  desire 
Uttered  or  unexpressed ; 

The  motion  of  a hidden  fire 
That  trembles  in  the  breast. 

Prayer  is  the  burthen  of  a sigh. 

The  falling  of  a tear ; 

The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye. 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 


Prayer  is  the  simplest  fonn  of  speech 
That  infant  lips  can  try  ; 

Prayer  the  subliinest  strains  that  reach 
The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  Christian’s  vital  breath. 

The  Christian’s  native  air ; 

His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death  : 

He  enters  heaven  by  prayer. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner’s  voice 
Returning  from  his  ways  ; 

While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice. 

And  say,  ‘ Behold  he  prays ! ’ 

The  saints  in  prayer  appear  as  one. 

In  word,  and  deed,  and  mind. 

When  with  the  Father  and  his  Son 
Their  fellow.ship  they  find. 

Nor  prayer  is  made  on  earth  alone : 

The  Holy  Spirit  pleads  ; 

And  Jesus,  on  the  eternal  throne. 

For  sinners  intercedes. 

0 Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God, 

The  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way, 

The  path  of  prayer  thyself  hast  trod : 

Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray  ! 

Home. 

There  is  a land,  of  every  land  the  pride. 

Beloved  by  heaven  o’er  all  the  world  beside; 

Where  brighter  suns  dispen.se  serener  light. 

And  milder  moons  emparadise  the  night; 

A land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valour,  truth. 
Time-tutored  age,  and  love-exalted  youth  : 

The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  exploris 
The  wealthiest  isles,  the  most  enchanting  shores, 
Views  not  a realm  so  bountiful  .and  fair, 

Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a purer  air  ; 

In  every  clime  the  magnet  of  his  soul. 

Touched  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that  pv  h ; 
For  in  this  land  of  heaven’s  peculiar  grace. 

The  heritage  of  nature’s  noblest  race. 

There  is  a spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 

A dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest. 

Where  man,  creation’s  tyrant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride. 

While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  brother,  friend ; 

Here  woman  reigns  ; the  mo' her,  daughter,  wife, 
Strew  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life  ! 

In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye, 

An  angel-guard  of  loves  and  graces  lie  ; 

Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet. 

And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 

M’here  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth  be  found  { 
Art  thou  a man  2 — a patriot  2 — look  around  , 

O,  thou  shalt  find,  howe’er  thy  footsteps  roam. 

That  land  thy  country,  and  that  spot  thy  home ! 


THE  HON.  tVnXIAM  ROBERT  SPENCER. 

The  Hon.  William  Robert  Spencer  (1770-1834) 
published  occasional  poems  of  that  description  named 
vers  de  societe,  whose  highest  object  is  to  gild  the 
social  hour.  They  were  exaggerated  in  compliment 
and  adulation,  and  wittily  parodied  in  the  ‘ Rejected 
Addresses.’  As  a companion,  Mr  Spencer  was  much 
prized  by  the  brilliant  circles  of  the  metropolis  ; but 
falling  into  pecuniary  difficulties,  he  removed  to  Paris, 
where  he  died.  His  poems  were  collected  and  pub- 
lished in  1835.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  knew  and 
esteemed  Spencer,  quotes  the  following  ‘fine  lines’ 
from  one  of  his  poems,  as  expressive  of  his  own  feel- 

420 


POETS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  hon.  william  Robert  spenck^ 

iii(;s  lunidst  the  wreck  and  desolation  of  his  fortunes 
»t  Abbotsford : — 

The  shade  of  youthful  hope  is  there. 

That  lingered  long,  and  latest  died ; 

Ambition  all  dissolved  to  air. 

With  phantom  honours  by  his  side. 

What  empty  shadows  glimmer  nigh? 

They  once  were  Friendship,  Truth,  and  Love  1 
Oh  ! die  to  thought,  to  memory  die. 

Since  lifeless  to  my  heart  ye  prove ! 

Mr  Spencer  translated  the  Leonora  of  Burger  with 
great  success,  and  in  a vein  of  similar  excellence 
composed  some  original  ballads,  one  of  which,  marked 
by  simplicity  and  pathos,  we  subjoin: — 

Beth  Gtlcrt,  or  the  Grave  of  the  Greyhound. 

The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound. 

And  cheerly  smiled  the  mom  ; 

And  many  a brach,  and  many  a hound, 

Obeyed  Llewelyn’s  horn. 

And  still  he  blew  a louder  blast. 

And  gave  a lustier  cheer, 

‘Came,  Gelert,  come,  wert  never  last 
Llewelyn’s  horn  to  hear. 

Oh  where  does  faithful  Gelert  roam, 

The  flower  of  all  his  race  ‘ 

So  true,  so  brave — a lamb  at  home, 

Ji.  lion  in  the  chase  1’ 

Twas  only  at  Lleweljm’s  board 
The  faithful  Gelert  fed  ; 

He  watched,  he  served,  he  cheered  his  lord, 

And  sentineled  his  bed. 

In  sooth  he  was  a peerless  hound. 

The  gift  of  royal  John  ; 

But  now  no  Gelert  could  be  found. 

And  all  the  chase  rode  on. 

And  now,  as  o’er  the  rocks  and  dells 
The  gallant  chidings  rise. 

All  Snowden’s  craggy  chaos  yells 
The  many-mingled  cries! 

That  day  Llewelyn  little  loved 
The  chase  of  hart  and  hare  ; 

And  scant  and  small  the  booty  proved. 

For  Gelert  was  not  there. 

Unpleased  Llewelyn  homeward  hied. 

When,  near  the  portal  seat. 

His  truant  Gelert  he  espied. 

Bounding  his  lord  to  greet. 

But,  when  he  gained  his  castle-door. 

Aghast  the  chieftain  stood  ; 

The  hound  all  o’er  was  smeared  with  gore ; 

His  lips,  his  fangs,  ran  blood. 

Llewelyn  gazed  with  fierce  surprise ; 

Unused  such  looks  to  meet. 

His  favourite  checked  his  joyful  guise. 

And  crouched,  and  licked  his  feet. 

Onward,  in  haste,  Llewelyn  passed. 

And  on  went  Gelert  too  ; 

And  still,  where’er  his  eyes  he  cast. 

Fresh  blood-gouts  shocked  his  view. 

O’ertumed  his  infant’s  hed  he  found. 

With  blood-stained  covert  rent  ; 

And  all  around  the  walls  an  1 ground 
With  recent  blood  besprent. 

He  called  his  child — no  voice  replied — 

He  searched  with  terror  wild  ; 

Blood,  blood  he  found  on  every  side. 

But  nowhere  found  his  child. 

‘ Hell-hound  1 my  child’s  by  thee  devoured,’ 

The  frantic  father  cried  ; 

And  to  the  hilt  his  vengeful  sword 
He  plunged  in  Gelert’s  side. 

Ilis  suppliant  looks,  as  prone  he  fell. 

No  pity  could  impart ; 

But  still  his  Gelert’s  dying  yell 
Passed  heavy  o’er  his  heart. 

Aroused  by  Gelert’s  dying  yell. 

Some  slurnberer  wakened  nigh : 

What  words  the  parent’s  joy  could  tell 
To  hear  his  infant’s  cry  ! 

Concealed  beneath  a tumbled  heap 
His  hurried  search  had  missed. 

All  glowing  from  his  rosy  sleep. 

The  cherub  boy  he  kissed. 

Nor  scathe  had  he,  nor  harm,  nor  dread, 

But,  the  same  couch  beneath. 

Lay  a gaunt  wolf,  all  torn  and  dead, 

Tremendous  still  in  death. 

Ah,  what  was  then  Llewelyn’s  pain' 

For  now  the  truth  was  clear  ; 

His  gallant  hound  the  wolf  had  slain 
To  save  Llewelyn’s  heir : 

Vain,  vain  was  all  Llewelyn’s  wo ; 

‘ Best  of  thy  kind  adieu  ! 

The  frantic  blow  which  laid  thee  low 
This  heart  shall  ever  rue.’ 

And  now  a gallant  tomb  they  raise, 

With  costly  sculpture  decked  ; 

And  marbles  storied  with  his  praise 
Poor  Gelert’s  bones  protect. 

There,  never  could  the  spearman  pass. 

Or  forester  unmoved  ; 

There,  oft  the  tear-besprinkled  grass 
Llewelyn’s  sorrow  proved. 

And  there  he  hung  his  horn  and  spear. 

And  there,  as  evening  fell. 

In  fancy’s  ear  he  oft  would  hear 
Poor  Gelert’s  dying  yell. 

And,  till  great  Snowden’s  rocks  grow  old. 

And  cease  the  storm  to  brave. 

The  consecrated  spot  shall  hold 
The  name  of  ‘ Gelert’s  Grave.’ 

Wife,  Children,  and  Fnends, 

When  the  black-lettered  list  to  the  gods  was  presented 
(The  list  of  what  fate  for  each  mortal  intends). 

At  the  long  string  of  ills  a kind  goddess  relented. 
And  slipped  in  three  blessings — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

In  vain  surly  Pluto  maintained  he  was  cheated. 

For  justice  divine  could  not  compass  its  ends; 

The  scheme  of  man’s  penance  he  swore  was  defeated. 
For  earth  becomes  heaven  with — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

If  the  stock  of  our  bliss  is  in  stranger  hands  vested. 
The  fund  ill  secured,  oft  in  bankruptcy  ends; 

But  the  heart  issues  bills  which  are  nerer  protested. 
When  drawn  on  the  firm  of — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

Though  valour  still  glows  in  his  life’s  liying  embers. 
The  death-wounded  tar,  who  his  colours  defends. 

Drops  a tear  of  regret  as  he  dying  remembers 

How  blessed  was  his  home  with — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

The  soldier,  whose  deeds  live  immortal  in  story. 
Whom  duty  to  far  distant  latitudes  sends. 

With  transport  would  barter  old  ages  of  glory 

For  one  happy  day  with — wife,  children,  and  frienus. 

421 

PROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  rnESENT  Tim 


I'hough  spice-brcatliing  gales  on  his  caravan  hover, 
Though  for  liim  Arabia’s  fragrance  ascends, 

The  merchant  still  thinks  of  the  woodbines  that  cover 
The  bower  where  he  sat  with — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

The  day-spring  of  youth  still  unclouded  by  sorrow. 
Alone  on  itself  for  enjoyment  depends  ; 

Hut  drear  is  the  twilight  of  age,  if  it  borrow 

No  warmth  from  the  smile  of — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

Let  the  breath  of  renown  ever  freshen  and  nourish 
The  laurel  which  o’er  the  dead  favourite  bends ; 
O’er  me  wave  the  willow,  and  long  may  it  flourish. 
Bedewed  with  the  tears  of — wife,  children,  and 
friends. 

Let  us  drink,  for  my  song,  growing  graver  and  graver. 
To  subjects  too  solemn  insensibly  tends  ; 

Let  us  drink,  pledge  me  high,  love  and  virtue  shall 
flavour 

The  glass  which  I fill  to — wife,  children,  and  friends. 
To  . 

Too  late  I stayed — forgive  the  crime ; 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours  ; 

How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time  1 
That  only  treads  on  flowers  ! 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 
The  ebbing  of  the  glass. 

When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass  ! 

Oh ! who  to  sober  measurement 
Time’s  happy  swiftness  brings. 

When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  for  his  wings  1 

Epitaph  upon  the  Year  1806. 

’Tia  gone,  with  its  thorns  and  its  roses! 

With  the  dust  of  dead  ages  to  mix  1 
Time’s  charnel  for  ever  encloses 

The  year  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Six  1 

Though  many  may  question  thy  merit, 

I duly  thy  dirge  will  perform. 

Content  if  thy  heir  but  inherit 

Thy  portion  of  sunshine  and  storm. 

My  blame  and  my  blessing  thou  sharest. 

For  black  were  thy  moments  in  part; 

But  oh  ! thy  fair  days  were  the  fairest 
That  ever  have  shone  on  my  heart  1 

If  thine  was  a gloom  the  completest 

That  death’s  darkest  cypress  could  throw. 
Thine,  too,  was  a garland  the  sweetest 
That  life  in  full  blossom  could  show! 

One  hand  gave  the  balmy  corrector 
Of  ills  which  the  other  had  brewed — 

One  draught  from  thy  chalice  of  nectar 
All  taste  of  thy  bitter  subdued. 

•Tis  gone,  with  its  thorns  and  its  roses! 

With  mine,  tears  more  precious  may  mix 
To  hallow  this  midnight  which  closes 
The  year  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Six! 

Stamae. 

When  midnight  o’er  the  moonless  skies 
Her  pall  of  transient  death  has  spread. 

When  mortals  sleep,  when  spectres  rise. 

And  nought  is  wakeful  but  the  dead : 


No  bloodless  shape  my  way  pursues. 

No  sheeted  ghost  my  couch  annoys; 

Visions  more  sad  my  fancy  views. 

Visions  of  long  departed  joys ! 

The  shade  of  youthful  hope  is  there. 

That  lingered  long,  and  latest  died  ; 

Ambition  all  dissolved  to  air. 

With  phantom  honours  by  his  side. 

What  empty  shadows  glimmer  nigh  ? 

They  once  were  Friendship,  Truth,  and  Level 
Oh  I die  to  thought,  to  memory  die. 

Since  lifeless  to  my  heart  ye  prove ! 

LEIGH  HUNT. 

Leigh  Hunt,  a poet  and  essayist  of  the  lively 
and  descriptive,  not  the  intense  school,  was  born  at 
Southgate,  in  Middlesex,  October  19,  1784,  His 
father  was  a West  Indi.an,  but  being  in  Peunsylvauia 


Leigh  Hunt. 

at  the  time  of  the  American  war,  he  espoused  the 
British  interest  with  so  much  warmth,  tliat  he  had 
to  leave  the  new  world  and  seek  a subsistence  in  the 
old.  He  took  orders  in  the  church  of  England,  and 
was  sometime  tutor  to  the  nephew  of  Lord  Chandos, 
near  Southgate.  His  son  (who  was  named  after  his 
father’s  pupil,  Mr  1 eigh)  was  educated  at  Christ’s 
Hospital,  where  he  continued  till  his  fifteenth  year. 

‘ I was  then,’  he  says,  ‘ first  deputy  Grecian  ; and 
had  the  honour  of  going  out  of  the  school  in  the 
same  rank,  at  the  same  age,  and  for  the  same  reason 
as  my  friend  Charles  Lamb.  The  reason  was,  that 
I hesitated  in  my  speech.  It  was  understood  that  a 
Grecian  was  bound  to  deliver  a public  speech  before 
he  left  school,  and  to  go  into  the  church  afterwards  ; \ 

and  as  I could  do  neither  of  these  things,  a Grecian  | 
I could  not  be.’  Leigh  was  then  a poet,  and  his 
father  collected  his  verses,  and  publisl-.ed  them  with  1 
a large  list  of  subscribers.  He  has  himself  described  j 
this  volume  as  a heap  of  imitations,  some  of  them 
clever  enough  for  a youth  of  sixteen,  but  absolutely 
worthless  in  every  other  respect.  In  1805,  Mr 
Hunt's  brother  set  up  a paper  called  the  News,  and 
the  poet  went  to  live  with  him,  and  write  the  thea- 
trical criticisms  in  it.  Three  years  afterwards,  they 
established,  in  joint  partnership,  the  Examiner,  a 
weekly  journal  still  conducted  with  distinguished 

422 


PORTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


ability.  The  poet  was  more  literary  than  politi- 
eal  in  his  tastes  ami  lucubrations ; but  unfortu- 
nately he  ventured  some  strictures  on  the  prince 
regent,  which  were  construed  into  a libel,  and  he 
was  sentenced  to  two  years’  imprisonment.  The 
poet’s  captivity  was  not  without  its  bright  side. 
He  had  much  of  the  public  sympathy,  and  his 
friends  (Byron  and  Moore  being  of  the  number) 
were  attentive  in  their  visits.  One  of  his  two  rooms 
on  the  ‘ ground-floor’  he  converted  into  a picturesque 
and  poetical  study : — ‘ I papered  the  walls  with  a 
trellis  of  roses  ; I had  the  ceiling  coloured  with 
clouds  and  sky ; the  barred  windows  were  screened 
with  Venetian  blinds;  and  when  my  bookcases  were 
set  up,  with  their  busts  and  flowers,  and  a piano- 
forte made  its  appearance,  perhaps  there  was  not 
a handsomer  room  on  that  side  the  water.  I took  a 
pleasure,  when  a stranger  knocked  at  the  door,  to 
see  him  come  in  and  stare  about  him.  The  surprise 
on  issuing  from  the  borough,  and  passing  through 
the  avenues  of  a jail,  w.as  dramatic.  Charles  Lamb 
declared  there  was  no  other  such  room  except  in  a 
fairy  tale.  But  I had  another  surprise,  which  was 
a garden.  There  was  a little  yard  outside,  railed 
off  from  another  belonging  to  the  neighbouring  ward. 
This  yard  I shut  in  with  green  palings,  adorned  it 
with  a trellis,  bordered  it  with  a thick  bed  of  earth 
from  a nursery,  and  even  contrived  to  have  a grass 
plot.  The  earth  I filled  with  flowers  and  young 
; trees.  There  was  an  apple-tree  from  which  we 
I man.aged  to  get  a pudding  the  second  year.  As  to 
1 my  flowers,  tliey  were  allowed  to  be  perfect.  A poet 
' from  Derbyshire  (Mr  Moore)  told  me  he  had  seen 
I no  such  heart’s-ease.  I bought  the  “ Parnaso 
1 Italiano”  while  in  prison,  and  used  often  to  think  of- 
i a passage  in  it,  while  looking  at  this  miniature  piece 
! of  horticulture : — 

IMio  picciol  orto, 

A me  sei  vigna,  e campo,  e silva,  e prato. — Soldi. 

I My  little  garden, 

To  me  thou’rt  vineyard,  field,  and  wood,  and  meadow. 

1 Here  I wrote  and  read  in  fine  weather,  sometimes 
under  an  awning.  In  autumn,  my  trellises  were 
hung  with  scarlet  runners,  which  added  to  the 
flowery  investment.  I used  to  shut  my  eyes  in  my 
arm-chair,  and  affect  to  think  myself  hundreds  of 
miles  off.  But  my  triumph  was  in  issuing  forth  of 
a morning.  A wicket  out  of  the  garden  led  into  the 
large  one  belonging  to  the  prison.  The  latter  was 
only  for  vegetables,  but  it  contained  a cherry-tree, 
which  I twice  saw  in  blossom.’* 

This  is  so  interesting  a little  picture,  and  so  fine 
/m  example  of  making  the  most  of  .adverse  circum- 
stances, that  it  should  not  be  omitted  in  any  life  of 
Hunt.  The  poet,  however,  was  not  so  well  fitted  to 
battle  with  the  world,  and  apply  himself  steadily  to 
worldly  business,  as  he  was  to  dress  his  garden  and 
j nurse  his  poetical  fancies.  He  fell  into  difficulties, 
and  has  been  contending  with  them  ever  since.  On 
leaving  prison  he  published  his  Story  of  Rimini,  an 
Italian  tale  in  verse,  containing  some  e.xquisite  lines 
and  passages.  He  set  up  .also  a small  weekly  paper 
called  the  Indicator,  on  the  jdan  of  the  periodical 
essayists,  which  was  well  received.  He  also  g.ave  to 
the  world  two  small  volumes  of  poetry.  Foliage,  and 
The  Feast  of  the  Poets.  In  1822  Mr  Hunt  went  to 
Italy  to  reside  with  Lord  Byron,  and  to  establish  the 
Liberal,  a crude  and  violent  melange  of  poetry  and 
politics,  both  in  the  extreme  of  liberalism.  This  con- 
nexion was  productive  of  mutual  disappointment 
and  disgust.  The  ‘Liberal’  did  not  sell;  Byron’s 
titled  and  aristocratic  friends  cried  out  against  so 

] • I/>rd  b^Ton  and  Some  of  his  Clontcmporarics,  voL  ri.  p.  2«ti. 


plebeian  a partnership;  and  Hunt  found  that  the 
noble  poet,  to  whom  he  was  indebted  in  a pecuniary 
sense,  was  cold,  sarcastic,  and  worldly-minded.  Still 
more  unfortunate  was  it  that  Hunt  sliould  after- 
wards have  written  the  work.  Lord  Byron  and  Some 
of  his  Contemporaries,  in  which  his  disappointed  feel- 
ings found  vent,  and  tlieir  expression  was  construed 
into  ingratitude.  His  life  has  been  spent  in  struggling 
with  influences  contrary  to  his  nature  and  poeticid 
temperament.  The  spirit  of  the  poet,  however,  is 
still  active  and  cheerful,  as  may  be  readily  con- 
ceived from  perusing  the  following  set  of  blithe 
images  in  a poem  written  in  December  1840,  on  the 
birth  of  the  Princess  IloyaL 

Behold  where  thou  dost  lie. 

Heeding  naught,  remote  on  high  ! 

Naught  of  all  the  news  we  sing 
Dost  thou  know,  sweet  ignorant  thing ; 

Naught  of  planet’s  love  nor  people’s; 

Nor  dost  hear  the  giddy  steeples 
Carolling  of  thee  and  thine. 

As  if  heaven  had  rained  them  wine  ; 

Nor  dost  care  for  all  the  pains 
Of  ushers  and  of  chainberlain.s. 

Nor  the  doctor’s  learned  looks. 

Nor  the  very  bishop’s  books. 

Nor  the  lace  that  wraps  thy  chin, 

No,  nor  for  thy  rank  a pin. 

E’en  thy  father’s  loving  hand 
Nowise  dost  thou  understand. 

When  he  makes  thee  feebly  grasp 
His  finger  with  a tiny  clasp ; 

Nor  dost  thou  know  thy  very  mothePe 
Balmy  bosom  from  another’s. 

Though  thy  small  blind  eyes  pursue  it ; 

Nor  the  arms  that  draw  thee  to  it ; 

Nor  the  eyes  that,  while  they  fold  thee. 

Never  can  enough  behold  thee! 

In  1840  Mr  Hunt  brought  out  a drama  entitled 
A Legend  of  Florence,  and  in  1842  a narrative  poem, 
The  Palfrey.  His  poetry,  generally,  is  marked  by  a 
profusion  of  imagery,  of  sprightly  fancy’,  and  ani- 
mated description.  Some  quaintness  and  affectation 
in  his  style  and  manner  fixed  upon  him  the  name  of 
a Cockney  poet;  but  his  studies  have  lain  chiefly  in 
the  elder  writers,  and  he  has  imitated  with  success 
the  lighter  and  more  picturesque  parts  of  Chaucer 
and  Spenser.  Boccaccio,  and  the  gay  Italian  authors, 
appear  also  to  have  been  among  his  favourites.  His 
prose  essays  have  been  eollected  and  published  under 
the  title  of  The  Indicator  and  the  Companion,  a Mis- 
cellany for  the  Fields  and  the  Fireside.  They  are 
deservedly  popular — full  of  literary  anecdote,  poe- 
tical feeling,  and  fine  sketches  both  of  town  and 
country  life.  The  egotism  of  the  author  is  undis- 
guised; but  in  all  Hunt’s  writings,  his  peculiar 
tastes  and  romantic  fancy',  his  talk  of  books  and 
flowers,  and  his  love  of  the  domestic  virtues  and 
eharities  (though  he  has  too  much  imagination  for 
his  judgment  in  the  serious  matters  of  life),  impart  a 
particular  interest  and  pleasure  to  his  personal  dis- 
closures. 

[May  Morning  at  Rarenna-I 
[From  ‘ Rimini.’] 

The  sun  is  up,  and  ’tis  a morn  of  May 

Round  old  Ravenna’s  clear-shown  towers  and  bay. 

A morn,  the  loveliest  which  the  year  has  seen. 

Last  of  the  spring,  yet  fresh  with  all  its  green  ; 

For  a warm  eve,  and  gentle  rains  at  night 
Have  left  a sparkling  welcome  for  the  light. 

And  there’s  a crystal  clearness  all  about : 

The  leaves  are  sharp,  the  distant  hills  look  out ; 

423 


FROM  17H0 


CYCLOPi^iDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMft 


A balmy  biiskness  comes  upon  the  breeze  ; 

The  smoke  goes  dancing  from  the  cottage  trees  ; 

And  when  you  listen,  you  may  hear  a coil 
Of  bubbling  springs  about  the  grassy  soil  ; 

And  all  the  scene,  in  short — sky,  earth,  and  sea. 
Breathes  like  a bright-eyed  face,  that  laughs  out 
openly. 

'Tis  nature,  full  of  spirits,  waked  and  springing  : 

The  birds  to  the  delicious  time  are  singing, 

Darting  with  freaks  and  snatches  up  and  down. 
Where  the  light  woods  go  seaward  from  the  town  ; 
While  hap])y  faces,  striking  through  the  green 
Of  leafy  roads,  at  every  tuni  are  seen  ; 

And  the  far  ships,  lifting  their  sails  of  white 
Like  joyful  hands,  come  up  with  scattery  light. 

Come  gleaming  up,  true  to  the  wished-for  day. 

And  chase  the  whistling  brine,  and  swirl  into  the  bay. 
Already  in  the  streets  the  stir  grows  loud. 

Of  expectation  and  a bustling  crowd. 

With  feet  and  voice  the  gathering  hum  contends. 

The  deep  talk  heaves,  the  ready  laugh  ascends ; 
Callings,  and  clapping  doors,  and  curs  unite. 

And  shouts  from  mere  exuberance  of  delight; 

And  armed  bands,  making  important  way. 

Gallant  and  grave,  the  lords  of  holiday. 

And  nodding  neighbours,  greeting  as  they  run. 

And  pilgrin-.^,  chanting  in  the  morning  sun. 

[Fv/neral  of  the  Lovers  in  ^ Rimini.''\ 

The  days  were  then  at  close  of  autumn  still, 

A little  rainy,  and,  towards  nightfall,  chill; 

There  was  a fitful  moaning  air  abroad  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  over  the  road. 

The  liist  few  leaves  came  fluttering  from  the  trees. 
Whose  trunks  now  thronged  to  sight,  in  dark  varieties. 
The  people,  who  from  reverence  kept  at  home. 
Listened  till  afternoon  to  hear  them  come; 

And  hour  on  hour  went  by,  and  nought  was  heard 
But  some  chance  horseman  or  the  wind  that  stirred. 
Till  towards  the  vesper  hour ; and  then  ’twas  said 
Some  heard  a voice,  which  .seemed  as  if  it  read ; 

And  others  said  that  they  could  hear  a .sound 
Of  many  horses  trampling  the  moist  ground. 

Still,  nothing  came — till  on  a sudden,  just 
As  the  wind  opened  in  a rising  gust, 

A voice  of  chanting  rose,  and  as  it  spread. 

They  plainly  heard  the  anthem  for  the  dead. 

It  was  the  choristers  who  went  to  meet 

The  train,  and  now  were  entering  the  first  street. 

Then  turned  aside  that  city,  young  and  old. 

And  in  their  lifted  hands  the  gushing  sorrow  rolled. 
But  of  the  older  people,  few  could  bear 
To  keep  the  window,  when  the  train  drew  near; 

And  all  felt  double  tenderness  to  see 
The  bier  approaching  slow  and  steadily, 

C)n  which  those  two  in  senseless  coldness  lay. 

Who  but  a few  short  month.s — it  seemed  a day — 

Had  left  their  walls,  lovely  in  form  and  mind. 

In  sunny  manhood  he — she  first  of  womankind. 

They  say  that  when  Duke  Guido  saw  them  come. 

He  cla.sped  his  hands,  and  looking  rouinl  the  room, 
Lo.st  his  old  wits  for  ever.  From  the  iiioitow 
None  saw  him  after.  But  no  more  of  sorrow. 

On  that  same  night  tho.se  lovers  silently 
Were  buried  in  one  grave  under  a tree  ; 

There,  side  by  side,  and  hand  in  hand,  they  lay 
In  the  green  ground  : and  on  fine  nights  in  May 
V ouug  hearts  betrothed  used  to  go  there  to  pray. 

To  T.  L.  II.,  Six  Years  Old,  During  a Sickness. 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee. 

My  little  patient  boy  ; 

And  balmy  rest  about  thee 
Smooths  oif  the  day’s  annoy 


I sit  me  down,  and  think 
Of  all  thy  winning  ways  : 

Yet  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink, 

That  I had  less  to  praise. 

Thy  sidelong  pillowed  meekne.ss, 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aid. 

Thy  heart  in  pain  and  weakness. 

Of  fancied  faults  afraid  ; 

The  little  trembling  hand 
That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears. 

These,  these  are  things  that  may  demand 
Dread  memories  for  years. 

Sorrows  I’ve  had  severe  ones, 

I will  not  think  of  now  ; 

And  calmly  ’midst  my  dear  ones, 

Have  wasted  with  dry  brow  ; 

But  when  thy  fingers  press 
And  pat  my  stooping  head, 

1 cannot  bear  the  gentleness — 

The  tears  are  in  their  bed. 

Ah  ! fir.st-born  of  thy  mother. 

When  life  and  hope  were  new, 

Kind  playmate  of  thy  brother. 

Thy  sister,  father,  too  ; 

My  light,  where’er  I go, 

My  bird,  when  prison  bound. 

My  hand  in  hand  companion — no. 

My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round. 

To  say  ‘ He  has  departed  ’ — 

‘His  voice’ — ‘ his  face’ — ‘ is  gone  ;* 

To  feel  impatient-hearted, 

Y et  feel  we  must  bear  on  ; 

Ah,  I could  not  endure 
To  whisper  of  such  wo. 

Unless  1 felt  this  sleep  insure 
That  it  will  not  be  so. 

Yes,  .still  he’s  fixed,  and  sleeping! 

This  silence  too  the  while — 

Its  very  hush  and  creeping 
Seem  whispering  as  a smile: 

Something  divine  and  dim 
Seems  going  by  one’s  car. 

Like  parting  wings  of  cherubim. 

Who  say,  ‘ We’ve  finished  here.’ 

Dirge. 

Blessed  is  the  turf,  serenely  blessed. 

Where  throbbing  hearts  may  sink  to  rest, 
Where  life’s  long  journey  turns  to  sleep, 

Nor  ever  pilgrim  wakes  to  weep. 

A little  sod,  a few  sad  flowers, 

A tear  for  long-departed  hours. 

Is  all  that  feeling  hearts  request 
To  hush  their  weary  thoughts  to  rest. 

There  shall  no  vain  aTubition  come 
To  lure  them  from  their  quiet  home; 

Nor  sorrow  lift,  with  heart-strings  riven. 

The  meek  imj)loring  eye  to  heaven  ; 

Nor  sad  remembrance  stoop  to  shed 
His  wrinkles  on  the  slumberer’s  head  ; 

And  never,  never  love  repair 
To  breathe  his  idle  whispers  there  1 

To  the  Graxshojyper  and  the  CrickeL 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  gra'^s. 

Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  .Tune, 

Sole  voice  that’s  heard  amirlst  the  lazy  noon. 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  bra,ss ; 
Ami  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  sooa. 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  triek.some  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  p.a.ss; 


4^4 


rOETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN 


Oh,  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong. 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth. 

Both  hare  your  sunshine ; both,  though  small,  are 
strong 

At  your  clear  hearts  ; and  both  were  sent  on  earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song — 
In-doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  mirth. 

Tht  CeUhraied  Catizme  of  Petrarch — ‘ Chiare,  fretche,  e 
doUe  acque' 

Clear,  fresh,  and  dulcet  streams. 

Which  the  fair  shape,  who  seems 

To  me  sole  woman,  haunted  at  noontide ; 

Bough,  gently  interknit 
(I  sigh  to  think  of  it). 

Which  formed  a rustic  chair  for  her  sweet  side ; 

And  turf,  and  flowers  bright-eyed. 

O’er  which  her  folded  gown 
Flowed  like  an  angel’s  do^vn  ; 

And  you,  0 holy  air  and  hushed. 

Where  first  my  heart  at  her  sweet  glances  gushed ; 
Give  ear,  give  ear,  with  one  consenting. 

To  my  last  words,  my  last  and  my  lamenting. 

If  ’tis  my  fate  below. 

And  Heaven  will  have  it  so. 

That  love  must  close  these  dying  eyes  in  tears. 

May  my  poor  dust  be  laid 
In  middle  of  your  shade. 

While  my  soul,  naked,  mounts  to  its  own  spheres. 

The  thought  would  calm  my  fears, 

When  taking,  out  of  breath. 

The  doubtful  step  of  death  ; 

For  never  could  iny  spirit  find 
A stiller  port  after  the  stormy  wind: 

Nor  in  more  calm  abstracted  bourne. 

Slip  from  my  travailed  flesh,  and  from  my  bones  out- 
worn. 

Perhaps,  some  future  hour. 

To  her  accustomed  bower 

Might  come  the  untamed,  and  yet  the  gentle  she; 
And  where  she  saw  me  first. 

Might  turn  with  eyes  athirst. 

And  kinder  joy  to  look  again  for  me  ; 

Then,  0 the  charity  ! 

Seeing  betwixt  the  stones 
The  earth  that  held  my  bones, 

A sigh  for  very  love  at  last 

Might  ask  of  Heaven  to  pardon  me  the  past ; 

And  Heaven  itself  could  not  say  nay. 

As  with  her  gentle  veil  she  wiped  the  tears  away. 

How  well  I call  to  mind 

When  from  those  bowers  the  wind 

Shook  down  upon  her  bosom  flower  on  flower  ; 

And  there  she  sat,  meek-eyed, 
fn  midst  of  all  that  pride. 

Sprinkled  and  blushing  through  an  amorous  shower. 
Some  to  her  hair  paid  dower. 

And  seemed  to  dress  the  curls, 

Queen-like,  with  gold  and  pearls  ; 

Some,  snowing,  on  her  drapery  stopped; 

Some  on  the  earth,  some  on  the  water  dropped ; 

V\  hile  others,  fluttering  from  above. 

Seemed  wheeling  round  in  pomp,  and  saying  ‘ Here 
reigns  Love.’ 

How  often  then  I said. 

Inward,  and  filled  with  dread, 

‘Doubtless  this  creature  came  from  Paradise!’ 

For  at  her  look  the  while. 

Her  voice,  aud  her  sweet  smile. 

And  heavenly  air,  truth  parted  from  mine  eyes : 

So  that,  with  long-drawn  sighs, 

I said,  as  far  from  men, 

•How  came  I here — aud  when!’ 


1 had  forgotten  ; and,  alas  ! 

Fancied  myself  in  heaven,  not  where  I was  ; 

And  from  that  time  till  this,  1 bear 

Such  love  for  the  green  bower,  1 cannot  rest  elsewhere, 

JOHN  CLARE. 

John  Clare,  one  of  the  most  truly  uneducated  of 
English  poets,  and  one  of  the  best  of  our  rural  de- 
scribers,  was  born  at  Helpstone,  a vill.ige  near 
Peterborough,  in  1793.  His  parents  were  peasants 
— his  father  a helpless  cripple  and  a pauper.  John 
obtained  some  education  by  his  own  e.xtra  work  a? 
a ploughboy:  from  the  labour  of  eight  weeks  he 
generally  acquired  as  many  pence  as  paid  for  a 
month’s  schooling.  At  thirteen  years  of  age  he 
met  with  Thomson’s  Seasons,  and  hoarded  up  a 
shilling  to  purchase  a copy.  At  daybreak  on  a 
spring  morning,  he  walked  to  the  town  of  Stam- 
ford— six  or  seven  miles  off — to  make  the  pur- 
chase, and  had  to  wait  some  time  till  the  shops  were 
opened.  This  is  a fine  trait  of  boyish  enthusiasm, 
and  of  the  struggles  of  youthful  genius.  Returning 
to  his  native  village  with  the  precious  purchase, 
as  he  walked  through  the  beautiful  scenery  of 
Burghley  Park,  he  composed  his  first  piece  of 
poetry,  which  he  called  the  Morning  Walk.  This 
was  soon  followed  by  the  Evening  Walk,  and  some 
other  pieces.  A benevolent  exciseman  instructed 
the  young  poet  in  writing  and  arithmetic,  and  he 
continued  his  obscure  but  ardent  devotions  to  his 
rural  muse.  ‘ Most  of  his  poems,’  says  the  writer 
of  a memoir  prefixed  to  his  first  volume,  ‘ were 
composed  under  the  immediate  impression  of  his 
feelings  in  the  fields  or  on  the  road  sides.  He  could 
not  trust  his  memory,  and  therefore  he  wrote  them 
down  with  a pencil  on  the  spot,  his  hat  serving  him 
for  a desk ; and  if  it  happened  that  he  had  no  op- 
portunity soon  after  of  transcribing  these  imperfect 
memorials,  he  could  seldom  decijiher  them  or  re- 
cover his  first  thoughts.  From  this  cause  several 
of  his  poems  are  quite  lost,  and  others  exist  only  in 
fragments.  Of  those  which  he  had  committed  to 
writing,  especially  his  earlier  pieces,  many  were 
destroyed  from  another  circumstance,  which  shows 
how  little  he  expected  to  please  others  with  them : 
from  a hole  in  the  wall  of  his  room  where  he  stuffed 
his  manuscripts,  a piece  of  paper  was  often  taken 
to  hold  the  kettle  with,  or  light  the  fire.’  In  1817, 
Clare,  while  working  at  Bridge  Casterton,  in  Rut- 
landshire, resolved  on  risking  the  publication  of  a 
volume.  By  hard  working  day  and  night,  he  got 
a pound  saved,  that  he  might  have  a prospectus 
printed.  This  was  accordingly  done,  and  a Collec- 
tion of  Original  Trifles  was  announced  to  subscribers, 
the  price  not  to  exceed  3s.  6d.  ‘ I distributed  my 

papers,’  he  says  ; ‘ but  as  I coidd  get  at  no  w'ay  of 
pushing  them  into  higher  circles  than  those  with 
whom  I was  acquainted,  they  consequently  passed 
off  as  quietly  as  if  they  had  been  still  in  my  posses- 
sion, unprinted  and  unseen.’  Only  seven  subscribers 
came  forward ! One  of  these  prospectuses,  however, 
led  to  an  acquaintance  with  Mr  Edward  Drury, 
bookseller,  Stamford,  and  through  this  gentleman 
the  poems  were  published  by  Messrs  Taylor  and 
Hessey,  London,  who  purchased  them  from  Clare 
for  £20.  The  volume  was  brought  out  in  January 
1820,  with  an  interesting  well-written  introduc- 
tion, and  bearing  the  title.  Poems  Descriptive  of 
Rural  Life  and  Scenery,  by  John  Clare,  a Northamp- 
tonshire peasant.  The  attention  of  the  public  was 
instantly  awakened  to  the  circumstances  and  the 
merits  of  Clare.  The  magazines  and  reviews  were 
unanimous  in  his  favour.  ‘ This  interesting  little 
volume,’  said  the  Quarterly  Review,  ‘ bears  indubit- 

42A 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  present  timr. 


able  evidence  of  being  composed  altogether  from 
the  impulses  of  the  writer’s  mind,  as  excited  by  ex- 
ternal objects  and  internal  sensations.  Here  are  no 
tawdry  and  feeble  paraplirases  of  former  poets,  no 
attempts  at  describing  what  the  author  miyht  have 
become  acquainted  with  in  his  limited  reading.  The 
wood.s,  the  vales,  the  brooks,  “ the  crimson  spots 
i’  the  bottom  of  a cowslip,”  or  the  loftier  jihenomena 
of  the  heavens,  contemiilated  through  the  alterna- 
liions  of  hope  and  despondency,  are  the  principal 
sources  whence  the  youth,  whose  adverse  circum- 
stances and  resignation  under  them  extort  our  sym- 
pathy, drew  the  faithful  and  vivid  pictures  before 
us.  Examples  of  minds  highly  gifted  by  nature, 
struggling  with,  and  breaking  through  the  bondage 
of  adversity,  are  not  rare  in  this  country : but  pri- 
vation is  not  destitution ; and  the  instance  before 
us  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  striking  of  patient 
and  persevering  talent  existing  and  enduring  in  the 
most  forlorn,  and  seemingly  hopeless  condition,  that 
literature  has  at  any  time  exhibited.’ 

In  a short  time  Clare  was  in  possession  of  a little 
fortune.  The  present  Earl  Fitzwilliam  sent  £100 
to  his  publishers,  which,  with  the  like  sum  ad- 
vanced by  them,  was  laid  out  in  the  purchase  of 
stock;  the  Marquis  of  Exeter  allowed  him  an  an- 
nuity of  fifteen  guineas  for  life  ; the  Earl  of  Spencer 
a further  annuity  of  £10,  and  various  contributions 
were  received  from  other  noblemen  and  gentlemen, 
so  that  the  poet  had  a permanent  allowance  of  £30 
per  annum.  lie  married  his  ‘Patty  of  the  Vale,’ 

‘ the  rosebud  in  humble  life,’  the  daughter  of  a 
neighbouring  farmer ; and  in  his  native  cottage  at 
Helpstone,  with  his  aged  and  infirm  parents  and  his 
young  wife  by  his  side — all  proud  of  his  now  re- 
warded and  successful  genius — Clare  basked  in  the 
sunshine  of  a poetical  felicity.  The  writer  of  this 
recollects,  with  melancholy  pleasure,  paying  a visit 
to  the  poet  at  this  genial  season  in  company  with 
one  of  liis  publishers.  The  humble  dwelling  wore 
an  air  of  comfort  and  contented  happiness.  Shelves 
were  fitted  up,  filled  with  books,  most  of  which  had 
been  sent  as  presents.  Clare  read  and  liked  them 
all!  He  took  us  to  see  his  favourite  scene,  the 
haunt  of  his  inspiration.  It  was  a low  fall  of  swampy 
ground,  used  as  a pasture,  and  bounded  by  a dull 
rushy  brook,  overhung  with  willows.  Yet  here 
Clare  strayed  and  mused  delighted. 

Flow  on,  thou  gently-plashing  stream, 

O’er  weed-beds  wild  and  rank  ; 

Delighted  I’ve  enjoyed  my  dream 
Upon  thy  mossy  bank  : 

Bemoistening  many  a weedy  stem, 

I’ve  watched  thee  wind  so  clearly, 

And  on  thy  bank  I found  the  gem 
That  makes  me  love  thee  dearly. 

In  1821  Clare  came  forward  again  as  a poet.  His 
second  publication  was  entitled  The  Village  Minstrel 
and  other  Poems,  in  two  volumes.  The  first  of  these 
pieces  is  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  and  describes  the 
scenes,  sports,  and  feelings  of  rural  lift — the  author 
himself  sitting  for  the  portrait  of  Lubin,  the  humble 
rustic  who  ‘hummed  his  lowly  dreams’ 

Far  in  the  sha/le  where  poverty  retires. 

The  descriptions  of  scenery,  as  well  as  the  expres- 
sion of  natural  emotion  and  generous  sentiment  in 
this  poem,  exalted  the  reputation  of  Clare  as  a true 
poet.  He  afterwards  contributed  short  pieces  to  the 
annuals  and  other  periodicals,  marked  by  a more 
choice  and  refined  diction.  The  poet’s  prosperity 
was,  alas  1 soon  over.  His  discretion  was  not  equal 
to  his  fortitude : he  speculated  in  farming,  wasted 
his  little  hoard,  and  amidst  accumulating  difficul- 
ties sank  into  nervous  despondency  and  despair.  He 


is  now,  we  believe,  in  a private  asylum — hopeless, 
but  not  dead  to  passing  events.  This  sad  termina- 
tion of  so  bright  a morning  it  is  painful  to  contem- 
plate. Amidst  the  native  wild  flowers  of  his  song 
we  looked  not  for  the  ‘deadly  nightshade’ — and, 
though  the  example  of  Burns,  of  Chatterton,  and 
Bloomfield,  was  better  fitted  to  inspire  fear  than 
hope,  there  was  in  Clare  a naturally  lively  and  cheer- 
ful temperament,  and  an  apparent  absence  of  strong 
and  dangerous  passions,  that  promised,  as  in  the  case 
of  Allan  Ramsay,  a life  of  humble  yet  prosperous 
contentment  and  happiness.  Poor  Clare’s  muse  was 
the  true  offspring  of  English  country  life.  He  was 
a faithful  painter  of  rustic  scenes  and  occupations, 
and  he  noted  every  light  and  shade  of  his  brooks, 
meadows,  and  green  lanes.  His  fancy  was  buoyant 
in  the  midst  of  labour  and  hardship ; and  his  imagery, 
drawn  directly  from  nature,  is  various  and  original 
Careful  finishing  could  not  be  expected  from  the 
rustic  poet,  yet  there  is  often  a fine  delicacy  and 
beauty  in  his  pieces,  and  his  moral  reflections  .and 
pathos  win  their  way  to  the  heart.  ‘It  is  seldom,’ 
as  one  of  his  critics  remarked,  ‘that  the  public  have 
an  opportunity  of  learning  the  unmixed  and  un- 
adulterated impression  of  the  loveliness  of  nature  on 
a man  of  vivid  perception  and  strong  feeling,  equally 
unacquainted  with  tlie  art  and  reserve  of  the  world, 
and  with  the  riches,  rules,  and  prejudices  of  litera- 
ture.’ Clare  was  strictly  such  a man.  His  reading 
before  his  first  publication  had  been  extremely 
limited,  and  did  not  either  form  his  taste  or  bias 
the  direction  of  his  powers.  He  wrote  out  of  the 
fulness  of  his  heart;  and  his  love  of  nature  was  so 
universal,  that  he  included  all,  weeds  as  well  as 
flowers,  in  his  picturesque  catalogues  of  her  charms. 
In  grouping  and  forming  his  pictures,  he  has  re- 
course to  new  and  original  expressions — as,  for  ex- 
ample— 

Brisk  winds  the  lightened  branches  shake 
By  pattering,  plashing  drops  confessed  ; 

And,  where  oaks  dripping  shade  the  lake, 

Paint  crimping  dimples  on  its  b/east. 

A sonnet  to  the  glow-worm  is  singularly  rich  in  this 
vivid  word-painting: — 

Tasteful  illumination  of  the  night. 

Bright  scattered,  twinkling  star  of  .ipangled  earth 
Hail  to  the  nameless  coloured  dark  and  light. 

The  witching  nurse  of  thy  illumined  birth. 

In  thy  still  hour  how  dearly  1 delight 
To  rest  my  weary  bones,  from  labour  free  ; 

In  lone  spots,  out  of  hearing,  out  of  sight. 

To  sigh  day’s  smothered  pains ; and  pause  on  thee, 
Bedecking  dangling  brier  and  ivied  tree. 

Or  diamonds  tipping  on  the  grassy  spear  ; 

Thy  pale-faced  glimmering  light  1 love  to  see, 
Gilding  and  glistering  in  the  dewdrop  near  ; 

0 still-hour’s  mate!  my  easing  heart  sobs  free. 

While  tiny  bents  low  bend  with  many  an  added 
tear. 

In  these  happy  microscopic  views  of  nature,  Grahame, 
the  author  of  the  Sabbath,  is  the  only  poet  who  can 
be  put  in  competition  witli  Clare.  The  delicacy  of 
some  of  his  sentimental  verses,  mixed  up  in  careless 
profusion  with  others  less  correct  or  pleasing,  may 
be  seen  from  the  following  part  of  a ballad.  The  Fate 
of  Amy : — 

The  flowers  the  sultry  summer  kills 
Spring’s  milder  suns  restore  ; 

But  innocence,  that  fickle  charm. 

Blooms  once,  and  blooms  no  more.  i 

The  swains  who  loved  no  more  admire. 

Their  hearts  no  beauty  warms  ; 

And  maidens  triumph  in  her  fall 
That  envied  once  her  charms. 

428 


POKTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATUEE. 


Lost  was  that  sweet  simplicity  ; 
llor  eye’s  bright  lustre  fled  ; 

And  o’er  her  checks,  where  roses  bloomed, 

A sickly  paleness  spread. 

So  fades  the  flower  before  its  time, 

Where  cankerworma  assail  ; 

So  droops  the  bud  upon  its  stem 
Beneath  the  sickly  gale. 

What  is  Life  1 

And  what  is  Life  ? An  hour-glass  on  the  run, 

A m'st  retreating  from  the  morning  sun, 

A busy,  bustling,  still-repeated  dream. 

Its  length  1 A minute’s  pause,  a moment’s  thought. 
And  Happiness  ? A bubble  on  the  stream. 

That  in  the  act  of  seizing  shrinks  to  nought. 

And  what  is  Hope  ? The  puffing  gale  of  morn. 

That  robs  each  flowret  of  its  gem — and  dies  ; 

A cobweb,  hiding  disappointment’s  thorn. 

Which  stings  more  keenly  through  the  thin  disguise. 
And  what  is  Death  ? Is  still  the  cause  unfound  1 
That  dark  mysterious  name  of  horrid  sound  ! 

A lo.'(g  ami  lingering  sleep  the  weary  crave. 

\nd  1’  eace  1 Where  can  its  happiness  abound  1 
No  where  at  all,  save  heaven  and  the  grave. 

Then  what  is  Life  1 When  stripped  of  its  disguise, 

A thing  to  be  desired  it  cannot  be  ; 

Bince  everything  that  meets  our  foolish  eyes 
Gives  proof  sufficient  of  its  vanity. 

Tis  but  a trial  all  must  undergo. 

To  teach  unthankful  mortal  how  to  prize 
That  hap])ines8  vain  man’s  denied  to  know. 

Until  he’s  called  to  claim  it  in  the  skies. 

Summer  Morning. 

Tis  sweet  to  meet  the  morning  breeze. 

Or  list  the  giggling  of  the  brook  ; 

Or,  stretched  beneath  the  shade  of  trees. 

Peruse  and  pause  on  nature’s  book. 

When  nature  every  sweet  prepares 
To  entertain  our  wished  delay — 

The  images  which  morning  wears. 

The  wakening  charms  of  early  day  ! 

Now  let  me  tread  the  meadow  paths. 

Where  glittering  dew  the  ground  illumes. 

As  sprinkled  o’er  the  withering  swaths 
Their  moisture  shrinks  in  sweet  perfumes. 

And  hear  the  beetle  sound  his  horn. 

And  hear  the  skylark  whistling  nigh, 

Sprung  from  his  bed  of  tufted  corn, 

A hailing  minstrel  in  the  sky. 

First  sunbeam,  calling  night  away 
To  see  how  sweet  thy  summons  seems ; 

Split  by  the  willow’s  wavy  gray. 

And  sweetly  dancing  on  the  streams. 

How  fine  the  spider’s  web  is  spun. 

Unnoticed  to  vulgar  eyes ; 

Its  silk  thread  glittering  in  the  sun 
Arts  bungling  vanity  defies. 

Roaming  while  the  dewy  fields 

’Neath  their  morning  burthen  lean, 

While  its  crop  my  searches  shields. 

Sweet  I scent  the  blossomed  bean. 

Making  oft  remarking  stops  ; 

Watching  tiny  nameless  things 

Climb  the  grass’s  spiry  tops 

Ere  they  try  their  gauzy  wings. 

So  emerging  into  light. 

From  the  ignorant  and  vain 

Fearful  genius  takes  her  flight. 

Skimming  o’er  the  lowly  j lain. 


JOHN  CLABI 


The  Primrose — A Sonnet. 

Welcome,  pale  primrose  ! starting  up  between 
Dead  matted  leaves  of  ash  and  oak  that  strew 
The  every  lawn,  the  wood,  and  spinney  through, 
’Mid  creeping  moss  and  ivy’s  darker  green  ; 

How  much  thy  presence  beautifies  the  ground  ! 
How  sweet  thy  modest  unaffected  pride 
Glows  on  the  sunny  bank  and  wood’s  warm  side  1 
And  where  thy  fairy  fiowers  in  groups  are  found. 
The  schoolboy  roams  enchanted  ly  along. 

Plucking  the  fairest  with  a rude  delight : 

While  the  meek  shepherd  stops  his  simple  song, 

To  gaze  a moment  on  the  pleasing  sight ; 

O’erjoyed  to  see  the  flowers  that  truly  bring 
The  welcome  news  of  sweet  returning  spring. 

The  Thrush’s  Nest — A Sonnet. 

Within  a thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush 
That  overhung  a molehill  large  and  round, 

I heard  from  morn  to  morn  a merry  thrush 

Sing  hymns  of  rapture,  while  I drank  the  sound 
With  joy — and  oft  an  unintruding  guest, 

I watched  her  secret  toils  from  day  to  day  ; 

How  true  she  warped  the  moss  to  form  her  nest. 

And  modelled  it  within  with  wood  and  clay. 

And  by  and  by,  like  heath-bells  gilt  with  dew. 

There  lay  her  shining  eggs  as  bright  as  flowers, 
Ink-spotted  over,  shells  of  green  and  blue  : 

And  there  I witnessed,  in  the  summer  hours, 

A brood  of  nature’s  minstrels  chirp  and  fly. 

Glad  as  the  sunshine  and  the  laughing  sky.* 

First-Love’s  Recollections. 

First-love  will  with  the  heart  remain 
When  its  hopes  are  all  gone  by ; 

As  frail  rose-blossoms  still  retain 
Their  fragrance  when  they  die; 

And  joy’s  first  dreams  will  haunt  the  mind 
With  the  shades  ’mid  which  they  sprung. 

As  summer  leaves  the  stems  behind 
On  which  spring’s  blossoms  hung. 

Mary,  I dare  not  call  thee  dear. 

I’ve  lost  that  right  so  long  ; 

Yet  once  again  I vex  thine  ear 
With  memory’s  idle  song. 

I felt  a pride  to  name  thy  name. 

But  now  that  pride  hath  flown. 

And  burning  blushes  speak  my  shame. 

That  thus  I love  thee  on. 

How  loath  to  part,  how  fond  to  meet, 

Had  we  two  used  to  be  ; 

At  sunset,  with  what  eager  feet 
I hastened  unto  thee! 

Scarce  nine  days  passed  us  ere  we  met 
In  spring,  nay,  wintry  weather; 

Now  nine  years’  suns  have  risen  and  set, 

Nor  found  us  once  together. 

Thy  face  was  so  familiar  grown, 

■Thyself  so  often  nigh, 

A moment’s  memory  when  alone. 

Would  bring  thee  in  mine  eye ; 

* Montgomery  says  quaintly  but  truly  of  this  sonnet,  * Here 
we  have  in  miniature  the  history  and  geography  of  a thiush’a 
nest,  so  simply  and  naturally  set  forth,  that  one  might  think 
such  strains 

No  more  difficile 

Than  for  a blackbird  ’tis  to  whistle. 

But  let  the  heartless  critic  who  despises  them  try  his  own 
hand  either  at  a bird’s  nest  or  a sonnet  liketh's;  and  when 
he  has  succeeded  in  making  the  one,  he  may  have  some  hope 
of  being  able  to  make  the  other.' 

427 


FROM  17(!0 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OP 


liut  now  my  very  (Ireiims  for"et 
'I'liat  witc'liiii"  look  to  trace  ; 

Though  there  thy  beauty  lingers  yet, 

It  wears  a stranger’s  face. 

Wlien  last  that  gentle  cheek  I prest, 

And  heard  thee  feign  adieu, 

I little  thought  that  seeming  jest 
Would  prove  a word  so  true  1 
A fate  like  this  hath  oft  befell 
Kven  loftier  hopes  than  ours ; 

Spring  bids  full  many  buds  to  swell, 

That  ne’er  can  grow  to  flowers. 

Davynings  of  Genius. 

In  those  low  paths  which  poverty  surrounds. 

The  rough  rude  ploughman,  off  his  fallow  grounds 
(That  necessary  tool  of  wealth  and  pride). 

While  moiled  and  sweating,  by  some  pasture’s  side. 
Will  often  stoop,  inquisitive  to  trace 
The  opening  beauties  of  a daisy’s  face  ; 

Oft  will  he  witness,  with  admiring  eyes. 

The  brook’s  sweet  dimples  o’er  the  pebbles  rise; 

And  often  bent,  as  o’er  some  magic  spell. 

He’ll  pause  and  pick  his  shaped  stone  and  shell: 
Raptures  the  while  his  inward  powers  inflame. 

And  joys  delight  him  which  he  cannot  Jiame; 

Ideas  picture  pleasing  views  to  mind. 

For  which  his  language  can  no  utterance  find  ; 
Increasing  beauties,  freshening  on  his  sight. 

Unfold  new  charnts,  and  witness  more  delight ; 

8o  while  the  present  please,  the  past  decay. 

And  in  each  other,  losing,  melt  away. 

Thus  pausing  wild  on  all  he  saunters  by. 

He  feels  enraptured,  though  he  knows  not  why; 

And  h urns  and  mutters  o’er  his  joys  in  vain. 

And  dwells  on  something  which  he  can’t  explain. 

The  bursts  of  thought  with  which  his  soul’s  perplexed, 
Are  bred  one  moment,  and  are  gone  the  next ; 

Vet  still  the  heart  will  kindling  sparks  retain. 

And  thoughts  will  rise,  and  Fancy  strive  again. 

So  have  I marked  the  dying  ember’s  light. 

When  on  the  hearth  it  fainted  from  my  sight. 

With  glimmering  glow  oft  redden  up  again. 

And  sparks  crack  brightening  into  life  in  vain; 

Still  lingering  out  its  kindling  hope  to  rise. 

Till  faint,  and  fainting,  the  last  twinkle  dies. 

Dim  burns  the  soul,  and  throbs  the  fluttering  heart, 
Its  painful  pleasing  feelings  to  impart ; 

Till  by  successless  sallies  wearied  quite. 

The  memory  fails,  and  Fancy  takes  her  flight : 

The  wick,  confined  within  its  socket,  dies. 

Borne  down  and  smothered  in  a thousand  sighs. 

[&cnes  and  M usings  of  the  Peasant  Poet.'\ 

[From  the  ‘ Village  Minstrel.'] 

Each  opening  season,  and  each  opening  scene. 

On  his  wild  view  still  teemed  with  fresh  delight; 
E’en  winter’s  storms  to  him  have  welcome  been. 
That  brought  him  comfort  in  its  long  dark  night. 
As  joyful  listening,  while  the  fire  burnt  bright. 
Some  neighbouring  labourer’s  superstitious  tale. 
How  ‘ Jack-a-lantern,’  with  his  wisp  alight, 

To  drown  a ’niglited  traveller  once  did  fail. 

He  knowing  well  the  brook  that  whimpered  dotvn  the 
vale. 

And  tales  of  fairyland  he  loved  to  hear. 

Those  mites  of  human  forms,  like  skimming  bees. 
That  fly  and  flirt  about  but  everywhere  ; 

The  mystic  tribes  of  night’s  unnerving  breeze. 

That  through  a lock-hole  even  creep  with  ease : 

The  freaks  and  stories  of  this  elfin  crew, 

Ah!  Lubin  gloried  in  such  things  as  these; 

How  they  rewarded  industry  he  knew, 
ind  how  the  restless  slut  was  pinched  black  and  blue. 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMB 


How  ancient  dames  a fairy’s  anger  feared, 

F’rom  gossip’s  stories  Lubin  often  heard  ; 

How  they  on  every  night  the  hearthstone  cleared. 
And,  ’gainst  their  visits,  all  things  neat  prepared. 
As  fays  nought  more  than  cleanliness  regard  ; 
When  in  the  morn  they  never  failed  to  share 
Or  gold  or  silver  as  their  meet  reward, 

Dropt  in  the  water  superstition’s  care, 

To  make  the  charm  succeed,  had  cautious  plac?'^ 
there. 

And  thousands  such  the  village  keeps  alive; 

Beings  that  people  superstitious  earth. 

That  e’er  in  rural  manners  will  survive, 

As  long  as  wild  rusticity  has  birth 

To  spread  their  wonders  round  the  cottage-hearth. 

On  Lubin’s  mind  these  deeply  were  impressed; 

Oft  fear  forbade  to  share  his  neighbour’s  mirth: 
And  long  each  tale,  by  fancy  newly  dressed. 
Brought  fairies  in  his  dreams,  and  broke  his  infant  rest. 

He  had  his  dreads  and  fears,  and  scarce  could  pass 
A churchyard’s  dreary  mounds  at  silent  night. 

But  footsteps  trampled  through  the  rustling  grass. 
And  ghosts  ’hind  grave-stones  stood  in  sheets  ol 
white ; 

Dread  monsters  fancy  moulded  on  his  sight ; 

Soft  would  he  step  lest  they  his  tread  should  hear. 
And  creep  and  creep  till  p.ast  his  wild  affright ; 
Then  on  wind’s  wings  would  rally,  as  it  were. 

So  swift  the  wild  retreat  of  childhood’s  fancied  fear. 

And  when  fear  left  him,  on  his  corner-seat 
Much  would  he  chatter  o’er  each  dreadful  tale  ; 
Tell  how  he  heard  the  .sound  of  ’proaching  feet. 
And  warriors  jingling  in  their  coats  of  mail ; 

And  lumping  knocks  as  one  would  thump  a flail; 
Of  .spirits  conjured  in  the  charnel  floor; 

And  many  a mournful  shriek  and  hapless  w;ail, 
Where  maids,  self-murdered,  their  false  loves  d&< 
pi  ore ; 

And  from  that  time  would  vow  to  tramp  on  nights  no 
more. 

0!  who  can  speak  his  joys  when  spring’s  young 
morn. 

From  wood  and  pasture,  opened  on  his  view  I 
When  tender  green  buds  blush  upon  the  thorn. 

And  the  first  primrose  dips  its  leaves  in  dew : 

Each  varied  charm  how  joyed  would  he  pursue. 
Tempted  to  trace  their  beauties  through  the  day ; 
Gray-girdled  eve  and  morn  of  rosy  hue 
Have  both  beheld  him  on  his  lonely  way. 

Far,  far  remote  from  boys,  and  their  unpleasing  play. 

Sequestered  nature  was  his  heart’s  delight ; 

Him  would  she  lead  through  wood  and  lonely  plain. 
Searching  the  pooty  from  the  rushy  dike  ; 

And  while  the  thrush  sang  her  long-silenced  strain. 
He  thought  it  sweet,  and  mocked  it  o’er  again  ; 

And  while  he  plucked  the  primrose  in  its  pride. 

He  pondered  o’er  its  bloom  ’tween  joy  and  pain  ; 
And  a rude  sonnet  in  its  jiraise  he  tried. 

Where  nature’s  simple  way  the  aid  of  art  supplied. 

The  freshened  landscapes  round  his  routes  unfurled, 
The  fine-tinged  clouds  above,  the  woods  below. 

Each  met  his  eye  a new-revealing  world. 

Delighting  more  as  more  he  learned  to  know ; 

Each  journey  sweeter,  musing  to  and  fro. 

Surrounded  thus,  not  Paradise  more  sweet; 
Enthusiasm  made  his  soul  to  glow  ; 

His  heart  with  wild  sen.sations  u.sed  to  beat; 

As  nature  seemly  sang,  his  mutterings  would  repeat. 

Upon  a molehill  oft  he  dropt  him  down. 

To  take  a prospect  of  the  circling  scene. 

Marking  how  much  the  cottage  roofs  thatch  brown 
Did  add  its  beauty  to  the  budding  green 

42« 


K)KT9. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  james  and  Horace  smith. 


Of  shelter'mj'  trees  it  humbly  peeped  between  ; 

The  stone-rocked  wagon  with  its  rumbling  sound  ; 
The  windmill's  sweeping  sails  at  distance  seen  ; 
And  every  form  that  crowds  the  circling  round, 
Where  the  sky,  stooping,  seems  to  kiss  the  meeting 
grouml. 

And  dear  to  him  the  rural  sports  of  May, 

When  each  cot-threshold  mounts  its  hailing  bough. 
And  ruddy  milkmaids  weave  their  garlands  gay, 
Upon  the  green  to  crown  the  earliest  cow  ; 

When  mirth  and  pleasure  wear  a joyful  brow; 

And  join  the  tumult  with  unbounded  glee. 

The  humble  tenants  of  the  pail  and  plough  : 

He  loved  ‘ old  sports,’  by  them  revived,  to  see, 

Rut  never  cared  to  join  in  their  rude  revelry. 

O’er  brook-banks  stretching,  on  the  pasture-sward 
He  gazed,  far  distant  from  the  jocund  crew; 

’Twas  but  their  feats  that  claimed  a slight  regard ; 
’Twas  his — his  pastimes  lonely  to  pursue — 

Wild  blossoms  creeping  in  the  grass  to  view, 

Scarce  peeping  up  the  tiny  bent  as  high, 

Cetinged  with  glossy  yellow,  red  or  blue. 

Unnamed,  unnoticed  but  by  Lubin’s  eye. 

That  like  low  genius  sprang,  to  bloom  their  day  and  die. 

0 ! who  can  tell  the  sweets  of  May-day’s  mom, 

To  waken  rapture  in  a feeling  mind  ; 

AVhen  the  gilt  east  unveils  her  dappled  dawn. 

And  the  gay  woodlark  has  its  nest  resigned. 

As  s!."iw  the  sun  creeps  up  the  hill  behind ; 

Morn  reddening  round,  and  daylight’s  spotless  hue, 
As  seemingly  with  rose  and  lily  lined  ; 

While  all  the  prospect  round  beams  fair  to  view. 
Like  a sweet  opening  flower  with  its  unsullied  dew. 

Ah  ! often  brushing  through  the  dripping  grass, 
Has  he  been  seen  to  catch  this  early  charm. 
Listening  the  ‘ love-song’  of  the  healthy  lass 
Passing  with  milk-pail  on  her  well-turned  arm ; 

Or  meeting  objects  from  the  rousing  farm — 

The  jingling  plough-teams  driving  down  the  steep. 
Wagon  ami  f'rt ; and  shepherd-dogs’  alarm. 
Raising  the  bUatings  of  unfolding  sheep. 

As  o’er  the  mountain  top  the  red  sun  ’gins  to  peep. 

Nor  could  the  day’s  decline  escape  his  gaze ; 

He  loved  the  closing  as  the  rising  day. 

And  oft  would  stand  to  catch  the  setting  rays. 
Whose  last  beams  stole  not  unperceived  away ; 
When,  hesitating  like  a stag  at  bay. 

The  bright  unwearied  sun  seemed  loath  to  drop. 
Till  chaos’  night-hounds  hurried  him  away. 

And  drove  him  headlong  from  the  mountain  top. 
And  shut  the  lovely  scene,  and  bade  all  nature  stop. 

With  contemplation’s  stores  his  mind  to  fill, 

0 doubly  happy  would  he  roam  as  then. 

When  the  blue  eve  crept  deeper  round  the  hill. 
While  the  coy  rabbit  ventured  from  his  den. 

And  weary  Labour  sought  his  rest  again  ; 

Lone  wanderings  led  him  haply  by  the  stream. 
Where  unperceived  he  ’joyed  his  hours  at  will. 
Musing  the  cricket  twittering  o’er  its  dream. 

Or  watching  o’er  the  brook  the  moonlight’s  dancing 
beam. 

And  here  the  rural  muse  might  aptly  say. 

As  sober  evening  sweetly  siles  along. 

How  she  has  chased  black  ignorance  away. 

And  warmed  his  artless  soul  with  feelings  strong. 
To  teach  his  reed  to  warble  forth  a song ; 

And  how  it  echoed  on  the  even-gale. 

All  by  the  brook  the  pasture-flowers  among ; 

But  ah  ! such  trifles  are  of  no  avail — 
there’s  few  to  notice  him,  or  hear  his  simple  tale. 


0 Poverty  ! thy  frowns  were  early  dealt 
O’er  him  who  mourned  thee,  not  by  fancy  led 
To  whine  and  wail  o’er  woes  he  never  felt. 

Staining  his  rhymes  with  tears  he  never  shed. 

And  heaving  sighs  a mock  song  only  bred : 

Alas  ! he  knew  too  much  of  every  pain 

That  showered  full  thick  on  his  unsheltered  head ; 

And  as  his  tears  and  sighs  did  erst  comi)Iain, 

His  numbers  took  it  up,  and  wept  it  o’er  again. 

JAMES  AND  HORACE  SMITH. 

James  Smith  (1775-1839)  was  a lively  and  amus- 
ing author  both  in  prose  and  verse.  His  father, 
Mr  Robert  Smith,  was  an  eminent  legal  practitioner 
in  London,  and  solicitor  to  the  Board  of  Ordnance — ■ 
a gentleman  of  learning  and  accomplishments,  whose 


James  Smith. 


latter  years  were  gratified  by  the  talents  and  repu- 
tation of  his  two  sons,  .Tames  and  Horace.  James, 
the  eldest,  was  educated  at  a school  at  Chigwell,  in 
Essex,  and  was  usually  at  the  head  of  his  class.  For 
this  retired  ‘schoolboy  spot’  he  ever  retained  a 
strong  affection,  rarely  suffering,  as  his  brother  re- 
lates, a long  interval  to  elapse  without  paying  it  a 
visit,  and  wandering  over  the  scenes  that  recalled 
the  truant  excursions  of  himself  and  chosen  play- 
mates, or  the  solitary  rambles  and  musings  of  his 
youth.  Two  of  his  latest  poems  are  devoted  to  his 
reminiscences  of  Chigwell.  After  the  completion  of 
his  education,  Janies  Smith  was  articled  to  his 
father,  w’as  taken  into  partnership  in  due  time,  and 
eventually  succeeded  to  the  business,  as  well  as  to 
the  appointment  of  solicitor  to  the  Ordnance.  With 
a quick  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  a strong  passion  for 
the  stage  and  the  drama,  and  a love  of  London 
society'  and  manners,  Srnitli  became  a town  wit  and 
humorist — delighting  in  parodies,  theatrical  collo- 
quies, and  fashionable  criticism.  His  first  pieces 
appear  to  have  been  contributed  to  the  Pic-Nic  news- 
pivper  established  by  Colonel  Henry  Greville,  which 
afterwards  merged  into  The  Caiinet,  both  being  solely 
calculated  for  the  topics  and  feelings  of  the  day.  A 
selection  from  the  Pic-Nic  papers,  in  two  small 
volumes,  was  published  in  1803.  He  next  joined 
the  writers  for  the  Loudon  Review — a journal  esta- 
blished by  Cumberland  the  dramatist,  on  the  novel 
principle  of  affixing  the  writer’s  name  to  his  critique. 


pnoM  1780  CYCI^OPiEDIA  OF  till  the  present  timr 


The  Review  proved  a eoniplete  failure.  The  system 
of  i)uhlishing  names  was  an  unwise  innovation,  de- 
stroying equally  the  harmless  curiosity  of  the  reader, 
and  the  critical  independence  of  the  author;  and 
Cumberland,  besides,  was  too  vain,  too  irritable  and 
poor,  to  secure  a good  list  of  contributors.  Smith 
then  became  a constant  writer  in  the  Monthly 
Mirror  (wherein  Henry  Kirke  White  first  attracted 
the  notice  of  what  may  be  termed  the  literary  world), 
and  in  this  work  appeared  a series  of  poetical  imita- 
tions, entitled  Horace  in  London,  the  joint  production 
of  James  and  Horace  Smith.  These  parodies  were 
subsequently  collected  and  published  in  one  volume 
in  1813,  after  the  success  of  the  Rejected  Addresses 
h.ad  rendered  the  authors  fimous.  Some  of  the 
pieces  display  a lively  vein  of  town  levity  and 
humour,  but  many  of  them  also  are  very  trifling 
and  tedious.  In  one  stanza,  James  Smith  has  given 
a true  sketch  of  his  own  tastes  and  character  : — 

Me  toil  and  case  alternate  share, 

Books,  and  the  conver.se  of  the  fair, 

(To  see  is  to  adore  ’em)  ; 

With  these,  and  London  for  my  home, 

1 envy  not  the  joys  of  Rome, 

The  Circus  or  the  Forum  I 

To  London  he  seems  to  have  been  as  strongly  at- 
tached as  Dr  Johnson  himself.  ‘A  confirmed  me- 
tropolitan in  all  his  tastes  and  habits,  he  would  often 
quaintly  observe,  that  London  was  the  best  place  in 
summer,  and  the  only  place  in  winter;  or  quote  Dr 
Jolinson’s  dogma — “Sir,  the  man  that  is  tired  of 
London  is  tired  of  existence.”  At  other  times  he 
would  express  his  perfect  concurrence  with  Dr 
Mosley’s  assertion,  that  in  the  country  one  is  always 
maddened  with  the  noise  of  nothing : or  laughingly 
quote  the  Duke  of  Queensberry’s  rejoinder  on  being 
told  one  sultry  day  in  September  that  London  was 
exceedingly  empty — “Yes,  but  it’s  fuller  than  the 
country.”  He  would  not,  perhaps,  have  gone  quite 
so  far  as  his  old  friend  Jekyll,  who  used  to  say,  that 
“ if  compelled  to  live  in  the  country,  he  would  have 
the  approach  to  his  house  paved  like  the  streets  of 
London,  and  hire  a hackney-coach  to  drive  up  and 
down  the  street  all  day  long ;”  but  he  would  relate, 
with  great  glee,  a story  showing  the  general  con- 
viction of  his  dislike  to  ruralities.  He  was  sitting 
in  the  library  at  a country  house,  when  a gentleman, 
informing  him  that  the  family  were  all  out,  proposed 
a quiet  stroll  into  the  pleasure-grounds.  “ Stroll ! 
why,  don’t  you  see  my  gouty  shoe  ?”  “ Yes,  but 

what  then  ? you  don’t  really  mean  to  say  that  you 
have  got  the  gout?  I thought  you  haS  only  put  on 
that  shoe  to  avoid  being  shown  over  the  improve- 
ment.s.’”*  There  is  some  good- humoured  banter  and 
exaggeration  in  this  dislike  of  ruralities;  and  accord- 
ingly we  find  that,  as  Johnson  found  his  way  to  the 
remote  Hebrides,  Smith  occasionally  transported 
himself  to  Yorkshire  and  other  places,  the  country 
seats  of  friends  and  noblemen.  The  ‘Rejected  Ad- 
dresses’ appeared  in  1812,  having  engaged  James 
and  Horace  Smith  six  weeks,  and  proving  ‘one  of 
the  luckiest  hits  in  literature.’  The  directors  of 
Drury  Lane  theatre  had  offered  a premium  for  the 
best  poetical  address  to  be  spoken  on  opening  the 
new  edifice;  and  a casual  hint  from  Mr  Ward,  secre- 
tary to  the  theatre,  suggested  to  the  witty  brothers 
the  composition  of  a series  of  humorous  addresses, 
professedly  composed  by  the  principal  authors  of  the 
day.  The  work  was  ready  by  the  opening  of  the 
theatre,  and  its  success  was  almost  unexampled. 
Eighteen  editions  have  been  sold ; and  the  copy- 

* Memoir  prefixed  to  Smith’s  Comic  Miscellanies,  2 vols. 

»4l. 


right,  which  had  been  originally  offered  to  Mr  Mur  - 
ray  for  L.20,  was  purchased  by  that  gentleman,  in 
1819,  after  the  sixteenth  edition,  for  L.131.  The 
articles  written  by  James  Smith  consisted  of  imita- 
tions of  Wordsworth,  Cobbett,  Southey,  Coleridge, 
Crabbe,  and  a few  travesties.  Some  of  them  are 
inimitable,  particularly  the  parodies  on  Cobbett  and 
Crabbe,  which  were  also  among  the  most  popular. 
Horace  Smith  contributed  imitations  of  Walter 
Scott,  Moore,  Monk  Lewis,  Lord  Byron,  W.  T. 
Fitzgerald  (whose  ‘Loyal  Effusion’  is  irresistibly 
ludicrous  for  its  extravagant  adulation  and  fustian), 
Dr  Johnson,  &c.  The  amount  of  talent  displayed 
by  the  two  brothers  was  pretty  equal ; for  none  of 
James  Smith’s  parodies  are  more  felicitous  than  that 
of  Scott  by  Horace.  The  popularity  of  the  ‘ Rejected 
Addresses’  seems  to  have  satisfied  the  ambition  of 
the  elder  poet.  He  afterwards  confined  himself  to 
short  anonymous  pieces  in  the  New  Monthly  Maga* 
zine  and  other  periodicals,  and  to  the  contribution 
of  some  humorous  sketches  and  anecdotes  towards 
Mr  Mathews’s  theatrical  entertainments,  the  author- 
ship of  which  was  known  only  to  a few.  The 
Country  Cousins,  Trip  to  France,  and  Trip  to  America, 
mostly  written  by  Smith,  and  brought  out  by 
Mathews  at  the  English  Opera  House,  not  only 
filled  the  theatre,  and  replenished  the  treasury,  but 
brought  the  witty  writer  a thousand  pounds — a sura 
to  which,  ive  are  told,  the  receiver  seldom  made 
allusion  without  shrugging  up  his  shoulders,  and 
ejaculating,  ‘ A thousand  pounds  for  nonsense !’ 
Mr  Smith  was  still  better  paid  for  a trifling  exer- 
tion of  his  muse  ; for,  having  met  at  a dinner  party 
the  late  Mr  Strahan,  the  king’s  printer,  then  suffer- 
ing from  gout  and  old  age,  though  his  faculties  re- 
mained unimpaired,  he  sent  him  next  morning  the 
following  ycM  d'esprit : — 

Your  lower  limbs  seemed  far  from  stout 
When  last  I saw  you  walk  ; 

The  cau.se  I presently  found  out 
When  you  began  to  talk. 

The  power  that  props  the  body’s  length, 

In  due  proportion  spread, 

In  you  mounts  upwards,  and  the  strength  | 

All  settles  in  the  head.  ; 

Mr  Strahan  was  so  much  gratified  by  the  compli- 
ment, that  he  made  an  immediate  codicil  to  his 
will,  by  which  he  bequeathed  to  the  writer  the  sum 
of  L.3000 1 Horace  Smith,  however,  mentions  that 
Mr  Strahan  had  other  motives  for  his  generosity, 
for  he  respected  and  loved  the  man  quite  as  much 
as  he  admired  the  poet.  James  made  a happier, 
though,  in  a pecuniary  sense,  less  lucky  epigram 
on  Miss  Edgeworth : — 

We  every-day  bards  may  ‘anonymous’  sign — 

That  refuge.  Miss  Edgeworth,  can  never  be  thine. 

Thy  writings,  where  satire  and  moral  unite. 

Must  bring  forth  the  name  of  their  author  to  light. 

Good  and  bad  join  in  telling  the  source  of  their  birth; 
The  bad  own  their  EnoE,  and  the  good  ovm  their 
WORTU. 

The  easy  social  bachelor-life  of  James  Smith  was 
much  impaired  by  hereditary  gout.  He  lived  tem- 
perately, and  at  his  club-dinner  restricted  himself  to 
ids  half-pint  of  sherry ; but  as  a professed  joker  and 
‘ diner  out,’  he  must  often  have  been  tempted  to 
over-indulgence  and  irregular  hours.  Attacks  of 
gout  began  to  assail  him  in  middle  life,  and  he  gra- 
dually lost  the  use  and  the  very  form  of  his  limhs, 
bearing  all  his  sufferings,  as  his  brother  state.s,  with 
‘ an  undeviating  and  unexampled  patience.’  One  of 

430 


1>0ETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


the  stiinziis  in  liis  poem  on  Cliigwell  displays  his 
philosophic  composure  at  this  period  of  his  life : — 

World,  in  thy  ever  busy  mart 
I've  acted  no  unnoticed  part — 

Would  1 resume  it  ? oh  no  1 
Four  acts  are  done,  the  jest  grows  stale ; 

The  waning  lamps  burn  dim  and  pale, 

And  reason  asks — Cui  bono  ? 

He  lu'ld  it  a humiliation  to  be  ill,  and  never  com- 
plained or  alluded  to  his  own  sufferings.  He  died 
on  the  24th  December  1839,  aged  65.  Lady  Bles- 
sington  said,  ‘ If  .lames  Smith  had  not  been  a witty 
man,  he  must  have  been  a great  man.'  His  extensive 
information  and  refined  manners,  joined  to  an  in- 
exhaustible fund  of  liveliness  and  humour,  and  a 
happy  uniform  temper,  rendered  him  a fascinating 
companion.  The  writings  of  such  a man  give  but 
a faint  idea  of  the  original ; yet  in  his  own  walk  of 
literature  James  Smith  has  few  superiors.  Anstej' 
comes  most  directly  into  competition  with  him  ; yet 
it  may  be  safely  said  that  the  ‘ Rejected  Addresses’ 
will  live  as  long  as  the  ‘ New  Bath  Guide.’ 

The  surviving  partner  of  this  literary  duumvirate 
— the  most  constant  and  interesting,  perhaps,  since 
“ihat  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  more  affec- 
tionate from  the  relationship  of  the  parties — has 
distinguished  himself  by  his  novels  and  historical 
romances,  and  by  his  generosity  to  various  literary 
men.  Mr  Horace  Smith  has  also  written  some 
copies  of  verses,  one  of  which,  the  Address  to  the 
Mummy,  is  a felicitous  compound  of  fact,  humour, 
and  sentiment,  forcibly  and  originally  expressed. 

The  Theatre. — By  the  Rev.  O.  C.  [Crahbe.'] 

Tis  sweet  to  view,  from  half-past  five  to  six. 

Our  long  wax  candles,  with  short  cotton  wicks. 
Touched  by  the  lamplighter’s  Promethean  art. 

Start  into  light,  and  make  the  lighter  start : 

To  see  red  Phoebus  through  the  gallery  pane 
Tinge  with  his  beam  the  beams  of  Drury  Lane, 

While  gradual  parties  fill  our  widened  pit, 

And  gape,  and  gaze,  and  wonder,  ere  they  sit.  * * 

What  various  swains  our  motley  walls  contain  ! 
Fashion  from  Moorfields,  honour  from  Chick  Lane ; 
Bankers  from  Paper  Buildings  here  resort, 

Bankrupts  from  Golden  Square  and  Riches  Court ; 
From  the  Haymarket  canting  rogues  in  grain, 

Gulls  from  the  Poultry,  sots  from  Water  Lane; 

The  lottery  cormorant,  the  auction  shark. 

The  full-price  master,  and  the  half-price  clerk ; 

Boys  who  long  linger  at  the  gallery  door. 

With  pence  twice  five,  they  want  but  twopence  more, 
Till  some  Samaritan  the  twopence  spares, 

And  sends  them  jumping  up  the  gallery  stairs. 

Critics  we  boast  who  ne’er  their  malice  baulk, 

But  talk  their  minds,  we  wish  they’d  mind  their  talk ; 
Big  worded  bullies,  who  by  quarrels  live, 

Who  give  the  lie,  and  tell  the  lie  they  give ; 

Jews  from  St  Mary  Axe,  for  jobs  so  wary. 

That  for  old  clothes  they’d  even  axe  St  Mary ; 

And  bucks  with  pockets  empty  as  their  pate, 

Lax  in  their  gaiters,  laxer  in  their  gait ; 

Who  oft,  when  we  our  house  lock  up,  carouse 
With  tippling  tipstaves  in  a lock-up  house. 

Yet  here,  as  elsewhere,  chance  can  joy  bestow. 
Where  scowling  fortune  seemed  to  threaten  wo. 

John  Richard  William  Alexander  Dwyer 
Was  footman  to  Justinian  Stubbs,  Esquire; 

But  when  John  Dwyer  listed  in  the  Blues, 

Emanuel  Jennings  polished  Stubbs’s  shoes. 

Emanuel  Jennings  brought  his  youngest  boy 
Up  as  a co'm  cutter — a safe  employ ; 


JAMES  AND  IIOnACE  SMITH. 


In  Holywell  Street,  St  Pancras,  he  was  bred 
(At  number  twenty-seven,  it  is  said). 

Facing  the  pump,  and  near  the  Granby’s  head. 

He  would  have  bound  him  to  some  shop  in  tovm, 

But  with  a premium  he  could  not  come  down  : 

Pat  was  the  urchin’s  name,  a red-haired  youth. 

Fonder  of  purl  and  skittle-grounds  than  truth. 

Silence,  ye  gods  ! to  keep  your  tongues  in  awe, 

The  muse  shall  tell  an  accident  she  saw. 

Pat  Jennings  in  the  upper  gallery  sat ; 

But,  leaning  forward,  Jennings  lost  his  hat  ; 

Down  from  the  gallery  the  beaver  flew. 

And  spurned  the  one.  to  settle  in  the  two. 

How  shall  he  act  ? Pay  at  the  gallery  door 
Two  shillings  for  what  cost  when  new  but  four! 

Or  till  half  price,  to  save  his  shilling,  wait. 

And  gain  his  hat  again  at  half-past  eigtit! 

Now,  while  his  fears  anticipate  a thief, 

John  Mullins  whispers,  Take  my  handkerchief. 

Thank  you,  cries  Pat,  but  one  won’t  make  a line ; 

Take  mine,  cried  Wilson  ; and,  cried  Stokes,  take  mine, 

A motley  cable  soon  Pat  Jennings  ties, 

Where  Spitalfields  with  real  India  vies. 

Like  Iris’  bow,  down  darts  the  painted  hue. 

Starred,  striped,  and  spotted,  yellow,  red,  and  blue, 

Old  calico,  torn  silk,  and  muslin  new. 

George  Green  below,  with  palpitating  hand. 

Loops  the  last  ’kerchief  to  the  beaver’s  band  ; 

Upsoars  the  prize  ; the  youth,  with  joy  unfeigned. 
Regained  the  felt,  and  felt  what  he  regained, 

While  to  the  applauding  galleries  grateful  Pat 
Made  a low  bow,  and  touched  the  ransomed  hat.  * • 

The  Baby's  Dd)ut. — By  W.  W.  [ Wordsicorth.^ 

[Spoken  in  the  character  of  Nancy  Lake,  a girl  eight  years  of 
age,  who  is  drawn  upon  the  stage  in  a child’s  chaise  by 
Samuel  Hughes,  her  uncle's  porter.] 

My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May, 

And  I was  eight  on  New  Year’s  Dav; 

So  in  Kate  Wilson’s  shop 
Papa  (he’s  my  papa  and  Jack’s) 

Bought  me,  last  week,  a doll  of  wax. 

And  brother  Jack  a top.  j 

Jack’s  in  the  pouts,  and  this  it  is. 

He  thinks  mine  came  to  more  than  his. 

So  to  my  drawer  he  goes. 

Takes  out  the  doll,  and,  oh  my  stars ! 

He  pokes  her  head  between  the  bars. 

And  melts  off  half  her  nose  1 
Quite  cross,  a bit  of  string  I beg. 

And  tie  it  to  his  peg  top’s  peg. 

And  bang,  with  might  and  main. 

Its  head  against  the  parlour  door : 

Off  flies  the  head,  and  hits  the  floor. 

And  breaks  a window-pane. 

This  made  him  cry  with  rage  and  spite ; 

Well,  let  him  cry,  it  serves  him  right. 

A pretty  thing,  forsooth  ! 

If  he’s  to  melt,  all  scalding  hot. 

Half  my  doll’s  nose,  and  I am  not 
To  draw  his  peg  top’s  tooth  1 
Aunt  Hannah  heard  the  window  break. 

And  cried,  ‘ 0 naughty  Nancy  Lake, 

Thus  to  dhstress  your  aunt : 

No  Drury  Lane  for  you  to-day!’ 

And  while  papa  said,  ‘ Pooh,  she  may!* 

Mamma  said,  ‘ No,  she  shan’t !’ 

Well,  after  many  a sad  reproach. 

They  got  into  a hackney  coach. 

And  trotted  down  the  street. 

I saw  them  go  : one  horse  was  blind ; 

The  tails  of  both  hung  down  behind  ; 

Their  shoes  were  on  their  feet. 


PROM  I7)i0 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TII.L  TIM!  PUBSBNT  T1M& 


Till  fliiUM;  in  wliicli  poor  lirother  Hill 
Csod  to  lio  (Iran II  to  I’entonville, 
iStooil  in  tlic  Innilior  room  : 

1 ivipoil  tlic  ilii.it  from  oft' tho  top. 
While  Mollj’  mo|ipe(l  it  with  a mop, 
Ami  hruihcd  it  with  a broom. 


My  uncle’s  porter,  Samuel  Huphes, 

Came  in  at  six  to  black  the  shoes 
(I  always  talk  to  Sam)  : 

So  what  does  he,  hut  takes  and  drags 
Me  in  the  chaise  along  the  Hags, 

And  leaves  me  where  1 am. 

My  father’s  walls  are  made  of  brick, 
llut  not  Ml  tall,  and  not  so  thick 
As  these  ; and,  goodness  me  ! 

My  father’s  beams  are  made  of  wood, 

But  never,  never  half  so  good 
As  these  that  now  1 .see. 

What  a large  floor!  ’tis  like  a town  ! 

The  carpet,  when  they  lay  it  down. 

Won’t  hide  it.  I’ll  be  bound  : 

And  there’s  a row  of  lamyis  ; my  eye  ! 

How  they  do  blaze!  1 wonder  why 
They  keep  them  on  the  ground. 

At  first  I caught  hold  of  the  wing. 

And  kept  away  ; but  Mr  Thing- 
Umbol),  the  yirompter  man. 

Cave  with  his  hand  my  chaise  a shove. 

And  .said,  ‘ Co  on,  my  yiretty  love; 

Syieak  to  ’em,  little  Nan. 

You’ve  only  got  to  curtsey,  whisp- 
er, hold  your  chin  up,  laugh  and  lisp. 

And  then  you’re  sure  to  take  : 

I’ve  known  the  day  when  brats  not  quite 
Thirteen  got  fifty  yiounds  a-night. 

Then  why  not  Nancy  Lake!’ 

But  while  I’m  speaking,  where’s  papa? 

And  where’s  my  aunt!  and  where’s  mamma? 

Where’s  Jack?  Oh,  there  they  sit! 

They  smile,  they  nod  ; I’ll  go  my  way.s, 

And  order  round  poor  Billy’s  chaise, 

To  join  them  in  the  pit. 

And  now,  good  gentlefolks,  I go 
To  join  mamma,  and  see  the  show; 

So,  bidding  you  adieu, 

I curtsey,  like  a pretty  miss. 

And  if  you’ll  blow  to  me  a kiss, 

I’ll  blow  a kiss  to  you. 

[Blows  kiss,  and  exit. 

Tale  of  Drury  Lane. — By  W.  S.  [ScoW.] 

* * if 

As  chaos  which,  by  heavenly  doom. 

Had  slept  in  everlasting  gloom. 

Started  with  terror  and  surprise, 

M'hen  light  first  Hashed  upon  her  eyes : 

So  London’s  sons  in  nightcap  woke, 

In  bedgown  woke  her  dames. 

For  shouts  were  heard  mid  fire  and  smoke. 

And  twice  ten  hundred  voices  spoke, 

‘ The  playhouse  is  in  flames.’ 

And  lo  1 where  Catherine  Street  extends, 

A fiery  tail  its  lustre  lends 
To  every  window-pane : 

Blushes  each  spout  in  Martlet  Court, 

And  Barbican,  moth-eaten  fort. 

And  Covent  Garden  kennels  .sport, 

A bright  en.sanguined  drain  ; 

Meux’s  new  brewhou.se  shows  the  light, 

Rowland  Hill’s  chapel,  and  the  height 
Where  patent  shot  they  sell : 


The  Tennis  Court,  so  fair  and  tall, 

I’artakes  the  ray,  with  Surgeons’  Hall, 

'J'he  Ticket  I’orters’  house  of  call. 

Old  Bedlam,  close  by  London  Wall, 
Wright’s  shrimp  and  oyster  shop  withal, 
And  Richardson’s  hotel. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  far  and  wide 
Across  the  Thames’s  gleaming  tide. 

To  distant  fields  the  blaze  was  borne; 

And  daisy  white  and  hoary  thorn. 

In  borrowed  lustre  seemed  to  sham 
The  rose  or  red  sweet  Wil-li-am. 

To  those  who  on  the  hills  around 
Beheld  the  flames  from  Drury’s  mound, 
As  from  a lofty  altar  rise; 

It  seemed  that  nations  did  conspire, 

To  offer  to  the  god  of  fire 
Some  vast  stui>endous  sacrifice! 

The  summoned  firemen  woke  at  call. 

And  hied  them  to  their  stations  all. 

Starting  from  .short  and  broken  snoose. 

Each  sought  his  ponderous  hobnailed  shoes; 
But  first  his  worsted  hosen  jilied. 

Plush  breeches  next  in  crim.son  dyed, 

His  nether  bulk  embraced  ; 

Then  jacket  thick  of  red  or  blue. 

Whose  massy  shoulder  gave  to  view 
The  badge  of  each  respective  crew. 

In  tin  or  cojip^  traced. 

The  engines  thundered  through  the  street. 
Fire-hook,  pipe,  bucket,  all  conqilete. 

And  torches  glared,  and  clattering  feet 
Along  the  pavement  paced.  * * 

E’en  Higginbottom  now  was  posed. 

For  sadder  scene  was  ne’er  di.sclosed; 
Without,  within,  in  hideous  show. 
Devouring  flames  resistless  glow, 

And  blazing  rafters  downward  go. 

And  never  halloo  ‘ Heads  below!’ 

Nor  notice  give  at  all : 

The  firemen,  terrified,  are  slow 
To  bid  the  pumping  torrent  flow. 

For  fear  the  roof  should  fall. 

Back,  Robins,  back  ! Crump,  stand  aloof! 

Whitford,  keep  near  the  walls ! 

Huggins,  regard  your  own  behoof. 

For,  lo  ! the  blazing  rocking  roof 
Down,  down  in  thunder  falls  ! 

An  awful  pause  succeeds  the  stroke. 

And  o’er  the  ruins  volumed  smoke. 

Rolling  around  its  pitchy  shroud. 

Concealed  them  from  the  astonished  crowd. 
At  length  the  mist  awhile  was  cleared. 
When  lo!  amid  the  wreck  upreared. 
Gradual  a moving  head  appeared. 

And  Eagle  firemen  knew 
’Twas  Joseph  Muggins,  name  revered. 

The  foreman  of  their  crew. 

Loud  shouted  all  in  signs  of  wo, 

‘ A Muggins  to  the  re.seue,  ho  !’ 

And  poured  the  hissing  tide : 

Fleanwhile  the  Muggins  fought  amain. 

And  strove  and  struggled  all  in  vain. 

For  rallying  but  to  fall  again. 

He  tottered,  sunk,  and  died! 

Did  none  attempt,  before  he  fell, 

To  succour  one  they  loved  so  well  ? 

Yes,  Higginbottom  did  aspire 
(His  fireman’s  soul  was  all  on  fire) 

His  brother  chief  to  save  ; 

But  ah  1 his  reckless  generous  ire 
Served  but  to  share  his  grave  1 
’Mid  blazing  beams  and  scalding  streams. 
Through  fire  and  smoke  he  dauntless  broke, 

433 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


eORTS. 


W licit’  .Muggiiis  broke  befoi-e. 

Iiu(  .Mili’liur^’  ntc'iich  luicl  boiling  drench 
Ue^trovlIlg  jiiglit,  o’crwhcluied  him  quite; 

He  sunk  to  ri.se  no  more. 

Still  o'er  his  head,  while  Fate  he  braved. 

His  whizzing  water-pipe  he  waved  ; 

‘ Whitl'oril  and  Mitford  ply  your  pumps  ; 

You,  Cliitterbuck,  come,  stir  your  stumps; 
Why  are  you  in  such  doleful  dumps? 

A fireman,  and  afraid  of  bumps! 

What  arc  they  feared  on  ? fools — ’od  rot  ’em  !’ 
^\■c^e  the  last  words  of  Higginbottom.  * * 


The  Upas  in  Marybone  Lane. 
fBy  Jamss  Suith.] 

A tree  grew  in  Java,  whose  pestilent  rind 
A venom  distilled  of  the  deadliest  kind  ; 

The  Dutch  sent  their  felons  its  juices  to  draw, 

And  who  returned  safe,  pleaded  pardon  by  law. 

Facc-mul^ed,  the  culprits  crept  into  the  vale, 
Advancing  from  windward  to  ’scape  the  death-gale; 
How  few  the  reward  of  their  victory  earned  ! 

For  ninety-nine  perished  for  one  who  returned. 

Britannia  this  Upas-tree  bought  of  Mynheer, 

Removed  it  through  Holland,  and  planted  it  here ; 
Tis  now  a stock-plant  of  the  genus  woirs-bane. 

And  one  of  them  blossoms  in  Marybone  Lane. 

The  house  that  surrounds  it  stands  first  in  the  row, 
Two  doors  at  right  angles  swing  ojien  below  ; 

\nd  the  children  of  misery  daily  steal  in. 

And  the  poison  they  draw  they  denominate  Gin. 

There  enter  the  prude,  and  the  reprobate  boy. 

The  mother  of  grief,  and  the  daughter  of  joy, 

The  serving-maid  slim,  and  the  serving-man  stout. 
They  quickly  steal  in,  and  they  .slowly  reel  out. 

Surcharged  with  the  venom,  some  walk  forth  erect, 
Api<arently  baffling  its  deadly  effect ; 

But,  sooner  or  later,  the  reckoning  arrives. 

And  ninety-nine  perish  for  one  who  survives. 

The}'  cautious  advance  with  slouched  bonnet  and  hat. 
They  enter  at  this  door,  they  go  out  at  that ; 

Some  bear  off  their  burden  with  riotous  glee. 

But  most  sink  in  sleep  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

Tax,  Chancellor  Van,  the  Batavian  to  thwart. 

This  compound  of  crime  at  a sovereign  a quart ; 

Let  gin  fetch  per  bottle  the  price  of  champagne. 

And  hew  down  the  Upas  in  Marybone  Lane. 

Address  to  the  Mummy  in  Bchoni's  Exhibition. 

[By  Horace  Smith.] 

And  thou  hast  walked  about  (how'  strange  a story !) 

In  Thebes's  streets  three  thousand  years  ago. 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory. 

And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 
Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous. 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous  ! 

Speak  ! for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dumby  ; 

Thou  hast  a tongue,  come,  let  us  hear  its  tune  ; 
Thou’rt  standing  on  thy  legs  above  ground,  mummy ! 

Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 

Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures. 

But  with  thy  bones  and  flesh,  and  limbs  and  features. 

Tell  us — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect — 

To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx’s  fame  1 
W as  Cheops  or  Cejihrenes  architect 
Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name! 

70 


JAMIiS  AND  HORACE  SHITR. 


Is  I’ompcy’s  pillar  really  a misnomer! 

Had  Thebes  a hundred  gates,  us  sung  by  Homer! 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a mason,  and  forbidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade — 

Then  say,  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon’s  statue,  whicli  at  sunrise  played! 
Perhaps  thou  wert  a priest — if  so,  my  struggles 
Are  vain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles. 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat. 

Has  hob-.vnobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass; 

Or  dropped  a halfpenny  in  Homer’s  hat. 

Or  doffed  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass. 

Or  held,  by  Solomon’s  own  invitation, 

A torch  at  the  great  Temple’s  dedication. 

I need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed. 

Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled. 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  embalmed, 

Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  lieen  suckled : 
Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 
Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  couldst  develope,  if  that  withered  tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have  seen. 
How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh  and  young. 
And  the  great  deluge  still  had  left  it  green; 

Or  w’as  it  then  so  old,  that  history’s  pages 
Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages? 

Still  silent,  incommunicative  elf! 

Art  sworn  to  .secrecy?  then  'keep  thy  vows; 

But  prithee  tell  us  something  of  thyself; 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house  ; 

Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast  slumbered, 
VV’hat  hast  thou  seen — what  strange  adventures  num* 
bered  ? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extcn(K  -v, 

VV’e  have,  above  ground,  seen  some  strange  muta- 
tions ; 

The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended. 

New  worlds  have  risen — we  have  lost  old  nations. 
And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled. 
Whilst  not  a fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o’er  thy  head. 

When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Canib}  s.is, 
Marched  armies  o’er  thy  tomb  with  thundering  tread, 
O’erthrew  Osiri.s,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, 

And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder. 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb’s  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold  : 

A heart  has  throbb’d  beneath  that  leathern  breasi., 
And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek  have  rolled  ; 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed  that 
face  ? 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race ! 

Statue  of  flesh — immortal  of  the  dead  ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence  I 
Posthumous  man,  who  quit’st  thy  narrow  bed. 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence. 

Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  judgment  morning 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  lit 
warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  for  ever! 

Oh,  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 
In  living  virtue,  that,  when  both  must  sever, 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume. 

The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom.* 

* Originally  published  in  the  New  Monthly  Magasine. 

433 


PUOM  17li0 


cyclop^:dia  of 


TILL  THE  PKESEST  IlMi. 


JOHN  WILSON. 


PR0FI•;8^0R  Wilson,  the  distinguished  occupant  of 
the  cliair  of  moral  philosophy  in  the  university  of 
Edinburgh,  earned  his  first  laurels  by  his  poetry. 


Professor  Wilson. 


He  was  born  in  the  year  1788,  in  the  town  of  Paisley, 
where  his  father  had  carried  on  business,  and  at- 
tained to  opulence  as  a manufacturer.  At  the  age 
of  thirteen,  the  poet  was  entered  of  Glasgow  univer- 
sity, whence  in  due  time  he  was  transferred  to 
Magdalene  college,  0.xford.  Here  he  carried  off  the 
Newdigate  prize  from  a vast  number  of  competitors 
for  the  best  English  poem  of  fifty  lines.  Mr  Wilson 
was  distinguished  in  these  youthful  years  by  his 
fine  athletic  frame,  and  a face  at  once  handsome 
and  expressive  of  genius.  A noted  capacity  for 
knowledge  and  remarkable  literary  powers  were 
at  the  same  time  united  to  a singular  taste  for 
gymnastic  exercises  and  rural  sports.  After  four 
years’  residence  at  Oxford,  the  poet  purchased  a 
small  but  beautiful  estate,  named  Elleray,  on  the 
banks  of  the  lake  Windermere,  where  he  went  to 
reside.  He  married — built  a house  and  a yacht- 
enjoyed  himself  among  the  magnificent  scenery  of 
the  lakes — wrote  poetry — and  cultivated  the  society 
of  Wordsworth.  These  must  have  been  happy  days. 
With  youth,  robust  health,  fortune,  and  an  exhau.st- 
less  imagination,  Wilson  must,  in  such  a spot,  have 
been  blest  even  up  to  the  dreams  of  a poet.  Some 
reverses  however  came,  and,  after  entering  himself 
of  the  Scottish  bar,  he  sought  and  obtained  his 
moral  philosophy  chair.  He  connected  himself  also 
with  Blackwood’s  Magazine,  and  in  this  miscel- 
lany poured  forth  the  riches  of  his  fancy,  learning, 
and  taste — displaying  also  the  peculiarities  of  his 
sanguine  and  impetuous  temperament.  The  most 
valuable  of  these  contributions  have  been  collected 
and  published  (1842)  in  three  volumes,  under  the  title 
of  TAe  Recreations  of  Christopher  North.  The  criti- 
cisms on  poetry  understood  to  be  from  the  pen  of 
Wilson,  are  often  highly  eloquent,  and  conceived 
in  a truly  kindred  spirit.  A series  of  papers  on 
Spenser  and  Homer  are  equally  remarkable  for 
their  discrimination  and  imaginative  luxuriance. 
In  reference  to  these  ‘ golden  spoils’  of  criticism,  Mr 
Hallam  has  characterised  the  professor  as  ‘a  living 
writer  of  the  most  ardent  and  enthusiastic  genius. 


whose  eloquence  is  as  the  rush  of  mighty  waters. 
The  poetical  works  of  Wilson  have  been  collected 
in  two  volumes.  They  consist  of  the  Isle  of  Palms 
(1812),  the  City  of  the  Plague  (1816),  and  several 
smaller  pieces,  'rite  broad  humour  and  satire  of 
some  of  his  prose  papers  form  a contrast  to  the  deli- 
cacy and  tenderness  of  his  acknowledged  writings — 
particularly  his  poetry.  He  has  an  outer  and  an 
inner  man — one  shrewd,  bitter,  observant,  and  full 
of  untamed  energy ; the  other  calm,  graceful,  and 
meditative — ‘ all  conscience  and  tender  heart.’  Ho 
deals  generally  in  extremes,  and  the  prevailing  de- 
fect of  his  poetry  is  its  uniform  sweetness  and  femi- 
nine softness  of  character.  ‘ Almost  the  only  pas- 
sions,’ says  Jeffrey,  ‘ with  which  his  poetry  is  con- 
versant, are  the  gentler  sympathies  of  our  nature — 
tender  compassion,  confiding  afiection,  and  guiltless 
sorrow.  From  all  these  there  result.s,  along  with  a 
most  touching  and  tranquillising  sweetness,  a cer- 
tain monotony  and  languor,  which,  to  those  who  read 
poetry  for  amusement  merely,  will  be  apt  to  appear 
like  dulness,  and  must  be  felt  as  a defect  by  all  who 
have  been  used  to  the  variety,  rapidity,  and  energy 
of  the  popular  poetry  of  the  day.’  Some  of  the  scenes 
in  the  City  of  the  Plague  are,  however,  exquisitely- 
drawn,  and  his  descriptions  of  lake  and  mountain 
scenery,  though  idealised  by  his  imagination,  are  not 
unworthy  of  Wordsworth.  The  prose  descriptions 
of  Wilson  have  obscured  his  poetical,  because  in  the 
former  he  gives  the  reins  to  his  fancy,  and,  while 
preserving  the  general  outline  and  distinctive  fea-  ( 
tures  of  the  landscape,  adds  a number  of  subsidiary  ; 
charms  and  attractions.  j 

[.d  Ilome  among  the  Mountains.'^  i 

[From  the  ‘ City  of  the  Plague.’] 

MAGDALENE  and  ISABEL. 

Magdalene.  How  bright  and  fair  that  aftemooi 
returns 

When  last  we  parted ! Even  now  I feel 
Its  dewy  freshness  in  my  soul ! Sweet  breeze  I 
That  hymning  like  a spirit  up  the  lake. 

Came  through  the  tall  pines  on  yon  little  isle 
Across  to  us  upon  the  vernal  shore 
With  a kind  friendly  greeting.  Frankfort  blest 
The  unseen  musician  floating  through  the  air, 

And  smiling,  said,  ‘ Wild  harjier  of  the  hill  I 
So  mayst  thou  play  thy  ditty  when  once  more 
This  lake  I do  revisit.’  As  he  spoke. 

Away  died  the  music  in  the  firmament. 

And  unto  silence  left  our  parting  hour. 

No  breeze  will  ever  steal  from  nature’s  heart 
So  sweet  again  to  me. 

Whate’er  my  doom. 

It  cannot  be  unhappy.  God  hath  given  me 
The  boon  of  resignation  : I could  die. 

Though  doubtless  human  fears  would  cross  my  soul. 
Calmly  even  now  ; yet  if  it  be  ordained 
That  I return  unto  my  native  valley. 

And  live  with  Frankfort  there,  why  should  I feai 
To  say  I might  be  happy — happier  far 
Than  I deserve  to  be.  Sweet  Rydal  lake ! 

Am  I again  to  visit  thee?  to  hear 

Thy  glad  waves  murmuring  all  around  my  soul  ? 

Isabel.  Methinks  1 see  us  in  a cheerful  group 
Walking  along  the  margin  of  the  bay. 

Where  our  lone  summer-house 

Magd.  Sweet  mossy  ceil ! 

So  cool — so  shady — silent  and  composed! 

A constant  evening  full  of  gentle  dreams  ! 

Where  joy  was  felt  like  sadness,  and  our  grief 
A melancholy  pleasant  to  be  borne. 

Hath  the  green  linnet  built  her  nest  this  spring 
In  her  own  rose-bush  near  the  quiet  door  I 
Bright  solitary  bird  ! she  oft  will  miss 

434 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  wn.son. 


Her  human  fiipiuls  : our  orchanl  now  must  be 
A wihloniess  of  sweets,  by  none  beloved. 

Ixi-IkI.  f)ne  blessed  week  would  soon  restore  its  beauty, 
Were  we  at  home.  Nature  can  work  no  wrong. 

The  very  weeds  how  lovely  ! the  confusion 
Potli  speak  of  breezes,  sunshine,  and  the  dew. 

Jilayii.  1 hear  the  murmuring  of  a thousand  bees 
In  that  bright  oeiorous  honeysuckle  wall 
That  once  enclosed  the  happiest  family 
That  ever  lived  beneath  the  blessed  skies. 

Where  is  that  family  now  ? 0 Isabel, 

I feel  my  soul  descending  to  the  grave, 

And  all  these  loveliest  rural  images 
Fade,  like  waves  breaking  on  a dreary  shore  ! 

Jmbel.  Even  now  I see  a stream  of  sunshine  bathing 
The  bright  moss-roses  round  our  parlour  window! 

Oh  1 were  we  sitting  in  that  room  once  more ! 

Magd.  ’T would  seem  inhuman  to  be  happy  there, 
And  both  my  parents  dead.  Ilow  could  1 walk 
On  what  I used  to  call  my  father’s  walk. 

He  in  his  grare!  or  look  upon  that  tree. 

Each  year  so  full  of  blossoms  or  of  fruit. 

Planted  by  my  mother,  and  her  holy  name 
Graven  on  its  s*em  by  mine  own  infant  handsl 

A Sleeping  Child. 

Art  thou  a thing  of  mortal  birth. 

Whose  happy  home  is  on  our  earth  * 

Does  human  blood  with  life  imbue 
Those  wandering  veins  of  heavenly  blue 
That  stray  along  thy  forehead  fair. 

Lost  ’mid  a gleam  of  golden  hair? 

Oh!  can  .hat  light  and  airy  breath 
Steal  from  a being  doomed  to  death ; 

Those  features  to  the  grave  be  sent 
In  sleet)  thus  mutely  eloquent  ? 

Or  art  thou,  what  thy  form  would  seem. 

The  phantom  of  a blessed  dream  ? 

Oh!  that  my  spirit’s  eye  could  see 
Whence  burst  those  gleams  of  ecstacy ! 

That  light  of  dreaming  soul  appears 
To  play  from  thoughts  above  thy  years. 

Thou  smil’st  as  if  thy  soul  were  soaring 
To  heaven,  and  heaven’s  God  adoring! 

And  who  can  tell  what  visions  high 
May  bless  an  infant’s  sleeping  eye ! 

What  brighter  throne  can  brightness  find 
To  reign  on  than  an  infant’s  mind. 

Ere  sin  destroy  or  error  dim 
The  glory  of  the  seraphim  ? 

Oh  ! vision  fair ! that  I could  be 
Again  as  young,  as  pure  as  thee ! 

Vain  wish!  the  rainbow’s  radiant  form 
May  view,  but  cannot  brave  the  storm : 

Y ears  can  bedim  the  gorgeous  dyes 
That  paint  the  bird  of  Paradise, 

And  years,  so  fate  hath  ordered,  roll 
Clouds  o’er  the  summer  of  the  soul. 

Fair  was  that  face  as  break  of  darvn. 

When  o’er  its  beauty  sleep  was  drawn 
Like  a thin  veil  that  half-concealed 
The  light  of  soul,  and  half-revealed. 

While  thy  hushed  heart  with  visions  wrought. 
Each  trembling  eyelash  moved  with  thought. 
And  things  we  dream,  but  ne’er  can  speak. 

Like  clouds  came  floating  o’er  thy  cheek. 

Such  summer-clouds  as  travel  light, 

When  the  soul’s  heaven  lies  calm  and  bright ; 
Till  thou  awok’st — then  to  thine  eye 
Thy  whole  heart  leapt  in  ecstacy ! 

And  lovely  is  that  heart  of  thine. 

Or  sure  these  eyes  could  never  shine 
With  such  a wild,  yet  bashful  glee. 

Gay,  half-o’ervome  timidityl 


Address  to  a Wild  Deer. 

Magnificent  creature  ! so  stately  and  bright ! 

In  the  pride  of  thy  spirit  pursuing  thy  flight ; 

For  what  hath  the  child  of  the  desert  to  dread. 
Wafting  up  his  own  mountains  that  far  beaming  head  ; 
Or  borne  like  a whirlwind  down  on  the  vale  ! 

Hail ! king  of  the  wild  and  the  beautiful ! — hail  1 
Hail ! idol  divine  ! — whom  nature  hath  borne 
O’er  a hundred  hill  tops  since  the  mists  of  the  mom. 
Whom  the  pilgrim  lone  wandering  on  mountain  and 
moor. 

As  the  vision  glides  by  him,  may  blamele.ss  adore : 
For  the  joy  of  the  happy,  the  strength  of  the  free. 

Are  spread  in  a garment  of  glory  o’er  thee. 

Up  ! up  to  yon  cliff!  like  a king  to  his  throne! 

O’er  the  black  silent  forest  piled  lofty  and  lone— 

A throne  which  the  eagle  is  glad  to  resign 
Unto  footsteps  so  fleet  and  so  fearless  as  thine. 

There  the  bright  heather  springs  up  in  love  of  thy 
breast, 

Lo  ! the  clouds  in  the  depths  of  the  sky  are  at  rest ; 
And  the  race  of  the  wild  winds  is  o’er  on  the  hill ! 

In  the  hush  of  the  mountains,  ye  antlers  lie  still! — 
Though  your  branches  now  toss  in  the  storm  of  delight, 
Like  the  arms  of  the  pine  on  yon  shelterless  height. 
One  moment — thou  bright  apparition — delay  ! 

Then  melt  o’er  the  crags,  like  the  sun  from  the  day. 

His  voyage  is  o’er — as  if  struck  by  a spell. 

He  motionless  stands  in  the  hush  of  the  dell  ; 

There  softly  and  slowly  sinks  down  on  his  breast. 

In  the  midst  of  his  pastime  enamoured  of  rest. 

A stream  in  a clear  pool  that  endeth  its  race — 

A dancing  ray  chained  to  one  sunshiny  place — 

A cloud  by  the  winds  to  calm  solitude  driven — 

A hurricane  dead  in  the  silence  of  heavzn. 

Fit  couch  of  repose  for  a pilgrim  like  thee : 
Magnificent  prison  enclosing  the  free  ; 

With  rock  wall-encircled — with  precipice  crowned — 
Which,  awoke  by  the  sun,  thou  canst  clear  at  a bound 
’Mid  the  fern  and  the  heather  kind  nature  doth  keep 
One  bright  spot  of  green  for  her  favourite’s  sleep  ; 

And  close  to  that  covert,  as  clear  to  the  skies 
When  their  blue  depths  are  cloudless,  a little  lake  lies. 
Where  the  creature  at  rest  can  his  image  behold. 
Looking  up  through  the  radiance  as  bright  and  as  bold. 
Yes:  fierce  looks  thy  nature  e’en  hushed  in  repose — 
In  the  depths  of  thy  desert  regardless  of  foes, 

Thy  bold  antlers  call  on  the  hunter  afar. 

With  a haughty  defiance  to  come  to  the  war. 

No  outrage  is  war  to  a creature  like  thee  ; 

The  buglehom  fills  thy  wild  spirit  with  glee. 

As  thou  bearest  thy  neck  on  the  wings  of  the  wind 
And  the  laggardly  gaze-hound  is  toiling  behind. 

In  the  beams  of  thy  forehead,  that  glitter  with  deati, 
In  feet  that  draw  power  from  the  touch  of  the  heath — 
In  the  wide  raging  torrent  that  lends  thee  its  roar — 
In  the  clilf  that  once  trod,  must  be  trodden  no  more — 
Thy  trust — ’mid  the  dangers  that  threaten  thy  reign : 
— But  what  if  the  stag  on  the  mountain  be  slain? 

On  the  brink  of  the  rock — lo  ! he  standeth  at  bay. 
Like  a victor  that  falls  at  the  close  of  the  day — 
While  the  hunter  and  hound  in  their  terror  retreat 
From  the  death  that  is  spurned  from  his  furious  feet ; 
And  his  last  cry  of  anger  comes  back  from  the  skies. 
As  nature’s  fierce  son  in  the  wilderness  dies. 

Lines  written  in  a Lonely  Burial  Gi'oxmd  in  the 
Highlands. 

How  mournfully  this  burial  ground 
Sleeps  ’mid  old  Ocean’s  solemn  sound. 

Who  rolls  his  bright  and  sunny  waves 
All  round  these  deaf  and  silent  graves  1 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PUESENf  t.Mk 


'I'he  cold  wan  light  that  glimmers  here, 

The  sickly  wild  flowers  may  not  cheer; 

If  here,  with  solitary  hum, 

The  wandering  mountain-bee  doth  come, 
’Mid  the  pale  blossoms  short  his  stay. 

To  brighter  leaves  he  booms  away. 

The  sea-bird,  with  a wailing  sound, 
Alighteth  softly  on  a mound. 

And,  like  an  image,  sitting  there 
For  hours  amid  the  doleful  air, 

Seemeth  to  tell  of  some  dim  union. 

Some  wild  and  mystical  communion. 
Connecting  with  his  parent  sea 
This  lonesome  stoneless  cemetery. 

This  may  not  be  the  burial-place 
Of  some  extinguished  kingly  race. 

Whose  name  on  earth  no  longer  known. 
Hath  mouldered  with  the  mouldering  stone. 
That  nearest  grave,  yet  broivn  with  mould. 
Seems  but  one  summer-twilight  old  ; 

Both  late  and  frequent  hath  the  bier 
Been  on  its  mournful  visit  hero ; 

And  yon  green  spot  of  sunny  rest 
Is  waiting  for  its  destined  guest. 

I see  no  little  kirk — no  bell 
On  Sabbath  tinkleth  through  this  dell ; 

How  beautiful  those  graves  and  fair. 

That,  lying  round  the  house  of  prayer. 

Sleep  in  the  shadow  of  its  grace  ! 

But  death  hath  chosen  this  rueful  place 
For  his  own  undivided  reign  ! 

And  nothing  tells  that  e’er  again 
The  sleepers  will  forsake  their  bed — 

Now,  and  for  everlasting  dead. 

For  Jlope  with  Memory  seems  fled ! 
Wild-screaming  bird!  unto  the  sea 
Winging  thy  flight  reluetantly. 

Slow  floating  o’er  these  grassy  tombs 
So  ghost-like,  with  thy  snow-white  plumes. 
At  once  from  thy  wild  shriek  I know 
What  means  this  place  so  steeped  in  wo! 
Here,  they  who  perished  on  the  deep 
Enjoy  at  last  unrocking  sleep  ; 

For  ocean,  from  his  wrathful  breast. 

Flung  them  into  this  haven  of  rest. 

Where  shroudless,  cofRnlesa,  they  lie — 

’Tis  the  shipwrecked  seaman’s  cemetery. 
Here  seamen  old,  with  grizzled  locks. 
Shipwrecked  before  on  desert  rocks. 

And  by  some  wandering  vessel  taken 
From  sorrows  that  seem  God-forsaken, 

Home  bound,  here  have  met  the  blast 
That  wrecked  them  on  death’s  shore  at  last  I 
Old  friendless  men,  who  had  no  tears 
To  shed,  nor  any  place  for  fears 
In  hearts  by  misery  fortified. 

And,  without  terror,  sternly  died. 

Here  many  a creature  moving  bright 
And  glorious  in  full  manhood’s  might. 

Who  dared  with  an  untroubled  eye 
The  tempest  brooding  in  the  sky. 

And  loved  to  hear  that  music  rave. 

And  danced  above  the  mountain-wave. 

Hath  quaked  on  this  terrific  strand. 

All  flung  like  sea-weeds  to  the  land  ; 

A whole  crew  lying  side  by  side. 
Death-dashed  at  once  in  all  their  pride. 

And  here  the  bright-haired  fair-faced  boy. 
Who  took  with  him  all  earthly  joy. 

From  one  who  weeps  both  night  and  day 
For  her  sweet  son  borne  far  away. 

Escaped  at  last  the  cruel  deep, 

In  all  his  beauty  lies  asleep  ; 

While  she  would  yield  all  hopes  of  grace 
For  one  kiss  of  his  pale  cold  face  ! 


Oh  ! I could  wail  in  lonely  fear. 

For  many  a woful  ghost  sits  here. 

All  weeping  with  their  fixed  eyes! 

And  what  a dismal  sound  of  sighs 
Is  mingling  with  the  gentle  roar 
Of  small  waves  breaking  on  the  shore  ; 

While  ocean  seems  to  sport  and  play 
In  mockery  of  its  wretched  prey  ! 

And  lo  ! a white-winged  vessel  sails 
In  sunshine,  gathering  all  the  gales 
Fast  freshening  from  yon  isle  of  pines 
That  o’er  the  clear  sea  waves  and  shines. 

I turn  me  to  the  ghostly  crowd, 

AH  smeared  with  dust,  without  a shroud, 

And  silent  every  blue-swollen  lip! 

Then  gazing  on  the  sunny  ship. 

And  listening  to  the  gladsome  cheers 
Of  all  her  thoughtless  mariners, 

I seem  to  hear  in  every  breath 
The  hollow  under-tones  of  death. 

Who,  all  unheard  by  those  who  sing. 

Keeps  tune  with  low  wild  murmuring. 

And  points  with  his  lean  bony  hand 
To  the  pale  ghosts  sitting  on  this  strand. 

Then  dives  beneath  the  rushing  prow. 

Till  on  some  moonless  night  of  wo 
He  drives  her  shivering  from  the  steep, 

Down — down  a thousand  fathoms  deep. 

\Tlie  ShipwrecTc.'] 

[From  the  ‘ Isle  of  Palms.’] 

But  list ! a low  and  moaning  sound 
At  distance  heard,  like  a spirit’s  song. 

And  now  it  reigns  above,  around, 

As  if  it  called  the  ship  along. 

The  moon  is  sunk ; and  a clouded  gray 
Declares  that  her  course  is  run. 

And  like  a god  who  brings  the  day. 

Up  mounts  the  glorious  sun. 

Soon  as  his  light  has  wanned  the  seas. 

From  the  parting  cloud  fresh  blows  the  breeze; 

And  that  is  the  spirit  whose  well-known  song 
Makes  the  vessel  to  sail  in  joy  along. 

No  fears  hath  she  ; her  giant  form 

O’er  wrathful  surge,  through  blackening  storm. 

Majestically  calm  would  go 

’Mid  the  deep  darkness  white  as  snow ! 

But  gently  now  the  small  waves  glide 
Like  playful  lambs  o’er  a mountain’s  side. 

So  stately  her  bearing,  so  proud  her  array. 

The  main  she  will  traverse  for  ever  and  aye. 

Many  ports  will  exult  at  the  gleam  of  her  mast  ;— 
Hush ! hush  ! thou  vain  dreamer ! this  hour  is  her  last 
Five  hundred  souls  in  one  instant  of  dread 
Are  hurried  o’er  the  deck  ; 

And  fast  the  miserable  ship 
Becomes  a lifeless  wreck. 

Her  keel  hath  struck  on  a hidden  rock. 

Her  planks  are  tom  asunder. 

And  down  come  her  masts  with  a reeling  shock, 

And  a hideous  crash  like  thunder. 

Her  sails  are  draggled  in  the  brine. 

That  gladdened  late  the  skies. 

And  her  pendant,  that  kissed  the  fair  moonshine, 
Down  many  a fathom  lies. 

Her  beauteous  sides,  whose  rainbow  hues 
Gleamed  softly  from  below. 

And  flung  a warm  and  sunny  flush 
O’er  the  wreaths  of  murmuring  snow. 

To  the  coral-rocks  are  hurrying  down. 

To  sleep  amid  colours  as  bright  as  their  owH- 
Oh ! many  a dream  was  in  the  ship 
An  hour  before  her  death  ; 

And  sights  of  home  with  sighs  disturbed 
The  sleeper’s  long-drawn  breath. 


436 


i 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  felicia  iiemans. 


POETS. 


Instead  of  the  murmur  of  the  sea, 

The  s.ailor  heanl  the  humming  tree 
Alire  through  all  its  leaves. 

The  hum  of  the  spreading  sycamore 
That  grows  before  his  cottage-door. 

And  the  swallow’s  song  in  the  eaves. 

Ilis  arms  enclosed  a blooming  boy. 

Who  listened  with  tears  of  sorrow  and  joy 
To  the  dangers  his  father  had  passed  ; 

And  his  wife — by  turns  she  wept  and  smiled, 

As  she  looked  on  the  father  of  her  child, 

Returned  to  her  heart  at  last. 

He  wakes  at  the  vessel’s  sudden  roll. 

And  the  rush  of  waters  is  in  his  soul. 

Astounded,  the  reeling  deck  he  paces, 

’Mid  hurrying  forms  and  ghastly  faces; 

The  whole  ship’s  crew  are  therel 
Wailings  around  and  overhead, 

Rrave  spirits  stupified  or  dead. 

And  madness  and  despair. 

» * * 

Now  is  the  ocean’s  bosom  bare. 

Unbroken  as  the  floating  air ; 

The  ship  hath  melted  quite  away, 

1-lke  a struggling  dream  at  break  of  day. 

No  image  meets  my  wandering  eye. 

But  the  new-risen  sun  and  the  sunny  sky. 

Though  the  night-shades  are  gone,  yet  a vapour  dull 
Bedims  the  waves  so  beautiful  : 

While  a low  and  melancholy  moan 
Mourns  for  the  glory  that  hath  flown. 

MRS  HEMANS. 


Mrs  Hemans  (Felicia  Dorothea  Browne)  was  born 
at  Liverpool  on  the  25th  September  1793.  Her 


father  was  a merchant ; but,  experiencing  some  re- 
verses, he  removed  w;ith  his  family  to  Wales,  and 
there  the  young  poetess  imbibed  that  love  of  nature 
which  is  displayed  in  all  her  works.  In  her  fifteenth 
year  she  ventured  on  publication.  Her  first  volume 
was  far  from  successful ; but  she  persevered,  and  in 
1812  published  another,  entitled  The  Domestic  Affec- 
tions, and  other  Poems.  The  same  year  she  was  mar- 
ried to  Captain  Hemans;  but  the  union  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  a happy  one.  She  continued  her  studies. 


acquiring  several  languages,  and  still  cultivating 
poetry.  In  1818  Captain  Hemans  removed  to  Italy 
for  the  benefit  of  his  health.  His  accomplished  wife 
remained  in  England,  and  they  never  met  again.  In 


Rhyllon — the  residence  of  Mrs  Hemans  in  Wales. 


1819  slie  obtained  a prize  of  £50  ofiTered  by  some 
patriotic  Scotsman  for  the  best  poem  on  the  subject 
of  Sir  William  Wallace.  Next  year  she  published 
The  Sceptic.  In  June  1821  she  obtained  the  prize 
aivarded  by  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature  for  the 
best  poem  on  the  subject  of  Dartmoor.  Her  next 
effort  was  a tragedy,  the  Vespers  of  Palermo,  which 
was  produced  at  Covent  Garden,  December  12,  1823; 
but  though  supported  by  the  admirable  acting  of 
Kemble  and  Young,  it  was  not  successful.  In  1826 
appeared  her  best  poem,  the  Forest  Sanctuary,  and 
in  1828,  Becords  of  Woman.  She  afterwards  pro- 
duced Lays  of  Leisure  Hours,  National  Lyrics,  &c. 
In  1829  she  paid  a visit  to  Scotland,  and  was  re- 
ceived with  great  kindness  by  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
Jeffrey,  and  others  of  the  Scottish  literati.  In  1830 
appeared  her  Songs  of  the  Affections.  The  same  year 
she  visited  Wordsworth,  and  appears  to  have  been 
much  struck  with  the  secluded  beauty  of  Rydal 
Lake  and  Grasmere — 

0 vale  and  lake,  within  your  mountain  urn 
Smiling  so  tranquilly^  and  set  so  deep! 

Oft  doth  your  dreamy  loveliness  return. 
Colouring  the  tender  shadows  of  my  sleep 
With  light  Elysian  ; for  the  hues  that  steep 
Your  shores  in  melting  lustre,  seem  to  float 
On  golden  clouds  from  spirit  lands  remote- 
isles  of  the  blest — and  in  our  memory  keep 
Their  place  with  holiest  harmonies. 

Wordsworth  said  to  her  one  day,  ‘ 1 would  not  gi-rs 
up  the  mists  that  spiritualise  our  mountains  for  all 
the  blue  skies  of  Italy’ — an  original  and  poetical 
expression.  On  her  return  from  the  lakes,  Mrs 
Hemans  went  to  reside  in  Dublin,  where  her  brother. 
Major  Browne,  was  settled.  The  education  of  her 
family  (five  boys)  occupied  much  of  her  time  and 
attention.  Ill  health,  however,  pressed  heavily  on 
her.  and  she  soon  experienced  a premature  decay 
of  the  springs  of  life.  In  1834  appeared  her  little 

437 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMK, 


volume  of  Hymns  for  CliildlwoJ,  and  a collection  of 
Scenes  and  Hymns  uf  Li  fe.  She  also  published  some 
sonnets,  under  the  title  of  Thoughts  during  Sickness. 
Her  last  strain,  produced  only  about  three  weeks 
before  her  death,  was  the  following  fine  sonnet  dic- 
tated to  her  brother  on  Sunday  the  2Gth  of  April: — 

How  many  blessed  groups  this  hour  are  bending, 
'I'hrough  England’s  primrose  meadow-paths,  their  way 
Toward  spire  and  tower,  ’midst  shadowy  elms  as- 
cending. 

Whence  the  sweet  chimes  proclaim  the  hallowed  day! 
The  halls,  from  old  heroic  ages  gray, 

Pour  their  fair  children  forth  ; and  hamlets  low. 

With  whose  thick  orchard  blooms  the  soft  winds  play. 
Send  out  their  inmates  in  a happy  How, 
lake  a freed  vernal  stream.  I may  not  tread 
With  them  those  pathways — to  the  feverish  bed 
Of  sickness  bound  ; yet,  O my  God!  1 bless 
Thy  mercy  that  with  Sabbath  peace  hath  filled 
My  chastened  heart,  and  all  its  throbbings  stilled 
To  one  deep  calm  of  lowliest  thankfulness. 

This  admirable  woman  and  sweet  poetess  died  on 
the  1 6th  May  183.'),  aged  forty -one.  She  was  in- 
terred in  St  Anne’s  church,  Dublin,  and  over  her 
grave  was  inscribed  some  lines  from  one  of  her  own 
dirges — 

Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 

Fair  spirit  ! rest  thee  now  ! 

Even  while  with  us  thy  footsteps  trode, 

His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 

Dust  to  its  narrow  house  beneath  ! 

Soul  to  its  place  on  high  1 
They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death, 

No  more  may  fear  to  die. 

A complete  collection  of  the  works  of  Mrs 
Heman.s,  with  a memoir  by  her  sister,  has  been 
published  in  six  volumes.  Though  highly  popular, 
ami  in  many  respects  excellent,  we  do  not  think  that 
much  of  the  poetry  of  Mrs  Hemans  will  descend  to 
posterity.  There  is,  as  Scott  hinted,  ‘ too  many 
flowers  for  the  fruit ;’  more  for  the  ear  and  fancy, 
than  for  the  heart  and  intellect.  Some  of  her  shorter 
I'H^ees  and  her  lyrical  productions  are  touching  and 
beautiful  both  in  sentiment  and  expression.  Her 
versification  is  always  melodious;  but  there  is  an 
oppressive  sameness  in  her  longer  poems  which 
fatigues  the  reader ; and  when  the  volume  is  closed, 
the  effect  is  only  that  of  a mass  of  glittering  images 
and  polished  words,  a graceful  melancholy  and  femi- 
nine tenderness,  but  no  strong  or  permanent  im- 
pression. The  passions  are  seldom  stirred,  however 
the  fancy  may  be  soothed  or  gratified.  In  description, 
Mrs  Hemans  had  considerable  power  ; she  was  both 
copious  and  exact;  and  often,  as  Jeffrey  has  ob- 
served, ‘ a lovely  picture  serves  as  a foreground  to 
some  deep  or  lofty  emotion.’  Her  imagination  was 
chivalrous  and  romantic,  and  delighted  in  picturing 
the  woods  and  halls  of  England,  and  the  ancient 
martial  glory  of  the  land.  The  purity  of  her  mind 
is  seen  in  all  her  works;  and  her  love  of  nature, like 
Wordsworth’s,  was  a delicate  blending  of  our  deep 
inward  emotions  with  their  splendid  symbols  and 
emblems  without. 

The  Voice  of  Spring. 

I come,  I come!  ye  have  called  me  long, 

I come  o’er  the  mountains  rvith  light  and  song; 

Ye  may  trace  my  step  o’er  the  wakening  earth, 
hy  the  winds  which  tell  of  the  violet’s  birth. 

By  the  primi'ose  stars  in  the  shadowy  grass. 

By  the  green  leaves  opening  as  1 pass. 


I have  breathed  on  the  South,  and  the  chestnut- 
flowers 

By  thousands  have  burst  from  the  forest-bowers : 

And  the  ancient  graves,  and  the  fallen  fanes, 

Are  veiled  with  wreaths  on  Italian  plains. 

But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  bloom. 

To  speak  of  the  ruin  or  the  tomb  1 

I have  passed  o’er  the  hills  of  the  stormy  North, 

And  the  larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth. 

The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea. 

And  the  reindeer  bounds  through  the  pasture  free, 
And  the  pine  has  a fringe  of  softer  green. 

And  the  moss  looks  bright  where  my  step  has  been. 

I have  sent  through  the  wood-paths  a gentle  sigh. 
And  called  out  each  voice  of  the  deep-blue  sky. 

From  the  night  bird’s  lay  through  the  starry  time. 

In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime. 

To  the  swan’s  wild  note  by  the  Iceland  lakes. 

When  the  dark  fir-bough  into  verdure  breaks. 

From  the  streams  and  founts  I have  loosed  the  cbn't\  < 
They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  silvery  main. 

They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain -brows. 
They  are  flinging  spray  on  the  forest-boughs. 

They  are  bursting  fresh  from  their  sparry  caves. 

And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves. 

Come  forth,  0 ye  children  of  gladness,  come ! 

WTiere  the  violets  lie  may  now  be  your  home. 

Ye  of  the  rose-cheek  and  dew-bright  eye. 

And  the  bounding  footstep,  to  meet  me  fly  ; 

With  the  lyre,  and  the  wreath,  and  the  Joyous  lay, 
Come  forth  to  the  sunshine,  1 may  not  stay. 

Away  from  the  dwellings  of  careworn  men. 

The  waters  are  sparkling  in  wood  and  glen ; 

Away  from  the  chamber  and  dusky  hearth. 

The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth  ; 

Their  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wild-wood  strains. 

And  Y outh  is  abroad  in  my  green  domains. 

The  summer  is  hastening,  on  soft  winds  bonie. 

Ye  may  press  the  grape,  ye  may  bind  the  corn ; 

For  me  I depart  to  a brighter  shore — 

Ye  are  marked  by  care,  ye  are  mine  no  more. 

I go  where  the  loved  who  have  left  you  dwell. 

And  the  flowers  are  not  Death’s — fare  ye  well,  fare- 
well 1 

The  Homes  of  England. 

The  stately  Homes  of  England, 

How  beautiful  they  stand  1 
Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  trees. 

O’er  all  the  pleasant  land. 

The  deer  across  their  greensward  bound 
Through  shade  and  sunny  gleam. 

And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the  sound 
Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  Homes  of  England  ! 

Around  their  hearths  by  night. 

What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 
Meet  in  the  ruddy  light  1 
There  woman’s  voice  flows  forth  in  song. 

Or  childhood’s  tale  is  told. 

Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 
Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  Homes  of  England  ! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 
Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 
That  breathes  from  Sabbath-hours  1 
Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-bell’s  chime 
Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn ; 

All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time. 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 

4.3.S 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


roKTS. 


The  cottngc  Homes  of  England! 

liy  thousiuids  on  her  plains, 

They  are  smiling  o’er  the  silvery  brooks. 

And  round  the  hamlet-fanes. 

Through  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep, 

Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves. 

And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep. 

As  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves. 

The  free,  fair  Homes  of  England  ! 

Long,  long,  in  hut  and  hall. 

May  hearts  of  native  proof  be  reared 
To  guard  each  hallowed  wall! 

And  green  for  ever  be  the  groves. 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 

'Vhere  first  the  child’s  glad  spirit  loves 
Us  country  and  its  God  1 

The  Graves  of  a household. 

They  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side. 

They  filled  one  home  with  glee  ; 

Their  graves  are  severed,  far  and  wide, 
lly  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O’er  each  fair  sleeping  brow  ; 

She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight — 

Where  are  those  dreamers  now  1 

One,  ’midst  the  forests  of  the  west. 

By  a dark  stream  is  laid — 

The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest. 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one. 

He  lies  wl.  jre  pearls  lie  deep ; 

He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 
O’er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  dressed 
Above  the  noble  slain  : 

He  wrapt  his  colours  round  his  breast. 

On  a blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one — o’er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fanned; 

She  faded  ’midst  Italian  flowers — 

The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  played 
Beneath  the  same  green  tree  ; 

Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  prayed 
Around  one  parent  knee  1 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall. 

And  cheered  with  song  the  hearth — 

Alas  ! for  love,  if  thou  wert  all. 

And  nought  beyond,  on  earth  ! 

Tlie  Treasures  of  the  Deep. 

Wliat  hidest  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves  and  cells, 
Thou  hollow-sounding  and  mysterious  main  ? 

Pale  glistening  pearls,  and  rainbow-coloured  shells, 
Bright  things  w hich  gleam  unrecked  of  and  in  vain. 

Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea! 

We  ask  not  such  from  thee. 

\ et  more,  the  depths  have  more  ! What  wealth  un- 
told. 

Far  down,  and  shining  through  their  stillness,  lies! 

Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold. 

Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  Argosies. 

bweep  o’er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and  wrathful  main  ! 

Earth  claims  not  these  again  ! 


BERNARD  BARTON. 


Y et  more,  the  depths  have  more  ! Thy  waves  have 
rolled 

Above  the  cities  of  a world  gone  by ! 

Sand  hath  filled  up  the  palaces  of  old. 

Sea-weed  o’ergrown  the  halls  of  revelry! 

Dash  o’er  them.  Ocean  ! in  thy  scornful  play, 

Man  yields  them  to  decay  ! 

Yet  more  ! the  billows  and  the  depths  have  morel 
High  hearts  and  brave  are  gathered  to  thy  breast ! 
They  hear  not  now  the  booming  waters  roar — 

The  battle-thunders  will  not  break  their  rest. 

Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems,  thou  stormy  grave  ! 

Give  back  the  true  and  brave! 

Give  back  the  lost  and  lovely ! Those  for  whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long  ; 
The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight’s  breathless 
gloom. 

And  the  vain  yearning  woke  ’midst  festal  song  I 
Hold  fast  thy  buried  isles,  thy  towers  o’erthrown — 
But  all  is  not  thine  own ! 

To  thee  the  love  of  woman  hath  gone  down  ; 

Dark  flow  thy  tides  o’er  manhood’s  noble  head. 

O’er  youth’s  bright  locks,  and  beauty’s  flowery  crown! 

Yet  must  thou  hear  a voice — Restore  the  Dead  ! 
Earth  shall  reclaim  her  precious  things  from  thee  ! — 
Restore  the  Dead,  thou  Sea  ! 

BERNARD  BARTON. 

Bernard  Barton,  one  of  the  Society  of  Friends 
published  in  1820  a volume  of  miscellaneous  poems 
which  attracted  notice  both  for  their  elegant  sim- 
plicity, and  purity  of  style  and  feeling,  and  because 
they  were  written  by  a Quaker.  ‘ The  staple  of  the 
whole  poems,’  says  a critic  in  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view, ‘ is  description  and  meditation — description  of 
quiet  home  scenery,  sweetly  and  feelingly  wrought 
out — and  meditation,  overshaded  with  tenderness, 
and  exalted  by  devotion — but  all  terminating  in 
soothing  and  even  cheerful  views  of  the  condition 
and  prospects  of  mortality.’  Mr  Barton  was  em- 
ployed in  a banking  establishment  at  Woodbridge, 
in  Suffolk,  and  he  seems  to  have  contemplated 
abandoning  his  profession  for  a literary  life.  On 
this  point  Charles  Lamb  wrote  to  him  as  follows : 
‘ Throw  yourself  on  the  world,  without  any  rational 
plan  of  support  beyond  what  the  chance  emploj-  of 
booksellers  would  afford  you!  Throw  yourself 
rather,  my  dear  sir,  from  the  steep  Tarpeian  rock 
slap-dash  headlong  upon  iron  spikes.  If  you  have 
but  five  consolatory  minutes  between  the  desk  and 
the  bed,  make  much  of  them,  and  live  a century  in 
them,  rather  than  turn  slave  to  the  booksellers. 
They  are  Turks  and  Tartars  when  they  have  poor 
authors  at  their  beck.  Hitherto  you  have  been  at 
arm’s  length  from  them — come  not  within  their 
grasp.  I have  known  many  authors  want  for  bread — 
some  repining,  others  enjoying  the  blessed  security 
of  a counting-house — all  agreeing  they  had  rather 
have  been  tailors,  weavers — what  not? — rather  than 
the  things  they  were.  I have  known  some  starved, 
some  go  mad,  one  dear  friend  literally  dying  in  a 
workhouse.  Oh,  you  know  not — may  you  never 
know — the  miseries  of  subsisting  by  authorship !’ 
There  is  some  exaggeration  here.  We  have  known 
authors  by  profession  who  lived  cheerfully  and 
comfortably,  labouring  at  the  stated  sum  per 
sheet  as  regularly  as  tlie  weaver  at  his  loom,  or 
the  tailor  on  his  board;  but  dignified  with  the 
consciousness  of  following  a high  and  ennobling 
occupation,  with  all  the  mighty  minds  of  past  ages 
as  their  daily  friends  and  companions.  The  bane 
of  such  a life,  when  actual  genius  is  involved,  is 

439 


FROM  17f!0 


CYCLOP^iDIA  OF 


TILL  TUB  rnBSENTTlMB. 


its  uiKfrtaimy  ami  its  temptations,  and  tlie  almost 
iiuariaide  incompatibility  of  the  poetical  tempe- 
rament with  Imbits  of  business  and  steady  ap- 
plication. Yet  let  us  remember  the  examples  of 
ShaUsileare,  Dryden,  and  I’ope — all  regular  and 
constant  labourers — and,  in  our  own  day,  of  Scott, 
Southey,  Moore,  and  many  others.  The  fault  is 
more  generally  with  the  author  than  with  the  book- 
seller. In  the  particular  case  of  Ilernard  Barton, 
however.  Lamb  counselled  wisely.  He  has  not  the 
vigour  and  popular  talents  requisite  for  marketable 
literature;  anil  of  this  he  would  seem  to  have  been 
consinons,  for  he  abandoned  his  dream  of  exclusive 
authorship.  Mr  Barton  has  since  aiipeared  before 
the  public  as  author  of  several  volumes  of  miscella- 
neous poetry,  but  witliout  adding  much  to  his  re|)U- 
tation.  lie  is  still  what  Jeffrey  pronounced  him — 

‘ a man  of  a fine  and  cultivated,  rather  than  of  a bold 
and  original  mind.’  His  poetry  is  highly  honourable 
to  his  taste  and  feelings  as  a man. 

To  the  Evening  Primrose. 

Fair  flower,  that  shunn’st  the  glare  of  day. 

Yet  lov’st  to  open,  meekly  bold, 

To  evening’.s  hues  of  sober  gray, 

Thy  cup  of  paly  gold  ; 

Be  thine  the  offering  owing  long 
To  thee,  and  to  this  pensive  hour. 

Of  one  brief  tributary  song. 

Though  transient  as  thy  flower. 

I love  to  watch,  at  silent  eve. 

Thy  scattered  blossoms’  lonely  light. 

And  have  my  inmost  heart  receive 
'I'he  influence  of  that  sight. 

I love  at  such  an  hour  to  mark 

Their  beauty  greet  the  night-breeze  chill. 

And  shine,  ’mid  shadows  gathering  dark. 

The  garden’s  glory  still. 

For  such,  ’tis  sweet  to  think  the  while. 

When  cares  ami  griefs  the  breast  invade. 

Is  friendship’s  animating  smile 
In  sorrow’s  dark’ning  shade. 

Thus  it  bursts  forth,  like  thy  pale  cup, 

Glist’ning  amid  its  dewy  tears. 

And  bears  the  sinking  spirit  up 
Amid  its  chilling  fears. 

But  still  more  animating  far. 

If  meek  Religion’s  eye  may  trace. 

Even  in  thy  glimmering  earth-born  star. 

The  holier  hope  of  Grace. 

The  hope,  that  as  thy  beauteous  bloom 
Expands  to  glad  the  close  of  day. 

So  through  the  shadows  of  the  tomb 
May  break  forth  Mercy’s  ray. 

Stanzas  on  the  Sea. 

Oh ! I shall  not  forget,  until  memory  depart. 

When  first  I beheld  it,  the  glow  of  my  heart ; 

The  wonder,  the  awe,  the  delight  that  stole  o’er  me. 
When  its  billowy  boundlessness  opened  before  me. 

As  I stood  on  its  margin,  or  roamed  on  its  strand, 

1 felt  new  ideas  within  me  expand. 

Of  glory  and  grandeur,  unknown  till  that  hour. 

And  my  spirit  was  mute  in  the  presence  of  power! 

In  the  surf-beaten  sands  that  encircled  it  round. 

In  the  billow’s  retreat,  and  the  breaker’s  rebound. 

In  its  white-di  ifted  foam,  and  its  dark-heaving  green, 
'■inch  moment  1 gazed,  some  fresh  beauty  was  seen. 


And  thus,  while  I wandered  on  ocean’s  bleak  shore. 
And  surveyed  its  vast  surface,  and  heard  its  waves  roar, 
I seemed  wrapt  in  a dream  of  romantic  delight. 

And  haunted  by  majesty,  gloiy,  and  might  1 

Power  and  Gentleness,  or  the  Cataract  and  the 
Streamlet. 

Noble  the  mountain  stream. 

Bursting  in  grandeur  from  its  vantage-ground; 

Glory  is  in  its  gleam 

Of  brightness — thunder  in  its  deafening  sound  ! 

Mark,  how  its  foamy  spray. 

Tinged  by  the  sunbeams  with  reflected  dye.s. 

Mimics  the  bow  of  day 
Arching  in  majesty  the  vaulted  skies  ; 

Thence,  in  a summer-shower. 

Steeping  the  rocks  around — O!  tell  me  where 
Could  majesty  and  power 
Be  clothed  in  forms  more  beautifully  fair? 

Yet  lovelier,  in  my  view. 

The  streamlet  flowing  silently  serene; 

Traced  by  the  brighter  hue. 

And  livelier  growth  it  gives — itself  unseen  ! 

It  flows  through  flowery  meads. 

Gladdening  the  herds  which  on  its  margin  browse; 

Its  quiet  beauty  feeds 

The  alders  that  o’ershade  it  with  their  boughs. 

Gently  it  murmurs  by 

The  village  churchyard  : its  low,  plaintive  tone, 

A dirge  like  melody. 

For  worth  and  beauty  modest  as  its  owui. 

More  gaily  now  it  sweeps 
By  the  small  school-house  in  the  sunshine  bright; 

And  o’er  the  pebbles  leaps. 

Like  happy  hearts  by  holiday  made  light. 

May  not  its  course  express. 

In  char.acters  which  they  who  run  may  read. 

The  charms  of  gentleness, 

Were  but  its  still  small  voice  allowed  to  plead! 

What  are  the  trophies  gained 
By  power,  alone,  with  all  its  noise  and  strife, 

To  that  meek  wreath,  unstained. 

Won  by  the  charities  that  gladden  life  ? 

Niagara’s  streams  might  fail. 

And  human  happiness  be  undisturbed : 

But  Egypt  would  turn  pale. 

Were  her  still  Nile’s  o’erflowing  bounty  curbed! 

The  Solitary  Tomb. 

Not  a leaf  of  the  tree  which  stood  ne.ar  me  was  stirred, 
Though  a breath  might  have  moved  it  so  lightly  ; 
Not  a farewell  note  from  a sweet  singing  bird 
Bade  adieu  to  the  sun  setting  brightly. 

The  sky  was  cloudless  and  calm,  except 

In  the  west,  where  the  sun  was  descending; 

And  there  the  rich  tints  of  the  rainbow  slept. 

As  his  beams  with  their  beauty  were  blending. 

And  the  evening  star,  with  its  ray  so  clear. 

So  tremulou.s,  soft,  and  tender. 

Had  lit  up  its  lamp,  and  .shot  down  from  its  sphere 
Its  dewy  delightful  splendour. 

And  1 stood  all  alone  on  that  gentle  hill. 

With  a landscape  so  lovely  before  me : 

And  its  spirit  and  tone,  so  serene  and  still. 

Seemed  silently  gathering  o’er  me. 


It 


440 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


BRYAN  WAI.THR  PROCI'EK 


Fur  off  was  the  Dehen,  whose  briny  flood 
Hv  its  windiiif:  banks  was  sweeping  ; 

Anil  Just  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  where  1 stood. 

The  dead  in  their  damp  graves  were  sleeping. 

How  lonely  and  lovely  their  resting-place  seemed! 

An  enclosure  which  care  could  not  enter ; 

.^nd  how  sweetly  the  gray  lights  of  eveuiug  gleamed 
On  the  solitary  tomb  in  its  centre ! 

When  at  morn  or  at  eve  1 have  wandered  near, 

And  in  various  lights  have  viewed  it, 

With  what  differing  forms,  unto  friendship  dear, 

Has  the  magic  of  fancy  endued  it ! 

Sometimes  it  has  seemed  like  a lonely  sail, 

A white  spot  on  the  emerald  billow  ; 

Sometimes  like  a lamb,  in  a low  gnvssy  vale, 
Stretched  in  peace  on  its  verdant  pillow. 

But  no  image  of  gloom,  or  of  care,  or  strife. 

Has  it  ever  given  birth  to  one  minute  ; 

For  lamented  in  death,  as  beloved  in  life. 

Was  he  who  now  slumbers  within  it. 

He  was  one  who  in  youth  on  the  stormy  seas 
Was  a far  and  a fearless  ranger ; 

Who,  borne  on  the  billow,  and  blown  by  the  breeze. 
Counted  lightly  of  death  or  of  danger. 

Yet  in  this  rude  school  had  his  heart  still  kept 
All  the  freshness  of  gentle  feeling; 

Nor  in  woman’s  warm  eye  has  a tear  ever  slept 
More  of  softness  and  kindness  revealing. 

And  here,  when  the  bustle  of  youth  was  past. 

He  lived,  and  he  loved,  and  he  died  too ; 

Oh!  why  was  affection,  which  death  could  outlast, 

A more  lengthened  enjoyment  denied  to? 

But  here  he  slumbers ! and  many  there  are 
Who  love  that  lone  tomb  and  revere  it ; 

And  one  fiir  off  who,  like  eve’s  dewy  star. 

Though  at  distance,  in  fancy  dwells  near  it. 

BRY'AN  WALTER  PROCTER. 

Bryan  Walter  Procter,  better  known  by  his 
assumed  name  of  Barry  Cornwall,  published,  in  1 8 1."), 
a small  volume  of  dramatic  scenes  of  a domestic 
character,  ‘ in  order,’  he  says,  ‘ to  try  the  effect  of  a 
more  natural  st3'le  than  that  which  had  for  a long 
time  prevailed  in  our  dramatic  literature.’  The  ex- 
periment was  successful ; chiefly  on  account  of  the 
pathetic  and  tender  scenes  in  Mr  I’rncter’s  sketches. 
He  has  since  published  Marciun  Culonna,  The  Flood 
of  Thexudh/,  and  other  poems:  also  a tragedy,  Miran- 
di.la,  which  was  brought  out  with  success  at  Covent 
Garden  theatre.  Mr  Procter’s  later  productions  have 
not  realised  the  promise  of  his  early  efforts.  His  pro- 
fessional avocations  (for  the  poet  is  a barrister)  may 
have  withdrawn  liim  from  poetrj’,  or  at  least  pre- 
vented his  studying  it  with  that  earnestness  and 
devotion  which  can  alone  insure  success.  Still,  Mr 
Procter  is  a graceful  and  accomplished  writer.  His 
poetical  style  seems  formed  on  that  of  tlie  F.lizabe- 
than  dramatists,  and  some  of  his  lyrical  pieces  are 
exquisite  in  sentiment  and  diction. 

Address  to  the  Ocean. 

0 thou  vast  Ocean  ! ever  sounding  sea ! 

Thou  symbol  of  a drear  immensity! 

Thou  thing  that  windest  round  the  solid  world 
Like  a huge  animal,  which,  dovmward  hurled 
From  the  black  clouds,  lies  weltering  and  alone. 
Lashing  and  writhing  till  its  strength  be  gone. 

Thy  voice  is  like  the  thunder,  and  tby  sleep 
Is  as  a giant’s  slumber,  loud  and  deep. 


Thou  speakest  in  the  east  and  in  the  west 
At  once,  and  on  thy  heavily  laden  breast 
Fleets  come  and  go,  and  shapes  tliat  have  no  life 
Or  motion,  yet  are  moved  and  meet  in  strife. 

The  earth  hath  nought  of  this  : no  chance  or  change 
Ruffles  its  surface,  and  no  spirits  dare 
Give  answer  to  the  tempest-wakened  air; 

But  o’er  its  wastes  the  weakly  tenants  range 
At  will,  and  wound  its  bosom  ns  they  g ) : 

Ever  the  same,  it  hath  no  ebb,  no  flow  : 

But  in  their  stated  rounds  the  seasons  come. 

And  pass  like  visions  to  their  wonted  home  ; 

And  come  again,  and  vanish  ; the  young  Spring 
Looks  ever  bright  with  leaves  and  blossoming; 

And  Winter  always  winds  his  sullen  horn. 

When  the  wild  Autumn,  with  a look  forlorn. 

Dies  in  his  stormy  manhood  ; and  the  skies 
Weep,  and  flowers  sicken,  when  the  summer  flies. 
Oh  ! wonderful  thou  art,  great  element : 

And  fearful  in  thy  spleeny  humours  bent. 

And  lovely  in  repose  ; thy  summer  form 
Is  beautiful,  and  when  thy  silver  waves 
Make  music  in  earth’s  dark  and  winding  caves, 

1 love  to  wander  on  thy  pebbled  beach. 

Marking  the  sunlight  at  the  evening  hour. 

And  hearken  to  the  thoughts  thy  waters  teach — 
Eternity — Eternity — and  Power. 


Marcella. 

It  was  a dreary  place.  The  shallow  brook 
That  ran  throughout  the  wood,  there  took  a turn 
And  widened  : all  its  music  died  away, 

And  in  the  place  a silent  eddy  told 

That  there  the  stream  grew  deeper.  There  dark  trees 

Funereal  (cj’press,  j’ew,  and  shadowy  pine. 

And  spicy  cedar)  clustered,  and  at  night 
Shook  from  their  melancholy  branches  sounds 
And  sighs  like  death  : ’twas  strange,  for  through  the 
day 

They  stood  quite  motionless,  and  looked,  methought. 
Like  monumental  things,  which  the  .sad  earth 
From  its  green  bosom  had  cast  out  in  pity. 

To  mark  a young  girl’s  grave.  Tl  - very  leaves 
Disowned  their  natural  green,  and  cook  black 
-•^nd  mournful  hue  ; and  the  rougli  brier,  stretching 
His  straggling  arms  across  the  rivulet. 

Lay  like  an  armed  .sentinel  there,  catching 
With  his  tenacious  leaf  straws,  withered  boughs. 

Moss  that  the  banks  had  lost,  coarse  grasses  which 
Swam  with  the  current,  and  with  the.se  it  hid 
The  poor  Marcelia’s  deathbed.  Never  may  net 
Of  venturous  fisher  be  cast  in  with  hope. 

For  not  a fish  abides  there.  The  slim  deer 
Snorts  as  he  ruffles  with  his  shortened  breath 
The  brook,  and  panting  flies  the  unholy  place. 

And  the  white  heifer  lows,  and  passes  on  ; 

The  foaming  hound  laps  not,  and  winter  birds 
Go  higher  up  the  stream.  And  j'et  1 love 
To  loiter  there : and  when  the  rising  moon 
Flames  down  the  avenue  of  pines,  and  looks 
Red  and  dilated  through  the  evening  mists. 

And  chequered  as  the  heavy  branches  sway 
To  and  fro  with  the  wind,  I stay  to  listen. 

And  fancy  to  myself  that  a sad  voice. 

Praying,  comes  moaning  through  the  leaves,  as  twjta 
For  some  misdeed.  The  story  goes— that  some 
Neglected  girl  (an  orphan  whom  the  world 
Frowned  upon)  once  strayed  thither,  and  ’twas  thought 
Cast  herself  in  the  stream  : you  may  have  heard 
Of  one  Marcelia,  poor  Nolina’s  daughter,  who 
Fell  ill  and  came  to  want ! No!  Oh,  she  loved 
A wealthy  man,  who  marked  her  not.  He  wed. 

And  then  the  girl  grew  sick,  and  pined  away. 

And  drowned  herself  for  love. 

44l 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIM* 


Night. 

Now  to  thy  Kileiit  presence,  Night  1 

Is  tliis  iny  first  song  offered  : oh  ! to  thee 
That  lookest  with  thy  thousand  eyes  of  light — 

To  thee,  and  thy  starry  nobility 
That  float  with  a delicious  murmuring 

(Tliough  unheard  here)  about  thy  forehead  blue; 
And  as  they  ride  along  in  order  due. 

Circling  the  round  globe  in  their  wandering. 

To  thee  their  ancient  queen  and  mother  sing. 
Mother  of  beauty  ! veiled  queen  ! 

Feared  and  sought,  and  never  seen 
Without  a heart-imposing  feeling. 

Whither  art  thou  gently  stealing  1 
In  tl  y smiling  presence,  I 
Kneel  in  star-struck  idolatry. 

And  turn  me  to  thine  eye  (the  moon), 

Fretting  that  it  must  change  so  soon: 

Toying  with  this  idle  rhyme, 

I scorn  that  bearded  villain  Time, 

Thy  old  remorseless  enemy. 

And  build  my  linkeil  verse  to  thee. 

Not  dull  and  cold  and  dark  art  thou: 

Who  that  behohls  thy  clearer  brow, 

Endiadeined  with  gentlest  streaks 
Of  fleecy-silvered  cloud,  adorning 
Thee,  fair  as  when  the  young  sun  ’wakes. 

And  from  his  cloudy  bondage  breaks. 

And  lights  upon  the  breast  of  morning. 

Put  must  feel  thy  powers ; 

Mightier  than  the  storm  that  lours. 

Fairer  than  the  virgin  hours 

That  smile  when  the  young  Aurora  scatters 
Her  rose-leaves  on  the  valleys  low. 

And  bids  her  servant  breezes  blow. 

Not  Apollo,  when  he  dies. 

In  the  wild  October  skies. 

Red  and  stormy  ; or  when  he 
In  his  meridian  beauty  rides 
Over  the  bosom  of  the  waters. 

And  turns  the  blue  and  burning  tides 
To  silver,  is  a peer  for  thee. 

In  thy  full  regality. 

The  Sleeping  Figure  of  Modena. 

Upon  a couch  of  silk  and  gold 
A pale  enchanted  lady  lies. 

And  o’er  her  many  a frowning  fold 
Of  crimson  shades  her  closed  eyes  ; 

And  shadowy  creatures  round  her  rise ; 

And  ghosts  of  women  masqued  in  wo  ; 

And  many  a phantom  pleasure  flies; 

And  lovers  slain — ah,  long  ago  1 

The  lady,  pale  as  now  she  sleeps. 

An  age  upon  that  couch  hath  lain. 

Yet  in  one  spot  a spirit  keeps 
His  mansion,  like  a red-rose  stain  ; 

And,  when  lovers’  ghosts  complain. 

Blushes  like  a new-born  flower. 

Or  as  some  bright  dream  of  pain 
Dawneth  through  the  darkest  hour. 

Once — but  many  a thought  hath  fled. 

Since  the  time  whereof  I speak — 

Once  the  sleeping  lady  bred 
Beauty  in  her  burning  cheek, 

And  the  lovely  morn  did  break 
Through  the  azure  of  her  eyes. 

And  her  heart  was  warm  and  meek. 

And  her  hope  was  in  the  skies. 

But  the  lady  loved  at  last. 

And  the  passion  pained  her  soul. 

And  her  hope  away  was  cast, 

F'ar  beyond  her  own  control ; 


And  the  clouded  thoughts  that  roll 
Through  the  midnight  of  the  mind. 

O’er  her  eyes  of  azure  stole. 

Till  they  grew  deject  and  blind. 

He  to  whom  her  heart  was  given. 

When  May  music  was  in  tune, 

Dared  forsake  that  amorous  heaven, 

Changed  and  careless  soon! 

O,  what  is  all  beneath  the  moon 
When  his  heart  will  answer  not! 

What  are  all  the  dreams  of  noon 
With  our  love  forgot ! 

Heedless  of  the  world  she  went. 

Sorrow’s  daughter,  meek  and  lone, 

Till  some  spirit  downwards  bent 
And  struck  her  to  this  sleep  of  stone. 

Look!  Did  old  Pygamalion 
Sculpture  thus,  or  more  prevail. 

When  he  drew  the  living  tone 
From  the  marble  pale! 

An  Invocation  to  Birds. 

Come,  all  ye  feathi.y  people  of  mid  air. 

Who  sleep  ’midst  rocks,  or  on  the  mountain  summiM 
Lie  down  with  the  wild  winds ; and  ye  who  build 
Your  homes  amidst  green  leaves  by  grottos  cool; 

And  ye  who  on  the  flat  sands  hoard  your  eggs 
For  suns  to  ripen,  come  ! O phenix  rare ! 

If  death  hath  spared,  or  philosophic  search 
Permit  thee  still  to  own  thy  haunted  nest, 

Perfect  Arabian — lonely  nightingale  ! 

Dusk  creature,  who  art  silent  all  day  long. 

But  when  pale  eve  unseals  thy  clear  throat,  loosest 
Thy  twilight  music  on  the  dreaming  boughs 
Until  they  waken  ; — and  thou,  cuckoo  bird. 

Who  art  the  ghost  of  sound,  having  no  shape 
Material,  but  dost  wander  far  and  near. 

Like  untouched  echo  whom  the  woods  deny 
Sight  of  her  love — come  all  to  my  slow  charm  ! 

Come  thou,  sky-climbing  bird,  wakener  of  mom 
Who  springest  like  a thought  unto  the  sun. 

And  from  his  golden  floods  dost  gather  wealth 
(Epithalamiurn  and  Pindarique  song). 

And  with  it  enrich  our  ears  ; come  all  to  me. 

Beneath  the  chamber  where  my  lady  lies. 

And,  in  your  several  musics,  whisper — Level 

Amelia  Wentworth. 

Bcenb  I.  A Room.  Wentworth— Amelia. 

Amelia.  You  have  determined,  then,  on  sending 
Charles 
To  India? 

Wentworth.  Yes. 

Amel.  Poor  boy  ! he  looks  so  sad  and  pale. 

He’ll  never  live  there.  ’Tis  a cruel  lot 
At  best  to  leave  the  land  that  gave  us  birth. 

And  sheltered  us  for  many  a pleasant  year ; 

The  friends  that  loved  us,  and  the  spots  we  loved. 

For  such  a distant  country.  He  will  die. 

Remember — ’tis  Amelia’s  prophecy. 

Oh  ! do  not  be  so  harsh  to  the  poor  youth. 

Do  not  desert  your  better  nature.  Nay — 

You  will  not  send  him,  Wentworth? 

ICent.  He  will  sail 
In  twenty  days. 

Amel.  How  can  you  be  so  cruel  I 
He  shall  not  go. 

Wetit.  Madam,  you  interest 
Yourself  too  much,  methinks,  for  this  young  man> 

His  doom  is  settled  ; that  be  sure  of. 

Amel.  Sir! 

Went.  I say  your  tenderness,  your — folly  for 
This  boy  becomes  you  not. 


41? 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


BRYAN  WALTER  PROCTER. 


Amel.  away. 

Ut-dt.  Madam,  while  you  are  Godfrey  Wentworth’s 
wife, 

These  tender — friendships  must  be  laid  aside. 

Th  ! you  can  smile.  By 

iljntf.  Mr  Wentworth,  you 
'I  must  believe  it)  jest ; you  jest  with  me. 

HVji/.  Go  on,  go  on : you  think  me  quite  a fool. 
Woman,  my  eyes  are  open  ; wide  awake 
To  you  and  all  my  infamy.  By  heaven 
I will  not  be  a by-word  and  a mock 

In  all  the  mouths  of  men  for  any Pshawl 

t still  i-espect  your  ears,  you  see  j 1 

Aiiid  You 
Insult  Lie,  sir. 

Belli.  Forgive  me  ; I indeed 
Am  somewhat  of  a prude ; you’ll  scorn  me  for  it. 

I still  think  women  modest — in  the  mass. 

Amtl.  Sir — Mr  Wentworth — you  have  used  me  ill. 
Yourself  you  have  used  ill.  You  have  forgot 
All — what  is  due  to  me — what  to  your  wife. 

You  have  forgot — forgot — can  I forget 
All  that  I sacrificed  for  you? — my  youth. 

My  home,  my  heart — (you  know,  you  knew  it  then) 
In'  sad  obedience  to  my  father’s  word  ? 

You  promised  to  that  father  (how  you  kept 
That  promise,  now  remember)  you  would  save 
H is  age  from  poverty : he  had  been  bred 
In  splendour,  and  he  could  not  bow  him  dorm. 

Like  men  who  never  felt  the  warmth  of  fortune. 

He  gave  me  up,  a victim  ; and  1 saw 
Myself  (ah',  how  I shuddered)  borne  away 
By  you,  the  evil  angel  of  my  life. 

To  a portentous  splendour.  I became 
A pining  bride,  a wretch — a slave  to  all 
Y’our  host  of  passions  ; but  I swore  (may  God 
Forgive  me  !)  to  love  you — you,  when  1 loved 
Another,  and  you  knew  it  : Y es,  you  knew 
My  heart  was  given  away,  and  yet  you  wed  me. 

Leave  me,  sir ! 

Went,  ilave  3’ou  done?  Woman,  do  you  think 
This  mummery  is  to  work  me  from  my  purpose— 

My  .settled  will  ? Mistres.s,  I leave  you  now: 

But  this  remember,  that  your  minion — Oh, 

I do  not  heed  j'our  frowning — your  boy-love 
Will  visit  India  shortly,  or,  it  may  be, 

(You  are  his  guide)  a prison  here,  in  England. 
Farewell. 

Amel.  Yet  stay — a word  more  ere  we  quit. 

I do  beseech  you  (though  my  wrongs  are  great. 

And  my  proud  spirit  ill  can  stoop  to  this). 

You  take  your  malediction  from  this  youth. 

He  is  as  innocent — 1 think  he’s  innocent 
Of  the  least  ill  toward  you.  For  me,  I am 
Too  innocent  to  sue  ; yet  let  me  say. 

Since  the  sad  hour  I wed  you,  1 have  been 

As  faithful  to  our  cold  communion 

As  though  my  heart  had  from  the  first  been  yours, 

Or  you  been  generous  after.  Once  more,  sir, 

I would  implore  you — for  your  comfort — for 
Your  honour  and  my  name,  to  spare  this  boy. 

In  the  calm  tone  of  one  who  has  not  erred 
I do  require  this  of  you. 
ir«nl.  Y^ou  but  steel 

My  heart  against  him.  Woman,  is  you:  nleadlng 
Always  as  warm  as  now  1 By  earth  and  heaven. 

Had  I but  wavered  in  his  destiny 
This  would  have  fixed  me.  Seek  your  chamber  now, 
And  in  your  meditations  think  how  well 
Your  name  may  sound  (my  name !)  held  up  to 
scorn. 

It  may  be  worth  your  care.  Thus  long  I’ve  hid 
My  wrath,  and  let  you  wander  at  your  will. 

You  have  grown  bold  in  guilt ; be  prudent  now  : 

Save  a fair  name,  or  I must  tell  the  world 

How  ill  you  keep  your  secrets.  [_Exit  Went. 


Amel.  He  is  gone  ; 

And  I am  here — oh  ! such  a weary  wretch. 

Oh ! father,  father,  what  a heart  had  you 
To  cast  me  on  the  wide  and  bitter  world 
With  such  a friend  as  this  ! 1 would  have  toiled 

From  the  pale  morning  ’till  the  dusk  of  night. 

And  lived  as  poorly,  and  smiled  cheerfully. 

Keeping  out  sorrow  from  our  cottage  home. 

And  there  was  one  who  would  have  loved  you  too, 
And  aided  with  his  all  our  wreck  of  fortune. 

Y ou  would  not  hear  him  ; and — and  did  1 hear 
His  passionate  petitioning,  and  see 
His  scalding  tears,  and  fling  myself  away 
Upon  a wintry  bosom,  that  held  years 
Doubling  my  own.  What  matters  it? — ’tis  past. 

I will  be  still  myself : who’s  there  ? 

[Charles  enters.] 

a.  ’T\  I. 

You  4.C  in  tears? 

Away.  Draw  down  the  blinds  ; 

The  summer  evenings  now  come  warmly  on  us. 

Go,  pluck  me  yonder  flower. 

Ch.  This  rose — mean  you  ? 

It  fills  the  room  with  perfume : ’tis  as  red, 

And  rich,  and  almost,  too,  as  beautiful. 

As 

Amel.  As  Aurora’s  blushes,  or  my  own. 

I see  you  want  a simile. 

Ch.  You  are  gay. 

Too  gay  for  earnest  talk.  Who  has  been  here  ? 

Amel.  No  one  ; I will  not  tell ; I’ve  made  a vow, 
And  will  not  break  it,  ’till — until  I’m  pressed. 

Ch.  Then  let  me  press  you. 

Amel.  Silly  boy,  away  ; 

Go  gather  me  more  flowers,  violets. 

Ch.  Here  let  me  place  them  in  your  hair. 

Amel.  No,  no  ; 

The  violet  is  for  poets : they  are  yours. 

0 rare!  1 like  to  see  you  bosom  them. 

Had  they  been  golden,  such  as  poets  earned, 

You  might  have  treasured  them. 

Ch.  They  are  far  more 
To  me — for  they  were  yours,  Amelia. 

Amel.  Give  me  the  rose 

Ch.  But  where  shall  it  bo  placed  ? 

Amel.  Why,  in  my  hand — my  hair.  Look  how  it 
blu.shes  ! 

To  see  us  both  so  idle.  Give  it  me. 

Where  ? where  do  ladies  hide  their  favourite  flowers 
But  in  their  bosoms,  foolish  youth.  Away — 

’Tis  1 must  do  it.  Pshaw!  how  sad  you  look, 

And  how  you  tremble. 

Ch.  Dear  Amelia. 

Amel.  Call  me  your  mother,  Charles. 

Ch.  My  guardian — 

Amel.  Ah!  name  him  not  to  me.  Charles,  I have 
been 

Jesting  awhile  ; but  my  dark  husband’s  frown 
Comes  like  a cloud  upon  me.  You  must  go 
Far,  my  dear  Charles,  from  the  one  friend  who  loves 
you : 

To  Hindostan. 

Ch.  I know  it. 

Amel.  For  myself, 

1 shall  think  of  you  often,  my  dear  Charles. 

Think  of  me  sometimes.  When  your  trumpet  sounds, 
Y ou’ll  recollect  the  coward  you  knew  once. 

Over  the  seas  in  England  ? 

Ch.  Spare  mj’  heart. 

Amel.  I do  not  think  you  have  a heart : ’tis  buried. 
Ch.  Amelia,  oh  ! Amelia,  will  you  never 
Know  the  poor  heart  that  breaks  and  bursts  for 
you  ? 

Oh  ! do  not  take  it  ill ; but  now  believe 
How  fond,  and  true,  and  faithful 

443 


FROM  I7t!0 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


A iiiel.  Is  tills  jest  ? 

You  net  well,  sir  ; or — but  if  it  be  true, 

Tbeii  what  am  I? 

C/i.  Ub  ! by  these  buniiii"  tears, 
liy  all  my  haunted  days  ami  wakeful  nights, 

Ob!  by  j ■'urself  I swear,  dearest  of  all, 

I love — love  you,  my  own  Amelia! 

Once  I will  call  you  so.  Do — do  not  scorn  me 
And  blight  my  youth — I do  not  ask  for  lovej 
I dare  not.  Trample  not  upon  my  heart, 

My  untouched  heart — I gave  it  all  to  you. 

Without  a spot  of  care  or  .sorrow  on  it. 

My  spirit  became  yours — I worshiiiped  you. 

And  foi  your  sake  in  silence.  Say  but  once 
You  bate  me  not,  for  this — Speak,  speak! 

Amd.  Alas! 

Ch.  Weep  not  for  me,  my  gentle  love.  You  said 
Your  husband  threatened  you.  Come,  then,  to  me; 

I have  a shelter  and  a heart  lor  you. 

Where,  ever  and  for  ever  you  shall  reign. 

Amelia,  dear  Amelia!  speak  a word 
Of  kindness  and  consenting  to  me — Speak! 

If  but  a word,  or  though  it  be  not  kindness  : 

Speak  hope,  doubt,  fear — but  not  despair  ; or  say 
That  some  day  you  may  love,  or  that  if  ever 
Your  cruel  husband  dies,  you’ll  think  of  me; 

Or  that  you  wish  me  happy — or  that  perhaps 
Your  heart— nay,  s)ieak  to  me,  Amelia. 

Amd.  Is,  then,  your  love  so  deep? 

Ch.  So  deep  ! It  is 

Twined  with  my  life:  it  is  my  life — my  food — 

The  natural  element  wherein  I breathe — 

My  madness — my  heart’s  madness — it  is  all 
— Oh  1 what  a picture  have  I raised  upon 
My  sandy  wishes.  I have  thought  at  times 
That  you  and  I in  some  far  distant  country 
Might  live  together,  blessing  and  beloved; 

Anil  I have  shaped  such  plans  of  happiness. 

For  us  and  all  around  us  (you,  indeed, 

Ever  the  sweet  superior  spirit  there), 

That  were  you  always — fair  Amelia, 

You  listen  with  a melancholy  smile? 

Amd.  Let  me  hear  all : ’tis  lit  I should  hear  all. 
Alas,  alas ! 

Ch.  Weep  not  for  me,  my  love. 

I — I am  nought:  not  worth  a single  tear: 

I will  depart — or  may  I kiss  away 

Those  drops  of  rain  ! Well,  well,  I will  not  pain  you. 

And  yet— oh!  what  a paradise  is  love; 

Secure,  requited  love.  I will  not  go  : 

Or  we  will  go  together.  There  are  haunts 
For  young  and  hapjiy  .spirits:  you  and  I 
Will  thither  tly,  and  dwell  beside  some  stream 
That  runs  in  musie  ’ncath  the  Indian  suns; 

Ay,  some  sweet  island  still  shall  be  our  home, 

Where  fruits  and  flowers  are  born  through  all  the 
year. 

And  Summer,  Autumn,  Spring,  are  ever  young. 
Where  Winter  comes  not,  and  where  nought  abides 
But  Nature  in  her  beauty  revelling. 

You  .shall  be  happy,  sweet  Amelia, 

At  last ; and  I — it  is  too  much  to  think  of. 

Forgive  me  wdiile  I look  upon  thee  now, 

And  swear  to  thee  by  hove,  and  Night,  and  all 
The  gliding  hours  of  soft  and  starry  night. 

How  much — how  absolutely  I am  thine. 

My  pale  and  gentle  beauty — what  a heart 
Had  he  to  wrong  thee  or  upbraid  thee!  He 
Wa-s  guilty — nay,  nay  : look  not  so. 

Avid.  I have 

Been  guilty  of  a cruel  act  toward  you. 

Charles,  1 indeed  am  guilty.  When  to-day 
My  husband  menaced  me,  and  told  me  of 
Public  and  broad  di.sgrace,  it  met  my  scorn: 

But  have  I,  my  poor  youth,  been  so  unkind 
To  you  as  not  to  see  this — love  ’oef<  re  1 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMB. 


Charles,  I have  driven  you  from  your  early  home; 

I see  it  now : I only — hate  me  for  it. 

Ch.  I’ll  love  you,  like  bright  heaven.  The  fixed 
stars 

Shall  never  be  so  constant.  I am  all 

Your  own.  Not  sin,  nor  sorrow,  nor  the  grave. 

Not  the  cold  hollow  grave  shall  chill  my  love. 

It  will  survive,  beyond  the  bounds  of  death, 

The  spirit  of  the  shadow  which  may  there 
Perhaps  do  penance  for  my  deeds  of  ill. 

Avid.  Stay  this  wild  talk. 

Ch.  Men  have  been  known  to  love 
Through  years  of  absence,  ay,  in  pain  and  peril; 

And  one  did  cast  life  and  a worhl  away 

For  a loo.se  woman’s  smile:  nay.  love  has  dwelt, 

A sweet  inhabitant  in  a demon’s  breast. 

Lonely,  amidst  bad  passions;  burning  there. 

Like  a most  holy  and  sepulchral  light, 

-And  almost  hallowing  its  dark  tenement. 

Why  may  not  1 

Anuil.  I thought  I heard  a step. 

How  strangely  you  speak  now — again,  again. 

Leave  me  ; quick,  leave  me. 

Ch.  ’T  is  your  tyrant  coming: 

Fly  rather  you. 

Amd.  If  you  have  pity,  go. 

Ch.  Farewell,  then  : yet,  should  he  repulse  you — 
Amd.  Then 

I will — but  go  : you  torture  me. 

Ch.  1 am  gone.  [ExiK 

Amd.  Farewell,  farewell,  poor  youth  ; so  desolate 
That  even  I can  spare  a tear  for  you. 

My  hu.sband  comes  not : 1 will  meet  him,  then. 
Armed  in  my  innocenee  and  wrongs.  Alas ! 

’Tis  hard  to  suffer  where  we  ought  to  judge. 

And  pray  to  those  who  should  petition  us. 

’Tis  a brave  world,  I see.  Power  and  wrong 
Go  hand  in  hand  resistless  and  abhorred. 

And  patient  virtue  and  pale  modesty. 

Like  the  sad  flowers  of  the  too  early  spring. 

Are  cropped  before  they  blossom- — or  trod  down. 

Or  by  the  fierce  winds  withered.  Is  it  so! — 

But  I have  flaunted  in  the  sun,  and  cast 
My  smiles  in  prodigality  away: 

And  now,  and  now — no  matter.  I have  done. 
Whether  I live  scorned  or  beloved — Beloved! 

Better  be  hated,  could  my  pride  abate 
And  I consent  to  fly.  It  may  be  thus. 

Scene  II.  A Chamber.— Night. 

A considerable  period  of  time  is  supposed  to  have  elapnd 
between  tliis  and  the  preceding  scene. 

Amelia — Marian. 

Mar.  Are  you  awake,  dear  lady? 

Amd.  Wide  awake. 

There  are  the  stars  abroad,  I see.  I feel 
As  though  I had  been  sleeping  many  a day. 

What  time  o’  the  night  is  it  ? 

Mar.  About  the  stroke 
Of  midnight. 

Amd.  Let  it  come.  The  skies  are  calm 
And  bright ; and  so,  at  last,  my  spirit  is. 

Whether  the  heavens  h.ave  influence  on  the  mind 
Through  life,  or  only  in  our  days  of  death, 

I know  not ; yet.  before,  ne’er  did  my  soul 
Look  upwards  with  such  hope  of  joy,  or  pine 
For  that  hope’s  deep  completion.  Marian  I 
Let  me  see  more  of  heaven.  There — enough. 

Are  you  not  well,  sweet  girl  ? 

Mar.  Oh ! yes : but  you 
Speak  now  so  strangely  : you  were  wont  to  talk 
Of  plain  familiar  things,  and  cheer  me:  now 
You  set  my  spirit  drooping. 

A md.  I have  spoke. 

Nothing  but  cheerful  words,  thou  idle  girl. 

4U 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


BRTAN  WALTER  PROCTER. 


Look,  look  ! al)ove  : the  canopy  of  the  sky, 

Spotted  with  slat's,  sliities  Lke  a bridtil  dress: 
tpiecu  niieht  envy  that  so  re^al  blue 
Which  wraps  the  world  o’  nights.  Alas,  alas! 

1 do  rcnieinbor  in  niy  follying  days 

What  wild  and  wanton  wishes  once  were  mine. 

Slaves — radiant  gems — and  beauty  with  no  peer, 

And  ffien  is  (a  rctidy  host) — but  1 forget. 

I shall  be  dreaming  .soon,  as  once  1 dreamt. 

When  1 had  hope  to  light  me.  Have  you  no  song. 
My  gentle  girl,  for  .a  sick  woman’s  ear  1 
There’s  one  I’ve  heard  you  sing  : ‘ They  said  his  eye’ — 
Ni>,  that’s  not  it : the  words  are  hard  to  hit. 

‘ His  eye  like  the  mid-day  sun  was  I right’ — 
il/df.  ’Tis  so. 

You’ve  a good  memory.  Well,  listen  to  me. 

I must  not  trip,  I .see. 

Amd.  1 hearken.  Now. 

Song. 

His  eye  like  the  mid-day  sun  was  bright, 

Hers  had  a proud  but  a milder  light. 

Clear  and  sweet  like  the  cloudless  moon  : 

Alas!  and  must  it  fade  as  soon! 

His  voice  was  like  the  breath  of  war, 

Rut  hers  was  fainter — softer  far  ; 

And  yet,  when  he  of  his  long  love  sighed. 

She  laughed  in  scorn: — he  fled  and  died. 

Mar.  There  is  another  verse,  of  a different  air, 

But  indistinct — like  the  low  moaning 
Of  summer  winds  in  the  evening:  thus  it  runs — 

They  said  he  died  upon  the  wave. 

And  his  bed  was  the  wild  and  bounding  billow : 
Her  bed  shall  be  a dry  earth  grave  : 

Prepare  it  quick,  for  she  wants  her  pillow. 

Amel.  How  slowly  and  how  silently  doth  time 
Float  on  his  starry  journey.  Still  he  goe.s. 

And  goes,  and  goes,  and  doth  not  pass  away. 

He  ri.ses  with  the  golden  morning,  calmly, 

Ai.d  with  the  moon  at  night.  Methinks  I see 
Him  stretching  wide  abroad  his  mighty  wings, 
Floating  for  ever  o’er  the  crowds  of  men. 

Like  a huge  vulture  with  its  prey  beneath. 

Lo ! 1 am  here,  and  time  seems  passing  on: 
To-morrow  1 shall  be  a breathle.ss  thing — 

Yet  he  will  still  be  here ; and  the  blue  hours 
Will  laugh  as  gaily  on  the  busy  world 
As  though  1 were  alive  to  welcome  them. 

There’s  one  will  shed  some  tears.  Poor  Charles! 

[Charles  entera] 

Ch.  I am  here. 

Did  you  not  call  1 

Amd.  You  come  in  time.  My  thoughts 
Were  full  of  you,  dear  Charles.  Your  mother  (now 
1 take  that  title),  in  her  dying  hour 
Has  privilege  to  spe.ak  unto  your  youth. 

There’s  one  thing  pains  me,  and  I would  be  calm. 

My  husband  has  been  harsh  unto  me — yet 
He  is  my  husband  ; and  you’ll  think  of  this 
If  any  sterner  feeling  move  your  heart.’ 

Seek  no  revenge  for  me.  Y ou  will  not  ? — Nay, 

Is  it  so  hard  to  grant  my  last  request  \ 

He  is  my  husband : he  was  father,  too. 

Of  the  blue-eyed  boy  you  were  so  fond  of  once. 

Do  you  remember  how  his  eyelids  closed 
When  the  first  summer  rose  was  opening? 

’Tis  now  two  years  ago — more,  more  : and  I — 

I now  am  hastening  to  him.  Pretty  boy  ! 

He  was  my  only  child.  How  fair  he  looked 
In  the  white  garment  that  encircled  him — 

’Twas  like  a marble  slumber;  and  when  we 
Laid  him  beneath  the  green  earth  in  his  bed, 


I thought  my  heart  was  breaking — yet  1 lived  : 

But  I am  weary  now. 

Mar.  You  must  not  talk, 

Indeed,  dear  lady  ; nay — 

C’/t.  Indeed  you  must  not. 

Amd.  Well,  then,  1 will  be  silent;  yet  not  so. 

For  ere  we  journey,  ever  should  we  take 
A sweet  leave  of  our  friemls,  and  wish  them  well, 

And  tell  them  to  take  heed,  and  bear  in  mind 
Our  blessing.s.  So,  in  your  breast,  dear  Charles, 
Wear  the  remembrance  of  .Amelia. 

She  ever  loved  you — ever ; so  as  might 
Become  a mother’s  tender  love — no  more. 

Charles,  I have  lived  in  this  too  bitter  world 
Now  almost  thirty  seasons : you  have  been 
A child  to  me  for  one-third  of  that  time. 

I took  you  to  my  bosom,  when  a boy. 

Who  scarce  had  seen  eight  springs  come  forth  and 
vanish. 

You  have  a warm  heart,  Charles,  and  the  base  crowd 
Will  feed  upon  it,  if — but  you  must  make 
That  heart  a grave,  and  in  it  bury  deep 
Its  young  .and  beautiful  feelings. 

Ch.  I will  do 

All  that  you  wish — all ; but  you  cannot  die 
And  leave  me ! 

Amd.  You  shall  see  how  calmly  Death 
Will  come  and  press  his  finger,  cold  and  pale. 

On  my  now  smiling  lip  : these  eyes  men  swore 
Were  brighter  than  the  stars  that  fill  the  sky. 

And  yet  they  must  grow  dim  : an  hour — 

Ch.  Oh  ! no. 

No,  no : oh  ! say  not  so.  I cannot  bear 

To  hear  you  talk  thus.  AVill  you  break  my  heart? 

Amd.  No:  1 would  caution  it  against  a change. 
That  soon  must  happe.i.  Calmly  let  us  talk. 

When  1 am  dead — 

Ch.  Alas,  alas ! 

Amd.  This  is 

Not  as  1 wish  : you  had  a braver  spirit. 

Bid  it  come  forth.  AVhy,  1 have  heard  you  talk 
Of  war  and  danger — Ah ! — 

[Wentworih  enters.] 

Mar.  She’s  pale — speak,  speak. 

Ch.  Oh  I my  lost  mother.  Howl  You  here? 

Went.  1 am  come 

To  pray  her  pardon.  Let  me  touch  her  hand. 
Amelia!  she  faints:  Amelia!  [She  diet, 

Poor  faded  girl ! 1 was  too  harsh — unjust. 

Ch.  Look! 

Mar.  She  has  left  us. 

Ch.  It  is  false.  Revive! 

Mother,  revive,  revive! 

Mar.  It  is  in  vain. 

Ch.  Is  it  then  so?  My  soul  is  sick  and  faint. 

Oh  1 mother,  mother.  1 — I cannot  weep. 

Oh  for  some  blinding  tears  to  dim  my  eyes. 

So  I might  not  gaze  on  her.  And  has  death 
Indeed,  indeed  struck  her — .so  beautiful ! 

So  wronged,  and  never  erring  ; so  beloved 
By  one — who  now  has  nothing  left  to  love. 

Oh  ! thou  bright  heaven,  if  thou  art  calling  now 
Thy  brighter  angels  to  thy  bosom — rest. 

For  lo!  the  brightest  of  thy  host  is  gone — 

Departed — and  the  earth  is  dark  below. 

And  now — I’ll  wander  far  and  far  away. 

Like  one  that  hath  no  country.  I shall  finu 
A sullen  pleasure  in  that  life,  and  when 
I say  ‘ I have  no  friend  in  all  the  world,’ 

My  heart  will  swell  with  pride,  and  make  a show 
Unto  itself  of  hapitiness  ; and  in  truth 
There  is,  in  that  .same  solitude,  a taste 
Of  pleasure  which  the  social  never  know. 

From  land  to  land  I’ll  roam,  in  all  a stranger. 

And,  as  the  body  gains  a braver  look, 

445 


FROM  17H0  CYCLOP-^DIA  OF  till  the  present 


Hy  Htariiig  in  the  face  of  all  the  windu, 

So  from  the  «ad  aspects  of  different  things 
My  soul  shall  pluck  a courage,  and  bear  up 
Against  the  past.  And  now — for  Ilindostan. 

HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 

The  Rev.  Henry  Hart  Mii.man,  vic.ar  of  St 
Mary,  in  the  town  of  Iteading,  is  autlior  of  several 
poems  and  dramas,  recently  collected  and  published 
in  tlirec  volumes.  He  first  appeared  as  an  author 
in  1817,  when  his  tragedy  of  Fazio  v/as  published. 
It  was  afterwards  acted  with  success  at  Drury  Lane 
theatre.  In  1820  Mr  Milman  published  a dramatic 
poem,  the  Fall  of  Jerusalem,  and  to  this  succeeded 
three  other  dramas,  Belshazzar,  the  Martyr  of  An- 
tioch, and  Anne  Boleyn,  but  none  of  these  were  de- 
signed for  the  stage.  He  has  also  written  a narra- 
tive poem,  Samor,  Lord  of  the  Bright  City,  and 
several  smaller  pieces.  To  our  prose  literature  Air 
Alilman  has  contributed  a History  of  the  Jews,  in 
three  volumes,  and  an  edition  of  Gibbon’s  Home, 
with  notes  and  corrections.  Mr  Milman  is  a native 
of  London,  son  of  an  eminent  physician.  Sir  Francis 
Milman,  and  was  born  in  the  year  1791.  He  dis- 
tinguished himself  as  a classical  scholar,  and  in  1815 
was  made  a fellow  of  Brazen-nose  college,  Oxford. 
He  also  held  (1821)  the  office  of  professor  of  poetry 
in  the  university.  The  taste  and  attainments  of 
Mr  Milman  are  seen  in  his  poetical  works ; but  he 
wants  the  dramatic  spirit,  and  also  that  warmth  of 
passion  and  imagination  which  is  necessary  to  vivify 
his  sacred  learning  and  his  classical  creations. 

[Jerusalem  Icfore  the  SiegeJ} 

Titus.  It  must  be — 

And  yet  it  moves  me,  Romans!  It  confounds 
The  counsel  of  my  firm  philosophy. 

That  Ruin’s  merciless  ploughshare  must  pass  o’er. 

And  barren  salt  be  sown  on  yon  proud  city. 

As  on  our  olive-crowned  hill  we  stand. 

Where  Kedron  at  our  feet  its  scanty  waters 
Distils  from  stone  to  stone  with  gentle  motion, 

As  through  a valley  sacred  to  sweet  peace. 

How  boldly  doth  it  front  us  ! how  majestically  ! 

Like  a luxurious  vineyard,  the  hill-side 
Is  hung  with  marble  fabrics,  line  o’er  line, 

Terrace  o’er  terrace,  nearer  still,  and  nearer 
To  the  blue  heavens.  There  bright  and  sumptuous 
palaces, 

With  cool  and  verdant  gardens  interspersed  ; 

There  towers  of  war  that  frown  in  massy  strength ; 
While  over  all  hangs  the  rich  purple  eve. 

As  conscious  of  its  being  her  last  farewell 
Of  light  and  glory  to  that  fated  city. 

And,  as  our  clouds  of  battle,  dust  and  smoke. 

Are  melted  into  air,  behold  the  temple 
In  undisturbed  and  lone  serenity. 

Finding  itself  a solemn  sanctuary 

In  the  profound  of  heaven!  It  stands  before  us 

A mount  of  snow,  fretted  with  golden  pinnacles  ! 

The  very  sun,  as  though  he  worshipped  there. 

Lingers  upon  the  gilded  cedar  roofs. 

And  down  the  long  and  branching  porticos. 

On  every  flowery-sculptured  capital. 

Glitters  the  homage  of  his  parting  beams. 

By  Hercules!  the  sight  might  almost  win 
The  offended  majesty  of  Rome  to  mercy. 

[Hymn  of  the  Captive  Jews.] 

[From  ‘ Belshazzar.’) 

God  of  the  thunder!  from  whose  cloudy  seat 
The  fiery  winds  of  desolation  flow  : 

Father  of  lengeance  1 that  with  purple  feet. 

Like  a full  wine-press,  tread’st  the  world  below: 

- 


The  embattled  armies  wait  thy  sign  to  slay, 

Nor  springs  the  beast  of  havock  on  his  prey, 

Nor  withering  Famine  walks  his  blasted  way, 

Till  thou  the  guilty  land  hast  sealed  for  wo. 

God  of  the  rainbow ! at  whose  gracious  sign 
The  billows  of  the  proud  their  rage  suppress; 
Father  of  mercies  ! at  one  word  of  thine 
An  Eden  blooms  in  the  waste  wilderriess ! 

And  fountains  sparkle  in  the  arid  sands. 

And  timbrels  ring  in  maidens’  glancing  hands. 

And  marble  cities  crown  the  laughing  lands. 

And  pillared  temples  rise  thy  name  to  bless. 

O’er  Judah’s  land  thy  thunders  broke,  0 Lord  1 
The  chariots  rattled  o’er  her  sunken  gate, 

Her  sons  were  wasted  by  the  .Assyrian  sword. 

Even  her  foes  wept  to  see  her  fallen  state; 

And  heaps  her  ivory  palaces  became. 

Her  princes  wore  the  captive’s  garb  of  shame. 

Her  temple  sank  amid  the  smouldering  flame. 

For  thou  didst  ride  the  tempest-cloud  of  fate 

O’er  Judah’s  land  thy  rainbow.  Lord,  shall  beam. 
And  the  sad  city  lift  her  crownless  head  ; 

And  songs  shall  wake,  and  dancing  footsteps  gleam. 
Where  broods  o’er  fallen  streets  the  silence  of  tb» 
dead. 

The  sun  shall  shine  on  Salem’s  gilded  towers. 

On  Carmel’s  side  our  maiden’s  cull  the  flowers. 

To  deck,  at  blushing  eve,  their  bridal  bowers. 

And  angel-feet  the  glittering  Sion  tread. 

Thy  vengeance  gave  us  to  the  stranger’s  hand. 

And  Abraham’s  children  were  led  forth  for  slaves ; 
With  fettered  steps  we  left  our  pleasant  land. 
Envying  our  fathers  in  their  peaceful  graves. 

The  stranger’s  bread  with  bitter  tears  we  steep. 

And  when  our  weary  eyes  should  sink  to  sleep, 
’Neath  the  mute  midnight  we  steal  forth  to  weep. 
Where  the  pale  willows  shade  Euphrates’  waves. 

The  born  in  sorrow  shall  bring  forth  in  joy  ; 

Thy  mercy.  Lord,  shall  lead  thy  children  home ; 

He  that  went  forth  a tender  yearling  boy. 

Yet,  ere  he  die,  to  Salem’s  streets  shall  come. 

And  Canaan’s  vines  for  us  their  fruits  shall  bear. 

And  Hermon’s  bees  their  honied  stores  prepare; 

And  we  shall  kneel  again  in  thankful  prayer. 

Where,  o’er  the  cherub-seated  God,  full  blazed  the 
irradiate  dome. 

[Summons  of  the  Destroying  Angel  to  the  City  of 
Babylon.] 

The  hour  is  come!  the  hour  is  come!  AVith  voice 
Heard  in  thy  inmost  soul,  I summon  thee, 

Cyrus,  the  Lord’s  anointed  I And  thou  river. 

That  flowest  exulting  in  thy  proud  approach 
To  Babylon,  beneath  whose  shadowy  walls. 

And  brazen  gates,  and  gilded  palaces, 

And  groves,  that  gleam  with  marble  obelisks. 

Thy  azure  bosom  shall  repose,  with  lights 
Fretted  and  chequered  like  the  starry  heavens: 

Ido  arrest  thee  in  thy  stately  course. 

By  Him  that  poured  thee  from  thine  ancient  fountain, 
And  sent  thee  forth,  even  at  the  birth  of  time. 

One  of  his  holy  streams,  to  lave  the  mounts 
Of  Paradise.  Thou  hear’st  me : thou  dost  check 
Abrupt  thy  waters  as  the  Arab  chief 
His  headlong  squadrons.  Where  the  unobserved 
Yet  toiling  Persian  breaks  the  ruining  mound, 

I see  thee  gather  thy  tumultuous  strength  ; 

And,  through  the  deep  and  roaring  NaharmaLha, 
Roll  on  as  proudly  conscious  of  fulfilling 
The  omnipotent  command  ! MRiile,  far  away. 

The  lake,  that  slept  but  now  so  calm,  nor  moved. 
Save  by  the  rippling  moonshine,  heaves  on  high 

446 


ENGLISH  LITERATURR 


POSTS. 


Us  foaming  surface  like  a whirlpool-gulf, 

.Vml  boils  and  whitens  with  the  unwonted  tide. 

Hut  silent  as  thy  billows  used  to  flow, 

And  terrible,  the  hosts  of  Elam  move. 

Winding  their  darksome  way  profound,  where  man 
Ne’er  trod,  nor  light  e’er  shone,  nor  air  from  heaven 
llrcathcd.  Oh  ! ye  secret  and  unfathomed  depths, 
How  are  ye  now  a smooth  and  royal  way 
For  the  army  of  God’s  vengeance  ! Fellow-slaves 
And  ministers  of  the  Eternal  purpose. 

Not  guided  by  the  treacherous,  injured  sons 
Of  Babylon,  but  by  my  mightier  arm, 

Y c come,  and  spread  your  banners,  and  display 
Your  glittering  arms  as  ye  advance,  all  white 
Beneath  the  admiring  moon.  Come  on!  the  gates 
Are  open — not  for  banqueters  in  blood 
Like  you  I I see  on  either  side  o’erflow 
The  living  deluge  of  armed  men,  and  cry, 

Begin,  begin  ! with  fire  and  sword  begin 
The  work  of  wrath.  Upon  my  shadowy  wings 
I pause,  and  float  a little  while,  to  see 
Mine  human  instruments  fulfil  my  task 
Of  final  ruin.  Then  1 mount,  1 fly. 

And  sing  my  proud  song,  as  1 ride  the  clouds. 

That  stars  may  hear,  and  all  the  hosts  of  worlds, 

That  live  along  the  interminable  space. 

Take  up  Jehovah’s  everlasting  triumph! 

[Tlie  Fair  Becluse.'\ 

[From  ‘ Samor,  Lord  of  the  Bright  City."] 

Sunk  was  the  sun,  and  up  the  eastern  heaven, 

Like  maiden  on  a lonely  pilgrimage. 

Moved  the  meek  star  of  eve ; the  wandering  air 
Breathed  odours  ; wood,  and  waveless  lake,  like  man, 
Slept,  weary  of  the  garish,  babbling  day. 

Dove  of  the  wilderness,  thy  snowy  wing 
Droops  not  in  slumber ; Lilian,  thou  alone, 

’Mid  the  deep  quiet,  wakest.  Dost  thou  rove. 
Idolatrous  of  yon  majestic  moon. 

That  like  a crystal-throned  queen  in  heaven, 

Seems  with  her  present  deity  to  hush 
To  beauteous  adoration  all  the  earth  ? 

Might  seem  the  solemn  silent  mountain  tops 
Stand  up  and  worship  I the  translucent  streams 
Down  the  hills  glittering,  cherish  the  pure  light 
Beneath  the  shadowy  foliage  o’er  them  flung 
At  intervals  ; the  lake,  so  silver-white. 

Glistens  ; all  indistinct  the  snowy  swans 
Bask  in  the  radiance  cool.  Doth  Lilian  muse 
To  that  apparent  queen  her  vesper  hymn? 

Nursling  of  solitude,  her  infant  couch 
Never  did  mother  watch  ; within  the  grave 
She  slept  unwaking:  scornful  turned  aloof 
C.aswallon,  of  those  pure  instinctive  joys 
By  fathers  felt,  when  playful  infant  grace. 

Touched  with  a feminine  softness,  round  the  heart 
Winds  its  light  maze  of  undefined  delight. 
Contemptuous  : he  with  haughty  joy  beheld 
His  boy,  fair  Malwyn  ; him  in  bossy  shield 
Rocked  proudly,  him  upbore  to  mountain  steep 
Fierce  and  undaunted,  for  their  dangerous  nest 
To  battle  with  the  eagle’s  clam’rous  brood. 

But  she,  the  while,  from  human  tenderness 
Estranged,  and  gentler  feelings  that  light  up 
The  cheek  of  youth  with  rosy  joyous  smile, 

Like  a forgotten  lute,  played  on  alone 
By  chance-caressing  airs,  amid  the  wild 
Beauteously  pale  and  sadly  playful  grew, 

A lonely  child,  by  not  one  human  heart 
Beloved,  and  loving  none : nor  strange  if  learnt 
Her  native  fond  affections  to  embrace 
Things  senseless  and  inanimate  ; she  loved 
All  flowrets  that  with  rich  embroidery  fair 
Enamel  the  green  earth — the  odorous  thyme, 

Wild  rose,  and  roving  eglantine  ; nor  spared 


HBNnV  HART  MILMAt. 


To  mourn  their  fading  forms  with  childish  tears. 

Gray  birch  and  aspen  light  she  loved,  tliat  droop 
Fringing  the  crystal  stream  ; the  sportive  breeze 
That  wantoned  with  her  brown  and  glossy  locks ; 

The  sunbeam  chequering  the  fresh  bank  ; ere  da'vn 
Wandering,  and  wandering  still  at  dewy  eve. 

By  Glenderamakin’s  flower  empurpled  marge, 
Derwent’s  blue  lake,  or  Greta’s  wildering  glen. 

Rare  sound  to  her  was  human  voice,  scarce  heard. 
Save  of  her  aged  nurse  or  shepherd  maid 
Soothing  the  child  with  simple  tale  or  song. 

Hence  all  she  knew  of  earthly  hopes  and  fears. 

Life’s  sins  and  sorrows  : better  known  the  voice 
Beloved  of  lark  from  misty  morning  cloud 
Blithe  carolling,  and  wild  melodious  notes 
Heard  mingling  in  the  summer  wood,  or  plaint 
By  moonlight,  of  the  lone  night-warbling  bird. 

Nor  they  of  love  unconscious,  all  around 
Fe.arless,  familiar  they  their  descants  sweet 
Tuned  emulous  ; her  knew  all  living  shapes 
That  tenant  wood  or  rock,  dun  roe  or  deer. 

Sunning  his  dappled  side,  at  noontide  crouehed. 
Courting  her  fond  caress  ; nor  fled  her  gaze 
The  brooding  dove,  but  murmured  sounds  of  ioy. 

The  Day  of  Judgment, 

Even  thus  amid  thy  pride  and  luxury. 

Oh  earth!  shall  that  last  coming  burst  on  thee. 

That  secret  coming  of  the  Son  of  Man, 

When  all  the  cherub-throning  clouds  shall  shine. 
Irradiate  with  his  bright  advancing  sign  : 

When  that  Great  Husbandman  shall  wave  his  fan. 
Sweeping,  like  chaff,  thy  wealth  and  pomp  away ; 

Still  to  the  noontide  of  that  nightless  day 
Shalt  thou  thy  wonted  dissolute  course  maintain. 
Along  tlie  busy  mart  and  crowded  street, 

The  buyer  and  the  seller  still  shall  meet. 

And  marriage-feasts  begin  their  jocund  strain: 

Still  to  the  pouring  out  the  cup  of  wo  ; 

Till  earth,  a drunkard,  reeling  to  and  fro. 

And  mountains  molten  by  his  burning  feet, 

And  heaven  his  presence  own,  all  red  with  fumac* 
heat. 

The  hundred-gated  cities  then. 

The  towers  and  temples,  named  of  men 
Eternal,  and  the  thrones  of  kings  ; 

The  gilded  summer  palaces. 

The  courtly  bowers  of  love  and  ease. 

Where  still  the  bird  of  pleasure  sings : 

Ask  ye  the  destiny  of  them  1 
Go,  gaze  on  fallen  Jerusalem  ! 

Yea,  mightier  names  are  in  the  fatal  roll, 

’Gainst  earth  and  heaven  God’s  standaid  is  unfurled 
The  skies  are  shrivelled  like  a burning  scroll. 

And  one  vast  common  doom  ensepulchies  the  world. 
Oh  ! who  shall  then  survive? 

Oh  ! who  shall  stand  and  live  ? 

When  all  that  hath  been  is  no  more ; 

When  for  the  round  earth  hung  in  air. 

With  all  its  constellations  fair 
In  the  sky’s  azure  canopy  ; 

When  for  the  breathing  earth,  and  sparkling  sea. 

Is  but  a fiery  deluge  without  shore. 

Heaving  along  the  abyss  profound  and  dark— 

A fiery  deluge,  and  without  an  ark  ? 

Lord  of  all  power,  when  thou  art  there  alone 
On  thy  eternal  fiery-wheeled  throne, 

That  in  its  high  meridian  noon 
Needs  not  the  perished  sun  nor  moon: 

When  thou  art  there  in  thy  presiding  state. 
Wide-sceptred  monarch  o’er  the  realm  of  doom  : 
When  from  the  sea-depths,  from  earth’s  darkest 
womb. 

The  dead  of  all  the  ages  round  thee  wait : 

447 


fROM  171)0  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  puksknt  timk. 


Ami  wlicii  tilt  tribes  of  witkeiliicss  are  strewn 
Like  forest-leaves  in  tlie  autuiim  of  tbiiie  ire: 

I'aitlifiil  ami  True!  thou  still  wilt  save  thine  own! 
The  saints  shall  dwell  within  the  unharniino  fire, 
Kaeh  white  robe  spotless,  blooniino  every  palm. 

Kven  safe  its  we,  by  this  still  fountain’s  side, 

So  shall  the  ehurch,  thy  bright  and  mystic  bride. 

Sit  on  the  stormy  fjolf  a halcyon  bird  of  calm. 

Yes,  ’mid  yon  anory  and  destroyin';  signs. 

O’er  us  the  rainbow  of  thy  mercy  shines; 

W'e  hail,  we  bless  the  covenant  of  its  beam. 

Almighty  to  avenge,  almightiest  to  redeem  1 

REV.  GEORGE  CROLY. 

The  Tvev.  George  Croi.v,  rector  of  St  Stephen’s, 
Walbmok,  London,  is,  like  Mr  Milman,  a correct 
and  c-lo(iuent  poet,  hut  deficient  in  interest,  and  con- 
sequently little  read.  His  poetical  works  are,  Paris 
in  ISlfi;  J'/ie  Anyet  of  the  WorU;  Gems  from  the 
Anti(/iic,  &c.  Mr  Croly  has  ]mblished  several  works 
in  jirose:  Salulhiel,  a romance  founded  on  the  old 
legend  of  the  Wandering  .Jew  ; a Life  of  Burhe,  in 
two  volumes;  and  a work  on  the  Apocalypse  of  St 
John.  This  gentleman  is  a native  of  Ireland,  and 
was  educated  at  Trinity  college,  Dublin. 

Pericles  and  Aspasia. 

This  was  the  ruler  of  the  land, 

^\’hen  Athens  was  the  land  of  fame; 

This  was  the  light  that  led  the  band. 

When  each  was  like  a living  flame; 

The  centre  of  earth’s  noblest  ring. 

Of  more  than  men,  the  more  than  king. 

Yet  not  by  fetter,  nor  by  spear, 

His  sovereignty  was  held  or  won  : 

Feared — but  alone  as  fi  eemen  fear  ; 

Loved — but  as  freemen  love  alone; 

He  waved  the  sceptre  o’er  his  kind 
By  nature’s  first  great  title — mind! 

Resi.,tless  words  were  on  his  tongue. 

Then  Klo(|uence  first  flashed  below; 

Full  armed  to  life  the  portent  sprung, 

Minerva  from  the  Thunderer’s  brow! 

And  his  the  sole,  the  sacred  hand, 

That  shook  her  AEgis  o’er  the  land. 

And  throned  immortal  by  his  side, 

A woman  sits  with  eye  sublime, 

Aspasia,  all  his  spirit’s  bride; 

Itut,  if  their  solemn  love  were  crime. 

Pity  the  beauty  and  the  sage. 

Their  crime  was  in  their  darkened  age. 

He  [)erished,  but  his  wreath  was  won ; 

He  perished  in  his  height  of  fame; 

Then  sunk  the  cloud  on  Athens’  sun. 

Yet  still  she  conquered  in  his  name. 

Filled  with  his  soul,  she  could  not  die; 

Her  coiiquest  was  Posterity! 

[T/ifi  French  Amy  in 

[From  ‘ Paris  in  1815.'] 

Magnificence  of  ruin  ! what  has  time 
In  all  it  ever  gazed  ui>on  of  war. 

Of  the  wild  rage  of  storm,  or  deadly  clime. 

Seen,  with  that  battle’s  vengeance  to  compare! 

How  glorious  shone  the  invader’s  pomp  afar! 

Like  panqiered  lions  from  the  spoil  they  came ; 

The  land  before  them  silence  and  despair. 

The  land  behind  them  massacre  and  flame ; 

'Lood  will  have  tenfold  blood.  What  are  they  now! 
A name. 


Homeward  by  hundred  thousands,  column-deep. 
Broad  S()uare,  loose  squadron,  rolling  like  the  flood 
When  mighty  torrents  froni  their  channels  leap. 
Hushed  through  the  land  the  haughty  multitude, 
Bilhnv  on  endless  billow;  on  through  wood. 

O’er  rugged  hill,  down  sunless,  marshy  vale. 

The  death-devoted  moved,  to  clangour  rude 
Of  drum  and  horn,  and  dissonant  clash  of  mail. 
Glancing  disastrous  light  before  that  sunbeam  pale. 

Again  they  reached  thee,  Borodino!  still 
Upon  the  loaded  soil  the  carnage  lay, 

The  human  harvest,  now  stark,  stiff,  and  chill, 
Friend,  foe,  stretched  thick  together,  clay  to  clay; 
In  vain  the  startled  legions  burst  away  ; 

The  land  Wits  all  one  naked  sepulchre; 

The  shrinking  eye  still  glanceil  on  grim  decay. 

Still  did  the  hoof  and  wheel  their  passage  tear, 
Through  cloven  helms  and  arms,  and  corpses  mouldet- 
ing  drear, 

I he  field  was  as  they  left  it ; fosse  and  fort 
Steaming  with  slaughter  still,  but  desolate; 

The  cannon  flung  ilismantled  by  its  port; 

Kaeh  knew  the  mound,  the  black  ravine  whose  strait 
Was  won  and  lost,  and  thronged  with  dead,  till  fate 
Had  fixed  upon  the  victor — half  undone. 

There  was  the  hill,  from  which  their  eyes  elate 
Had  seen  the  burst  of  Moscow’s  golden  zone; 

But  death  was  at  their  heels ; they  shuddered  and 
rushed  on. 

The  hour  of  vengeance  str^es.  Hark  to  the  gale  I 
As  it  bursts  hollow  through  .Te  rolling  clouds, 

That  from  the  north  in  sulU  <Trandeur  sail 
Like  floating  Alps.  Advancs  g darkness  broods 
Upon  the  wild  horizon,  and  the  woods. 

Now  sinking  into  brambles,  echo  shrill. 

As  the  gust  sweeps  them,  and  those  upper  floods 
Shoot  on  their  leafless  boughs  the  sleet-drops  chill. 
That  on  the  hurrying  crowds  in  freezing  showers  distil 

They  reach  the  wilderness  ! The  majesty 
Of  solitude  is  sjiread  before  their  gaze, 

Stern  nakedness — dark  earth  and  wrathful  sky. 

If  ruins  were  there,  they  long  had  ceased  to  blaze; 
If  blood  was  shed,  the  ground  no  more  betrays, 
F.ven  by  a skeleton,  the  crime  of  man  ; 

Behind  them  rolls  the  deep  and  drenching  haze. 
Wrapping  their  rear  in  night ; before  their  van 
The  struggling  daylight  shows  the  unmeasured  desert 
wan. 

Still  on  they  sweep,  as  if  their  hurrying  march 
Could  bear  them  from  the  rushing  of  II  is  wheel- 
Whose  chariot  is  the  whirlwind.  Heaven’s  clear 
arch 

At  once  is  covered  with  a livid  veil  ; 

In  mixed  and  fighting  heaps  the  deep  clouds  reel; 
U[)on  the  dense  horizon  hangs  the  sun, 

In  sanguine  light,  an  orb  of  burning  steel ; 

The  snows  wheel  down  through  twilight,  thick  and 
dun  ; 

Now  tremble,  men  of  blood,  the  judgment  has  begunl 

The  trumpet  of  the  northern  winds  has  blown. 

And  it  is  answered  by  the  dying  roar 
Of  armies  on  that  boundless  field  o’erthrown  : 

Now  in  the  awful  gusts  the  desert  hoar 
Is  tempested,  a sea  without  a shore. 

Lifting  its  feathery  waves.  The  legions  fly  ; 

Volley  on  volley  down  the  hailstones  pour ; 

Blind,  famished,  frozen,  mad,  the  wanderers  die. 
And  dying,  hear  the  storm  but  wilder  thunder  by. 

Such  is  the  hand  of  Heaven!  A human  blow 
Had  crushed  them  in  the  fight,  or  flung  the  chain 
Round  them  where  Moscow’s  stately  towers  were  low 
And  all  bestilled.  But  Thou!  thy  battle-plain 

4-18 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LETITIA  BI.IZAHKTir  I.ANUOW. 


Was  a wliole  empire  ; that  devoted  train 
Must  war  frtmi  day  to  day  with  storm  and  gloom 
(Man  following,  like  the  wolves,  to  rend  the  slain), 
Most  lie  from  night  to  night  as  in  a tomb. 

Must  fly,  toil,  bleed  for  home  ; yet  never  see  that  home. 

To  the  Memory  of  a Lady. 

• Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done.’— SAotrpeare. 

High  peace  to  the  soul  of  the  dead. 

From  the  dream  of  the  world  she  has  gone  I 
On  the  stars  in  her  glory  to  trend. 

To  be  bright  in  the  blaze  of  the  throne. 

In  youth  she  was  lovely  ; and  Time, 

When  her  rose  with  the  cypress  he  twined, 

Left  the  heart  all  the  warmth  of  its  prime, 

Left  her  eye  all  the  light  of  her  mind. 

The  summons  came  forth — and  she  died  ! 

Yet  her  parting  was  gentle,  for  those 
Whom  she  loved  mingled  tears  at  her  side— 

Her  death  was  the  mourner’s  repose. 

Our  weakness  may  weep  o’er  her  bier. 

But  her  spirit  has  gone  on  the  wing 
To  triumph  for  agony  here. 

To  rejoice  in  the  joy  of  its  King. 


LETITIA  ELIZABETH  LANDON. 

This  lady,  generally  known  as  ‘ L.  E.  L.,’  in  con- 
sequence of  having  first  published  with  her  initials 
only,  has  attained  an  eminent  place  among  the 
female  poets  of  our  age.  Her  earliest  compositions 


susceptible,  and  romantic,  she  early  commenced 
writing  poetry.  The  friendship  of  Mr  .lerdaii,  of  the 
Literary  Gazette,  facilitated  her  introduction  to  the 


Birthplace  of  Miss  Landon. 


world  of  letters,  but  it  also  gave  rise  to  some  reports 
injurious  to  her  character,  which  caused  her  the 
most  exquisite  pain.  Her  father  died,  and  she  not 
only  mirintained  herself,  but  assisted  her  relations  by 
her  literary  labours,  which  she  never  relaxed  for  a 
moment.  In  1838  she  was  married  to  ilr  George 
Maclean,  governor  of  Cape-Coast  castle,  and  shortly 
afterwards  sailed  for  Cape-Coast  with  her  husband. 
She  landed  there  in  August,  and  was  resuming  her 
literary  engagements  in  her  solitary  African  home, 
when  one  morning,  after  writing  the  previous  night 
some  cheerful  and  affectionate  letters  to  her  friends 
in  England,  she  was  (October  16)  found  dead  in  her 
room,  lying  close  to  the  door,  having  in  her  hand 
a bottle  which  had  contained  prussic  acid,  a portion 
of  which  she  had  taken.  From  the  investigation 
which  took  j)lace  into  the  circumstances  of  this 
melancholy  event,  it  was  conjectured  that  she  had 
undesigningly  taken  an  over-dose  of  the  fatal  medi- 
cine, as  a relief  from  spasms  in  the  stomach.  Having 
surmounted  her  early  difficulties,  and  achieved  an 
easy  competence  and  a daily-e.xtending  reputation, 
much  might  have  been  expected  from  the  genius  of 
L.  E.  L.,  had  not  her  life  been  prematurely  termi- 
nated. Her  latter  works  are  more  free,  naturaL 
and  forcible  than  those  by  which  she  first  attracted 
notice. 


were  Poetical  Sketches,  which  appeared  in  the  Lite- 
rary Gazette:  afterwards  (1824)  she  published  the 
Improvisatrice,  which  was  followed  bj'  two  more 
volumes  of  poetry.  She  also  contributed  largely  to 
magazines  and  annuals,  and  was  the  authoress  of  a 
novel  entitled  Pomance  and  Realitif.  From  a publi- 
cation of  her  Life  and  Literary  Remainn,  edited  by 
Mr  L.  Blancharffi  it  appears  that  her  history'  was  in 
the  main  a painful  one ; and  yet  it  is  also  asserted 
that  the  melancholy  of  her  verses  was  a complete 
contrast  to  the  vivacity  and  playfulness  of  her  man- 
ners in  private  life.  She  was  born  at  Hans  Place, 
Chelsea,  in  1802,  the  daughter  of  Mr  Landon,  a 
partner  in  the  house  of  Adairs,  army  agents.  Lively, 

71 


Change. 

I would  not  care,  at  lea.st  so  much,  sweet  Spring, 

For  the  departing  colour  cf  th\  flowers — 

Tlie  green  leaves  early  fall  ng  from  thy  boughs — 

Thy  birds  so  soon  forgetful  of  tlteir  s(mgs — 

Tliy  skies,  whose  sunshine  ends  in  lieavy  showers; 

But  thou  dost  leave  thy  memory,  like  a ghost. 

To  haunt  the  ruined  heart,  which  still  recurs 
To  fonuer  beauty  ; and  the  desolate 
Is  doubly  sorrowful  when  it  recalls 
It  was  not  always  desolate. 

M'hen  those  eyes  have  forgotten  the  smile  they  wear  now, 
M hen  care  shall  hate  shadowed  that  beautiful  brow; 
M’hen  thy  hopes  and  thy  roses  together  lie  dead, 

And  thy  heart  turns  back  pining  to  days  that  are  fled— 

449 


I 


FROM  178t  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  present  time. 


Then  wilt  thou  remember  what  now  seems  to  pass 
Like  th  t .noonliglit  on  water,  the  hi  ath-stain  on  glass ; 
Oh!  maiden,  the  lovely  and  youthful,  to  thee, 

‘low  rose-touched  the  page  of  thy  future  must  be! 

By  the  past,  if  thou  judge  it,  how  little  is  there 
But  blossoms  that  flourish,  but  hopes  that  are  fair; 
And  what  is  thy  present  ? a southern  sky’s  spring, 
With  thy  feelings  and  fancies  like  birds  on  the  wing. 
As  the  rose  by  the  fountain  flings  down  on  the  wave 
Its  blushes,  forgetting  its  glass  is  its  grave ; 

So  the  heart  sheds  its  colour  on  life’s  early  hour; 

But  the  heart  ha.s  its  fading  as  well  as  the  flower. 

The  charmed  light  darkens,  the  rose-leaves  are  gone, 
And  life,  like  the  fountain,  floats  colourless  on. 

Said  1,  when  thy  beauty’s  sweet  vision  was  fled, 

How  wouldst  thou  turn,  pining,  to  days  like  the  dead! 

Oh!  long  ere  one  shadow  shall  darken  that  brow. 

Wilt  thou  weep  like  a mourner  o’er  all  thou  lov’st  now  ; 
When  thy  hopes,  like  spent  arrows,  fall  short  of  their 
mark  ; 

Or,like  meteorsat  midnight,makedarknessmoredark : 
When  thy  feelings  lie  fettered  like  waters  in  frost. 

Or,  scattered  too  freely,  are  w.asted  and  lost : 

For  aye  cometh  sorrow,  when  youth  hath  passed  by — 
Ahl  what  saith  the  proverb?  Its  memory’s  a sigh. 

Crcscentiua. 

I looked  upon  his  brow — no  sign 
Of  guilt  or  fear  was  there  ; 

He  stood  as  proud  by  that  death-shrine 
As  even  o’er  despair 
He  had  a power ; in  his  eye 
There  wa.s  a quenchless  energy, 

A spirit  that  could  dare 
The  deadliest  form  that  death  could  take. 

And  dare  it  for  the  daring’s  sake. 

He  stood,  the  fetters  on  his  hand. 

He  raised  them  haughtily; 

And  had  that  grasp  been  on  the  brand. 

It  could  not  wave  on  high 
With  freer  pride  than  it  waved  now  ; 

Around  he  looked  with  changeless  brow 
On  many  a torture  nigh  ; 

The  rack,  the  chain,  the  a.xe,  the  wheel. 

And,  worst  of  all,  his  owm  red  steel. 

I saw  him  once  before  ; he  rode 
Upon  a coal-black  steed. 

And  tens  of  thousands  thronged  the  road. 

And  bade  their  warrior  speed. 

His  helm,  his  breastplate,  were  of  gold. 

And  graved  with  many  dint,  that  told 
Of  many  a soldier’s  deed  ; 

The  sun  shone  on  his  sparkling  mail. 

And  danced  his  snow-plume  on  the  gale. 

But  now  he  stood  chained  and  alone. 

The  headsman  by  his  side. 

The  plume,  the  helm,  the  charger  gone; 

The  sword,  which  had  defied 
The  mightiest,  lay  broken  near ; 

And  yet  no  sign  or  sound  of  fear 
Came  from  that  lip  of  pride  ; 

And  never  king  or  conqueror’s  brow 
Wore  higher  look  than  did  his  now. 

He  bent  beneath  the  headsman’s  stroke 
With  an  uncovered  eye  ; 

A wild  shout  from  the  numbers  broke 
Who  thronged  to  see  him  die. 

It  was  a people’s  loud  acclaim. 

The  voice  of  anger  and  of  shame, 

A nation’s  funeral  cry, 

Rome’s  wail  above  her  only  son, 

Her  patriot  and  her  latest  one. 


The  Grasp  of  the  Dead. 

’Twas  in  the  battle-field,  and  the  cold  pale  moon 
Looked  down  on  the  dead  and  dying; 

And  the  wind  passed  o’er  with  a dirge  and  a wail. 
Where  the  young  and  brave  were  lying. 

With  his  father’s  sword  in  his  red  right  hand. 

And  the  hostile  dead  around  him. 

Lay  a youthful  chief : but  his  bed  was  the  ground. 
And  the  grave’s  icy  sleep  had  bound  him. 

A reckless  rover,  ’mid  death  and  doom. 

Passed  a soldier,  his  i)lunder  seeking. 

Careless  he  stept,  where  friend  and  foe 
Lay  alike  in  their  life-blood  reeking. 

Drawn  by  the  shine  of  the  warrior’s  sword. 

The  soldier  paused  beside  it : 

He  wrenched  the  hand  with  a giant’s  strength. 

But  the  grasp  of  the  dead  defied  it. 

He  loosed  his  hold,  and  his  English  heart 
Took  part  with  the  dead  before  him  ; 

And  he  honoured  the  brave  who  died  sword  in  hand, 
As  with  softened  brow  he  leant  o’er  him. 

‘ A soldier’s  death  thou  hast  boldly  died, 

A soldier’s  grave  won  by  it : 

Before  I would  take  that  sword  from  thine  hand. 

My  own  life’s  blood  should  dye  it. 

Thou  shalt  not  be  left  for  the  carrion  crow. 

Or  the  wolf  to  batten  o'er  thee  ; 

Or  the  coward  insult  the  gallant  dead. 

Who  in  life  had  trembled  before  thee.’ 

Then  dug  he  a grave  in  the  crimson  earth. 

Where  his  warrior  foe  was  sleeping; 

And  he  laid  him  there  in  honour  and  rest. 

With  his  sword  in  his  own  brave  keeping! 

[From,  ‘ The  Improrisatrice.'''\ 

I loved  him  as  young  Genius  loves. 

When  its  own  wild  and  radiant  heaven 
Of  starry  thought  burns  with  the  light. 

The  love,  the  life,  by  passion  given. 

I loved  him,  too,  as  woman  loves — 

Reckless  of  sorrow,  sin,  or  scorn : 

Life  had  no  evil  destiny 

That,  with  him,  1 could  not  have  home! 

I had  been  nursed  in  palaces ; 

Yet  earth  had  not  a spot  so  drear. 

That  1 should  not  have  thought  a home 
In  Paradise,  had  he  been  near! 

How  sweet  it  would  have  been  to  dwell. 

Apart  from  all,  in  some  green  dell 
Of  sunny  beauty,  leaves  and  flowers  ; 

And  nestling  birds  to  sing  the  hours  ! 

Our  home,  beneath  some  chestnut’s  shade. 

But  of  the  woven  branches  made  : 

Our  vesper  hymn,  the  low  wone  wail 
The  rose  hears  from  the  nightingale  ; 

And  waked  at  morning  by  the  call 
Of  music  from  a waterfall. 

But  not  alone  in  dreams  like  this. 

Breathed  in  the  very  hope  of  bliss, 

I loved : my  love  had  been  the  same 
In  huslfed  despair,  in  open  shame. 

I would  have  rather  been  a slave. 

In  tears,  in  bondage  by  his  side. 

Than  shared  in  all,  if  wanting  him. 

This  world  had  power  to  give  beside! 

My  heart  was  withered — and  my  heart 
Had  ever  been  the  world  to  me: 

And  love  had  been  the  first  fond  dream, 
Whose  life  was  in  reality. 

I had  sprung  from  my  solitude. 

Like  a young  bird  upon  the  wing, 

450 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOANNA  BAtLLIB. 


P0KT8. 


To  meet  the  arrow ; so  I met 
My  poi.>ioned  shaft  of  suffering. 

And  as  that  bird,  with  drooping  crest 
And  broken  wing,  will  .seek  his  nest, 

But  seek  in  vain  : so  vain  I sought 
My  pleasant  home  of  song  and  thought. 

There  w.as  one  spell  upon  my  brain, 

Upon  my  pencil,  on  my  strain ; 

But  one  face  to  my  colours  came; 

My  chords  replied  to  but  one  name — 

Lorenzo  ! — all  seemed  vowed  to  thee. 

To  passion,  and  to  misery  1 

[Last  Ve)-ses  of  L.  E.  X.] 

[Alluding  to  the  Pole  Star,  which,  in  her  voyage  to  Africa, 
lbs  bad  nightly  watched  till  it  sunk  below  the  horizon.] 

A star  has  left  the  kindling  sky — 

A lovely  northern  light ; 

How  many  planets  are  on  high. 

But  that  has  left  the  night. 

I miss  its  bright  familiar  face. 

It  was  a friend  to  me  ; 

Associate  with  ray  native  place. 

And  those  beyond  the  sea. 

It  rose  upon  our  English  sky. 

Shone  o’er  our  English  land,* 

And  brought  back  many  a loving  eye. 

And  many  a gentle  hand. 

It  seemed  to  answer  to  my  thought. 

It  called  the  past  to  mind. 

And  with  its  welcome  presence  brought 
All  I had  left  behind. 

The  voyage  it  lights  no  longer,  ends 
Soon  on  a foreign  shore ; 

How  can  I but  recall  the  friends 
That  I may  see  no  more  1 

Fresh  from  the  pain  it  was  to  part — 

How  could  I bear  the  pain  ? 

Yet  strong  the  omen  in  my  heart 
That  says — We  meet  again. 

Meet  with  a deeper,  dearer  love ; 

For  absence  shows  the  worth 

Of  all  from  which  we  then  remove, 

Friends,  home,  and  native  earth. 

Thou  lovely  polar  star,  mine  eyes 
Still  turned  the  first  on  thee. 

Till  I have  felt  a sad  surprise. 

That  none  looked  up  with  me. 

• But  thou  hast  sunk  upon  the  wave. 

Thy  radiant  place  unknown  ; 

I seem  to  stand  beside  a grave. 

And  stand  by  it  alone. 

Farewell ! ah,  would  to  me  were  given 
A power  upon  thy  light  1 

What  words  upon  our  English  heaven 
Thy  loving  rays  should  write  ! 

Kind  messages  of  love  and  hope 
Upon  thy  rays  should  be ; 

Thy  shining  orbit  should  have  scope 
Scarcely  enough  for  me. 

Oh,  fancy  vain,  as  it  is  fond, 

And  little  needed  too  ; 

My  friends ! 1 need  not  look  beyond 
My  heart  to  look  for  you. 

♦ These  expressions,  it  is  almost  unnecessary  to  say,  are  not 
true  to  natural  facts,  as  the  Pole  Star  has  not  a quotidian 
rising  anywhere,  and  it  shines  on  the  whole  northern  hemi- 
sphere in  common  with  England.— £d. 


JOANNA  BAIU.IE. 

Besides  her  dramatic  writings,  to  be  noticed  in 
another  section.  Miss  Baillie  has  presented  to  the 


world  at  different  times  a sufficient  quantity  of  mis- 
cellaneous poetry,  including  songs,  to  constitute  a 
single  volume,  which  was  published  in  1841.  The 
pieces  of  the  latter  class  are  distinguished  by  a pecu- 
liar softness  of  diction,  which  makes  them  fall  mult- 
ingly  on  the  ear ; yet  few  of  them  have  become 
favourites  with  vocalists  or  in  the  drawing-room. 


Miss  Baillie’s  House,  Hampstead. 


Her  poem  entitled  The  Kitten,  which  appeared  in  an 
early  volume  of  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register, 
has  a truth  to  nature  v/hich  rank.s  it  among  the  best 
pieces  of  the  kind  in  our  language. 

The  Kitten. 

Wanton  droll,  who.se  harmless  play 
Beguiles  the  rustic’s  closing  daj'. 

When  drawn  the  evening  fire  about, 

Sit  aged  Crone  and  thoughtless  Lout 
And  child  upon  his  three-foot  stool. 

Waiting  till  his  supper  cool ; 

And  maid,  whose  cheek  outblooms  the  rose. 

As  bright  the  blazing  fagot  glows. 

Who,  bending  to  the  friendly  light. 

Plies  her  task  with  busy  sleight ; 

Come,  show  thy  tricks  and  sportive  graces. 

Thus  circled  round  with  merry  faces. 

Backward  coiled,  and  crouching  low. 

With  glaring  eyeballs  watch  thy  foe. 

The  housewife’s  spindle  whirling  round. 

Or  thread,  or  straw,  that  on  the  ground 

4o) 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  HNS. 


ItH  sliadow  throws,  by  urchin  sly 
Held  out  to  lure  thy  roving  eye ; 

Then,  onward  stealing,  fiercely  spring 
Upon  the  futile,  faithless  thing. 

Now,  wheeling  round,  with  bootless  skill, 

Tliy  bo-peep  tail  provokes  thee  still. 

As  oft  beyond  thy  curving  side 
Its  jetty  tip  is  seen  to  glide  ; 

Till,  from  thy  centre  starting  fair. 

Thou  sidelong  rear’st,  with  rump  in  air, 
Krected  stiff,  and  gait  awry. 

Like  madam  in  her  tantrums  high  : 

Though  ne’er  a madam  of  them  all. 

Whose  silken  kirtle  sweeps  the  hall. 

More  varied  trick  and  whim  displays, 

To  catch  the  admiring  stranger’s  gaze. 

* * * 

The  featest  tumbler,  stage-bedight, 

To  thee  is  but  a clumsy  wight. 

Who  every  limb  and  sinew  strains 
To  do  what  costs  thee  little  pains ; 

For  which,  I trow,  the  gaping  crowd 
Requites  him  oft  with  plaudits  loud. 

But,  stopped  the  while  thy  wanton  play, 
Applauses,  too,  thy  feats  repay  : 

For  then  beneath  some  urchin’s  hand. 

With  modest  pride  thou  tak’st  thy  stand, 
•Vhile  many  a stroke  of  fondness  glides 
Along  thy  back  and  tabby  sides. 

Dilated  swells  thy  glossy  fur. 

And  loudly  sings  thy  busy  pur. 

As,  timing  well  the  equal  sound. 

Thy  clutching  feet  bepat  the  ground. 

And  all  their  harmless  claws  disclose. 

Like  prickles  of  an  early  rose  ; 

While  softly  from  thy  whiskered  cheek 
Thy  half-closed  eyes  peer  mild  and  meek. 

But  not  alone  by  cottage-fire 
Do  rustics  rude  thy  feats  admire  ; 

The  learned  sage,  whose  thoughts  explore 
The  widest  range  of  human  lore. 

Or,  with  unfettered  fancy,  fly 
Through  airy  heights  of  i>oesy. 

Pausing,  smiles  with  altered  air 
To  see  thee  climb  his  elbow-chair. 

Or,  struggling  on  the  mat  below. 

Hold  warfare  with  his  slippered  toe. 

The  widowed  dame,  or  lonely  maid. 

Who  in  the  still,  but  cheerless  shade 
Of  home  unsocial,  spends  her  age. 

And  rarely  turns  a lettered  page  ; 

Upon  her  hearth  for  thee  lets  fall 
The  rounded  cork,  or  paper-ball. 

Nor  chides  thee  on  thy  wicked  watch 
The  ends  of  ravelled  skein  to  catch. 

But  lets  thee  have  thy  wayward  will. 
Perplexing  oft  her  sober  skill. 

Even  he,  whose  mind  of  gloomy  bent. 

In  lonely  tower  or  prison  pent. 

Reviews  the  coil  of  former  days. 

And  loathes  the  world  and  all  its  ways ; 
What  time  the  lamp’s  unsteady  gleam 
Doth  rouse  him  from  his  moody  dream. 

Feels,  as  thou  gambol’st  round  his  seat. 

His  heart  with  pride  less  fiercely  beat. 

And  smiles,  a link  in  thee  to  find 
That  joins  him  still  to  living  kind. 

Whence  hast  thou,  then,  thou  witless  Puss, 
The  magic  power  to  charm  us  thus  I 
Is  it,  that  in  thy  glaring  eye. 

And  rapid  movements,  we  descry. 

While  we  at  ease,  secure  from  ill, 

The  chimney-corner  snugly  fill, 

A lion,  darting  on  the  prey, 

A tiger,  at  his  ruthless  play 


« 


Or  is  it,  that  in  thee  we  trace. 

With  all  thy  varied  wanton  grace. 

An  emblem  viewed  with  kindred  eye. 

Of  tricksy,  restless  infancy  ! 

Ah  ! many  a lightly  sportive  child. 

Who  hath,  like  thee,  our  wits  beguiled. 

To  dull  and  sober  manhood  grown. 

With  strange  recoil  our  hearts  disown. 
Even  so,  poor  Kit!  must  thou  endure. 
When  thou  becomest  a cat  demure. 

Full  many  a cuff  and  angry  word. 

Chid  roughly  from  the  tempting  board. 
And  yet,  for  that  thou  hast,  1 ween. 

So  oft  our  favoured  playmate  been. 

Soft  be  the  change  which  thou  shalt  prove. 
When  time  hath  spoiled  thee  of  our  love ; 
Still  be  thou  deemed,  by  housewife  fat, 

A comely,  careful,  mousing  cat. 

Whose  dish  is,  for  the  public  good. 
Replenished  oft  with  savoury  food. 

Nor,  when  thy  span  of  life  is  i>ast. 

Be  thou  to  pond  or  dunghill  cast ; 

But  gently  borne  on  good  man’s  spade. 
Beneath  the  decent  sod  be  laid. 

And  children  show,  with  glistening  eyes. 
The  place  where  poor  old  Pussy  lies. 


Address  to  Miss  Agnes  Baillie  on  her  Birthday. 

[In  order  thoroughly  to  understand  and  appreciate  the  fol- 
lowing verses,  the  reader  must  be  aware  that  the  author  and 
her  sister,  daughters  of  a former  minister  of  Ilothwell  on  the 
Clyde,  in  Lanarkshire,  have  lived  to  an  advanced  age  con- 
stantly in  each  other’s  society.] 

Dear  Agnes,  gleamed  with  joy  and  dashed  with  tears 

O’er  us  have  glided  almost  sixty  years 

Since  we  on  Bothwell’s  bonny  braes  were  seen. 

By  those  whose  eyes  long  closed  in  death  have  been — 
Two  tiny  imps,  who  scarcely  stooped  to  gather 
The  slender  liarebell  on  the  purple  heather; 

No  taller  than  the  foxglove’s  spiky  stem. 

That  dew  of  morning  studs  with  silvery  gem. 

Then  every  butterfly  that  crossed  our  view 
With  joyful  shout  was  greeted  as  it  flew  ; 

And  moth,  and  lady-bird,  and  beetle  bright. 

In  sheeny  gold,  were  each  a wondrous  sight. 

Then  as  we  paddled  barefoot,  side  by  side. 

Among  the  sunny  shallows  of  the  Clyde,’* 

Minnows  or  spotted  parr  with  twinkling  fin. 
Swimming  in  mazy  rings  the  pool  within. 

A thrill  of  gladness  through  our  bosoms  sent. 

Seen  in  the  power  of  early  wonderment. 

A long  perspective  to  my  mind  appears. 

Looking  behind  me  to  that  line  of  years  ; 

And  yet  through  every  stage  I still  can  trace 
Thy  visioned  form,  from  childhood’s  morning  grace 
To  woman’s  early  bloom — changing,  how  soon  ! 

To  the  expressive  glow  of  woman’s  noon  ; 

And  now  to  what  thou  art,  in  comely  age. 

Active  and  ardent.  Let  what  will  engage 
Thy  present  moment — whether  hopeful  seeds 
In  garden-plat  thou  sow,  or  noxious  weeds 
From  the  fair  flower  remove,  or  ancient  lore 
In  chronicle  or  legend  rare  exjilore. 

Or  on  the  parlour  hearth  with  kitten  play. 

Stroking  its  tabby  sides,  or  take  thy  way 
To  gain  with  hasty  steps  some  cottage  door. 

On  helpful  errand  to  the  neighbouring  poor — 

Active  and  ardent,  to  my  fancy’s  eye 
Thou  still  art  young,  in  spite  of  time  gone  by. 

Though  oft  of  patience  brief  and  temper  keen. 

Well  may  it  please  me,  in  life’s  latter  scene. 

To  think  what  now  thou  art  and  long  to  me  hast  been 

* The  Manse  of  Bothwell  was  at  some  eonsidera'ile  distance 
from  the  Clyde,  but  the  two  little  girls  were  son  etimes  sent 
there  in  summer  to  bathe  and  wade  about. 

4f2 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  KNOX. 


’Twas  thou  who  woo’d.st  me  first  to  look 
Upon  the  page  of  printed  book, 

That  thing  by  me  abhorred,  and  with  address 
Didst  win  im  I'oin  my  thoughtless  idlenc.ss, 

When  all  too  old  become  with  bootless  haste 
In  fitful  sports  the  precious  time  to  waste. 

Thy  love  of  tale  and  st  ory  was  the  stroke 
At  which  my  dormant  fancy  first  awoke, 

.\nd  ghosts  and  witches  in  my  busy  brain 
Arose  in  sombre  show  a motley  train. 

This  new-found  path  attempting,  proud  was  I 
Lurking  appioval  on  thy  face  to  spy. 

Or  hear  thee  say,  as  grew  thy  roused  attention, 

I ‘ What ! is  this  story  all  thine  own  invention !’ 

Then,  as  advancing  through  this  mortal  span. 

Our  intercourse  with  the  mixed  world  began; 

Thy  fairer  face  and  sprightlier  courtesy 
(.\  truth  that  from  my  youthful  vanity 
Lay  not  concealed)  did  for  the  sisters  twain, 

Where’er  we  went,  the  greater  favour  gain  ; 

While,  but  for  thee,  vexed  with  its  tossing  tide, 

I from  the  busy  world  had  shrunk  aside. 

And  now,  in  later  years,  with  better  grace, 

Thou  help’st  me  still  to  hold  a welcome  place 
With  those  whom  nearer  neighbourhood  have  made 
The  friendly  cheerers  of  our  evening  shade. 

With  thee  my  humours,  whether  grave  or  gay, 

Or  gracious  or  untoward,  have  their  way. 

Silent  if  dull — oh  precious  privilege! — 

I sit  by  thee ; or  if,  culled  from  the  page 
Of  some  huge  ponderous  tome  which,  but  thyself. 
None  e’er  hail  taken  from  its  dusty  shelf. 

Thou  read’s!  me  curious  passages  to  speed 
The  winter  night,  1 take  but  little  heed, 

And  thankless  say,  ‘ I cannot  listen  now,’ 

’Tis  no  offence ; albeit,  much  do  I owe 
To  these,  tliy  nightly  offerings  of  affection. 

Drawn  from  thy  ready  talent  for  selection ; 

For  still  it  seemed  in  thee  a natural  gift 
The  lettered  grain  from  lettered  chaff  to  sift. 

By  daily  use  and  circumstance  endeared. 

Things  are  of  value  now  that  once  appeared 
Of  no  account,  and  without  notice  passed. 

Which  o’er  dull  life  a simple  cheering  cast ; 

To  hear  thy  morning  steps  the  stair  descending. 

Thy  voice  with  other  sounds  domestic  blending ; 

After  each  stated  nightly  absence,  met 
To  see  thee  by  the  morning  table  set. 

Pouring  from  smoky  spout  the  amber  stream 
Which  sends  from  saucered  cup  its  fragrant  steam : 
To  see  thee  cheerly  on  the  threshold  stand. 

On  summer  morn,  with  trowel  in  thy  hand 
For  garden-work  prepared  ; in  winter’s  gloom 
From  thy  cold  noonday  walk  to  see  thee  come. 

In  furry  garment  lapt,  with  sj)attered  feet. 

And  by  the  fire  resume  thy  wonted  seat ; 

Ay,  even  o’er  things  like  these  soothed  age  has  thrown 
A sober  charm  they  did  not  always  owm — 

As  winter  hoarfrost  makes  minutest  spray 
I Of  bush  or  hedgeweed  .sparkle  to  the  day 
j In  magnitude  and  beauty,  which,  bereaved 
Of  such  investment,  eye  had  ne’er  perceived. 

The  change  of  good  and  evil  to  abide. 

As  partners  linked,  long  have  we,  side  by  side, 

Our  earthly  journey  held  ; and  who  can  say 
How  neiir  the  end  of  our  united  way  ? 

By  nature’s  course  not  distant ; sad  and  ’reft 
Will  she  remain — the  lonely  pilgrim  left. 

If  thou  art  taken  first,  who  can  to  me 
Like  sister,  friend,  and  home-companion  be? 

Or  who,  of  wonted  daily  kindness  shorn, 

Sha'l  feel  such  loss,  or  mourn  as  I shall  mourn? 

And  if  1 should  be  fated  first  to  leave 

This  earthly  house,  though  gentle  friends  may  grieve. 


And  he  above  them  all,  so  truly  proved 
A friend  and  brother,  long  and  justly  loved. 

There  is  no  living  wight,  of  woman  born. 

Who  then  shall  mourn  for  me  as  thou  wilt  mourn. 

Thou  ardent,  liberal  spirit ! quickly  feeling 
The  touch  of  sympathy,  and  kindly  dealing 
With  sorrow  or  distress,  for  ever  sharing 
The  unhoarded  mite,  nor  for  to-morrow  caring — 
Accept,  dear  Agnes,  on  thy  natal  day. 

An  unadorned,  but  not  a careless  lay. 

Nor  think  this  tribute  to  thy  virtues  paid 
From  tardy  love  proceeds,  though  long  delayed. 
Words  of  affection,  howsoe’er  expressed. 

The  latest  spoken  still  are  deemed  the  best : 

Few  are  the  measured  rhymes  I now  may  write ; 
These  are,  perhaps,  the  last  I shall  indite. 

WILLIAM  KNOX. 

William  Knox,  a young  poet  of  considerable  ta- 
lent, who  died  in  Edinburgh  in  182.5,  aged  thirty-six, 
was  author  of  The  Lonely  Hearth ; Songs  of  Israel;  The 
Harp  of  Zion,  &c.  Sir  Walter  Scott  thus  mentions 
Knox  in  his  diary : — ‘ His  father  was  a respectable 
yeoman,  and  he  himself  succeeding  tb  good  farms 
under  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  became  too  soon  his 
own  master,  and  plunged  into  dissipation  and  ruin. 
His  talent  then  showed  itself  in  a fine  strain  of 
pensive  poetry.’  Knox  spent  his  latter  years  in 
Edinburgh,  under  his  father’s  roof,  and,  amidst  all 
his  errors,  was  ever  admirably  faithful  to  the  domes- 
tic affections — a kind  and  respectful  son,  and  an 
attached  brother.  He  experienced  on  several  occa- 
sions substiintial  proofs  of  that  generosity  of  Scott 
towards  his  less  fortunate  brethren,  which  might 
have  redeemed  his  infinite  superiority  in  Envy’s 
own  bosom.  It  was  also  remarkable  of  Knox,  that, 
from  the  force  of  early  impressions  of  piety,  he  was 
a 1 ■.  in  the  very  midst  of  the  most  deplorable  dissi- 
piCion,  to  command  his  mind  at  intervals  to  the 
composition  of  verses  alive  with  sacred  fire,  and 
breathing  of  Scriptural  simplicity  and  tenderness. 
The  feelings  of  the  poet’s  heart,  at  a particular 
crisis  of  his  family  history,  are  truly  expressed  in 
the  two  first  of  the  following  specimens : — 

[Opening  of  the  ‘Songs  of  Israel.'l 

Harp  of  Zion,  pure  and  holy. 

Pride  of  Judah’s  eastern  land. 

May  a child  of  guilt  and  folly 
Strike  thee  with  a feeble  hand  ? 

May  I to  my  bosom  take  thee. 

Trembling  from  the  prophet’s  touch. 

And  with  throbbing  heart  awake  thee 
To  the  strains  I love  so  much  ! 

I have  loved  thy  thrilling  numbers. 

Since  the  dawn  of  childhood’s  day ; 

Since  a mother  soothed  my  slumbers 
With  the  cadence  of  thy  lay  ; 

Since  a little  blooming  sister 

Clung  with  transport  round  my  knee. 

And  my  glowing  spirit  blessed  her 
With  a blessing  caught  from  thee  ! 

Mother — sister — both  are  sleeping 
Where  no  heaving  hearts  respire. 

Whilst  the  eve  of  age  is  creeping 
Round  the  widowed  spouse  and  sire. 

He  and  his,  amid  their  sorrow. 

Find  enjoyment  in  thy  strain : 

Harp  of  Zion,  let  me  borrow 
Comfort  from  thy  chords  again  ! 


FROM  I7ii0 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  ilMR. 


l^Concluaion  of  Oie  ‘ Sonyt  of  Isracl.''\ 

My  song  liath  closed,  the  holy  dream 
That  raised  my  thoughts  o’er  all  below, 
Hath  faded  like  the  lunar  beam. 

And  left  me  ’mid  a night  of  wo — 

To  look  and  long,  and  sigh  in  vain 
For  friends  I ne’er  shall  meet  again. 

Ami  yet  the  earth  is  green  and  gay  ; 

And  yet  the  skies  are  pure  and  bright ; 

But,  ’mid  each  gleam  of  pleasure  gay. 

Some  cloud  of  sorrow  dims  my  sight; 

For  weak  is  now  the  tenderest  tongue 
That  might  my  simple  songs  have  sung. 

And  like  Gilead’s  drops  of  balm. 

They  for  a moment  soothed  my  breast ; 

But  earth  hath  not  a power  to  calm 
My  spirit  in  forgetful  rest, 

Until  I lay  me  side  by  side 

With  those  that  loved  me,  and  have  died. 

They  died — and  this  a world  of  wo. 

Of  anxious  doubt  and  chilling  fear; 

I wander  onward  to  the  tomb. 

With  ijyarce  a hope  to  linger  here; 

But  with  a prospect  to  rejoin 

The  friends  beloved,  that  once  were  mine. 

Dirge  of  Rachel. 

[Genesis,  xxxv.  19.] 

And  Rachel  lies  in  Ephrath’s  land. 

Beneath  her  lonely  oak  of  weeping  ; 

With  mouldering  heart  and  withering  hand, 
The  sleep  of  death  for  ever  sleejiing. 

The  spring  comes  smiling  do\vn  the  vale. 

The  lilies  and  the  roses  bringing; 

But  Rachel  never  n:ore  shall  hail 

The  flowers  that  in  the  world  are  springing. 

The  summer  gives  his  radiant  day. 

And  Jewish  dames  the  dance  are  treading; 
But  Rachel  on  her  couch  of  clay. 

Sleeps  all  unheeded  and  unheeding. 

The  autumn’s  ripening  sunbeam  shines. 

And  reapers  to  the  field  is  calling ; 

But  Rachel’s  voice  no  longer  joins 
The  choral  song  at  twilight’s  falling. 

The  winter  sends  his  drenching  shower, 

And  sweeps  his  howling  blast  around  her; 
But  earthly  storms  pos.sess  no  power 

To  break  the  slumber  that  hath  bound  her. 

A Virtuous  Woman. 

[Proverbs,  xii.  4.] 

Thou  askest  what  hath  changed  my  heart. 
And  where  hath  fled  my  youthful  folly? 

I tell  thee,  Tamar’s  virtuous  art 
Hath  made  my  spirit  holy. 

Her  eye — as  soft  and  blue  as  even. 

When  day  and  night  are  calmly  meeting — 
Beams  on  my  heart  like  light  from  heaven. 
And  purifies  its  beating. 

The  accents  fall  from  Tamar’s  lip 

Like  dewdrops  from  the  rose-leaf  dripping. 
When  honey-bees  all  crowd  to  sip. 

And  cannot  cease  their  sijiping. 

The  shadoivy  blu.sh  that  tints  her  cheek. 

For  ever  coming — ever  going. 

May  well  the  spotless  fount  bespeak 
That  sets  the  stream  aflowing. 


Her  song  comes  o’er  my  thrilling  breast 

Even  like  the  haqj-string’s  holiest  measures. 
When  dreams  the  soul  of  lands  of  rest 
And  everlasting  pleasures. 

Then  ask  not  what  hath  changed  my  heart. 

Or  where  hath  fled  my  youthful  folly — 

I tell  thee,  'fainar’s  virtuous  art 
Hath  made  my  spirit  holy. 

THOMAS  PRINGLE. 

Thomas  Pringle  was  born  in  Roxburghshire  in 
1788.  lie  was  concerned  in  the  establishment  of 
Blackwood’s  Magazine,  and  was  author  of  Scenes  of 
TeriotJule,  Ephenierides.  and  other  poems,  all  of 
which  display  fine  feeling  and  a cultivated  taste. 
Although,  from  lameness,  ill  fitted  for  a life  of 
roughness  or  hardship,  Mr  Pringle,  with  his  father, 
and  several  brothers,  emigrated  to  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  in  the  year  1820,  and  there  established  a little 
township  or  settlement  named  Glen  Lynden.  The 
poet  afterwards  removed  to  Cape  'Town,  the  capital ; 
but,  wearied  with  his  Caffreland  exile,  and  dis- 
agreeing with  the  governor,  he  returned  to  Eng- 
land, and  subsisted  by  his  pen.  lie  wms  some  time 
editor  of  the  literary  annual,  entitled  Friendship’s 
Offering.  His  services  were  also  engaged  by  the 
African  Society,  as  secretary  to  that  body,  a situ- 
ation which  he  continued  to  hold  until  within  a 
few  months  of  his  death.  In  the  discharge  of  its 
duties  he  evinced  a spirit  of  active  humanity,  and 
an  ardent  love  of  the  cause  to  which  he  was  de- 
voted. His  last  work  was  a series  of  African 
Sketches,  containing  an  interesting  personal  narra- 
tive, interspersed  with  verse.  Mr  Pringle  died  on 
the  5th  of  December  1834. 

Afar  in  the  Desert. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride. 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  ; 

When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o’ercast. 

And,  sick  of  the  present,  I turn  to  the  past ; 

And  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful  tears. 

From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years  ; 

And  the  shadows  of  things  that  have  long  since  fled. 
Flit  over  the  brain  like  the  ghosts  of  the  dead — 
Bright  visions  of  glory  that  vanished  too  soon — - 
Day-dreams  that  departed  ere  manhood’s  noon — 
Attachments  by  fate  or  by  falsehood  reft — 
Companions  of  early  days  lost  or  left — 

And  my  Native  Land  ! whose  magical  name 
Thrills  to  my  heart  like  electric  flame ; 

The  home  of  my  childhood — the  haunts  of  my  jwime  ; 
All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous  time. 
When  the  feelings  wei_  young  and  the  world  was  new. 
Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Paradise  opening  to  view  ! 
All — all  now  forsaken,  forgotten,  or  gone  ; 

And  1,  a lone  exile,  remembered  of  none. 

My  high  aims  abandoned,  and  good  acts  undone — 
Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun  ; 

With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no  stranger  may 
scan, 

I fly  to  the  Desert  afar  from  man. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride. 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  ; 

When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life. 

With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption,  and  strife  ; 
The  proud  man’s  frown,  and  the  base  man’s  fear  ; 

And  the  scorner’s  laugh,  and  the  sufferer’s  tear ; 

And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood,  and  folly, 
Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melancholy  ; 

When  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my  thoughts  are  high, 

1 And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman’s  sigh — 

4.‘>4 


ENGLISH  LITERATUKE. 


nOBERT  MONTGOMERT, 


j'OKTS. 


Oh,  then!  tl>ere  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and  pride, 

Afar  in  the  Desert  alone  to  ride ! 

There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing  steed, 

And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle’s  speed. 

With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in  my  hand 
(The  only  law  of  the  Desert  land) ; 

Hut  ’tis  not  the  innocent  to  destroy, 

For  I hate  the  huntsman’s  savage  joy. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride. 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side ; 

Away — away  from  the  dwellings  of  men. 

By  the  wild  deer’s  haunt,  and  the  buffalo’s  glen  ; 

By  valleys  remote,  where  the  oribi  plays ; 

^^■here  the  gnoo,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartebeest  graze ; 
And  the  gemsbok  and  eland  unhunted  recline 
By  the  skirts  of  gray  forests  o’ergrown  with  wild  vine ; 
And  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood ; 

And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood  ; 
And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 
In  the  Vlcy,  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking  his  fill. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride. 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side : 

O’er  the  brown  Karroo  where  the  bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok’s  fawn  sounds  plaintively ; 

Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane. 

In  fields  seldom  freshened  by  moisture  or  rain ; 

And  the  stately  koodoo  exultingly  bounds. 
Undisturbed  by  the  bay  of  the  hunter’s  hounds  ; 

And  the  timorous  quagha’s  wild  whistling  neigh 
Is  heal'd  by  the  brak  fountain  far  away  ; 

And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a horseman  who  travels  in  haste ; 

And  the  vulture  in  circles  wheels  high  overhead. 
Greedy  to  scent  and  to  gorge  on  the  dead  ; 

And  the  grisly  wolf,  and  the  shrieking  jackal. 

Howl  for  their  prey  at  the  evening  fall  ; 

And  the  fiend-like  laugh  of  hyenas  grim, 

Fearfully  startles  the  twilight  dim. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride. 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side; 

Away — away  in  the  wilderness  vast, 

Where  the  white  man’s  foot  hath  never  passed. 

And  the  quivered  Koranna  or  Bechuan 
Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving  clan  : 

A region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear. 

Which  man  hath  abandoned  from  famine  and  fear; 
Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone. 

And  the  bat  flitting  forth  from  his  old  hollow  stone  ; 
Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root, 

Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot : 

And  the  bitter  melon,  for  food  and  drink. 

Is  the  pilgrim’s  fare,  by  the  Salt  Lake’s  brink : 

A region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides. 

Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides  ; 

Nor  reedy  pool,  nor  mossy  fountain. 

Nor  shady  tree,  nor  cloud-capped  mduntain. 

Are  found — to  refresh  the  aching  eye: 

But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning  sky. 

And  the  black  horizon  round  and  round. 

Without  a living  sight  or  sound. 

Tell  to  the  heart,  in  its  pensive  mood. 

That  this  is — Nature’s  Solitude. 

And  here — while  the  night-winds  round  me  sigh. 
And  the  stars  bum  bright  in  the  midnight  sky. 

As  I sit  apart  by  the  caverned  stone, 

Like  Elijah  at  Iloreb’s  cave  alone. 

And  feel  as  a moth  in  the  Mighty  Hand 
That-spread  the  heavens  and  heaved  the  land— 

A still  small  voice’  conues  through  the  wild 
(Like  a father  consoling  his  fretful  child). 

Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear — 

Baying  ‘ Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near  1’ 


ROBERT  MONTGOMERY. 

The  Rev.  Robert  Montgomery  has  obtained  a 
numerous  circle  of  readers  and  admirers.  His  works. 
The  Omnipresence  of  the  Vcily,  Satan,  Luther,  &c., 
display  great  command  of  poetical  language  and 
fluent  versification,  but  are  deficient  in  originality 
and  chasteness  of  style.  The  literary  labours  of 
Mr  Montgomery  seem  to  have  been  wholly  devoted 
to  the  service  of  religion,  of  the  truths  of  which  he 
is  an  able  and  eloquent  expounder  in  the  pulpit. 

[Description  of  a Maniac.~\ 

Dovm  yon  romantic  dale,  where  hamlets  few 
Arrest  the  summer  pilgrim’s  pensive  view — 

The  village  wonder,  and  the  widow’s  joy — 

Dwells  the  poor  mindless,  pale-faced  maniac  boy : 

He  lives  and  breathes,  and  rolls  his  vacant  eye, 

To  greet  the  glowing  fancies  of  the  sky  ; 

But  on  his  cheek  unmeaning  shades  of  wo 
Reveal  the  withered  thoughts  that  sleep  below! 

A soulless  thing,  a spirit  of  the  woods. 

He  loves  to  commune  with  the  fields  and  floods: 
Sometimes  along  the  ■(voodland’s  winding  glade, 

He  starts,  and  smiles  upon  his  pallid  shade ; 

Or  scolds  with  idiot  threat  the  roaming  wind. 

But  rebel  music  to  the  ruined  mind  ! 

Or  on  the  shell-strewn  beach  delighted  strays, 

Playing  his  fingers  in  the  noontide  rays : 

And  when  the  sea-waves  swell  their  hollow  roar, 

He  counts  the  billows  plunging  to  the  .shore ; 

And  oft  beneath  the  glimmer  of  the  moon. 

He  chants  some  wild  and  melancholy  tune ; 

Till  o’er  his  softening  features  seems  to  play 
A shadowy  gleam  of  mind’s  reluctant  sway. 

Thus,  like  a living  dream,  apart  from  men. 

From  mom  to  eve  he  haunts  the  wood  and  glen  ; 

But  round  him,  near  him,  wheresoe’er  he  rove, 

A guardian  angel  tracks  him  f^om  above ! 

Nor  harm  from  flood  or  fen  shall  e’er  destroy 
The  mazy  wanderings  of  the  maniac  boy. 

[The  Starry  Ilearens.'] 

Ye  quenchless  stars  1 so  eloquently  bright. 
Untroubled  sentries  of  the  shadowy  night. 

While  half  the  world  is  lapped  in  downy  dreams. 

And  round  the  lattice  creep  your  midnight  beams. 
How  sweet  to  gaze  upon  your  placid  eyes. 

In  lambent  beauty  looking  from  the  skies  ! 

And  when,  oblivious  of  the  world,  we  stray 
At  dead  of  night  along  some  noiseless  way. 

How  the  heart  mingles  with  the  moonlit  hour. 

As  if  the  starry  heavens  suffused  a power! 

Full  in  her  dreamy  light,  the  moon  presides. 

Shrined  in  a halo,  mellowing  as  she  rides ; 

And  far  around,  the  forest  and  the  stream 
Bathe  in  the  beauty  of  her  emerald  beam  ; 

The  lulled  winds,  too,  are  sleeping  in  their  cavet. 

No  stormy  murmurs  roll  upon  the  waves ; 

Nature  is  hushed,  as  if  her  works  adored. 

Stilled  by  the  presence  of  her  living  Lord! 

And  now,  while  through  the  ocean -mantling  haze 
A dizzy  chain  of  yellow  lustre  plays. 

And  moonlight  loveliness  hath  veiled  the  land. 

Go,  stranger,  muse  thou  by  the  wave-worn  strand  : 
Centuries  have  glided  o’er  the  balanced  earth. 
Myriads  have  blessed,  and  myriads  cursed  their  birth; 
Still,  yon  sky-beacons  keep  a dimless  glare. 

Unsullied  as  the  God  who  throned  them  there! 
Though  swelling  earthquakes  heave  the  astounded 
world. 

And  king  and  kingdom  from  their  pride  are  hurled, 
Sublimely  calm,  they  run  their  bright  career. 
Unheedful  of  the  storms  and  changes  here. 

We  want  no  hymn  to  hear,  or  pomp  to  see. 

For  all  around  is  deep  divinity  ! 

4.'>5 


rnoM  17)10  CYCf-OI’iKDl  A OF  tiu.  the  I'RtSKfcr  t;m£ 

[Picture  of  War."] 

Spiiit  of  li;rht  and  life!  when  battle  rears 
Her  fiei  v liMw  1 lid  her  tcrrifie  spears  ; 

When  red-iinmthed  cannon  to  the  chnids  ujiroar. 

And  ■'a.Hpiiij;  tliousands  make  their  beds  in  gore, 

\\  liile  on  tlie  billow  y bosom  of  the  air 
Iloll  the  deail  notes  of  anguish  and  des]iair! 

Unseen,  thou  ualk’st  u)ion  the  smoking  plain, 

And  hear’st  each  groan  that  gurgles  from  the  slain! 

List ! war-jieals  thunder  on  the  battle-field  ; 

And  many  a hand  grasps  firm  the  glittering  shield, 

As  on,  with  helm  and  plume,  the  warriors  come. 

And  the  glad  hills  repeat  their  stormy  drum  ! 

And  now  are  seen  the  youthful  and  the  gray, 

With  bosoms  firing  to  partake  the  fray  ; 

The  first,  with  hearts  that  eonsecrale  the  deed. 

All  eager  rush  to  vanijuish  or  to  bleed  ! 

Like  young  waves  rae-ing  in  the  morning  sun. 

That  rear  and  lea]i  with  reckless  fury  on  ! 

But  mark  yon  war-woni  man,  who  looks  on  high. 

With  thought  and  valour  mirrored  in  his  eye! 

Not  all  the  gory  revels  of  the  day 
Can  fright  the  vision  of  his  home  away  ; 

The  home  of  love,  and  its  associate  smiles. 

His  wife’s  enilearment,  and  his  baby’s  wiles: 

Fights  he  less  brave  through  recollected  bliss. 

With  step  retreating,  or  with  sworil  remiss! 

Ah  no!  remembered  home’s  the  warrior’s  charm. 

Speed  to  his  sword,  and  vigour  to  his  arm  ; 

For  this  he  supplicates  the  god  afar, 

F'ronts  the  steeled  foe,  and  mingles  in  the  war  1 

The  cannon’s  hushed  ! — nor  drum,  nor  clarion  sound  ; 
Helmet  and  hauberk  gleam  upon  the  ground  ; 
Horseman  and  horse  lie  weltering  in  their  gore; 
Patriots  are  dead,  and  heroes  dare  no  more  ; 

While  soleinnly  the  moonlight  shrouds  the  plain. 

And  lights  the  lurid  features  of  the  slain  ! 

And  see!  on  this  rent  mound,  where  daisies  sprung, 

A battle-steed  beneath  his  rider  Hung; 

Oh  ! never  more  he’ll  rear  with  fierce  delight. 

Roll  his  red  eyes,  and  rally  for  the  fight  ! 

Pale  on  his  bleeding  breast  the  warrior  lies. 

While  from  his  rutHed  lids  the  white  swelled  eyes 
Ghastly  and  grimly  stare  upon  the  skies! 

Afar,  with  bosom  bared  unto  the  breeze. 

White  lips,  and  glaring  eyes,  and  shivering  knees, 

A widow  o’er  her  martyred  soldier  moans. 

Loading  the  night-wind  with  delirious  groans! 

Her  blue-eyed  babe,  unconscious  ori>han  he! 

So  sweetly  prattling  in  his  cherub  glee. 

Leers  on  his  lifeless  sire  with  infant  wile. 

And  plays  and  plucks  him  for  a parent’s  smile ! 

But  who,  upon  the  battle-wasted  ]>lain. 

Shall  count  the  faint,  the  gasping,  and  the  slain  ? 
Angel  of  Mercy!  ere  the  blood-fount  chill. 

And  the  brave  heart  be  spiritless  and  still. 

Amid  the  havoc  thou  art  hovering  nigh. 

To  calm  each  groan,  and  close  each  ilying  eye. 

And  waft  the  spirit  to  that  halcyon  shore. 

Where  war’s  loud  thunders  lash  the  winds  no  more! 

Lost  Feelinr/s, 

Oh  ! weep  not  that  our  beauty  wears 
Beneath  the  wings  of  Time  ; 

That  age  o’erclouds  the  brow  with  cares 
That  once  was  raised  sublime. 

Oh  ! weep  not  that  the  beamless  eye 
No  dumb  delight  can  speak  ; 

And  fresh  a:id  fair  no  longer  lie 
•loy-tints  upon  the  cheek. 

1 ■ 

No!  weep  not  that  the  ruin-trace 
Of  wasting  time  is  seen. 

Around  the  form  and  in  the  face 
Where  beauty’s  bloom  has  been. 

But  mourn  the  inward  wreck  we  feel 
As  hoary  years  depart. 

And  Time’s  effacing  fingers  steal 
Young  feelings  from  the  heart! 

WILLIAM  HERBERT. 

The  Hon.  and  Rev.  William  Herbert  published 
in  1806  a series  of  translations  from  the  Norse, 
Italian,  Spanish,  and  Portuguese.  'J'hose  from  tl.e 
Norse,  or  Icelandic  tongue,  were  generally  admired, 
and  the  author  was  induced  to  venture  on  an  origi- 
nal i)oem  founded  on  Scandinavian  history  and 
manners.  The  work  was  entitled  Shiga,  and  was 
published  in  181.6.  We  extract  a few  lines  descrip- 
tive of  a northern  spring,  bursting  out  at  once  into 
verdure : — 

Yestreen  the  mountain’s  rugged  brow 
Was  mantled  o’er  with  dreary  snow ; 

The  sun  set  red  behind  the  hill, 

And  every  breath  of  wind  was  still ; 

But  ere  he  rose,  the  southern  blast 
A veil  o’er  heaven’s  blue  arch  had  cast; 

Thick  rolled  the  clouds,  and  genial  rain 
Poured  the  wide  deluge  o’er  the  plain. 

F'air  glens  and  verdant  vales  apjicar, 

And  warmth  awakes  the  budding  year. 

0 ’tis  the  touch  of  fairy  hand 

That  wakes  the  spring  of  northern  land  I 

It  warms  not  there  by  slow  degrees. 

With  changeful  jHilse,  the  uncertain  breeze; 

But  sudden  on  the  wondering  sight 
Bursts  forth  the  beam  of  living  light. 

And  instant  verdure  springs  aioiind. 

And  magic  flowers  bedeck  the  ground. 

Returned  from  regions  far  away. 

The  red-winged  throstle  pours  his  lay; 

The  soaring  snipe  salutes  the  siiring. 

While  the  breeze  whistles  through  his  wing; 
And,  as  he  hails  the  melting  snows. 

The  heathcock  claps  his  wings  and  crows. 

After  a long  interval  of  silence  Mr  Herbert  c.ame 
forward  in  1888  with  an  epic  jioeiu  entitled  Altila, 
founded  on  the  establishment  of  Christianity  by 
the  discomfiture  of  the  mighty  attempt  of  the 
Gothic  king  to  establish  a new  antichi  istian  dynasty 
upon  the  wreck  of  the  temporal  power  of  Rome  at 
the  end  of  the  term  of  1200  years,  to  which  its 
duration  had  been  limited  by  the  forebodings  of  the 
heathens. 

Mtisivgs  on  Eternity. 

[From  * Attila.’] 

How  oft,  at  midnight,  have  1 fixed  my  gaze 
Upon  the  blue. unclouded  firmament. 

With  thousand  spheres  illumined  ; each  perchance 
The  powerful  centre  of  revolving  woilds  ! 

Until,  by  strange  excitement  stirred,  the  mind 
Hath  longed  for  dissolution,  so  it  might  bring 
Knowledge,  for  which  the  spirit  is  athirst. 

Open  the  diirkling  stores  of  hidden  time. 

And  show  the  marvel  of  eternal  things. 

Which,  in  the  bosom  of  immensity. 

Wheel  round  the  God  of  nature.  Vain  desire! 

* * s 

Enough 

To  work  in  trembling  my  salvation  here. 

Waiting  thy  summons,  stern  mysterious  Power, 

Who  to  thy  silent  realm  hast  called  away 
All  those  whom  nature  twined  around  my  heart 
In  my  fond  infancy,  and  left  me  here 
Denuded  of  their  love  ! 

456 

rOKTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  kbenez  !R  ki,liott. 


Where  are  ye  gone, 

.\ml  shall  we  wake  from  the  long  sleep  of  death, 

To  know  each  other,  conscious  of  the  ties 
That  linked  our  souls  together,  and  draw  down 
The  secret  dewdrop  on  niy  cheek,  whene’er 
1 turn  unto  the  past?  or  will  the  change 
That  comes  to  all  renew  the  altered  spirit 
To  other  thoughts,  making  the  strife  or  love 
Of  short  mortality  a shadow  past. 

Equal  illusion  ? Father,  whose  strong  mind 

WTvs  my  support,  whose  kindness  as  the  spring 

Which  never  tarries!  Mother,  of  all  forms 

That  smiled  upon  my  budding  thoughts,  most  dear! 

Brothers  ! and  thou,  mine  only  sister  ! gone 

To  the  still  grave,  making  the  memory 

Of  all  my  earliest  time  a thing  wiped  out. 

Save  from  the  glowing  spot,  which  lives  as  fresh 
In  my  heart’s  core  as  when  we  last  in  joy 
Were  gathered  round  the  blithe  paternal  board  I 
Where  are  ye  ? Must  your  kindred  spirits  sleep 
For  many  a thousand  years,  till  by  the  trump 
Roused  to  new  being ' Will  old  affections  then 
Burn  inwardly,  or  all  our  loves  gone  by 
Seem  but  a speck  upon  the  roll  of  time. 

Unworthy  our  regard  ? ' 'his  is  too  hard 
For  mortals  to  unravel,  nor  has  He 
Vouchsafed  a clue  to  man,  who  bade  us  trust 
To  Him  our  weakness,  and  we  shall  wake  up 
After  His  likeness,  and  be  satisfied. 

EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 

Ebenezer  Elliott,  sprung  from  the  manufac- 
turing poor  of  England,  and  early  accustomed  to  toil 
and  privation,  derived,  like  Clare,  a love  of  poetry 
from  the  perusal  of  Thomson.  Being  thrown  among 
a town  population,  he  became  a politician,  and  im- 
bibed opinions  rarely  found  among  the  peasantry. 


Ebenezer  Elliott. 


He  has  followed  Crabbe  in  depicting  the  condition  of 
the  poor  as  miserable  and  oppressed,  tracing  most  of 
the  evils  he  deplores  to  the  social  and  political  in- 
stitutions of  his  country.  The  laws  relating  to  the 
importation  of  corn  have  been  denounced  by  Elliott 
as  specially  afflictive  of  the  people,  and  this  he  has 
done  with  a fervour  of  manner  and  a harshness  of 
phraseology,  which  ordinary  minds  feel  as  repulsive, 
even  while  acknowledged  as  flowing  from  the  offended 
benevolence  of  the  poet. 


For  thee,  my  country,  thee,  do  I perform. 

Sternly,  the  duty  of  a man  born  free. 

Heedless,  thougli  ass,  and  wolf,  and  venomous  worm. 
Shake  cars  and  fangs,  with  brandished  bray,  at  me. 

Fortunately  the  genius  of  Elliott  has  redeemed 
his  errors  of  taste : his  delineation  of  humble  virtue 
and  afiTcction.  and  his  descriptions  of  English  scenery, 
are  excellent.  He  writes  from  genuine  feelings  and 
imp\dses,  and  often  rises  into  ])ure  sentiment  and 
eloquence.  The  Corn-Law  Rhymer,  as  he  has  been 
called,  was  born  in  1781  at  Masbrough,  a village 
near  Sheffield.  He  has  passed  an  industrious  youth 
and  middle  age  in  a branch  of  the  well  known  manu- 
factures of  his  native  district,  from  which  manuid 
toil  was  not  in  his  case  excluded  ; and  he  now  enjoys 
the  comparatively  easy  circumstances  merited  by 
his  labours  as  well  as  his  genius. 

To  the  Bramhle  Flower, 

Thy  fruit  full  well  the  schoolboy  knows. 

Wild  bramble  of  the  brake! 

So  put  thou  forth  thy  small  white  rose ; 

I love  it  for  his  sake. 

Though  woodbines  flaunt  and  roses  glow 
O’er  all  the  fragrant  bowers. 

Thou  needst  not  he  ashamed  to  show 
Thy  satin-threaded  flowers  ; 

For  dull  the  eye,  the  heart  is  dull. 

That  cannot  feel  how  fair. 

Amid  all  beauty  beautiful. 

Thy  tender  blossoms  are ! 

How  delicate  thy  gauzy  frill ! 

How  rich  thy  branchy  stem! 

How  soft  thy  voice  when  woods  are  still. 

And  thou  sing’st  hymns  to  them ; 

While  silent  showers  are  falling  slow. 

And  ’mid  the  general  hush, 

A sweet  air  lifts  the  little  bough. 

Lone  whispering  through  the  bushl 
The  primrose  to  the  grave  is  gone ; 

The  hawthorn  flower  is  dead  ; 

The  violet  by  the  mossed  gray  stone 
Hath  laid  her  weary  head  ; 

But  thou,  wild  bramble  I back  dost  bring 
In  all  their  beauteous  power. 

The  fresh  green  days  of  life's  fair  spring. 

And  boyhood’s  blossomy  hour. 

Scorned  bramble  of  the  brake  ! once  more 
Thou  bidd’st  me  be  a boy. 

To  gad  with  thee  the  woodlands  o’er. 

In  freedom  and  in  joy. 

The  Excursion. 

Bone-weary,  many-childed,  trouble-tried ! 

Wife  of  my  bosom,  wedded  to  my  soul ! 

Mother  of  nine  that  live,  and  two  that  died! 

This  day,  drink  health  from  nature’s  mountain  bowi ; 
Nay,  why  lament  the  doom  which  mocks  control  ? 

The  buried  are  not  lost,  but  gone  before. 

Then  dry  thy  tears,  and  see  the  river  roll 

O’er  rocks,  that  crowned  yon  time-dark  heights  of  yor®. 

Now,  tyrant  like,  dethroned,  to  crush  the  weak  no  more. 

The  young  are  with  us  yet,  and  we  with  them : 

0 thank  the  Lord  for  all  he  gives  or  take.s — 

The  withered  bud,  the  living  flower,  or  gem  ! 

And  he  will  bless  us  when  the  world  forsakes! 

Lo!  where  thy  fisher-born,  abstracted,  takes. 

With  his  fixed  eyes,  the  trout  he  cannot  .see ! 

Lo!  starting  from  his  earnest  dream,  he  wakes ! 

While  our  glad  Fanny,  with  rai.sed  foot  and  knee. 
Bears  down  at  Noe’s  side  the  bloom-bowed  hawthorn 
tree. 

457 


nioM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF 

Doar  children  ! when  the  flowers  are  full  of  bees  ; 

Wlien  suii-touclied  hlossoins  slied  their  fraj'rant  snow  ; 

W'lien  song  speaks  like  a S[)irit,  from  the  trees 
Whose  kindled  greenness  hath  a golden  glow; 

When,  clear  as  music,  rill  and  river  flow. 

With  trembling  hues,  all  changeful,  tinted  o’er 
By  that  bright  pencil  which  good  spirits  know 
Alike  in  earth  and  heaven — ’tis  sweet,  once  more. 

Above  the  sky-tinged  hills  to  see  the  storm-bird  soar. 

’Tis  passing  sweet  to  wander,  free  as  air. 

Blithe  truants  in  the  bright  and  breeze-blessed  day, 

Far  from  the  town — where  stoop  the  sons  of  care 
O’er  plans  of  mischief,  till  their  souls  turn  gray, 

And  dry  as  dust,  and  dead-alive  are  they — 

Of  all  self-buried  things  the  most  unblessed: 

0 Morn  ! to  them  no  blissful  tribute  pay! 

O Night’s  long-courted  slumbers ! bring  no  rest 
To  men  who  laud  man’s  foes,  and  deem  the  basest 
best! 


God  I would  they  handcuff  thee  ? and,  if  they  could 
Chain  the  free  air,  that,  like  the  daisy,  goes 
To  every  field  ; and  bid  the  warbling  wood 
Exchange  no  music  with  the  willing  rose 
For  love-sweet  odours,  where  the  woodbine  blows 
And  trades  with  every  cloud,  and  every  beam 
Of  the  rich  sky  ! Their  gods  are  bonds  and  blows. 
Rocks,  and  blind  shipwreck ; and  they  hate  the 
stream 

That  leaves  them  still  behind,  and  mocks  their  change- 
less dream. 

They  know  ye  not,  ye  flowers  that  welcome  me. 

Thus  glad  to  meet,  by  trouble  p.arted  long! 

They  never  saw  }'e — never  may  they  see 
Your  dewy  beauty,  when  the  throstle’s  song 
Floweth  like  starlight,  gentle,  calm,  and  strong! 

Still,  Avarice,  starve  their  souls ! still,  low’est  Pride, 
Make  them  the  meanest  of  the  basest  throng ! 

And  may  they  never,  on  the  green  hill’s  side. 
Embrace  a chosen  flower,  and  love  it  as  a bride  1 
Blue  Eyebrightl*  loveliest  flower  of  all  that  grow 
In  flower-loved  England  ! Flower,  whose  hedge-side 
gaze 

Is  like  an  infant’s!  What  heart  doth  not  know 
Thee,  clustered  smiler  of  the  bank  ! where  plays 
The  sunbeam  with  the  emerald  snake,  and  strays 
The  dazzling  rill,  companion  of  the  road 
Which  the  lone  bard  most  loveth,  in  the  days 
When  hope  and  love  are  young?  O come  abroad. 
Blue  Eyebright ! and  this  rill  shall  woo  thee  with  an 
ode. 


[Pictures  of  Native  Genius.'\ 

O faithful  love,  by  poverty  embraced ! 

Thy  heart  is  fire,  amid  a wintry  waste ; 

Thy  joys  are  roses,  born  on  Hecla’s  brow; 

Thy  home  is  Eden,  warm  amid  the  snow  ; 

And  she,  thy  mate,  when  coldest  blows  the  .storm. 
Clings  then  most  fondly  to  thy  guardian  form ; 
E’en  as  thy  taper  gives  intensest  light. 

When  o’er  thy  bowed  roof  darkest  falls  the  night. 
Oh,  if  thou  e’er  hast  wronged  her,  if  thou  e’er 
From  those  mild  eyes  hast  caused  one  bitter  tear 

♦ The  Geornander  SpeedwelL 


Tir.L  THE  PRESEMT  TIMft 


To  flow  unseen,  repent,  and  sin  no  more  1 
For  richest  gems  compared  with  her,  are  poor; 

Gold,  weighed  against  her  heart,  is  light — is  vile  ; 
And  when  thou  sufferest,  who  shall  see  her  smile! 
Sighing,  ye  wake,  and  sighing,  sink  to  sleep. 

And  seldom  smile,  without  fresh  cause  to  weep ; 
(Scarce  dry  the  pebble,  by  the  wave  dashed  o’er. 
Another  comes,  to  wet  it  as  before)  ; 

Yet  while  in  gloom  your  freezing  day  declines. 

How  fair  the  wintry  sunbeam  when  it  shines! 

Your  foliage,  where  no  summer  leaf  is  seen. 

Sweetly  embroiders  earth’s  white  veil  with  green  ; 
And  your  broad  branches,  proud  of  storm-triea 
strength. 

Stretch  to  the  winds  in  sport  their  stalwart  length, 
And  calmly  wave,  beneath  the  darkest  hour. 

The  ice-born  fruit,  the  frost-defying  flower. 

Let  luxury,  sickening  in  profusion’s  chair. 

Unwisely  pamper  his  unworthy  heir. 

And,  while  he  feeds  him,  blush  and  tremble  too! 

But  love  and  labour,  blush  not,  fear  not  you  ! 

Your  children  (splinters  from  the  mountain’s  side). 
With  rugged  hands,  shall  for  themselves  provide. 
Parent  of  valour,  cast  away  thy  fear  ! 

Mother  of  men,  be  proud  without  a tear ! 

While  round  your  hearth  the  wo-nursed  virtues  move, 
And  all  that  manline.ss  can  ask  of  love  ; 

Remember  Hogarth,  and  abjure  despair; 

Remember  Arkwright,  and  the  {)casant  Clare. 

Burn.s,  o’er  the  plough,  sung  sweet  his  wood-notes  wild. 
And  richest  Shak.speare  was  a poor  man’s  child. 

Sire,  green  in  age,  mild,  patient,  toil-inured. 

Endure  thine  evils  as  thou  hast  endured. 

Behold  thy  wedded  daughter,  and  rejoice! 

Hear  hope’s  sweet  accents  in  a grandchild’s  voice! 

See  freedom’s  bulwarks  in  thy  sons  arise. 

And  Hampden,  Ru.s.sell,  Sidney,  in  their  eyes! 

And  should  some  new  Napoleon’s  curse  subdue 
All  hearths  but  thine,  let  him  behold  them  too, 

And  timely  shun  a deadlier  Waterloo. 

Northumbrian  vales ! ye  saw,  in  silent  pride. 

The  pensive  brow  of  lowly  Akenside, 

When,  poor,  yet  learned,  he  wandered  young  and  free. 
And  felt  within  the  strong  divinity. 

Scenes  of  his  youth,  where  first  lie  wooed  the  Nine, 
His  spirit  still  is  with  you,  vales  of  Tyne! 

As  when  he  breathed,  your  blue-belled  paths  along. 
The  soul  of  Plato  into  British  song. 

Born  in  a lowly  hut  an  infiint  slept. 

Dreamful  in  sleep,  and,  sleeping,  smiled  or  wept: 
Silent  the  youth — the  man  was  grave  and  shy : 

His  parents  loved  to  watch  his  wondering  eye: 

And  lo ! he  waved  a prophet’s  hand,  and  gave. 

Where  the  winds  soar,  a pathway  to  the  wave  ! 

From  hill  to  hill  bade  air  hung  rivers  stride. 

And  flow  through  mountains  with  a conqueror’s  pride 
O’er  grazing  herds,  lo  ! ships  suspended  sail. 

And  Brindley’s  praise  hath  wings  in  every  gale! 

The  worm  came  up  to  drink  the  welcome  shower; 
The  redbreast  quaffed  the  raindrop  in  the  bower ; 

The  flaskering  duck  through  freshened  lilies  swam  ; 
The  bright  roach  took  the  fly  below  the  dam  ; 

Ramped  the  glad  colt,  and  cropped  the  pensile  spray; 
No  more  in  dust  uprose  the  sultry  way ; 

The  lark  was  in  the  cloud  ; the  woodbine  hung 
More  sweetly  o’er  the  chaffinch  while  he  sung; 

And  the  wild  rose,  from  every  dripping  bush. 

Beheld  on  silvery  Sheaf  the  mirrored  blush; 

When  calmly  seated  on  his  panniered  ass. 

Where  travellers  hear  the  steel  hiss  as  they  pass, 

A milkboy,  sheltering  from  the  transient  storm. 
Chalked,  on  the  grinder’s  wall,  an  infant’s  form  ; 
Young  Chantrey  smiled  ; no  critic  praised  or  bhamed ; 
And  golden  promise  smiled,  and  thus  exclaimed: — 

‘ Go,  child  of  genius!  rich  be  thine  increase; 

Go — be  the  Phidias  of  the  second  Greece ! ’ 

458 


Awake,  blue  Eyebright,  while  the  singing  wave 
Its  cold,  bright,  beauteous,  soothing  tribute  drops 
From  many  a gray  rock’s  foot  and  dripping  cave ; 
While  yonder,  lo,  the  starting  stone-chat  hops ! 

While  here  the  cottar’s  cow  its  sweet  food  crops ; 
While  black-faced  ewes  and  lambs  are  bleating  there  ; 
And,  bursting  through  the  briers,  the  wild  ass  stops — 
Kicks  at  the  strangers — then  turns  round  to  stare — 
Then  lowers  his  large  red  ears,  and  shakes  his  long 
dark  hair. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  NORfOH. 


\_Apostrophe  to  Futurity. 1 

Ye  rovksi  ye  elements!  thou  shoreless  main, 

In  whose  blue  depths,  worlds,  ever  voyagin;;. 
Freighted  with  life  and  death,  of  fate  complain. 
Things  of  immutab'.lity  ! ye  bring 
Thoughts  that  with  terror  and  with  sorrow  wring 
The  human  breast.  Unchanged,  of  sad  decay 
And  deathless  change  ye  speak,  like  prophets  old. 
Foretelling  evil's  ever-present  day  ; 

And  as  when  Horror  lays  his  finger  cold 
Upon  the  heart  in  dreams,  appal  the  bold. 

0 thou  Futurity  ! our  hope  and  dread. 

Let  me  unveil  thy  features,  fair  or  foul ! 

Thou  who  shalt  see  the  grave  untenanted. 

And  commune  with  the  re-embodied  soul! 

Tell  me  thy  secrets,  ere  thy  ages  roll 
Their  deeds,  that  yet  shall  be  on  earth,  in  heaven. 
And  in  deep  hell,  where  rabid  hearts  with  pain 
Must  purge  their  plagues,  and  learn  to  be  forgiven! 
Show  me  the  beauty  that  shall  fear  no  stain. 

And  still,  through  age-long  years,  unchanged  remain  1 
As  one  who  dreads  to  raise  the  pallid  sheet 
M'hich  shrouds  the  beautiful  and  tranquil  face 
That  yet  can  smile,  but  never  more  shall  meet. 

With  kisses  warm,  his  ever  fond  embrace; 

So  1 draw  nigh  to  thee,  with  timid  pace. 

And  tremble,  though  1 long  to  lift  thy  veil. 

A Poet’s  Praye>\ 

Almighty  Father  ! let  thy  lowly  child. 

Strong  in  his  love  of  truth,  be  wisely  bold — 

A patriot  bard,  by  sycophants  reviled. 

Let  him  live  usefully,  and  not  die  old ! 

Let  poor  men’s  children,  pleased  to  read  his  lays. 
Love,  for  his  sake,  the  scenes  where  he  hath  been. 
And  when  he  ends  his  pilgrimage  of  days. 

Let  him  be  buried  where  the  grass  is  green, 
kVhere  daisies,  blooming  earliest,  linger  late 
To  hear  the  bee  his  busy  note  prolong; 

There  let  him  slumber,  and  in  peace  await 
The  dawning  morn,  far  from  the  sensual  Ihrong, 

Who  scorn  the  vindflower’s  blush,  the  redbreast’s  lonely 
song. 

3'RS  NORTON. 

The  family  of  bheridan  has  been  prolific  of 
genius,  and  Mrs  Norton,  granddaughter  of  Richard 
Brinsley,  has  well  sustained  the  family  honours. 
Caroline  Elizabeth  Sarah  Sheridan  was,  at  the  age  of 
nineteen,  married  to  the  Honourable  George  Chappie 
Norton,  brother  to  Lord  Grantley,  and  himself  a 
police  magistrate  in  London.  This  union  was  dis- 
solved in  1840,  after  Mrs  Norton  had  been  the  ob- 
ject of  suspicion  and  persecution  of  the  most  painful 
description.  In  her  seventeenth  year,  this  lady  had 
composed  her  poem,  2'he  Sorrows  of  Rosalie,  a pathetic 
story  of  village  life.  Her  next  work  was  a poem 
founded  on  the  ancient  legend  of  the  Wandering 
Jew,  which  she  termed  The  Undying  One.  A' third 
volume  appeared  from  her  pen  in  1840,  entitled 
The  Dream,  and  other  Poems.  ‘ This  lady,’  says  a 
writer  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  ‘ is  the  Byron  of 
our  modern  poetesses.  She  has  very  much  of  that 
intense  personal  passion  by  which  Byron’s  poetry  is 
distinguished  from  the  larger  grasp  and  deeper  com- 
munion with  man  and  nature  of  Wordsworth.  She 
has  also  Byron’s  beautiful  intervals  of  tenderness, 
his  strong  practical  thought,  and  his  forceful  ex- 
pression. It  is  not  an  artificial  imitation,  but  a 
natural  parallel.’  The  truth  of  this  remark,  both 
as  to  poetical  and  personal  similarity  of  feeling,  will 
be  seen  from  the  followdng  impassioned  verses,  ad- 
dressed by  Mrs  Norton  to  the  Duchess  of  Suther- 
land, to  whom  she  has  dedicated  her  poems.  The 


simile  of  the  swan  flinging  aside  the  ‘ turbid  drops’ 
from  her  snowy  wing  is  certainly  worthy  of 
Byron. 

[To  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland.'] 

Once  more,  my  harp  ! once  more,  although  I thought 
Never  to  wake  thy  silent  strings  again, 

A wandering  dream  thy  gentle  chords  have  wrought, 
And  my  sad  heart,  which  long  hath  dwelt  in  pain. 
Soars,  like  a wild  bird  from  a cypress  bough. 

Into  the  poet’s  heaven,  and  leaves  dull  grief  below! 

And  unto  thee — the  beautiful  and  pure — 

Whose  lot  is  cast  amid  that  busy  world 
Where  only  sluggish  Uulness  dwells  secure, 

^And  Fancy’s  generous  wing  is  faintly  furled; 

To  thee — whose  friendship  kept  its  equal  truth 
Through  the  most  dreary  hour  of  my  embittered 
youth — 

I dedicate  the  lay.  Ah  ! never  bard. 

In  days  when  poverty  Was  twin  with  song ; 

Nor  wandering  harper,  lonely  and  ill-starred. 

Cheered  by  some  castle’s  chief,  and  harboured  long ; 
Not  Scott’s  Last  Minstrel,  in  his  trembling  lays. 
Woke  with  a warmer  heart  the  earnest  meed  of  praise ! 

For  easy  are  the  alma  the  rich  man  spares 
To  sons  of  Genius,  by  misfortune  bent ; 

But  thou  gav’st  me,  what  woman  seldom  dares. 

Belief — in  spite  of  many  a cold  dissent — 

When,  slandered  and  maligned,  I stood  apart 
From  those  whose  bounded  power  hath  wrung,  not 
crushed,  my  heart. 

Thou,  then,  when  cowards  lied  away  my  name. 

And  scoffed  to  see  me  feebly  stem  the  tide ; 

When  some  were  kind  on  whom  I had  no  claim, 

And  some  forsook  on  whom  my  love  relied. 

And  some,  who  might  have  battled  for  my  sake. 
Stood  off  in  doubt  to  see  what  turn  the  world  would 
take — 

Thou  gav’st  me  that  the  poor  do  give  the  poor. 

Kind  words  and  holy  wishes,  and  true  tears; 

The  loved,  the  near  of  kin  could  do  no  more. 

Who  changed  not  with  the  gloom  of  varying  years, 
But  clung  the  closer  when  I stood  forlorn. 

And  blunted  Slander’s  dart  with  their  indignant  scorn. 

For  they  who  credit  crime,  are  they  who  feel 
Their  own  hearts  weak  to  unresisted  sin ; 

Memory,  not  judgment,  prompts  the  thoughts  which 
steal 

O’er  minds  like  these,  an  easy  faith  to  win ; 

And  tales  of  broken  truth  are  still  believed 

Most  readily  by  those  who  have  themselves  deceived. 

But  like  a white  swan  dorvn  a troubled  stream. 

Whose  ruffling  pinion  hath  the  power  to  fling 
Aside  the  turbid  drops  which  darkly  gleam 
And  mar  the  freshness  of  her  snowy  wing — - 
So  thou,  with  queenly  grace  and  gentle  pride. 

Along  the  world’s  dark  waves  in  purity  dost  glide ; 

Thy  pale  and  pearly  cheek  was  never  made 
To  erimson  with  a faint  false-hearted  shame ; 

Thou  didst  not  shrink — of  bitter  tongues  afraid. 

Who  hunt  in  packs  the  object  of  their  blame; 

To  thee  the  sad  denial  still  held  true. 

For  from  thine  own  good  thoughts  thy  heart  its  mercy 
drew. 

And  though  my  faint  and  tributary  rhymes 
Add  nothing  to  the  glory  of  thy  day. 

Yet  every  poet  hopes  that  after-times 
Shall  set  some  value  on  hia  votive  lay ; 

And  1 would  fain  one  gentle  deed  record. 

Among  the  many  such  with  which  thy  life  is  stored. 

459 


FHOM  17H0 


CYCLOPi?iDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME 


ISo  when  these  lines,  made  in  a immrnf'ul  hour, 

Are  iilly  0])ened  to  the  stranger’s  eye, 

A dream  of  thee,  aroused  hy  Fancy’s  power. 

Shall  be  the  first  to  wander  floating  by; 

Ami  they  who  never  saw  thy  lovely  face 
Shall  pause,  to  conjure  up  a vision  of  its  grace  ! 

In  The  Winter’s  Wiilh,  a poem  written  after  walking 
with  Mr  Kogers  the  poet,  Mrs  Norton  has  the  fol- 
lowing brief  but  graceful  and  picturesque  lines: — 
Gleamed  the  red  sun  athwart  the  misty  haze 
Which  veiled  the  cold  earth  from  its  loving  gaze, 
Feeble  and  sad  as  hope  in  sorrow’s  hour — 

Hut  for  thy  soul  it  still  had  warmth  and  power; 

Not  to  its  cheerless  beauty  wert  thou  blind ; 

To  the  keen  eye  of  thy  poetic  mind 

Beauty  still  lives,  though  nature’s  flrwrets  die, 

And  wintry  sunsets  fade  along  the  sky  ! 

And  nought  escaped  thee  as  we  strolled  along. 

Nor  changeful  ray,  nor  bird’s  faint  chirping  song. 
Blessed  with  a fancy  easily  ins]>1red. 

All  was  beheld,  and  nothing  unadmired; 

From  the  dim  city  to  the  clouded  plain. 

Not  one  of  all  God’s  blessings  given  in  vain. 

The  affectionate  attachment  of  Rogers  to  Sheridan, 
in  his  last  and  evil  days,  is  delicately  touched  upon 
by  the  poetess : — 

And  when  at  length  he  laid  his  dying  head 
On  the  hard  rest  of  his  neglected  bed. 

He  found  (though  few  or  none  around  him  came 
Whom  he  had  toiled  for  in  his  hour  of  fame — 
Though  by  his  prince  unroyally  forgot. 

And  left  to  struggle  with  his  altered  lot) 

By  sorrow  weakened,  by  disease  unnerved — 

Faithful  at  least  the  friend  he  had  nut  served  : 

For  the  same  voice  essayed  that  hour  to  cheer. 

Which  now  sounds  welcome  to  his  grandchild’s  ear; 
And  the  same  hand,  to  aid  that  life’s  decline. 

Whose  gentle  clasp  so  late  was  linked  in  mine. 

[Picture  of  Twiliyht.'] 

Oh,  twilight!  Spirit  that  dost  render  birth 
To  dim  enchantments;  melting  heaven  with  earth. 
Leaving  on  craggy  hills  and  running  streams 
A softness  like  the  atmosphere  of  dreams  ; 

Thy  hour  to  all  is  welcome ! Faint  and  sweet 
Thy  light  falls  round  the  peasant’s  homeward  feet. 
Who,  slow  returning  from  his  task  of  toil. 

Sees  the  low  sunset  gild  the  cultured  soil, 

A.nd,  though  such  radiance  round  him  brightly  glows, 
Marks  the  small  spark  his  cottage-window  throws. 
Still  as  his  heart  forestalls  his  weary  pace, 

Fondly  he  dreams  of  each  familiar  face. 

Recalls  the  treasures  of  his  narrow  life — 

His  rosy  children  and  his  sunburnt  wife. 

To  whom  his  coming  is  the  chief  event 
Of  simple  days  in  cheerful  labour  spent. 

The  rich  man’s  chariot  hath  gone  whirling  past. 

And  these  poor  cottagers  have  only  cast 
One  careless  glance  on  all  that  show  of  pride. 

Then  to  their  tasks  turned  quietly  aside ; 

But  him  they  wait  for,  him  they  welcome  home. 

Fixed  sentinels  look  forth  to  see  him  come  ; 

The  fagot  sent  for  when  the  fire  grew  dim. 

The  frugal  meal  prepared,  are  all  for  him  ; 

For  him  the  watching  of  that  sturdy  boy. 

For  him  those  smiles  of  tenderness  and  joy. 

For  him — who  plods  his  sauntering  way  along. 
Whistling  the  fragment  of  some  village  song! 

Dear  art  thou  to  the  lover,  thou  sweet  light. 

Fair  fleeting  sister  of  the  mournful  night ! 

?is  in  iii'.patient  hope  he  stands  apart, 

Companioned  only  by  his  beating  heart. 

And  with  an  eager  fancy  oft  beholds 
The  vision  of  a white  robe’s  fluttering  folds. 


The  Mother's  Heart. 

When  first  thou  earnest,  gentle,  shy,  and  fond. 

My  eldest  born,  first  hope,  and  dearest  treasure. 

My  heart  received  thee  with  a joy  beyond 
All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  earthly  pleasure; 

Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 
So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I felt  for  thee. 

Faithful  and  true,  with  sense  beyond  thy  years. 

And  natural  piety  that  leaned  to  heaven  ; 

Wrung  by  a harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears. 

Yet  patient  of  rebuke  when  justly  given — 
Obedient,  easy  to  be  reconciled. 

And  meekly  cheerful — such  wert  thou,  my  child. 

Not  willing  to  be  left : still  by  my  side 

Haunting  my  walks,  while  summer-day  was  dying; 
Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn  ; but  pleased  to  glide 
Through  the  dark  room,  where  I was  sadly  lying; 
Or  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a sitter  meek. 

Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  feverish  check. 

0 boy  ! of  such  as  thou  are  oftenest  made 
Earth’s  fragile  idols  ; like  a tender  flower. 

No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness — prone  to  fade — 

And  bending  weakly  to  the  thunder  shower — 

Still  round  the  loved,  thy  heart  found  force  to  bind. 
And  clung  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the  wind. 

Then  thou,  my  merry  love,  bobl  in  thy  glee 
Under  the  bough,  or  by  the  firelight  dancing, 

With  thy  sweet  temper  aiid  thy  spirit  free, 

Didst  come  as  restless  as  a bird’s  wing  glancing. 
Full  of  a wild  and  irrepressible  mirth. 

Like  a young  sunbeam  to  the  gladdened  earth  ! 

Thine  was  the  shout ! the  song ! the  burst  of  joy  ! 

Which  sweet  from  childhood’s  rosy  lip  resoundeth ; 
Thine  w’as  the  eager  spirit  nought  could  cloy 

And  the  glad  heart  from  which  all  grief  reboundeth  ; 
And  many  a mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply 
Lurked  in  the  laughter  of  thy  dark-blue  eye! 

And  thine  was  many  an  art  to  win  and  bless. 

The  cold  and  stern  to  joy  and  fondness  warming; 
The  coaxing  smile — the  frequent  soft  caress — 

The  earnest,  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  disarming! 
Again  my  heart  a new  aff'ection  found. 

But  thought  that  love  with  thte  had  reached  its  bound. 
At  length  thou  earnest — thou,  the  last  and  least. 
Nicknamed  ‘ the  emperor’  by  thy  laughing  brothers. 
Because  a haughty  spirit  swelled  thy  breast. 

And  thou  didst  seek  to  rule  and  sway  the  others; 
Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile 
A mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile. 

And  oh  ! most  like  a regal  child  wert  thou  ! 

An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  scheming — 

Fair  shoulders,  curling  lip,  and  dauntless  brow — 

Fit  for  the  world’s  strife,  not  for  poet’s  dreaming ; 
And  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head. 

And  the  firm  bearing  of  thy  conscious  ti'ead. 

Different  from  both  ! yet  each  succeeding  claim, 

I,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswearing. 
Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same  ; 

Nor  injured  either  by  this  love’s  comparing. 

Nor  stole  a fraction  for  the  newer  call. 

But  in  the  mother’s  heart  found  room  for  all. 

MRS  SOUTHEY. 

Mrs  Southey  (Caroline  Bowles)  is  one  of  the 
most  pleasing  and  natural  poetesses  of  the  day. 
She  has  publislied  various  works — Ellen  Fitzarlhur 
(1820),  The  H'idoic’s  Tale  and  other  Poems  (1822), 
The  Birthday  and  other  Poems  (1836),  Solitary  Hours 
(1839),  &c.  The  following  are  excellent  both  in 
thought  and  versification  : — 


460 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


koicts.  ENGLISH  LI^ 

rERATUUE.  ELIZABETH  B.  BARRETT. 

Tht  Pauper’s  Deathbed. 

Tread  seftly — bow  the  head — 

III  reverent  silence  bow — 

No  passing  bell  doth  toll — 

Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger  ! however  great, 

With  lovly  reverence  bow; 

There’s  one  in  that  poor  shed — 

One  by  that  paltry  bed — 

Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar’s  roof, 

Lo ! Death  doth  keep  his  state : 
Enter — no  crowds  attend— 

Enter — no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

That  pavement  damp  and  cold 
No  smiling  courtiers  tread; 

One  silent  woman  stands 
Lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A dying  head. 

No  mingilr.g  voices  sound — 

An  infant  wail  alone ; 

A sob  suppressed — again 
That  short  deep  gasp,  and  then 
The  parting  groan. 

Oh  ! change — oh  ! wondrous  change — 
Burst  are  the  prison  bars — 

This  monieiit  there,  so  low, 

So  agonised,  and  now 
Beyond  the  stars ! 

Oh  ! change — stupendous  change ! 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod: 

The  sun  eternal  breaks — 

The  new  immortal  wakes — 

Wakes  with  his  God. 

Mariner’s  Hymn. 

Launch  thy  hark,  mariner  ! 

Christian,  God  speed  thee! 

Let  loose  the  rudder-bands — 

Good  angels  lead  thee  1 
Set  thy  sails  warily. 

Tempests  will  come ; 

Steer  thy  course  steadily  ; 

Christian,  steer  home! 

Look  to  the  weather-bow. 

Breakers  are  round  thee  ; 

Let  fall  the  plummet  now. 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 

Reef  in  the  foresail,  there  ! 

Hold  the  helm  fast  ! 

So — let  the  vessel  w’ear — 

There  swept  the  blast. 

‘ What  of  the  night,  watchman ! 

What  of  the  night  V 
* Cloudy — all  quiet — 

No  land  yet — all’s  right.’ 

Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant — 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  hour  when  all  seemeth 
Securest  to  thee. 

How  ! gains  the  leak  so  fast  f 
Clean  out  the  hold — 

Hoist  up  thy  merchandise, 

Heave  out  thy  gold  ; 

There — let  the  ingots  go — 

Now  the  shi])  rights  ; 

Hurra!  the  harbour’s  near — 

Lo  ! the  red  lights  ! 

Slacken  not  sail  yet 
At  inlet  or  island  ; 

Straight  for  the  be.acon  steer. 

Straight  for  the  high  land ; 

Crowd  all  thy  canvass  on. 

Cut  through  the  foam — 

Christian  ! cast  anchor  now — 

Heaven  is  thy  home ! 

ELIZABETH  B.  BARRETT, 

Miss  Elizabeth  B.  Barrett,  a learned  lady,  has 
published  Prumelheus  Bound,  a translation  from  the 
Greek  of  Esehylus;  and  written  two  original  works. 
The  Seraphim  and  other  Poems  (1838),  and  The 
Romaunt  of  the  Paye  (1839). 

Covtper’s  Grave. 

It  is  a place  where  poets  crowned 
May  feel  the  heart’s  decaying — 

It  is  a place  where  happy  saints 
May  weep  amid  their  praying — 

Y'et  let  the  grief  and  humbleness. 

As  low  as  silence  languish  ; 

Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm 
To  whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

0 poets  ! from  a maniac’s  tongue 
Was  poured  the  deathle.ss  singing! 

0 Christians  ! at  your  cross  of  hope 
A hopeless  hand  was  clinging! 

0 men  ! this  man  in  brotherhood. 

Your  weary  paths  beguiling. 

Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace. 

And  died  while  ye  were  smiling. 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 
Through  dimming  tears  his  story — 

How  discord  on  the  music  fell. 

And  darkness  on  the  glory — 

And  how,  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds 
And  wandering  lights  departed. 

He  wore  no  less  a loving  face. 

Because  so  broken-hearted. 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify 
The  poet’s  high  vocation,' 

And  bow  tiie  meekest  Christian  lown 
In  meeker  adoration  ; 

Nor  ever  shall  he  be  in  praise 
By  wise  or  good  forsaken  ; 

Named  softly  as  the  household  name 
Of  one  whom  God  hath  taken ! 

With  sadness  that  is  calm,  not  gloom, 

I learn  to  think  upon  him  ; 

With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness. 

On  God,  whose  heaven  hath  won  him. 

Who  suffered  once  the  madness-cloud 
Towards  his  love  to  blind  him  ; 

But  gently  led  the  blind  along. 

Where  breath  and  bird  could  find  him ; 

And  wrought  within  his  shattered  brain 
Such  quick  poetic  senses. 

As  hills  have  language  for,  and  .stars 
Harmonious  influences  ! 

The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass 
His  own  did  calmly  number; 

And  silent  shadow  from  the  trees 
Fell  o’er  him  like  a slumber. 

The  very  world,  by  God’s  constraint. 

From  falsehood’s  chill  removing. 

Its  women  and  its  men  became 
Beside  him  trie  and  loving ! 

461 

FROM  178C 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME 


Ami  timid  hares  were  drawn  froni  woods 
To  share  his  home-caresses, 

Uplooking  in  his  human  eyes, 

Witli  sylvan  tendernesses. 

But  while  in  darkness  he  remained, 
lliiconseious  of  the  guidinp;. 

Ami  tilings  provided  came  without 
Tlie  sweet  sense  of  providing, 

He  testified  this  solemn  truth. 

Though  frenzy  desolated — 

Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfy 
^V'hora  only  God  created. 

MARY  HOWITT. 

This  lady,  the  wife  of  William  Ilowitt,  an  indus- 
trious iiiiseellaiieous  writer,  is  distinguished  for 
her  happy  imitations  of  th^  ancient  ballad  manner. 
In  1823  she  and  her  husband  published  a volume  of 
poems  with  their  united  names,  and  made  the  fol- 
lowing statement  in  the  preface  : ‘ The  history 

of  our  poetical  bias  is  simply  what  we  believe,  in 
reality,  to  be  that  of  many  others.  Poetry  has  been 
our  youthful  amusement,  and  our  increasing  daily 
enjoyment  in  happy,  and  our  solace  in  sorrowful 
hours.  Amidst  the  vast  and  delicious  treasures  of 
our  national  literature,  we  have  revelled  with  grow- 
ing and  unsatiated  delight ; and,  at  the  same  time, 
living  chiefly  in  the  quietness  of  the  country,  we 
have  watched  the  ch.anging  features  of  nature ; we 
have  felt  the  secret  charm  of  those  sweet  but  unos- 
tentatious images  which  she  is  perpetually  present- 
ing, and  given  full  scope  to  those  workings  of  the 
imagination  and  of  the  heart,  which  natural  beauty 
and  solitude  prompt  and  promote.  The  natural 
result  was  the  transcription  of  those  images  and 
scenes.’  * 

A poem  in  this  volume  serves  to  complete  a happy 
picture  of  studies  pursued  by  a married  pair  in 
concert : — 

Away  with  the  pleasure  that  is  not  partaken  ! 

There  is  no  enjoyment  by  one  only  ta’en : 

I love  in  my  mirth  to  see  gladness  awaken 
On  lips,  and  in  eyes,  that  reflect  it  again. 

When  we  sit  by  the  fire  that  so  cheerily  blazes 
On  our  cozy  hearthstone,  with  its  innocent  glee. 

Oh  ! how  my  soul  warms,  while  my  eye  fondly  gazes. 
To  see  my  delight  is  partaken  by  thee  I 

And  when,  as  how  often,  I eagerly  listen 

To  stories  thou  read’st  of  the  dear  olden  day. 

How  delightful  to  see  our  eyes  mutually  glisten. 

And  feel  that  affection  has  sweetened  the  lay. 

Yes,  love — and  when  wandering  at  even  or  morning. 
Through  forest  or  wild,  or  by  waves  foaming  white, 
I have  fancied  new  beauties  the  landscape  adorning. 
Because  I have  seen  thou  wast  glad  in  the  sight. 

And  how  often  in  crowds,  where  a whisper  offendeth. 
And  we  fain  would  express  what  there  might  not 
be  said. 

How  dear  is  the  glance  that  none  else  comprehendeth. 
And  how  sweet  is  the  thought  that  is  secretly 
read ! 

Then  away  with  the  pleasure  that  is  not  partaken ! 

There  is  no  enjoyment  by  one  only  ta’en : 

I love  in  my  mirth  to  see  gladness  awaken 
On  lips,  and  in  eyes,  that  reflect  it  again. 

Mrs  Ilowitt  again  appeared  before  the  world  in 
1834,  with  a poetic.al  volume  entitled  The  Seren 
Temptations,  representing  a series  of  efforts,  by  the 
impersonation  of  the  Evil  Principle,  to  reduce  human 
ioiils  to  his  power.  ‘ The  idea  of  the  poem  origi- 


nated,’ she  says,  ‘ in  a strong  impression  of  the  im- 
mense value  of  the  human  soul,  and  of  all  the  variof 
modes  of  its  trials,  according  to  its  own  infinitely 
varied  modifications,  as  existing  in  different  indivi- 
duals. We  see  the  awful  mass  of  sorrow  and  of 
crime  in  the  world,  but  we  know  only  in  part — in  a 
very  small  degree,  the  fearful  w'eight  of  solicitations 
and  impulses  of  passion,  and  the  vast  constraint  of 
circumstances,  that  are  brought  into  play  against 
suffering  humanity.  In  the  luminous  words  of  my 
motto. 

What’s  done  we  partly  may  compute. 

But  know  not  what’s  resisted. 

Thus,  without  sufficient  reflection,  we  are  furnished 
with  data  on  which  to  condemn  our  fellow-creatures, 
but  without  sufficient  grounds  for  their  palliation 
and  commiseration.  It  is  necessary,  for  the  acquisi- 
tion of  that  charity  which  is  the  soul  of  Christianity, 
for  us  to  descend  into  the  depths  of  our  own  nature  ; 
to  put  ourselves  into  many  imaginary  and  untried 
situations,  that  we  may  enable  ourselves  to  form 
some  tolerable  notion  how  we  might  be  aflected  by 
them  ; how  far  we  might  be  tempted — how  far  de- 
ceived— how  far  we  might  have  occasion  to  lament 
the  evil  pow’er  of  circumstances,  to  weep  over  our 
own  weakness,  and  pray  for  the  pardon  of  our 
crimes  ; that,  having  raised  up  this  vivid  perception 
of  what  we  might  do,  suffer,  and  become,  we  may 
apply  the  rule  to  our  fellows,  and  cease  to  be  asto- 
nished, in  some  degree,  at  the  shapes  of  atrocity  into 
which  some  of  them  are  transformed ; and  learn  to 
bear  with  others  as  brethren,  who  have  been  tried 
tenfold  beyond  our  own  experience,  or  perhaps  our 
strength.’ 

Mrs  Ilowitt  has  since  presented  several  volumes 
in  both  prose  and  verse,  chiefly  designed  for  young 
people.  The  whole  are  marked  by  a graceful  intel- 
ligence and  a simple  tenderness  which  at  once  charm 
the  reader  and  win  his  affections  for  the  author. 


Mountain  Children. 

Dwellers  by  lake  and  hill  ! 

Merry  companions  of  the  bird  and  bee  ! 

Go  gladly  forth  and  drink  of  joy  your  fill. 

With  unconstrained  step  and  spirits  free  ! 

No  crowd  impedes  your  way. 

No  city  wall  impedes  your  further  bounds ; 

Where  the  wild  flock  can  wander,  ye  may  stray 
The  long  day  through,  ’mid  summer  sights  and  sounds. 

The  sunshine  and  the  flowers. 

And  the  old  trees  that  cast  a solemn  shade ; 

The  pleasant  evening,  the  fresh  dewy  hours. 

And  the  green  hills  whereon  your  fathers  played. 

The  gray  and  ancient  peaks 
Round  which  the  silent  clouds  hang  day  and  n.ght ; 

And  the  low  voice  of  water  as  it  makes, 

Like  a glad  creature,  murmurings  of  delight. 

These  are  your  joys  ! Go  forth — 

Give  your  hearts  up  unto  their  mighty  power; 

For  in  his  spirit  God  has  clothed  the  earth. 

And  speaketh  solemnly  from  tree  and  flower. 

The  voice  of  hidden  rills 
Its  quiet  way  into  your  spirits  finds; 

And  awfully  the  everlasting  hills 
Address  you  in  their  raany-toned  winds. 

Y e sit  upon  the  earth 

Twining  its  flowers,  and  shouting  full  of  glee  ; 

And  a pure  mighty  influence,  ’mid  your  minn. 
Moulds  your  unconscious  spirits  silently. 

462 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POETS. 


llencc  i.4  it  that  the  lands 
Of  storm  and  mountain  have  the  noblest  sons  ; 

Whom  the  world  reverences.  The  patriot  bands 
Were  of  the  hills  like  you,  ye  little  onus  1 

Children  of  pleasant  song 
Arc  taught  within  the  mountain  solitudes; 

For  hoary  legends  to  your  wilds  belong, 

And  yours  arc  haunts  where  inspiration  broods. 

Then  go  forth — earth  and  sky 
T<?  you  are  tributary  ; joys  are  spread 

Profusely,  like  the  summer  flowers  that  lie 
fn  the  green  path, beneath  your  gamesome  tread! 


The  Fairies  of  the  Caldon-Low. — A Midsummer  Legend. 

‘ And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary, 

And  where  have  you  been  from  me  ?’ 

‘ I’ve  been  to  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 

The  Midsummer  night  to  see!’ 

‘ And  what  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-Low?’ 

‘ I saw  the  blithe  sunshine  come  down. 

And  I saw  the  merry  rvinds  blow.’ 

‘And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-Hill  1’ 

‘ I heard  the  drops  of  the  water  made. 

And  the  green  corn  ears  to  fill.’ 

‘ Oh,  tell  me  all,  my  Mary — ■ 

All,  all  that  ever  you  know ; 

For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies. 

Last  night  on  the  Caldon-Low.’ 

‘ Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother. 

And  listen,  mother  of  mine : 

A hundred  fairies  danced  last  night. 

And  the  harpers  they  were  nine. 

And  merry  was  the  glee  of  the  harp-strings. 

And  their  daneing  feet  so  small ; 

But,  oh,  the  sound  of  their  talking 
Was  merrier  far  than  all !’ 

‘ And  what  were  the  words,  my  Mary, 

That  you  did  hear  them  say !’ 

‘ I’ll  tell  you  all,  my  mother — 

But  let  me  have  my  w’ay! 

And  some  they  played  with  the  water. 

And  rolled  it  down  the  hill ; 

“ And  this,”  they  said,  “ shall  speedily  turn 
The  poor  old  miller’s  mill ; 

For  there  has  been  no  water 
Ever  since  the  first  of  May ; 

And  a busy  man  shall  the  miller  be 
By  the  dawning  of  the  day ! 

Oh,  the  miller,  how  he  will  laugh. 

When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise! 

The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh. 

Till  the  tears  fill  both  his  eyes !” 

And  some  they  seized  the  little  winds. 

That  sounded  over  the  hill. 

And  each  put  a horn  into  his  mouth. 

And  blew  so  sharp  and  shrill : — 

“ And  there,”  said  they,  “ the  merry  winds  go. 
Away  from  every  horn  ; 

And  those  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank 
From  the  blind  old  widow’s  com : 


MART  HOWITT. 


Oh,  the  poor,  blind  old  widow — 

Though  she  has  been  blind  so  long. 

She’ll  be  merry  enough  when  the  mildew’s  gone. 
And  the  corn  stands  still' and  strong  !” 

And  some  they  brought  the  brown  llntseed. 

And  flung  it  down  from  the  Low — 

“ And  this,”  said  they,  “ by  the  sunrise. 

In  the  weaver’s  croft  shall  grow ! 

Oh,  the  poor,  lame  weaver. 

How  will  he  laugh  outright. 

When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax-field 
All  full  of  flowers  by  night!” 

And  then  upspoke  a brownie. 

With  a long  beard  on  his  chin — 

“ I have  spun  up  all  the  tow,”  said  he, 

“ And  I want  some  more  to  spin.  , 

I’ve  spun  a piece  of  hempen  cloth, 

And  I want  to  spin  another — 

A little  sheet  for  Mary’s  bed. 

And  an  apron  for  her  mother !” 

And  with  that  I could  not  help  but  laugh. 

And  1 laughed  out  loud  and  free ; 

And  then  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low 
There  was  no  one  left  but  me. 

And  all,  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 

The  mists  were  cold  and  gray. 

And  nothing  1 saw  but  the  mossy  stones 
That  round  about  me  lay. 

But,  as  I came  dovvn  from  the  hill-top, 

I heard,  afar  below. 

How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was. 

And  how  merry  the  wheel  did  go! 

And  I peeped  into  the  widow’s  field ; 

And,  sure  enough,  was  seen 
The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildewed  com 
All  standing  stiff  and  green. 

And  down  by  the  weaver’s  croft  I stole. 

To  see  if  the  flax  were  high  ; 

But  I saw  the  weaver  at  his  gate 
With  the  good  news  in  his  eye ! 

Now,  this  is  all  I hiaiJ,  mother, 

And  all  that  I did  see ; 

So,  prithee,  make  my  bed,  mother. 

For  I’m  tired  as  I can  be!’ 


The  Mordcey. 

[From  Sketches  of  Natural  History., 

Monkey,  little  merry  fellow. 

Thou  art  Nature’s  Punchinello; 

Full  of  fun  as  Puck  could  be — 

Harlequin  might  learn  of  thee ! 

* if  * 

In  the  very  ark,  no  doubt. 

You  went  frolicking  about ; 

Never  keeping  in  your  mind 
Drowned  monkeys  left  behind  1 

Have  you  no  traditions — none, 

Of  the  court  of  Solomon ! 

No  memorial  how  ye  went 
With  Prince  Hiram’s  armament ! 

Look  now  at  him  I — slyly  peep ; 

He  pretends  he  is  asleep ; 

Fast  asleep  upon  his  bed. 

With  his  arm  beneath  his  head. 

463 


FUOM  17fl0 


(;Y(’i.(tr/i;i)iA  or 


Now  tliiit  posture  is  not  I'iglit, 

Ami  lie  is  not  siatleii  quite  ; 

Tliere  ! tlnit’s  better  tlnin  before — 

Anil  tlie  knave  preteml.s  to  snore  ! 

Ha  ! lie  is  not  balf  asleep  ; 

See,  be  slyly  takes  a peep. 

Monkey,  tlnmeb  your  eyes  were  shut, 

You  could  .see  this  little  nut. 

You  sball  bave  it,  pigmy  brother  ! 

What,  anotlier  ! and  another  ! 

Nay,  your  cheeks  are  like  a sack — 

Sit  down,  and  begin  to  crack. 

There  the  little  aneient  man 
Clacks  as  fast  as  crack  he  can  ! 

Now  good-by,  you  merry  fellow, 

Nature’s  primcst  Punchinello. 

• 

THOMAS  HOOD. 

Thomas  Hoot)  (171)8-184.5)  appeared  before  the 
ptiblic  eirutly  as  a eoniie  poet  and  liumorist.  but 
several  of  Ills  compositions,  of  a different  nature, 
show  that  he  was  also  capable  of  excelling  in  the 
grave,  imihctic.  and  .sentimental.  He  had  thoughts 
'too  deep  for  tears,’  and  rii  h imaginative  dreams 
and  fancies,  which  were  at  times  enihodied  in  con- 
tinuous strains  of  pure  and  exquisite  poetry,  but 
more  frequently  thrown  In,  like  momentary  shadows, 
among  his  light  and  fantastic  effusions.  His  wit 
and  sarcasm  were  always  genial  and  well  applied. 
'This  ingenious  and  gifted  man  was  a native  of  Lon- 
don, son  of  one  of  the  partners  in  the  bookselling 
firm  of  Vernor,  Hood,  and  Sharpe.  He  was  educated 
for  the  coiiiiting-himse,  and  at  an  earlv  age  rvas 
placed  under  the  charge  of  a city  merchant.  Ilis 
health,  however,  was  found  unequal  to  the  close  eon- 
finement  and  application  required  at  the  merchant’s 
desk,  and  he  was  sent  to  reside  with  some  relatives 
in  Dundee,  of  which  town  his  father  was  a native. 
While  resident  there.  Mr  Hood  evinced  his  taste  for 
literature.  He  conlrihuted  to  the  local  newspapers, 
and  also  to  the  Dundee  Magazine,  a periodical  of 
Considerable  merit.  On  the  re-establishment  of  his 
health,  he  returned  to  London,  and  was  put  appren- 
tice to  a relation,  an  engraver.  At  this  enqiloy- 
men't  he  remained  just  long  enough  to  acquire  a 
taste  for  drawing,  wliicli  was  afterwards  of  essential 
service  to  him  in  illustrating  his  poetical  produc- 
tions. Aliont  the  year  1821  he  had  adopted  litera- 
ture as  a profession,  and  was  installed  as  regular 
assistant  to  the  London  Magazine,  which  at  that 
time  was  left  without  its  founder  and  ornament,  Mr 
John  Scott,  who  was  unhappily  killed  in  a duel.  On 
the  cessation  of  this  work,  Mr  Hood  wrote  for  various 
periodicals.  He  was  some  time  editor  of  the  New 
Monthly  Magazine,  and  also  of  a magazine  which 
bore  his  own  name.  His  life  was  one  of  incessant 
exertion,  embittered  by  ill  health  and  all  the  dis- 
quiets and  uncertainties  incidental  to  authorship. 
JVhen  almost  prostrated  by  disease,  the  government 
stept  in  to  relieve  him  with  a small  pension;  and 
after  his  premature  death  in  May  1845,  his  literary 
friends  contributed  liberally  towards  the  support  of 
his  widow  and  family. 

Mr  Hood's  productions  are  in  various  styles  and 
forms.  His  first  work,  Whims  and  Oddities,  attained 
to  great  iiopularity.  Their  most  original  feature 
was'the  use  which  the  author  made  of  puns — a figure 
generally  too  contem|itible  for  literature,  but  which, 
in  Hood’s  hands,  became  the  basis  of  genuine  humour, 
and  often  of  the  purest  pathos.  He  afterwards  (1827) 
tried  a series  of  National  Tales,  but  his  prose  was 
less  attractive  than  his  verse.  A regular  novel, 


TIl.l,  THE  PKESICNT  TIMl 


’J'ylncij  Halt,  Has  a more  decided  failure.  In  poetry 
he  made  a great  advaice.  The  flea  of  the  Midsum- 
mer Tallies  is  a rich  imaginative  work,  siiperioi  to 
his  other  iiroductions.  As  editor  of  the  Comic  An- 
nual. and  also  of  some  of  the  literary  annuals.  Ml 
Hood  increased  his  rciiutation  for  sportive  humour 
and  poetical  fancy  ; and  he  continued  the  same  vein 
in  his  t//j  the  Hhine — a satire  on  the  absurdities  of 
English  travellers.  In  184.'}  he  issued  two  volurneB 
of  haiisicalilies,  a Peril, dieul  Outheiing,  collected 
ehiefiy  from  the  New  Monthly  Magazine.  His  last 
production  of  any  importance  was  the  Sony  of  the 
Shirt,  which  first  appeared  in  Punch,  and  was  as 
admirable  in  spirit  as  in  composition.  'This  striking 
picture  ot  the  miseries  of  the  jioor  London  semp- 
stresses struck  home  to  the  heart,  and  aroused  tho 
benevolent  feelings  of  the  public.  In  most  of  Hood’s 
works,  even  in  his  puns  and  levitic.s,  there  is  a 
‘ spirit  of  good’  directed  to  some  kindly  or  philan- 
thro[iic  object.  He  had  serious  and  mournful  jests, 
which  were  the  more  eireetive  from  their  strange 
and  unexpected  combinations.  Those  who  came  to 
laugh  at  folly,  remained  to  symiiathise  with  want 
and  suffering. 

Of  Hood’s  graceful  and  poetical  puns,  it  would  be 
easy  to  give  abundant  specimens.  The  following 
stanzas  form  part  of  an  inimitable  burlesque.  La- 
ment fur  the  Decline  of  Chivalry  : — 

Well  hast  thou  said,  departed  Burke, 

All  cliivalrous  roniaiitic  work 
Is  ended  now  and  past  ! 

That  iron  age,  which  some  have  thought 
Of  mettle  rather  overwrought. 

Is  now  all  over-cast. 

Ay  ! wdiere  are  those  heroic  knights 
Of  old — tho.se  armadillo  wights 
Who  wore  the  plated  vest  1 
Great  Charlemagne  and  all  his  peers 
Are  cold — enjoying  with  their  spears 
An  everlasting  rest. 

The  bold  King  Arthur  sleepeth  sound  ; 

So  sleep  his  knights  who  gave  that  Round 
Old  Table  such  eclat  ! 

Oh,  Time  has  plucked  the  plumy  brow! 

And  none  engage  at  turneys  now 
But  tho.se  that  go  to  law  1 

* « • 

MTere  are  those  old  and  feudal  clans. 

Their  pikes,  and  bills,  and  partisans; 

Their  hauberks,  jerkins,  bulFs  1 
A battle  was  a battle  then, 

A breathing  piece  of  work  ; but  men 
Fight  now  with  powder  puff's  1 

The  curtaUixe  is  out  of  date  ! 

The  good  old  cross-bow  bends,  to  Fate; 

’Tis  gone  the  archer’s  craft ! 

No  tough  arm  bends  the  sjiringing  yew, 

And  jolly  draymen  ride,  in  lieu 
Of  Death,  upon  the  shaft. 

* * * 

In  cavils  when  will  cavaliers 
Set  ringing  helmets  by  the  ears. 

And  scatter  plumes  about  2 
Or  blood- — if  they  are  in  the  vein  I 
That  tap  will  never  run  again — 

Alas,  the  casque  is  out  1 

No  iron-crackling  now  is  scored 
By  dint  of  battle-axe  or  sword. 

To  find  a vital  place; 

m 


(M.1S.  I NC  1,1^11  1.1 


I'ilOllJlU  IVft  lill  lioctoi's  Sliil  pil'loiul, 

\wlii)i',  Iwtori'  tlu'V  kill  ii  IVk'ikI, 

To  labour  tlirougli  bis  case  ! 

Farewell  tlieii,  ancient  men  of  ini"ht ! 

Crusailer,  errant-squire,  and  knijjbt! 

Our  coats  and  customs  soften  ; 

To  rise  would  only  make  you  weep; 

Sleep  on  in  rusty  iron  sleep. 

As  in  a safety-coffin  1 

Tlie  grave,  lofty,  .and  sustained  style  of  IIiKid  is 
tnucli  more  rare  than  tliis  punning  vein  ; hut  a few 
verses  will  show  how  truly  |M>etical  at  times  was 
his  iniaginatiou — how  rapt  his  fancy.  The  diction 
of  the  suhjoined  stanzas  is  rich  and  musical,  and 
may  recall  some  of  the  finest  flights  of  the  Eliza- 
hethan  poets.  We  quote  fixtm  an  'Me  to  Ike  Muon. 

Mother  of  light!  how  fairly  dost  thou  go 
Over  those  hoary  crests,  divinely  led  ! 

Art  thou  that  huntress  of  the  .silver  bow 
Fabled  of  old  1 Or  rather  dost  thou  trc.ad 
Those  cloudy  summits  thence  to  g;ize  below. 

Like  the  wild  chamois  on  her  Alpine  .snow, 

Where  hunter  never  climbed — secure  from  dread? 
A thousand  ancient  fancies  1 have  read 
Of  that  fair  presence,  and  a thr  nsaud  wrought. 
Wondrous  and  bright. 

Upon  the  silver  light. 

Tracing  fresh  figures  with  the  artist  thought. 

What  art  thou  like?  Sometimes  I see  thee  ride 
A far-bound  galley  on  its  perilous  w.ay  ; 

Whilst  breezy  waves  toss  up  their  silvery  spray: 
Sometimes  behold  thee  glide, 

Clustered  by  all  thy  family  of  stars, 

Like  a lone  widow  through  the  welkin  wide, 

AVho.se  pallid  cheek  the  midnight  sorrow  mars: 
Sometimes  I watch  thee  on  from  steep  to  steep. 
Timidly  lighted  by  thy  vestal  torch. 

Till  in  some  Latinian  cave  I see  thee  creep. 

To  catch  the  young  Endymion  asleep. 

Leaving  thy  splendour  at  the  jagged  porch. 

0 thou  art  beautiful,  howe’er  it  be ! 

Huntress,  or  Dian,  or  whatever  named — 

And  he  the  veriest  Pagan  who  first  framed 
A silver  idol,  .and  ne’er  worshipped  thee  ; 

It  is  too  late,  or  thou  shouldst  have  my  knee — 

Too  late  now  for  the  old  Ephesian  vows. 

And  not  divine  the  crescent  on  thy  broivs  ; 

Yet,  call  thee  nothing  but  the  mere  mild  moon, 
llcbind  those  chestnut  boughs. 

Casting  their  dappled  shadows  at  my  feet ; 

1 will  be  grateful  for  that  simple  boon. 

In  many  a thoughtful  verse  and  anthem  sweet. 
And  hle.ss  thy  dainty  face  whene’er  we  meet. 

In  the  Gem,  a literary  annual  for  1829,  Mr  Hood 
published  a ballad  entitled  The  Pream  of  Euyeve 
Aram,  which  is  also  remarkable  for  its  exhibition 
of  the  secrets  of  the  human  heart,  and  its  deep  and 
powerful  moral  feeling.  It  is  perhaps  to  he  regretteii 
that  an  author,  w lio  had  undoubted  command  of  the 
higher  pa.'sions  anil  emotions,  should  so  seldom  have 
frequented  tliis  sjicred  ground,  but  have  prcfeired 
tlie  gaieties  of  niirtli  and  fancy.  He  probably  saw 
that  his  originality  was  more  a()parent  in  the  latter, 
and  tliat  popularity  was  in  tliis  way  more  easily 
attained.  Immediate  success  was  of  importance  to 
him;  and  until  tlie  position  of  literary  men  be  ren- 
dered more  secure  and  unassailable,  we  must  often 
he  content  to  lose  works  which  can  only  be  the 
‘ripened  fruits  of  wise  delay.’ 

The  following  is  one  of  Hood’s  most  popular  effu- 
sions in  tliat  style  which  the  public  identified  as 
peculiarly  his  own  : — 

72 


I’KUATUllM.  ALFRED  TENNYSOlt. 


A Purenial  Oile  to  mi/  Son,  ar/cd  Three  Years  and 
Fire  Mouths. 

Thou  happy,  lia]'py  elf! 

(Hut  stop— fust  let  me  ki.ss  away  that  tear) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself! 

(My  love,  lie’s  poking  peas  into  liis  ear!) 
riiou  merry,  laughing  .sprite ! 

With  .spirits  feather  liglit. 

Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin, 

(Good  heavens  ! the  child  is  swallowing  a pin  !) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck ! 

With  antic  toys  so  fumiily  bestuck. 

Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air, 

(The  door!  the  door!  lie’ll  tumble  down  the  stair!) 

Thou  darling  of  tliy  sire  ! 

(Why,  Jane,  lie’ll  set  his  pinafore  afire!) 

Thon  imp  of  mirth  and  joy  ! 

In  love’s  dear  chain  .so  strong  and  bright  a link, 

Thou  idol  of  thy  parents  (Drat  the  boy  ! 

There  goes  my  ink  !) 

Thou  cherub — but  of  earth  ; 

Fit  playfellow  for  Fays  by  mouiliglit  pale. 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth, 

(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  its  tail  I) 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  woihi  that  blows. 

Singing  in  youth’s  Elysium  ever  sunny, 

(Another  tumble — that’s  his  precious  nose!) 

Thy  father’s  pride  and  hope ! 

(He’ll  break  tlie  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope!) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  nature’s  mint, 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint!) 

Thou  young  donie.stic  dove ! 

(He’ll  have  that  jug  off  with  another  shove!) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest! 

(.Are  those  torn  clothes  !iis  best !) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 

(He’ll  climb  upon  the  table,  that’s  his  plan!) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life, 
(He’s  got  a knife  !) 

Thou  enviable  being! 

No  storms,  no  cloud.s,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 

Play  on,  play  on. 

My  elfin  John  ! 

Toss  the  light  ball — bestride  the  stick, 

(1  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick!) 

With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down. 

Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk 
\Vith  many  a lamb-like  frisk, 

(He’s  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown  I) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose! 

(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose  !) 
Ilalmy,  and  bre.athiiig  music  like  the  .south, 

(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth  !) 

Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, 

(I  wish  that  window'  had  an  iron  bar!) 
field  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove, 

(I’ll  tell  you  what,  my  love,  . 

I cannot  write,  unless  he’s  sent  above  !) 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Alfred  Tennyson,  son  of  a Lincolnshire  clergy- 
man, and  educated  at  Trinity  college,  Canihridge, 
published  a volume  of  poetry  in  1830,  while  still  a 
very  young  man.  It  met  with  rather  severe  treat- 
ment from  one  or  more  of  the  most  influential  reviews. 
Four  years  later,  he  issued  another  volume,  wliich 
met  a reception  as  unfavour.ahle.  F'or  ten  years  after 
this  he  ce.ised  to  publish  ; his  name  did  not  appear 
in  magazines  or  annuals  as  a contributor,  neither 
was  he  mentioned  in  anyway  in  the  catalogues  of 

465 


FROM  17f!0 


CYCI.OPTKDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESEM  TIME. 


the  publishers.  He  was  not,  liowever,  forKotteii. 
Diiriiif;  tlie  interval,  there  had  been  ({rowintf  in 
niiiiiy  minds  a seii.se  of  his  merits.  In  tlie  year  1842 
iijipeared  a re[)rint  of  the  most  of  liis  jiieees,  some 
haviiif;  been  omitted,  inconsequence  jirohalily  of  tlie 
strictures  of  tlie  reviewers,  and  some  of  them  having 
been  slightly  altered,  together  with  a series  of  new 
poems;  the  whole  forming  two  small  octavo  volumes. 
Without  external  aid  of  any  kind,  these  volumes 
found  favour  with  the  public,  and  in  three  years  ran 
through  as  many  editions.  Suddenly  it  became  the 
fashion  to  consider  Alfred  Tennyson  as  a great  jioet, 
if  not  as  the  ‘ poet  of  the  age;’  meaning,  we  pre- 
sume, the  grcate.st  poet  of  the  age,  for  in  no  other 
respect  can  the  phrase  be  apiilicable,  seeing  that  the 
age  is  one  of  hope  and  of  progress,  while  Mr  Tenny- 
son’s genius  is  essentially  retrospective.  The  true 
poet  of  our  age  w ill  be  one  of  a more  popular  cha- 
racter than  Mr  Tennyson. 

The  prevailing  characteristic  of  his  style  is  a 
quaint  and  quiet  elegance,  anil  of  his  mind  a gentle 
melancholy,  with  now  and  then  touches  of  strong 
dramatic  power,  the  whole  coloured  by  the  peculiar 
scenery  of  that  part  of  England  where  he  has  long 
resided.  Any  attentive  reader  of  his  poetry,  who 
may  have  lieen  ignorant  that  he  is  a dweller  amid 
the  fens  of  Eincolnshire,  would  soon  suspect  this  to 
be  the  case  when  he  found  such  constant  pictures 
of  fens  and  morasses,  quiet  meres,  and  sighing  reeds, 
as  he  so  beautifully  introduces.  The  exquisitely 
modulated  poem  of  the  Dylny  Sivan  affords  a picture 
drawn,  we  think,  witli  wonderful  delicacy  : — 

Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose. 

And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept. 

And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh  ; 
Above,  in  the  wind,  was  the  swallow, 

Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will  ; 

And  far  through  the  inarish  green  and  still, 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept. 

Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow. 

The  ballad  of  JVew-  Year’s  Eve  introduces  similar 
icenery  : — 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the 
waning  light. 

You’ll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at 
night. 

When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow 
cool 

On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass  and  the  bulrush 
in  the  pool. 

Another  characteristic  of  Mr  Tennyson’s  style  is 
his  beautiful  simplicity.  Let  no  one  underrate  so 
great  a merit.  The  first  poetry  of  barbarism,  and 
the  most  refined  poetry  of  advancing  civilisation, 
have  it  in  common.  As  a specimen  of  great  power 
and  great  simplicity,  we  make  the  following  extracts 
from  his  poem  on  the  old  legend  of  the  Lady  Go- 
diva  : — 

She  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him  where  he  stood 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone.  * * 

• ♦ She  told  him  of  their  tears. 

And  prayed  him,  ‘ If  they  pay  this  tax,  they  starve.’ 
Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half-amazed, 

‘ You  would  not  let  your  little  finger  ache 

For  such  as  these  I'  ‘ But  I would  die,’  said  she. 

He  laughed,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by  Paul, 

Then  filliiiped  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear  : 

' Oh  ay,  oh  ay,  you  talk  !’  ‘ Alas  ! ’ she  .said. 

But  prove  me  what  it  is  1 would  not  do.’ 
tnd  from  a heart  as  rough  as  Esau’s  hand. 


He  answered,  ‘ Hide  you  naked  through  the  town, 
And  I repeal  it;’  and  nodding,  a.s  in  scorn. 

He  parted.  * * 

So,  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind — 

As  wind.s  from  all  the  compass  shift  and  blow— 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour. 

Till  pity  won.  She  sent  a herald  forth, 

.\nd  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  all 
The  hard  condition  ; but  that  she  would  loose 
The  i>eo])le.  Therefore,  as  they  loved  her  well. 

From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  the  street. 

No  eye  look  down,  she  passing ; but  that  all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  window  barred. 

Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 
Unclasped  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt, 

The  grim  earl’s  gift ; but  ever  at  a breath 
She  lingered,  looking  like  a summer  moon 
Half  di|)t  in  cloud  : anon  she  shook  her  head. 

And  showered  the  rijipled  ringlets  to  her  knee; 
Unclad  herself  in  ha.ste  ; adown  the  stair 
Stole  on  ; and,  like  a creeping  sunbeam,  slid 
Prom  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reached 
The  gateway  ; there  she  found  her  palfrey  trapped 
In  purple,  blazoned  with  armorial  gold. 

Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  o’er  with  chastity; 
The  deep  air  listened  round  her  as  she  rode. 

And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for  fear. 

The  little  wide-mouthed  heads  upon  the  spouts 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see:  the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame:  her  palfrey’s  footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  through  her  pulses : the  blind  wall* 
Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes  ; and  overhead 
Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared  : but  she 
Not  less  through  all  bore  up,  till  last  she  saw 
The  white-flowered  elder  thicket  from  the  field 
Gleam  through  the  Gothic  archways  in  the  wall. 

Then  she  rode  back  clothed  on  with  chastity ; 

And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless  earth. 

The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come. 

Boring  a little  auger  hole  in  fear. 

Peeped  ; but  his  eyes,  before  they  had  their  will. 
Were  .shrivelled  into  darkne.ss  in  his  head. 

And  dropped  before  him.  So  the  jiowers,  who  wait 
On  noble  deeds,  cancelled  a sense  misused  : 

■And  she  that  knew  not,  passed ; and  all  at  once. 
With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the  shameless  noon 
M'as  clashed  and  hammered  from  a hundred  towers 
One  after  one  ; but  even  then  she  gained 
Her  bower:  whence  reissuing,  robed  and  crowned. 

To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away. 

And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 

The  ballad  of  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  might 
also  be  cited  as  a spcL'imen  of  extreme  simplicity 
united  with  great  force;  but  we  prefer  making  an 
extract  from  a poem  less  known.  The  Talking 
Oah  is  the  title  of  a fanciful  and  beautiful  ballad  of 
seventy-five  stanzas,  in  which  a lover  and  an  oak- 
tree  converse  upon  the  charms  of  a sweet  maiden 
named  Olivia.  The  oak-tree  thus  describes  to  the 
lover  her  visit  to  the  park  in  which  it  grew ; — 

‘ Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt. 

And  livelier  than  the  lark. 

She  sent  her  voice  through  all  the  holt 
Before  her,  and  the  park. 

* * « 

And  here  she  came  and  round  me  played. 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 

Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 
About  my  “ giant  bole.” 

And  in  a fit  of  frolic  mirth. 

She  strove  to  span  my  waist ; 

Alas  1 I was  so  broad  of  girth, 

1 could  not  be  embraced. 

466 


ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


POETS.  1;XGL1S1I  LITERATURE. 


I wislifil  iiivM'lf  tlie  fair  vouiia  bccoh. 

That  ticrc  bt’siilc  me  stands. 

That  round  mo,  clasping  each  in  each, 
bhe  miglit  IniTe  locked  her  hands.’ 

* * • 

‘ Oh  muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern, 

And  shadow  Sumner  chase — 

Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner  place  1 

But  tell  me,  did  .she  read  the  name 
I carved  with  many  vows. 

When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I came 
To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs  ?’ 

‘ Oh  yes ; she  wandered  round  and  round 
These  knotted  knees  of  mine. 

And  found,  and  kissed  the  name  she  found, 

And  sweetly  murmured  thine. 

A tear-drop  trembled  from  its  source. 

And  down  my  surface  crept ; 

My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse, 

But  I believe  she  wept. 

Then  flushed  her  cheek  with  rosy  light ; 

She  glanced  across  the  plain  ; 

But  not  a creature  was  in  sight — • 

She  kissed  me  once  again. 

Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind. 

That,  tru.st  me,  on  my  word. 

Hard  wood  1 am,  and  wrinkled  rind. 

But  yet  my  sap  was  stirred. 

And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 
A pleasure  I discerned. 

Like  those  blind  motions  of  the  spring 
That  show  the  year  is  turned. 

• * • 

I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves. 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 
With  anthers  and  with  dust ; 

For  ah  ! the  Dryad  days  were  brief 
Whereof  the  poets  talk. 

When  that  which  breathes  within  the  leaf 
Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone. 

From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem, 

Have  sucked  and  gathered  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them. 

She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss  ; 

But  lightly  issuing  through, 

I would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss, 

With  usury  thereto.’ 

‘ Oh  flourish  high  with  leafy  towers, 

And  overlook  the  lea  ; 

Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers. 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

Oh  flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern  : 

Old  oak,  I love  thee  well ; 

A thousand  thanks  for  what  I learn. 

And  what  remains  to  tell.’ 

• * * 

The  poem  of  Saint  Simeon  Stylites  is  of  another 
character,  and  portrays  tlie  spiritual  pride  of  an 
ancient  fanatic  with  a simple  and  savage  grandeur 
of  words  and  imagery  which  is  rarely  surpassed.  It 
is  too  long  for  entire  quotation,  but  the  following 
extracts  will  show  its  beauty : — 

Although  1 be  the  basest  of  mankind. 

From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and  crust  of  sin  j 
Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven,  scarce  meet 
For  troops  of  devils  mad  with  blasphemy, 

I will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  I hold 
Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamour,  mourn,  and  sob, 


Battering  the  gates  of  hcaveti  with  storms  of  prayer — 
Have  mercy.  Lord,  ami  take  away  my  sin. 

Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty  God  ; 

This  not  be  all  in  vain  ; that  thrice  ten  years. 

Thrice  multiplied  by  superhuman  pangs 
In  hungers  and  in  thirsts,  fevers  and  cold  ; 

In  coughs,  aches,  stitches,  ulcerous  throes  and  cramps; 
A sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the  cloud. 

Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I have  borne 
Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and  sleet,  and 
snow ; 

And  I had  hoped  that  ere  this  period  closed. 

Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into  thy  rest, 

Denying  not  the.se  weather-beaten  limbs 

The  meed  of  saints — the  white  robe  and  the  palm. 

Oh ! take  the  meaning.  Lord  : I do  not  breathe. 
Not  whisper  any  murmur  of  complaint. 

Pain  heaped  ten  hundredfold  to  this  were  still 
Less  burden,  by  ten  hundredfold,  to  bear 
Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin  that  crushed 
My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

Oh  Lord,  Lord  I 

Thou  knowest  I bore  this  better  at  the  first; 

For  I was  strong  and  hale  of  body  then. 

And  though  my  teeth,  which  now  are  dropt  away. 
Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all  my  beard 
Was  tagged  with  icy  fringes  in  the  moon, 

I drowned  the  whoopings  of  the  owl  with  sound 
Of  pious  hymns  and  psalms,  and  sometimes  saw 
An  angel  stand  and  watch  me  as  I sang. 

* « « 

Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to  me. 

What  is  it  1 have  done  to  merit  this  1 
I am  a sinner  viler  than  you  all. 

It  may  be  I have  wrought  some  miracles. 

And  cured  some  halt  and  maimed;  but  what  of  that  I 
It  may  be  no  one,  even  among  the  saints, 

May  match  his  pains  with  mine;  but  what  of  that? 
Yet  do  not  rise;  for  you  may  look  -'ll  me. 

And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneet  to  God. 

Speak,  is  there  any  of  you  halt  or  maimed  1 
I think  you  know  I have  some  power  with  Heaven 
From  my  long  penance : let  him  speak  his  wish. 

For  I can  heal  him.  Power  goes  forth  from  me. 

They  say  that  they  are  healed.  Ah,  hark ! they  shout 
‘ Saint  Simeon  Stylites  !’  Why,  if  so, 

God  reaps  a harvest  in  me.  * * 

It  cannot  be  but  that  I shall  be  saved. 

Yea,  crowned  a saint.  They  shout  ‘ Behold  a samt !’ 
And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 

Courage,  Saint  Simeon;  this  dull  chrysalis 
Cracks  into  shining  wings.  • * 

Oh,  my  sons,  my  sons ! 

I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 

Stylites  among  men — I,  Simeon 

The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end — 

1,  Simeon,  whose  brain  the  sunshine  bakes — 

I,  whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours  become 
Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime — do  now. 

From  my  high  nest  of  penance,  here  proclaim 
That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 
Showed  fair  like  seraphs. 

• « * 

While  I spake  then,  a sting  of  shrewdest  pain 
Ran  shrivelling  through  me,  and  a cloud-like  chane 
In  passing,  with  a grosser  film  made  thick 
These  heavy,  horny  eyes.  The  end  ! the  end ! 

Surely  the  end  ! What’s  here  1 A shape,  a shade, 

A flash  of  light.  Is  that  the  angel  there 

That  holds  a crorvn  ? Come,  blessed  brother,  comet 

I know  thy  glittering  face.  I’ve  waited  long ! 

My  brows  are  ready  1 What ! deny  it  now  ? 

*Tis  gone — ’tis  here  again  : the  crown ! the  crown  1 
So,  now,  ’tis  fitted  on,  and  grows  to  me. 

And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise. 

* * • 

467 


FROM  1780  C'VCIX)J'iEI>I  A OF  xii  l the  presknt  ii«» 


Ppeiik,  if  there  be  a priest,  a man  of  God 
Amoii}'  you  there,  and  let  him  presently 
Approach,  and  lean  a ladder  on  the  shaft, 

And  climbing  up  into  mine  airy  home, 

^Deliver  nle  the  blessed  sacrament ; 

For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
1 propliesy  that  1 shall  die  to-night 
A (luarter  before  twelve. 

I’ut  thou,  oh  Lord, 

Aid  all  this  foolish  people;  let  them  take 
Example,  pattern — lead  them  to  Thy  light. 

I''ne  more  extract,  from  the  Lotos  Eaters,  will  give 
a specimen  of  our  poet’s  exquisite  modulations  of 
rhythm.  This  poem  represents  the  luxurious  lazy 
sleepiness  of  mind  and  body  supposed  to  be  produced 
in  tliose  who  feed  upon  the  lotos,  and  contains  pas- 
8.ages  not  surpassed  by  tlft  finest  descriptions  in  the 
Castle  of  Indolence.  It  is  rich  in  striking  and  appro- 
priate imagery,  and  is  sung  to  a rhythm  which  is 
music  itself : — 

Why  are  we  weighed  upon  with  heaviness. 

And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress. 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness  ? 

All  things  have  rest.  Why  should  we  toil  alone  1 
We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things. 

And  make  perpetual  moan. 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown. 

* ♦ * 

Lo  ! in  the  middle  of  the  wood 
The  folded  leaf  is  wooed  from  out  the  bud 
With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care. 
Sun-steeped  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed  ; and  turning  yellow 
Falls  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo  ! sweetened  with  the  summer  light. 

The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over  mellow. 

Drops  in  a silent  autumn  night. 

All  is  allotted  length  of  days; 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place. 

Ripens,  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil. 
Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 

« « • 

Let  us  alone.  Time  driveth  onward  fast. 

And  in  a little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Let  us  alone.  What  is  it  that  will  last? 

All  things  are  taken  from  us  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  past. 

Let  us  alone.  What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil  ? Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave? 

All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  towards  the  grave ; 

In  silence  ripen,  fall,  and  cease ; 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or  dreamful 
ease. 

How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream. 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a half-dream  1 
To  hear  each  other’s  whispered  speech ; 

Eating  the  lotos,  day  by  day ; 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach. 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray ; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  .spirits  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy  ; 

To  muse  and  brood,  and  live  again  in  memory 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy. 

Heaped  over  with  a mound  of  grass. 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  um  of  brass. 

* * * 

THOMAS  B.  MACAULAY. 

Mr  Thomas  B.  Macaulay,  who  held  an  important 
oflBce  in  the  administration  Lord  Melbourne,  and 
is  one  of  the  most  brilliant  wriicra  li;  the  Edinburgh 


Review,  gratified  and  furpriseJ  the  public  by  i 
volume  of  poetry  in  1842.  He  had  previously,  in 
his  young  collegiate  days,  thrown  off  a few  spirited 
ballads  (one  of  which.  The  War  of  the  Leayue,  is 
here  subjoined) ; and  in  all  his  prose  works  there 
are  indications  of  strong  poetical  feeling  and  fancy. 
No  man  paints  more  clearly  and  vividly  to  the  eye, 
or  is  more  studious  of  the  effects  of  contrast  and 
the  proper  grouping  of  incidents.  He  is  generally 
piSturesque,  eloquent,  and  impressive.  His  defects 
are  a want  of  simplicity  and  tenderness,  and  an 
excessive  love  of  what  Izaak  Walton  called  strong 
writing.  The  same  characteristics  pervade  his  re- 
cent work.  The  Lays  of  Ancient  Home.  Adoi>ting 
the  theory  of  Niebuhr  (now  generally  aciiniesced 
in  as  correct),  that  the  heroic  and  romantic  in- 
cidents related  by  Livy  of  the  early  history  of 
Rome,  are  founded  merely  on  ancient  ballads  and 
legends,  he  selects  four  of  these  incidents  as  themes 
for  his  verse.  Identifying  himself  with  the  ple- 
beians and  tribunes,  he  makes  them  chant  the 
martial  stories  of  Iloratius  Codes,  the  battle  of  the 
Lake  Regillus,  the  death  of  Virgini.a,  and  the  jno- 
phecy  of  Capys.  The  st_\le  is  homely,  abrupt,  and 
energetic,  carrying  us  along  like  the  exciting  narra- 
tives of  Scott,  and  presenting  brief  but  striking 
pictures  of  local  scenery  and  manners.  The  truth  of 
these  descriptions  is  strongly  impressed  upon  the 
mind  of  the  reailer,  who  seems  to  witness  the  heroic 
scenes  so  clearly  and  energetically  described.  The 
masterly  ballads  of  Mr  Macaulay  must  be  read  con- 
tinuously, to  be  properly  appreciated  ; for  their  merit 
does  not  lie  in  particular  passages,  but  in  the  rapid 
and  progressive  interest  of  the  story,  and  the  Homan 
spirit  and  bravery  which  animate  the  whole.  The 
following  are  parts  of  the  first  Lay  : — 

{The  Desolation  of  the  Cities  whose  Warriors  have 
inarched  against  Jtome.^ 

Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 
Drop  in  dark  Auser’s  rill ; 

Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 
Of  the  Cimiiiian  hill ; 

Beyond  all  streams,  Clitumnus 
Is  to  the  herdsman  dear; 

Best  of  all  pools  the  fowler  loves. 

The  great  Volsinian  mere. 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman 
Is  heard  by  Auser’s  rill ; 

No  hunter  tracks  the  stag’s  green  path 
LTp  the  Cimiiiian  hill ; 

Unwatched  along  Clitumnus 
Grazes  the  milk-white  steer; 

Unharmed  the  water-fowl  may  dip 
In  the  Volsinian  mere. 

The  harvests  of  Arretium, 

This  year  old  men  shall  reap ; 

This  year  young  boys  in  Umbro 
Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep  ; 

And  in  the  vats  of  Luna, 

This  year  the  must  shall  foam 

Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls. 

Whose  sires  have  marched  to  Rome. 

(Horatius  offers  to  defend  the  Bridge.) 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  captain  of  the  gate  : 

‘ To  every  man  upon  this  earth 
Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 

And  how  can  man  die  better 
Than  facing  fearful  odds. 

For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers. 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods, 

468 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  B.  MACAULAY. 


And  for  the  tender  mother 
\\  ho  dandled  him  to  rest. 

And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 
II is  baby  at  her  breast, 

And  for  the  holy  maidens 
Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 

To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 
That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  t 

Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may ; 

I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

\\’ill  hold  the  foe  in  play. 

In  yon  straight  path  a thousand 
May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 

Now,  who  will  stand  on  either  hand. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  mel’ 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius ; 

A Rainnian  proud  was  he  ; 

‘ Lo,  I will  stand  at  thy  right  hand. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.’ 

And  out  spake  strong  Herminius ; 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he ; 

‘ I will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.’ 

‘ Horatius,’  quoth  the  Consul, 

‘ As  thou  say’st,  so  let  it  be.’ 

And  straight  against  that  great  array 
Forth  went  the  dauntless  three. 

For  Romans  in  Rome’s  quarrei 
Spared  neither  land  nor  gold. 

Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life. 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Then  none  was  for  a party ; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state ; 

Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor. 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great; 

Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned ; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold  ; 

The  Romans  were  like  brothers 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 
More  hateful  than  a foe. 

And  the  tribunes  beard  the  high. 

And  the  fathers  grind  the  low. 

As  we  wax  hot  in  faction. 

In  battle  we  wax  cold  ; 

Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

iThe  Fate  of  the  first  Three  who  advance  against  the 
Heroes  of  Rome.] 

Aunus  from  green  Tifemum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines  ; 

And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 
Sicken  in  Ilva’s  mines  ; 

And  Picus,  long  to  Clusiura, 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war. 

Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  gray  crag  where,  girt  with  towers, 
The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 
O’er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Aunus 
Into  the  stream  beneath: 

Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teefh ; 

At  Picus  brave  Horatius 
Darted  one  fiery  thrust ; 

And  the  proud  Umbrian’s  gilded  aims 
Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 


Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three ; 

And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea ; 

And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

VV'ho  slew  the  great  wild  boar. 

The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa’s  fen. 

And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughtered  men. 
Along  Albinia’s  shore. 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns: 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low : 

Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 
Horatius  sent  a blow. 

‘ Lie  there,’  he  cried,  ‘ fell  pirate  1 
No  more,  aghast  and  pale. 

From  Ostia’s  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 

No  more  Campania’s  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 
Thy  thrice  accursed  sail.’ 

[Horatius,  wounded  by  Astur,  revenges  hunaellj 

He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 
He  leaned  one  breathing-space; 

Then,  like  a wild  cat  mad  with  wounds. 
Sprang  right  at  Astur’s  face. 

Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet. 

So  fierce  a thrust  he  sped. 

The  good  sword  stood  a handbreath  out 
Behind  the  Tuscan’s  head. 

And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 
Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke. 

As  falls  on  Mount  Alvemus 
A thunder-smitten  oak. 

Far  o’er  the  crashing  forest 
The  giant  arms  lie  spread ; 

And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

On  Astur’s  throat  Horatius 
Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel. 

And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain, 
Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 

‘ And  see,’  he  cried,  ‘ the  welcome. 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here  I 
What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 
To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ?’ 

[The  Bridge  falls,  and  Horatius  is  alone.y 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind  ; 

Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before. 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 

‘Down  with  him!’  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a smile  on  his  pale  face. 

‘Now  yield  thee,’  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

‘ Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace.’ 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 
Those  craven  ranks  to  see  ; 

Nought  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  nought  spake  he ; 

But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home ; 

And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 
That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Romp. 

‘ Oh,  Tiber,  Father  Tiber  I 
To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 

A Roman’s  life,  a Roman’s  arms. 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day!’ 

So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 
The  good  sword  by  his  side. 

And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back. 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

4b9 


fiioM  17U0 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PIIESEN.  T1M» 


No  souik]  of  joy  or  sorrow 
Was  heard  from  either  bank  ; 

Hut  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  suq>rise, 

With  jiarted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  ga/ing  where  he  sank  ; 

And  wheL  above  the  surges 
They  saw  Ids  crest  appear, 

All  Rome  sent  forth  a rapturous  cry. 

And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 
Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

[flow  Horatius  was  Rewarded.] 

They  gave  him  of  the  coni-land. 

That  was  of  public  right. 

As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night ; 

And  they  made*  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 

And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 
To  witness  if  I lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Coraitiura, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see; 

Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee: 

And  underneath  is  written. 

In  letters  all  of  gold. 

How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 
Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 

As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 
To  charge  the  Volscian  home: 

And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 
For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter. 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow. 

And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 
Is  heard  amidst  the  snow ; 

When  round  the  lonely  cottage 
Roars  loud  the  tempest’s  din. 

And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 
Roar  louder  yet  within ; 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened. 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit. 

When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers. 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 

When  young  and  old  in  circle 
Around  the  firebrands  close  ; 

When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets. 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows ; 

AVhen  the  goodman  mends  his  armour. 

And  trims  his  helmet’s  plume  ; 

When  the  goodwife’s  shuttle  merrily 
Goes  flashing  through  the  loom  ; 

With  weeping  and  with  laughter 
Still  is  the  story  told, 

How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Tlte  JVar  of  the  League. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories 
are ! 

And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege.  King  Henry  of 
N avarre ! 

Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of 
dance. 

Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  oh 
pleasant  land  of  France  ! 


And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  ovra  Rochelle,  jiroud  citj  of 
the  waters, 

Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning 
daughters. 

As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy. 

For  cold,  and  stiff,  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy 
walls  annoy. 

Hurrah ! hurrah  1 a single  field  hath  turned  the  chance 
of  war. 

Hurrah  ! hurrah ! for  Ivry,  and  King  Henry  of  Na- 
varre. 

Oh ! how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn 
of  day. 

We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long 
array ; 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 

And  Appenzel’s  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont’s  Flemish 
spears. 

There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of 
our  land ! 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a truncheon  in 
his  hand  ; 

And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine’s 
empurpled  flood. 

And  good  Coligni’s  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his 
blood ; 

And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate 
of  war. 

To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armour  drest ; 

And  he  has  bound  a snow-white  plume  upon  his 
gallant  crest. 

He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a tear  was  in  his  eye ; 

He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern 
and  high. 

Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing 
to  wing, 

Do\vn  all  our  line,  a deafening  shout,  ‘ God  save  our 
lord  the  King.’ 

‘ And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he 
may — 

For  never  saw  I promise  yet  of  such  a bloody  fray — 

Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine,  amidst  the 
ranks  of  war. 

And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day,  the  helmet  of  Navarre.’ 

Hurrah  ! the  foes  are  moving ! Hark  to  the  mingled 
din 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring 
culverin ! 

The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre’s 
plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Al- 
mayne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of 
France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now — upon  them  with  the 
lance  1 

A thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a thousand  spears 
in  rest, 

A thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the 
snow-white  crest ; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a 
guiding  star. 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of 
Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours!  Mayenne  hath 
turned  his  rein. 

D’Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter.  The  Flemish  Count 
is  slain. 

Their  ranks  are  brealdng  like  thin  clouds  before  a 
Biscay  gale  ; 

The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags, 
and  cloven  mail. 


470 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


RARTI.ET  COLERIDOe. 


And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and  all  along  our 
van, 

‘ Remember  St  Bartholomew,’  was  passed  from  man  to 
man  ; 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry, ‘No  Frenchman  is  my 
foe : 

Down,  do\vn  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your 
brethren  go.’ 

Oh ! was  there  ever  such  a knight,  in  friendship  or  in 
war. 

As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of 
Navarre ! 

Ho!  maidens  of  Vienna ! Ho!  matrons  of  Lucerne ! 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never 
shall  return. 

Ho!  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles. 
That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a mass  for  thy  poor 
spearmen’s  souls ! 

Ho!  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your 
arms  be  bright ! 

Ho!  burghers  of  Saint  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and 
wanl  to  night ! 

For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath 
raised  the  slave. 

And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valour 
of  the  brave. 

Then  glory  t<  his  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are ; 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  .’Td,  King  Henry  of  Na- 
var-*". 

THOMAS  HAYNES  BATLT. 

Mr  Bayly  was,  next  to  Moore,  the  most  success- 
ful song-writer  of  our  age.  His  most  attractive 
lyrics  turned  on  the  distresses  of  the  victims  of  the 
affections  in  elegant  life ; but  his  muse  had  also  her 
airy  and  cheerful  strain,  and  he  composed  a sur- 
prising number  of  light  dramas,  some  of  which  show 
a likelihood  of  maintaining  their  ground  on  the 
stage.  He  was  born  in  1797,  the  son  of  an  eminent 
and  wealthy  solicitor,  near  Bath.  Destined  for  the 
church,  he  studied  for  some  f’me  at  Oxford,  but 
could  not  settle  to  so  sober  a profession,  and  ulti- 
mately came  to  depend  chiefly  on  literature  for 
support.  His  latter  years  were  marked  by  misfor- 
tunes, under  the  pressure  of  which  he  addressed 
tome  beautiful  verses  to  his  wife : — 

Oh  1 hadst  thou  never  shared  my  fate, 

More  dark  that  fate  would  prove. 

My  heart  were  truly  desolate 
Without  thy  soothing  love. 

But  thou  hast  suffered  for  my  sake. 

Whilst  this  relief  I found. 

Like  fearless  lips  that  strive  to  take 
The  poison  from  a wound. 

My  fond  affection  thou  hast  seen. 

Then  judge  of  my  regret. 

To  think  more  happy  thou  hadst  been 
If  we  had  never  met  ! 

And  has  that  thought  been  shared  by  thee  ! 

Ah,  no  ! that  smiling  cheek 
Proves  more  unchanging  love  for  me 
Than  laboured  words  could  speak. 

But  there  are  true  hearts  which  the  sight 
Of  sorrow  summons  forth  ; 

Though  known  in  days  of  past  delight, 

We  knew  not  half  their  worth. 

How  unlike  some  who  have  professed 
So  much  in  friendship’s  name. 

Yet  calmly  pause  to  think  how  best 
They  may  evade  her  claim. 


But  ah!  from  them  to  thee  I turn. 

They’d  make  me  loathe  mankind. 

Far  better  lessons  I may  learn 
From  thy  more  holy  mind. 

The  love  that  gives  a charm  to  home, 

I feel  they  cannot  take : 

We’ll  pray  for  happier  years  to  come. 

For  one  another’s  sake. 

This  anii.able  poet  died  of  jaundice  in  1839.  flis 
songs  contain  the  pathos  of  a section  of  our  social 
system ; but  they  are  more  calculated  to  attract 
attention  by  their  refined  and  happy  diction,  than  to 
melt  us  by  their  feeling.  Several  of  them,  as  ‘ She 
wore  a wreath  of  roses,’  ‘ Oh  no,  we  never  mention 
her,’  and  ‘We  met — ’twas  in  a crowd,’  attained  to 
an  extraordinary  popularity.  Of  his  livelier  ditties, 
‘I’d  be  a butterfly’  was  the  most  felicitous:  it  e.x* 
presses  the  Horatian  philosophy  in  terms  exceeding 
even  Horace  in  gaiety. 

What  though  you  tell  me  each  gay  little  rover 
Shrinks  from  the  breath  of  the  first  autumn  day : 
Surely  ’tis  better,  when  summer  is  over. 

To  die  when  all  fair  things  are  fading  away. 

Some  in  life’s  winter  may  toil  to  discover 
Means  of  procuring  a weary  delay — 

I’d  be  a butterfly,  living  a rover. 

Dying  when  fair  things  are  fading  away! 

The  same  light-heartedness  is  expressed  in  a less 
familiarly  known  lyric. 

Thiiik  not  of  the  Future. 

Think  not  of  the  future,  the  prospect  is  uncertain  ; 
Laugh  away  the  present,  while  laughing  hours 
remain ; 

Those  who  gaze  too  boldly  through  Time’s  mj'stic 
curtain. 

Soon  will  wish  to  close  it,  and  dream  of  joy  again. 
I,  like  thee,  was  happy,  and,  on  hope  relying. 

Thought  the  present  pleasure  might  revive  again : 
But  receive  my  counsel — Time  is  always  flying ; 

Then  laugh  away  the  present,  while  laughing  hours 
remain. 

I have  felt  unkindness,  keen  as  that  which  hurts  thee ; 

I have  met  with  friendship,  fickle  as  the  wind  ; 
Take  what  friendship  offers,  ere  its  warmth  deserts 
thee ; 

Well  I know  the  kindest  may  not  long  be  kind. 
Would  you  waste  the  pleasure  of  the  summer-season. 
Thinking  that  the  winter  must  return  again  ? 

If  our  summer’s  fleeting,  surely  that’s  a reason 
For  laughing  off  the  present,  while  laughing  hours 
remain. 

HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 

Hartley  Coleridge,  son  of  the  great  poet,  pub- 
lished in  1833  a volume  of  Poems,  not  unworthy  hia 
high  descent.  There  are  few  sonnets  in  the  lan- 
guage more  exquisite  in  thought  or  structure  than 
the  following : — 

What  was’t  awakened  first  the  untried  ear 
Of  that  sole  man  who  was  all  humankind? 

Was  it  the  gladsome  welcome  of  the  wind. 

Stirring  the  leaves  that  never  yet  were  sere? 

The  four  mellifluous  streams  which  flowed  so  near. 
Their  lulling  murmurs  all  in  one  combined  ? 

The  note  of  bird  unnamed  1 The  startled  hind 
Bursting  the  brake — in  wonder,  not  in  fear. 

Of  her  new  lord  ? Or  did  the  holy  ground 
Send  forth  mysterious  melody  to  greet 
The  gracious  presence  of  immaculate  feet  ? 

Did  viewless  seraphs  rustle  all  around. 

Making  sweet  music  out  of  air  as  sweet  ? 

I Or  his  own  voice  awake  him  with  its  sound  ? 

471 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  pricsent  time. 


Sonnet  on  Shahxpcure. 

TliP  floul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky, 

I)eei>or  than  ocean — or  the  abysmal  ilark 
Of  the  unfathomed  centre,  hike  that  ark, 

VV'hich  in  its  sacred  hold  uplifted  liigh, 

O’er  tlie  drowned  liills,  the  human  family, 

And  stock  reserved  of  every  living  kind, 

So,  in  the  compass  of  tlie  single  mind. 

The  seeds  and  pregnant  forms  in  essence  lie. 

That  make  all  worlds.  Orc.at  poet,  ’twas  thy  art 
To  know  thyself,  and  in  thyself  to  be 
Whate’er  hove.  Hate,  Ambition,  Destiny, 

Or  the  firm  fatal  purpose  of  the  heart 

Can  make  of  man.  Yet  thou  wert  still  the  same, 

Serene  of  thought,  unhurt  by  thy  own  flame. 

Sonnets  to  a Friend. 

When  we  were  idlers  with  the  loitering  rills. 

The  need  of  human  love  we  little  noted  : 

Our  love  was  nature  ; and  the  peace  that  floated 
On  the  white  mist,  and  dwelt  upon  the  hills. 

To  sweet  accord  sub.lued  our  wayward  wills: 

One  soul  was  ours,  one  mind,  one  heart  devoted. 
That,  wisely  doting,  asked  not  why  it  doted. 

And  ours  the  unknown  joy,  which  knowing  kills. 
But  now  1 find  how  dear  thou  wert  to  me ; 

That  man  is  more  than  half  of  nature’s  treasure. 

Of  that  fair  beauty  which  no  eye  can  .see. 

Of  that  sweet  music  which  no  ear  can  measure; 
And  now  the  streams  may  sing  for  other’s  pleasure. 
The  hills  sleep  on  in  their  eternity. 


In  the  great  city  we  are  met  again. 

Where  many  souls  there  are  that  breathe  and  die, 
Scarce  knowing  more  of  nature’s  potency 
Than  what  they  learn  from  heat,  or  cold,  or  rain — ■ 
The  sad  viei.ssitude  of  weary  pain  : 

For  busy  man  is  lord  of  ear  and  eye. 

And  what  hath  Nature  but  the  vast  void  .sky. 

And  the  thronged  river  toiling  to  the  main? 

Ohl  say  not  .so,  for  .she  shall  have  her  part 
In  every  smile,  in  every  tear  that  falls. 

And  she  shall  hide  her  in  the  secret  heart. 

Where  love  persuades,  and  sterner  duty  calls; 

But  worse  it  were  than  death,  or  sorrow’s  smart. 

To  live  without  a friend  within  these  walls. 


We  parted  on  the  mountains,  as  tw'o  stream,s 
From  one  clear  spring  pursue  their  several  rvays ; 

And  thy  fleet  course  hath  been  through  many  a maze 
In  foreign  lands,  where  silvery  Padus  gleams 
To  that  delicious  sky,  whose  glowing  beams 
Brightened  the  tresses  that  old  poets  praise ; 

Where  Petrarch’s  patient  love  and  artful  lays. 

And  Ariosto’s  song  of  many  themes. 

Moved  the  soft  air.  But  1,  a lazy  brook. 

As  clo.se  pent  up  within  my  native  ilell. 

Have  crept  along  from  nook  to  shady  nook. 

Where  flowrets  blow  and  whispering  Naiads  dwell. 
Yet  now  we  meet,  that  parted  were  so  wide. 

O’er  rough  and  smooth  to  travel  side  by  side. 

To  Certain  Golden  Pishes. 

Restless  forms  of  living  light. 

Quivering  on  your  lucid  wings. 

Cheating  still  the  curious  sight 
With  a thousand  shadowings ; 

Various  as  the  tints  of  even. 

Gorgeous  as  the  hues  of  heaven. 

Reflected  on  your  native  streams 
In  flitting,  flashing,  billowy  gleams. 

Harmle.ss  ivan-ior.s  chnl  in  mail 
l>f  silver  brea.stplate,  golden  scale; 


Mail  of  Nature’s  own  bestowing. 

With  peaceful  radiance  mildly  glowing; 

Keener  than  the  Tartar’s  arrow. 

Sport  ye  in  your  sea  so  narrow. 

Was  the  sun  himself  your  sire? 

Were  ye  born  of  vital  fire? 

Or  of  the  shade  of  golden  flowers. 

Such  as  we  fetch  from  eastern  bowers, 

To  mock  this  murky  clime  of  ours? 

Upwanls,  downwards,  now  ye  glance. 

Weaving  many  a mazy  ilance; 

Seeming  still  to  grow  in  size. 

When  ye  would  elude  our  eyes. 

Pretty  creatures!  we  might  deem 
Ye  were  happy  as  ye  seem. 

As  gay,  as  gamesome,  and  as  blithe, 

As  light,  as  loving,  and  as  lithe, 

As  gladly  earnest  in  your  ])lay. 

As  when  ye  gleamed  in  fair  Cathay; 

And  yet,  since  on  this  hapless  earth 
There’s  small  sincerity  in  mirth, 

And  laughter  oft  is  but  an  art 
To  drown  the  outcry  of  the  heart. 

It  may  be,  that  your  cca.seless  gambols. 

Your  wheelings,  dartings,  divings,  ramble*. 

Your  restless  roving  round  and  round 
The  circuit  of  your  crystal  bound. 

Is  but  the  task  of  weary  pain. 

An  endless  labour,  dull  and  vain  ; 

And  while  your  forms  are  gaily  shining. 

Your  little  lives  are  inly  pining! 

Nay — but  still  1 fain  w’ould  dream 
That  ye  are  happy  as  ye  seem. 

At  the  present  time  the  greater  poets  of  the  age 
have  passed  either  beyond  the  bourne  of  life,  or  into 
the  honoured  leisure  befitting  an  advanced  period 
of  life.  For  twenty  years,  there  have  arisen  no 
lights  of  such  fresh  and  original  lustre  as  Southey, 
Scott,  Wordsworth,  Campbell,  and  Byron;  nor  do 
we  readily  detect  in  those  which  exist  any  aspirant 
likely  to  take  the  high  ground  occupied  by  these 
names.  This  is  a phenomenon  in  literary  history 
by  no  means  unexampled : for,  after  the  age  of 
Pope  and  his  as.sociates,  there  likewise  followed  one 
in  which  no  stars  of  primary  magnitude  apiieared. 
It  must,  however,  be  admitteil,  that  the  present  time, 
if  not  marked  by  any  greatly  original  poet  in  the 
bloom  of  his  reputation,  is  remarkable  for  the  wide 
diffusion  of  a taste  for  elegant  verse-writing;  inso- 
much that  the  most  ordinary  periodical  works  now 
daily  present  poetry  which,  fifty  years  ago,  would 
have  formed  tlie  basis  of  a high  reputation.  It  is 
only  unfortunate  of  these  compositions,  that  they 
are  so  uniform  in  their  style  of  sentiment,  and  even 
in  their  diction,  that  a long  series  of  them  may  be 
read  with  scarcely  any  impression  at  the  end  tieyond 
that  of  an  abundance  of  pleasing  images  and 
thoughts,  and  fine  phraseology. 

It  has  been  thought  proiier  here  to  advert,  in 
brief  terms,  to  some  of  the  younger  of  our  living 
poets,  in  combination  with  those  whom  worldly 
duties  and  the  little  encouragement  given  to  the 
publication  of  poetry,  may  be  supposed  to  have  pre- 
vented from  cultivating  their  ]iowers  to  a high  de- 
gree. Amongst  the  former  may  be  cited  John 
Sterling,  author  of  a volume  of  mi-icellaneous 
Iioems,  published  in  1839;  VV.  Monckton  Mii.nes, 
M.P.,  who  has  given  two  small  volumes  of  poems 
to  the  world  ; and  Charles  Mackay,  author  of  The 
Hope  of  the  World  t,1840),  and  The  ISiiluniaiidrine 
(1842).  Mr  Sterling  has  formed  himself  more 
peculiarly  on  the  genius  and  style  of  Coleridge; 
Mr  Milnes  on  that  of  Wordsworth  ; and  Mr  Mackay 
belongs  to  the  school  of  Pope  and  G.ildsmith.  All 
are  men  of  undoubted  talents,  from  w horn  our  poeti- 

472 


poKTs.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  w.  m.  milnes. 

rnl  liternture  may  yet  look  for  rich  and  varied  con- 
tributions. In  tiiis  class  may  also  be  included  Ma 
1).  M.  Moia  (the  Delta  of  Blackwood’s  Magazine), 
author  of  the  Legend  of  Genevieve  and  other  Poems, 
18‘2.5,  and  Domestic  Verses,  1843,  besides  a vast  num- 
ber of  con tril)u lions  to  the  periodical  literature  of 
the  day.  Mr  Moir  is  a poet  of  amiable  and  refined 
feeling,  who  has  only  been  prevented  by  causes 
which  redound  to  his  honour,  from  taking  that  more 
conspicuous  place  in  our  literature  to  which  his 
talents  are  entitled. 

Of  the  other  class,  the  most  noted  are,  Mr  N.  T. 
Carrington,  Major  Calmer  Campbell,  Mr  Ala- 
Kic  A.  M'atts.  Mr  William  Kennedy,  Mu  Thomas 
Aird,  Mr  Charles  Swain,  and  Mr  T.  K.  Hkrvky. 
The  late  Mr  .John  Malcolm  may  be  added  to  this 
series.  From  a scarcely  less  e.\teiisive  list  of  female 
poetesses,  may  be  selected  the  names  of  Eliza  Cook, 
Lady  Emmeline  Woktley,  Mrs  Henry  Coleridge, 
aud  Mrs  Brooke. 

Joan  of  A re. 

[From  Sterling's  I’oems.] 

Faithful  maiden,  gentle  heart ! 

Thus  our  thoughts  of  grief  depart ; 

Vanishes  the  place  of  death  ; 

Sounds  no  more  thy  painful  breath; 

O’er  the  unbloody  stream  of  Meuse 
Melt  the  silent  evening  dews. 

And  along  the  banks  of  Loire 
Rides  no  more  the  armed  destroyer. 

But  thy  native  waters  fiow 
Through  a land  unnamed  below, 

And  thy  woods  their  verdure  wave 
In  the  vale  beyond  the  grave. 

Where  the  deep-dyed  western  sky 
Looks  on  all  with  tranquil  eye. 

And  on  distant  dateless  hills 
Each  high  peak  with  radiance  fills. 

There  amid  the  oak-tree  .shadow. 

And  o’er  all  the  beech-crowned  meadow. 

Those  for  whom  the  earth  must  mourn. 

In  their  peaceful  joy  sojourn. 

Joined  with  I'’ame’s  selected  few. 

Those  whom  Rumour  never  knew. 

But  no  less  to  Comscience  true: 

Each  grave  prophet  soul  sublime, 

Pyramids  of  eliler  Time  ; 

Bards  with  hidden  fire  possessed. 

Flashing  from  a wo-worn  breast ; 

Builders  of  man’s  better  lot. 

Whom  their  hour  acknowledged  not. 

Now  with  strength  appeased  and  pure. 

Feel  whate’er  they  loved  is  sure. 

These  and  such  as  these  the  train. 

Sanctified  by  former  pain, 

’Mid  those  softest  yellow  rays 
Sphered  afar  from  mortal  praise  ; 

Peasant,  matron,  monarch,  child. 

Saint  undaunted,  hero  mild. 

Sage  whom  pride  has  ne’er  beguiled : 

And  with  them  the  Chain])ion-maid 
Dwells  in  that  serenest  glade  ; 

Danger,  toil,  and  grief  no  more 
Touch  her  life’s  unearthly  shore  ; 

Gentle  sounds  that  will  not  cease, 

Breathe  but  peace,  and  ever  peace; 

hile  above  the  immortal  trees 
hlichael  and  his  host  she  sees 
Clad  in  diamond  panoplies; 

And  more  near,  in  tenderer  light. 

Honoured  Catherine,  Margaret  bright, 

Agnes,  whom  her  loosened  hair 
Robes  like  woven  amber  air — 

Sisters  of  her  childhood  come 
To  her  last  eternal  home. 

The  Mai  of  Old, 

[From  Milncs's  Poems.] 

I know  not  that  the  men  of  old 
Were  better  than  men  now. 

Of  heart  more  kind,  of  hand  more  bold. 

Of  more  ingenuous  brow : 

I heed  not  those  who  jiine  for  forC4 
A ghost  of  time  to  raise. 

As  if  they  thus  could  check  the  course 
Of  these  appointed  days. 

Still  is  it  true,  and  over  true. 

That  1 delight  to  close 
This  book  of  life  self-wise  and  new. 

And  let  my  thoughts  repose 
On  all  that  humble  happiness 
The  world  has  since  foregone — 

The  d.aylight  of  contentedness 
That  on  those  faces  shone  1 

With  rights,  though  not  too  closely  9Cans«d, 
Enjoyed,  as  far  as  known — 

With  will,  by  no  reverse  unmanned — ■ 

With  pulse  of  even  tone — 

They  from  to-day  and  from  to-night 
Expected  nothing  more. 

Than  yesterday  and  yesternight 
Had  proffered  them  before. 

To  them  was  life  a simple  art 
Of  duties  to  be  done, 

A game  where  each  nun  took  his  part, 

A race  where  all  must  run  ; 

A battle  whose  great  .scheme  and  scope 
They  little  cared  to  know. 

Content,  as  men  at  arms,  to  cope 
Each  with  his  fronting  foe. 

Man  now  his  virtue’s  diadem 
Puts  on,  and  proudly  wears — 

Great  thoughts,  great  feelings,  came  to  them. 
Like  instincts  unawares : 

Blending  their  souls’  sublimest  needs 
With  tasks  of  every  day. 

They  went  about  their  gravest  deeds. 

As  noble  boys  at  play. 

* * ^ * 

A man’s  best  things  are  nearest  him. 

Lie  close  about  his  feet. 

It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 
That  we  are  sick  to  greet : 

. For  flowers  that  grow  our  hands  beneath 
We  struggle  and  aspire — 

Our  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 
The  air  of  fresh  desire. 

But,  brothers,  who  up  reason’s  hill 
Advance  with  hopeful  cheer — 

0 1 loiter  not,  those  heights  are  chill. 

As  chill  as  they  are  clear ; 

And  still  restrain  your  haughty  gaze. 

The  loftier  that  ye  go. 

Remembering  distance  leaves  a haze 
On  all  that  lies  below. 

The  Long-ago. 

[From  the  same.] 

On  that  deej)-retiring  shore 
Frequent  pearls  of  beauty  lie. 

Where  the  passion-waves  of  yore 
Fiercely  beat  and  mounted  high: 

Sorrows  that  are  sorrows  still 
Lose  the  bitter  taste  of  wo ; 

Nothing’s  altogether  ill 
In  the  griefs  of  Long-ago. 

473 

FROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  present  tim*. 

Tombs  where  lonely  love  repines, 

Ghastly  tenements  of  tears, 

Wear  the  look  of  happy  shrines 
Through  the  golden  mist  of  years  : 

Death,  to  those  who  trust  in  good. 

Vindicates  his  hardest  blow; 

Oh  1 we  would  not,  if  we  could. 

Wake  the  sleep  of  Long-ago  1 
Though  the  doom  of  swift  decay 
Shocks  the  soul  where  life  is  strong, 

Though  for  frailer  hearts  the  day 
Lingers  sad  and  overlong — 

Still  the  weight  will  find  a leaven. 

Still  the  spoiler’s  hand  is  slow. 

While  the  future  has  ics  heaven. 

And  the  past  its  Long-ago. 

The^Autumn  Leaf. 

[From  the  ‘ Hope  of  the  World,  and  other  Poems,’  by 
Charles  Mackay.] 

Pauvre  feuillc  dessechde!  oil  vas-tu? — Arnault, 
Poor  autumn  leaf  ! down  floating 
Upon  the  blustering  gale  ; 

Torn  from  thy  bough. 

Where  goest  now. 

Withered,  and  shrunk,  and  pale? 

‘ I go,  thou  sad  inquirer. 

As  list  the  winds  to  blow. 

Sear,  sapless,  lost. 

And  tempest-tost, 

I go  where  all  things  go. 

The  rude  winds  bear  me  onward 
As  suiteth  tbem,  not  me. 

O’er  dale,  o’er  hill. 

Through  good,  through  ill. 

As  destiny  bears  thee. 

Wh.at  though  for  me  one  summer. 

And  threescore  for  thy  breath — 

I live  my  spian. 

Thou  thine,  poor  man  ! 

And  then  adown  to  death? 

And  thus  we  go  together  ; 

For  lofty  as  thy  lot. 

And  lowly  mine. 

My  fate  is  thine. 

To  die  and  be  forgot  1’ 

[T/ic  Parting  of  Lovers.'] 

[From  ‘ The  Salamandrine,’  by  Charles  Mackay.] 
Now,  from  his  eastern  couch,  the  sun, 
Erewhilc  in  cloud  and  vapour  hidden. 
Rose  in  his  robes  of  glory  dight ; 

And  skywards,  to  salute  his  light, 

Upsprang  a choir,  unbidden. 

Of  joyous  larks,  that,  as  they  shook 

The  dewdrops  from  their  russet  pinions. 
Pealed  forth  a hymn  so  glad  and  clear. 

That  darkness  might  have  paused  to  hear 
(Pale  sentinel  on  mom’s  dominions). 

And  envied  her  the  flood  of  song 
Those  happy  minstrels  poured  along. 

The  lovers  listened.  Earth  and  heaven 
Seemed  pleased  alike  to  hear  the  strain  ; 
And  Gilbert,  in  that  genial  hour. 

Forgot  his  momentary  pain  : 

‘ Happy,’  said  he,  ‘ beloved  maid. 

Our  lives  might  flow  ’mid  scenes  like  this; 
Still  eve  might  bring  us  dreams  of  joy. 

And  morn  awaken  us  to  bliss. 

I could  forgive  thy  jealous  brother; 

And  Mora’s  quiet  shades  might  be 
Ble.s.sed  with  the  love  of  one  another, 

A Paradise  to  thee  and  me. 

Yes,  Peace  and  Love  might  build  a nest 
For  us  amid  these  vales  serene. 

And  Truth  should  be  our  constant  gue.st 
Among  these  pleasant  wild-woods  green. 

My  heart  should  never  nurse  again 

The  once  fond  dreams  of  young  Ambition, 

And  Glory’s  light  should  lure  in  vain. 

Lest  it  should  lead  to  Love’s  perdition ; 
Another  light  should  round  me  shine. 

Beloved,  from  those  eyes  of  thine  1’ 

‘ Ah,  Gilbert ! happy  should  I be 
This  hour  to  die,  lest  fate  reveal 
That  life  can  never  give  a joy 
Such  as  the  joy  that  now  1 feel. 

Oh  ! happy  ! happy ! now  to  die. 

And  go  before  thee  to  the  sky ; 

Losing,  maybe,  some  charm  of  life, 

But  yet  escaping  all  its  strife  ; 

And,  watching  for  thy  soul  above, 

There  to  renew  more  perfect  love. 

Without  the  pain  and  tears  of  this — 

Eternal,  never  palling  bliss!’ 

And  more  she  yet  would  .say,  and  strives  to  speak, 
But  warm,  fast  tears  begin  to  course  her  cheek. 
And  sobs  to  choke  her ; so,  reclining  still 
Her  head  upon  his  breast,  she  weeps  her  fill : 

And  all  so  lovely  in  tho.se  joyous  tears 
To  his  impassioned  eyes  the  maid  appears ; 

He  cannot  dry  them,  nor  one  word  essay 
To  soothe  such  sorrow  from  her  heart  away. 

At  last  she  lifts  her  drooping  head. 

And,  with  her  delicate  fingers,  dashes 
The  tears  away  that  hang  like  pearls 
Upon  her  soft  eyes’  silken  lashes  : 

Then  hand  in  hand  they  take  their  way 
O’er  the  green  meadows  gemmed  with  dew. 
And  up  the  hill,  and  through  the  wood. 

And  by  the  streamlet,  bright  and  blue. 

And  sit  them  down  upon  a stone 
With  mantling  mosses  overgrown. 

That  stands  beside  her  cottage  door. 

And  oft  repeat. 

When  ne.xt  they  meet. 

That  time  shall  never  part  them  more. 

He’s  gone  I Ah  no!  he  lingers  yet. 

And  all  her  sorrow,  who  can  tell  ? 

As  gazing  on  her  face  he  takes 
His  last  and  passionate  farewell? 

‘ One  kiss  !’  said  he,  ‘ and  1 depart 
With  thy  dear  image  in  my  heart : 

One  more — to  soothe  a lover’s  pain. 

And  think  of  till  1 come  again  ! 

One  more.’  Their  red  lips  meet  and  tremble. 
And  she,  unskilful  to  dissemble. 

Allows,  deep  blu.shing,  while  he  presses. 

The  warmest  of  his  fond  caresses. 

The  Pixies  of  Devon. 

[By  N.  T.  Carrington.] 

[The  age  of  pixies,  like  that  of  chivalry,  is  gc/ie.  There  is, 
perhaps,  at  present,  scarcely  a house  which  they  are  reputed 
to  visit.  Even  the  fields  and  lanes  which  they  formerly  fre- 
quented seem  to  be  nearly  forsaken.  Their  music  is  rarely 
heard  ; and  they  appear  to  have  forgotten  to  attend  their 
ancient  midnight  dance. — Drew’s  Cornwall.'] 

They  are  flown. 

Beautiful  fictions  of  our  fathers,  wove 
In  Superstition’s  web  when  Time  was  young. 

And  fondly  loved  and  cherished : they  are  flown 
Before  the  wand  of  Science  ! Hills  and  vales. 
Mountains  and  moors  of  Devon,  ye  have  lost 
The  enchantments,  the  delights,  the  visions  all. 

The  elfin  visions  that  so  ble.ssed  the  sight 
In  the  old  days  romantic.  Nought  is  heard, 

474 

POETS.  ENGLISH  LITEKATURE.  d.  m.  Moin, 

Now,  in  the  leafy  world,  but  earthly  strains — 

Voices,  yet  sweet,  of  breeze,  and  bird,  and  brook, 

And  waterfall ; the  day  is  silent  else. 

And  night  is  stnvngely  mute!  the  hyninings  high — 
The  immortal  music,  men  of  ancient  times 
Heard  ravished  oft,  are  flown  1 0 ye  have  lost. 

Mountains,  and  moors,  and  meads,  the  radiant  throngs 
That  dwelt  in  your  green  solitudes,  and  filled 
The  air,  the  fields,  with  beauty  and  with  joy 
Intense;  with  a rich  mystery  that  awed 
The  mind,  and  flung  around  a thousand  hearths 
Divinest  tales,  that  through  the  enchanted  year 
Found  passionate  listeners  I 

The  very  streams 

Brightened  with  visitings  of  these  so  sweet 
Ethereal  creatures ! They  were  seen  to  rise 
From  the  charmed  waters,  which  sti>'  brighter  grew 
As  the  pomp  passed  to  land,  until  me  eye 
Scarce  bore  the  unearthly  glory.  Where  they  trod. 
Young  flowers,  but  not  of  this  world’s  growth,  arose, 
And  fragrance,  as  of  amaranthine  bowers. 

Floated  upon  the  breeze.  And  mortal  eyes 
Li  oked  on  their  revels  all  the  luscious  night ; 

And,  unreproved,  upon  their  ravishing  forms 
Gazed  wistfully,  as  in  the  dance  they  moved, 
Voluptuous  to  the  thrilling  touch  of  harp 
Elysian ! 

And  by  gifted  eyes  were  seen 
Wonders — in  the  still  air ; and  beings  bright 
And  beautiful,  more  beautiful  than  throng 
Fancy’s  ecstatic  regions,  peopled  now 
The  sunbeam,  and  now  rode  upon  the  gale 
Of  the  sweet  summer  noon.  Anon  they  touched 
The  earth’s  delighted  bosom,  and  the  glades 
Seemed  greener,  fairer-  -and  the  enraptured  woods 
Gave  a glad  leafy  murmur — and  the  rills 
Leaped  in  the  ray  for  joy  ; and  all  the  birds 
Threw  into  the  intoxicating  air  their  songs. 

All  soul.  The  very  archings  of  the  grove. 

Clad  in  cathedral  gloom  from  age  to  age. 

Lightened  with  living  splendours  ; and  the  flowers. 
Tinged  with  new  hues  and  lovelier,  upsprung 
By  millions  in  the  grass,  that  rustled  now 
To  gales  of  Araby  I 

The  seasons  came 

In  bloom  or  blight,  in  glory  or  in  shade ; 

The  shower  or  sunbeam  fell  or  glanced  as  pleased 
These  potent  elves.  They  steered  the  giant  cloud 
Through  heaven  at  will,  and  with  the  meteor  flash 
Came  down  in  death  or  sport ; ay,  when  the  storm 
Shook  the  old  woods,  they  rode,  on  rainbow  wings. 
The  tempest ; and,  anon,  they  reined  its  rage 
In  its  fierce  mid  career.  But  ye  have  flown. 
Beautiful  fictions  of  our  fathers  ! — flown 
Before  the  wand  of  Science,  and  the  hearths 
Of  Devon,  as  lags  the  disenchanted  year, 

Are  passionless  and  silent! 

Langsyne. 

[By  Delta — D.  M.  Moir.] 

Langsyne  ! — how  doth  the  word  come  back 
With  magic  meaning  to  the  heart. 

As  memory  roams  the  sunny  track. 

From  which  hope’s  dreams  were  loath  to  part! 

No  joy  like  by-past  joy  appears  ; 

For  what  is  gone  we  fret  and  pine. 

Were  life  spun  out  a thousand  years. 

It  could  not  match  Langsyne! 

Langsyne ! — the  days  of  childhood  warm. 

When,  tottering  by  a mother’s  knee. 

Each  sight  and  sound  had  power  to  charm. 

And  hope  was  high,  and  thought  was  free. 
Langsyne  ! — the  merry  schoolboy  days — 

How  sweetly  then  life’s  sun  did  shine! 

Oh ! for  the  glorious  pranks  and  plays. 

The  raptures  of  Langsyne. 

Langsyne! — yes,  in  the  sound  1 hear 
The  rustling  of  the  summer  grove; 

And  view  those  angel  features  near 
Which  first  awoke  the  heart  to  love. 

How  sweet  it  is  in  pensive  mood. 

At  windless  midnight  to  recline. 

And  fill  the  mental  solitude 
With  spectres  from  Langsyne ! 

Langsjme  1 — ah,  where  are  they  who  shared 
With  us  its  pleasures  bright  and  blithe  ? 

Kindly  with  some  hath  fortune  fared  ; 

And  some  have  bowed  beneath  the  scythe 
Of  death  ; while  others  scattered  far 
O’er  foreign  lands  at  fate  repine, 

Oft  wandering  forth,  ’neath  twilight’s  star, 

To  muse  on  dear  Langsyne! 

Langsyne  ! — the  heart  can  never  be 
Again  so  full  of  guileless  truth  ; 

Langsyne ! — the  eyes  no  more  shall  see. 

Ah  no!  the  rainbow  hopes  of  youth. 

Langsyne  ! — with  thee  resides  a spell 
To  raise  the  spirit,  and  refine. 

Farewell ! — there  can  be  no  farewell 
To  thee,  loved,  lost  Langsyne  ! 

Casa  Wappy. 

[By  the  same.] 

[Casa  Wappy  was  the  self-conferred  pet  name  of  an  infant 
Bon  of  the  poet,  snatched  away  after  a very  brief  illness.] 

And  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home, 

Our  fond,  dear  boy — 

The  realms  where  sorrow  dare  not  come. 

Where  life  is  joy  ! 

Pure  at  thy  death  as  at  thy  birth. 

Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth ; 

Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  death, 

Casa  Wappy  ! 

Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell. 

As  closed  thine  eye ; 

Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell 
When  thou  didst  die; 

Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee. 

Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 
Of  our  unfathomed  agony, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Thou  wert  a vision  of  delight 
To  bless  us  given  ; 

Beauty  embodied  to  our  sight, 

A type  of  heaven  : 

So  dear  to  us  thou  wert,  thou  art 
Even  less  thine  own  self  than  a part 
Of  mine  and  of  thy  mother’s  heart, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Thy  bright  brief  day  knew  no  decline, 

’Twas  cloudless  joy ; 

Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine. 

Beloved  boy ! 

This  morn  beheld  thee  blithe  and  gay, 

That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay. 

And  e’er  a third  shone,  clay  was  clay, 

Casa  Wappy  1 

Gem  of  our  hearth,  our  household  pride, 

Earth’s  undefiled  ; 

Could  love  have  .saved,  thou  hadst  not  died. 

Our  dear,  sweet  child! 

Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate’s  decree  ; 

Yet  had  we  hoped  that  Time  should  see 
Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

475 

FROM  I'ftO 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILI,  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


Do  what  I may,  go  where  I will, 

Thou  mcet’Ht  my  sight  ; 

There  dost  thou  glide  before  me  still — 

A form  of  light! 

I feci  thy  breath  upon  my  cheek — 

I see  thee  smile,  1 hear  thee  siauik— 

Till  oh!  my  heart  is  like  to  break, 

Casa  Wappyl 

Methinks  thou  smll’st  before  me  now. 

With  glance  of  stealth  ; 

The  hair  thrown  back  from  thy  full  brow 
In  buoyant  health  ; 

I see  thine  eyes’  deep  violet  light. 

Thy  dimpled  cheek  carnationed  bright. 

Thy  claspiug  arms  so  round  and  white, 

Casa  Wappy! 

The  nursery'  shows  thy  pictured  wall. 

Thy  bat,  thy  bow, 

Thy  cloak  and  bonnet,  club  and  ball; 

Hut  where  art  thou  I 
A corner  holds  thine  empty  chair. 

Thy  ])laythlngs  idly  scattered  there. 

But  speak  to  us  of  our  despair, 

Casa  Wappyl 

Even  to  the  last  thy  every  word — • 

To  glad,  to  grieve — 

Was  sweet  as  sweetest  song  of  bird 
On  summer’s  eve  ; 

In  outward  beauty  undecayed. 

Death  o’er  thy  spirit  cast  no  shade. 

And  like  the  rainbow  thou  didst  fade, 

Casa  Wappy  ! 

We  mourn  for  thee  when  blind  blank  night 
The  chamber  fills ; 

We  pine  for  thee  when  mom’s  first  light 
Reddens  the  hills  : 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea, 

All,  to  the  wall-flower  and  wild  pea, 

Are  changed — we  saw  the  world  through  thee, 
Casa  Wappy  1 

And  though,  perchance,  a smile  may  gleam 
Of  casual  mirth, 

It  doth  not  own,  whate’er  may  seem. 

An  inward  birth  : 

W e miss  thy  small  step  on  the  stair; 

We  miss  thee  at  thine  evening  prayer! 

All  day  we  miss  thee,  everywhere, 

Casa  \Vappy  ! 

Snows  muffled  earth  when  thou  didst  go, 

In  life’s  spring  bloom, 

Down  to  the  appointed  house  below. 

The  silent  tomb. 

But  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree. 

The  cuckoo  and  ‘ the  busy  bee,’ 

Return — but  with  them  bring  not  thee, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Tis  so ; but  can  it  be  (while  flowers 
Revive  again) — 

Man’s  doom,  in  death  that  we  and  ours 
For  aye  remain  ? 

Oh  ! can  it  be,  that  o’er  the  grave 
The  grass  renewed,  should  yearly  wave. 

Yet  God  forget  our  child  to  save? — 

Casa  Wappy! 

It  cannot  be  : for  were  it  so 
Thus  man  could  die, 

Life  were  a mockery.  Thought  were  wo. 

And  Truth  a lie  ; 

Heaven  were  a coinage  of  the  brain. 

Religion  frenzy,  Virtue  vain. 

And  all  our  hopes  to  meet  again, 

Casa  Wappy! 


Then  be  to  us,  0 dear,  lost  child  ! 

With  beam  of  love, 

A star,  death’s  uncongenial  wild 
Smiling  above ; 

Soon,  soon  thy  little  feet  have  trod 
The  skyward  path,  the  seraph’s  road. 

That  led  thee  back  from  man  to  God, 

Casa  Wappyl 

Yet  ’tis  sweet  balm  to  our  despair. 

Fond,  fairest  boy. 

That  heaven  is  God’s,  and  thou  art  there. 
With  him  in  joy ; 

There  past  are  death  and  all  its  woes. 

There  beauty’s  stream  for  ever  flows. 

And  pleasure’s  day  no  sunset  knows, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Farewell,  then — for  a while,  farewell — 

Pride  of  my  heart! 

It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell, 

Thus  torn  apart : 

Time’s  shadows  like  the  shuttle  flee: 

And,  dark  howe’er  life’s  night  may  be. 
Beyond  the  grave  I’ll  meet  with  thee, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Ten  Years  Ago. 

[By  Alan'c  A.  Watts.] 

That  time  is  past. 

And  all  its  acliinR  joys  are  now  no  more. 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures  ! Not  fur  tliis 
Faint  1.  nor  niouni,  nor  murmur.  Ollier  gifts 
Have  followed  for  sucli  loss.  I would  believe. 
Abundant  recomiiense. — Wordsworth, 

Ten  years  ago,  ten  years  ago. 

Life  was  to  us  a fairy  scene ; 

And  the  keen  blasts  of  worldly  wo 

Had  seared  not  then  its  pathway  green. 
Youth  and  its  thousand  dreams  were  ours. 
Feelings  we  ne’er  can  know  again  ; 
Unwithered  hopes,  unwasted  powers. 

And  frames  unworn  by  mortal  pain: 

Such  was  the  bright  and  genial  flow 
Of  life  with  us — ten  years  ago  ! 

Time  has  not  blanched  a single  hair 
That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  now* 

Nor  hath  the  cankering  touch  of  care 
Left  even  one  furrow  on  thy  brow. 

Thine  eyes  are  blue  as  when  we  met. 

In  love’s  deep  truth,  in  earlier  years ; 

Thy  cheek  of  rose  is  blooming  yet, 

'Though  sometimes  stained  by  secret  tears; 
But  where,  oh  ! where’s  the  spirit’s  glow. 

That  shone  through  all — ten  years  ago  1 

I,  too,  am  changed — I scarce  know  why — 

Can  feel  each  flagging  pulse  decay  ; 

And  youth  and  health,  and  visions  high, 

, Melt  like  a wreath  of  snow  away  ; 

Time  cannot  sure  have  wrought  the  ill  ; 

Though  wont  in  this  world’s  sickening  strife. 
In  soul  and  form,  1 linger  still 

In  the  first  summer  month  of  life ; 

Yet  journey  on  my  path  below. 

Oh ! how  unlike — ten  years  ago ! 

But  look  not  thus  : I would  not  give 

The  wreck  of  hopes  that  thou  must  share. 

To  bid  those  joyous  hours  revive 

When  all  around  me  seemed  so  fair. 

We’ve  wandered  on  in  sunny  weather. 

When  winds  were  low,  and  flowers  in  bloom. 
And  hand  in  hand  have  kept  together. 

And  still  will  keep,  ’mid  storm  and  gloom; 
Endeared  by  ties  we  could  not  know 
When  life  was  young — ten  years  ago! 

476 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  AIRD, 


Has  fortune  frowned  ? Her  frowns  were  vain, 

I'or  hearts  like  ours  she  could  not  chill ; 

Have  friends  proved  false?  Their  love  might  wane, 
Hut  ours  grew  fonder,  firmer  still. 

Twin  haiks  on  this  world’s  ehanging  wave. 
Steadfast  in  calms,  in  tempests  tried; 

In  concert  still  our  fate  we’ll  brave. 

Together  cleave  life’s  fitful  tide; 

Nor  mourn,  whatever  winds  may  blow, 

Vouth’s  first  wild  dreams — ten  years  ago! 

Rave  we  not  knelt  beside  his  bed. 

And  watched  our  first-born  blos.som  diet 
Mo]>ed,  til!  the  shade  of  hojie  had  lied. 

Then  wept  till  feeling’s  fount  was  dry! 

Wius  it  not  sweet,  in  that  dark  hour. 

To  think,  ’mid  mutual  tears  and  sighs. 

Our  bud  had  left  its  earthly  bower. 

And  burst  to  bloom  in  Paradise? 

AVhat  to  the  thought  that  soothed  that  wo 
Were  heartless  joys — ten  years  ago? 

Yes,  it  is  sweet,  when  heaven  is  bright. 

To  share  its  sunny  beams  with  thee  ; 

But  sweeter  far,  ’mid  cloudr  and  blight. 

To  have  thee  near  to  weep  with  me. 

Then  dry  those  tears — though  something  changed 
From  what  we  were  in  e.arlier  youth. 

Time,  that  hath  hopes  and  friends  estranged. 

Hath  left  us  love  in  all  its  ^ruth ; 

Sweet  feelings  we  would  not  f ■'■ego 
For  liO’s  test  joys — ten  years  ago. 

Aft/  Mother's  Grave. 

[By  Thomas  Aird.] 

0 rise  and  sit  in  soft  attire, 

AVait  but  to  know  my  soul’s  desire! 

I’d  call  thee  back  to  days  of  strife. 

To  wrap  my  soul  around  thy  life! 

Ask  thou  this  heart  for  monument. 

And  mine  shall  be  a large  content. 

A crown  of  brightest  stars  to  thee  ! 

How  did  thy  spirit  viait  for  me, 

And  nurse  thy  waning  light,  in  faith 
That  I would  stand  ’twixt  thee  and  death; 

I'hen  tarry  on  thy  bowing  shore. 

Till  I have  asked  thy  sorrows  o’er. 

1 came  not — and  I cry  to  save 

Thy  life  from  out  the  oblivious  grave. 

One  day ; that  I may  well  declare. 

How  1 have  thought  of  all  thy  care. 

And  love  thee  more  than  1 have  done; 

And  make  thy  day  with  gladness  run. 

I’d  tell  thee  where  my  youth  hath  been  ; 

Of  perils  past — of  glories  seen  : 

I’d  speak  of  all  my  youth  hath  done — 

And  ask  of  things,  to  choose  and  shun ; 

And  smile  at  all  thy  needless  fears. 

But  bow  before  thy  .'/olcnin  tears. 

Come,  walk  with  me,  and  see  fair  earth. 

The  ways  of  men,  and  join  their  mirth ! 

Sleep  on — for  mirth  is  now  a jest ; 

Nor  dare  I call  thee  from  thy  rest ; 

Well  hast  thou  done  thy  worldly  task  ; 

Thy  mouth  hath  nought  of  me  to  ask  ! 

?den  wonder  till  I pass  away — 

They  think  not  but  of  useless  clay; 

Alas!  for  age,  this  memory! 

But  I have  other  thoughts  of  thee ; 

And  I would  wade  thy  dusty  grave. 

To  kiss  the  head  I cannot  save. 


0 life  and  power!  that  I might  see 
Thy  visage  swelling  to  be  I'ree! 

Come  near,  0 burst  that  carthiy  cLud, 

And  meet  my  visage  iowly  bowed. 

Alas  ! — in  corded  stiffness  pent. 

Darkly  1 guess  thy  lineament. 

1 might  have  lived,  and  thou  on  earth. 

And  been  to  thee  like  stranger’s  birth — ■ 
Thou  feeble  thing  of  eld!  but  gone, 

1 feel  as  in  the  world  alone. 

The  wind  that  lifts  the  streaming  tree — 

The  skies  seem  cold,  and  new  to  me. 

I feel  a hand  untwist  the  chain. 

Of  mother’s  love,  with  strange  cold  pain 
From  round  my  heart:  this  bosom’s  bare. 
And  less  than  wonted  life  is  there. 

0,  well  may  How  these  tears  of  strife. 

O’er  broken  fountains  of  my  life; 

Because  my  life  of  thee  was  part. 

And  decked  with  blood-drops  of  thy  heart : 

I was  the  channel  of  thy  love. 

Where  more  than  half  thy  soul  did  move: 
How  strange,  yet  just  o’er  me  thy  claim. 
Thou  aged  head  ! my  life  and  name. 

Because  1 know  there  is  not  one 
To  think  of  me  as  thou  hast  done 
From  morn  till  starlight,  year  by  year; 

From  me  thy  smile  repaid  thy  tear; 

Ami  fears  for  me — and  no  reproof. 

When  once  I dared  to  stand  aloof. 

My  punishment — that  I was  far 
AVhen  God  unloosed  thy  weary  star: 

My  name  was  in  thy  faintest  breath. 

And  1 was  in  thy  dream  of  death  : 

And  well  1 know  what  raised  thy  head, 
AA’hen  came  the  mourner’s  muffled  tread. 

Alas  ! I cannot  tell  thee  now, 

I could  not  come  to  bind  thy  brow : 

And  wealth  is  late,  nor  aught  I’ve  won, 
AVere  worth  to  hear  thee  call  thy  son. 

In  th,at  dark  hour  when  bands  remove. 

And  none  are  named  but  names  of  love 

Alas  for  me ! that  hour  is  old. 

My  hands,  for  this,  shall  miss  their  hold. 

For  thee — no  spring,  nor  silver  rain 
Unbutton  thy  dark  grave  again. 

No  sparrow  on  the  sunny  thatch 
Shall  chirp  for  thee  her  lonely  watch. 

Yet,  sweet  thy  rest  from  mortal  strife. 

And  cruel  cares  that  spanned  thy  life! 

Turn  to  thy  God — and  blame  thy  son — 

To  give  thee  more  than  1 have  done. 

Thou  God,  with  joy  beyond  all  years. 

Fill  high  the  channels  of  her  tears. 

Thou  carest  not  now  for  soft  attire, 

Y et  wilt  thou  hear  my  last  desire  ; 

For  earth  I dare  not  call  thee  more ; 

But  speak  from  off  thy  awful  shore — 

0 ask  this  heart  for  monument. 

And  mine  shall  be  a large  content. 

The  Death  of  the  TFarrior  King, 

[By  Charles  Swain.] 

There  are  noble  heads  bowed  down  an  I pale, 
Deep  sounds  of  wo  arise. 

And  tears  flow  fast  around  the  couch 
AA’here  a wounded  warrior  lies ; 


KROM  17(10 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


Tlie  hue  of  death  is  gathering  dark 
Upon  liis  lofty  brow, 

And  the  arm  of  might  and  valour  falls, 

Weak  as  an  infant’s  now. 

I saw  him  ’mid  the  battling  hosts, 

Like  a bright  and  leading  star, 

Where  banner,  helm,  and  falchion  gleamed. 
And  flew  the  bolts  of  war. 

When,  in  his  plenitude  of  power 
He  trod  the  Holy  Land, 

I saw  the  routed  Saracens 

Flee  from  his  blood-dark  brand. 

I saw  him  in  the  banquet  hour 
Forsake  the  festive  throng. 

To  seek  his  favourite  minstrel’s  haunt. 

And  give  his  soul  to  song  ; 

For  dearly  as  he  loved  renown. 

He  loved  that  spell-wrought  strain 
Which  bade  the  brave  of  perished  days 
Light  conquest’s  torch  again. 

Then  seemed  the  bard  to  cope  with  Time, 

And  triumph  o’er  his  doom — 

Another  world  in  freshness  burst 
Oblivion’s  mighty  tomb! 

Again  the  hardy  Britons  rushed 
Like  lions  to  the  fight. 

While  horse  and  foot — helm,  shield,  and  lance. 
Swept  by  his  visioned  sight! 

But  battle  shout  and  waving  plume. 

The  drum’s  heart-stirring  beat, 

The  glittering  pomp  of  prosperous  war, 

The  rush  of  million  feet. 

The  magic  of  the  minstrel’s  song. 

Which  told  of  victories  o’er. 

Are  sights  and  sounds  the  dying  king 
Shall  see — shall  hear  no  more  1 

It  was  the  hour  of  deep  midnight. 

In  the  dim  and  quiet  sky. 

When,  with  sable  cloak  and  ’broidered  pall, 

A funeral  train  swept  by  ; 

Dull  and  sad  fell  the  torches’  glare 
On  many  a stately  crest — 

They  bore  the  noble  warrior  king 
To  his  last  dark  home  of  rest. 

Tlie  Convict  Ship. 

[By  T.  K.  Ilervey.] 

Mom  on  the  waters ! and,  purple  and  bright. 

Bursts  on  the  billows  the  flushing  of  light ; 

O’er  the  glad  waves,  like  a child  of  the  sun. 

See  the  tall  vessel  goes  gallantly  on  ; 

Full  to  the  breeze  she  unbosoms  her  sail. 

And  her  pennon  streams  onward,  like  hope,  in  the  gale ; 
The  winds  come  around  her,  in  murmur  and  song. 
And  the  surges  rejoice  as  they  bear  her  along: 

See  ! she  looks  up  to  the  goldcn-edged  clouds. 

And  the  sailor  sings  gaily  aloft  in  the  shrouds: 
Onward  she  glides,  amid  ripple  and  spray. 

Over  the  waters — away,  and  away  ! 

Bright  as  the  visions  of  3’outh,  ere  they  part. 

Passing  away,  like  a dream  of  the  heart ! 

Who — as  the  beautiful  pageant  sweeps'  by, 

Music  around  her,  and  sunshine  on  high — 

Pauses  to  think,  amid  glitter  and  glow. 

Oh  ! there  be  hearts  that  are  breaking  below  I 

Night  on  the  waves  1 — and  the  moon  is  on  high. 

Hung,  like  a gem,  on  the  brow  of  the  sky. 

Treading  its  depths  in  the  power  of  her  might, 

\ial  turning  the  clouds,  as  they  pass  her,  to  light  1 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


Look  to  the  waters  ! — asleep  on  their  breast. 

Seems  not  the  ship  like  an  island  of  rest  2 
Bright  and  alone  on  the  shadowy  main. 

Like  a heart-cherished  home  on  some  desolate  plain  ! 
Who — as  she  smiles  in  the  silvery  light. 

Spreading  her  wings  on  the  bosom  of  night. 

Alone  on  the  deep,  as  the  moon  in  the  sky, 

A phantom  of  beauty — could  deem  with  a sigh. 

That  so  lovely  a thing  is  the  mansion  of  sin, 

And  that  souls  that  are  smitten  lie  bursting  within? 
Who,  as  he  watches  her  silently  gliding. 

Remembers  that  wave  after  wave  is  dividing 
Bosoms  that  sorrow  and  guilt  could  not  sever. 

Hearts  which  are  parted  and  broken  for  ever? 

Or  deems  that  he  watches,  afloat  on  the  wave. 

The  deathbed  of  hojie,  or  the  young  spirit’s  grave  t 

’Tis  thus  with  our  life,  while  it  passes  along. 

Like  a vessel  at  sea,  amidst  sunshine  and  song! 

Gaily  we  glide,  in  the  gaze  of  the  w’orld. 

With  streamers  afloat,  and  with  canvass  unfurled  ; 
All  gladness  and  glory,  to  wandering  eyes, 

Y et  chartered  by  sorrow,  and  freighted  with  sighs : 
Fading  and  false  is  the  aspect  it  wears. 

As  the  smiles  we  put  on,  just  to  cover  our  tears  ; 

And  the  withering  thoughts  which  the  world  cannot 
know. 

Like  heart-broken  exiles,  lie  burning  below  ; 

Whilst  the  vessel  drives  on  to  that  desolate  shore. 
Where  the  dreams  of  our  childhood  are  vanished  and 
o’er. 

Prayer. 

[By  W.  Beckford,  author  of  ‘ Vathek."] 

Like  the  low  murmur  of  the  secret  stream,  * 
Which  through  dark  alders  winds  its  shaded  way. 
My  suppliant  voice  is  heard:  Ah!  do  not  deem 
That  on  vain  toys  1 throw  my  hours  away. 

In  the  recesses  of  the  forest  vale. 

On  the  wild  mountain,  on  the  verdant  sod. 

Where  the  fresh  breezes  of  the  morn  prevail, 

I wander  lonely,  communing  with  God. 

When  the  faint  sickness  of  a wounded  heart 

Creeps  in  cold  shudderings  through  my  sinking 
frame, 

I turn  to  thee — that  holy  peace  impart. 

Which  soothes  the  invokers  of  thy  awful  name ! 

0 all-pervading  Spirit ! sacred  beam  1 
Parent  of  life  and  light ! Eternal  Power  1 
Grant  me  through  obvious  clouds  one  transient  gleam 
Of  thy  bright  essence  in  my  dying  hour ! 


Sonnet  written  on  the  Burial-ground  of  his  Ancestors. 

[By  AValter  Paterson.] 

Never,  0 never  on  this  sacred  ground 
Can  I let  fall  my  eye,  but  it  will  gaze. 

As  if  no  power  again  its  beam  could  raise. 

To  look  on  aught  above,  or  all  around  ; 

And  aye  upon  the  greenest,  oldest  mound. 

That  lies  on  those  who  lived  in  earliest  days. 

To  me  the  most  unknown,  it  most  delays. 

With  strongest  spell  of  strange  enchantment  bound. 
Sure  not  for  those  whom  I did  never  know 
Can  1 let  fall  so  big  and  sad  a tear. 

No,  ’tis  the  foretaste  of  a future  wo  ; 

The  oldest  grave  receives  the  soonest  bier: 

It  is  not  for  the  dead  my  tears  do  flow. 

But  for  the  living  that  must  soon  lie  here. 

478 


roETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


BOBEBT  BURNS, 


Ode  011  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  1814. 

[By  John  Wilson  Crokor.] 

Victor  of  Assnye’s  orient  plain, 

Victor  of  all  the  fields  of  Spain, 

Victor  of  France’s  despot  reign, 

Thy  task  of  glory  done  ! 

Welcome!  from  dangers  greatly  dared; 

From  triumphs  with  the  vanquished  shared; 
From  nations  saved,  and  nations  spared ; 
Unconquered  Wellington! 

Unconquered  ! yet  thy  honours  claim 
A nobler  than  a conqueror’s  name  : 

At  the  red  wreaths  of  guilty  fame 
Thy  generous  soul  had  blushed : 

The  blood — the  tears  the  world  has  shed — 
The  throngs  of  mourners — piles  of  dead — 
The  grief — the  guilt — are  on  his  head. 

The  tyrant  thou  hast  crushed. 

Thine  was  the  sword  which  Justice  dravrs  ; 
Thine  was  the  pure  and  generous  cause. 

Of  holy  rites  and  human  laws. 

The  impious  thrall  to  burst ; 

And  thou  wast  destined  for  thy  part! 

The  noblest  mind,  the  firmest  heart — 
Artless — but  in  the  warrior’s  art — 

And  in  that  art  the  first. 

And  we,  who  in  the  eastern  skies 
Beheld  thy  sun  of  glory  rise. 

Still  follow  with  exulting  eyes 
His  proud  meridian  height. 

Late,  on  thy  grateful  country’s  breast. 

Late  may  that  sun  descend  to  rest. 

Beaming  through  all  the  golden  west 
The  memory  of  his  light. 

[The  Noreniber  Fog  of  Londont] 

[By  Henry  Luttrel.] 

First,  at  the  dawn  of  lingering  day. 

It  rises  of  an  ashy  gray  ; 

Then  deepening  with  a sordid  stain 
Of  yellow,  like  a lion’s  mane. 

Vapour  importunate  and  dense. 

It  wars  at  once  with  every  sense. 

The  ears  escape  not.  All  around 
Returns  a dull  unwonted  sound. 

Loath  to  stand  still,  afraid  to  stir. 

The  chilled  and  puzzled  passenger. 

Oft  blundering  from  the  pavement,  fails 
To  feel  his  way  along  the  rails  ; 

Or  at  the  crossings,  in  the  roll 
Of  every  carriage  dreads  the  pole. 

Scarce  an  eclipse,  with  pall  so  dun. 

Blots  from  the  face  of  heaven  the  sun. 

But  soon  a thicker,  darker  cloak 
Wraps  all  the  town,  behold,  in  smoke. 
Which  steam-compelling  trade  disgorges 
From  all  her  furnaces  and  forges 
In  pitchy  clouds,  too  dense  to  rise. 
Descends  rejected  from  the  skies ; 

Till  struggling  day,  extinguished  quite. 
At  noon  gives  place  to  candle-light. 

0 Chemistry,  attractive  maid. 

Descend,  in  pity,  to  our  aid  : 

Come  with  thy  all-pervading  gases. 

Thy  crucibles,  retorts,  and  glasses. 

Thy  fearful  energies  and  wonders. 

Thy  dazzling  lights  and  mimic  thunders  ; 
Let  Carbon  in  thy  train  be  seen. 

Dark  Azote  and  fair  Oxygen, 

And  Wollaston  and  Davy  guide 
The  car  that  bears  thee  at  thy  side. 


If  any  power  can,  any  how. 

Abate  these  nuisances,  ’tis  thou  ; 

And  see,  to  aid  thee  in  the  blow. 

The  bill  of  Michael  Angelo  ; 

0 Join  (success  a thing  of  course  is) 

Thy  heavenly  to  his  mortal  forces; 

Make  all  chimneys  chew  the  cud 
Like  hungry  cows,  as  chimneys  should  I 
And  since  ’tis  only  smoke  we  draw 
Within  our  lungs  at  common  law. 

Into  their  thirsty  tubes  be  sent 
Fresh  air,  by  act  of  parliament. 

In  this  period  many  translations  from  classic  and 
foreign  poets  have  appeared,  at  the  head  of  which 
stands  the  version  of  Dante  by  the  Rev.  H.  F.  Cart 
— universally  acknowledged  to  be  one  of  the  most 
felicitous  attempts  ever  made  to  transfuse  the  spirit 
and  conceptions  of  a great  poet  into  a foreign  tongue. 
The  third  edition  of  this  translation  was  published 
in  1831.  Versions  of  Homer,  the  Georgies  of  Vir- 
gil, and  the  Oberon  of  the  German  poet  Wieland,  have 
been  published  by  William  Sotheby.  whose  original 
poems  have  already  been  noticed.  The  comedies  of 
Aristophanes  have  been  well  translated,  with  all  their 
quaint  drollery  and  sarcasm,  by  Mr  Mitchell,  late 
fellow  of  Sidney-Sussex  college,  Cambridge.  Lord 
Strangford  has  given  translations  from  the  Portu- 
guese poet  Camoens  ; and  Ur  John  Bowring,  speci- 
mens of  Russian,  Dutch,  ancient  Spanish,  Polish, 
Servian,  and  Hungarian  poetry.  A good  translation 
of  Tasso  has  been  given  by  J.  II.  Wiffen,  and  of 
Ariosto  by  Mr  Stewart  Rose.  Lord  Francis 
Egerton,  Mr  Blackie,  and  others,  have  translated 
the  Faust  of  Goethe;  and  the  general  cultivation  of 
the  German  language  in  England  has  led  to  the 
translation  of  various  imaginative  and  critical  Ger- 
man works  in  prose.  Mr  J.  G.  Lockhart’s  trans- 
lation of  Spanish  ballads  has  enriched  cur  lyrical 
poetry  with  some  romantic  songs.  The  ballads  of 
Spain,  like  those  of  Scotland,  are  eminently  national 
in  character  and  feeling,  and  bear  testimony  to  the 
strong  passions  and  chivalrous  imagination  of  her 
once  high-spirited  people. 


SCOTTISH  POETS. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

After  the  publication  of  Fergusson’s  poems,  in 
collected  shape,  in  1773,  there  was  an  interval  of 
about  thirteen  years,  during  which  no  writer  of 
eminence  arose  in  Scotland  who  ’ittempted  to  excel 
in  the  native  language  of  the  country.  The  in- 
tellectual taste  of  the  capital  ran  strongly  in  favour 
of  metaphysical  and  critical  studies ; but  the  Doric 
muse  was  still  heard  in  the  rural  districts  linked  to 
some  popular  air,  some  local  occurrence  or  favourite 
spot,  and  was  much  cherished  by  the  lower  and 
middling  classes  of  the  people.  In  the  summer 
of  1786,  Robert  Burns,  the  Shakspe.are  of  Scot- 
land, issued  his  first  volume  from  the  obscure 
press  of  Kilmarnock,  and  its  influence  was  imme- 
diately felt,  and  is  still  operating  on  the  whole  ima- 
ginative literature  of  the  kingdom,*  Burns  was 

* The  edition  consisted  of  GOO  copies.  A second  was  pub- 
lished in  Edinburgh  in  April  1787,  no  less  than  2000  copies 
being  subscribed  for  by  1500  individuals.  After  his  une.vara- 
pled  popularity  in  Edinburgh,  Bums  took  the  farm  of  Ellis- 
land,  near  Dumfries,  married  his  ‘bonny  Jean,'  and  entered 
upon  his  new  occupation  at  Whitsunday  1788.  He  had  obtained 
an  appointment  as  an  exciseman,  but  the  duties  of  this  office, 
and  his  own  convivial  habits,  interfered  with  his  management 
of  the  farm,  and  he  was  glad  to  abandon  it.  In  17.01  he  removed 
to  the  town  of  Dumfries,  subsisting  entirely  on  his  situation  in 

479 


cyclop^:dia  of 


TILL  ti:k  prf.se.nt  time 


FROM  17H0 


tlu'ii  ill  Ills  twenty-seventh  year,  tiaving  been  born 
in  tlie  parisli  nf  Alloway,  near  Ayr,  on  tlie  2.'5tli  of 
January  I7.')9.  Mis  father  was  a poor  fanner,  a 
niaii  of  sterling  wortli  ami  intelligenee,  wlio  gave 
his  son  what  eilueation  )ie  eoiiM  afforii.  The  wliole, 
however,  was  tmt  a small  foumiation  on  which  to 
erect  the  niiraeles  of  genius ! Robert  was  taught 


Robert  Burns, 


English  well,  and  ‘ by  the  time  he  w’as  ten  or  eleven 
years  of  age,  he  was  a critic  in  substantives,  verbs, 
and  particles.’  lie  was  also  taught  to  write,  had 
a fortnight’s  French,  and  was  one  summer-quarter 
at  land-surveying.  lie  had  a few’  books,  among 
wliich  were  the  Spectator,  Pope’s  Works,  Allan  Ram- 
say, and  II  collection  of  English  songs.  Subsequently 
(about  his  twenty-third  year)  his  reading  was  en- 
larged with  the  important  addition  of  Thomson,  Shen- 
stoue,  Sterne,  and  Mackenzie.  Other  standard  works 
soon  followed.  As  the  advantages  of  a liberal  edu- 
cation were  not  within  his  reach,  it  is  scarcely  to  be 
regretted  that  his  library  was  at  first  so  small.  What 
books  he  had,  he  read  and  studied  thoroughl}' — 
his  attention  was  not  distracted  by  a multitude  of 
volumes — and  his  mind  grew  up  with  original  and 
robust  vigour.  It  is  impossible  to  contemplate  the 
life  of  liurns  at  this  time,  without  a strong  feeling 
of  affectionate  admiration  and  respect.  His  manly 
integrity  of  eliaraeter  (which,  as  a peasant,  lie 
guarded  with  jealous  dignity),  and  his  w’arm  and 
true  heart,  elevate  him,  in  our  conceptions,  almost 
as  much  as  the  native  force  and  beauty  of  his  poetry. 

the  excise,  which  yielded  T..70  per  annum.  Here  he  published, 
in  17!*'!,  a third  edition  nf  liis  poems,  with  the  addition  of  Tam 
o’  Slianter,  and  other  pieces  composed  at  Kllisland.  He  died 
at  Dumfries  on  tlie  21st  of  .July  17tid,  aiied  thirty-seven  years 
and  about  six  months.  Tlie  story  of  liis  life  is  so  well  known, 
that  even  tliis  brief  statement  of  dates  seems  unnecessary.  In 
17tia  a fourth  edition  of  his  works  w-as  published  in  Edinburgh. 
Two  years  afterwards,  in  1800,  apiieared  the  valuable  and  com- 
plete edition  of  Dr  Currie,  in  four  volumes,  containing  the  cor- 
rc-pondence  nf  the  poet,  and  a number  of  song.s,  eontributed  to 
.Johnson’s  Scots  Rlusical  Museum,  and  Thomson’s  Select 
Scottish  f.Iclodies.  The  editions  of  Burns  since  IHIKl  could 
with  difliculty  be  ascertained  ; they  were  reckoned  a few 
years  a.go  at  about  a hundred.  His  poems  circulate  in  every 
shape,  and  have  not  yet  * gathered  all  their  fame.’ 


We  sec  tiim  in  the  verie.st  sliadesof  obscurity  toiling, 
when  ,a  mere  youth,  Mike  it  giilley-slave,’  to  siipjiort 
his  virtuous  parents  and  their  household,  yet  grasp- 
ing at  every  o|)portuiiity  of  acquiring  knowledge 
from  men  and  books — familiar  with  tlie  history  of 
his  country,  and  loving  its  very  soil — worshipping 
the  memory  of  Scotland's  ancient  patriots  and  de- 
fenders, and  ex[)loring  every  scene  and  memorial  of 
departed  greatness — loving  also  the  simple  ]>easantry 
around  him,  ‘the  sentiments  and  manners  he  fell 
and  saw  in  himself  and  his  rustic  eompeer.s.’  Rurn- 
ing  with  a desire  to  do  something  for  old  Scotland’s 
sake,  with  a heart  beating  with  warm  and  generous 
emotions,  a strong  and  clear  understanding,  and  a 
spirit  abhorring  all  meanness,  insincerity,  and  op 
jiressioii.  Burns,  in  his  early  days,  might  have  fur- 
nished the  suhjeet  for  a great  and  instructive  moral 
poem.  The  true  elements  of  poetry  w’ere  in  his 
life,  as  in  his  writings.  The  wild  stirrings  of  his 
ambition  (which  he  so  nobly  compared  to  the  ‘blind 
gropings  of  Homer’s  Cyclops  round  the  walls  of  his 
cave’),  the  )irecocious  maturity  of  his  passions  and 
his  intellect,  his  manly  frame,  that  led  him  to  fear 
no  competitor  at  the  plough,  and  his  exquisite  sen- 
sibility and  tenderness,  that  made  him  weep  over  even 
the  destruction  of  a daisy’s  flower  or  a mouse’s  nest, 
these  are  all  moral  contrasts  and  blendings  that 
seem  to  belong  to  the  spirit  of  romantic  jioetry.  His 
writings,  as  we  now  know,  were  but  the  fragments 
of  a great  mind  — the  hasty  outpourings  of  a full 
heart  and  intellect.  After  he  had  become  the  fashion- 
able wonder  and  idol  of  his  day — soon  to  be  east  into 
cold  neglect  and  poverty  ! — some  errors  and  frailties 
threw  a shade  on  the  noble  and  affecting  image,  but 
its  higher  lineaments  were  never  destroyed.  The 
column  was  defaced,  not  broken  ; and  now  that  the 
mists  of  prejudice  have  cleared  away,  its  just  pro- 
portions and  exalted  symmetry  are  recognised  with 
pride  and  gratitude  by  his  admiring  countrymen. 

Burns  came  as  a potent  auxiliary  or  fellow -worker 
with  Cow’per,  in  bringing  [loetry  into  the  channels  of 
truth  and  nature.  There  were  only  two  years  hetw'een 
the  Task  and  the  Colter's  Saturdin/  Night.  No 
poetry  was  ever  more  instantaneously  or  univer- 
sally popular  among  a people  than  that  of  Burns  in 
Scotland.  It  seemed  as  if  a new’  realm  had  been 
added  to  the  dominions  of  the  British  muse — a new 
and  glorious  creation,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  nature. 
There  was  the  humour  of  Smollett,  the  pathos  and 
tenderness  of  Sterne  or  Richard.son,  the  real  life  of 
Fielding,  and  the  description  of  Thomson — all  united 
in  delineations  of  Scottish  manners  and  scenery  by 
an  Ayrshire  ploughman  ! The  volume  contained 
matter  for  all  minds — for  the  lively  and  sarcastic,  the 
wild  and  the  thoughtful,  the  poetical  enthusiast  and 
the  man  of  the  world.  So  eagerly  was  the  book 
sought  after,  that,  where  copies  of  it  could  not  be 
obtained,  many  of  the  poems  w’ere  transcribed  and 
sent  round  in  manu.script  among  admiring  circles. 
The  subsequent  productions  of  the  poet  did  not 
materially  affect  the  estimate  of  his  powers  formed 
from  his  first  volume.  His  life  was  at  once  too  idle 
and  too  bu.sy  for  continuous  study;  and,  al.asi  it  was 
too  brief  for  the  full  maturity  and  development 
of  his  talents.  Where  the  intellect  predominates 
equallv  with  the  imagination  (and  this  was  the  case 
with  liurns),  increase  of  years  generally  adds  to  the 
strength  and  variety  of  the  poet’s  powers ; and  we 
have  no  doubt  that,  in  ordinary  circumstances 
Burns,  like  Dryden,  would  have  improved  w’ith 
.age,  and  added  greatly  to  his  fame,  had  he  not 
fallen  at  so  early  a period,  before  his  imagina- 
tion could  be  enriebed  with  the  ri|ier  fruits  ol 
knowledge  and  experience.  He  meditated  a na- 
tional drama;  but  we  might  have  looked  with  morr 

480 


KNOLTSir  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  BCRMS. 


Cxinfiileiu'e  for  a series  of  tales  like  7'««i  o’  S/i(iii(er, 
xvhieli  (with  tlie  elefty  on  Cnptaiii  Matthew  Hen- 
derson, one  of  the  most  highly  finished  and  most 
preeions  of  his  wairks)  was  produced  in  his  hajipy 
residence  at  Ellishuid.  Above  two  hundred  songs 


Burns's  House,  Dumfries. 


were,  however,  thrown  off  by  Burns  in  his  latter- 
years.  A..d  th“y  embraced  poetry  of  all  kinds.  Mr 
Mooi-e  became  a writer  of  lyrics,  as  he  informs  his 
readers,  that  he  might  express  w’hat  music  conveyed 
to  himself.  Burns  had  little  or  no  technical  know- 
ledge of  music.  Whatever  ple.asure  he  derived  from 
it.  was  the  result  of  personal  associations — the  words 
to  which  airs  were  adapted,  or  the  locality  with 
which  they  were  connected.  His  whole  soul,  how- 
ever, was  full  of  the  finest  harmony.  So  quick  and 
genial  were  his  sympathies,  that  he  was  easily  stirred 
into  lyrical  melody  by  whatever  was  good  and  beau- 
tiful in  nature.  Not  a bird  sang  in  a bush,  nor  a 
burn  glanced  in  the  sun,  but  it  was  eloquence  and 
music  to  his  ear.  He  fell  in  love  with  every  fine 
female  face  he  saw;  and  thus  kindled  up,  his  feel- 
ings took  the  shape  of  song,  and  the  words  fell  as 
naturally  into  their  places  as  if  prompted  by  the 
most  perfect  knowledge  of  music.  The  inward 
melody  needed  no  artificial  accompaniment.  An 
attempt  at  a longer  poem  would  have  chilled  his 
ardour;  but  a song  embodying  some  one  leading 
idea,  some  burst  of  passion,  love,  patriotism,  or 
humour,  was  c.xactlj'  suited  to  the  impulsive  nature 
of  Burns’s  genius,  and  to  his  situation  and  circum- 
stances. His  command  of  language  and  imagery, 
always  the  most  appropriate,  musical,  and  graceful, 
was  a greater  marvel  than  the  creations  of  a Handel 
or  Mozart  The  Scottish  poet,  however,  knew  many 
old  airs — still  more  old  ballads ; and  a few  bars  of 
the  music,  or  a line  of  the  words,  served  as  a key- 
note to  his  suggestive  fancy.  He  improved  nearly 
all  he  touched.  The  arch  humour,  gaiety,  sim- 
plicity, and  genuine  feeling  of  his  original  songs, 
will  be  felt  as  long  as  ‘ rivers  roll  and  woods  are 
grwn.’  They  breathe  the  natural  character  and 
spirit  of  the  country,  and  must  be  coeval  with  it  in 
e.xistence.  Wherever  the  words  are  chanted,  a pic- 
ture is  presented  to  the  mind;  and  whether  the  tone 
bo  plaintive  and  sad,  or  joyous  and  exciting,  one 

73 


overpowering  feeling  takes  possession  of  the  ima- 
gination. The  susceptibility  of  the  poet  inspired 
him  with  real  emotions  and  passion,  and  his  genius 
reproduced  them  with  the  glowing  warmtli  and 
truth  of  nature. 

‘ Tam  o’  Shanter’  is  usually  considered  to  be 
Burns’s  masterpiece:  it  was  so  consiiiered  by  him- 
self, and  the  judgment  has  been  confirmed  by  Camp- 
bell, Wilson,  Montgomery,  and  almost  every  critic. 
It  displays  more  various  powers  than  any  of  his 
other  productions,  beginning  with  low  comic  humour 
and  Bacchanalian  revelry  (the  dramatic  scene  at  the 
commencement  is  unique,  even  in  Burns),  and  rang- 
ing through  the  various  styles  of  the  descriptive, 
the  terrible,  the  supernatural,  and  the  ludicrous. 
The  originality  of  some  of  the  phrases  and  senti- 
ments, as 

Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious — 

O’er  a’  the  ills  of  life  victorious  ! 

the  felicity  of  some  of  the  similes,  and  the  elastic 
force  and  springiness  of  the  versification,  must  also 
be  considered  as  aiding  in  the  effect.  The  poem 
reads  as  if  it  were  composed  in  one  transport  of  in- 
spiration, before  the  bard  had  time  to  cool  or  to 
slacken  in  his  fervour;  and  such  we  know  wa* 
actually  the  case.  Next  to  this  inimitable  ‘ tale  ol 
truth’  in  originality,  and  in  happy  grouping  ol 
images,  both  familiar  and  awful,  wr  should  be  dis- 
posed to  rank  the  Address  to  the  L'til.  The  poet 
adopted  the  common  superstitions  of  the  peasantry 
as  to  the  attributes  of  Satan  ; but  though  his  Address 
is  mainly  ludicrous,  he  intersperses  passages  of  tin 
highest  beauty,  and  blends  a feeling  of  tenderness 
and  compunction  with  his  objurgation  of  the  Evil 
One.  The  effect  of  contrast  was  never  more  happily 
displayed  than  in  the  conception  of  such  a being 
straying  in  lonely  glens  and  rustling  amoog  trees— 
in  the  familiarity  of  sly  humour  with  which  thl 
poet  lectures  so  awful  and  mysterious  a personagi 
(who  had,  as  he  s.ays,  almost  overturned  the  infant 
world,  and  ruined  all);  and  in  *bat  strange  and  in- 
imitable outbreak  of  sympathy  in  wuici.  : is 

expressed  for  the  salvation,  and  pity  for  the  Tar*, 
even  of  Satan  himself — 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ! 

Oh  ! wad  ye  tak  a thought  ami  men’  1 

Ye  aiblius  might — I diiina  ken — 

Still  hac  a stake  ; 

I’m  wae  to  think  upo’  yon  den. 

Even  for  your  sake  1 

The  Jolly  Beggars  is  another  strikingly  origiodl 
production.  It  is  the  most  dramatic  of  his  works, 
and  the  characters  are  all  finely  sustained.  Of  the 
Cotter’s  Saturday  Night,  the  Mountain  Daisy,  or  the 
Mouse’s  Nest,  it  would  be  idle  to  attempt  any 
eulogy.  In  these  Burns  is  seen  in  his  fairest  colours 
— not  with  all  his  strength,  but  in  his  happiest  and 
most  heartfelt  inspiration — his  brightest  sunshine 
and  his  tenderest  tears.  The  workmanship  of  these 
le.ading  poems  is  equal  to  the  value  of  the  materials. 
The  peculiar  dialect  of  Burns  being  a composite  of 
Scotch  and  English,  which  he  varied  at  will  (the 
Scotch  being  generally  reserved  for  the  comic  and 
tender,  and  the  English  for  the  serious  and  lofty\ 
his  diction  is  remarkably  rich  and  copious.  No  poet 
is  more  picturesque  in  expression.  This  was  the 
result  equally  of  accurate  observation,  careful  study, 
and  strong  feeling.  His  energy  and  truth  stamp  the 
highest  value  on  his  writings.  He  is  as  literal  as 
Cowper.  The  banks  of  the  Doon  are  described  as 
faithfully  as  those  of  the  Ouse;  and  his  views  of 
human  life  and  manners  are  as  real  and  as  finely 
moralised.  His  range  of  subjects,  however,  was 

481 


PHOM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


infinittly  more  diversified,  ineludinff  a varied  and 
romantic  landscape,  the  customs  and  superstitions 
of  his  country,  the  delights  of  good  fellowship  and 
boon  society,  the  aspirations  of  youthful  ambition, 
and,  above  all,  the  emotions  of  love,  which  he  de- 
picted with  such  mingled  fervour  and  delicacy. 
This  ecstacy  of  passion  was  unknown  to  the  author 
of  the  Task.  Nor  could  the  latter  have  conceived 
anything  so  truly  {wtetical  as  the  image  of  Coila, 
the  tutelar  genius  and  inspirer  of  the  peasant  youth 
in  his  clay-built  hut,  where  his  heart  and  fancy 
overflowed  with  love  and  poetry.  Cowper  read  and 
appreciated  Burns,  and  we  can  picture  Ids  astonish- 
ment and  delight  on  perusing  such  str.ains  as  Coila’s 
address 

‘ With  future  hope  I oft  would  gaze 
Fond  on  thy  little  early  ways, 

Thy  rudely  carolled,  chiming  phrase. 

In  uncouth  rhymes. 

Fired  at  the  simple,  artless  lays, 

Of  other  times. 

I saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore. 

Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar ; 

Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sky, 

I saw  grim  nature’s  visage  hoar 

Strike  thy  young  eye. 

Or  when  the  deep  green-mantled  earth 
Warm  cherished  every  flowret’s  birth. 

And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 
In  every  grove, 

I saw  thee  eye  the  general  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

W'hen  ripened  fields  and  azure  skies. 

Called  forth  the  reapers’  rustling  noise, 

I saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys. 

And  lonely  stalk. 

To  vent  thy  bosom’s  swelling  rise 
In  pensive  walk. 

When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing,  strong. 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along, 

Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

The  adored  Name, 

I taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song. 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 

I saw  thy  pulse’s  maddening  play, 

Wild  send  thee  pleasure’s  devious  way. 

Misled  by  Fancy’s  meteor-ray. 

By  passion  driven  ; 

But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  Heaven. 

I taught  thy  manners-painting  strains. 

The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains. 

Till  now,  o’er  all  my  wide  domains 
Thy  fame  extends ; 

And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila’s  plains, 

Become  thy  friends. 

Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I show. 

To  paint  with  Thomson’s  landscape  glow  ; 

Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe. 

With  Shenstone’s  art ; 

Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 
Warm  on  the  heart. 

Yet,  all  beneath  the  unrivalled  rose. 

The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows ; 

Though  large  the  forest’s  monarch  throws 
His  army  shade, 

Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows 
Adown  the  glade. 


TILL  THE  PHESEItT  TlItE. 


Then  never  murmur  nor  repine  ; 

Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine; 

And  trust  me,  not  I’otosi’s  mine. 

Nor  king’s  regard. 

Can  give  a bliss  o’ermatching  thine, 

A rustic  bard. 

To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one — 

Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan  ; 

Preserve  the  dignity  of  man. 

With  soul  erect ; 

And  trust,  the  universal  plan 
Will  all  protect. 

And  wear  thou  this’ — she  solemn  said. 

And  bound  the  holly  round  my  head: 

The  polished  leaves,  and  berries  red. 

Did  rustling  play ; 

And,  like  a passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away. 

Burns  never  could  have  improved  upon  the  grace 
and  tenderness  of  this  romantic  vision — the  finest 
revelation  ever  made  of  the  hope  and  ambition  of  a 
youthful  poet.  Greater  strength,  however,  he  un- 
doubtedly acquired  with  the  experience  of  manhood. 
His  Tam  o’  Shanter.  and  Bruce’s  Address,  are  the 
result  of  matured  powers ; and  his  songs  evince  a 
conscious  mastery  of  tlie  art  and  materials  of  com- 
position. His  Vision  of  Liberty  at  Lincluden  is  a 
great  and  splendid  fragment.  The  reflective  spirit 
evinced  in  his  early  epistles  is  found,  in  his  Lines 
Written  in  Friars’  Carse  Hermitage,  to  have  settled 
into  a deep  vein  of  moral  philosophy,  clear  and 
true  as  the  lines  of  Swift,  and  informed  with  a 
higher  wisdom.  It  cannot  be  said  that  Bums  abso- 
lutely fails  in  any  kind  of  composition,  except  in  his 
epigrams ; these  are  coarse  without  being  pointed 
or  entertaining.  Nature,  which  had  lavished  on  him 
sucli  powers  of  humour,  denied  him  wit. 

In  reviewing  the  intellectual  career  of  the  poet, 
his  correspondence  must  not  be  overlooked.  His 
prose  style  was  more  ambitious  than  that  of  his 
poetry.  In  the  latter  he  followed  the  dictates  of 
nature,  warm  from  the  heart,  whereas  in  his  letters 
he  aimed  at  being  sentimental,  peculiar,  and  striking; 
and  simplicity  was  sometimes  sacrificed  for  effect. 
As  Johnson  considered  conversation  to  be  an  intel- 
lectual arena,  wherein  every  man  was  bound  to  dc 
his  best.  Burns  seems  to  have  regarded  letter-writing 
in  much  the  same  liglit,  and  to  have  considered  it 
necessary  at  times  to  display  all  his  acquisitions  tc 
amuse,  gratify,  or  astonish  his  patronising  corre- 
spondents. Considerable  deductions  must,  therefore, 
be  made  from  his  published  correspondence,  whether 
regarded  as  an  index  to  his  feelings  and  situation, 
or  as  models  of  the  epistolary  style.  In  subject,  he 
adapted  himself  too  much  to  the  character  and  tastes 
of  the  person  he  was  addressing,  and  in  style,  lie  was 
led  away  by  a love  of  display.  A tinge  of  pedantry 
and  assumption,  and  of  reckless  bravado,  was  thus 
at  times  superinduced  upon  the  manly  and  thought- 
ful simplicity  of  his  natural  character,  which  sits  as 
awkwardly  upon  it  as  the  intrusion  of  ,Iove  or 
Danae  into  tlie  rural  songs  of  Allan  Ramsay.* 

* The  scraps  of  French  in  his  letters  to  Dr  Moore,  Mrs 
Riddell,  &c.  have  an  unplea<iant  effect.  * If  he  had  an  affecta- 
tion in  anything,’  says  Dugald  Stewart,  * it  was  in  introducing 
occasionally  [in  conversation]  a word  or  phrase  from  that 
language.’  Campbell  makes  a similar  statement,  and  relates 
the  following  anecdote  : — ‘ One  of  his  friends,  who  carried  him 
into  the  company  of  a French  lady,  remarked,  with  surprise, 
that  he  attempted  to  converse  with  her  in  her  own  tongue. 
Their  French,  however,  was  mutually  unintelligible.  As  far 
as  Burns  could  make  himself  understood,  he  unfortunately 
offended  the  foreign  lady.  Ue  meant  to  tell  her  that  she  was  a 

482 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  DURRS. 


Burns’s  letters,  however,  are  valuable  as  memorials 
of  his  rem])erament  and  genius.  He  was  often  dis- 
tinct. forcible,  and  happy  in  expression — rich  in 
sallies  of  imagination  and  poetical  feeling — at  times 
deeply  pathetic  and  impressive.  He  lifts  the  veil 
from  the  miseries  of  his  latter  days  with  a hand 
struggling  betwixt  pride  and  a broken  spirit.  Ilis 
autobiography,  addressed  to  Dr  Moore,  written  when 
his  mind  was  salient  and  vigorous,  is  as  remarkable 
for  'ts  literary  talent  as  for  its  modest  independence 
and  clear  judgment ; and  the  letters  to  Mrs  Dunlop 
(in  whom  he  had  entire  confidence,  and  whose  lady- 
like manners  and  high  principle  rebuked  his  wilder 
spiiit)  are  all  characterised  by  sincerity  and  ele- 
gance. One  beautiful  letter  to  this  lady  we  are 
tempted  to  copy  ; it  is  poetical  in  the  highest  degree, 
and  touches  with  exquisite  taste  on  the  mysterious 
union  between  external  nature  and  the  sympathies 
end  emotions  of  the  human  frame : — • 

* Ellisland,  New-Year-Bay  Morning,  1789. 

This,  dear  m.adam,  is  a morning  of  wishes,  and 
would  to  God  that  I came  under  the  apostle  James’s 
description ! — the  prayer  of  a righteous  man  avadeth 
much.  In  that  case,  m.adam,  you  should  welcome 
in  a year  full  of  blessings  : everything  that  obstructs 
or  disturbs  tranquillity  and  self  enjoyment  should 
be  removed,  and  every  pleasure  that  frail  humanity 
can  taste  should  be  yours.  I own  myself  so  little  a 
Presbyterian,  that  I approve  of  set  times  and  sea- 
sons of  more  than  ordinary  acts  of  devotion,  for 
breaking  in  on  that  habituated  routine  of  life  .and 
thought  which  is  so  apt  to  reduce  our  existence  to 
a kind  of  instinct,  or  even  sometimes,  and  with 
some  minds,  to  a stiite  very  little  better  than  mere 
machinery. 

This  da}',  the  first  Sunday  of  Jlay,  a breezy, 
blue-skied  noon  some  time  about  the  beginning,  and 
a hoary  morning  and  calm  sunny  day  about  the  end 
of  autumn  ; these,  time  out  of  mind,  have  been  with 
me  a kind  of  holiday. 

I believe  I owe  this  to  that  glorious  paper  in  the 

charming  person,  and  delightful  in  conversation,  but  expressed 
himself  so  as  to  appear  to  her  to  mean  that  she  was  fond  of 
speaking ; to  which  the  Gallic  dame  indignantly  replied,  that  it 
was  quite  as  common  for  poets  to  be  impertinent  as  for  women 
to  be  loquacious.'  The  friend  who  introduced  Burns  on  this 
occasion  (and  who  herself  related  the  anecdote  to  Mr  Camp- 
bell) was  Miss  Margaret  Chalmers,  afterwards  Mrs  Lewis 
Hay,  who  died  in  1843.  The  wonder  is,  that  the  dissipated 
aristocracy  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt,  and  the  ‘ buckish  trades- 
men of  Edinburgh,’  left  any  part  of  the  original  plainness  and 
simplicity  of  his  manners.  Yet  his  learned  friends  saw  no 
change  in  the  proud  self-sustained  and  self-measuring  poet. 
Ho  ke[)t  his  ground,  and  he  asked  no  more.  ‘ A somewhat 
clearer  knowledge  of  men's  affairs,  scarcely  of  their  charac- 
ters,’ says  the  quaint  but  true  and  searching  Thomas  Carlyle, 
‘ this  winter  in  Edinburgh  did  afford  him ; hut  a sharper  feel- 
ing of  Fortune's  unequal  arrangements  in  their  social  destiny 
it  also  left  with  him.  He  had  seen  the  gay  and  gorgeous 
arena,  in  which  the  powerful  are  bom  to  play  their  parts- 
nay,  had  himself  stood  in  the  midst  of  it ; and  he  felt  more 
bitterly  than  ever  that  here  he  was  but  a looker-on,  and  had 
no  part  or  lot  in  that  splendid  game.  From  this  time  a jealous 
indignant  fear  of  social  degradation  takes  possession  of  him  ; 
and  perverts,  so  far  as  aught  could  pervert,  his  private  con- 
tentment, and  his  feelings  towards  his  richer  fellows.  It  was 
clear  to  Burns  that  he  had  talent  enough  to  make  a fortune, 
or  a hundred  fortunes,  could  he  but  have  rightly  willed  this. 
It  was  clear  also  that  he  willed  something  far  different,  and 
therefore  could  not  make  one.  Unhappy  it  was  that  he  had 
not  power  to  choose  the  one  and  reject  the  other,  but  must 
halt  for  ever  between  two  opinions,  two  objects  ; making  ham- 
pered advancement  towards  either.  But  so  it  is  with  many 
men : “ we  long  for  the  meichandise,  yet  would  fain  keep  the 
price and  so  stand  chaffering  with  Fate,  in  vexatious  alter- 
cation, till  the  night  come,  and  our  fair  is  over  T 


Spectator — tbe  Vision  of  Mirza — a piece  that  struck 
my  young  fancy  before  I was  capable  of  fixing  an 
idea  to  a word  of  three  syllables : “ On  the  5th  day 
of  the  moon,  which,  according  to  the  custom  of  my 
forefathers,  I always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed 
myself,  and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I 
ascended  the  high  hill  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass 
the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer.” 

We  know  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  of  the 
substance  or  structure  of  our  souls,  so  cannot  ac- 
count for  those  seeming  caprices  in  them,  that  one 
should  be  particularly  pleased  with  this  thing,  or 
struck  with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  a different 
cast,  makes  no  extraordinary  impression.  I have 
some  favourite  flowers  in  spring,  among  which  are 
the  mountain-daisy,  the  harebell,  the  foxglove,  the 
wild-brier  rose,  the  budding  birch,  and  the  hoary 
hawthorn,  that  I view  and  hang  over  with  parti- 
cular delight.  I never  hear  the  loud,  solitary  whistle 
of  the  curlew  in  a summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing 
cadence  of  a troop  of  gray  plovers  in  ati  autumnal 
morning,  without  feeling  an  elevation  of  soul  like 
the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or  poetry.  Tell  me,  my 
dear  friend,  to  what  can  this  be  owing?  Are  we  a 
piece  of  machinery,  which,  like  the  jEolian  harp, 
passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the  passing  acci- 
dent? Or  do  these  workings  argue  something 
within  us  above  the  trodden  clod  ? I own  myselt 
partial  to  such  proofs  of  those  awful  and  important 
realities — a God  that  made  all  things — man’s  imma- 
terial and  immortal  nature,  and  a world  of  weal  or 
wo  beyond  death  and  the  gr.ave.’ 

To  the  doctrine  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul. 
Burns  seems  to  have  clung  with  fond  tenacity : it 
survived  the  wreck  or  confusion  of  his  early  im- 
pressions, and  formed  the  strongest  and  most  sooth- 
ing of  his  beliefs.  In  other  respects  his  creed  was 
chiefly  practical.  ‘ Whatever  mitigates  the  woe.s, 
or  increases  the  happiness  of  others,’  he  says,  ‘ this 
is  my  criterion  of  goodness ; and  whatever  injures 
society  at  large,  or  any  individual  in  it,  this  is  my 
reason  of  iniquity.’  Tbe  same  feeling  he  had  ex- 
pressed in  one  of  his  early  poems — 

But  deep  this  truth  impressed  my  mind, 
Through  all  his  works  abroad, 

The  heart  benevolent  and  kind 
The  most  resembles  God. 

Conjectures  have  been  idl}'  formed  as  to  the  probable 
effect  which  education  would  have  had  on  the  mind 
of  Burns.  We  may  as  well  speculate  on  the  change 
which  might  be  wrought  by  the  engineer,  tlie 
planter,  and  agrieulturist,  in  assimilating  the  wild 
scenery  of  Scotland  to  that  of  England.  Who  would 
wish  (if  it  were  possible),  by  successive  graftings, 
to  make  the  birch  or  the  pine  approximate  to  the 
oak  or  the  elm  ? Nature  is  various  in  all  her  works, 
and  has  diversified  genius  as  much  as  she  has  done 
her  plants  and  trees.  In  Burns  we  have  a genuine 
Scottish  poet:  why  should  we  wish  to  mar  the 
beautiful  order  and  variety  of  nature  by  making 
him  a Dryden  or  a Gray?  Educ.ation  could  not 
have  improved  Burns’s  songs,  his  Tara  o’  Shanter, 
or  any  other  of  his  great  poems.  He  would  never 
have  written  them  but  for  his  situation  and  feelings 
as  a peasant — and  could  he  have  written  anything 
better?  The  whole  of  that  world  of  passion  and 
beauty  which  he  has  laid  open  to  us  might  have 
been  hid  for  ever;  .and  the  genius  which  was  so  well 
and  worthily  emploj’ed  in  embellishing  rustic  life, 
and  adding  new  interest  and  glory  to  his  country, 
would  only  have  swelled  the  long  procession  of  Eng-- 
lish  poets,  stript  of  his  originality,  and  bearing, 
though  proudly,  the  ensign  of  conquest  and  sub- 
mission. 

4.S3 


rno.M  17fi0 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PnESFNT  TIJIl. 


[From  Burm'a  Epiatles-I 

We’ll  Bing  auld  Coila’s  plains  and  fells, 
Her  moors  red-brown  wi’  heather  bells. 
Her  banks  and  braes,  her  dens  and  dells. 
Where  glorious  Wallace 
Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 

Frae  southron  billies. 

At  Wallace’  name  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a spring-tide  flood  1 
Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 
By  Wallace’  side. 

Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat  shod. 

Or  glorious  died ! 

Oh  sweet  are  Coila’s  haughs  and  woods. 
When  lintwhites  chant  amang  the  buds. 
And  jinkin’  hares  in  amorous  whids, 

Their  loves  enjoy, 

While  through  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 
With  wailfu’  cry ! 

Even  winter  bleak  has  charms  to  me 
When  winds  rave  through  the  naked  tree; 
Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 
Are  hoary  gray : 

Or  blinding  drifts  wild  furious  flee. 
Darkening  the  day ! 

Oh  nature ! a’  thy  shows  and  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms  ! 
Whether  the  summer  kindly  warms, 

Wi’  life  and  light. 

Or  winter  howls  in  gusty  storms 
The  lang,  dark  night! 

The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 

Till  by  himsel  he  learned  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trotting  burn’s  meander. 

And  no  think  lang ; 

Oh  sweet,  to  stray  and  pensive  ponder 
A heart-felt  sang  1 

Then  farewell  hopes  o’  laurel-boughs. 

To  garland  my  poetic  brows  ! 

Henceforth  I’ll  rove  where  busy  ploughs 
Are  whistling  thrang. 

And  teach  the  lanely  heights  and  howes 
My  rustic  sang. 


When  ance  life’s  day  draws  near  the  gloaiuin’ 
Then  farewcel  vacant  careless  roamin’ ; 

And  fareweel  cheerfu’  tankards  foamin’. 

And  social  noise ; 

And  fareweel  dear,  deluding  woman! 

The  joy  of  joys ! 

Oh  Life!  how  pleasant  in  thy  morning. 
Young  Fancy’s  rays  the  hills  adorning! 
Cold-pausing  caution’s  lesson  scorning. 

We  frisk  away. 

Like  schoolboys,  at  the  expected  warning, 

To  joy  and  play. 

We  wander  there,  we  wander  here, 

We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier. 

Unmindful  that  the  thoni  is  near. 

Among  the  leaves! 

And  though  the  puny  wound  appear. 

Short  while  it  grieves. 

To  a Mountain  Daisy, 

On  turning  one  do\vn  with  the  plough  in  AptU  )788. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 

Thou’s  met  me  in  an  evil  hour  ; 

For  I maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 
Thy  slender  stem : 

To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power. 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas  ! it’s  no  thy  neibor  sweet. 

The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet. 

Bending  thee  ’mang  the  dewy  weet! 

Wi’  speckled  breast. 

When  upward-springing,  blithe,  to  greet 
The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 
Amid  the  storm, 

Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 
Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 

High  sheltering  woods  and  wa’s  maun  shield; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 
O’  clod  or  stane. 

Adorns  the  histie  stibble- field. 

Unseen,  alane. 


I’ll  wander  on,  with  tentless  heed 
How  never-halting  moments  speed. 

Till  fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread; 

Then,  all  unknown. 

I’ll  lay  me  with  the  inglorious  dead. 
Forgot  and  gone! 

But  why  o’  death  begin  a tale  ? 

Just  now  we’re  living  sound  and  hale. 
Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail. 
Heave  care  o’er  side  ! 

And  large  before  enjoyment’s  gale. 

Let’s  tak  the  tide. 

This  life,  sae  far’s  I understand. 

Is  a’  enchanted  fairy  land. 

Where  pleasure  is  the  magic  wand. 
That,  wielded  right, 

Maks  hours  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand. 
Dance  by  fu’  light. 

The  magic  wand  then  let  us  wield  ; 

For,  ance  that  five-and-forty’s  speeled. 
See,  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

Wi’  wrinkled  face. 

Comes  hostin’,  hirplin’  owre  the  field, 
Wi’  creepin’  pace. 


There  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread. 

Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 
In  humble  guise  ; 

But  now  the  share  uptcars  thy  bed. 

And  low  thou  lies! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid. 

Sweet  flowret  of  the  rural  shade ! 

By  love’s  simplicity  betrayed. 

And  guileless  trust. 

Till  she,  like  thee,  all  .soiled,  is  laid 
Low  i’  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard. 

On  life’s  rough  ocean  luckless  starred! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 
Of  prudent  lore, 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o’er! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given. 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven. 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 
To  misery’s  brink. 

Till  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 

He,  ruined,  sink! 

4S4 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


KOBEST  BURNS. 


Even  thou  who  moum’st  the  daisy’s  fate, 

That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date ; 

Stem  Ruin’s  ploughshare  drives,  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 

Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow’s  weight. 

Shall  be  thy  doom. 

On  Captain  Matthew  Henderson. 

h gentlonian  who  held  the  patent  for  his  honours  immediately 
from  Almighty  God. 

‘ Should  the  poor  be  flattered  V—Shaktpeare. 

But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run. 

For  Matthew’s  course  was  bright ; 

His  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun, 

A matchless  heavenly  light! 

Oh  Death  1 thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody! 

The  meikle  devil  wi’  a woodie 
llaurl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie. 

O’er  hurcheon  bides, 

Ar.d  like  stock-fish  come  o’er  his  studdie 
Wi’  thy  auld  sides ! 

He’s  gane ! he’s  gane ! he’s  frae  us  tom, 

The  ae  best  fellow  e’er  was  born  1 
Thee,  Matthew,  Nature’s  sel’  shall  raoum 
By  wood  and  wild. 

Where,  haply.  Pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exiled  1 

Ye  hills,  near  neibors  o’  the  stares. 

That  proudly  cock  your  cre.sting  caims! 

Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns,! 

Where  echo  slumbers  1 
Come  join,  ye  Nature’s  sturdiest  bairns. 

My  wailing  numbers! 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens! 

Ye  hazelly  sbaws  and  briery  dens! 

Ye  bumies,  wimpling  down  your  glens 
Wi’  toddlin’  din. 

Or  foaming  Strang,  wi’  hasty  stens, 

Frae  lin  to  lin! 

Mourn,  little  harebells  o’er  the  lea ; 

Y e stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see ; 

Ye  woodbines  hanging  bonnilie 

In  scented  bowers; 

Y e roses  on  your  thorny  tree. 

The  first  o’  flowers. 

At  dawn,  when  every  grassy  blade 
Droops  with  a diamond  at  its  bead. 

At  even,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed 
1’  the  rustling  gale. 

Ye  maukins  whiddin  through  the  glade. 

Come  join  my  wail. 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o’  the  wood  ; 

Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud ; 

Ye  curlews  calling  through  a clud  ; 

Ye  whistling  plover ; 

And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood ! 

He’s  gane  for  everl 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals. 

Ye  fisher  herons,  watehing  eels ; 

Yc  duck  and  drake,  wi’  airy  wheels 
Circling  the  lake  ; 

Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake. 

Mourn,  claraering  craiks  at  close  o’  day, 

’Mang  fields  o’  flowering  clover  gay ; 

And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 
Frae  our  cauld  shore. 

Tell  thae  far  worlds  wha  lies  in  clay 
Wham  we  deplore. 

’Eagles. 


Ye  houlets,  frae  your  ivy  bower. 

In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tower. 

What  time  the  moon,  wi’  silent  glower 
Sets  up  her  horn. 

Wail  through  the  dreary  midnight  hour 
Till  waukrife  mom ! 

Oh,  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains! 

Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains : 

But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 
But  tales  of  wo ! 

And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 
Maun  ever  flow. 

Mourn,  spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year. 

Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a tear : 

Thou,  simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 
Shoots  up  its  head. 

Thy  gay,  green,  flowery  tresses  shear 
For  him  that’s  dead. 

Thou,  autumn,  wi’  thy  yellow  hair. 

In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear! 

Thou,  winter,  hurling  through  the  air 
The  roaring  blast. 

Wide  o’er  the  naked  world  declare 

The  worth  we’ve  lost ! 

Mourn  him,  thou  sun,  great  source  of  light ! 
Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night! 

And  you,  ye  twinkling  stamies  bright. 

My  Matthew  mourn  ! 

For  through  your  orb  he’s  ta’en  his  flight. 
Ne’er  to  return. 

Oh,  Henderson  ! the  man — the  brother  ! 

And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  for  ever ! 

And  hast  thou  crossed  that  unknown  river, 
Life’s  dreary  bound  ? 

Like  thee,  where  shall  we  find  another. 

The  world  around  1 

Go  to  your  sculptured  tombs,  ye  great. 

In  a’  the  tinsel  trash  o’  state  ! 

But  by  thy  honest  turf  I’ll  wait. 

Thou  man  of  worth ! 

And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow’s  fate 
E’er  lay  in  earth. 

[Songs.~\ 

Macpherson's  FarewelL 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong. 

The  wretch’s  destinie  ! 

Macpherson’s  time  will  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows-tree. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he ; 

He  played  a spring,  and  danced  it  round. 
Below  the  gallows  tree. 

Oh,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath ! 

On  many  a bloody  plain 
I’ve  dared  his  face,  and  in  this  place 
I score  him  yet  again ! 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands. 

And  bring  to  me  my  sword  ; 

And  there’s  no  a man  in  all  Scotland, 

But  I’ll  brave  him  at  a word. 

I’ve  lived  a life  of  sturt  and  strife  ; 

1 die  by  treacherie  ; 

It  hums  my  heart  I must  depart 
And  not  avenged  be. 

Now  farewell  light — thou  sunshine  bright. 
And  all  beneath  the  sky ! 

May  coward  shame  distain  his  name. 

The  wretch  that  dares  not  die ! 


4S5 


FROM  17B0 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


Menitt, 

A{,'Rin  rejoicing  nature  Bees 

Her  robe  aBsurne  its  vernal  hues, 

Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze, 

All  freshly  steeped  in  morning  dews. 

In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw, 

In  vain  to  me  the  violets  spring; 

In  vain  to  me,  in  glen  or  shaw. 

The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 

The  merry  ploughboy  cheers  his  team, 

Wi’ joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks; 

But  life  to  rae’s  a weary  dream, 

A dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 

Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry, 

The  stately  swan  majestic  swims. 

And  everything  is  blessed  but  I. 

The  shepherd  stecks  his  faulding  slap. 

And  owre  the  moorland  whistles  shrill ; 

Wi’  wild,  unequal,  wandering  step, 

I meet  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

And  when  the  lark,  ’tween  light  and  dark. 
Blithe  waukens  by  the  daisy’s  side. 

And  mounts  and  sings  on  flittering  wings, 

A wo-worn  ghaist  I hameward  glide. 

Come,  Winter,  with  thine  angry  howl. 

And  raging  bend  the  naked  tree  : 

Thy  gloom  will  soothe  my  cheerless  soul. 

When  nature  all  is  sad  like  me ! 

Ae  Fond  Kiss. 

* These  exquisitely  affecting  stanzas  contain  the  essence  of 
a thousand  love  tales.* — Scott.'} 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 

Ae  fareweel,  alas  ! for  ever! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I’ll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I’ll  wage  thee. 

Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him. 

While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  himi 
Me,  nae  cheerfu’  twinkle  lights  me ; 

Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I’ll  ne’er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 

Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy  ; 

But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her ; 

Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly. 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly. 

Never  met — or  never  parted, 

We  had  ne’er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest  I 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 

Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure. 

Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure  ! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 

Ae  farewell,  alas  ! for  ever ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I’ll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  greans  I'll  wage  thee! 

A/y  Bonnie  Mary. 

Go  fetch  to  me  a pint  o’  wine. 

And  fill  it  in  a silver  tassie  ; 

That  I may  drink,  before  I go, 

A service  to  my  bonnie  lassie ; 

The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o’  Leith, 

Fu’  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  Fei'y; 

The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I maun  leave  r y bomie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly. 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready 
The  shouts  o’  war  are  heard  afar. 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody ; 


TILI  THE  PRESENT  1 tMB 


But  it’s  not  the  roar  o’  sea  or  shore 
Wad  make  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 

Nor  shouts  o’  war  that’s  heard  afar — 

It’s  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 

Mary  Morison. 

[‘  One  of  my  juvenile  works.' — Burns.  ‘ Of  all  the  produe 
tions  of  Burns,  the  pathetic  and  serious  love  songs  which  he 
has  left  behind  him  in  the  manner  of  old  ballads,  are  perhaps 
those  which  take  the  deepest  and  most  lasting  hold  of  the 
mind.  Such  are  the  lines  of  Mary  Morison,  dtc.’ — Ilazlitt.} 

Oh  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wished,  the  trysted  hour  ! 

Tho.se  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see. 

That  make  the  miser’s  treasure  poor: 

How  blithely  wad  I bide  the  stoure, 

A weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun. 

Could  I the  rich  reward  secure. 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha’. 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  .saw. 

Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw. 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a’  the  town, 

I sighed,  and  said  amang  them  a’, 

‘ Y e are  na  Mary  Morison.’ 

Oh  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie. 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown ; 

A thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o’  Mary  Morison. 

Bruce's  Address. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled, 

Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 

Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  victory ! 

Now’s  the  day,  and  now’s  the  hour; 

See  the  front  o’  battle  lour ; 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  powers 
Chains  and  slavery  ! 

Wha  will  be  a traitor  knave  ? 

Wha  can  fill  a coward’s  grave  ? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee! 

Wha  for  Scotland’s  king  and  law 
Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw. 

Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa’. 

Let  him  follow  me  ! 

By  oppression’s  woes  and  pains  ! 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 

But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 

Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 

Liberty’s  in  every  blow! 

Let  us  do,  or  die  ! 

ALEXANDER  WILSCN. 

Alexander  Wilson,  a distinguished  naturalist 
was  also  a good  Scottish  poet.  He  was  a native  of 
Paisley,  and  born  July  6,  1766.  He  wms  brought 
up  to  the  trade  of  a weaver,  but  afterwards  preferred 
that  of  a pedlar,  selling  muslin  and  other  wares.  In 
1789  he  added  to  his  other  commodities  a prospectus 
of  a volume  of  poems,  trusting,  as  he  said. 

If  the  pedlar  should  fail  to  be  favoured  with  sale. 
Then  I hope  you’ll  encourage  the  poet. 

486 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 


FOETS. 


ALEXANDER  WILSON. 


i 

I 


I 


. 


He  did  not  succeed  in  either  character ; and  after 
publishing  his  poems  he  returned  to  the  loom.  In 
1792  he  issued  anonymously  his  best  poem,  Watty 
and  Meg,  which  was  at  first  attributed  to  Burns. 

A foolish  personal  satire,  and  a not  very  wise  ad- 
miration of  the  principles  of  equality  disseminated 
at  the  time  of  the  French  Revolution,  drove  Wilson 
to  America  in  the  year  1794.  There  he  was  once 
more  a weaver  and  a pedlar,  and  afterwards  a 
schoolmaster.  A love  of  ornithology  gained  upon 
him,  and  he  wandered  over  America,  collecting 
specimens  of  birds.  In  1808  appeared  his  first 
volume  of  the  American  Ornithology,  and  he 
continued  collecting  and  publishing,  traversing 
swamps  and  forests  in  quest  of  rare  birds,  and 
undergoing  the  greatest  privations  and  fatigues, 
^ill  he  had  committed  an  eighth  volume  to  the 
press.  He  sank  under  his  severe  lalx)urs  on  the 
23d  of  August  1813,  and  was  interred  with  public 
honours  at  Philadelphia.  In  the  Ornithology  of 
Wilson  we  see  the  fancj’-  and  descriptive  powers  of 
the  poet.  The  following  extract  is  part  of  his  ac- 
count of  the  bald  eagle,  and  is  extremely  vivid  and 
striking : — 

‘The  celebrated  cataract  of  Niagara  is  a noted 
place  of  resort  for  the  bald  eagle,  as  well  on  account 
of  the  fish  procured  there,  as  for  the  numerous  car- 
cases of  squirrels,  deer,  bears,  and  various  other 
animals,  that,  in  their  attempts  to  cross  the  river 
above  the  falls,  have  been  dragged  into  the  current, 
and  precipitated  down  that  tremendous  gulf,  where, 
among  the  rocks  that  bound  the  rapids  below,  they 
furnish  a rich  repast  for  the  vulture,  the  raven,  and 
the  bald  eagle,  the  subject  of  the  present  account. 
He  has  been  long  known  to  naturalists,  being  com- 
mon to  both  continents,  and  occasionally  met  with 
from  a very  high  northern  latitude  to  the  borders 
of  the  torrid  zone,  but  chiefly  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
sea,  and  along  the  shores  and  cliSs  of  our  lakes  and 
large  rivers.  Formed  by  nature  for  braving  the 
severest  cold,  feeding  equally  on  the  produce  of  the 
sea  and  of  the  land,  possessing  powers  of  flight 
capable  of  outstripping  even  the  tempests  them- 
selves, unawed  by  anything  but  man,  and,  from 
the  ethereal  heights  to  which  he  soars,  looking 
abroad  at  one  glance  on  an  immeasurable  expanse 
of  forests,  fields,  lakes,  and  ocean  deep  below  him, 
he  appears  indiflTerent  to  the  little  localities  of 
change  of  seasons,  as  in  a few  minutes  he  can 
pass  from  summer  to  winter,  from  the  lower  to  the 
higher  regions  of  the  atmosphere,  the  abode  of 
eternal  cold,  and  from  thence  descend  at  will  to  the 
torrid  or  the  arctic  regions  of  the  earth.  He  is, 
therefore,  found  at  all  seasons  in  the  countries  he 
inhabits ; but  prefers  such  places  as  have  been 
mentioned  above,  from  the  great  partiality  he  has 
for  fish. 

In  procuring  these,  he  displays,  in  a very  singular 
manner,  the  genius  and  energy  of  his  character, 
which  is  fierce,  contemplative,  daring,  and  tyranni- 
cal • attributes  not  exerted  but  on  particular  occa- 
sions, lyit  when  put  forth,  overpowering  all  opposi- 
tion. Elevated  on  the  high  dead  limb  of  some 
gigantic  tree  that  commands  a wide  view  of  the 
neighbouring  shore  and  ocean,  he  seems  calmly  to 
contemplate  the  motions  of  tire  various  feathered 
tribes  that  pursue  their  busy  avocations  below ; the 
snow-white  gulls  slowly  winnowing  the  air ; the 
busy  tringse  coursing  along  the  sands ; trains  of 
ducks  streaming  over  the  surface  ; silent  and  watch- 
ful cranes  intent  and  wading;  clamorous  crowg; 
and  all  the  winged  multitudes  that  subsist  by  the 
bounty  of  this  vast  liquid  magazine  of  nature.  High 
over  all  these  hovers  one  whose  action  instantly 
arrests  his  whole  attention.  By  his  wide  curvature 


of  wing,  and  sudden  suspension  in  air,  he  knows 
him  to  be  the  fish-hawk,  settling  over  some  devoted 
victim  of  the  deep.  His  eye  kindles  at  the  sight, 
and  balancing  himself  with  half-opened  wings  on 
the  branch,  he  watches  the  result.  Down,  rapid  as 
an  arrow  from  heaven,  descends  the  distant  objeet 
of  his  attention,  the  roar  of  its  wings  reaching  the 
ear  as  it  disappears  in  the  deep,  making  the  surges 
foam  around.  At  this  moment  the  eager  looks  of 
the  eagle  are  all  ardour  ; and,  levelling  his  neck  for 
flight,  he  sees  the  fish-hawk  once  more  emerge, 
struggling  with  his  prey,  and  mounting  in  the  air 
with  screams  of  exultation.  These  are  the  signal 
for  our  hero,  who,  launching  into  the  air,  instantly 
gives  chase,  and  soon  gains  on  the  fish-hawk ; each 
exerts  his  utmost  to  mount  above  the  other,  dis- 
playing in  these  rencontres  the  most  elegant  and 
sublime  aerial  evolutions.  The  unencumbered  eagle 
rapidly  advances,  and  is  just  on  the  point  of  reaching 
his  opponent,  when,  with  a sudden  scream,  probably 
of  despair  and  honest  execration,  the  latter  drops 
his  fish  : the  eagle,  poising  himself  for  a moment,  as 
if  to  take  a more  certain  aim,  descends  like  a whirl- 
wind, snatches  it  in  his  grasp  ere  it  reaches  the 
water,  and  bears  his  ill-gotten  booty  silently  away 
to  the  woods.’ 

By  way  of  preface,  ‘ to  invoke  the  clemency  of 
the  reader,’  Wilson  relates  the  following  exquisite 
trait  of  simplicity  and  nature ; — 

‘ In  one  of  my  late  visits  to  a friend  in  the  coun- 
try, I found  their  youngest  son.  a fine  boy  of  eight 
or  nine  years  of  age,  who  usually  resides  in  town 
for  his  education,  just  returning  from  a ramble 
through  the  neighbouring  woods  and  fields,  where 
he  had  collected  a large  and  very  handsome  bunch 
of  wild  flowers,  of  a great  many  different  colours  ; 
and,  presenting  them  to  his  mother,  said,  “Look, 
my  dear  mamma,  what  beautiful  flowers  I have 
found  growing  on  our  place ! Why,  all  the  woods 
^re  full  of  them ! red,  orange,  and  blue,  and  ’most 
every  colour.  Oh  I I can  gather  you  a whole  parcel 
of  them,  much  handsomer  than  these,  all  growing 
in  our  own  woods ! Shall  I,  mamma  ? Shall  I go 
and  bring  you  more?”  The  good  woman  received 
the  bunch  of  flowers  with  a smile  of  affectionate 
complacency  ; and,  after  admiring  for  some  time  the 
beautiful  simplicity  of  nature,  gave  her  willing  con- 
sent, and  the  little  fellow  went  off  on  the  wings  of 
ecstacy  to  execute  his  delightful  commission. 

The  similarity  of  this  little  boy’s  enthusiasm  to 
my  own  struck  me,  and  the  reader  will  need  no 
explanations  of  mine  to  make  the  application. 
Should  my  country  receive  with  the  same  gracious 
indulgence  the  specimens  which  I here  humbly  pre- 
sent her ; should  she  express  a desire  for  me  to  go 
and  bring  her  more,  the  highest  wishes  of  my  ambi- 
tion will  be  gratified ; for,  in  the  language  of  my 
little  friend,  our  whole  w'oods  are  full  of  them,  and  I 
can  collect  hundreds  more,  much  handsomer  than 
these.’ 

The  ambition  of  the  poet-naturalist  was  amply 
gratified. 

[A  Village  Scold  surprising  her  Husband  in  a* 
Ale-house.'^ 

I’  the  thrang  o’  stories  tellin, 

Shakin  hands  and  jokin  queer, 

Swith  ! a chap  comes  on  the  hallan — 

‘ Mungo!  is  our  Watty  here?’ 

Maggy’s  weel-kent  tongue  and  hurry 
Darted  through  him  like  a knife: 

Up  the  door  flew — like  a fury 
In  came  Watty’s  scoldin  wife. 

4?‘ 


moM  17H0 


CYCLOP A OF 


‘ Nttsty,  giide-for-naethiii"  being  ! 

U yc  (tnurfy  drueken  sow! 

Briiigiii  wife  iiuj  weans  to  ruin, 

Urinkin  here  wi’  sic  a crew  ! 

Rise!  ye  drucken  beast  o’  I?ethel ! 

Drink’s  your  niglit  and  day’s  desire; 

Rise,  this  precious  hour!  or  faith  I’ll 
Fling  your  whisky  i’  tlie  fire!’ 

Watty  heard  her  tongue  unhallowed, 

Pai<i  liis  groat  wi’  little  din, 

Left  the  house,  while  Maggy  fallowed, 
Flyting  a’  the  road  bellin’. 

Folk  frae  every  door  came  lampin, 

Maggy  curst  them  ane  and  a’, 

Clapped  wi’  her  hands,  and  stampin. 

Lost  her  bauchelsl  i’  the  snaw. 

llame,  at  length,  she  tunied  the  gavel, 

Wi’  a face  as  white’s  a clout, 

Ra  gin  like  a very  devil, 

Kickin  stools  and  chairs  about. 

‘Ye’!!  sit  wi’  your  limmers  round  ye — 

Hang  you,  sir.  I’ll  be  your  death! 

Little  hands  my  hands,  confound  you 
But  1 cleave  you  to  the  teeth !’ 

Watty,  wha,  ’midst  this  oration. 

Eyed  her  whiles,  but  durst  na  speaK, 

Sat,  like  patient  Resignation, 

Trembling  by  the  ingle-cheek. 

Sad  his  wee  drap  brose  he  sippet, 

(Maggy’s  tongue  gaed  like  a hell), 

Quietly  to  his  bed  he  slippet, 

Sighin  aften  to  himsel — 

‘ Nane  are  free  frae  some  vexation. 

Ilk  ane  has  his  ills  to  dree  ; 

But  through  a’  the  hale  creation 
Is  iiae  mortal  vexed  like  me.’ 

[A  Pedta/s  Stoi-y.] 

I wha  stand  here,  in  this  bare  scowTy  coat. 

Was  ance  a packman,  worth  mony  a groat ; 

I’ve  carried  packs  as  big’s  your  meikle  table; 

I’ve  scarted  pats,  and  sleejiit  in  a stable : 

Bax  pounds  I wadna  for  my  pack  ance  taen. 

And  1 could  bauldly  brag  ’twas  a’  mine  aim 

Ay  ! thae  were  days  indeed,  that  gar’d  me  hope, 
Aiblins,  through  time  to  waisle  up  a shop ; 

And  as  a wife  aye  in  my  noddle  ran, 

1 kenned  my  Kate  wad  grapple  at  me  than. 

Oh,  Kate  was  past  compare  ! sic  cheeks ! sic  een! 
Sic  smiling  looks  ! were  never,  never  seen. 

Dear,  dear  1 lo’ed  her,  and  whene’er  we  met. 
Pleaded  to  have  the  bridal  day  but  set ; 

Stopped  her  pouches  fu’  o’  preens  and  laces, 

And  thought  mysel  weel  paid  wi’  twa  three  kisses: 
Yet  still  she  put  it  aff  frae  day  to  day. 

And  aften  kindly  in  my  lug  would  say, 

‘ Ae  half-year  langer’s  no  nae  unco  stop. 

We’ll  marry  then,  and  syne  set  up  a shop.’ 

Oh,  sir,  but  lasses’  words  are  saft  and  fair, 

They  soothe  our  griefs  and  banish  ilka  care; 

Wha  wadna  toil  to  please  the  lass  he  loes  1 
A lover  true  minds  this  in  all  he  does. 

Finding  her  mind  was  thus  sae  firmly  bent. 

And  that  1 couldna  get  her  to  relent, 

There  w'as  nought  left  but  quietly  to  resign, 
d'o  heeze  my  pack  for  ae  lang  hard  campaign  ; 

And  as  the  Highlands  was  the  place  for  meat, 

I ventured  there  in  spite  o’  wind  and  weet. 

Cauld  now  the  winter  blew,  and  deep  the  snaw 
“"or  three  hale  days  incessantly  did  fa’; 

1 Old  sliocs. 


TILL  THU  PltESE.NT  TIMB. 


Far  in  a m iir,  amang  the  whirling  drift, 

Where  nought  was  seen  but  mountains  and  the  lift, 

1 lost  m/  roiwl  and  wandered  mony  a mile, 

Maist  dsad  wi’  hunger,  cauld,  and  fright,  and  toil. 
Thus  waiidering,  east  or  west,  I kenned  na  where. 

My  mind  o’crcome  wi’  gloom  and  black  despair, 

VV'i’  a fell  ringe  I plunged  at  ance,  forsooth, 

Down  through  a wreath  o’  snaw  up  to  my  mouth — 
Clean  owre  my  head  my  precious  wallet  flew. 

But  whar  it  gaed.  Lord  kens — I never  knew! 

What  great  misfortunes  are  poured  down  on  some! 
I thought  my  fearfu’  hinder-end  was  come! 

Wi’  grief  and  sorrow  was  my  saul  owercast, 

Ilk  breath  I drew  was  like  to  be  my  last ; 
k’or  aye  the  mair  1 warsled  roun’  and  roun’, 

1 fand  mysel  aye  stick  the  deeper  down  ; 

Till  ance,  at  length,  wi’  a prodigious  pull, 

1 drew  my  puir  cauld  carcass  frae  the  hole. 

Lang,  lang  I sought  and  graped  for  my  pack. 

Till  night  and  hunger  forced  me  to  come  back. 

For  three  lang  hours  I wandered  up  and  down, 

Till  chance  at  last  conveyed  me  to  a town  ; 

There,  wi’  a trembling  hand,  I wrote  my  Kate 
A sad  account  of  a’  my  luckless  fate. 

But  bade  her  aye  be  kind,  and  no  despair. 

Since  life  w,is  left,  1 soon  would  gather  mair, 

Wi’  whilk  1 hoped,  within  a towmont’s  date, 

To  be  at  hame,  and  share  it  a’  wi’  Kate. 

Fool  that  I was ! how  little  did  1 think 
That  love  would  soon  be  lost  for  faut  o’  clink  ! 

The  loss  o’  fair-won  wealth,  though  hard  to  bear. 
Afore  this — ne’er  had  power  to  force  a tear. 

I trusted  time  would  bring  things  round  again. 

And  Kate,  dear  Kate!  would  then  be  a’  mine  ain : 
Consoled  my  mind  in  hopes  o’  better  luck — 

But,  oh  ! what  sad  reverse!  how  thunderstruck! 

When  ae  black  day  brought  word  frae  Rab  my  brither. 
That — Kate  was  cried  and  married  on  anithcr  t 

Though  a’  my  friends,  and  ilka  comrade  sweet, 

At  ance  had  dropped  cauld  dead  at  my  feet ; 

Or  though  I’d  heard  the  last  day’s  dreadful  ca’, 

Nae  deeper  horror  owre  my  heart  could  fa’ : 

1 cursed  mysel,  I cursed  my  luckless  fate. 

And  grat — and  sabbing  cried.  Oh  Kate!  oh  Kate! 

Frae  that  day  fortli  I never  mair  did  weel. 

But  drank,  and  ran  headforemost  to  the  deil ! 

My  .siller  vanished,  far  frae  hame  I pined. 

But  Kate  for  ever  ran  across  my  mind ; 

In  /(«•  were  a’  my  ho{>e.s — these  hopes  were  vain. 

And  now  I’ll  never  see  her  like  again. 

HECTOR  M.VCNEILX. 

Hector  Macneiu,  (1746-1818)  was  brought  up 
to  a mercantile  life,  but  was  unsuccessful  in  most  of 
his  business  aflfairs.  He  cultivated  in  secret  an 
attachment  to  the  muses,  which  at  length  brought 
him  fame,  though  not  wealth.  In  1789  he  published 
a legendary  poem.  The  Uurp,nm\  in  1795  his  moral 
tale,  Scotland’s  Shailh,  or  the  History  o’  Will  and 
Jean.  The  object  of  this  production  was  to  depict 
the  evil  effects  of  intemperance.  A happy  rural 
pair  are  reduced  to  ruin,  descending  by  graiiual 
steps  till  the  husband  is  obliged  to  enlist  as  a soldier, 
and  the  wife  to  beg  with  her  children  tlirougli  the 
country.  The  situation  of  the  little  ale-house  where 
Will  begins  his  unlucky  potations  is  finely  describeti. 

In  a howm  whose  bonny  burnie 

Whimpering  rowed  its  crystal  flood. 

Near  the  road  where  travellers  turn  aye. 

Neat  and  beild  a cot-house  stood  : 

White  the  wa’s  wi’  roof  new  theekit. 

Window  broads  just  painted  red  ; 

Lown  ’mang  trees  and  braes  it  reekit, 

Haflins  scon  and  hatlins  hid. 

488 


KNC.LISII  LITERATURE. 


HECTOR  MACNEILU 


Up  tlie  {;avoi-('mi  tliiik  spreiuliiig 
Crap  tlie  clasping  ivy  green, 

Back  owre  firs  llie  high  craigs  clcadin, 

Raised  a’  rouinl  a cosey  screen. 

Down  beloiv  a flowery  meadow 
Joined  the  bnrnie’s  rambling  line; 

Here  it  was  that  Howe  the  widow 
That  same  day  set  up  her  sign. 

Brattling  down  the  brae,  and  near  its 
Botti’ii,  Will  first  marvelling  sees 

'Porter,  Ale,  and  British  S]>irits,’ 

Painted  bright  between  twa  trees. 

Godsakc,  Tam  ! here’s  walth  for  drinking! 

^\’ha  can  this  new-comer  be?’ 

Heut,’  quo’  Tam,  ‘ there’s  drouth  in  thinking — 
Let’s  in,  Will,  and  syne  we’ll  see.’ 

The  rustic  friends  have  a jolly  meeting,  and  do  not 
separate  till  ‘ ’tween  twa  and  three’  next  morning. 
A weekly  club  is  set  up  at  Maggy  Howe’s,  a news- 
paper is  procured,  and  poor  Will,  the  hero  of  the 
tale,  becomes  a pot-house  politician,  and  soon  goes 
to  ruin.  His  wife  also  takes  to  drinking. 

AVha  was  ance  like  Willie  Gairlace ! 

Wha  in  neebouring  town  or  farm! 

Beauty’s  bloom  'hone  in  his  fair  face, 

Deadly  strengih  was  in  his  arm. 

Whan  he  first  saw  .Ic.anie  Miller, 

Wha  wi’  Jeanie  could  compare! 

Thousands  had  mair  biaws  and  siller. 

But  warony  half  sae  Hir! 

S<se  them  nowl — how  changed  wi’  drinking  1 
A’  their  youthfu’  beauty  gane  ! 

Davered,  doited,  dai'/.ed,  and  blinking — 

Worn  to  perfect  skin  and  bane  1 

In  th ' cauld  month  o’  November 
(Claise  and  cash  and  credit  out). 

Cowering  o’er  a dying  ember, 

Wi’  ilk  face  as  white’s  a clout ! 

Bond  and  bill  and  debts  a’  stoppit, 

Hka  sheiif  sell  on  the  bent ; 

Cattle,  beds,  and  blankets  roupit 
Now  to  pay  the  laird  his  rent. 

No  anither  night  to  lodge  here — 

No  a friend  their  cause  to  plead  ! 

He’s  ta’en  on  to  be  a sorlger. 

She  wi’  weans  to  beg  her  bread  ! 

The  little  domestic  drama  is  happily  wound  up  : 
Jeanie  obtains  a cottage  and  protection  from  the 
Duchess  of  Buecleueh  ; and  Will,  after  losing  a leg 
in  battle,  returns,  ‘ placed  on  Chelsea’s  bounty',’  and 
finds  his  wife  and  family. 

Sometimes  briskly,  sometimes  flaggin’. 

Sometimes  helpit.  Will  gat  forth; 

On  a cart,  or  in  a wagon, 

Hirpling  aye  towards  the  north. 

Tired  ae  e’ening,  stepping  hooly. 

Pondering  on  his  thraward  fate, 

In  the  bonny  month  o’  .luly, 

Willie,  heedless,  tint  his  gate. 

Saft  the  southland  breeze  was  blawing. 

Sweetly  sughed  the  green  aik  wood ; 

Loud  the  din  o’  streams  fast  fa’ing, 

Strack  the  ear  wi’  thundering  thud: 

Ewes  and  lambs  on  braes  ran  bleating ; 

Linties  chirped  on  ilka  tree  ; 

Frae  the  west  the  sun,  near  setting. 

Flamed  on  Roslin’s  towers  sae  hie. 


Roslin’s  towers  and  braes  sae  bonny  I 
Craigs  and  water,  woods  and  glen  1 
Roslin’s  banks  unpeered  by  ony. 

Save  the  Muses’  Hawthornden ! 

Ilka  sound  and  charm  delighting. 

Will  (though  hardly  fit  to  gang) 

Wandered  on  through  scenes  inviting. 

Listening  to  the  mavis’  sang. 

Faint  at  length,  the  day  fast  closing, 

On  a flagrant  strawberry  steep, 

Esk’s  sweet  dream  to  rest  composing. 

Wearied  nature  drapt  asleep. 

‘ Soldier,  rise  ! — the  dews  o’  e’ening 
Gathering,  fa’  wi’  deadly  skaith  ! — 

Wounded  soldier  ! if  complaining. 

Sleep  na  here,  and  catch  your  death.' 

* * « 

Silent  stept  he  on,  poor  fallow! 

Listening  to  his  guide  ’uefore. 

O’er  green  knowe  and  flowery  hallow. 

Till  they  reached  the  cot-house  door. 

Laigh  it  was,  yet  sweet  and  humble; 

Decked  wi’  honeysuckle  round; 

Clear  below  Esk’s  waters  rumble. 

Deep  glens  murmuring  back  the  sound. 

Melville’s  towers  sae  white  and  stately. 

Dim  by  gloaming  glint  to  view  ; 

Through  Lass'vade’s  dark  woods  keek  sweetly 
Skies  sae  red  and  lift  sae  blue. 

Entering  now,  in  transport  mingle 
Mother  fond  and  happy  wean, 

Smiling  round  a canty  ingle 
Bleezing  on  a clean  hearthstane. 

‘Soldier  welcome  ! come,  be  chcerle— 

Here  ye’se  rest  and  tak’  your  bed — 

Faint,  waes  me  ! ye  seem,  and  weary. 

Pale’s  your  cheek  sae  lately  red!’ 

‘Changed  I am,’  sighed  Willie  till  her; 

‘ Changed,  nae  doubt,  as  changed  can  be  ; 

Yet,  alas!  does  .leanie  Miller 
Nought  o’  Willie  Gairlace  see?’ 

Hae  ye  marked  the  dews  o’  morning 
Glittering  in  the  sunny  ray. 

Quickly  fa’,  when,  without  warning. 

Rough  blasts  came  and  shook  the  spray  ? 

Hae  ye  seen  the  bird  fast  flet.ng, 

Drap  when  pierced  by  death  mair  fleet! 

Then  see  Jean  wi’  colour  deeing. 

Senseless  drap  at  Willie’s  feet. 

After  three  lang  years’  affliction 
(.\’  their  waes  now  hushed  to  rest), 

Jean  ance  mair,  in  fond  affection. 

Clasps  her  Willie  to  her  breast. 

The  simple  truth  and  pathos  of  descriptions  like 
these  appealed  to  the  heart,  and  soon  rendered  Mac- 
neill’s  poem  universally  popular  in  Scotland.  Its 
moral  tendency  was  also  a strong  recommendation, 
and  the  same  causes  still  operate  in  procuring 
readers  for  the  tale,  especially  in  that  class  best 
fitted  to  appreciate  its  rural  beauties  and  homely 
pictures,  and  to  receive  benefit  from  the  lessons  it 
inculcates.  Macneill  wrote  several  Scottish  lyrics, 
but  he  wanted  the  true  genius  for  song-writing — the 
pathos,  artlessness,  and  simple  gaiety  which  should 
accompany  the  flow  of  the  music.  He  published  a 
descriptive  poem,  entitled  The  Links  of  Forth,  or  a 
Parting  Peep  at  the  Carse  of  Stirling  ; and  some  prose 
tales,  in  which  he  laments  the  effect  of  modern 

4«9 


FROK  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  present  t)  mu 


cliange  and  improvement.  The  latter  years  of  the 
poet  were  spent  in  comparative  comfort  at  Edin- 
burgli,  where  he  enjoyed  the  refined  and  literary 
society  of  tlie  Scottisii  capital  till  an  advanced  age. 

Mary  of  Casih-Cary. 

Saw  ye  my  wee  thing,  saw  ye  my  ain  thing, 

Saw  ye  my  true  love  down  on  yon  lea — 

Crossed  she  the  meadow  yestreen  at  the  gloaming. 
Sought  she  the  burnie  where  flowers  the  haw-tree ; 
Her  hair  it  is  lint-white,  her  skin  it  is  milk-white, 
Dark  is  the  blue  of  her  soft  rolling  e’e  ; 

Red,  red  are  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than  roses, 
Where  could  my  w'ee  thing  wander  frae  me  ? 

I saw  nae  your  wee  thing,  I saw  nae  your  ain  thing, 
Nor  saw  1 your  true  love  down  by  yon  lea ; 

But  1 met  my  bonnie  thing  late  in  the  gloaming, 
Down  by  the  burnie  where  flowers  the  haw-tree : 
Her  hair  it  was  lint-white,  her  skin  it  was  milk-white. 
Dark  was  the  blue  of  her  soft  rolling  ,’e  ; 

Red  were  her  ripe  lips  and  sweeter  than  roses — 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gave  to  me. 

It  was  nae  my  wee  thing,  it  was  nae  my  ain  thing. 

It  was  nae  my  true  love  ye  met  by  the  tree : 

Proud  is  her  leal  heart,  and  modest  her  nature. 

She  never  loved  ony  till  ance  she  loed  me. 

Her  name  it  is  Mary,  she’s  frae  Castle-Cary, 

Aft  has  she  sat  when  a bairn  on  my  knee : 

Fair  as  your  face  is,  wert  fifty  times  fairer, 

Young  bragger,  she  ne’er  wad  gie  kisses  to  thee. 

It  was  then  your  Mary  ; she’s  frae  Castle-Cary, 

It  was  then  your  true  love  I met  by  the  tree; 

Proud  as  her  heart  is,  and  modest  her  nature. 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gave  to  me. 

Sair  gloomed  his  dark  brow,  blood-red  his  cheek  grew. 
Wild  flashed  the  fire  frae  his  red  rolling  e’e : 

Ye’se  rue  sair  this  morning  your  boasts  and  your 
scorning. 

Defend  ye,  fause  traitor,  fu’  loudly  ye  lie. 

Away  wi’  beguiling,  cried  the  youth  smiling — 

Off  went  the  bonnet,  the  lint-white  locks  flee, 

The  belted  plaid  fa’ing,  her  white  bosom  shawing. 
Fair  stood  the  loved  maid  wi’  the  dark  rolling  e’e. 
Is  it  my  wee  thing,  is  it  my  ain  thing. 

Is  it  my  true  love  here  that  I see? 

0 Jamie,  forgie  me,  your  heart’s  constant  to  me. 

I’ll  never  mair  wander,  dear  laddie,  frae  thee. 

ROBERT  TANNAHILL. 

Robert  Tannahiix,  a lyrical  poet  of  a superior 
order,  whose  songs  rival  all  but  the  best  of  Burns’s 
in  popularity,  was  born  in  Paisley  on  the  3d  of  June 
1774.  His  education  was  limited,  but  he  was  a 
diligent  reader  and  student.  He  was  early  sent  to 
the  loom,  weaving  being  the  staple  trade  of  Paisley, 
and  continued  to  follow  his  occupation  in  his  native 
town  until  his  twenty-sixth  year,  when,  with  one  of 
his  younger  brothers,  he  removed  to  Lancashire. 
There  he  continued  two  years,  when  the  declining 
state  of  his  father’s  health  induced  him  to  return. 
He  arrived  in  time  to  receive  the  dying  blessing  of 
his  parent,  and  a short  time  afterwards  we  find  him 
writing  to  a friend — ‘ My  brother  Hugh  and  I are 
all  tliat  now  remain  at  home,  with  our  old  mother, 
bending  under  age  and  frailty  ; and  but  seven  years 
back,  nine  of  us  used  to  sit  at  dinner  together.’ 
Hugh  married,  and  the  poet  was  left  .alone  with  his 
widowed  mother.  On  this  occasion  he  adopted  a 
resol  ition  which  he  has  expressed  in  the  following 
•lues  — 


The  Filial  Vow. 

AVhy  heaves  my  mother  oft  the  deep-drawn  sighl 
Why  starts  the  big  tear  glistening  in  her  eye? 

Why  oft  retire  to  hide  her  bursting  grief? 

Why  seeks  she  not,  nor  seems  to  wish  relief? 

’Tis  for  my  father,  mouldering  with  the  dead, 

My  brother,  in  bold  manhood,  lowly  laid. 

And  for  the  pains  which  age  is  doomed  to  bear, 

She  heaves  the  deep-drawn  sigh,  and  drops  the  secret 
tear. 

Yes,  partly  these  her  gloomy  thoughts  employ. 

But  mostly  this  o’erclouds  her  every  joy; 

She  grieves  to  think  she  rn.ay  be  burdensome. 

Now  feeble,  old,  and  tottering  to  the  tomb. 

0 hear  me.  Heaven  ! and  record  my  vow ; 

Its  non-performance  let  thy  wrath  pursue! 

1 swear,  of  what  thy  providence  may  give. 

My  mother  shall  her  due  maintenance  have. 

’Twas  hers  to  guide  me  through  life’s  early  day. 

To  point  out  virtue’s  paths,  and  lead  the  way : 

Now,  while  her  powers  in  frigid  languor  sleep, 

’Tis  mine  to  hand  her  down  life’s  rugged  steep ; 

With  all  her  little  weaknesses  to  bear. 

Attentive,  kind,  to  soothe  her  every  care. 

’Tis  nature  bids,  and  truest  pleasure  flows 
From  lessening  an  aged  parent’s  woes. 

The  filial  piety  of  Tannahill  is  strikingly  apparent 
from  this  effusion,  but  the  inferiority  of  the  lines  to 
any  of  his  Scottish  songs  shows  how  little  at  home 
he  was  in  English.  His  mother  outUved  him  thirteen 


Robert  Tannahill. 


years.  Though  Tannahill  had  occasionally  com- 
posed verses  from  a very  early  age,  it  was  not  till 
after  this  time  that  he  attained  to  anything  beyond 
mediocrity.  Becoming  acquainted  with  Mr  R.  A. 
Smith,  a musical  composer,  the  poet  applied  himself 
sedulously  to  lyrical  composition,  aided  by  the  en- 
couragement and  the  musical  taste  of  his  friend. 
Smitli  set  some  of  his  songs  to  original  and  appro- 
priate airs,  and  in  1807  the  poet  ventured  on  the 
publication  of  a volume  of  poems  and  songs,  of  which 
the  first  impression,  consisting  of  900  copies,  were 
sold  in  a few  weeks.  It  is  related  that  in  a solitary 
walk  on  one  occask  i,  his  musings  were  interrupted 

490 


*«ETS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  kobert  tannauill. 

by  the  voice  of  a country  girl  in  an  adjoining  field 
singing  by  herself  a song  of  his  own — 

We’ll  meet  beside  the  dusky  glen,  on  yon  bumside  ; 
and  he  used  to  say  he  was  more  pleased  at  this  evi- 
dence of  his  popularity,  than  at  any  tribute  which 
had  ever  been  paid  him.  He  afterwards  contributed 
some  songs  to  Mr  George  Thomson’s  Select  Melo- 
dies, and  exerted  himself  to  procure  Irish  airs,  of 
which  he  was  very  fond.  Wliilst  delighting  all 
classes  of  his  countrymen  with  his  native  songs,  the 
poet  fell  into  a state  of  morbid  despondency,  aggra- 
vated by  bodily  weakness,  and  a tendency  to  con- 
sumption. He  had  prepared  a new  edition  of  his 
poems  for  the  press,  and  sent  the  manuscript  to  Mr 
Constable  the  publisher ; but  it  was  returned  by  that 
gentleman,  in  consequence  of  his  having  more  new 
works  on  hand  than  he  could  undertake  that  season. 
This  disappointment  preyed  on  the  spirits  of  the 
sensitive  poet,  and  his  melancholy  became  deep  and 
habitual.  He  burned  all  his  manuscripts,  and  sank 
into  a state  of  mental  derangement.  Returning 
from  a visit  to  Glasgow  on  the  17th  of  May  1810, 
the  unhappy  poet  retired  to  rest;  but  ‘suspicion 
having  been  excited,  in  about  an  hour  afterwards  it 
was  discovered  that  he  had  stolen  out  unperceived. 
Search  was  made  in  every  direction,  and  by  the 
dawn  of  the  morning  the  coat  of  the  poet  was  dis- 
covered Ij'ing  at  the  side  of  the  tunnel  of  a neigh- 
bouring brook,  pointing  out  but  too  surely  where 
his  body  was  to  be  found.’*  Tannahill  was  a modest 
and  temperate  man,  devoted  to  his  kindred  and 
friends,  and  of  unblemished  purity  and  correctness 
of  conduct.  His  lamentable  death  arose  from  no 
want  or  irregularity,  but  was  solely  caused  by  that 
morbid  disease  of  the  mind  which  at  length  over- 
threw his  reason.  The  poems  of  this  ill-starred  son 
of  genius  are  greatly  inferior  to  his  songs.  They 
have  all  a commonplace  artificial  character.  His 
lyrics,  on  the  other  hand,  are  rich  and  original  both 
in  description  and  sentiment.  His  diction  is  copious 
and  luxuriant,  particularly  in  describing  natural 
objects  and  the  peculiar  features  of  the  Scottish 
Landscape.  His  simplicity  is  natural  and  unatfected  ; 
and  though  he  appears  to  have  possessed  a deeper 
sympathy  with  nature  than  with  the  workings  of 
human  feeling,  or  even  the  passion  of  love,  he  is 
often  tender  and  pathetic.  His  ‘ Gloomy  winter’s 
now  awa’  is  a beautiful  concentration  of  tenderness 
and  melody. 

The  Braes  o’  Balguhither. 

Let  us  go,  lassie,  go. 

To  the  braes  o’  Balquhither, 

Where  the  blae-berries  grow 

’Mang  the  bonnie  Highland  heather; 

Where  the  deer  and  the  roe. 

Lightly  bounding  together, 

Sport  the  lang  summer  day 
On  the  hraes  o’  Balquhither. 

I will  twine  thee  a bower 
By  the  clear  siller  fountain, 

And  I’ll  cover  it  o’er 

Wi’  the  flowers  of  the  mountain  ; 

I will  range  through  the  wilds. 

And  the  deep  glens  sae  drearie, 

And  return  wi’  the  spoils 
To  the  bower  o’  my  dearie. 

When  the  rude  wintry  win’ 

Idly  raves  round  our  dwelling. 

And  the  roar  of  the  linn 

On  the  night  breeze  is  swelling, 

• Memoir  prefi:;ed  to  TannahiU'a  Works.  Glasgow  1833. 

So  merrily  we’ll  sing. 

As  the  storm  rattles  o’er  us. 

Till  the  dear  shieling  ring 
Wi’  the  light  lilting  chorus. 

Now  the  summer ’s  in  prime 
Wi’  the  flowers  richly  blooming. 

And  the  wild  mountain  thyme 
A’  the  moorlands  perfuming; 

To  our  dear  native  scenes 
Let  us  journey  together. 

Where  glad  innocence  reigns 
’Mang  the  braes  o’  Balquhither. 

The  Braes  o’  Gleniffer. 

Keen  blaws  the  win’  o’er  the  braes  o’  Gleniffer, 

The  auld  castle  turrets  are  covered  with  snaw ; 

How  changed  frae  the  time  when  I met  wi’  my  lover 
Amang  the  broom  bushes  by  Stanley  green  shawl 
The  wild  flowers  o’  summer  were  spread  a’  sae  bonnie, 
The  mavis  sang  sweet  frae  the  green  birken  tree  ; 
But  far  to  the  camp  they  hae  marched  my  dear  Johnie, 
And  now  it  is  winter  wi’  nature  and  me. 

Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  blithesome  and  cheerie. 
Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  bonnie  and  braw ; 
Now  naething  is  heard  but  the  wind  whistling  drearie. 
And  naething  is  seen  but  the  wide-spreading  snaw. 
The  trees  are  a’  bare,  and  the  birds  mute  and  dowie  ; 
They  shake  the  cauld  drift  frae  their  wings  as  they 
flee ; 

And  chirp  out  their  plaints,  seeming  wae  for  my 
Johnie  ; 

’Tis  winter  wi’  them,  and  ’tis  winter  wi’  me. 

Yon  cauld  sleety  cloud  skiffs  alang  the  bleak  moun 
tain. 

And  shakes  the  dark  firs  on  the  steep  rocky  brae. 
While  down  the  deep  glen  bawls  the  snaw-flooded 
fountain. 

That  murmured  sae  sweet  to  my  ladd.e  and  me. 
It’s  no  its  loud  roar  on  the  wintry  wind  jwellin’. 

It’s  no  the  cauld  blast  brings  the  tear  i’  my  e’e  ; 
For  0!  gin  I saw  but  ray  bonnie  Scots  callan, 

The  dark  days  o’  winter  were  summer  to  me. 

The  Flower  o’  BumUane. 

The  sun  has  gane  down  o’er  the  lofty  Benlomond, 
And  left  the  red  clouds  to  preside  o’er  the  scene. 
While  lanely  I stray  in  the  calm  summer  gloamin. 
To  muse  on  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o’  Durablane. 
How  sweet  is  the  brier,  wi’  its  saft  fauldin’  blossom  1 
And  sweet  is  the  birk,  wi’  its  mantle  o’  green  ; 

Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to  this  bosom. 

Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o’  Dumblane. 

She’s  modest  as  ony,  and  blithe  as  she’s  bonnie ; 

For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its  ain : 

And  far  be  the  villain,  divested  of  feeling, 

Wha’d  blight  in  its  bloom  the  sweet  flower  o’  Duia 
blane. 

Sing  on,  thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hymn  to  the  e’ening ; 

Thou’rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Calderwood  glen  : 

Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless  and  winning. 

Is  charming  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o’  Dumblane. 

How  lost  were  my  days  till  I met  wi’  my  Jessie ! 

The  sports  o’  the  city  seemed  foolish  and  vain  ; 

I ne’er  saw  a nymph  I would  ca’  my  dear  lassie. 

Till  charmed  wi’  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o’  Dun» 
blane. 

Though  mine  were  the  station  o’  loftiest  grandeur. 
Amidst  its  profusion  I’d  languish  in  pain. 

And  reckon  as  naething  the  height  o’  its  splendour. 

If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o’  Dumblane. 

FHCM  1730  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  PRESENT  TiMi, 


Gloomy  Winter’s  now  Awa, 

Gloomy  winter’s  now  awa, 

Saft  the  westlln  breezes  blaw: 

’Mail"  tlie  bilks  o’  Stanley-shaw 
The  mavis  sings  fu’  chcerie  0. 

Sweet  tlie  craw-Hower’s  early  bell 
Decks  Olenitt'er’s  dewy  dell, 

Blooming  like  thy  bonnie  scl’, 

My  young,  my  artless  dearie  0. 

Come,  my  lassie,  let  us  stray. 

O’er  Glenkilloch’s  sunny  brae. 

Blithely  spend  the  gowden  day 
Midst  joys  that  never  wearie  0. 

Towering  o’er  the  Newton  woods, 

Lavrocks  fan  the  snaw-white  clouds; 

Siller  saughs,  wi’  downie  buds. 

Adorn  the  banks  sae  brierie  O. 

Round  the  sylvan  fairy  nooks, 

Feathery  brekans  fringe  the  rocks, 

’Neath  the  brae  the  buniie  jouks, 

And  ilka  thing  is  cheerie  0. 

Trees  may  bud,  and  birds  may  sing. 

Flowers  may  bloom,  and  verdure  spring, 

Joy  to  me  they  canna  bring. 

Unless  wi’  thee,  my  dearie  0. 

RICHARD  CALL. 

Contemporary  with  Tannahill,  and  possessing  a 
kindred  taste  in  song-writing,  was  Richard  Gall 
(1776-1801),  who,  whilst  employed  as  a printer  in 
Edinburgh,  threw  off  some  Scottish  songs  that  were 
justly  popular.  ‘ My  only  jo  and  dearie  0,’  for  pleas- 
ing fancy  and  musical  expression,  is  not  unworthy 
Tannahill.  ‘ I remember,’  says  Allan  Cunningham, 
‘ when  this  song  was  exceedingly  popular:  its  sweet- 
ness and  ease,  rather  than  its  originality  and  vigour, 
might  be  the  cause  of  its  success.  The  third  verse 
contains  a very  beautiful  picture  of  early  attach- 
ment— a sunny  bank,  and  some  sweet  soft  school- 
girl, will  appear  to  many  a fancy  when  these  lines 
Bre  sung.’ 

My  only  Jo  and  Dearie  0. 

Thy  cheek  is  o’  the  rose’s  hue. 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  U ; 

Thy  neck  is  like  the  siller-dew 
Upon  the  banks  sae  briery  0; 

Thy  teeth  are  o’  the  ivory, 

0 sweet’s  the  twinkle  o'  thine  eel 
Nae  joy,  nae  pleasure,  blinks  on  me. 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0. 

The  birdie  sings  upon  the  thorn 
Its  sang  o’ joy,  fu’  cheerie  0, 

Rejoicing  in  the  summer  morn, 

Nae  care  to  mak  it  eerie  0 ; 

But  little  kens  the  sangster  sweet 
Aught  o’  the  cares  I hae  to  meet. 

That  gar  my  restle.ss  bosom  beat. 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0. 

Whan  we  were  bairnies  on  yon  brae. 

And  youth  was  blinking  bonnie  0, 

Aft  we  wad  daff  the  lee-lang  day. 

Our  joys  fu’  sweet  and  mony  0 ; 

Aft  I wad  chase  thee  o’er  the  lea. 

And  round  about  the  thorny  tree. 

Or  pu’  the  wild  flowers  a’  for  thee. 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0. 

1 hae  a wish  I canna  tine, 

’Man"  a’  the  cares  that  grieve  me  O ; 

I wish  thou  werl  for  ever  mine, 

And  never  mair  to  leave  me  0 : 


Then  1 wad  daut  thee  night  and  day. 

Nor  ither  warldly  care  wad  hae. 

Till  life’s  warm  stream  forgot  to  play. 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0. 

Farewell  to  Ayrshire. 

[This  song  of  Gall’s  has  been  often  printed — in  consequoDm 
of  its  locality — as  the  coniiiusition  of  litu'ns.) 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure. 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew  ; 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure. 

Now  a sad  and  last  adieu  1 

Bonny  Doon,  sae  sweet  at  gloaming. 

Fare  thee  weel  before  1 gang — 

Bonny  Doon,  where,  early  roamin". 

First  1 weaved  the  rustic  sang. 

Bowers  adieu  ! where  love  decoying. 

First  enthralled  this  heart  o’  mine; 

There  the  .saftest  sweets  enjoying. 

Sweets  that  memory  ne’er  shall  tine! 

Friends  so  dear  my  bosom  ever. 

Ye  hae  rendered  moments  dear; 

But,  alas ! when  forced  to  sever. 

Then  the  stroke,  oh!  how  severe! 

Friend.s,  that  parting  tear  reserve  it. 

Though  ’tis  doubly  dear  to  me ; 

Could  I think  1 did  deserve  it. 

How  much  happier  would  I be! 

Scenes  of  wo  and  .scenes  of  pleasure. 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew ; 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure. 

Now  a sad  and  last  adieu! 

JOHN  MAYNE. 

John  Mayne,  author  of  the  Siller  Gun,  Glaagmo, 
and  other  poems,  was  a native  of  Dumfries — born  in 
the  year  1761 — and  died  in  London  in  1836.  He 
was  brought  up  to  the  printing  business,  and  whilst 
apprentice  in  the  Dumfries  Journal  office  in  1777, 
in  his  sixteenth  year,  he  published  the  germ  of 
his  ‘ Siller  Gun’  in  a quarto  page  of  twelve  stanzas. 
The  subject  of  the  poem  is  an  ancient  custom  in 
Dumfries,  called  ‘ Shooting  for  the  Siller  Gun,’  the 
gun  being  a small  silver  tube  presented  by  James 
VI.  to  the  incorporated  trades  as  a prize  to  the  best 
marksman.  This  poem  Mr  Majme  continued  to 
enlarge  and  improve  up  to  the  time  of  his  death. 
The  twelve  stanzas  expanded  in  two  years  to  two 
cantos;  in  another  year  (1780)  the  poem  was  pub- 
lished— enlarged  to  three  cantos — in  Ruddiman’s 
Magazine  ; and  in  1808  it  was  published  in  London 
in  four  cantos.  This  edition  was  seen  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  who  said  (in  one  of  his  notes  to  the  Lady  of 
the  Lake)  ‘that  it  surjiassed  the  efforts  of  Fergusson, 
and  came  near  to  those  of  Burns.’  In  1836  the  ’ Siller 
Gun’  was  again  reprintca  with  the  addition  of  a fifth 
canto.  Mr  Mayne  was  author  of  a short  poem  on 
//a//oK'cc7i,  printed  in  Uuddiman’s  Magazine  in  1780; 
and  in  1781  he  published  at  Glasgow  his  fine  b.allad 
of  Logan  Braes,  which  Burns  had  seen,  and  two  lines 
of  which  he  copied  into  his  Logan  Water.  The 
‘Siller  Gun’  is  humorous  and  descriptive,  and  is 
happy  in  both.  The  author  is  a shrewd  and  lively 
observer,  full  of  glee,  and  also  of  gentle  and  affec- 
tionate recollections  of  his  native  town  and  all  its 
people  and  pastimes.  The  ballad  of  ‘ Logan  Braes’ 
is  a simple  and  beautiful  lyric,  superior  to  the  more 
elaborate  version  of  Burns.  Though  lung  resident 
in  London  (as  proprietor  of  the  Star  newspaiier), 
Mr  Mayne  retaineil  his  Scottish  enthusiasm  to  the 
last;  and  to  those  who,  like  ourselves,  recollect  him 
in  advanced  life,  stopping  in  the  midst  of  his  duties, 
as  a public  journalist,  to  trace  some  remembrance 

492 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


rtKTS. 


of  liis  native  Dumfries  and  ttie  banks  of  the  Nitli, 
or  to  Imin  over  some  rural  or  pastoral  son};  which 
he  had  heard  forty  or  fifty  years  before,  his  name, 
as  well  as  his  poetry,  recalls  the  strength  and  per- 
nianci'cy  of  early  feelings  and  associations. 

Logan  Braes. 

By  Logan  streams  that  rin  sae  deep, 

Fu’  aft  wi’  glee  I’ve  herded  sheep  ; 

Herded  sheep  and  gathered  shies, 

\Vi’  niv  dear  lad  on  Logan  braes. 

But  ivae’s  my  heart,  thae  days  are  gane, 

And  I wi’  grief  may  herd  alane, 

^t'hile  my  dear  la<i  maun  face  his  faes, 

Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

Nae  mair  at  Logan  kirk  will  he 
Atween  the  preachings  meet  wi’  me; 

Meet  wi’  me,  or  when  it’s  mirk. 

Convoy  me  hame  frae  Logan  kirk. 

1 weel  m.ay  sing  thae  days  are  gane; 

Frae  kirk  and  fair  1 come  alane. 

While  mv  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 

Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

At  e’en,  when  hope  amaist  is  gane, 

1 dauner  out  and  sit  alane; 

Sit  alane  beneath  the  tree 
Where  aft  he  kept  his  tryst  wi’  me. 

Oh  ! could  1 see  thae  days  again. 

My  lover  skaithless,  and  my  ain  ! 

Beloved  by  friends,  revered  by  faes, 

We’d  live  in  bliss  on  Logan  braes  1 

nden  of  Kirkconnd. 

[Helen  IrvinR,  a young  lady  of  exquisite  beauty  and  accom- 
plishnieuts,  daiigliter  of  the  l.aird  of  Kirkconnel,  iu  Annan- 
dale,  w!is  b.  trotlied  to  Aiiam  I'leniing  de  Kirkpatrick,  a young 
gentleman  of  rank  and  fiirtiine  iu  tliat  neighbourhood.  Walk- 
ing with  her  lover  on  the  swiet  banks  of  the  Kirtle,  she  was 
murdered  by  a dis;ipiK)inted  and  sanguinary  rival.  This  catas- 
trophe tfsik  iilace  diu*uig  the  reign  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  and 
is  the  suliject  of  three  different  ballads:  the  first  two  are  old, 
the  third  is  the  composition  of  the  author  of  the  ‘ Siller  Gun.* 
It  was  tiiNt  inserted  in  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register  111115) 
by  Sir  M* alter  Scott.] 

I wish  I were  where  Helen  lies. 

For,  night  and  day,  on  me  she  cries  ; 

And,  like  an  angel,  to  the  skies 
Still  seems  to  beckon  me  ! 

For  me  she  lived,  for  me  .she  sighed. 

For  me  she  wished  to  be  a bride  ; 

For  me  in  life’s  sweet  morn  she  died 
On  fair  Kirkconnel-Lee ! 

Where  Kirtle-waters  gently  wind, 

As  Helen  on  my  arm  reclined, 

A riial  with  a ruthless  mind. 

Took  deadly  aim  at  me: 

My  love,  to  disappoint  the  foe. 

Rushed  in  between  me  and  the  blow  ; 

And  now  her  corse  is  lying  low 
On  fair  Kirkconnel-Lee! 

Though  heaven  forbids  my  wrath  to  swell, 

I curse  the  hand  by  which  she  fell — 

The  fiend  who  made  my  heaven  a hell. 

And  tore  my  love  from  me  ! 

For  if,  where  all  the  graces  shine — 

Oh!  if  on  earth  there’s  aught  divine. 

My  Helen ! all  these  charms  were  thine — 

They  centered  all  iu  thee ! 

Ah  ! what  avails  it  that,  amain, 

I clove  the  assassin’s  head  in  twain  t 
No  peace  of  mind,  my  Helen  slain, 


JOHN  MATNb. 


No  resting-place  for  me: 

I see  her  spirit  in  the  air — 

I hear  the  shriek  of  wild  despair. 

When  Murder  laid  her  bosom  bare, 

On  fair  Kirkconnel-Lee  1 

Oh  ! when  I’m  sleeping  in  my  grave. 

And  o’er  my  head  the  rank  weeds  wave, 

May  He  who  life  and  .spirit  gave 
Unite  my  love  and  me  ! 

Then  from  this  world  of  doubts  and  sighs. 

My  soul  on  wings  of  peace  shall  rise  ; 

And,  joining  Helen  in  the  skies, 

Forget  Kirkconnel-Lee  1 

To  the  River  Nith, 

Hail,  gentle  stream  ! for  ever  dear 
Thy  rudest  murmurs  to  mine  ear  ! 

Torn  from  thy  banks,  though  far  I rove. 

The  slave  of  poverty  and  love. 

Ne’er  shall  thy  bard,  where’er  he  be, 

Without  a sigh  remember  thee  1 
For  there  my  infant  years  began. 

And  there  my  hapiiie.st  minutes  ran  ; 

And  there  to  love  and  friendship  true. 

The  blossoms  of  affection  grew. 

Blithe  on  thy  banks,  thou  sweetest  stream 
That  ever  nursed  a i>oet’s  dream  ! 

Oft  have  1 in  forbidden  time 
(If  youth  could  sanctify  a crime). 

With  hazel  rod  and  fraudful  fly. 

Ensnared  thy  unsuspecting  fry  ; 

In  pairs  have  dragged  them  from  their  den. 
Till,  chased  by  lurking  fishermen. 

Away  I’ve  flown  as  fleet  as  wind. 

My  lagging  followers  far  behind. 

And  when  the  vain  pursuit  was  o’er, 

Returned  successful  as  before. 

[ifustering  of  the  Trades  to  Shoot  for  the  Siller  Qun, 

The  lift  was  clear,  the  mom  serene. 

The  sun  just  glinting  owre  the  scene. 

When  James  M‘Noe  began  again 
To  beat  to  arnns. 

Rousing  the  heart  o’  man  and  wean 
Wi’  war’s  alarms. 

Frae  far  and  near  the  country  lads 
(Their  joes  ahint  them  on  their  yads) 

Flocked  in  to  .see  the  show  in  squads  ; 

And,  what  was  dafter. 

Their  pawky  mithers  and  their  dads 
Cam  trotting  after! 

And  mony  a beau  and  belle  were  there. 

Doited  wi’  dozing  on  a chair ; 

For  lest  they’d,  sleeping,  spoil  their  hair. 

Or  miss  the  sight. 

The  gowk.s,  like  bairns  before  a fair. 

Sat  up  a’  night ! 

Wi’  hats  as  black  as  ony  raven. 

Fresh  as  the  rose,  their  beards  new  shaven. 

And  a’  their  Sunday’s  deeding  having 
Sae  trim  and  gay. 

Forth  cam  our  Trades,  some  ora  saving 
To  wair  that  day. 

Fair  fa’  ilk  canny,  caidgy  carl, 

Weel  may  he  bruik  his  new  apparel! 

And  never  dree  the  bitter  snarl 
0’  scowling  wife! 

But,  blest  in  pantry,  barn,  and  barrel. 

Be  blithe  through  life ! 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  present  time, 


FROM  1780 


Ilech,  sirs!  what  crowds  cam  into  town, 

To  see  them  mustering  up  and  down  1 
Lasses  and  lads,  sun-burnt  and  brown — 

Women  and  weans, 

Gentle  and  semplo,  mingling,  crown 
The  gladsome  scenes ! 

At  first,  forenent  ilk  Deacon’s  hallan, 

His  ain  brigade  was  made  to  fall  in  ; 

And,  while  the  muster-roll  was  calling, 

And  joybells  jowing, 

Het-pints,  weel  spiced,  to  keep  the  saul  in, 
Around  were  flowing ! 

Broiled  kipper,  cheese,  and  bread,  and  ham. 
Laid  the  foundation  for  a dram 
O’  whisky,  gin  frae  Rotterdam, 

Or  cherry  brandy ; 

Whilk  after,  a’  was  fish  that  cam 
To  Jock  or  Sandy  : 

O I weel  ken  they  wha  lo’e  their  chappin. 

Drink  maks  the  auldest  swack  and  strapping; 
Gars  Care  forget  the  ills  that  happen — 

The  blate  look  spruce — 

And  even  the  thowless  cock  their  tappin, 

And  craw  fu’  croose  I 

The  muster  owre,  the  different  bands 
File  aff  in  parties  to  the  sands  ; 

Where,  ’mid  loud  laughs  and  clapping  hands, 
Gley’d  Geordy  Smith 
Reviews  them,  and  their  line  expands 
Alang  the  Nith  I 

But  ne’er,  for  uniform  or  air. 

Was  sic  a group  reviewed  elsewhere  ! 

The  short,  the  tall ; fiit  folk,  and  spare  ; 

Syde  coats,  and  dockit ; 

Wigs,  queues,  and  clubs,  and  curly  hair; 
Round  hats,  and  cockit ! 

As  to  their  guns — thae  fell  engines. 

Borrowed  or  begged,  were  of  a’  kinds 
For  bloody  war,  or  bad  designs. 

Or  shooting  cushies — 

Lang  fowling-pieces,  carabines. 

And  blunderbusses ! 

Maist  feck,  though  oiled  to  raak  them  glimmer, 
Hadna  been  shot  for  mony  a simmer; 

And  Fame,  the  story-telling  kimmer. 

Jocosely  hints 

That  some  o’  them  had  bits  o’  timmer 
Instead  o’  flints ! 

Some  guns,  she  threeps,  within  her  ken. 

Were  spiked,  to  let  nae  priming  ben ; 

And,  as  in  twenty  there  were  ten 
Worm-eaten  stocks, 

Sae,  here  and  there,  a rozit-end 
Held  on  their  locks  ! 

And  then,  to  show  what  difference  stands 
Atween  the  leaders  and  their  bands, 

Swords  that,  unsheathed  since  Prestonpans, 
Neglected  lay. 

Were  furbished  up,  to  grace  the  hands 
O’  chiefs  this  day! 

* Ohon  !’  says  George,  and  ga’e  a grane, 

‘ The  age  o’  chivalry  is  gane  !’ 

Syne,  having  owre  and  owre  again 
The  hale  surveyed. 

Their  route,  and  a’  things  else,  made  plain. 

He  snufled,  and  said  : 


‘ Now,  gentlemen ! now,  mind  the  motion, 

And  dinna,  this  time,  mak  a botion : 

Shouthcr  your  arms ! O ! ha’d  them  tosh  on. 

And  not  athraw! 

Wheel  wi’  your  left  hands  to  the  ocean. 

And  march  awa  !’ 

Wi’  that,  the  dinlin  drums  rebound. 

Fifes,  clarionets,  and  hautboys  sound  I 
Through  crowds  on  crowds,  collected  round. 

The  Corporations 

Trudge  aff,  while  Echo’s  self  is  drowned 
In  acclamations  ! 

SIR  ALEXANDER  BOSWELL. 

Sir  Alexander  Boswell  (1775-1822),  the  eldest 
son  of  Johnson’s  biographer,  was  author  of  some 
amusing  songs,  which  are  still  very  popular.  Auld 
Gudeman,  ye're  a Druchen  Carle,  Jenny's  Bawbee, 
Jenny  Dang  the  Weaver,  &c.  display  considerable 
comic  humour,  and  coarse  but  characteristic  paint- 
ing. TTie  higher  qualities  of  simple  rustic  grace  and 
elegance  he  seems  never  to  have  attempted.  In 
180.3  Sir  Alexander  collected  his  fugitive  pieces,  and 
published  them  under  the  title  of  Songs  chiefly  in  the 
Scottish  Dialect.  In  1810  he  published  a Scottish 
dialogue,  in  the  style  of  Fergusson,  called  Edinburgh, 
or  the  Ancient  Royalty  ; a Sketch  of  Manners,  by  Simon 
Gray.  This  Sketch  is  greatly  overcharged.  Sir 
Alexander  was  an  ardent  lover  of  our  early  litera- 
ture, and  reprinted  several  works  at  his  private 
printing-press  at  Auchinleck.  When  politics  ran 
high,  he  unfortunately  wrote  some  personal  satires, 
for  one  of  which  he  received  a challenge  from  Mr 
Stuart  of  Dunearn.  The  parties  met  at  Auchter- 
tool,  in  Fifeshire  : conscious  of  his  error.  Sir  Alex- 
ander resolved  not  to  fire  at  his  opponent;  but  Mr 
Stuart’s  shot  took  effect,  and  the  unfortunate  baronet 
fell.  He  died  from  the  wound  on  the  following  day, 
the  26th  of  March  1822.  He  had  been  elevated  to 
the  baronetcy  only  the  year  previous. 

Jenny  Dang  the  Weaver. 

At  Willie’s  wedding  on  the  green, 

The  lassies,  bonny  witches  ! 

Were  a’  dressed  out  in  aprons  clean. 

And  braw  white  Sunday  mutches : 

Auld  Maggie  bade  the  lads  tak’  tent, 

But  Jock  would  not  believe  her; 

But  soon  the  fool  his  folly  kent. 

For  Jenny  dang  the  weaver. 

And  Jenny  dang,  Jenny  dang, 

Jenny  dang  the  weaver; 

But  soon  the  fool  his  folly  kent. 

For  Jenny  dang  the  weaver. 

At  ilka  country  dance  or  reel, 

Wi’  her  he  would  be  bobbing ; 

When  she  sat  down,  he  sat  down. 

And  to  her  would  be  gabbing ; 

Where’er  she  gaed,  baith  butt  and  ben. 

The  coof  would  never  leave  her ; 

Aye  keckling  like  a clocking  hen. 

But  Jenny  dang  the  weaver. 

Jenny  dang,  &c. 

Quo’  he.  My  lass,  to  speak  my  mind, 

In  troth  I needna  swither  ; 

You’ve  bonny  een,  and  if  you’re  kind. 

I’ll  never  seek  anither : 

He  hummed  and  hawed,  the  lass  cried,  Peugh, 
And  bade  the  coof  no  deave  her ; 

Syne  snapt  her  fingers,  lap  and  leugh. 

And  dang  the  silly  weaver. 

And  Jenny  dang,  Jenny  dang, 

Jenny  dang  the  weaver  ; 

Syne  snapt  her  fingers,  lap  and  leugh. 

And  dang  the  silly  weaver. 

494 


rosTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  ALEXANDER  BOSWELL. 


Jenny’s  Bawbee. 

I met  four  chaps  j'on  b'irks  amang, 

W’i’  hingin’  lugs,  and  faces  lang ; 

1 speered  at  neibour  Mauldy  Strangi 
Wha’s  thae  1 seel 

Quo’  he,  ilk  cream-faced,  pawky  chiel, 

Thought  hiin.seT  cunnin’  as  the  de’il, 

And  here  they  cam,  awa  to  steal 
Jenny’s  bawbee. 

The  first,  a captain  till  his  trade, 

Wi’  skull  ill  lined,  and  back  weel  clad, 

Marched  round  the  barn,  and  by  the  shed, 

And  pappit  on  his  knee. 

Quo’  he,  ‘ My  goddess,  nymph,  and  queen, 

Vour  beauty’s  dazzled  baith  my  een  ;’ 

But  de’il  a beauty  he  had  seen 

But — Jenny’s  bawbee. 

A lawyer  neist,  wi’  bletherin’  gab, 

Wha  speeches  wove  like  ony  wab, 

Tn  ilk  ane’s  corn  aye  took  a dab, 

And  a’  for  a fee : 

Accounts  he  had  through  a’  the  town. 

And  tradesmen’s  tongues  nae  mair  could  drown  ; 
Haith  now  he  thought  to  clout  his  gown 
Wi’  Jenny’s  bawbee. 

A Norland  laird  neist  trotted  up, 

Wi’  bawsened  naig  and  siller  whup. 

Cried,  ‘ There’s  my  beast,  lad,  baud  the  grup, 

Or  tie’t  till  a tree. 

What’s  gowd  to  me  1 — I’ve  walth  o’  Ian’ ; 

Bestow  on  ane  o’  worth  your  ban’ ;’ 

He  thought  to  pay  what  he  was  aivn 
Wi’  Jenny’s  bawbee. 

A’  spruce  frae  ban’boxes  and  tubs, 

A Thing  cam  neist  (but  life  has  rubs), 

Foul  were  the  roads,  and  fou  the  dubs, 

Ah ! waes  me! 

A’  clatty,  squintin’  through  a glass. 

He  girned,  ‘ I’faith  a bonnie  lass!’ 

He  thought  to  win,  wi’  front  o’  brass, 

Jenny’s  bawbee. 

She  bade  the  laird  gang  comb  his  wig. 

The  sodger  no  to  strut  sae  big, 

’’I'he  lawyer  no  to  be  a prig. 

The  fool  cried,  ‘ Tehee, 

I kent  that  I could  never  fail !’ 

She  prined  the  dish-clout  till  his  tail. 

And  cooled  him  wi’  a water-pail. 

And  kept  her  bawbee. 

Good  Night,  and  Joy  be  wi’  ye  a’. 

'This  song  is  supposed  to  proceed  from  the  mouth  of  an  aged 
chieftain.] 

C^od  night,  and  joy  be  wi’  ye  a’ ; 

Your  harmless  mirth  has  charmed  my  heart ; 
May  life’s  fell  blasts  out  owre  ye  blaw ! 

In  sorrow  may  ye  never  part ! 

My  spirit  lives,  but  strength  is  gone  ; 

The  mountain-fires  now  blaze  in  vain  : 
Remember,  sons,  the  deeds  I’ve  done. 

And  in  your  deeds  I’ll  live  again  1 

When  on  yon  muir  our  gallant  clan 
Frae  boasting  foes  their  banners  tore, 

Wha  showed  himself  a better  man. 

Or  fiercer  waved  the  red  claymore  I 
But  when  in  peace — then  mark  me  there — 

When  through  the  glen  the  wanderer  came, 

I gave  him  of  our  lordly  fare, 

I gave  him  here  a welcome  hame. 


The  auld  will  speak,  the  young  maun  hear ; 

Be  cantie,  but  be  good  and  leal ; 

Your  ain  ills  aye  hae  heart  to  bear, 
Anither’s  aye  hae  heart  to  feel. 

So,  ere  I set,  I’ll  see  you  shine. 

I’ll  see  you  triumph  ere  I fa’ ; 

My  parting  breath  shall  boast  you  min^— 
Good  night,  and  joy  be  wi’  you  a’. 


Tier  upon  tier  I see  the  mansions  rise. 

Whose  azure  summits  mingle  with  the  skies ; 

There,  from  the  earth  the  labouring  porters  bear 
The  elements  of  fire  and  water  high  in  air ; 

There,  as  you  scale  the  steps  with  toilsome  tread, 

The  dripping  barrel  madifies  your  head  ; 

Thence,  as  adown  the  giddy  round  you  wheel, 

A rising  porter  greets  you  with  his  creel ! 

Here,  in  these  chambers,  ever  dull  and  dark, 

The  lady  gay  received  her  gayer  spark. 

Who,  clad  in  silken  coat,  with  cautious  tread, 
Trembled  at  opening  casements  overhead  ; 

But  when  in  safety  at  her  porch  he  trod, 

Ho  seized  the  ring,  and  rasped  the  twisted  rod. 

No  idlers  then,  I trow,  were  seen  to  meet. 

Linked,  six  a-row,  six  hours  in  Princes  Street ; 

But,  one  by  one,  they  panted  up  the  hill. 

And  picked  their  steps  with  most  uncommon  skill ; 
Then,  at  the  Cross,  each  joined  the  motley  mob — 

‘ How  are  ye,  Tam  ? and  how’s  a’  wi’  ye,  Bob  V 
Next  to  a neighbouring  tavern  all  retired. 

And  draughts  of  wine  their  various  thoughts  inspired. 
O’er  draughts  of  wine  the  beau  would  moan  his  love ; 
O’er  draughts  of  wine  the  cit  his  bargain  drove  ; 

O’er  draughts  of  wine  the  writer  penned  the  will ; 
And  legal  wisdom  counselled  o’er  a giii. 

# * 

Yes,  mark  the  street,  for  youth  the  great  resort, 

Its  spacious  width  the  theatre  of  sport. 

There,  midst  the  crowd,  the  jingling  hoop  is  driven , 
Full  many  a leg  is  hit,  and  curse  is  given. 

There,  on  the  pavement,  mystic  forms  are  chalked, 
Defaced,  renewed,  delayed — but  never  balked  ; 

There  romping  Miss  the  rounded  slate  may  drop, 

And  kick  it  out  with  persevering  hop. 

There,  in  the  dirty  current  of  the  strand. 

Boys  drop  the  rival  corks  with  ready  hand. 

And,  wading  through  the  puddle  with  slow  pace, 
Watch  in  solicitude  the  doubtful  race ! 

And  there,  an  active  band,  with  frequent  boast. 

Vault  in  succession  o’er  each  wooden  post. 

Or  a bold  stripling,  noted  for  his  might. 

Heads  the  array,  and  rules  the  mimic  fight. 

From  hand  and  sling  now  fly  the  whizzing  stones, 
Unheeded  broken  heads  and  broken  bones. 

The  rival  hosts  in  close  engagemelit  mix. 

Drive  and  are  driven  by  the  dint  of  sticks. 

The  bicker  rages,  till  some  mother’s  fears 
Ring  a sad  story  in  a bailie’s  ears. 

Her  prayer  is  heard  ; the  order  quick  is  sped. 

And,  from  that  corps  which  hapless  Porteous  led, 

A brave  detachment,  probably  of  two. 

Rush,  like  two  kites,  upon  the  warlike  crew. 

Who,  struggling,  like  the  fabled  frogs  and  mice. 

Are  pounced  upon,  and  carried  in  a trice. 

But,  mark  that  motley  group,  in  various  garb — 
There  vice  begins  to  form  her  rankling  barb  ; 

The  germ  of  gambling  sprouts  in  pitch-and-toss, 

And  brawl,  successive,  tells  disputed  loss. 

From  hand  to  hand  the  whirling  halfpence  pass, 

And,  every  copper  gone,  they  fly  to  brass. 

Those  polished  rounds  which  decorate  the  coat. 

And  brilliant  shine  upon  some  youth  of  note, 

49h 


\The  nigh  Street  of  Edinburgh."] 
[From  ‘ Edinburgh,  or  the  Ancient  Royalty.*] 


FROM  17f!0 


CYCLOP^]DIA  OF 


Tll.t,  THE  PRESENT  TlMh 


()H>i,riii;;  of  l!irmiii';haiiri‘  creative  art, 

Now  fi'oiii  tlie  faitliful  buttoii-liolcs  depart. 

To  sudden  twitch  the  rending  stitches  yield, 

And  Knteiprise  again  essays  the  field. 

So,  when  a few  Hect  years  of  his  sliort  span 
Have  ripened  this  dire  passion  in  the  man. 

When  thousand  after  thousand  takes  its  flight 
In  the  short  circuit  of  one  wretched  night, 

Next  shall  the  honours  of  the  forest  fall. 

And  ruin  desolate  the  chieftain’s  hall ; 

Hill  after  hill  some  cunning  clerk  shall  gain; 

Then  in  a mendicant  hehoid  a thane! 

jAMF.s  noco. 

.Tames  IIoog,  generally  known  by  hi.s  poetical 
name  of  ‘The  Ettriek  Shepherd,’  was  perhaps  the 
most  creative  and  imaginative  of  the  tineducated 
poets.  His  fancy  had  a wide  range,  picturing  in  its 
flights  scenes  of  wild  aerial  magnificence  and  beauty. 
His  taste  was  very  defective,  though  he  had  done 
mmdi  to  repair  his  early  want  of  instruction.  His 
occupation  of  a shepherd,  among  solitary  hills  and 
glens,  must  have  been  favourable  to  his  poetical  en- 
thusiasm. lie  was  not,  like  Hums,  thrown  into 
society  when  young,  and  forced  to  combat  with  mis- 
fortune. His  destiny  was  unvaried,  until  he  had 
aniveil  at  a period  when  the  bent  of  his  genius  was 
fixed  for  life.  Without  society  during  the  day,  his 
even  ing  hours  were  spent  in  listening  to  ancient 
legends  and  hallads,  of  which  his  mother  (like  Hurns’s) 
vas  a great  reciter.  This  nursery  of  imagination  he 
lias  himself  beautifully  described: — 

0 list  the  mystic  lore  sublime 
Of  fairy  talcs  of  ancient  time  ! 

1 learned  them  in  the  lonely  glen. 

The  last  abodes  of  living  men, 

Where  never  stranger  came  our  way 
By  summer  ideht,  or  winter  day; 

Where  neighbouring  hind  or  cot  was  none — 

Our  converse  was  with  heaven  alone — 

T\'ith  voices  through  the  cloud  that  sung. 

And  brooding  storms  that  round  us  hung. 

O lady,  Judge,  if  judge  ye  may'. 

How  stern  and  ample  was  the  .sway 
Of  themes  like  these  when  darkness  fell. 

And  gray-haired  .sires  the  tales  would  tell! 

AVhen  doors  were  barred,  and  elder  dame 
Plied  at  her  task  beside  the  flame 
That  through  the  smoke  and  gloom  alone 
On  dim  and  umbered  faces  shone — 

The  bleat  of  mountain  goat  on  high. 

That  from  the  clitf  came  quavering  by; 

The  echoing  rock,  the  rushing  flood. 

The  cataract’s  swell,  the  moaning  wood  ; 

The  undefined  and  mi  ngled  h um — 

Voice  of  the  desert  never  dumb  ! 

All  these  have  left  within  this  heart 
A feeling  tongue  can  ne’er  impart; 

A wildered  ai.d  unearthly  flame, 

A something  that’s  without  a name. 

ITogg  was  descended  from  a family  of  shepherds, 
and  born,  as  he  alleged  (though  the  point  was  often 
oisputed)  on  the  25th  January  (Burns’s  bii'thday), 
in  the  year  1772.  When  a mere  child  he  was  put 
out  ‘,o  service,  acting  first  as  a cow-herd,  until  cap- 
able of  taking  care  of  a flock  of  sheep.  He  had  in 
all  about  half  a year’s  schooling.  When  eighteen 
years  of  age  he  entered  the  service  of  Mr  laiidlaw, 
Blackhouse.  He  was  then  an  eager  reader  of  poetry 
and  roti’.ance.s,  and  he  subscribed  to  a circulating 
library  in  Peebles,  the  miscellaneous  contents  of 
wiiich  be  perused  with  the  utmost  avidity.  He  w.as 
a remarkably  fine-looking  young  man,  with  a pro- 
fusion of  light-brown  hair,  which  be  wore  coiled  up 


under  his  hat  or  blue  bonnet,  the  envy  of  all  the 
country  maidens.  An  attack  of  illness,  however, 
brought  on  by  over-exertion  on  a hot  summer  day, 
completely  altered  his  countenance,  anil  changed  the 
very  form  of  his  fe.itures.  His  first  liteniry  effort 
was  in  song-writing,  and  in  1801  he  [mblished  a 
small  volume  of  pieces.  He  was  introduced  to  Sir 
Walter  Scott  by  his  master’s  son,  Mr  William  Laid- 
hiw,  and  assisted  in  the  collection  of  old  ballads  for 
the  Border  Minstrelsy.  He  .soon  imitated  the  style 
of  these  ancient  strains  with  great  felicity,  and  pub- 
lished another  volume  of  songs  and  poems  under  the 
title  of  The  Muantain  Bard.  He  now  eir.barked  :ii 
sheep-farming,  and  took  a journey  to  the  island  of 
Harris  on  a speculation  of  this  kind  ; but  all  he  had 
saved  as  a shepherd,  or  by  his  publication,  was  lost 
in  these  attempts.  He  then  repaired  to  Edinburgh, 
and  endeavoured  to  subsist  by  his  pen.  A collection 
of  songs,  The  Purest  Minstrel,  was  his  first  effort* 
his  second  was  a periodical  called  The  Sj»j;  but  it 
was  not  till  the  publication  of  the  Queen's  Wake,  in 
1813,  that  the  shepherd  established  his  reputation 
as  an  author.  This  ‘ legendary  poem  ’ consists  of  a 
collection  of  tales  and  hallads  supposed  to  be  sung 
to  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  by  the  native  bards  of  Scot- 
land assembled  at  a royal  wake  at  Holyrood,  in 
order  that  tlie  fair  queen  might  prove 

The  wondrous  powers  of  Scottish  song. 

The  design  was  excellent,  and  the  execution  so  varied 
and  masterly,  that  Hogg  was  at  once  placed  among 
the  first  of  our  living  poets.  The  different  produc- 
tions of  the  native  minstrels  are  strung  together  by 
a thread  of  narrative  so  gracefully  written  in  many 
parts,  Jiat  the  reader  is  surprised  equally  at  the  de- 
licacy and  the  genius  of  the  author.  At  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  poem,  Hogg  alludes  to  his  illustrious 
friend  Scott,  and  adverts  with  some  feeling  to  an 
advice  which  Sir  Walter  had  once  given  him,  to  ab 
stain  from  his  worship  of  poetry. 

The  land  was  charmed  to  li.st  his  lays  ; 

It  knew  the  harp  of  ancient  days. 

The  border  chiefs  that  long  had  been 
In  sepulchres  unhearsed  and  green. 

Passed  from  their  mouldy  vaults  away 
In  armour  red  and  stern  array. 

And  by  their  moonlight  halls  wore  seen 
In  vi.sor,  helm,  and  habergeon. 

Even  fairies  sought  our  land  again, 

So  powerful  was  the  magic  strain. 

Blest  be  his  generous  heart  for  ayel 
He  told  me  where  the  relic  lay ; 

Pointed  my  way  with  ready  will 
Afar  on  Ettrick’s  wildest  bill  ; 

Watched  my  first  notes  with  curious  eye, 

And  wondered  at  my  minstrelsy : 

He  little  weened  a jiarent’s  tongue 
Such  strains  had  o’er  inv  cradle  sung. 

But  when  to  native  feelings  true, 

I struck  upon  a chord  was  new  ; 

When  by  iny.self  I ’gan  to  play. 

He  tried  to  rvile  my  harp  away. 

Just  when  her  notes  began  with  skill. 

To  sound  beneath  the  southern  hill. 

And  twine  around  iny  bosom’s  core. 

How  couhl  we  part  for  evermore  ? 

’Twas  kindness  all — I cannot  blame — 

Fcr  bootless  is  the  minstrel  flame  : 

But  sure  a bard  might  well  have  known 
Another’s  feelings  by  his  own  ! 

Scott  was  grieved  at  this  allusion  to  his  friendly 
counsel,  as  it  was  given  at  a time  when  no  one 
dreamed  of  the  shepherd  possessing  the  powers  that 
he  displayed  iu  the  ‘ Queen’s  Wake.’  Various  works 

49C 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JAMES  nooo. 


now  pr(Kt‘C‘di‘(l  from  his  pen — Mador  of  (he  Moor,  a 
piH'in  in  tlie  Spenserian  stanza ; The  Tilgrims  of  (he 
Son,  in  Wank  verse;  The  Hunting  of  Bitdleice,  The 
I'oetic  M irror.  Queen  llynde.  Droma(ic']’alcs,8i.Q.  Also 
several  novels,  as  U'mfer  Evening  Tales,  The  Brownie 
of  Boilsheck,  The  Three  Perils  of  Man,  The  Three  Perils 
of  H'o/waa,  The  Confessions  of  a Sinner,  &e.  &c, 
Hogg’s  prose  is  very  unequal.  He  had  no  skill  in 
arranging  ineidents  or  delineating  character.  He  is 
often  coarse  and  extravagant ; yet  some  of  his  stories 
have  much  of  the  literal  truth  and  happy  minute 
painting  of  Defoe.  The  worldly  schemes  of  the 
shepherd  were  seldom  successful.  Though  he  h.ad 
failed  as  a sheep  farmer,  he  venture<l  again,  and  took 
a large  farm.  Mount  Benger,  from  the  Duke  of  Buc- 
cleuch.  Here  he  also  was  unsuccessful ; and  his  sole 
support,  for  the  latter  years  of  his  life,  was  the  re- 
muneration afforded  by  his  literary  labours.  He 
] lived  in  a cottage  which  he  had  built  at  Altrive,  on 
1 a piece  of  moorland  (seventy  acres)  presented  to 
liim  by  the  Duchess  of  Buccleuch.  His  love  of 
angling  and  field-sports  amounted  to  a passion,  and 
when  he  could  no  longer  fish  or  hunt,  he  declared 
his  belief  that  his  death  was  near.  In  the  autumn 
of  1835  he  was  attacked  with  a dropsical  complaint; 
and  on  the  2lst  November  of  that  year,  after  some 
d;rys  of  insensibility,  he  breathed  his  last  as  calmly, 
and  with  as  little  pain,  jis  he  ever  fell  asleep  in  his 
gray  plaiil  on  the  hill-side.  His  death  was  deeply 
niounied  in  the  vale  of  Ettrick,  for  all  rejoiced  in 
his  fame;  and  notwithstanding  his  personal  foibles, 
the  shepherd  was  generous,  kind-hearted,  and  chari- 
table far  beyond  his  means. 

In  the  ;;ctivity  and  versatility  of  his  pow'ers,  Hogg 
resembled  Allan  R;imsay  more  than  he  did  Burns. 
Neither  of  them  had  the  strength  of  passion  or  the 
grasp  of  intellect  peculiar  to  Burns ; but,  on  the 
other  hand,  their  style  was  more  discursive,  playful, 
and  fanciful.  Burns  seldom  projects  himself,  as  it 
were,  out  of  his  own  feelings  and  situation,  whereas 
both  Ramsa'  and  Hogg  are  happiest  when  they  soar 
into  the  won.  of  fancy  or  the  scenes  of  antiquity. 
The  Ettrick  Shepherd  abandoned  himself  entirely  to 
the  genius  of  old  romance  and  legendary  story.  He 
loved,  like  Spenser,  to  luxuriate  in  fairy  visions,  and 
to  picture  scenes  of  supernatural  splendour  and 
beauty,  where 

The  emerald  fields  are  of  dazzling  glow, 

And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  blow. 

His  ‘ Kilmeny  ’ is  one  of  the  finest  fairy  tales  that  ever 
was  conceived  by  poet  or  painter;  and  passages  in 
the  ‘ Pilgrims  of  the  Sun  ’ have  the  same  abstract 
remote  beauty  and  lofty  imagination.  Burns  would 
have  scrupled  to  commit  himself  to  these  aerial 
phantoms.  His  visions  were  more  material,  and 
linked  to  the  joj's  and  sorrows  of  actual  existence. 
Akin  to  this  peculiar  feature  in  Hogg’s  poetry  is 
the  spirit  of  most  of  his  songs — a wild  lyrical  flow 
of  fancy,  that  is  sometimes  inexpressibly  sweet  and 
musical.  He  wanted  art  to  construct  a fable,  and 
taste  to  give  due  effect  to  his  imagery  and  concep- 
tions; but  there  are  few  poets  who  impress  us  so 
much  with  the  idea  of  direct  inspiration,  and  that 
poetry  is  indeed  an  art  ‘ unteachable  and  untaught.’ 

Bonny  Kilmeny. 

[From  the  ‘ Queen's  Wake.’] 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen  ; 

But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duneira’s  men. 

Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see. 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

It  was  only  to  hear  the  yorlin  sing. 

And  pu’  the  cress-flower  round  the  spring ; 


The  scarlet  lo’pp  and  the  hindberrye. 

And  the  nut  that  hang  frae  the  hazel  tree  ; 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

But  lang  may  her  mini.y  look  o’er  the  wa’. 

And  lang  may  she  seek  i’  the  greenwood  shaw ; 

Lang  the  .aii-d  of  Duneira  blame. 

And  lang,  lang  greet  or  Kilmeny  come  hamel 
When  many  a day  had  come  ami  fled. 

When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was  dead. 

When  mass  for  Kilmeny’s  soul  had  been  sung. 

When  the  beadsman  had  prayed,  and  the  dead-beB 
rung. 

Late,  late  in  a gloamin,  when  all  was  still. 

When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  western  hill. 

The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i’  the  wane. 

The  reek  o’  the  cot  hung  over  the  plain 
Like  a little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its  lane; 

When  the  ingle  lowed  with  an  eiry  lerae. 

Late,  late  in  the  gloamin,  Kilmeny  came  hamel 
‘Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been! 

Lang  hae  we  sought  baith  holt  and  dean  ; 

By  linn,  by  ford,  and  greenwood  tree, 

Y et  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 

Where  gat  ye  that  joup  o’  the  lily  sheen  I 
That  bonny  snood  of  the  birk  sae  green  ? 

And  these  roses,  the  fairest  that  ever  were  seen  I 
Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  V 
Kilmeny  looked  up  with  a lovely  grace. 

But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny’s  face; 

As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  ee. 

As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emerant  lea, 

Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a waveless  .sea. 

For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  not  where. 

And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could  not  declare; 
Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never  crew. 

Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind  never  blew, 
But  it  seemed  as  the  harp  of  the  .sky  had  rung. 

And  the  airs  of  heaven  played  round  her  tongue. 
When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she  had  seen, 
And  a land  where  sin  had  never  been. 

In  yon  greenwood  there  is  a waik. 

And  in  that  waik  there  is  a wene. 

And  in  that  wene  there  is  a maike 
That  neither  hath  flesh,  blood,  nor  bane ; 

And  down  in  yon  greenwood  he  walks  his  lane 
In  that  green  wene  Kilmeny  lay. 

Her  bosom  happed  wi’  the  flowrets  gay  ; 

But  the  air  was  soft,  and  the  silence  deep. 

And  bonny  Kilmeny  fell  sound  asleep; 

She  kend  nae  mair,  nor  opened  her  ee. 

Till  waked  by  the  hymns  of  a far  countrye. 

She  wakened  on  couch  of  the  silk  sae  slim. 

All  striped  wi’  the  bars  of  the  rainbow’s  rim  ; 

And  lovely  beings  round  were  rife. 

Who  erst  had  travelled  mortal  life. 

They  clasped  her  waist  and  her  hands  sae  fair. 

They  kissed  her  cheek,  and  they  kamed  her  hair, 

And  round  came  many  a blooming  fere. 

Saying,  ‘ Bonny  Kilmeny,  ye’re  welcome  here !’ 

* » * 

They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away. 

And  she  walked  in  the  light  of  a sunless  day; 

The  sky  was  a dome  of  crystal  bright. 

The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of  light ; 

The  emerald  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow. 

And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  blow. 

Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they  laid. 

That  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might  fade  ; 

And  they  smiled  on  heaven  when  they  saw  her  lie 
In  the  stream  of  life  that  wandered  by ; 

And  she  heard  a song,  she  heard  it  sung. 

She  kend  not  where,  but  sae  sweetly  it  rung. 

It  fell  on  her  ear  like  a dream  of  the  morn. 

‘ 0 ! blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  boni ! 

The  sun  that  shines  on  the  world  sae  bright, 

A borrowed  gleid  frae  the  fountain  of  light ; 

49/ 


KUoM  I7HII 


CVCL()l'i^^I)IA  OF 


And  tlie  moon  that  Blccks  the  i*ky  sae  dun, 

Like  a gowdcn  bow,  or  a beamless  sun. 

Shall  wear  away,  and  be  seen  nae  mair. 

And  the  angels  shall  miss  them  travelling  the  air. 
Hilt  lang,  lang  after  baith  night  and  day. 

When  the  sun  and  the  world  have  celyed  away ; 
When  the  sinner  has  gane  to  his  waesome  doom, 
Kilmeny  shall  smile  in  eternal  bloom!’ 

♦ » * 

Then  Kilmeny  begged  again  to  see 
The  friends  she  had  left  in  her  own  countrye. 

To  tell  of  the  place  where  she  had  been. 

And  the  glories  that  lay  in  the  land  unseen. 

With  distant  music,  soft  and  deep. 

They  lulled  Kilmeny  sound  asleep; 

And  when  she  awakened,  she  lay  her  lane. 

All  happed  with  flowers  in  the  greenwood  wene. 
When  seven  lang  years  had  come  and  fled. 

When  grief  was  calm  and  hope  was  dead, 

When  scarce  was  reme)iibered  Kilmeny’s  name. 
Late,  late  in  the  gloamin  Kilmeny  came  hame  1 
And  oh,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see. 

But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  ee ; 

Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare. 

For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there; 

And  the  soft  desire  of  maiden’s  een. 

In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen. 

Her  seymar  was  the  lily  flower. 

And  her  cheek  the  moss-rose  in  the  shower; 

And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melodye. 

That  floats  along  the  twilight  sea. 

But  she  loved  to  raike  the  lanely  glen, 

And  keeped  afar  frae  the  haunts  of  men. 

Her  holy  hymns  unheard  to  sing. 

To  suck  the  flowers  and  drink  the  spring, 

I But  wherever  her  peaceful  form  appeared. 

The  wild  beasts  of  the  hill  were  cheered  ; 

The  wolf  played  blithely  round  the  field. 

The  lordly  bison  lowed  and  kneeled. 

The  dun  deer  wooed  with  manner  bland. 

And  cowered  aneath  her  lily  hand. 

And  when  at  eve  the  woodlands  rung. 

When  hymns  of  other  worlds  she  sung. 

In  ecstacy  of  sweet  devotion. 

Oh,  then  the  glen  was  all  in  motion  ; 

The  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came. 

Broke  from  their  bughts  and  faulds  the  tame. 

And  goved  around,  charmed  and  amazed ; 

Even  the  dull  cattle  crooned  and  gazed. 

And  murmured,  and  looked  with  anxious  pain 
For  something  the  mystery  to  explain. 

The  buzzard  came  with  the  throstle-cock  ; 

The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock  ; 

The  blackbird  alang  wi’  the  eagle  flew ; 

The  hind  came  tripping  o’er  the  dew  ; 

The  wolf  and  the  kid  their  raike  began. 

And  the  tod,  and  the  lamb,  and  the  leveret  ran ; 
The  hawk  and  the  heni  attour  them  hung. 

And  the  merl  and  the  mavis  forhooyed  their  young ; 
And  all  in  a peaceful  ring  were  hurled; 

It  was  like  an  eve  in  a sinless  world ! 

When  a month  and  a day  had  come  and  gane, 
Kilmeny  sought  the  greenwood  wene. 

There  laid  her  down  on  the  leaves  so  green. 

And  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  mair  seen ! 

To  the  Comet  of  1811. 

How  lovely  is  this  wildered  scene. 

As  twilight  from  her  vaults  so  blue 
Steals  soft  o’er  Yarrow’s  mountains  green. 

To  sleep  embalmed  in  midnight  dew ! 

All  hail,  ye  hills,  whose  towering  height. 

Like  shadows,  scoops  the  yielding  sky ! 

And  thou,  mysterious  guest  of  night. 

Dread  traveller  of  immensity! 


TILu  HIE  nilKSr.m  iiMh 


Stranger  of  heaven!  I bid  thee  hail! 

Shred  from  the  pall  of  glory  riven. 

That  flashest  in  celestial  gale. 

Broad  pennon  of  the  King  of  Heaven! 

Art  thou  the  flag  of  wo  and  death. 

From  angel’s  ensign-staff  unfurled  ? 

Art  thou  the  standard  of  his  wrath 
Waved  o’er  a sordid  sinful  world  1 

No,  from  that  pure  pellucid  beam. 

That  erst  o’er  plains  of  Bethlehem  shone,* 

No  latent  evil  we  can  deem. 

Bright  herald  of  the  eternal  throne! 

Whate’er  portends  thy  front  of  fire. 

Thy  streaming  locks  so  lovely  pale — 

Or  peace  to  man,  or  judgments  dire. 

Stranger  of  heaven,  I bid  thee  hail! 

Where  hast  thou  roamed  these  thousand  years! 

Why  sought  these  polar  paths  again. 

From  wilderness  of  glowing  spheres. 

To  fling  thy  vesture  o’er  the  wain? 

And  when  thou  scal’st  the  Milky  Way, 

And  vanishest  from  human  view. 

A thousand  worlds  shall  hail  thy  ray 
Through  wilds  of  yon  empyreal  blue  ! 

0 ! on  thy  rapid  prow  to  glide  ! 

To  sail  the  boundless  skies  with  thee. 

And  plough  the  twinkling  stars  aside,  ♦ 
Like  foam-bells  on  a tranquil  sea! 

To  brush  the  embers  from  the  sun. 

The  icicles  from  off  the  pole ; 

Then  far  to  other  systems  run. 

Where  other  moons  and  planets  roll! 

Stranger  of  heaven  ! 0 let  thine  eye 
Smile  on  a rapt  enthusiast’s  dream; 

Eccentric  as  thy  course  on  high. 

And  airy  as  thine  ambient  beam  ! 

And  long,  long  may  thy  sil\  er  ray 
Our  northern  arch  at  eve  adorn  ; 

Then,  wheeling  to  the  east  away. 

Light  the  gray  portals  of  the  mom  t 

When  the  Kye  comes  Hame, 

Come  all  ye  jolly  shepherds 
That  whistle  through  the  glen. 

I’ll  tell  ye  of  a secret 

That  courtiers  dinna  ken  ; 

What  is  the  greatest  bliss 

That  the  tongue  o’  man  can  name  I 
’Tis  to  woo  a bonnie  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame, 

’Tween  the  gloamin  and  the  mirk. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

’Tis  not  beneath  the  coronet. 

Nor  canopy  of  state, 

’Tis  not  on  couch  of  velvet. 

Nor  arbour  of  the  great — 

’Tis  beneath  the  spreading  birk. 

In  the  glen  without  the  name, 

Wi’  a bonnie,  bonnie  lassie. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

There  the  blackbird  bigs  his  nest 
For  the  mate  he  lo’es  to  see. 

And  on  the  topmost  bough, 

0,  a happy  bird  is  he! 

* It  was  reckoned  by  many  that  this  was  the  same  comst 
which  appeared  at  the  birth  of  our  Saviour. — Hogg. 

498 


rOKTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM 


Then  he  pours  his  melting  ditty, 

And  love  is  n’  the  theme, 

And  he’ll  woo  his  bonnie  lassie 
\Vhen  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  hlewart  bears  a pearl, 

And  the  daisy  turns  a pea, 

And  the  bonnie  lucken  gowan 
Has  fauldit  up  her  ee. 

Then  the  lavrock  frae  the  blue  lift, 

Draps  down,  and  thinks  nae  shame 
To  woo  his  bonnie  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

See  yonder  pawky  shepherd 
That  lingers  on  the  hill — 

His  yowes  are  in  the  fauld. 

And  his  lambs  are  lying  still ; 

Yet  he  downa  gang  to  bed. 

For  his  heart  is  in  a flame 
To  meet  his  bonnie  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  little  wee  bit  heart 
Rises  high  in  the  breast. 

And  the  little  wee  bit  stam 
Rises  red  in  the  east, 

0 there’s  a joy  sae  dear. 

That  the  heart  can  hardly  frame, 

Wi’  a bonnie,  bonnie  lassie, 

M’hen  the  kye  comes  hame. 

Then  since  all  nature  joins 
In  this  love  without  alloy, 

0,  wha  wad  prove  a traitor 
To  nature’s  dearest  joy  ? 

Or  wha  wad  choose  a crown, 

Wi’  its  perils  and  its  fame, 

And  miss  his  bonnie  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame, 

’Tween  the  gloamin  and  the  mirk, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

'The  Shjlarh. 

Bird  of  the  wilderness. 

Blithesome  and  cumberless. 

Sweet  be  thy  matin  o’er  moorland  and  leal 
Emblem  of  happiness. 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 

0 to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  1 
Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud. 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud. 

Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing. 

Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 

Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O’er  fell  and  fountain  sheen. 

O’er  moor  and  mountain  green. 

O’er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day. 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim. 

Over  the  rainbow’s  rim. 

Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes. 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms. 

Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  bel 
Emblem  of  happiness. 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 

O to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee! 

\ 

ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 

Axlan  Cunningham,  a happy  imitator  of  the  old 
Scottish  ballads,  and  a man  of  various  talents,  was 
born  at  Blackwood,  near  Dalswinton,  Dumfriesshire, 
December  7 1784.  His  father  was  gardener  to  a 


neighbouring  proprietor,  but  shortly  afterwards 
became  factor  or  land-steward  to  Mr  Miller  of  Dal- 
swinton, Burns’s  landlord  at  Ellisland.  Mr  Cun- 
ningham had  few  advantages  in  his  early  days, 
unless  it  might  be  residence  in  a fine  pastoral  and 
romantic  district,  then  consecrated  by  the  presence 


and  the  genius  of  Burns.  His  uncle  having  attained 
some  eminence  as  a country  builder,  or  mason 
Allan  was  apprenticed  to  him,  with  a view  to  join- 
ing or  following  him  in  his  trade ; but  this  scheme 
did  not  hold,  and  in  1810  he  removed  to  London, 
and  connected  himself  with  the  newspaper  press. 
In  1814  he  was  engaged  as  cleric  of  the  w'orks, 
or  superintendent,  to  the  late  Sir  Francis  Chantrey, 
the  eminent  sculptor,  in  whose  establishment  life 
continued  till  his  death,  October  2‘.t,  1842.  Mr 
Cunningham  was  an  indefatigable  writer.  He 
early  contributed  poetical  effusions  to  the  perio- 
dical works  of  the  day,  and  nearly  all  the  songs 
and  fragments  of  verse  in  Cromek’s  Remains  of 
Nithsdale  and  Galloway  Song  (1810)  are  ot  his 
composition,  though  published  by  Cromek  as  un- 
doubted originals.  Some  of  these  are  warlike  and 
Jacobite,  some  amatory  and  devotional  (the  wild 
lyrical  breathings  of  Covenanting  love  and  piety 
among  the  hills),  and  all  of  them  abounding  in 
traits  of  Scottish  rural  life  and  primitive  manners. 
As  songs,  they  are  not  pitched  in  a key  to  be 
popular ; but  for  natural  grace  and  tenderness,  and 
rich  Doric  simplicity  and  fervour,  these  pseudo-an- 
tique strains  of  Mr  Cunningham  are  inimitable.  In 
1822  he  published  Sir  Marmaduke  Maxwell,  a dra- 
matic poem,  founded  on  Border  story  and  supersti- 
tion, and  afterwards  two  volumes  of  Traditional 
Tales.  Three  novels  of  a similar  description,  but 
more  diffuse  and  improbable — namely,  Paul  Jones, 
Sir  Michael  Scott,  and  Lord  Poldan,  also  proceeded 
from  his  fertile  pen.  In  1832  he  appeared  again  as 
a poet,  with  a ‘ rustic  epic,’  in  twelve  parts,  entitled 
The  Maid  of  Elvar.  He  edited  a collection  of  Scot- 
tish songs,  in  four  volumes,  and  an  edition  of  Burns 
in  eight  volumes,  to  which  he  prefixed  a life  of  the 
poet,  enriched  with  new  anecdotes  and  information. 

499 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMk 


To  Murray’s  Family  Library  he  contributed  a series 
of  Lives  of  Eminent  British  Painters,  Sculptors,  and 
Architects,  which  extended  to  six  volumes,  and 
proved  the  most  popular  of  all  his  prose  works. 
Ilis  last  work  (comi)leted  just  two  days  before  his 
death)  was  a Life  of  Sir  David  Wilkie,  the  distin- 
puished  artist,  in  three  volumes.  All  these  literary 
labours  were  produced  in  intervals  from  his  stated 
avocations  in  Ohantrey’s  studio,  which  most  men 
would  have  considered  ample  employment.  His 
taste  and  attainments  in  the  flue  arts  were  as 
remarkable  a feature  in  his  history  as  his  early 
ballad  strains;  and  the  prose  style  of  Mr  Cunning- 
ham, when  engaged  on  a congenial  subject,  was 
justly  admired  for  its  force  and  freedom.  There  was 
always  a freshness  and  energy  about  the  man  and 
his  writings  that  arrested  the  attention  and  excited 
the  imagination,  though  his  genius  was  but  little 
under  the  control  of  a correct  or  critical  judgment. 
Strong  nationality  and  inextinguishable  ardour 
formed  conspicuous  traits  in  his  character  ; and 
altogether,  tlie  life  of  Mr  Cunningham  was  a fine 
example  of  successful  original  talent  and  perse- 
verance, undebased  by  any  of  the  alloys  by  which 
the  former  is  too  often  accompanied. 

The  Young  Maxwell. 

* Where  gang  ye,  thou  silly  auld  carle? 

And  what  do  ye  carry  there  !’ 

‘ I’m  gaun  to  the  hill-side,  thou  sodger  gentleman, 
To  shift  my  sheep  their  lair.’ 

Ae  stride  or  twa  took  the  silly  auld  carle, 

An’  a gude  lang  stride  took  he : 

‘ I trow  thou  to  be  a feck  auld  carle, 

Will- ye  shaw  the  way  to  mel’ 

And  he  has  gane  wi’  the  silly  auld  carle, 

Adowui  by  the  greenwood  side  ; 

‘ Light  down  and  gang,  thou  sodger  gentleman. 

For  here  ye  canna  ride.’ 

He  drew  the  reins  o’  his  bonnie  gray  steed. 

An’  lightly  down  he  sprang: 

Of  the  comeliest  scarlet  was  his  weir  coat, 

Whare  the  gowden  tassels  hang. 

He  has  thrown  aff  his  plaid,  the  silly  auld  carle. 
An’  his  bonnet  frae  ’boon  his  hree ; 

An’  wha  was  it  but  the  young  Maxwell ! 

An’  his  gude  brown  sword  drew  he ! 

‘Thou  killed  my  father,  thou  vile  South’ron ! 

An’  ye  killed  my  brethren  three  ! 

Whilk  brake  the  heart  o’  my  ae  sister, 

I loved  as  the  1 ight  o’  my  ee ! 

Draw  out  yere  sword,  thou  vile  South’ron  I 
Red  wat  wi’  blude  o’  my  kin! 

That  sword  it  crapped  the  bonniest  flower 
E’er  lifted  its  head  to  the  sun ! 

There’s  ae  sad  stroke  for  my  dear  auld  fatherl 
There’s  twa  for  my  brethren  three  I 

Aji’  there’s  ane  to  thy  heart  for  my  ae  sister. 

Wham  I loved  as  the  light  o’  my  ee.’ 

Hame,  Hame,  Hame. 

Ilame,  name,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I he, 

0 hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie ! 

When  the  flower  is  i’  the  bud,  and  the  leaf  is  on  the 
tree. 

The  larks  shall  sing  me  hame  in  my  ain  countrie ; 
Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I be, 

O hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie! 

The  green  leaf  o’  loyalty ’s  begun  for  to  fa’, 

Che  bonnie  white  rose  it  is  withering  an’  a’; 


liut  I’ll  water’t  wi’  the  blude  of  usurping  tyrannie. 
An’  green  it  will  grow  in  my  ain  countrie. 

Ilame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I be, 

O hame,  hame,  hame,  to  ray  ain  countrie! 

0 there’s  naught  frae  ruin  my  country  can  save. 

Rut  the  keys  o’  kind  heaven  to  open  the  grave. 

That  a’  the  noble  martyrs  wha  died  for  loyaltie. 

May  rise  again  and  fight  for  their  ain  countrie. 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I be, 

O hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie ! 

The  great  are  now  gane,  a’  wha  ventured  to  save. 

The  new  grass  is  springing  on  the  tap  o’  their  graies; 
Rut  the  sun  through  the  mirk  blinks  blithe  in  my  e’e, 
‘ I’ll  shine  on  ye  yet  in  yere  ain  countrie.’ 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I be, 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie! 

[Fragment.'] 

Gane  were  but  the  winter-cauld. 

And  gane  were  but  the  snaw, 

I could  sleep  in  the  wild  woods. 

Where  primroses  blaw. 

Cauld’s  the  .snaw  at  my  head. 

And  cauld  at  my  feet. 

And  the  finger  o’  death’s  at  ray  een, 

Closing  them  to  sleep. 

Let  nane  tell  my  father. 

Or  my  mither  s.ae  dear. 

I’ll  meet  them  baith  in  heaven 
At  the  spring  o’  the  year. 

She’s  Gane  to  Dwall  in  Heaven. 

She’s  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie. 

She’s  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven  : 

Ye’re  owre  pure,  quo’  the  voice  o’  God, 

For  dwalling  out  o’  heaven ! 

0 what’l  she  do  in  heaven,  my  lassie  ? 

0 what’l  she  do  in  heaven  ? 

She’ll  mix  her  ain  thoughts  wi’  angels’  sangs, 

An’  make  them  mair  meet  for  heaven. 

She  was  beloved  by  a’,  my  lassie. 

She  was  beloved  by  a’  ; 

But  an  angel  fell  in  love  wi’  her. 

An’  took  her  frae  us  a’. 

Low  there  thou  lies,  my  lassie. 

Low  there  thou  lies  ; 

A bonnier  form  ne’er  went  to  the  yird. 

Nor  frae  it  will  arise  ! 

Fu’  soon  I’ll  follow  thee,  my  lassie, 

Fu’  soon  I’ll  follow  thee; 

Thou  left  me  nought  to  covet  ahin’. 

But  took  gudencss  sel’  wi’  thee. 

1 looked  on  thy  death-cold  face,  my  lassie, 

1 looked  on  thy  death-cold  face ; 

Thou  seemed  a lily  new  cut  i’  the  bud. 

An’  fading  in  its  place. 

I looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye,  my  lassie, 

I looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye  ; 

An’  a lovelier  light  in  the  brow  of  heaven 
Fell  time  shall  ne’er  destroy. 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm,  my  lassie, 

■I’hy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm  ; 

But  gane  was  the  holy  breath  o’  heaven 
To  sing  the  evening  psalm. 

There’s  naught  but  dust  now  mine,  lassie. 

There’s  naught  but  dust  now  mine; 

My  Saul’s  wi’  thee  i’  the  cauld  gri^'e. 

An’  why  should  I stay  behin’I 

500 


(MKTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  TENNAN4. 


A H'e/  S/tecl  and  a Flowing  Sea, 

A wet  sheet  anJ  a flowing  sea, 

A wind  that  follows  fast, 

And  tills  the  white  and  rustling  sail. 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast ; 

And  bends  the  pliant  mast,  my  boys, 

\\'hile,  like  the  eagle  free. 

Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 
Ola  England  on  the  lee. 

0 for  a soft  and  gentle  wind  I 
1 heard  a fair  one  cry  ; 

But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze. 

And  white  waves  heaving  high ; 

And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free — 

The  world  of  waters  is  our  home. 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There’s  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon. 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 

And  hark  the  music,  mariners. 

The  wind  is  piping  loud  ; 

The  wind  is  piping  loud,  ray  boys. 

The  lightning  flashing  free — 

While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea 

My  Nanie  0. 

Red  rows  the  Nith  ’tween  bank  and  brae. 

Mirk  is  the  night  and  rainie  0, 

Though  heaven  and  earth  should  mix  in  storm. 
I’ll  gang  and  see  my  Nanie  0 ; 

My  Nanie  0,  my  Nanie  0 ; 

My  kind  and  winsome  Nanie  0, 

She  holds  my  heart  in  love’s  dear  bands. 

And  naiie  can  do’t  but  Nanie  0. 

In  preaching  time  sae  meek  she  stands, 

Sae  saintly  and  sae  bonnie  0, 

1 cannot  get  ae  glimpse  of  grace. 

For  thieving  looks  at  Nanie  0 ; 

My  Nanie  0,  my  Nanie  0 ; 

The  world’s  in  love  with  Nanie  0 ; 

That  heart  is  hardly  worth  the  wear 
That  wadna  love  my  Nanie  0. 

My  breast  can  scarce  contain  my  heart. 

When  dancing  she  moves  finely  0 ; 

I guess  what  heaven  is  by  her  eyes. 

They  sparkle  sae  divinely  0 ; 

My  Nanie  0,  my  Nanie  0 ; 

The  flower  o’  Nithsdale’s  Nanie  0; 

Love  looks  frae  ’neath  her  lang  brown  hair, 
And  says,  I dwell  with  Nanie  0. 

Tell  not,  thou  star  at  gray  daylight. 

O’er  Tinwald-top  so  bonnie  0, 

My  footsteps  ’mang  the  morning  dew 
When  coming  frae  my  Nanie  0 ; 

My  Nanie  0,  ray  Nanie  0 ; 

Nane  ken  o’  me  and  Nanie  0 ; 

The  stars  and  moon  may  tell’t  aboon. 

They  winna  wrang  my  Nanie  0! 

r/ie  Poet’s  Bridal-Day  Song, 

0 ! my  love’s  like  the  steadfast  sun. 

Or  streams  that  deepen  as  they  run ; 

Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  forty  years. 

Nor  moments  between  sighs  and  tears — 

Nor  nights  of  thought,  no;  lays  of  pain. 

Nor  dreams  of  glory  dreamed  in  vain— 

Nor  mirth,  nor  sweetest  song  which  flows 
To  sober  joys  and  soften  wc  rs. 

Can  make  my  heart  or  fancy  flee 
One  moment,  my  sweet  vif»,  from  thee. 


Even  while  1 muse,  1 see  thee  sit 
In  maiden  bloom  and  matron  wit — 

Fair,  gentle  as  when  first  I sued. 

Ye  seem,  but  of  sedater  mood  ; 

Yet  my  heart  leaps  as  fond  for  thee 
As  when,  beneath  Arbigland  tree, 

We  stayed  and  wooed,  and  thought  the  mooa 
Set  on  the  sea  an  hour  too  soon  ; 

Or  lingered  ’mid  the  falling  dew. 

When  looks  were  fond  and  words  were  few. 
Though  1 see  smiling  at  thy  feet 
Five  sons  and  ae  fair  daughter  sweet ; 

And  time,  and  care,  and  birth-time  woes 
Have  dimmed  thine  eye,  and  touched  thy  rose 
To  thee,  and  thoughts  of  thee,  belong 
All  that  charms  me  of  tale  or  song  ; 

When  words  come  down  like  dews  unsought. 
With  gleams  of  deep  enthusiast  thought. 

And  fancy  in  her  heaven  flies  free — 

They  come,  my  love,  they  come  from  thee. 

O,  when  more  thought  we  gave  of  old 
To  silver  than  some  give  to  gold  ; 

’Twas  sweet  to  sit  and  ponder  o’er 
What  things  should  deck  our  humble  bower ! 
’Twas  sweet  to  pull  in  hope  with  thee 
The  golden  fruit  from  Fortune’s  tree  ; 

And  sweeter  still  to  choose  and  twine 
A garland  for  these  locks  of  thine — - 
A song-wreath  which  may  grace  my  Jean, 

While  rivers  flow  and  woods  are  green. 

At  times  there  come,  as  come  there  ought, 

Grave  moments  of  sedater  thought — 

When  Fortune  frowns,  nor  lends  our  night 
One  gleam  of  her  inconstant  light , 

And  Hope,  that  decks  the  peasant'^  bower, 

Shines  like  the  rainbow  through  the  shower, 

0,  then  1 see,  while  seated  nigh, 

A mother’s  heart  shine  in  thine  eye ; 

And  proud  resolve  and  purpose  meek. 

Speak  of  thee  more  than  words  can  speak : 

1 think  the  wedded  wife  of  mine 
The  best  of  all  that’s  not  divine. 

WILLIAM  TENNANT. 

In  1812  appeared  a singular  mock  heroK  poem, 
Anster  Fair,  written  in  the  ottava  rima  stanza,  since 
made  so  popular  by  Byron  in  his  Beppo  and  Don 
Jn.an.  The  subject  was  the  marriage  of  Maggie 
Lauder,  the  famous  heroine  of  Scottish  song,  but 
the  author  wrote  not  for  the . multitude  familiar 
with  Maggie’s  rustic  glor}’.  He  aimed  at  pleasing 
the  admirers  of  that  refined  conventional  poetry, 
half  serious  and  sentimental,  and  half  ludicrous 
and  satirical,  which  was  cultivated  by  Berni,  Ariosto, 
and  the  lighter  poets  of  It.aly.  There  was  classic 
imagery  on  famili.ar  subjects  — supernatural  ma- 
chinery (as  in  the  Rape  of  the  Lock)  blended  with 
the  ordinary  details  of  domestic  life,  and  with  lively 
and  fanciful  description.  An  exuberance  of  animal 
spirits  seemed  to  carry  the  author  over  the  most 
perilous  ascents,  and  his  wit  and  fancy  were  ran  ly 
at  fault.  Such  a pleasant  sparkling  volume,  in  a 
style  then  unhackneyed,  was  sure  of  success.  ‘An- 
ster Fair’  sold  rapidly,  and  has  since  been  often  re- 
published. The  author,  William  Tennant,  is  a 
native  of  Anstruther,  or  Anster,  who,  whilst  filling 
the  situation  of  clerk  in  a mercantile  establishment, 
studied  ancient  and  modern  literature,  and  taught 
himself  Hebrew.  His  attainments  were  rewarded 
in  1813  with  an  appointment  as  parish  schoolmaster, 
to  which  was  attached  a salary  of  L.40  per  annum 
— a reward  not  unlike  that  conferred  on  Mr  Abraham 
Adams  in  Joseph  Andrews,  who  being  a scholar  and 
man  of  virtue,  was  ‘ provided  with  a handsome  in- 

501 


FROM  17nO  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  present  TiMk 

come  of  L.2-'J  a-year,  whicli,  however,  he  could  not 
make  a great  figure  with,  because  he  lived  in  a dear 
countiy,  and  was  a little  encumbered  with  a wife  and 
six  children.’  The  author  of  ‘ Anster  Fair’  has  since 
neen  appointed  to  a more  eligible  and  becoming 
situation — teacher  of  classical  and  oriental  languages 
Ml  Dollar  Institution,  and,  more  recently,  a professor 
in  St  Mary’s  college,  St  Andrews.  He  has  published 
some  other  poetical  works — a tragedy  on  the  story  of 
Cardinal  Heaton,  and  two  poems,  the  Thane  of  Fife, 
find  the  Dinging  Down  of  the  Cathedral.  It  was 
said  of  Sir  David  Wilkie  that  he  took  most  of  the 
figures  in  his  jiictures  from  living  characters  in  the 
county  of  Fife,  familiar  to  him  in  his  youth : it  is 
more  certain  that  Mr  Tennant’s  poems  are  all  on 
native  subjects  in  the  same  district.  Indeed,  their 
strict  locality  has  been  against  their  popularity; 
but  ‘Anster  Fair’  is  the  most  diversified  and  richly 
humorous  of  them  all,  .and  besides  being  an  animated, 
witty,  and  agreeable  poem,  it  has  the  merit  of  being 
the  first  work  of  the  kind  in  our  language.  The 
Monks  and  Giants  of  Mr  Frere  (published  under 
the  assumed  name  of  Whistlecraft),  from  which 
Byron  avowedly  drew  his  Beppo,  did  not  appe.ar  till 
some  time  after  Mr  Tennant’s  poem.  Of  the  higher 
and  more  poetical  parts  of  ‘ Anster  Fair,’  we  sub- 
join a specimen  : — 

I wish  I had  a cottage  snug' and  neat 
Upon  the  top  of  many  fouiitained  Ide, 

Th.at  I might  thence,  in  holy  fervour,  greet 

The  bright-gowned  Morning  tripping  up  her  side  : 
And  when  the  low  Sun’s  glory-buskined  feet 
Walk  on  the  blue  wave  of  the  jFgean  tide. 

Oh!  1 would  kneel  me  down,  and  worship  there 
The  Ood  who  garnished  out  a world  so  bright  and 
fair  1 

The  saffron-elbowed  Morning  up  the  slope 
Of  heaven  canaries  in  her  jewelled  shoe.s. 

And  throws  o’er  Kelly-law’s  sheep-nibbled  top 
Her  golden  apron  dripping  kindly  dews; 

And  never,  since  she  first  began  to  hop 

Up  heaven’s  blue  causeway,  of  her  beams  profuse, 
Shone  there  a dawn  so  glorious  and  so  g.ay. 

As  shines  the  merry  dawn  of  Anster  market-day. 

Round  through  the  vast  circumference  of  sky 
One  speck  of  small  cloud  cannot  eye  behold, 

Save  in  the  east  some  fleeces  bright  of  dye, 

That  stripe  the  hem  of  heaven  with  woolly  gold. 
Whereon  are  happy  angels  wont  to  lie 
Lolling,  in  amaranthine  flowers  enrolled, 

That  they  may  spy  the  precious  light  of  God, 

Flung  from  the  blessed  East  o’er  the  fair  Earth 
abroad. 

The  fair  Earth  laughs  through  all  her  boundless  range, 
Heaving  her  green  hills  high  to  greet  the  beam ; 
City  and  village,  steeple,  cot,  and  grange. 

Gilt  as  with  Nature’s  purest  leaf-gold  .seem ; 

The  heaths  and  upland  muirs,  and  fallows,  change 
Their  barren  brown  into  a ruddy  gleam. 

And,  on  ten  thousand  dew-bent  leaves  and  sprays. 
Twinkle  ten  thousand  suns,  and  fling  their  petty 
rays. 

Up  from  their  nests  and  fields  of  tender  com 
Full  merrily  the  little  skylarks  spring. 

And  on  their  dew-bedabbled  pinions  borne. 

Mount  to  the  heaven’s  blue  key-stone  flickering  ; 
They  turn  their  plume-soft  bosoms  to  the  morn. 

And  hail  the  genial  light,  and  cheer’ly  sing; 

Echo  the  gl.adsome  hills  and  valleys  round, 

\s  h.alf  the  bells  of  Fife  ring  loud  and  swell  the 
sound. 

For  when  the  first  upsloping  ray  was  flung 
On  Anster  steeple’s  swallow-harbouring  top. 

Its  bell  and  all  the  bells  around  were  rung 
Sonorous,  jangling,  loud,  without  a stoji ; 

For,  toilingly,  each  bitter  beadle  swung. 

Even  till  he  smoked  with  sweat,  his  greasy  rope. 
And  almost  broke  his  bell-wheel,  ushering  in 
The  mom  of  Anster  F'air  with  tinkle-tankling  din. 

And,  from  our  steeple’s  pinnacle  outspread. 

The  town’s  long  colours  flare  and  flap  on  high, 
Who.se  anchor,  blazoned  fair  in  green  and  red. 

Curls,  pliant  to  each  breeze  that  whistles  by ; 
Whilst  on  the  holtsprit,  stern,  and  topmast  head 
Of  brig  and  sloop  that  in  the  harbour  lie. 

Streams  the  red  gaudery  of  flags  in  air. 

All  to  salute  and  grace  the  morn  of  Anster  Fair. 

The  description  of  the  heroine  is  equally  passionate 
and  imaginative : — 

Her  form  was  as  the  Morning’s  blithesome  star. 

That,  capped  with  lustrous  coronet  of  beams, 

Rides  up  the  dawning  orient  in  her  car. 

New-washed,  and  doubly  fulgent  from  the  streams — 
The  Chaldee  shepherd  eyes  her  light  afar. 

And  on  his  knees  adores  her  as  she  gleams ; 

So  shone  the  stately  form  of  Maggie  Lauder, 

And  so  the  admiring  crowds  pay  homage  and  applaud 
her. 

Each  little  step  her  trampling  p.alfrey  took, 

Shaked  her  majestic  person  into  grace. 

And  as  at  times  his  glos.sy  sides  she  strook 
Endearingly  with  whip’s  green  silken  Lace, 

(The  prancer  seemed  to  court  such  kind  rebuke, 
Loitering  with  wilful  tardiness  of  pace). 

By  Jove,  the  very  waving  of  her  arm 

Had  power  a brutish  lout  to  unbrutify  and  charm  4 

Her  face  was  as  the  summer  cloud,  whereon 
The  dawning  sun  delights  to  rest  his  rays ! 
Compared  with  it,  old  Sharon’s  vale,  o’ergrown 
With  flaunting  roses,  had  resigned  its  praise ; 

For  why?  Her  face  with  he.aven’s  own  roses  shone. 
Mocking  the  morn,  and  witching  men  to  gaze ; 

And  he  that  gazed  with  cold  unsmitten  soul. 

That  blockhead’s  heart  was  ice  thrice  baked  beneath 
the  Pole. 

Her  locks,  apparent  tufts  of  wiry  gold. 

Lay  on  her  lily  temples,  fairly  dangling. 

And  on  each  hair,  so  harmless  to  behold, 

A lover’s  soul  hung  mercilessly  strangling; 

The  piping  silly  zephyrs  vied  to  unfold 

The  tresses  in  their  arms  so  slim  and  tangling, 

And  thrid  in  sport  these  lover-noosing  snares. 

And  played  at  hide-and-seek  arnid  the  golden  hairs 

Her  ej'e  was  as  an  honoured  palace,  where 
A choir  of  lightsome  Graces  frisk  and  dance; 

What  object  drew  her  gaze,  how  mean  soe’er. 

Got  dignity  and  honour  from  the  glance ; 

Wo  to  the  man  on  whom  she  unaware 
Did  the  dear  witchery  of  her  eye  elance  1 
’Twas  such  a thrilling,  killing,  keen  regard — 

May  Heaven  from  such  a look  preserve  each  tender 
bard  1 

So  on  she  rode  in  virgin  majesty. 

Charming  the  thin  dead  air  to  kiss  her  lips. 

And  with  the  light  and  grandeur  of  her  eye 
Shaming  the  proud  sun  into  dim  eclipse  ; 

While  round  her  presence  clustering  far  and  nigh. 

On  horseback  some,  with  silver  spurs  .and  whips. 
And  some  afoot  with  shoes  of  dazzling  buckles. 
Attended  knights,  and  lairds,  and  clowns  with  horny 
knuckles. 

f^n‘> 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


POM'S. 


WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 


fiis  humour  and  lively  characteristic  painting  are 
well  displayed  in  the  account  of  the  different  parties 
who,  gay  and  fantastic,  flock  to  the  fair,  as  Chaucer’s 
pilgrims  did  to  the  shrine  of  Thomas-a-Becket. 
The  following  verses  describe  the  men  from  the 
north : — 

Comes  next  from  Boss-shire  and  from  Sutherland 
The  homy-knucklcd  kilted  Highlandman  : 

From  where  upon  the  rocky  Caithness  strand 
Breaks  the  long  wave  that  at  the  Pole  began, 

And  where  Lochfine  from  her  prolific  sand 
Her  herrings  gives  to  feed  each  bordering  clan, 
Arrive  the  brogue-shod  men  of  generous  eye, 

Plaidcd  and  breechless  all,  with  Esau’s  hairy  thigh. 

They  come  not  now’  to  fire  the  Lowland  stacks, 

Or  foray  on  the  banks  of  Eortha’s  firth  ; 

Claymore  and  broadsword,  and  Lochaber  axe. 

Are  left  to  rust  above  the  smoky  hearth  ; 

Their  only  arms  are  bagpipes  now  and  sacks  ; 

Their  teeth  are  set  most  desperately  for  mirth ; 

And  at  their  broad  and  sturdy  backs  are  hung 
Great  wallets,  crammed  with  cheese  and  bannocks 
and  cold  tongue. 

Nor  staid  away  the  Islanders,  that  lie 
To  buffet  of  the  Atlantic  surge  exposed  ; 

From  Jura,  Arran,  Barra,  Uist,  and  Skye, 

Piping  they  come,  unshaved,  unbreeched,  unhosed  ; 
And  from  that  Isle,  whose  abbey,  structured  high, 
Within  its  precincts  holds  dead  kings  enclosed, 
Where  St  Columba  oft  is  seen  to  waddle 
Gow'ned  round  with  flaming  fire  upon  the  spire 
astraddle. 

Next  from  the  far-famed  ancient  town  of  Ayr, 

(Sweet  Ayr ! with  crops  of  ruddy  damsels  blest, 
That,  shooting  up,  and  waxing  fat  and  fair. 

Shine  on  thy  braes,  the  lilies  of  the  west !) 

-And  from  Dumfries,  and  from  Kilmarnock  (where 
Are  night-caps  made,  the  cheapest  and  the  best) 
Blithely  they  ride  on  ass  and  mule,  with  sacks 
In  lieu  of  saddles  placed  upon  their  asses’  backs. 

Close  at  their  heels,  bestriding  well-trapped  nag. 

Or  humbly  riding  asses’  backbone  bare. 

Come  Glasgow’s  merchants,  each  with  money-bag. 

To  purchase  Dutch  lintseed  at  Anster  Fair — 
Sagacious  fellows  all,  who  well  may  brag 
Of  virtuous  industry  and  talents  rare  ; 

The  accomplished  men  o’  the  counting-room  confest. 
And  fit  to  crack  a joke  or  argue  with  the  best. 

Nor  keep  their  homes  the  Borderers,  that  stay 
Where  purls  the  Jed,  and  Esk,  and  little  Liddel, 
Men  that  can  rarely  on  the  bagpipe  play. 

And  wake  the  unsober  spirit  of  the  fiddle ; 

Avowed  freebooters,  that  have  many  a day 

Stolen  sheep  and  cow,  yet  never  orvned  they  did  ill ; 
Great  rogues,  for  sure  that  wight  is  but  a rogue 
That  blots  the  eighth  command  from  Moses’  decalogue. 

And  some  of  them  in  sloop  of  tarry  side. 

Come  from  North-Berwick  harbour  sailing  out ; 
Others,  abhorrent  of  the  sickening  tide. 

Have  ta’en  the  road  by  Stirling  brig  about. 

And  eastward  now  from  long  Kirkaldy  ride, 

Slugging  on  their  slow-gaited  asses  stout, 

U’hile  dangling  at  their  backs  are  bagpipes  hung. 
And  dangling  hangs  a tale  on  every  rhymer’s  tongue. 

■WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 

William  Motherwell  (1797-1835)  was  born  in 
Glasgow,  but,  after  his  eleventh  year,  w'as  brought 
up  under  the  care  of  an  uncle  in  Paisley.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-one,  he  was  appointed  deputy  to  the 
dheriff-clerk  at  that  town.  He  early  evinced  a love 


of  poetry,  and  in  1819  became  editor  of  a miscellany 
entitled  the  Harp  of  Renfrewshire.  A taste  for  an- 
tiquarian research — 

Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose — 

divided  with  the  muse  the  empire  of  Motherwell’s 
genius,  and  he  attained  an  unusually  familiar  ac- 
quaintance with  the  early  history  of  our  native 
literature,  particularly  in  the  department  of  tradi- 
tionary poetry.  The  results  of  this  erudition  ap- 
peared in  Minstrelsy  Ancient  and  Modern  (1827),  a 
collection  of  Scottish  ballads,  prefaced  by  a histo- 
rical introduction,  which  must  be  the  basis  of  all 
future  investigations  into  the  subject.  In  the  follow- 
ing year  he  became  editor  of  a weekly  journal  in 
Paisley,  and  established  a magazine  there,  to  which 
he  contributed  some  of  his  happiest  poetical  effu- 
sions. The  talent  and  spirit  which  he  evinced  in 
his  editorial  duties,  were  the  means  of  advancing 
him  to  the  more  important  office  of  conducting  the 
Glasgow  Courier,  in  which  situation  he  continued 
till  his  death.  In  1832  he  collected  and  published 
his  poems  in  one  volume.  He  also  joined  with 
Hogg  in  editing  the  works  of  Burns ; and  he  was 
collecting  materials  for  a life  of  Tannahill,  when  he 
was  suddenly  cut  off  by  a fit  of  apoplexy  at  the 
early  age  of  thirty-eight.  The  taste,  enthusiasm, 
and  social  qualities  of  Motherwell,  rendered  him 
very  popular  among  his  townsmen  and  friends.  As 
an  antiquary,  he  w’as  shrewd,  indefatigable,  and 
truthful.  As  a poet,  he  was  happiest  in  pathetic  or 
sentimental  lyrics,  though  his  own  inclinations  led 
him  to  prefer  the  chivalrous  and  martial  style  of 
the  old  minstrels. 

Jeanie  Morrison. 

I’ve  wandered  east.  I’ve  wandered  west. 

Through  mony  a weary  way  ; 

But  never,  never  can  forget 
The  luve  of  life’s  young  day! 

The  fire  that’s  blaw’n  on  Beltane  e’en. 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Y ule ; 

But  blacker  fa’  awaits  the  heart 
Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0 dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o’  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  owre  my  path. 

And  blind  my  een  wi’  tears  ! 

They  blind  my  een  wi’  saut,  saut  tears. 

And  sair  and  sick  I pine. 

As  memory  idly  sura  nons  up 
The  blithe  blinks  o’  langsyne. 

•Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

’Twas  then  we  twa  did  part ; 

Sweet  time ! — sad  lin.e ! — twa  bairns  at  schule^ 
Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 

. ’Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  lear  ilk  ither  har  ; 

And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed. 
Remembered  ever  mair. 

1 wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet. 

When  sitting  on  that  bink. 

Cheek  touchin’  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof. 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 

When  baith  bent  doun  oaue  ae  braid  page, 

Wi’  ae  bulk  on  o.ir  knee. 

Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

0 mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads. 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi’  shame. 

Whene’er  the  sebuh'-weans,  laughin’,  said. 

We  decked  thegither  hame? 

503 


PROM  )7)!0 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


7ILL  Tim  PRESENT  TIMI. 


And  mind  ye  o’  the  Saturdays 

( I'liK  schule  then  skail’t  at  noon), 
Wiicn  «-e  ran  atf  to  speel  tlie  braes — 
The  brooniy  braes  o’  June  J 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 
My  lieart  flows  like  a sea. 

As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  baek 
O’  schule-tiine  and  o’  thee. 

Oh,  momin’  life!  oh,  mornin’  luve! 

Oh,  lichtsome  days  and  lang. 

When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts, 
Like  simmer  blossoms,  sprang ! 

O mind  ye,  lure,  how  aft  we  left 
The  deavin’  dinsome  toun. 

To  wander  by  the  green  burnside. 

And  bear  its  water  croon  ? 

The  simmer  leaves  hung  owre  our  heads. 
The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet. 

And  in  the  glnamin’  o’  the  wud 
The  throssil  whusslit  sweet. 

'The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wud. 

The  bum  sung  to  the  trees. 

And  we  with  Nature’s  heart  in  tune. 
Concerted  harmonies; 

And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn. 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o’  joy,  till  baith 
Wi’  vera  gladness  grat ! 


Mournfully!  oh,  mournfully 
This  inidn.ight  wind  doth  moan  ; 

It  stirs  some  chord  of  memory 
In  each  dull  heavy  tone. 

The  voices  of  the  much- loved  dead 
Seem  floating  thereupon — 

All,  all  my  fond  heart  cherished 
Fre  death  had  made  it  lone. 

Mournfully!  oh,  mournfully 
This  midnight  wind  doth  swell. 

With  its  quaint  pensive  minstrelsy, 
Hope’s  passionate  farewell 
To  the  dreamy  joys  of  early  years. 

Ere  yet  grief’s  canker  fell 
On  the  heart’s  bloom — ay,  well  may  tears 
Start  at  that  parting  knell  I 


Sword  Chant  of  Thorstein  Raudi. 

’Tis  not  the  gray  hawk’s  flight  o’er  mountain  and  mere; 
’Tis  not  the  fleet  hound’s  course,  tracking  the  deer; 
’Tis  not  the  light  hoof-print  of  black  steed  or  gray. 
Though  sweltering  it  gallop  a long  summer’s  day. 
Which  mete  forth  the  lordships  1 challenge  as  mine: 
11a!  ha!  ’tis  the  good  brand 
I clutch  in  my  strong  hand. 

That  can  their  broad  marches  and  numbers  define. 
Land  Giver!  1 kiss  thee. 


Aye,  aye,  dear  Je-anie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek, 

Like  dew-beads  on  a rose,  yet  nane 
Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 

That  was  a time,  a blessed  time. 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young. 

When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 
Unsyllabled — unsung  I 

I marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I hae  been  to  thee 

As  closely  twinecl  wi’  earliest  thochts 
As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 

Oh  ! tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 
Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ; 

Oh  ! say  gin  e’er  your  heart  grows  grit 
Wi’  dreamings  o’  laugsyne  ? 

I’ve  wandered  east.  I’ve  wandered  west, 
I’ve  borne  a weary  lot ; 

But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near. 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 

The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart. 
Still  travels  on  its  way ; 

And  channels  deeper  as  it  rin.s. 

The  luve  o’  life’s  young  day. 

O dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young. 

I’ve  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 
The  music  o’  your  tongue  ; 

But  I could  hug  all  wretchedness. 

And  happy  could  1 dee. 

Did  I but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 
O’  bygane  days  and  me ! 


Dull  builders  of  houses,  base  tillers  of  earth. 

Gaping,  ask  me  what  lordships  I owned  at  my  birth  • 
But  the  pale  fools  wax  mute  when  1 point  with  my 
sword 

East,  west,  north,  and  south,  shouting,  ‘ There  am  1 
lord  !’ 

Wold  and  waste,  town  and  tower,  hill,  valley,  and 
stream. 

Trembling,  bow  to  my  sway. 

In  the  fierce  battle  fray. 

When  the  star  that  rules  fate  is  this  falchion’s  red 
gleam. 

Might  Giver  ! I kiss  thee. 

I’ve  heard  great  harps  sounding  in  brave  bower  and 
hall  ; 

I’ve  drank  the  sweet  music  that  bright  lips  let  fall ; 
I’ve  hunted  in  greenwood,  and  heaid  small  birds  sing ; 
But  away  with  this  idle  and  cold  jargoning! 

The  music  1 love  is  the  shout  of  the  brave. 

The  yell  of  the  dying. 

The  scream  of  the  flying. 

When  this  arm  wields  death’s  sickle,  and  gamers  the 
grave. 

Joy  Giver!  I kiss  thee. 

Far  isles  of  the  ocean  thy  lightning  hath  known. 

And  wide  o’er  the  mainland  thy  horrors  have  shone. 
Great  sword  of  my  father,  stern  joy  of  his  hand  ! 

Thou  hast  carved  his  name  deep  on  the  stranger’s  rea 
strand. 

And  won  him  the  glory  of  undying  song. 

Keen  cleaver  of  gay  crests, 

Sharp  piercer  of  broad  breasts. 

Grim  slayer  of  heroes,  and  scourge  of  the  strong ! 
Fa.me  Giver!  1 kiss  thee. 


The  Midnight  Wind. 

Mournfully ! oh,  mournfully 
This  midnight  wind  doth  sigh. 
Like  some  sweet  plaintive  melody 
Of  ages  long  gone  by  : 

It  speaks  a tale  of  other  years — 
Of  hopes  that  bloomed  to  die — 
Of  sunny  smiles  that  set  in  tears. 
And  loves  that  mouldering  lie  ! 


In  a love  more  abiding  than  that  the  heart  knows 
For  maiden  more  lovely  than  summer’s  first  rose. 

My  heart’s  knit  to  thine,  and  lives  but  for  thee ; 

In  dreamings  of  gladness  thou’rt  dancing  with  me. 
Brave  measures  of  madness,  in  some  battle  field. 
Where  armour  is  ringing. 

And  noble  blood  springing. 

And  cloven,  yawn  helmet,  stout  hauberk,  and  shield. 
Death  Giver!  1 kiss  thee. 


504 


POETS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ROBERT  NICOI.L. 


The  smile  of  a maiden’s  eye  soon  may  depart ; 

And  light  is  the  faith  of  fair  woman’s  heart ; 
Changeful  as  light  clouds,  and  wayward  as  wind, 

Be  the  passions  that  govern  weak  woman’s  mind. 

But  thy  metal’s  as  true  as  its  polish  is  bright : 

When  ills  wax  in  number, 

Thy  love  will  not  slumber ; 

But,  starlike,  burns  fiercer  the  darker  the  night. 
Heart  Gladde.ner  ! 1 kiss  thee. 

My  kindred  have  perished  by  war  or  by  wave  ; 

Now,  childless  and  sireless,  I long  for  the  grave. 
When  the  path  of  our  glory  is  shadowed  in  death. 
With  me  thou  wilt  slumber  below  the  brown  heath ; 
Thou  wilt  rest  on  my  bosom,  and  with  it  decay ; 
While  harps  shall  be  ringing. 

And  Scalds  shall  be  singing 
The  deeds  we  have  done  in  our  old  fearless  day. 
Song  Giver  ! 1 kiss  thee. 


ROBERT  NlCOli. 

Robert  Nicobl  (1814-1837)  was  a young  man  of 
high  promise  and  amiable  dispositions,  who  culti- 
vated literature  amidst  many  discouragements.  He 
was  a native  of  Auchtergaven,  in  Pertlishire.  After 
passing  through  a series  of  humble  employments, 
during  which  he  steadily  cultivated  his  mind  by 
reading  and  writing,  he  assumed  the  editorship  of 
the  Leeds  Times,  a weekly  paper  representing  the 
extreme  of  the  liberal  class  of  opinions.  He  wrote  as 
one  of  the  three  hundred  might  be  supposed  to  have 
fought  at  Thermopyla;,  animated  by  the  pure  love  of 
his  species,  and  zeal  for  what  he  thought  their  in- 
terests ; but,  amidst  a struggle  which  scarcely  ad- 
mitted of  a moment  for  reflection  on  his  own  posi- 
tion, the  springs  of  a.  naturally  weak  constitution 
were  rapidly  giving  way,  and  symptoms  of  con- 
sumption became  gradually  apparent.  The  poet 
died  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  deeply  regretted  by 
the  numerous  friends  whom  his  talents  and  virtues 
had  drawn  around  him.  Nicoll’s  poems  are  short 
occasional  pieces  and  songs — the  latter  much  in- 
ferior to  his  serious  poems,  yet  displaying  happy 
rural  imagery  and  fancy. 

TVe  are  Brethren  o’. 

A happy  bit  hame  this  auld  world  would  be. 

If  men,  when  they’re  here,  could  makeshift  to  agree, 
An’  ilk  said  to  his  neighbour,  in  cottage  an’  ha’, 
‘Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’.’ 

I ken  na  why  ane  wi’  anither  should  fight. 

When  to  ’gree  would  make  a’body  cosie  an’  right, 
When  man  meets  wi’  man,  ’tis  the  best  way  ava. 

To  say,  ‘ Gi’e  me  y'our  hand — we  are  brethren  a’.’ 

My  coat  is  a coarse  ane,  an’  yours  may  be  fine. 

And  I maun  drink  water,  while  you  may  drink  wine; 
But  we  baith  ha’e  a leal  heart,  unspotted  to  shaw : 
Sae  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 

The  knave  ye  would  scorn,  the  unfaithfu’  deride  ; 

Ye  would  stand  like  a rock,  wi’  the  truth  on  your  side  ; 
Sae  would  I,  an’  nought  else  would  I value  a straw; 
Then  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 

Ye  would  scorn  to  do  fausely  by  woman  or  man  ; 

I baud  by  the  right  aye,  as  weel  as  I can  ; 

We  are  ane  in  our  joys,  our  affections,  an’  a’ ; 

Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 

Your  mother  has  lo’ed  you  as  mithers  can  lo’e; 

An’  mine  has  done  for  me  what  mithers  can  do ; 

VV’e  are  ane  high  an’  laigh,  an’  we  shouldna  be  twa: 
Sae  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 


We  love  the  same  simmer  day,  sunny  and  fair" 

Hame!  oh,  how  we  love  it,  an’  a’  that  are  there! 

Frae  the  pure  air  of  heaven  the  same  life  we  draw  — 
Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 

Frail  shakin’  auld  age  will  soon  come  o’er  us  baith, 
An’  creeping  alang  at  his  back  will  be  death; 

Syne  into  the  same  mither-yird  we  will  fa’ : 

Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a’. 

Thoughts  of  Heaven. 

High  thoughts ! 

They  come  and  go. 

Like  the  soft  breathings  of  a listening  maiden. 
While  round  me  flow 

The  winds,  from  woods  and  fields  with  gladness 
laden  : 

When  the  corn’s  rustle  on  the  ear  doth  come — 

When  the  eve’s  beetle  sounds  its  drowsy  hum — 

'When  the  stars,  dewdrops  of  the  summer  sky. 

Watch  over  all  with  soft  and  loving  eye — 

While  the  leaves  quiver 
By  the  lone  river. 

And  the  quiet  heart 
From  depths  doth  call 
And  garners  all — 

Earth  grows  a shadow 
Forgotten  whole. 

And  Heaven  lives 
In  the  blessed  soul ! 

High  thoughts  ! 

They  are  with  me. 

When,  deep  within  the  bosom  of  the  forest, 

Thy  morning  melody 

Abroad  into  the  sky,  thou,  throstle,  pourest. 
When  the  young  sunbeams  glance  among  the  trees— 
When  on  the  ear  comes  the  soft  song  of  bees — 

When  every  branch  has  its  own  favourite  bird 
And  songs  of  summer,  from  each  thicket  heard  !— 
Where  the  owl  flitteth, 

Where  the  roe  sitteth, 

And  holiness 

Seems  sleeping  there ; 

M'hile  nature’s  prayer 
Goes  up  to  heaven 
In  purity. 

Till  all  is  glory 
And  joy  to  me  ! 

High  thoughts  1 
They  are  my  own 

When  1 am  resting  on  a mountain’s  bosom. 

And  see  below  me  strown 

The  huts  and  homes  where  humble  virtues  blos- 
som ; 

When  1 can  trace  each  streamlet  through  the  meadow— 
When  1 can  follow  every  fitful  shadow — 

When  I can  watch  the  winds  among  the  com, 

And  see  ‘he  waves  along  the  forest  borne  ; 

Where  blue-bell  and  heather 
Are  blooming  together. 

And  far  doth  come 
The  Sabbath  bell. 

O’er  wood  and  fell ; 

I hear  the  beating 
■ Of  nature’s  heart ; 

Heaven  is  before  me — 

God  ! Thou  art! 

High  thoughts ! 

They  visit  us 

In  moments  w-hen  the  soul  is  dim  and  darkenta, 
They  come  to  bless. 

After  the  vanities  to  which  we  hearkened; 

When  weariness  hath  come  upon  the  spirit — 

(Those  hours  of  darkness  which  we  all  inherit) — 
Bursts  there  not  through  a glint  of  warm  sunshine, 

1 A winged  thought,  which  bids  us  not  repine  ? 

505 


rROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  tresent  tima 

In  joy  and  gladness, 

In  mirth  and  sadness, 

Come  signs  and  tokens  ; 

Life’s  angel  brings 
Upon  its  wings 
Those  bright  communlngs 
The  soul  doth  keep — 

Those  thoughts  of  heaven 
So  pure  and  deep ! 

[Dcat/t.] 

[This  poem  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  last,  or  among  the 
last,  of  NieoU's  compositiona] 

The  dew  is  on  the  summer’s  greenest  grass. 

Through  which  the  modest  daisy  blushing  peeps  ; 
The  gentle  wind  that  like  a ghost  doth  pass, 

A waving  shadow  on  the  corn-field  keeps  ; 

But  1,  who  love  them  all,  shall  never  be 
Again  among  the  woods,  or  on  the  moorland  lea ! 

The  sun  shines  sweetly — sweeter  may  it  shine  I — 
Blessed  is  the  brightness  of  a summer  day  ; 

It  cheers  lone  hearts ; and  why  should  I repine. 
Although  among  green  fields  I cannot  stray  ! 
Woods ! I have  grown,  since  last  I heard  you  wave, 
Familiar  with  death,  and  neighbour  to  the  grave  1 

These  words  have  shaken  mighty  human  souls — 

Like  a sepulchre’s  echo  drear  they  sound — 

E’en  as  the  owl’s  wild  whoop  at  midnight  rolls 
The  ivied  remnants  of  old  ruins  round. 

Yet  wherefore  tremble  1 Can  the  soul  decay! 

Or  that  which  thinks  and  feels  in  aught  e’er  fade 
away  ? 

Are  there  not  aspirations  in  each  heart 
After  a better,  brighter  world  than  this  ? 

Longings  for  beings  nobler  in  each  part — 

Things  more  exalted — steeped  in  deeper  bliss  ? 

Who  gave  us  these?  What  are  they?  Soul,  in  thee 
The  bud  is  budding  now  for  immortality! 

Death  comes  to  take  me  where  I long  to  be ; 

One  pang,  and  bright  blooms  the  immortal  flower  j 
Death  comes  to  lead  me  from  mortality. 

To  lands  which  know  not  one  unhappy  hour; 

I have  a hope,  a faith — from  sorrow  here 

I’m  led  by  Death  away — why  should  I start  and  fear  ? 

If  I have  loved  the  forest  and  the  field. 

Can  I not  love  them  deeper,  better  there  ? 

If  all  that  Power  hath  made,  to  me  doth  yield 
Something  of  good  and  beauty — something  fair — 
Freed  from  the  grossness  of  mortality. 

May  I not  love  them  all,  and  better  all  enjoy ! 

A change  from  wo  to  joy — from  earth  to  heaven, 
Death  gives  me  this — it  leads  me  calmly  where 
The  souls  that  long  ago  from  mine  were  riven 

May  meet  again ! Death  answers  many  a prayer. 
Bright  day,  shine  on  ! be  glad  : days  brighter  far 
Are  stretched  before  my  eyes  than  those  of  mortals 
are! 

ROBERT  CILFILLAN. 

Tliough  no  Scottish  poetry  besides  that  of  Burns 
attracts  attention  out  of  its  native  country,  there  is 
not  wanting  a band  of  able  and  warm-hearted  men 
who  continue  to  cultivate  it  for  their  own  amuse- 
ment and  that  of  their  countrymen.  Amongst  these 
may  be  mentioned  Messrs  Rodger,  Ballantyne, 
Vedder,  and  Gray  : a high  place  in  the  class  is  due 
to  Mr  Robert  Gilfillan,  a native  of  Dunfermline, 
whose  Poems  and  Songs  have  passed  through  three 
editions.  The  songs  of  Mr  Gilfillan  are  marked  by 
gentle  and  kindly  feelings,  and  a smooth  flow  of 
■versification,  which  makes  them  eminently  suitable 
Vr  beirg  expressed  in  music. 

The  Exile's  Song. 

Oh  ! why  left  I ray  hame  ? 

Why  did  I cross  the  deep? 

Oh  ! why  left  I the  land 
Where  my  forefathers  sleep  ? 

I sigh  for  Scotia’s  shore. 

And  I gaxe  across  the  sea. 

But  I canna  get  a blink 
O’  my  ain  coun'rie ! 

The  palm-tree  waveth  high. 

And  fair  the  myrtle  springs  ; 

And,  to  the  Indian  maid. 

The  bulbul  sweetly  sings. 

But  I dinna  see  the  broom 
Wi’  its  tassels  on  the  lea. 

Nor  hear  the  lintie’s  sang 
O’  my  ain  countrie ! 

Oh  ! here  no  Sabbath  bell 
Awakes  the  Sabbath  morn, 

Nor  song  of  reapers  heard 
Ainang  the  yellow  corn  : 

For  the  tyrant’s  voice  is  here. 

And  the  wail  of  slavcrie  ; 

But  the  sun  of  freedom  shines 
In  my  ain  countrie  ! 

There’s  a hope  for  every  wo. 

And  a balm  for  every  pain. 

But  the  first  joys  o’  our  heart 
Come  never  back  again. 

There’s  a track  upon  tlie  deep. 

And  a path  across  the  sea  ; 

But  the  weary  ne’er  return 
To  their  ain  countrie! 

In  the  Days  o’  Langsyne. 

In  the  days  o’  langsyne,  when  we  carles  were  young. 
An’  nae  foreign  fashions  amang  us  had  sprung  ; 

When  we  made  our  ain  bannocks,  and  brewed  our  ain 
yill. 

An’ were  clad  frae  the  sheep  that  gaed  white  on  thehill ; 

0 ! the  thocht  o’  thae  days  gars  my  auld  heart  aye  fill! 
In  the  days  o’  langsyne  we  were  happy  and  free. 

Proud  lords  on  the  land,  and  kings  on  the  sea  ! 

To  our  foes  we  were  fierce,  to  our  friends  we  were  kind, 
An’  where  battle  raged  loudest,  you  ever  did  find 
The  banner  of  Scotland  float  high  in  the  wind  ! 

In  the  days  o’  langsyne  we  aye  ranted  and  sang 
By  the  warm  ingle  side,  or  the  wild  braes  ainang ; 

Our  lads  busked  braw,  and  our  lasses  looked  fine. 

An’  the  sun  on  our  mountains  seemed  ever  to  shine  ; 

0!  where  is  the  Scotland  o’  bonnie  langsyne  ? 

In  the  days  o’  langsyne  ilka  glen  had  its  tale. 

Sweet  voices  were  heard  in  ilk  breath  o’  the  gale  ; 

An’  ilka  wee  burn  had  a sang  o’  its  ain. 

As  it  trotted  alang  through  the  valley  or  plain  ; 

Shall  we  e’er  hear  the  music  o’  streamlets  again  ? 

In  the  days  o’  langsyne  there  were  feasting  and  glee, 
Wi’  pride  in  ilk  heart,  and  joy  in  ilk  ee  ; [tyne. 

And  the  auld,  ’mang  the  nappy,  their  eild  seemed  to 
It  was  your  stoup  the  nicht,  and  the  morn  ’twas  mine  ; 

0 ! the  days  o’  langsyne — 0 ! the  days  o’  langsyne. 

Hie  mils  o'  Gallowa'. 

[By  Thomas  Cunningham.] 

[Thomas  Cunningham  was  the  senior  of  his  brother  Allan 
by  some  years,  and  was  a eopious  author  in  prose  and  verse, 
thougli  with  an  undistinguislied  name,  long  before  the  auttor 
of  the  Lives  of  the  British  Painters  was  known.  He  died  la 
1834.] 

Amang  the  birks  sae  blithe  and  gay, 

I met  my  Julia  hanteward  gauu; 

The  Unties  chantit  on  the  spray. 

The  lammies  loupit  on  the  lawn  ; 

fiOB 

.....  1 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WIl./,tAM  NICIIOLSOM. 


roETS. 


On  ilka  liowm  the  sward  was  mawn, 

The  braes  wi’  gowans  buskit  braw, 

Ami  gloaniin’s  plaid  o’  gray  was  thraivn 
Out  owre  the  hills  o’  Oallowa’. 

Wi’  music  wild  the  woodlands  rang. 

And  fragrance  winged  alang  the  lea, 

As  down  we  sat  the  flowers  aniang. 

Upon  the  banks  o’  stately  Dee. 

My  Julia’s  arms  encircled  me. 

And  saftly  slade  the  hours  awa’, 

Till  dawin  coost  a glimmerin’  ee 
Upon  the  hills  o’  Oallowa’. 

It  isna  owsen,  sheep,  and  kye, 

It  isna  gowd,  it  isna  gear. 

This  lifted  ee  wad  hae,  quoth  I, 

The  warld’s  drumlie  gloom  to  cheer. 

But  gi’e  to  me  my  Julia  dear. 

Ye  powers  wha  row  this  yirthen  ba’. 

And  0 1 sae  blithe  through  life  I’ll  steer, 

Amang  the  hills  o’  Oallowa’. 

\Mian  gloamin’  dauners  up  the  hill. 

And  our  gudeman  ca’s  haine  the  yowes, 

Wi’  her  I’ll  trace  the  mossy  rill 

That  owre  the  muir  meandering  rows ; 

Or,  tint  amang  the  scroggy  knowes. 

My  birkin  pipe  I’ll  sweetly  blaw. 

And  sing  the  streams,  the  straths,  and  howes, 

The  hills  and  dales  o’  Oallowa’. 

And  when  auld  Scotland’s  heathy  hills. 

Her  rural  nymphs  and  joyous  swains, 

Her  flowery  wilds  and  wimpling  rills. 

Awake  nae  mair  my  canty  strains  ; 

Wh.arc  friendship  dwells  and  freedom  reigns, 
Whare  heather  blooms  and  muircocks  craw, 

0 1 dig  my  grave,  and  hide  my  banes 
Amang  the  hills  o’  Oallowa’. 

Lucy’s  Flutin’. 

[By  William  Laidlaw.j 

fWilliam  Laidlaw  is  son  of  the  Ettrick  Shepherd’s  master  at 
Bhickhoiise.  All  who  have  read  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott, 
know  how  closely  Mr  Laidlaw  was  connected  with  the  illus- 
trious baronet  of  -Abbotsford.  lie  was  his  companion  in  some 
of  his  early  wanderings,  his  friend  and  land-steward  in  ad- 
vanced years,  his  amanuensis  in  the  composition  of  some  of 
his  novels,  and  he  was  one  of  the  few  who  watched  over  his 
last  sad  and  painful  moments.  Lucy's  Flittin'  is  deservedly 
popular  for  its  unaffected  tenderness  and  simplicity.  In 
printing  the  song,  Hogg  added  the  last  four  lines  to  ‘ complete 
the  story.'] 

’Twas  when  the  wan  leaf  frae  the  birk-tree  was  fa’in. 
And  Martinmas  dowie  had  wound  up  the  year. 
That  Lucy  rowed  up  her  wee  kist  wi’  her  a’  in’t. 

And  left  her  auld  maister  and  neibours  sae  dear : 
For  Lucy  had  served  i’  the  glen  a’  the  simmer ; 

She  cam  there  afore  the  bloom  cam  on  the  pea ; 

An  orphan  was  she,  and  they  had  been  gude  till  her. 
Sure  that  was  the  thing  brocht  the  tear  to  her  ee. 

She  gaed  by  the  stable  where  Jamie  was  .stannin’ ; 

Richt  sair  was  his  kind  heart  her  flittin’  to  see  ; 

‘ Fare  ye  weel,  Lucy  !’  quo’  Jamie,  and  ran  in  ; 

The  gatherin’  tears  trickled  fast  frae  her  ee. 

As  down  the  burn-side  she  gaed  slow  wi’  her  flittin’, 

‘ Fare  ye  weel,  Lucy!’  was  ilka  bird’s  sang ; 

She  heard  the  craw  sayin’t,  high  on  the  tree  sittin’. 
And  Robin  was  chirpin’t  the  brown  leaves  amang. 

* Oh,  what  is’t  that  pits  my  puir  heart  in  a flutter? 

And  what  gars  the  tears  come  sae  fast  to  my  ee  ? 

If  I wasna  ettled  to  be  ony  better. 

Then  what  gars  me  wish  ony  better  to  be  ? 

I’m  just  like  a lanimie  that  loses  its  mither ; 

Nae  mither  or  friend  the  puir  lainmie  can  see; 
f fear  I hae  tint  my  puir  heart  a’thegither, 

Nae  wonder  the  tear  fa’s  sae  fast  frae  my  ee. 


Wi’  the  rest  o’  my  claes  I hae  rowed  up  the  ribbon. 
The  bonnie  blue  ribbon  that  Jamie  gae  me ; 
Yestreen,  when  he  gae  me’t,  and  saw  I was  sabbin’. 
I’ll  never  forget  the  wae  blink  o’  his  ee. 

Though  nowhesaidnaethingbut  “ Fare  ye  weel,  Lucy!” 
It  made  me  I neither  could  speak,  hear,  nor  see  : 
He  couldna  say  mair  but  just,  “ Fare  ye  weel,  Lucyl” 
Yet  that  I will  mind  till  the  day  that  I dee. 

The  lamb  likes  the  gowan  wi’  dew  when  its  droukit ; 

The  hare  likes  the  brake  and  the  braird  on  the  lea; 
But  Lucy  likes  Jamie  ;’ — she  turned  and  she  lookit. 
She  thocht  the  dear  place  she  wad  never  mair  see. 
Ah,  weel  may  young  Jamie  gang  dowie  and  cheerless! 

And  weel  may  he  greet  on  the  bank  o’  the  burn  I 
For  bonnie  sweet  Lucy,  sae  gentle  and  peerless. 

Lies  cauld  in  her  grave,  and  will  never  return  I 

The  Brownie  of  Blednoch. 

[By  William  Nicholson.] 

There  cam  a strange  wight  to  our  town-en’. 

An’  the  fient  a body  did  him  ken  ; 

He  tirled  na  lang,  but  he  glided  ben 
Wi’  a dreary,  dreary  hum. 

His  face  did  glow  like  thegAW  o’  the  west. 

When  the  drumly  cloud  has  it  half  o’ercast ; 

Or  the  struggling  moon  when  she’s  sair  distrest. 

0,  sirs  1 ’twas  Aiken-drum. 

I trow  the  bauldest  stood  aback, 

Wi’  a gape  an’  a glower  till  their  lugs  did  crack, 

As  the  shapeless  phantom  raum’ling  spak — 

Hae  ye  wark  for  Aiken-drum  ? 

0!  had  ye  seen  the  bairns’  fright. 

As  they  stared  at  this  wild  and  unyirthly  wight ; 

As  they  .skulkit  in  ’tween  the  dark  and  the  light. 

And  graned  out,  Aiken-drum! 

The  black  dog  growling  cowered  his  tail. 

The  lassie  swarfed,  loot  fa’  the  pail ; 

Rob’s  lingle  brak  as  he  men’t  the  flail. 

At  the  sight  o’  Aiken-drum. 

His  matted  head  on  his  breast  did  rest, 

A lang  blue  beard  wan’ered  do\tn  like  a vest ; 

But  the  glare  o’  his  ee  hath  nac  bard  exprest. 

Nor  the  skimes  o’  Aiken  drum. 

Roun’  his  hairy  form  there  was  naething  seen 
But  a philabeg  o’  the  rashes  green. 

An’  his  knotted  knees  played  aye  knoit  betwem— 
What  a sight  was  Aiken-drum  ! 

On  his  wauchie  arms  three  claws  did  meet. 

As  they  trailed  on  the  grun’  by  his  t.ieless  feet ; 

E’en  the  auld  gudeman  himsel’  did  sweat. 

To  look  at  Aiken-drum. 

But  he  drew  a score,  himsel’  did  sain. 

The  auld  wife  tried,  but  her  tongue  was  gane ; 

While  the  young  ane  closer  clasped  her  wean. 

And  turned  frae  Aiken-drum. 

But  the  canny  auld  wife  cam  till  her  breath. 

And  she  deemed  the  Bible  might  ward  aff  scaith. 

Be  it  benshee,  bogle,  ghaist,  or  wraith — 

But  it  feared  na  Aiken-drum. 

‘ His  presence  protect  usl’  quoth  the  auld  gudeman 
‘ What  wad  ye,  whare  won  ye,  by  sea  or  by  Ian’  ? 

I conjure  ye — speak — by  the  beuk  in  my  han’  1’ 

What  a grane  ga’e  Aiken-drum  1 

‘ I lived  in  a Ian’  where  we  saw  nae  sky, 

I dwalt  in  a spot  where  a burn  rins  na  by ; 

But  I’se  dwall  now  wi’  you  if  ye  like  to  try — 

"lae  ye  wark  for  Aiken-drum  ? 

507 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  present  timjc 


I’ll  hIiIcI  a’  your  Bheep  1’  the  momiii’  sune, 

I’ll  berry  your  crap  by  the  light  o’  the  moon, 

An’  ba  the  bairns  wi  an  unkenned  tunc, 

If  ye’ll  keep  puir  Aiken-druin. 

I’ll  loup  the  linn  when  ye  canna  wade, 

I’ll  kirn  the  kirn,  an’  I’ll  turn  the  bread  ; 

An’  the  wildest  filly  that  ever  ran  rede, 

I’se  tanie’t,’  quoth  Aiken-druin. 

To  wear  the  tod  frae  the  flock  on  the  fell. 

To  gather  the  dew  frae  the  heather  bell, 

An’  to  look  at  iny  face  in  your  clear  crystal  well, 
Might  gi’e  pleasure  to  Aiken-drurn. 

I’se  seek  nae  guids,  gear,  bond,  nor  mark ; 

I use  nae  beddin’,  shoon,  nor  sark  ; 

But  a cogfu’  o’  brose  ’tween  the  light  an’  dark 
Is  the  wage  o’  Aiken-druin.’ 

Quoth  the  wylie  auld  wife,  ‘ The  thing  speaks  weel ; 
Our  workers  are  scant- — we  hae  routh  o’  meal ; 

Gif  he’ll  do  as  he  says — be  he  man,  be  he  dell — 
Wow!  we’ll  try  this  Aiken-drum.’ 

But  the  wenches  skirled,  ‘ He’s  no  be  here! 

His  eldritch  look  gars  us  swarf  wi’  fear; 

An’  the  feint  a ane  will  the  house  come  near. 

If  they  think  but  o’  Aiken-drum.’ 

‘ Puir  clipmalabors  I ye  hae  little  wit ; 

Is’tna  hallowmas  now,  an’  the  crap  out  yet?’ 

Sae  she  silenced  them  a’  wi’  a stamp  o’  her  fit — 

‘ Sit  yer  wa’s  down,  Aiken-drum.’ 

Bonn’  a’  that  side  what  wark  was  dune 

By  the  streamer’s  gleam,  or  the  glance  o’  the  moon ; 

A word,  or  a wish,  an’  the  brownie  cam  sune, 

Sae  helpfu’  was  Aiken-drum. 

On  Blednoch  banks,  an’  on  crystal  Cree, 

For  mony  a day  a toiled  wight  was  he ; 

While  the  bairns  played  harmless  roun’  his  knee, 

Sae  social  was  Aiken-drum. 

But  a new-made  wife,  fu’  o’  frippish  freaks. 

Fond  o’  a’  things  feat  for  the  five  first  weeks. 

Laid  a mouldy  pair  o’  her  ain  man’s  breeks 
By  the  brose  o’  Aiken-drum. 

Let  the  learned  decide  when  they  convene. 

What  spell  was  him  an’  the  breeks  between ; 

For  frae  that  day  forth  he  was  nae  mair  seen. 

An’  sair-missed  was  Aiken-drum. 

He  was  heard  by  a herd  gaun  by  the  Thrieve, 

Crying,  ‘ Lang,  lang  now  may  I greet  an’  grieve ; 

I’er,  alas  I I hae  gotten  baith  fee  an’  leave — 

0 ! luckless  Aiken-drum  1’ 

Awa,  ye  wrangling  sceptic  tribe, 

Wi’  your  pros  an’  your  cons  wad  ye  decide 
’Gain  the  sponsible  voice  o’  a hale  country  side. 

On  the  facts  ’bout  Aiken-drum ! 

Though  the  ‘ Brownie  o’  Blednoch’  lang  be  gane. 

The  mark  o’  his  feet’s  left  on  mony  a stane; 

An’  mony  a wife  an’  mony  a wean 

Tell  the  feats  o’  -\iken-drum. 

E’en  now,  light  loons  that  jibe  an’  sneer 
At  spiritual  guests  an’  a’  sic  gear. 

At  the  Glashnoch  mill  hae  swat  wi’  fear. 

An’  looked  roun’  for  Aiken-drum. 

An’  guidly  folks  hae  gotten  a fright, 

VVhen  the  moon  was  set,  an’  the  stars  gied  nae  light, 
At  the  roaring  linn,  in  the  howe  o’  the  night, 

Wi’  sughs  like  Aiken-drum. 


Song. 

[By  Joseph  Train.] 

[Mr  Train  will  be  memorable  in  our  literary  liistory  for  the 
assistance  he  rendered  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  the  contribution 
of  some  of  tlio  stories  on  which  tiie  Waverley  novels  were 
founded,  lie  entered  life  as  a private  soldier,  and  rose  by 
merit  to  be  a supervisor  of  excise,  from  which  situation  be 
has  now  retired  on  a superannuation  ailowance.] 

Wi’  drums  and  pipes  the  clachan  rang, 

I left  my  goats  to  wander  wide ; 

And  e’en  as  fast  as  I could  bang, 

I bickered  down  the  mountain  side. 

My  hazel  rung  and  haslock  plaid 
Awa’  I flang  wi’  cauld  disdain. 

Resolved  1 would  nae  Linger  bide 
To  do  the  auld  thing  o’er  again. 

Ye  barons  bold,  whose  turrets  rise 
Aboon  the  wild  woods  white  wi’  snaw, 

I trow  the  laddies  ye  may  prize, 

Wha  fight  your  battles  far  awa’. 

Wi’  them  to  stan’,  wi’  them  to  fa’. 

Courageously  I crossed  the  main  ; 

To  see,  for  Caledonia, 

The  auld  thing  weel  done  o’er  again. 

Right  far  a-fiel’  I freely  fought, 

’Gainst  mony  an  outlandish  loon  ; 

An’  wi’  my  good  claymore  I’ve  brought 
Mony  a beardy  birkie  down  : 

While  I had  pith  to  wield  it  roun’. 

In  battle  I ne’er  met  wi’  ane 
Could  danton  me,  for  Britain’s  crown. 

To  do  the  same  thing  o’er  again. 

Although  I’m  marching  life’s  last  stage, 

Wi’  sorrow  crowded  roun’  my  brow ; 

An’  though  the  knapsack  o’  auld  age 
Hangs  heavy  on  my  shoulders  now — 

Yet  recollection,  ever  new. 

Discharges  a’  my  toil  and  pain. 

When  fancy  figures  in  my  view 

The  pleasant  auld  thing  o’er  again. 

Tlic  Cameronian'a  Dream. 

[By  James  Hi&lop.] 

[James  Ilislop  was  bom  of  humble  parents  in  the  parish  ct 
Kirkconnel,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Sanquhar,  near  the  source 
of  the  Nith,  in  July  1798.  lie  was  employed  as  a shepherd-boy 
in  the  vicinity  of  Airsmoss,  where,  at  the  gravestone  of  a party 
of  slain  covenanters,  he  composed  the  following  striking  poem. 
He  afterwards  became  a teacher,  and  his  poetical  effusions 
having  attracted  the  favourable  notice  of  Lord  Jeffrey,  and 
other  eminent  literary  characters,  he  was,  through  their  influ- 
ence, appointed  schoolmaster,  first  on  board  the  Boris,  and  sub- 
sequently the  Tweed  man-of-war.  He  died  on  the  4th  Becem- 
ber  1897  from  fever  caught  by  o.;ep'ng  one  night  in  the  open 
air  upon  the  island  of  St  Jago,  His  compositions  display  an 
elegant  rather  than  a vigorous  imagination,  much  chasteness 
of  thought,  and  a pure  but  ardent  love  of  nature.] 

In  a dream  of  the  night  I was  wafted  away. 

To  the  muirland  of  mist  where  the  martyrs  lay; 
Where  Cameron’s  sword  and  his  Bible  are  seen. 
Engraved  on  the  stone  where  the  heather  grows  green. 

’Twas  a dream  of  those  ages  of  darkness  and  blood. 
When  the  minister’s  home  was  the  mountain  and  wood; 
When  in  Wellwood’s  dark  valley  the  standard  of  Zion, 
All  bloody  and  torn  ’mong  the  heather  was  lying. 

’Twas  morning  ; and  summer’s  young  sun  from  the  oast 
Lay  in  loving  repose  on  the  green  mountain’s  breast  ; 
On  Wardlaw  and  Cairntable  the  clear  shining  dew. 
Glistened  there  'mong  the  heath  bells  and  mountain 
flowers  blue, 

508 


nUAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DRAMATISTS. 


Aiul  far  up  in  heaven  near  the  white  sunny  cloud, 
The  son"  of  tlie  lark  was  melodious  and  loud, 

And  in  Olenmuir’s  wild  solitude,  lengtliened  and  deep, 
Were  the  whistling  of  plovers  and  bleating  of  sheep. 

And  Well  wood’s  sweet  valleys  breathed  music  and 
gladness. 

The  fresh  meadow  blooms  hung  in  beauty  and  redness; 
Us  daughters  were  happy  to  hail  the  returning. 

And  drink  the  delights  of  July’s  sweet  morning. 

Rut,  oh!  there  were  hearts  cherished  far  other  feelings. 
Illumed  by  the  light  of  prophetic  rovealings, 

\\'ho  drank  from  the  scenery  of  l>eauty  but  sorrow, 
*!'or  they  knew  that  their  blood  would  bedew  it  to- 
morrow. 

’Twas  the  few  faithful  ones  who  with  Cameron  were 
Ij'i'iS. 

Concealed  ’mong  tlie  mist  where  the  heathfowl  was 
crying. 

For  the  horsemen  of  Earlshall  around  them  were 
hovering. 

And  their  bridle  reins  rung  through  the  thin  misty 
covering. 

Their  faces  grew  p.ale,  and  their  swords  were  un- 
sheathed. 

But  the  vengeance  that  darkened  their  brow  was  un- 
breathed  ; 

With  eyes  turned  to  heaven  in  calm  resignation, 

They  sung  their  last  song  to  the  God  of  Salvation. 

The  hills  with  the  deep  mournful  music  were  ringing, 
The  curlew  and  plover  in  concert  were  singing; 

But  the  melody  died  ’mid  derision  and  laughter. 

As  the  host  of  ungodly  rushed  on  to  the  slaughter. 

Though  in  mist  and  in  darkness  and  fire  they  were 
shrouded. 

Yet  the  souls  of  the  righteous  were  calm  and  unclouded. 
Their  dark  eyes  flashed  lightning,  as,  firm  and  un- 
bending. 

They  stood  like  the  rock  which  the  thunder  is  rending. 

The  muskets  were  flashing,  the  blue  swords  were 
gleaming. 

The  helmets  were  cleft,  and  the  red  blood  was  stream- 
ing. 

The  heavens  grew  dark,  and  the  thunder  was  rolling, 
When  in  Wellwood’s  dark  muirlands  the  mighty  were 
falling. 

\ATien  the  righteous  had  fallen,  and  the  combat  was 
ended, 

A chariot  of  fire  through  the  dark  cloud  descended ; 
Its  drivers  were  angels  on  horses  of  whiteness. 

And  its  burning  wheels  turned  on  axles  of  brightness. 

A seraph  unfolded  its  doors  bright  and  shining. 

All  dazzling  like  gold  of  the  seventh  refining. 

And  the  souls  that  came  forth  out  of  great  tribulation. 
Have  mounted  the  chariots  and  steeds  of  salvation. 

On  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  the  charioi  is  gliding. 
Through  the  path  of  the  thunder  th.  horsemen  are 
riding ; 

Glide  swiftly,  bright  .spirits  ! the  prize  is  before  ye, 

A croivn  never  fading,  a kingdom  of  glory ! 

DRAMATISTS. 

Dramatic  literature  no  longer  occupies  the  promi- 
nent place  it  held  in  former  periods  of  our  history. 
Various  causes  have  been  assigned  for  this  decline — 
as,  the  great  size  of  the  theatres,  the  monopoly  of  the 
two  large  London  houses,  the  love  of  spectacle  or 
scenic  display  which  has  usurped  the  place  of  the 
legitimate  drama,  and  the  late  dinner  hours  now 
prevalent  among  the  higher  and  even  the  middle 


classes.  The  increased  competition  in  bu.siness  has 
also  made  our  ‘ nation  of  shopkeepers’  a busier  and 
harder-working  race  than  tlieir  forefathers  ; and  the 
diffusion  of  cheap  literature  may  have  further  tended 
to  thin  the  theatres,  as  furnishing  intellectual  enter- 
tainment for  the  masses  at  home  at  a cheaper  rate 
than  dramatic  performances.  The  London  managers 
appear  to  have  had  considerable  influence  in  this  mat- 
ter. They  lavish  enormous  sums  on  scenic  decoration 
and  particular  actors,  and  aim  rather  at  filling  their 
houses  by  some  ephemeral  and  dazzling  display,  than 
by  the  liberal  encouragement  of  native  talent  and 
genius.  To  improve,  or  rather  re-establish  the  acted 
drama,  a periodical  writer  suggests  that  there  should 
be  a classification  of  theatres  in  the  metropolis,  as  in 
Paris,  where  each  theatre  has  its  distinct  species  of 
the  drama,  and  performs  it  well.  ‘ We  believe,’  he 
says,  ‘ that  the  evil  is  mainly  occasioned  by  the  vain 
endeavour  of  managers  to  succeed  by  commixing 
every  species  of  entertainment — huddling  together 
tragedy,  corned^',  farce,  melo-drama,  and  spectacle — 
and  striving,  by  alternate  exhibitions,  to  draw  a.'I 
the  dramatic  public  to  their  respective  houses.  Im- 
perfect— very  imperfect  companies  for  each  species 
are  engaged ; and  as,  in  consequence  of  the  general 
imperfection,  they  are  forced  to  rely  on  individual 
excellence,  individual  performers  become  of  inordi- 
nate importance,  and  the  most  exorbitant  salaries 
are  given  to  procure  them.  These  individuals  are 
thus  placed  in  a false  position,  and  indulge  them- 
selves in  all  sorts  of  mannerisms  and  absurdities.  The 
public  is  not  unreasonably  dissatisfied  with  imper- 
fect companies  and  bad  performances  ; the  managers 
wonder  at  their  ruin  ; and  critics  become  elegiacal 
over  the  mournful  decline  of  the  drama!  Not  in  this 
way  can  a theatre  flourish ; since,  if  one  species  of 
performance  proves  attractive,  the  others  are  at  a dis- 
count, and  their  companies  become  useless  burdens  ; 
if  none  of  them  prove  attractive,  then  the  loss  ends  in 
ruin.’*  Too  many  instances  of  this  have  occurred 
within  the  last  twenty  years.  Whenever  a play  of 
real  excellence  has  been  brought  forward,  the  public 
has  shown  no  insensibility  to  its  merits  ; but  so  many 
circumstances  are  requisite  to  its  successful  repre- 
sentation— so  expensive  are  the  companies,  and  so 
capricious  the  favourite  actors — that  men  of  talent 
are  averse  to  hazard  a competition.  Tlie  true  dra- 
matic talent  is  also  a rare  gift.  Some  of  the  most 
eminent  poets  have  failed  in  attempting  to  portray 
actual  life  and  passion  in  interesting  situations  on 
the  stage  ; and  as  F'ielding  and  Smollett  proved  un- 
successful in  comedy  (though  the  former  wrote  a 
number  of  pieces),  so  Byron  and  Scott  were  found 
wanting  in  the  qualities  requisite  for  the  tragic 
drama.  ‘ It  is  evident,’  says  Campbell,  ‘ that  Mel- 
pomene demands  on  the  stage  something,  and  a good 
deal  more,  than  even  poetical  talent,  rare  as  that 
is.  She  requires  a potent  and  peculiar  faculty  for 
the  invention  of  incident  adapted  to  theatric  effect; 
a faculty  which  may  often  exist  in  those  who  have 
been  bred  to  the  stage,  but  which,  generally  speak- 
ing, has  seldom  been  shown  by  any  poets  who  were 
not  professional  players.  There  are  exceptions  to 
the  remark,  but  there  are  not  many.  If  Shakspeare 
had  not  been  a player,  he  would  not  have  been  the 
dramatist  that  he  is.’  Dryden,  Addison,  and  Con- 
greve, are  conspicuous  exceptions  to  this  rule;  also 
Goldsmith  in  comedy,  and,  in  our  own  day.  Sir  Ed- 
ward Lytton  Bulwer  in  the  romantic  drama.  The 
Colmans,  Sheridan,  Morton,  and  Reynoids,  never, 
we  believe,  wore  the  sock  or  buskin ; but  they  were 
either  managers,  or  closely  connected  wi'.h  the 
theatre. 

* Edinburgh  Review  for  1843. 

509 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMl 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


In  tlie  first  year  of  this  period,  ItorEiiT  Jkphso.v 
(I73f)-180;j)  produced  his  tragedy  of  The  Count  of 
Narhomie,  copied  from  Waliiole’s  Castle  of  Otranto, 
and  it  was  highly  attractive  on  tlie  stage.  In  1785 
Jephson  bronglit  out  another  tragedy.  The  Duke  of 
Jiruganza,  which  was  equally  successful.  He  wrote 
three  other  tragedies,  some  farces,  and  operas ; but 
Mie  whole  are  now  utterly  neglected.  Jephson  was 
no  great  dramatic  writer;  but  a poetical  critic  has 
recorded  to  his  honour,  that,  ‘at  a time  when  the 
native  genius  of  tragedy  seemed  to  be  extinct,  he 
came  boldly  forward  as  a tragic  poet,  and  certainly 
with  a spark  of  talent ; for  if  he  has  not  the  full 
flame  of  genius,  he  has  at  least  its  scintillating  light’ 
The  dramatist  was  an  Irishman  by  birth,  a captain 
in  the  army,  and  afterwards  a member  of  the  Irish 
House  of  Commons. 

The  stage  was  aroused  from  a state  of  insipidity 
or  degeneracy  by  the  introduction  of  plays  from  the 
German,  which,  amidst  much  false  and  exaggerated 
sentiment,  appealed  to  the  stronger  sympathies  of  our 
nature,  and  drew  crowded  audiences  to  the  theatres. 
One  of  the  first  of  these  was  The  Stranger,  said  to  be 
translated  by  Benjamin  Thompson  ; but  the  greater 
part  of  it,  as  it  was  acted,  was  the  production  of 
Sheridan.  It  is  a drama  of  domestic  life,  not  very 
moral  or  beneficial  in  its  tendencies  (for  it  is  calcu- 
lated to  palliate  our  detestation  of  adultery),  yet 
abounding  in  scenes  of  tenderness  and  surprise,  well 
adapted  to  produce  effect  on  the  stage.  The  princi- 
pal characters  were  acted  by  Kemble  and  Mrs  Sid- 
dons,  and  when  it  was  brought  out  in  the  season  of 
1797-8,  it  was  received  with  immense  applause.  In 
1799  Sheridan  adapted  another  of  Kotzebue’s  plays, 
Pizarro,  which  experienced  still  greater  success.  In 
the  former  drama  the  German  author  had  violated 
the  proprieties  of  our  moral  code,  by  making  an  in- 
jured husband  take  back  his  guilty  though  penitent 
wife  ; and  in  Pizarro  he  has  invested  a fallen  female 
with  tenderness,  compassion,  and  heroism.  The  obtru- 
sion of  such  a character  as  a prominent  figure  in  the 
scene  was  at  least  indelicate  ; but,  in  the  hands  of  Mrs 
Siddons,  the  taint  was  scarcely  perceived,  and  Sheri- 
dan had  softened  down  the  most  objectionable  parts. 
The  play  was  produced  with  all  the  aids  of  splendid 
scenery,  music,  and  fine  acting,  and  these,  together 
with  its  displays  of  generous  and  heroic  feeling  on 
the  part  of  Rolla,  and  of  parental  affection  in  Alonzo 
End  Cura,  were  calculated  to  lead  captive  a general 
auilience.  ‘ Its  subject  was  also  new,  and  peculiarly 
fortunate.  It  brought  the  adventures  of  the  most 
romantic  kingdom  of  Christendom  (Spain)  into  pic- 
turesque combination  with  the  simplicity  and  super- 
stitions of  the  transatlantic  world  ; and  gave  the 
imagination  a new  and  fresh  empire  of  paganism, 
with  its  temples,  and  rites,  and  altars,  without  the 
stale  associations  of  pedantry.’  Some  of  the  senti- 
ments and  descriptions  in  Pizarro  are  said  to  have 
originally  formed  part  of  Sheridan’s  famous  speech 
on  the  impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings ! They  are 
often  inflated  and  bombastic,  and  full  of  rhetorical 
glitter.  Thus  Rollo  soliloquises  in  Alonzo’s  dungeon : 
— ■ O holy  Nature  ! thou  dost  never  plead  in  vain. 
There  is  not  of  our  earth  a creature,  bearing  form 
and  life,  human  or  savage,  native  of  the  forest  wild 
or  giddy  air,  around  whose  parent  bosom  thou  hast 
not  a cord  entwined  of  power  to  tie  them  to  their 
offspring's  claims,  and  at  thy  will  to  draw  them  back 
to  thee.  On  iron  pinions  borne  the  blood-stained 
vulture  cleaves  the  storm,  yet  is  the  plumage  closest 
to  her  heart  soft  as  the  cygnet’s  down  ; and  o’er  her 
unshelled  brood  the  murmuring  ring-dove  sits  not 
more  gently.’ 

Or  the  speech  of  Rolla  to  the  Peruvian  army 
st  the  consecration  of  the  banners : — ‘ My  brave 


associates  1 partners  of  my  toil,  my  feelings,  and 
my  fame  1 Can  Rolla’s  words  add  vigour  to  the 
virtuous  energies  which  ins])ire  your  hearts?  No! 
you  have  judged,  as  I have,  tlie  foulness  of  the 
crafty  plea  by  which  these  bold  invaders  would  de- 
lude you.  Your  generous  sjiirit  has  compared,  as 
mine  has,  the  motives  which,  in  a war  like  this,  can 
animate  their  minds  and  oum.  They,  by  a strange 
frenzy  driven,  fight  for  jiower,  for  plunder,  and  ex- 
tended rule.  We,  for  our  country,  our  altars,  and 
our  homes.  They  follow  an  adventurer  whom  they 
fear,  and  a power  which  they  hate.  We  serve  a 
monarch  whom  we  love — a God  whom  we  adore ! 
Where’er  they  move  in  anger,  desolation  tracks  their 
progress ; where’er  they  pause  in  amity,  affliction 
mourns  their  friendship.  They  boast  they  come 
but  to  improve  our  state,  enlarge  our  thoughts,  and 
free  us  from  the  yoke  of  error.  Yes,  they  will  give 
enlightened  freedom  to  our  minds,  who  are  them- 
selves the  slaves  of  passion,  avarice,  and  pride. 
They  offer  us  their  protection  ; yes,  such  protection 
as  vultures  give  to  lambs — covering  and  devouring 
them  ! They  call  on  us  to  barter  all  of  good  we 
have  inherited  and  proved,  for  the  desjierate  chance 
of  something  better  which  they  promise.  Be  our 
plain  answer  this : the  throne  u-e  honour  is  the 
people’s  choice ; the  laws  we  reverence  are  our  brave 
fathers’  legacy' ; the  faith  we  follow  teaches  us  to 
live  in  bonds  of  charity  with  all  mankind,  and  die 
with  hopes  of  bliss  beyond  the  grave.  Tell  your 
invaders  this,  and  tell  them,  too,  we  seek  no  change, 
and  least  of  all  such  change  as  they'  would  bring  us.’ 
Animated  apostrophes  like  these,  rolled  from 
the  lips  of  Kemble,  and  ai)plied,  in  those  days 
of  war,  to  British  valour  and  patriotism  arrayed 
against  France,  could  hardly  fail  of  an  enthusiastic 
reception.  A third  drama  by  Kotzebue  was  some 
years  afterwards  adapted  for  the  English  stage  by 
Mrs  Incbhald,  and  performed  under  the  title  oi 
Lovers'  Vows.  ‘ The  grand  moral  of  the  play  is 
to  set  forth  the  miserable  consequences  which  arise 
from  the  neglect,  and  to  enforce  the  watchful  care 
of  illegitimate  offspring ; and  surely  as  the  pulpit 
has  not  had  eloquence  to  eradicate  the  crime  of 
seduction,  the  stage  may  be  allowed  a humble  en- 
deavour to  prevent  its  most  fatal  effects.’  Lovers’ 
Vows  also  became  a popular  acting  play,  for  stage 
effect  was  carefully  studied,  and  the  scenes  and 
situations  skilfully  arranged.  While  filling  the 
theatres,  Kotzebue’s  plays  were  generally  condemned 
by  the  critics.  They  cannot  be  said  to  have  pro- 
duced any  permanent  bad  effect  on  our  national 
mor.als,  but  they  presented  many  false  and  pernicious 
pictures  to  the  mind.  ‘ There  is  an  affectation,’  as 
Scott  remarks,  ‘ of  attributing  noble  and  virtuous 
sentiments  to  the  persons  least  qualified  by  habit  or 
education  to  entertain  them  ; and  of  describing  the 
higher  and  better  educated  classes  as  uniformly  de- 
ficient in  those  feelings  of  liberality,  generosity',  and 
honour,  which  may  be  considered  as  proper  to  their 
situation  in  life.  This  contrast  may  be  true  in  par- 
ticular instances,  and  being  used  sparingly,  might 
afford  a good  moral  lesson  ; but  in  sj)ite  of  truth  and 
probability,  it  has  been  assumed,  upon  all  occasions, 
by  those  authors  as  the  groundwork  of  a sort  of  in- 
tellectual Jacobinism.’  Scott  himself,  it  will  be  re- 
collected, was  fascinated  by  the  German  drama,  and 
translated  a play  of  Goethe.  The  excesses  of  Kotze- 
bue were  happily'  ridiculed  by  Canning  and  Ellis  in 
their  amusing  satire.  The  Rovers.  At  length,  after 
a run  of  unexampled  success,  these  plays  ceased 
to  attract  attention,  though  one  or  two  are  still 
occasionally  performed.  With  all  their  absurdities, 
we  cannot  but  believe  that  they  exercised  an  in- 
spiring influence  on  the  rising  genius  of  that  age. 

aio 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOANNA  BAILLIE. 


They  dealt  with  passions,  not  with  manners,  and 
awoke  the  higher  feelings  and  sensibilities  of  our 
nature.  Good  plays  were  also  mingled  with  the 
bad : if  Kotzebue  was  aeted,  Goethe  and  Schiller 
were  studied.  The  Wallenstein  was  translated  by 
Coleridge,  and  the  influence  of  the  German  drama 
was  felt  hy  most  of  the  young  poets. 

One  of  those  -who  imbibed  a taste  for  the  mar- 
rellous  and  the  romantic  from  this  source  was 
M.atthew  Gregory  Lewis,  whose  drama.  The 
Castle  Spectre,  was  produced  in  1797,  and  was  per- 
formed about  sixty  successive  nights.  It  is  full  of 
supernatural  horrors,  deadly  revenge,  and  assassina- 
tion, with  touches  of  poetical  feeling,  and  some  well- 
managed  scenes.  In  the  same  3«ar  l.ewis  adapted 
a tragedy  from  Schiller,  entitled  2'he  Minister ; and 
this  was  followed  by  a succession  of  dramatic  pieces 
— /?oWn,  a tragedj’,  1799  ; The  Eas  /arfi'an,  a comedy, 
1800;  Adelinorn,  or  the  Outlaw,  a drama,  1801; 
llugantio,  a melo-drama,  1805;  Adelgitha,  a play, 
1806  ; Venoni,  a drama,  1809  ; One  o'Clock,  or  the 
Knight  and  Wood  Demon,  1811  ; Timour  the  Tartar, 
a melo-drama,  1812  ; and  Rich  and  Poor,  a comic 
opera,  1812.  The  Castle  Spectre  is  still  occasionally 
performed ; but  the  difi'nsion  of  a more  sound  and 
healthy  taste  in  literature  has  banished  the  other 
dramas  of  Lewis  equally  from  the  stage  and  the 
press.  To  the  present  generation  they  are  unknown. 
They  were  fit  companions  for  the  ogres,  giants,  and 
Blue-beards  of  the  nursery  tales,  and  they  have 
shared  the  same  oblivion. 

JOANNA  BAELLIE. 

The  most  important  addition  to  the  written  drama 
at  this  time  was  the  first  volume  of  Joanna  Baillie’s 
plays  on  the  passions,  published  in  1798  under  the 
title  of  A Series  of  Plays : in  which  it  is  attempted  to 
Delineate  the  Stronger  Passions  of  the  Mind,  each 
Passion  being  the  subject  of  a Tragedy  and  a Comedy. 
To  the  volume  was  prefixed  a long  and  interesting 
introductory  discourse,  in  which  the  authoress  dis- 
cusses the  subject  of  the  drama  in  all  its  bearings, 
and  asserts  the  supremacy  of  simple  nature  over  all 
decoration  and  refinement.  ‘ Let  one  simple  trait 
of  the  human  heart,  one  expression  of  passion, 
genuine  and  true  to  nature,  be  introduced,  and  it 
will  stand  forth  alone  in  the  boldness  of  reality, 
whilst  the  false  and  unnatural  around  it  fades  away 
upon  every  side,  like  the  rising  exhalations  of  the 
morning.’  This  theory  (which  anticipated  the  dis- 
sertations and  most  of  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth) 
the  accomplished  dramatist  illustrated  in  her  plays, 
the  merits  of  which  were  instantly  recognised,  and 
a second  edition  called  for  in  a few  months.  Miss 
Baillie  was  then  in  the  thirty-fourth  year  of  her  age. 
In  1802  she  published  a second  volume,  and  in  1812 
a third.  In  the  interval  she  had  produced  a volume 
of  miscellaneous  dramas  (1804),  and  The  Family 
Legend  (1810),  a tragedy  founded  on  a Highland 
tradition,  and  brought  out  with  success  at  the  Edin- 
Ourgh  theatre.  In  1836  this  authoress  published 
three  more  volumes  of  plaj’s,  her  career  as  a dramatic 
writer  thus  extending  over  the  long  period  of  thirty- 
eight  j’ears.  Only  one  of  her  dramas  has  ever  been 
performed  on  the  stage  : De  Montfort  was  brought 
out  by  Kemble  shortly  after  its  appearance,  and  was 
acted  eleven  nights.  It  was  again  introduced  in  1821, 
to  exhibit  the  talents  of  Kean  in  the  character  of 
De  Montfort ; but  this  actor  remarked  that,  though 
a fine  poem,  it  would  never  be  an  acting  play.  The 
author  who  mentions  this  circumstance,  remarks  : — 
‘ If  Joanna  Baillie  had  known  the  stage  practically, 
she  would  never  have  attached  the  importance  which 
she  does  to  the  development  of  single  passions  in 


single  tragedies  ; and  she  would  have  invented  more 
stirring  incidents  to  justify  the  passion  of  her  cha 
racters,  and  to  give  them  that  air  of  fatality  which 
though  peculiarly  predominant  in  the  Greek  drama, 
will  also  be  found,  to  a certain  extent,  in  all  success- 
ful tragedies.  Instead  of  this,  she  contrives  to  make 
all  the  passions  of  her  main  characters  proceed  from 
the  wilful  natures  of  the  beings  themselves.  Their 
feelings  are  not  precipitated  by  circumstances,  like 
a stream  down  a declivity,  that  leaps  from  rock  to 
rock;  but,  for  want  of  incident,  they  seem  often  like 
water  on  a level,  without  a propelling  impulse.’* 
The  design  of  Miss  Baillie  in  restricting  her  dramas 
each  to  the  elucidation  of  one  passion,  appears  cer- 
tainly to  have  been  an  unnecessary  and  unwise  re- 
straint, as  tending  to  circumscribe  the  business  of 
the  piece,  and  e.xclude  the  interest  arising  from 
varied  emotions  and  conflicting  passions.  It  cannot 
be  said  to  have  been  successful  in  her  own  case,  and 
it  has  never  been  copied  by  any  other  author.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  has  eulogised  ‘Basil’s  love  and  Mont- 
fort’s  hate’  as  something  like  a revival  of  the  in- 
spired strain  of  Shakspeare.  The  tragedies  of  Count 
Basil  and  De  Montfort  are  among  the  best  of  Miss 
Baillie’s  plaj’s ; but  they  are  more  like  the  works  of 
Shirley,  or  the  serious  parts  of  Massinger,  than  the 
glorious  dramas  of  Shakspeare,  so  full  of  life,  of  in- 
cident, and  imagery.  Miss  Bjiillie’s  style  is  smooth 
and  regular,  and  her  plots  are  both  original  and 
carefully  constructed ; but  she  has  no  poetical  luxu- 
riance, and  few  commanding  situations.  Her  tragic 
scenes  are  too  much  connected  with  the  crime  of 
murder,  one  of  the  easiest  resources  of  a tragedian; 
and  partly  from  the  delicacy  of  her  sex,  as  well  as 
from  the  restrictions  imposed  by  her  theory  of  com- 
position, she  is  deficient  in  that  variety  and  fulness 
of  passion,  the  ‘form  and  pressure’  of  real  life,  which 
are  so  essential  on  the  stage.  The  design  and  plot 
of  her  dramas  are  obvious  almost  from  the  first  act 
— a circumstance  that  would  be  fatal  to  their  suc- 
cess in  representation.  The  unity  and  intellectual 
completeness  of  i\Iiss  Baillie’s  plays  are  their  most 
striking  characteristics.  Her  simple  masculine  style, 
so  unlike  the  florid  or  insipid  sentimentalism  then 
prevalent,  was  a bold  innovation  at  the  time  of  her 
two  first  volumes ; but  the  public  had  fortunately 
taste  enough  to  appreciate  its  excellence.  IMiss 
Baillie  was  undoubtedly  a great  improver  of  our 
poetical  diction. 

[Scene  from,  De  Montfort.'] 

[De  Montfort  explains  to  his  sister  Jane  his  hatred  of  Rezen- 
velt,  which  at  last  hurries  him  into  the  crime  of  murder.  The 
gradual  deepening  of  this  malignant  passion,  and  its  frightful 
catastrophe,  are  powerfully  depicted.  We  may  remark,  that  the 
character  of  De  Montfort,  his  altered  habits  and  appearance 
after  his  travels,  his  settled  gloom,  and  the  violence  of  his  pas- 
sions, seem  to  have  been  the  prototype  of  Byron’s  MaiJ'red  and 
Lara.] 

De  Mon.  No  more,  ray  sister,  urge  me  not  again ; 
My  secret  troubles  cannot  be  revealed. 

From  all  participation  of  its  thoughts 
My  heart  recoils : I pray  thee  be  contented. 

Jane.  What ! must  1,  like  a distant  humble  friena, 
Observe  thy  restless  eye  and  gait  disturbed 
In  timid  silence,  whilst  with  yearning  heart 
I turn  aside  to  weep?  0 no,  De  Montfort! 

A nobler  task  thj'  nobler  mind  will  give  ; 

Thy  true  intrusted  friend  I still  shall  be. 

De  Mon.  Ah,  Jane,  forbear!  I cannot  e’en  to  theft 

Jane.  Then  fie  upon  it ! fie  upon  it,  Montfort ! 
There  was  a time  when  e’en  with  murder  stained, 

Had  it  been  possible  that  such  dire  deed 

* Campbell’s  Life  of  Mrs  Siddons. 

511 


FROM  17f)0 


CYCLOPiEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMS 


Could  e’er  have  been  the  crime  of  one  so  piteous, 
Thou  wouldst  have  told  it  me. 

Ik  Mmi.  So  v^•ould  I now — but  ask  of  this  no  more. 
All  other  troubles  but  the  one  I feel 
1 have  disclosed  to  thee.  I pray  thee,  spare  me. 

It  is  the  secret  weakness  of  my  nature. 

Jane.  Then  secret  let  it  be:  1 urge  no  further. 

The  eldest  of  our  valiant  father’s  hopes, 

So  sadly  orphaned  : side  by  side  we  stood, 

Like  two  young  trees,  whose  boughs  in  early  strength 
Screen  the  weak  saplings  of  the  rising  grove. 

And  brave  the  storm  together. 

I have  so  long,  as  if  by  nature’s  right. 

Thy  bosom’s  inmate  and  adviser  been, 

I thought  through  life  I should  have  so  remained. 
Nor  ever  known  a change.  Forgive  me,  Montfort ; 

A humbler  station  will  1 take  by  thee; 

The  close  attendant  of  thy  wandering  steps. 

The  checrer  of  this  home,  with  strangers  sought. 

The  soother  of  those  griefs  1 must  not  know. 

This  is  mine  office  now ; I ask  no  more. 

De  Oh,  Jane,  thou  dost  constrain  me  with  thy 

love— 

Would  I could  tell  it  thee! 

Jane,  'rhou  shalt  not  tell  me.  Nay,  I’ll  stop 
mine  ears, 

Noi  from  the  yearnings  of  affection  wring 
What  shrinks  from  utterance.  Let  it  pass,  my  brother. 
I’ll  stay  by  thee  ; I’ll  cheer  thee,  comfort  thee  ; 
Pursue  with  thee  the  study  of  some  art. 

Or  nobler  science,  that  compels  the  mind 
To  steady  thought  progressive,  driving  forth 
All  floating,  wild,  unhapjiy  fantasies, 

Till  thou,  with  brow  unclouded,  smilest  again; 

Like  one  who,  from  dark  visions  of  the  night. 

When  the  active  soul  within  its  lifeless  cell 
Holds  its  own  world,  with  dreadful  fancy  pressed 
Of  some  dire,  terrible,  or  murderous  deed. 

Wakes  to  the  dawning  morn,  and  blesses  heaven. 

De  Mon,  It  will  not  pass  away  ; ’twill  haunt  me 
still. 

Jane.  Ah!  say  not  so,  for  I will  haunt  thee  too. 
And  be  to  it  so  close  an  adversary. 

That,  though  I wrestle  darkling  with  the  fiend, 

I shall  o’ercome  it. 

De  Mon.  Thou  most  generous  woman  ! 

Why  do  I treat  thee  thus!  It  should  not  be — 

And  vet  I cannot — O that  cursed  villain! 
lie  will  not  let  me  be  the  man  I would. 

Jane.  What  sayst  thou,  hlontfort ! Oh  1 what  words 
are  these ! 

They  have  awaked  my  soul  to  dreadful  thoughts. 

I do  beseech  thee,  speak! 

Ily  the  affection  thou  didst  ever  bear  me  ; 

Hy  the  dear  memory  of  our  infant  days ; 

Hy  kindred  living  ties — ay,  and  by  those 
Who  sleep  in  the  tomb,  and  cannot  call  to  thee, 

I do  conjure  thee  speak  1 

Ha!  wilt  thou  not  ? 

Then,  if  affection,  most  unwearied  love. 

Tried  early,  long,  and  never  wanting  found. 

O’er  generous  man  hath  more  authority. 

More  rightful  power  than  crown  or  sceptre  give, 

I do  command  thee  1 

De  Montfort,  do  not  thus  resist  my  love. 

Here  I intreat  thee  on  my  bended  knees. 

Alas!  my  brother! 

De  Mon.  [Raising  her,  and  hnceling.'\ 

Thus  let  him  kneel  who  should  the  abased  be. 

And  at  thine  honoured  feet  confession  make. 

I’ll  tell  thee  all — but,  oh  1 thou  wilt  despise  mo. 

For  in  my  breast  a raging  passion  burns. 

To  which  thy  soul  no  .sympathy  will  own — 

A passion  which  hath  made  my  nightly  couch 
\ place  of  torment,  and  the  light  of  day, 

Vith  the  gay  intercourse  of  social  man. 


Feel  like  the  opiiressive  airless  pestilence. 

0 Jane  1 thou  wilt  despise  me. 

Jane.  Say  not  so  : 

1 never  can  despise  thee,  gentle  brother. 

A lover’s  jealousy  and  hopeless  pangs 
No  kindly  heart  contemns. 

De  Mon.  A lover’s,  say’st  thou  ? 

No,  it  is  hate!  black,  lasting,  deadly  hate  ! 

Which  thus  hath  driven  me  forth  from  kindred  peace. 
From  social  pleasure,  from  my  native  home. 

To  be  a sullen  wanderer  on  the  earth. 

Avoiding  all  men,  cursing  and  accursed. 

Jane.  De  Montfort,  this  is  fiend-like,  terrible! 
What  being,  by  the  Almighty  Father  formed 
Of  flesh  and  hlood,  created  even  as  thou, 

Could  in  thy  breast  such  horrid  tempest  wake. 

Who  art  thyself  his  fellow  ? 

Unknit  thy  brows,  and  spread  those  wrath-cleoebcd 
hands. 

Some  sprite  accursed  within  thy  bosom  mates 
To  work  thy  ruin.  Strive  with  it,  my  brother! 

Strive  bravely  with  it  ; drive  it  from  thy  heart ; 

’Tis  the  degrader  of  a noble  heart. 

Curse  it,  and  bid  it  part. 

De  Mon.  It  will  not  part.  I’ve  lodged  it  here  too 
long. 

With  my  first  cares  I felt  its  rankling  touch. 

I loathed  him  when  a boy. 

Jane.  Whom  didst  thou  say? 

De  Mon.  Detested  Rezenvelt! 

E’en  in  our  early  sports,  like  two  young  whelps 
Of  hostile  breed,  instinctively  averse. 

Each  ’gainst  the  other  pitched  his  ready  pledge. 

And  frowned  defiance.  As  we  onward  passed 
From  youth  to  man’s  estate,  his  narrow  art 
And  envious  gibing  malice,  poorly  veiled 
In  the  affected  carelessness  of  mirth. 

Still  more  detestable  and  odious  grew. 

There  is  no  living  being  on  this  earth 
Who  can  conceive  the  malice  of  his  soul, 

MTth  all  his  gay  and  damned  merriment. 

To  those  by  fortune  or  by  merit  placed 
Above  his  paltry  self.  When,  low  in  fortune. 

He  looked  upon  the  state  of  prosperous  men. 

As  nightly  birds,  roused  from  their  murky  holes. 

Do  .scowl  and  chatter  at  the  light  of  day, 

I could  endure  it ; even  as  we  bear 

The  impotent  bite  of  some  half-trodden  worm, 

I could  endure  it.  But  when  honours  came. 

And  wealth  and  new-got  titles  fed  his  pride; 

Whilst  flattering  knaves  did  trumpet  forth  his  praise. 
And  groveling  idiots  grinned  applauses  on  him; 

Oh  ! then  I could  no  longer  suffer  it ! 

It  drove  me  frantic.  What,  what  would  I give — 
What  would  I give  to  crush  the  bloated  toad. 

So  rankly  do  I loathe  him ! 

Jane.  And  would  thy  hatred  crush  the  very  man 
AVho  gave  to  thee  that  life  he  might  have  taken? 
That  life  which  thou  so  rashly  didst  expose 
To  aim  at  his  ? Oh,  this  is  horrible  ! 

De  Mon.  Ha!  thou  hast  heard  it,  then!  From  all 
the  world. 

But  most  of  all  from  thee,  1 thought  it  hid. 

Jane.  I heard  a secret  whisper,  and  resolved 
Upon  the  instant  to  return  to  thee. 

Didst  thou  receive  my  letter? 

De  Mon.  I did!  1 did  ! ’Twas  that  which  drove  me 
hither. 

I could  not  bear  to  meet  thine  eye  again. 

Jane.  Alas  ! that,  tempted  by  a sister’s  tears, 

I ever  left  thy  house ! These  few  past  months. 

These  absent  months,  have  brought  us  all  this  wo. 
Had  I remained  with  thee,  it  had  not  been. 

And  yet,  methinks,  it  should  not  move  you  thus. 

You  dared  him  to  the  field  ; both  bravely  fought; 

He,  more  adroit,  disarmed  you  ; courteously 


TRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


KA'tuniod  the  forfeit  sword,  which,  so  returned, 

You  did  refuse  to  use  against  liim  more; 

.\nd  then,  as  says  report,  you  parted  friends. 

De  Slutt.  Wlien  he  disanned  this  cursed,  this  worth- 
less hand 

Of  its  tnost  worthless  weapon,  he  but  spared 
From  devilish  pride,  which  now  derives  a bliss 
In  seeing  me  thus  fettered,  shamed,  subjected 
With  the  vile  favour  of  his  poor  forbearance  ; 

Whilst  he  securely  sits  with  gibing  brow, 

And  basely  baits  me  like  a muzzled  cur, 

Whe  cannot  turn  again. 

Until  that  day,  till  that  accursed  day, 

I knew  not  half  the  torment  of  this  hell 
Whit^h  burns  within  my  breast.  Heaven’s  lightnings 
blast  him! 

Jane.  Oh,  this  is  horrible Forbear,  forbear  1 
Lest  Heaven’s  vengeance  light  upon  thy  head 
For  this  most  impious  wish. 

De  Mon.  Then  let  it  light. 

Torments  more  fell  than  1 have  known  already 
It  cannot  send  To  be  annihilated. 

What  all  men  shrink  from  ; to  be  dust,- be  nothing. 
Were  bliss  to  me,  compared  to  what  1 am  ! 

Jane.  Oh  1 wouldst  thou  kill  me  with  these  dread- 
ful words  * 

De  Mon.  Let  me  but  once  upon  his  ruin  look, 

The?i  close  mine  eyes  for  ever! 

Ha  I how  is  this?  Thou’rt  ill ; thou’rt  very  pale; 
What  have  I done  to  thee?  Alas!  alas! 

1 meant  not  to  distress  thee — 0,  my  sister! 

Jane.  I cannot  now  speak  to  thee. 

De  Mon.  1 have  killed  thee. 

Turn,  turn  thee  not  away ! Look  on  me  still! 

Oh  ! dro'p  not  thus,  my  life,  my  pride,  my  sister! 
Look  on  me  yet  again. 

Jane.  Thou,  too,  De  Montfort, 

In  better  days  was  wont  to  be  my  pride. 

De  Mon.  1 am  a wretch,  most  wretched  in  myself. 
And  still  more  WTetched  in  the  pain  1 give. 

0 curse  that  villain,  that  detested  villain! 

He  has  spread  misery  o’er  my  fated  life  ; 

He  will  undo  us  all. 

Jane.  I’ve  held  my  warfare  through  a troubled  world. 
And  borne  with  steady  mind  my  share  of  ill ; 

For  then  the  helpmate  of  my  toil  wast  thou. 

But  now  the  wane  of  life  comes  darkly  on. 

And  hideous  passion  tears  thee  from  my  heart. 
Blasting  thy  worth.  1 cannot  strive  with  this, 

De  Mon.  What  shall  I do  ? 

[FcniJk  Picture  of  a Country  Life.'] 

Even  now  methinks 
Each  little  cottage  of  my  native  vale 
Swells  out  its  earthen  sides,  upheaves  its  roof. 

Like  to  a hillock  moved  by  labouring  mole. 

And  with  green  trail-weeds  clambering  up  its  walls, 
Roses  and  every  gay  and  fragrant  plant 
Before  my  fancy  stands,  a fairy  bower. 

Ay,  and  within  it  too  do  fairies  dwell. 

Peep  through  its  wreathed  window,  if  indeed 
The  flowers  grow  not  too  close  ; and  there  within 
Thou’lt  see  some  half  a dozen  rosy  brats. 

Eating  from  wooden  bowls  their  dainty  milk — 

Those  are  my  mountain  elves.  Seest  thou  not 
Their  very  forms  distinctly  ? 

I’ll  gather  round  my  board 
All  that  Heaven  sends  to  me  of  way-worn  folks, 

.And  noble  tr.avellers,  and  neighbouring  friends. 

Both  young  and  old.  Within  my  ample  hall. 

The  worn  out  man  of  arms  shall  o’  tiptoe  tread. 
Tossing  his  gray  locks  from  his  wrinkled  brow 
With  cheerful  freedom,  as  he  boasts  his  feats 
Of  days  gone  by.  Music  we’ll  have  ; and  oft 
The  bickering  dance  upon  oui  oaken  floors 
75 


JOANNA  BAILME. 


Shall,  thundering  loud,  strike  on  the  distant  ear 
Of ’nighted  travellers,  who  shall  gladly  bend 
Their  doubtful  footsteps  towards  the  cheering  din. 
Solemn,  and  grave,  and  cloistered,  and  demure 
We  shall  not  be.  Will  this  content  ye,  damsels? 

Every  season 

Shall  have  its  suited  pastime  : even  winter 
In  its  deep  noon,  when  mountains  ])iled  with  snow, 
And  clioked  up  valleys  from  our  mansion  bar 
-All  entrance,  and  nor  guest  nor  traveller 
Sounds  at  our  gate  ; the  empty  hall  forsaken. 

In  some  warm  chamber,  by  the  crackling  fire. 

We’ll  hold  -ur  little,  snug,  domestic  court. 

Plying  GUI  Viork  with  song  and  tale  between. 

[Fears  of  Imagination.'] 

Didst  thou  m’er  see  the  swallow’s  veering  breast. 
Winging  the  air  beneath  .some  murky  cloud 
In  the  sunned  glimpses  of  a stormy  day. 

Shiver  in  silvery  brightness  ? 

Or  boatmen’s  oar,  as  vivid  lightning  flash 
In  the  faint  gleam,  that  like  a spirit’s  path 
Tracks  the  still  waters  of  some  sullen  lake  ? 

Or  lonely  tower,  from  its  brown  mass  of  woods, 

Give  to  the  parting  of  a wintry  sun 
One  hasty  glance  in  mockery  of  the  night 
Closing  in  darkness  round  it  ? Gentle  friend  1 
Chide  not  her  mirth  who  was  sad  yesterday. 

And  may  be  so  to-morrow. 

[Speech  of  Prince  Edward  in  his  Dungeon.] 

Doth  the  bright  sun  from  the  high  arch  of  heaven, 

In  all  his  beauteous  robes  of  fleckered  clouds. 

And  ruddy  vapours,  and  deep-glowing  flames. 

And  softly  varied  shades,  look  gloriously  ? 

Do  the  green  woods  dance  to  the  wind  ? the  lakes 
Cast  up  their  sparkling  waters  to  the  light? 

Do  the  sweet  hamlets  in  their  bushy  dells 
Send  winding  up  to  heaven  their  curling  smoke 
On  the  soft  morning  air! 

Do  the  flocks  bleat,  ami  the  wild  creatures  bound 

In  antic  happiness?  and  mazy  birils 

Wing  the  mid  air  in  lightly  skimming  bands? 

Ay,  all  this  is — men  do  behold  all  this — 

The  poorest  man.  Even  in  this  lonely  vault. 

My  dark  and  narrow  world,  oft  do  1 hear 
The  crowing  of  the  cock  so  near  my  walls. 

And  sadly  think  how  small  a space  divides  me 
From  all  this  fair  creation. 

[Desa-iption  of  Jane  de  Montfort.] 

[The  following  has  been  pronounced  to  be  a perfect  pictuiv 
of  Mrs  Siddons,  the  tragic  actress.] 

Page.  Madam,  there  is  a lady  in  your  hall 
Who  begs  to  be  admitted  to  your  presence. 

Lady.  Is  it  not  one  of  our  invited  friends? 

Page.  No  ; far  unlike  to  them.  It  is  a stranger. 
Lady.  How  looks  her  countenance? 

Page.  So  queenly,  so  commanding,  and  so  noble, 

I shrunk  at  first  in  awe ; but  when  she  smiled, 
Methought  I could  have  compassed  sea  and  land 
To  do  her  bidding. 

Lady.  Is  she  young  or  old  ? 

Page.  Neither,  if  right  I guess  ; but  she  is  fair. 

For  Time  hiith  laid  his  hand  so  gently  on  her. 

As  he,  too,  had  been  awed. 

Lady.  The  foolish  stripling! 

She  has  bewitched  thee.  Is  she  large  in  stature! 

Page.  So  stately  and  so  graceful  is  her  form, 

I thought  at  first  her  stature  was  gigantic ; 

But  on  a near  approach,  1 found,  in  truth. 

She  scarcely  does  surpass  the  middle  size. 

Lady.  What  is  her  garb ! 

SIS 


FROM  17(11) 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME 


Page.  I cannot  well  describe  the  fashion  of  it : 

She  is  not  decked  in  any  gallant  trim, 

Ilut  seems  to  me  clad  in  her  usual  weeds 
Of  high  habitual  state  ; for  as  she  moves, 

Wide  Hows  her  robe  in  many  a waving  fold, 

As  1 have  seen  unfurled  banners  play 
With  the  soft  breeze. 

Lady.  Thine  eyes  deceive  thee,  boy; 

It  is  an  apparition  thou  hast  seen. 

Frebcry.  [Starting  from  his  seat,  where  he  has  been  sil- 
ting during  the  conversation  between  the  Lady 
and  the  Page.~\ 

It  is  an  apparition  be  has  seen, 

Or  it  is  Jane  de  Montfort. 

WILLIAM  GODWIN WILLIAM  SOTHEBT. 

Mr  Godwin,  the  novelist,  attempted  the  tragic 
drama  in  the  year  1800,  but  his  powerful  genius, 
which  had  produced  a romance  of  deep  and  thrilling 
interest,  became  cold  and  frigid  when  confined  to  the 
rules  of  the  stage.  His  play  was  named  Antonio,  or 
the  Soldier's  Betum.  It  turned  out  ‘a  miracle  of 
dulness,’  as  Sergeant  Talfourd  relates,  and  at  last 
the  actors  were  hooted  from  the  stage.  Tlie  author’s 
equanimity  under  this  severe  trial  is  amusingly  re- 
lated by  Talfourd.  Mr  Godwin,  he  says,  ‘ sat  on 
one  of  the  front  benches  of  the  pit,  unmoved  amidst 
the  storm.  When  the  first  act  passed  off  without  a 
hand,  he  expressed  his  satisfaction  at  the  good  sense 
of  the  house  ; “ the  proper  season  of  applause  had 
not  arrived;”  all  w'as  exactly  as  it  should  be.  The 
second  act  proceeded  to  its  close  in  the  same  unin- 
terrupted calm  ; his  friends  became  uneasy,  but  still 
his  optimism  prevailed ; he  could  afford  to  wait. 
And  although  he  did  at  last  admit  the  great  move- 
ment was  somewhat  tardy,  and  that  the  audience 
seemed  rather  patient  than  interested,  he  did  not 
lose  his  confidence  till  the  tumult  arose,  and  then  he 
submitted  with  quiet  dignity  to  the  fate  of  genius, 
too  lofty  to  be  understood  by  a world  as  yet  in  its 
childhood.’  The  next  new  play  was  also  by  a man 
of  distinguished  genius,  and  it  also  was  unsuccessful. 
Julian  and  Agnes,  by  William  Sotheby,  the  trans- 
lator of  Oberon,  was  acted  April  25,  1800.  ‘ In  the 

course  of  its  performance,  MrsSiddons,  as  the  heroine, 
had  to  make  her  exit  from  the  scene  with  an  infant 
in  her  arms.  Having  to  retire  precipitately,  she  in- 
advertently struck  the  baby’s  head  violently  against 
a door-post.  Happily,  the  little  thing  was  made  of 
wood,  so  that  her  doll’s  accident  only  produced  a 
general  laugh,  in  which  the  actress  herself  joined 
heartily.’  Tliis  ‘ untoward  event’  would  have  marred 
the  success  of  any  new  tragedy;  but  Mr  Sotheby’s 
is  deficient  in  arrangement  and  dramatic  art.  We 
may  remark,  that  at  this  time  the  genius  of  Kemble 
and  Mrs  Siddons  shed  a lustre  on  the  stage,  and  re- 
claimed it  from  the  barbarous  solecisms  in  dress  and 
decoration  which  even  Garrick  had  tolerated.  Neither 
Kemble  nor  Garrick,  however,  paid  sufficient  atten- 
tion to  the  text  of  Shakspeare's  dramas,  which,  even 
down  to  about  the  year  1838,  continued  to  be  pre- 
sented as  mutilated  by  Nahum  Tate,  Colley  Cibber, 
and  others.  The  first  manager  who  ventured  to  re- 
store the  pure  text  of  the  great  dramatist,  and  present 
it  without  any  of  the  baser  alloys  on  the  stage,  was 
Mr  Macready,  who  made  great  though  unavailing 
efforts  to  encourage  the  taste  of  the  public  for  Shak- 
speare  and  the  legitimate  drama. 

8.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

The  tragedies  of  Coleridge,  Scott,  Byron,  Procter, 
and  Milman  (noticed  in  our  account  of  these  poets), 
must  be  considered  as  poems  rather  than  plays. 
Joleridgo’s  Bemorse  was  acted  with  some  success 


in  1813,  aided  by  fine  original  music,  but  it  hat 
not  since  been  revived.  It  contains,  however,  some 
of  Coleridge’s  most  exquisite  poetry  and  wild  super 
stition,  with  a striking  romantic  plot.  We  extract 
the  scene  in  which  Alhadra  describes  the  supposed 
murder  of  her  husband,  Alvar,  by  his  brother,  and 
animates  his  followers  to  vengeance. 

[Scene  from,  ‘ Jlemorse.’'\ 

The  Mountains  by  Moonlight.  Alhadra  alone,  in  a 
Moorish  dress. 

Alhadra.  Yon  hanging  woods,  that,  touched  bj 
autumn,  seem 

As  they  were  blossoming  hues  of  fire  and  gold  ; 

The  flower-like  woods,  most  lovely  in  decay. 

The  many  clouds,  the  sea,  the  rocks,  the  sands, 

Lie  in  the  silent  moonshine ; and  the  owl 
(Strange,  very  strange  1) — the  screech-owl  only  wakes. 
Sole  voice,  sole  eye  of  all  this  world  of  beauty  ! 

Unless,  perhaps,  she  sing  her  screeching  song 
To  a herd  of  wolves,  that  skulk  athirst  for  blood. 

Why  such  a thing  am  I ? Where  are  these  men? 

I need  the  sympathy  of  human  faces. 

To  beat  away  this  deep  contempt  for  all  things. 

Which  quenches  my  revenge.  Oh  ! would  to  Alla 
The  raven  or  the  sea-mew  were  appointed 
To  bring  me  food!  or  rather  that  my  soul 
Could  drink  in  life  from  the  universal  air! 

It  were  a lot  divine  in  some  small  skiff. 

Along  some  ocean’s  boundless  solitude, 

To  float  for  ever  with  a careless  course. 

And  think  myself  the  only  being  alive  ! 

My  children! — Isidore’s  children! — Son  of  Valdez, 

This  hath  new  strung  mine  arm.  Thou  coward  tyrant' 
To  stupify  a woman’s  heart  with  anguish. 

Till  she  forgot  even  that  she  was  a mother! 

[She  fixes  her  eyes  on  the  earth.  Then  drop  in,  one  after 
another,  from  different  parts  of  the  stage,  a considerable  num- 
ber of  Morescoes,  all  in  Moorish  garments  and  Moorish  armour. 
They  form  a circle  at  a distance  round  Alhadra,  and  remain 
silent  till  the  second  in  command,  Naomi,  enters,  distinguished 
by  his  dress  and  annour,  and  by  the  silent  obeisance  paid  to 
him  on  his  entrance  by  the  other  Moors.] 

Naomi.  Woman,  may  Alla  and  the  prophet  bless 
thee ! 

We  have  obeyed  thy  call.  Where  is  our  chief? 

And  why  didst  thou  enjoin  these  Moorish  garments  : 
Alhad.  [Raising  her  eyes,  and  looking  ro^ind  on  the 
circle.] 

■Warriors  of  Mahomet ! faithful  in  the  battle  ! 

My  countrj'men ! Come  ye  prepared  to  work 
An  honourable  deed  ? And  would  ye  work  it 
In  the  slave’s  garb?  Curse  on  those  Christian  robes! 
They  are  spell-blasted  ; and  whoever  wears  them,  | 
His  arm  shrinks  withered,  his  heart  melts  away. 

And  his  bones  soften. 

Naomi.  Where  is  Isidore? 

Alhad.  [In  a deep  low  voice.]  This  night  I went  from 
forth  my  house,  and  left 
His  children  all  asleep  ; and  he  was  living  ! 

And  I returned,  and  found  them  still  asleep, 

But  he  had  perished  ! 

A II  M.vescoes.  Perished  ? 

Alhad.  He  had  perished! — 

Sleep  on,  poor  babes!  not  one  of  you  doth  know 
That  he  is  fatherless — a desolate  orphan  ! 

Why  should  we  wake  them  ? Can  an  infant’s  arm 
Revenge  his  murder  ? 

OtieMoraco  to  another.  Did  she  say  his  murder? 
Naomi.  Murder  ! Not  murdered  ! 

Alhad.  Murdered  by  a Christian  ! [They  all  at  once 
draw  their  sabres. 

Alhad.  [To  Naomi,  who  advances  from  the  circle.] 
Brother  of  Zagri,  fling  away  thy  sword  ; 

This  is  thy  chieftain’s  ! [Ue  steps  forward  to  take  it.] 

514 


DRiMAinsTS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  s.  t.  coleridcb. 


j Dost  thou  dare  receive  it  ? 

I For  I have  sworn  by  .•Vila  and  the  prophet. 

No  tear  shall  dim  these  eyes — this  woman’s  heart 
I Shall  heave  no  groan — till  I have  seei\  that  sword 
Wet  with  the  life-blood  of  the  son  of  Valdez  1 

[A  pause.] 

Ordonio  was  your  chieftain’s  murdererl 
Naomi.  He  dies,  by  Alla! 

All.  [Kneeling.]  By  Alla  ! 

Alhad.  This  night  your  chieftain  armed  himself, 
And  hurried  from  me.  But  I followed  him 
At  distance,  till  I saw  him  enter — there! 

Naomi.  The  cavern  ? 

Alhad.  Yes,  the  mouth  of  j'onder  cavern. 

After  n while  I saw  the  son  of  Valdez 

Rush  by  with  flaring  torch  ; he  likewise  entered. 

There  was  another  and  a longer  pause  ; 

And  once  methought  I heard  the  clash  of  swords  1 
And  soon  the  son  of  Valdez  reappeared  : 

He  flung  his  torch  towards  the  moon  in  sport. 

And  seemed  as  he  were  mirthful ; I stood  listening, 
Impatient  for  the  footsteps  of  my  husband ! 

Naomi.  Thou  calledst  him? 

Alhad.  I crept  into  the  cavern — 

Twas  dark  and  very  silent.  [Then  wildly.]  What 
saidst  thou  ? 

No,  no  ! I did  not  dare  call  Isidore, 

Lest  I should  hear  no  answer.  A brief  while. 

Belike,  1 lost  all  thought  and  memory 
Of  that  for  which  I came.  After  that  pause — 

0 Heaven  ! I heard  a groan,  and  followed  it  j 
And  yet  another  groan,  which  guided  me 
Into  a strange  recess,  and  there  was  light, 

A hideous  light!  his  torch  lay  on  the  ground  ; 

It’s  flame  burned  dimly  o’er  a chasm’s  brink. 

1 spake  ; and  whilst  I spake,  a feeble  groan 

Came  from  that  chasm ! it  was  his  last — his  death- 
groan  ! 

Naomi.  Comfort  her,  Alla. 

Alhad.  I stood  in  unimaginable  trance. 

And  agony  that  cannot  be  remembered. 

Listening  with  horrid  hope  to  hear  a groan ! 

But  I had  heard  his  last,  my  husband’s  death-groan  1 
Naomi.  Haste!  let  us  onward. 

Alhad.  1 looked  far  down  the  pit — 

My  sight  was  bounded  by  a jutting  fragment ; 

And  it  was  stained  with  blood.  Then  first  I shrieked. 
My  eyeballs  burned,  my  brain  grew  hot  as  fire ! 

And  all  the  hanging  drops  of  the  wet  roof 
Turned  into  blood — I saw  them  turn  to  blood! 

And  I was  leaping  wildly  down  the  chasm, 

When  on  the  farther  brink  I saw  his  sword. 

And  it  said  vengeance  I Curses  on  ray  tongue! 

The  moon  hath  moved  in  heaven,  and  I am  here. 

And  he  hath  not  had  vengeance!  Isidore, 

Spirit  of  Isidore,  thy  murderer  lives! 

Away,  away  ! 

All.  Away,  away!  [She  rushes  off,  all  following. 
The  incantation  scene,  in  the  same  play,  is  sketched 
with  high  poetical  power,  and  the  author’s  unrivalled 
musical  expression : — 

Scene — A Hall  of  Armory,  with  an  altar  at  the  hack  of  the 
stage.  Soft  music  from  an  instrument  of  glass  or  steel. 
Valdez,  Ordonio,  and  Alvar  in  a Sorcerer’s  robe  are  dis- 
covered. 

(Tra.  This  was  too  melancholy,  father. 

Tald.  Nay, 

My  Alvar  loved  sad  music  from  a child. 

Once  he  was  lost,  and  after  weary  search 
We  found  him  in  an  open  place  in  the  wood, 

To  which  spot  he  had  followed  a blind  boy. 

Who  breathed  into  a pipe  of  sycamore 
Some  strangely  moving  notes  ; and  these,  he  sail'.. 
Were  taught  him  in  a dream.  Him  we  first  saw 
Stretched  on  Ihe  broad  top  of  a sunny  heath-bank  . 


And  lower  down  poor  Alvar,  fa,st  asleep. 

His  head  upon  the  blind  boy’s  dog.  It  pleased  me 
To  mark  how  he  had  fastened  round  the  pipe 
A silver  toy  his  grandam  had  late  given  him. 
Methinks  I .see  him  now  as  he  then  looked — 

Kven  so!  He  had  outgrown  his  infant  dress. 

Yet  .still  he  wore  it. 

Alv.  My  tears  must  not  flow! 

I must  not  clasp  his  knees,  and  cry.  My  father! 

Enter  Teresa  and  Attendants. 

Ter.  Lord  Valdez,  you  have  asked  my  presence  here. 
And  I submit ; but  (Heaven  bear  witness  for  me) 

My  heart  approves  it  not ! ’tis  mockery. 

Ord.  Believe  you,  then,  no  preternatural  influence  ? 
Believe  you  not  that  spirits  throng  around  us  ? 

Ter.  Say  rather  that  1 have  imagined  it 
A possible  thing:  and  it  has  soothed  my  soul 
As  other  fancies  have ; but  ne’er  seduced  me 
To  traffic  with  the  black  and  frenzied  hope 
That  the  dead  hear  the  voice  of  witch  or  wizard. 

[To  Alvar.]  Stranger,  I mourn  and  blush  to  see  you 
here 

On  such  employment!  With  far  other  thoughts 
I left  you. 

Ord.  [Astrfe.]  Ha!  he  has  been  tampering  with  her? 
Alv.  0 high-souled  maiden!  and  more  dear  to  me 
Than  suits  the  stranger’s  name! 

I swear  to  thee 

I will  uncover  all  concealed  guilt. 

Doubt,  but  decide  not ! Stand  ye  from  the  altar. 
[Here  a strain  of  music  is  heard  from  behind  the  scent. 
Alv.  With  no  irreverent  voice  or  uncouth  charm 
I call  up  the  departed ! 

Soul  of  Alvar! 

Hear  our  soft  suit,  and  heed  my  milder  spell : 

So  may  the  gates  of  Paradise,  unbarred, 

•Cease  thy  swift  toils  ! Since  haply  thou  art  one 

Of  that  innumerable  company 

Who  in  broad  circle,  lovelier  than  the  rainbow. 

Girdle  this  round  earth  in  a dizzy  motion. 

With  noise  too  vast  and  constant  to  be  heard : 

Fitliest  unheard!  For  oh,  ye  numberless 
And  rapid  travellers!  what  ear  unstunned. 

What  sense  unmaddened,  might  bear  up  against 
The  rushing  of  your  congregated  wings?  [Music.  ^ 
Even  now  your  living  wheel  turns  o’er  my  head  ! 
[Music  expressive  of  the  movements  and  image* 
that  follow.] 

Ye,  as  ye  pass,  toss  high  the  desert  sands. 

That  roar  and  whiten  like  a burst  of  watei.i, 

A sweet  appearance,  but  a dread  illusion 
To  the  parched  caravan  that  roams  by  night 
And  ye  build  up  on  the  becalmed  waves 
That  whirling  pillar,  which  from  earth  to  heaven 
Stands  vast,  and  moves  in  blackness!  Ye,  too,  split 
The  ice  mount  ! and  with  fragments  many  and  huge 
Tempest  the  new-thawed  sea,  whose  sudden  gulfs 
Suck  in,  perchance,  .some  Lapland  wizard’s  skiff! 
Then  round  and  round  the  whirlpool’s  marge  ye  dance. 
Till  from  the  blue  swollen  corse  the  sou)  toils  out, 
And  joins  your  mighty  army.  [Here,  behind  the  scenes, 
a voice  sings  the  three  words,  ‘ Hear,  sweet  spirit.'] 
Sou!  of  Alvar! 

Hear  the  mild  spell,  and  tempt  no  blacker  charm  ! 

By  sighs  unquiet,  and  the  sickly  pang 
Of  a half  dead,  yet  still  undying  hope, 

Pass  visible  before  our  mortal  sense  ! 

So  shall  the  church’s  cleansing  rites  be  thine. 

Her  knells  and  masses,  that  redeem  the  dead  ! 

[iSon^r  behind  the  scenes,  accompanied  by  the  same 
instmimcnt  as  before.] 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell. 

Lest  a blacker  charm  compel! 

• So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 

With  thy  deep  long  lingering  knell. 


PROM  17fl0 


CYCLOPi1-]r)IA  OF 


Ami  at  eveiiiii"  fivcrinore, 

In  a chapel  on  the  shore, 

Shall  the  chanters,  sad  and  saintly. 

Yellow  tai)crs  burning  faintly, 

D(deful  masses  chant  for  thee. 

Miserere  Doniinc! 

Hark!  the  cadence  dies  away 
On  the  yellow  moonlight  sea: 

The  boatmen  rest  their  oars  and  say. 
Miserere  Uomine  I 

[A  long  pau.ie. 

0<d.  The  innocent  obey  nor  charm  nor  spell! 

My  brother  is  in  heaven.  Thou  sainted  spirit. 

Burst  on  our  sight,  a passing  visitant  ! 

Once  more  to  hear  thy  voice,  once  more  to  see  thee, 

0 ’twere  a joy  to  me! 

A h’.  A joy  to  thee ! 

M’hat  if  thou  heardst  him  now  ? What  if  his  spirit 
Re-entered  its  cold  corse,  and  came  upon  thee 
AVith  many  a stab  from  many  a murderer’s  poniard  1 
M'hat  if  (his  steadfast  eye  still  beaming  pity 
And  brother’s  love)  he  turned  his  liead  aside, 

Test  he  should  look  at  thee,  and  with  one  look 
Hurl  thee  beyond  all  power  of  penitence  1 
Vald.  The.se  are  unholy  fancies! 

0>-d.  \^Strugtiling  xoitk  his  feclings.~\  Yes,  my  father, 
He  is  in  heaven  • 

Alv.  [Still  to  Ordoniod]  But  what  if  he  had  a 
brother. 

Who  had  lived  even  so,  that  at  his  dying  hour 
The  name  of  heaven  would  have  convulsed  his  face 
More  than  the  death-pang? 

To?.  Idly  prating  man  ! 

Thou  hast  guessed  ill  : Don  Alvar’s  only  brother 
Stands  here  before  thee — a father’s  blessing  on  him  1 
He  is  most  virtuous. 

Alv.  [Still  to  Ordnnio.]  What  if  his  very  virtues 
Had  pampered  his  swollen  heart  and  made  him  proud  ? 
And  what  if  pride  had  duped  him  into  guilt  ? 

Yet  still  he  stalked  a .self-created  god. 

Not  very  bold,  but  e.xquisitely  cunning; 

And  one  that  at  his  mother’s  looking-glass 
Would  force  his  features  to  a frowning  sternne.os  ? 
Young  lord  ! 1 tell  thee  that  there  are  such  being.s — 
Yea,  and  it  gives  fierce  merriment  to  the  damned 
To  see  these  most  proud  men,  that  loathe  mankind. 

At  every  stir  and  buz  of  coward  conscience. 

Trick,  cant,  and  lie  ; most  whining  hypocrites! 

Away,  away  ! Now  let  me  hear  more  music. 

[Music  again. 

Ter.  ’Tis  strange,  I tremble  at  my  own  conjectures ! 
But  whatsoe’er  it  mean.  I dare  no  longer 
Be  present  at  these  lawless  mysteries. 

This  dark  provoking  of  the  hidden  powers  I 
Already  1 affront — if  not  high  Heaven — 

Yet  Alvar’s  memory  1 Hark!  I make  appeal 

kgainst  the  unludy  rite,  and  hasten  hence 

I'o  bend  before  a lawful  shrine,  and  seek 

That  voice  which  whispers,  when  the  still  heart  listens. 

Comfort  and  faithful  hope  ! Let  us  retire. 


BEV.  CHARI.ES  ROBERT  MATURIN. 

The  Rev.  Charles  Robert  Maturin,  author  of 
several  romances,  produced  a tragedy  named  Bertram, 
■which,  hy  the  influence  of  Lord  Byron,  was  brought 
out  at  Drury  Lane  in  1816.  It  was  well  received; 
and  by  the  performance  and  publication  of  his  play, 
the  author  realised  about  £1000.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
considered  the  tragedy  ‘ grand  and  powerful,  the 
language  most  animated  and  poetical,  and  the  cha- 
racters sketched  with  a masterly  enthusiasm.’  The 
author  was  anxious  to  introduce  Satan  on  the  stage, 
a return  to  the  style  of  the  ancient  mysteries  by  no 
means  suited  to  modern  taste.  Mr  Maturin  was 


TILL  THE  rRitSEXT  TIMfc 


curate  of  St  Peter’s,  Dublin.  'The  scanty  income 
derived  from  his  cur:u:y  being  insuflicient  for  his 
comfort.able  maintenance,  he  employed  himself  in 
assi.sting  young  persons  during  their  classical  .vtudics 
at  Trinity  college,  Dublin.  The  novels  of  Maturin 
(which  will  be  afterwards  noticed)  enjoyed  consider- 
able popularity ; and  had  his  prudence  been  equal 


to  his  genius,  liis  life  might  have  been  passed  in  com- 
fort and  respect.  He  was.  however,  vain  and  extra- 
vagant— always  in  difficulties  (Scott  at  one  time 
generously  sent  him  £.50),  and  haunted  by  bailiffs. 
When  this  eccentric  author  was  engaged  in  compo- 
sition, he  used  to  fasten  a wafer  on  his  forehead, 
which  was  the  signal  that  if  any  of  his  family  en- 
tered the  sanctum  they  must  not  speak  to  him! 
The  success  of  ‘Bertram’  induced  Mr  Maturin  to 
attempt  another  tragedy,  Manuel,  which  he  published 
in  1817.  It  is  a very  inferior  production  : ‘the  ab- 
surd work  of  a clever  man.’  says  Byron.  'I'he  unfor- 
tunate author  died  in  Dublin  on  tiie  30th  of  October 
1824. 

[Scene from,  'Bertram.'] 

[A  passage  of  gi’eat  poetical  beauty,  in  which  Bertram  is 
represented  as  spurred  to  the  oominission  of  his  great  crimes 
by  the  direct  agency  of  a supernatural  and  malevolent  being. 
— Sir  lyalter  Scott.] 

Prior — Bertra.m. 

Prior.  The  dark  knight  of  the  forest. 

So  from  his  armour  named  ami  .sable  helm. 

Whose  unbarred  vizor  mortal  never  saw. 

He  dwells  alone  ; no  earthly  thing  lives  near  him, 
Save  the  hoarse  raven  croaking  o’er  his  towers. 

And  the  dank  weeds  muffling  his  stagnant  moat. 

Bertram.  I'll  ring  a summons  on  his  barred  portal 
Shall  make  them  through  their  dark  valves  rock  and 
ring. 

Prior.  Thou’rt  mad  to  take  the  quest.  Within  my 
memory 

One  solitary  man  did  venture  there — 

Dark  thoughts  dwelt  with  him,  which  he  sought  to 
vent. 

Unto  that  dark  compeer  we  saw  his  steps. 

In  winter’s  stormy  twilight,  seek  that  pass — 

But  days  and  years  are  gone,  and  he  returns  not. 
Bertram.  What  fate  befell  him  there? 

Prior.  The  manner  of  his  end  was  never  known. 
Bertram.  That  man  shall  be  my  mate.  Contend 
not  with  me — 

Horrors  to  me  are  kindred  and  .society. 

Or  man,  or  fiend,  he  hath  won  the  soul  of  Bertram. 

[Bertram  is  afterwards  discovered  alone,  wandering  near  the 
fatal  tower,  and  describes  the  effect  of  the  awful  interview 
which  he  had  courted.] 

Bertram.  Was  it  aman  or  fiend  ? Whate’er  it  was, 
It  hath  dealt  wonderfully  with  me — 

.All  is  around  his  dwelling  suitable; 

The  invisible  blast  to  which  the  dark  pines  groan, 

I he  unconscious  tread  to  which  the  dark  earth  echoes 
The  hidden  waters  rushing  to  their  fall  ; 

These  sounds,  of  which  the  causes  are  not  seen, 

I love,  for  they  are,  like  my  fate,  mysterious ! 

How  towered  his  proud  form  through  the  shrouding 
gloom, 

How  spoke  the  eloquent  silence  of  its  motion. 

How  through  the  barred  vizor  did  his  accents 
Roll  their  rich  thunder  on  their  pausing  soul  ’ 

And  though  his  mailed  hand  did  shun  my  grasp. 

And  though  his  closed  morion  hid  his  feature, 

Yea,  all  resemblance  to  the  face  of  man, 

I felt  the  hollow  whisper  of  his  welcome, 


DltAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


C.  R.  MATUBIK. 


I felt  those  unseen  eyes  were  6xed  on  mine, 

If  eyes  indeed  were  there 

Forgotten  thoughts  of  evil,  still-born  mischiefs, 

Foul  fertile  seeds  of  passion  and  of  crime, 

That  withered  In  my  heart’s  abortive  core, 

Roused  their  dark  battle  at  his  trumpet-peal : 

So  sweeps  the  tempest  o’er  the  slumbering  desert, 
Waking  its  myriaii  hosts  of  burning  death  : 

So  calls  the  last  dread  peal  the  wandering  atoms 
I Of  blood,  and  bone,  and  flesh,  and  dust-worn  fragments, 

I In  dire  array  of  ghastly  unity, 

! To  bide  the  eternal  summons — 

I I am  not  what  1 was  since  I beheld  him — 

I I was  the  slave  of  passion’s  ebbing  sway — • 

All  is  eondensed,  collected,  callous,  now — 

I The  groan,  the  burst,  the  fiery  flash  is  o’er, 

Down  pours  the  dense  and  darkening  lava-tide. 
Arresting  life,  and  stilling  all  beneath  it. 

Enter  two  of  his  band  observing  him. 

First  Bobber.  Seest  thou  with  what  a step  of  pride 
he  stalks  ? 

Thou  hast  the  dark  knight  of  the  forest  seen  ; 

For  never  man,  from  living  eonverse  come, 

Trod  with  such  step  or  flashed  with  eye  like  thine. 
Second  Robber.  And  hast  thou  of  a truth  seen  the 
dark  knight  1 

Bertram.  [Turning  on  him  suddenly.]  Thy  hand  is 
chilled  with  fear.  Well,  shivering  craven. 

Say  1 have  seen  him — wherefore  dost  thou  gaze  1 
Long’st  thou  for  tale  of  goblin-guarded  portal  1 
Of  giant  champion,  whose  spell-forged  mail 
Crumbled  to  dust  at  sound  of  magic  horn— 

Banner  of  sheeted  flame,  whose  foldings  shrunk 
To  withering  weeds,  that  o’er  the  battlements 
Wave  to  the  broken  spell — or  demon-blast 
Of  winded  clarion,  whose  fell  summons  sinks 
To  lonely  whisper  of  the  shuddering  breeze 
O’er  the  charmed  towers  — 

First  Robber.  Mock  me  not  thus.  Hast  met  him  of 
a truth  ? 

Bertram.  Well,  fool — 

First  Robber.  Why,  then.  Heaven’s  benison  be  with 
you. 

Upon  this  hour  we  part — farewell  for  ever. 

For  mortal  cause  I bear  a mortal  weapon — 

But  man  that  leagues  with  demons  lacks  not  man. 

RICHARD  L.  SHEIL — 3.  H.  PAYNE — B.  W.  PROCTER — 
JAMES  HAYNES. 

Another  Irish  poet,  and  man  of  warm  imagina- 
tion, is  Richard  Lai.or  Sueil.  His  plays,  Euadne 
and  The  Apostate,  were  performed  with  much  suc- 
cess, partly  owing  to  the  admirable  acting  of  Miss 
O'Neil.  The  interest  of  Mr  Sheil’s  dramas  is  con- 
centrated too  exclusively  on  the  heroine  of  each, 
and  there  is  a want  of  action  and  animated  dialogue ; 
but  they  abound  in  impressive  and  well-managed 
scenes.  The  plot  of  ‘Evadne’  is  taken  from  Shir- 
ley’s Traitor,  as  are  also  some  of  the  sentiments. 
The  following  description  of  female  beauty  is  very 
j finely  expressed : — 

j But  you  do  not  look  altered — would  you  did ! 

Let  me  peruse  the  face  where  loveliness 
Stays,  like  the  light  after  the  sun  is  set. 

1 Sphered  in  the  stillness  of  those  heaven-blue  eyes. 
The  soul  sits  beautiful  ; the  high  white  front. 
Smooth  as  the  brow  of  Pallas,  seems  a temple 
Sacred  to  holy  thinking — and  those  lips 
Wear  the  small  smile  of  sleeping  infancy. 

They  are  so  innocent.  Ah,  thou  art  still 
The  same  soft  creature,  in  whose  lovely  form 
Virtue  and  beauty  seemed  as  if  they  tried 
W tick  should  exceed  the  other  Thou  hast  got 


That  brightness  all  around  thee,  that  appeared 
An  emanation  of  the  soul,  that  loved 
To  adorn  its  habitation  with  itself. 

And  in  thy  body  was  like  light,  that  looks 
More  beautiful  in  the  reflecting  cloud 
It  lives  in,  in  the  evening.  Oh,  Evadne, 

Thou  art  not  altered — would  thou  wert  1 

In  the  same  year  with  Mr  Sheil’s  ‘ Evadne’  (1820) 
appeared  Brutus,  or  the  Fall  of  Tarquin,  a historical 
tragedy,  by  John  Howard  Payne.  There  is  no 
originality  or  genius  displayed  in  this  drama;  but, 
when  well  acted,  it  is  highly  effective  on  the  stage. 

In  1821  Mr  Procter’s  tragedy  of  MirandoJa 
was  brought  out  at  Covent  Garden,  and  had  a short 
but  enthusiastic  run  of  success.  The  plot  is  painful 
(including  the  deal'll,  through  unjust  suspicions,  of 
a prince  sentenced  by  his  father),  and  there  is  a 
w.ant  of  dramatic  movement  in  the  play ; but  some 
of  the  pass.ages  are  imbued  with  poetical  feeling  and 
vigorous  expression.  The  doting  affection  of  Miran- 
dola,  the  duke,  has  something  of  the  warmth  and  the 
rich  diction  of  the  old  dramatists. 

Duke.  My  oivn  sweet  love!  Oh!  my  dear  peerless 
wife! 

By  the  blue  sky  and  all  its  crowding  stars, 

I love  you  better — oh  ! far  better  than 
Woman  was  ever  loved.  There’s  not  an  hour 
Of  day  or  dreaming  night  but  I am  with  thee: 

There’s  not  a wind  but  whispers  of  thy  name, 

.\nd  not  a flower  that  sleeps  beneath  the  moon 
But  in  its  hues  or  fragrance  tells  a tale 
Of  thee,  my  love,  to  thy  Mirandola. 

Speak,  dearest  Isidora,  can  you  love 
As  I do?  Can — but  no,  no  ; I shall  grow 
Foolish  if  thus  I talk.  You  must  be  gonej 
You  must  be  gone,  fair  Isidora,  else 
The  business  of  the  dukedom  soon  will  cease. 

I speak  the  truth,  by  Dian.  Even  now 
Gheraldi  waits  without  (or  should)  to  see  me. 

In  faith,  you  must  go:  one  kiss;  and  so,  away. 

Isid.  Farewell,  ray  lord. 

Duke.  We’ll  ride  together,  dearest. 

Some  few  hours  hence. 

Isid.  Just  as  you  please;  farewell. 

Duke.  Farewell ; with  what  a waving  air  she  goes 
Along  the  corridor.  How  like  a fawn  ; 

Yet  statelier Hark  ! no  sound,  htwever  soft 

(Nor  gentlest  echo),  telleth  when  she  treads; 

But  every  motion  of  her  shape  doth  seem 
Hallowed  by  silence.  Thus  did  Hebe  grow 
Amidst  the  gods,  a paragon  ; and  thus — 

Away ! I’m  grown  the  very  fool  of  love. 

About  the  same  time  Conscience,  or  the  Bridal 
Night,  by  Mr  James  Haynes,  was  performed,  and 
afterwards  published.  The  hero  is  a ruined  Vene- 
tian, and  his  bride  the  daughter  of  his  deadliest 
enemy,  and  the  niece  of  one  to  whose  death  he  had 
been  a party.  The  stings  of  conscience,  and  the 
fears  accompanying  the  bridal  night,  are  thus  de- 
scribed : — 

[Lorbnzo  and  his  friend  Julio.] 

I had  thoughts 

Of  dying  ; but  pity  bids  me  live  ! 

Jid.  Yes,  live,  and  still  be  happy. 

Lor.  Never,  Julio  ; 

Never  again  : even  at  my  bridal  hour 
Thou  sawest  detection,  like  a witch,  look  on 
And  smile,  and  mock  at  the  solemnity. 

Conjuring  the  stars.  Hark!  was  not  that  a noiset 
Jul.  No ; all  is  still. 

Lor.  Have  none  approached  us  I 

517 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  present  time. 


PROM  1700 


Jid.  None. 

Lor.  Then  ’twas  my  fancy.  Every  passing  hour 
Is  crowded  with  a tliousand  whisperers ; 

The  night  has  lost  its  silence,  and  the  stars 
Shoot  fire  upon  my  soul.  Darkness  itself 
Has  objects  for  mine  eyes  to  gaze  upon. 

And  sends  me  terror  when  I pray  for  sleep 
In  vain  upon  my  knees.  Nor  ends  it  here ; 

My  greatest  dread  of  all — detection — casts 
Her  shadow  on  my  walk,  and  startles  me 
At  every  turn  : sometime  will  reason  drag 
Her  frightful  chain  of  probable  alarms 
Across  my  mind  ; or,  if  fatigued,  she  droops. 

Her  pangs  survive  the  while  ; as  you  have  seen 
The  ocean  tossing  when  the  wind  is  down. 

And  the  huge  storm  is  dying  on  the  waters. 

Once,  too,  I had  a dream 

Jid.  The  shadows  of  our  sleep  should  fly  with  sleep  ; 
Nor  hang  their  sickness  on  the  memory. 

Lor.  Methought  the  dead  man,  rising  from  his  tomb. 
Frowned  over  me.  Elmira  at  my  side. 

Stretched  her  fond  arms  to  shield  mo  from  his  wrath. 
At  which  he  frowned  the  more.  I turned  away. 
Disgusted,  from  the  spectre,  and  assayed 
To  clasp  my  wife ; but  she  was  pale,  and  cold. 

And  in  her  breast  the  heart  was  motionless. 

And  on  her  limbs  the  clothing  of  the  grave. 

With  here  and  there  a worm,  hung  heavily. 

Then  did  the  spectre  laugh,  till  from  its  mouth 
Blood  dropped  upon  us  while  it  cried — ‘ Behold  ! 

Such  is  the  bridal  bed  that  waits  thy  love!’ 

I would  have  struck  it  (for  my  rage  was  up) ; 

1 tried  the  blow  ; but,  all  my  senses  shaken 
By  the  convulsion,  broke  the  tranced  spell. 

And  darkness  told  me — sleep  was  my  tormentor. 


JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

The  most  successful  of  modern  tragic  dramatists 
is  Mr  James  Sheridan  Knowles,  whose  plays 


have  recently  been  collected  and  republished  in  three 
volumes.  Ills  first  appeared  in  1820,  and  is  founded 


on  that  striking  incident  in  Roman  story,  the  death 
of  a maiden  by  the  hand  of  her  father,  Virginius,  to 
save  her  from  the  lust  and  tyranny  of  Apjiius.  Mr 
Knowles’s  Virginius  had  an  extraordinary  run  of 
success.  He  has  since  published  The  Wife,  a Tale  oj 
Mantua,  The  Hunchback,  Caius  QraceJms.  The  Blind 
Beggar  of  Bethnal  Green,  William  Tell,  The  Love 
Chace,  &c.  With  considerable  knowledge  of  stage 
effect,  Mr  Knowles  unites  a lively  inventive  imagi- 
nation and  a poetical  colouring,  which,  if  at  times 
too  florid  and  gaudy,  sets  off  his  familiar  images  and 
illustrations.  His  style  is  formed  on  that  of  Mas- 
singer and  the  other  elder  dramatists,  carried  often 
to  a ridiculous  excess.  He  also  frequently  violates 
Roman  history  and  classical  propriety,  and  runs  into 
conceits  and  affected  metaphors.  Tliese  faults  are 
counterbalanced  by  a happy  art  of  constructing 
scenes  and  j)lots,  romantic,  yet  not  too  improbable, 
by  skilful  delineation  of  character,  especially  in  do- 
mestic life,  and  by  a current  of  poetry  which  sparkles 
tlirough  his  plays,  ‘ not  with  a dazzling  lustre — not 
with  a gorgeousness  that  engrosses  our  attention, 
but  mildly  and  agreeably;  seldom  impeding  with 
useless  glitter  the  progress  and  development  of  inci- 
dent and  character,  but  mingling  itself  with  them, 
and  raising  them  pleasantly  above  the  prosaic  level 
of  common  life.’* 

[^Scenefrom  ‘ Virginius.’^ 

Appius,  Claudius,  and  Lictors. 

Appius.  Well,  Claudius,  are  the  forces 
At  hand  ? 

Claudius.  They  are,  and  timely,  too ; the  people 
Are  in  unwonted  ferment. 

App.  There’s  something  awes  me  at 
The  thought  of  looking  on  her  father  ! 

Claud.  Look 

Upon  her,  my  Appius ! Fix  your  gaze  upon 
The  treasures  of  her  beauty,  nor  avert  it 
Till  they  are  thine.  Haste!  Your  tribunal! 

Haste  ! \_Ap>pius  ascends  the  tribunal. 

[Enter  Numitorius,  Icilius,  Lucius,  Citizens,  Virginius 
leading  his  daughter,  Servia,  and  Citizens.  A dead  silence 
prevails.] 

Virginius.  Does  no  one  speak  ? I am  defendant  here. 
Is  silence  my  opponent?  Fit  opponent 
To  plead  a cause  too  foul  for  speech ! What  brow 
Shameless  gives  front  to  this  most  valiant  cause. 

That  tries  its  prowess  ’gainst  the  honour  of 
A girl,  yet  lacks  the  wit  to  know,  that  he 
Who  casts  off  shame,  should  likewise  cast  off  fear — 
And  on  the  verge  o’  the  combat  wants  the  nerve 
To  stammer  forth  the  signal  I 

App.  You  had  better, 

Virginius,  wear  another  kind  of  carriage  ; 

This  is  not  of  the  fashion  that  will  serve  you. 

Vir.  The  fashion,  Appius ! Appius  Claudius  tell  me 
The  fashion  it  becomes  a man  to  speak  in. 

Whose  property  in  his  own  child — the  offspring 

Of  his  own  body,  near  to  him  as  is 

His  hand,  his  arm— yea,  nearer — closer  far. 

Knit  to  his  heart — I say,  who  has  his  property 
In  such  a thing,  the  very  self  of  himself. 

Disputed — and  I’ll  speak  so,  Appius  Claudius; 

I’ll  speak  so — Pray  you  tutor  me  ! 

A pp.  Stand  forth 

Claudius!  If  you  lay  claim  to  any  interest 
In  the  question  now  before  us,  speak  ; if  not, 

Bring  on  some  other  cause. 

Claud.  Most  noble  Appius — 

VTr.  And  are  you  the  man 

That  claims  ray  daughter  for  his  slave? — Look  at  me 
And  I will  give  her  to  thee. 

* Edinburgh  Review  for  1833. 

518 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


J.  S.  KNOWLGfl. 


Claud.  She  is  mine,  then : 

Do  1 not  look  at  you  1 

ric.  Your  eye  does,  truly, 

Rut  not  your  soul.  I see  it  through  your  eye 
Shifting  and  shrinking — turning  every  way 
To  shun  me.  You  surprise  me,  that  your  eye, 

So  long  the  bully  of  its  master,  knows  not 
To  put  a proper  face  upon  a lie. 

Rut  gives  the  port  of  impudence  to  falsehood 
When  it  would  pass  it  off  for  truth.  Your  soul 
Dares  as  soon  show  its  face  to  me.  Go  on, 

I had  forgot ; the  fashion  of  my  speech 
May  not  please  Appius  Claudius. 

Claud.  I demand 
Protection  of  the  Decemvir  1 

App.  You  shall  have  it. 

Vir.  Doubtless  1 

App.  Keep  back  the  people,  Lictors ! What’s 
Your  plea  1 You  say  the  girl’s  your  slave.  Produce 
y our  proofs. 

Claud.  My  proof  is  here,  which,  if  they  can, 

Let  them  confront.  The  mother  of  the  girl — 

[ Virgini’us,  stepping  forward,  is  withheld  hy 
Numitorius. 

Numitorhis.  Hold,  brother!  Hear  them  out,  or 
suffer  me 
To  speak. 

Vir.  Man,  I must  speak,  or  else  go  mad! 

And  if  I do  go  mad,  what  then  will  hold  me 
Fr<Mn  speaking?  She  was  thy  sister,  too ! 

Well,  well,  speak  thou.  I’ll  try,  and  if  I can. 

Be  silent.  [Helires. 

Num.  Will  she  swear  she  is  her  child  ? 

Vir.  [Starting  forward.\  To  be  sure  she  will — a 
most  wise  question  that ! 

Is  she  not  his  slave  ? Will  his  tongue  lie  for  him — 
Or  his  hand  steal — or  the  finger  of  his  hand 
Beckon,  or  point,  or  shut,  or  open  for  him  ? 

To  ask  him  if  she’ll  swear!  Will  she  walk  or  run. 
Sing,  dance,  or  wag  her  head  ; do  anything 
That  is  most  easy  done?  She’ll  as  soon  swear! 

AVhat  mockery  it  is  to  have  one’s  life 
In  jeopardy  by  such  a bare-faced  trick  I 
Is  it  to  be  endured?  I do  protest 
Against  her  oath  I 

App.  No  law  in  Rome,  Virginius, 

Seconds  you.  If  she  swear  the  girl’s  her  child. 

The  evidence  is  good,  unless  confronted 
By  better  evidence.  Look  j’ou  to  that, 

Virginius.  1 shall  take  the  woman’s  oath. 

Virginia.  Icilius ! 

Iciiius.  Fear  not,  love;  a thousand  oaths 
Will  answer  her. 

App.  Y ou  swear  the  girl’s  your  child. 

And  that  you  sold  her  to  Virginius’  wife, 

Who  passed  her  for  her  own.  Is  that  your  oath  ? 

Slave.  It  is  my  oath. 

App.  Your  answer  now,  Virginius. 

Vir.  Here  it  is!  [Brings  Virginia  forward. 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a slave?  I know 
’Tis  not  with  men  as  shrubs  and  trees,  that  by 
The  shoot  you  know  the  rank  and  order  of 
The  stem.  Yet  who  from  such  a stem  would  look 
For  such  a shoot.  My  witnesses  are  these — 

The  relatives  and  friends  of  Nuinitoria, 

Who  saw  her,  ere  Virginia’s  birth,  sustain 
The  burden  which  a mother  bears,  nor  feels 
The  weight,  with  longing  for  the  sight  of  it. 

Here  are  the  ears  that  listened  to  her  sighs 
In  nature’s  hour  of  labour,  which  subsides 
In  the  embrace  of  joy — the  hands,  that  when 
The  day  first  looked  upon  the  infant’s  face, 

And  never  looked  so  pleased,  helped  them  up  to  it. 
And  blessed  her  for  a blessing.  Here,  the  eyes 
That  saw  her  lying  at  the  generous 
And  symnathetic  fount,  that  at  her  cry 


Sent  forth  a stream  of  liquid  living  pearl 
To  cherish  her  enamelled  veins.  The  lie 
Is  most  unfruitful  then,  that  takes  the  flower — 

The  very  flower  our  bed  connubial  grew — 

To  prove  its  ’oarrennessi  Speak  for  me,  friends  ; 

Have  I not  spoke  the  truth  ? 

Women  and  Citizens.  You  have,  Virginius. 

App.  Silence!  Keep  silence  there!  No  more  of 
that ! 

You’re  very  ready  for  a tumult,  citizens. 

[Troops  appear  behind, 

Lictors,  make  way  to  let  these  troops  advance ! 

We  have  had  a taste  of  your  forbearance,  masters,  ' 
And  wish  not  for  another. 

Vir.  Troops  in  the  Forum  ! 

App.  Virginius,  have  you  spoken! 

Vir.  If  you  have  heard  me, 

I have ; if  not.  I’ll  speak  again. 

App.  You  need  not, 

Virginius  ; I had  evidence  to  give. 

Which,  should  you  speak  a hundred  times  again. 
Would  make  your  pleading  vain. 

Vir.  Y our  hand,  Virginial 

Stand  close  to  me.  [Aside. 

App.  My  conscience  will  not  let  me 
Be  silent.  ’Tis  notorious  to  you  all. 

That  Claudius’  father,  at  his  death,  declared  me 
The  guardian  of  his  son.  This  cheat  has  long 
Been  known  to  me.  I know  the  girl  is  not 
Virginius’  daughter. 

Vir.  Join  your  friends,  Icilius, 

And  leave  Virginia  to  my  care.  [Aside. 

App.  The  justice 

I should  have  done  my  client  unrequired, 

Now  cited  by  him,  how  shall  I refuse  ? 

Vir.  Don’t  tremble,  girl ! don’t  tremble.  [Aside. 
App.  Virginius, 

I feel  for  you  ; but  though  you  were  my  father, 

The  majesty  of  justice  should  be  sacred — 

Claudius  must  take  Virginia  home  with  him! 

Vir.  And  if  he  must,  I should  advise  him,  Appius, 
To  take  her  home  in  time,  before  his  guardian 
Complete  the  violation  which  his  eyes 
Already  have  begun. — Friends!  fellow  citizens! 

Look  not  on  Claudius — look  on  your  Decemvir ! 

He  is  the  master  claims  Virginia! 

The  tongues  that  told  him  she  was  not  my  child 
Are  these — the  costly  charms  he  cannot  purchase, 
Except  by  making  her  the  slave  of  Claudius, 

His  client,  his  purveyor,  that  caters  for 
His  pleasures — markets  for  him — picks,  and  scents. 
And  tastes,  that  he  may  banquet — serves  him  up 
His  sensual  feast,  and  is  not  now  ashamed. 

In  the  open,  comm  n street,  before  your  eyes — 
Frighting  your  daughters’  and  your  matrons’  cheeks 
With  blushes  they  ne’er  thought  to  meet — to  help 
him 

To  the  honour  of  a Roman  maid!  my  child ! 

Who  now  clings  to  me,  as  you  see,  as  if 
This  second  Tarquin  had  already  coiled 
His  arms  around  her.  Look  upon  her,  Romans! 
Befriend  her ! succour  her  I see  her  not  polluted 
Before  her  father’s  eyes! — He  is  but  one. 

Tear  her  from  Appius  and  his  Lictors  while 
She  is  unstained. — Your  hands!  your  hands t your 
hands ! 

Citizens.  They  are  yours,  Virginius. 

App.  Keep  the  people  back — 

Support  my  Lictors,  soldiers!  Seize  the  gin, 

And  drive  the  people  back. 

Icilius.  Down  with  the  slaves ! 

[The  people  make  a show  of  reeistance ; but»  upon  the 
vance  of  the  soldiers,  retreat,  and  leave  Icilcus,  Vir- 
OTNius,  and  his  daughter,  &lc,  in  the  hands  of  Afph/6  and 
his  party.] 

Deserted  ! — Cowards  ! traitors)  Let  me  free 

519 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIML. 


But  for  a inoniciit!  I relied  on  you; 

Had  1 relied  upon  inyxelf  uloiic, 

1 liad  kept  them  still  at  bay  ! I kneel  to  you— 

Let  me  but  loose  a moment,  if  ’lis  only 
To  rush  upon  your  swords. 

Vir.  Icilius,  peace! 

You  see  bow  ’tis,  we  are  deserted,  left 

Alone  by  our  friends,  surrounded  by  our  enemies, 

Nerveless  and  helpless. 

yi/>p-  Separai"  them,  Llctors! 

Vir.  Let  them  forbear  awhile,  I pray  you,  Applus; 
It  is  not  very  easy.  Though  her  arms 
Are  tender,  yet  the  hold  is  strong  by  which 
She  g?asps  me,  Appius — forcing  them  will  hurt  theni ; 
They’ll  soon  unclasp  themselves.  Wait  but  a little — 
Y ou  know  you’re  sure  of  her  1 
jipp.  I have  not  time 
To  idle  with  thee  ; give  her  to  my  Lictors. 

Vir.  Ajipius,  I pray  you  wait!  If  she  is  not 
My  child,  she  hath  been  like  a child  to  me 
For  fifteen  years.  If  I am  not  her  father, 

1 have  been  like  a father  to  her,  Appius, 

For  even  such  a time.  They  that  have  lived 
So  long  a time  together,  in  so  near 
And  dear  society,  may  be  allowed 
A little  time  for  parting.  Let  me  take 
The  maid  aside,  1 pray  you,  and  confer 
A moment  with  her  uur.se  ; perhaps  she’ll  give  me 
Some  token  will  unloose  a tie  so  twined 
And  knotted  round  my  heart,  that,  if  you  break  it, 
My  heart  breaks  with  it. 

App.  Have  your  wish.  Be  brief  ! 

Lictors,  look  to  them. 

Virymia.  Do  you  go  from  me ! 

Do  you  leave?  Father!  Father! 

Vir.  No,  my  child — 

No,  my  Virginia — come  along  with  me. 

Viryinia.  Will  you  not  leave  me?  Will  you  take 
me  with  you  ? 

Will  you  take  me  home  again?  0,  bless  you!  bless 
you ! 

My  father!  my  dear  father!  Art  thou  not 
My  father  ? 

[ViRotNius,  perfectly  at  a loss  what  to  do,  looks  anxiously 
around  the  Forum  ; at  length  his  eye  falls  on  a butcher's 
stall,  with  a knife  upon  it.] 

Vir.  This  way,  mv  child — No,  no  ; I am  not  going 
To  leave  thee,  niy  Virginia!  I’ll  not  leave  thee. 

App.  Keep  back  the  people,  soldiers!  Let  them  not 
Approach  Virgiuius!  Keep  the  people  back! 

[ Viryiniitf  secures  the  knife. 

Well,  have  you  done? 

Vir.  Short  time  for  converse,  AppkUS, 

But  1 have. 

App.  I hope  you  are  satisfied. 

Vir.  1 am — 

I am — that  she  is  my  daughter! 

App.  Take  her,  Lictors! 

[ Viryinia  shrieks,  and  falls  half-dead  upon 
her  father’s  shoulder. 

Vir.  Another  moment,  pray  you.  Bear  with  me 
A little — ’Tis  my  last  embrace.  Twnnt  try 
Your  patience  beyond  bearing,  if  you’re  a man! 
Lengthen  it  as  1 may,  I cannot  make  it 
Long.  My  dear  child  ! My  dear  Virginia! 

[Kissing  her. 

There  is  one  only  way  to  save  thine  honour — 

Tis  this. 

[Stabs  her,  and  draws  out  the  knife.  Icilius 
breaks  from  the  soldiers  that  held  him, 
and  catches  her. 

Lo,  Appius,  with  this  innocent  blood 
1 do  devote  thee  to  the  inferiiiU  gods ! 

Make  way  there! 

App.  Stop  him  ! Seize  him  ! 


Vir.  If  they  dare 

To  tempt  the  desperate  weapon  that  is  maddened 
With  drinking  my  daughter’s  blood,  why,  let  them . 
thus 

It  rushes  in  amongst  them.  AVay  there  ! Way  ! 

[Exit  through  the  soldiers. 

[Prom  ‘ The  Wife,  a Tale  of  Mantua.’’] 
Lorenzo,  an  Advocate  of  Rome,  and  Mariana. 
Lorenzo.  That’s  right — you  are  collected  and  direct 
In  your  replies.  I dare  be  sworn  your  pa.ssion 
Was  such  a thing,  as,  by  its  neighbourhood. 

Made  piety  and  virtue  twice  as  rich 

As  e’er  they  were  before.  How  grew  it?  Come, 

Thou  know’st  thy  heart — look  calmly  into  it. 

And  see  how  innocent  a thing  it  is 

Which  thou  dost  fear  to  show — I wait  your  answer. 

How  grew  your  passion  ? 

Manana.  As  my  stature  grew, 

Which  rose  without  my  noting  it,  until 
They  said  I was  a woman.  I kept  watch 
Beside  what  seemed  his  deathbed.  From  beneath 
An  avalanche  my  father  rescued  him, 

I'he  sole  survivor  of  a company 

Who  wandered  through  our  mountain.s.  A long  timo 
His  life  was  doubtful,  signor,  and  he  called 
For  help,  whence  help  alone  could  come,  which  I, 
Morning  and  night,  invoked  along  with  him  ; 

So  first  our  souls  did  mingle! 

Lorenzo.  1 perceive : you  mingled  souls  until  you 
mingled  hearts  ? 

You  loved  at  last.  Was’t  not  the  sequel,  maid  ? 

Mariana.  1 loved,  indeed  ! If  I but  nursed  a flower 
Which  to  the  ground  the  rain  and  wind  had  beaten, 
That  flower  of  all  our  garden  was  my  pride : 

What  then  was  he  to  me,  for  whom  I thought 
To  make  a shroud,  when,  tending  on  him  still 
With  hope,  that,  baffled  still,  did  still  keep  up; 

I saw,  at  last,  the  ruddy  dawn  of  health 
Begin  to  mantle  o’er  his  pallid  form. 

And  glow — and  glow — till  forth  at  last  it  burs* 

Into  confirmed,  broad,  and  glorious  day! 

Lorenzo.  You  loved,  .and  he  did  love  ? 

Mariana.  To  say  he  did. 

Were  to  affirm  what  oft  his  eyes  avouched, 

What  many  an  action  testified — and  yet — 

What  wanted  confirmation  of  his  tongue. 

But  if  he  loved,  it  brought  him  not  content! 

’ I’was  now  abstraction — now  a start— anon 
•A  pacing  to  and  fro — anon  a stillness. 

As  nought  remained  of  life,  save  life  itself. 

And  feeling,  thought,  and  motion,  were  extinct. 

Then  all  again  was  action!  Disinclined 
To  converse,  save  he  held  it  with  himself ; 

Which  oft  he  did,  in  moody  vein  discoursing. 

And  ever  and  anon  invoking  honour. 

As  some  high  contest  there  were  pending  ’twixt 
llim.self  and  him,  wherein  her  aid  he  needed. 

Lorenzo.  This  spoke  impediment ; or  he  was  bound 
By  promise  to  another ; or  had  friends 
Whom  it  behoved  him  to  consult,  and  doubted ; 

Or  ’twixt  you  lay  di.sparity  too  wide 
For  love  itself  to  leap. 

Mariana.  I saw  a struggle. 

But  knew  not  what  it  was.  1 wondered  still. 

That  what  to  me  was  all  content,  to  him 
Was  all  disturbance ; but  my  turn  did  come. 

At  length  he  talked  of  leaving  us  ; at  length 
He  fixed  the  parting  day — but  kept  it  not — 

0 how  my  heart  did  bound!  Then  first  1 knew 
It  had  been  sinking.  Deeper  still  it  sank 
When  next  he  fixed  to  go  ; and  saiik  it  then 
To  bound  no  more!  He  went. 

Lorenzo.  To  follow  him 
Y ou  came  to  Mantua  ? 

320 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DIUMATISTS. 


THOMAS  LOVKI.L  BEDDOIS. 


What  coulJ  I do? 

Cot,  garden,  vineyard,  rivulet,  and  wood, 

Lake,  sky,  and  mountain,  went  along  with  him! 
Could  1 k-uiain  behind  ? My  father  found 
My  heart  was  not  at  home  ; he  loved  his  child, 

And  asked  me,  one  day,  whither  we  should  go  ? 

I said,  ‘ To  Mantua.’  1 followed  him 
To  Mantua!  to  breathe  the  air  he  breathed. 

To  walk  upon  the  ground  he  walked  upon. 

To  look  upon  the  things  he  looked  upon. 

To  look,  perchance,  on  him  ! perchance  to  hear  him. 
To  touch  him!  never  to  be  known  to  him. 

Till  he  was  told  1 lived  and  died  his  lore. 


THOJIAS  I OVELL  BEDDOES. 

The  Bride’s  Tragedy,  by  Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes, 
published  in  1S2?,  is  intended  for  the  closet  rather 
than  the  theatre.  It  possesses  many  passages  of 
])ure  and  sparkling  verse.  ‘ The  following,’  says  a 
writer  in  the  Kilinburgh  Review,  ‘ v/ill  show  the  way 
in  which  Mr  BcJdoes  manages  a subject  that  poets 
have  almost  reduced  to  commonplace.  We  thought 
all  similes  for  the  violet  had  been  used  up;  but  be 
gives  us  a new  one,  and  one  that  is  very  delightful.’ 
Hesperus  and  Floribel  (the  young  wedded  lovers) 
are  in  a garden ; and  the  husband  speaks ; — 

ITespems.  See,  here’s  a bower 
Of  eglantine  with  honeysuckles  woven, 

AVhere  not  a spark  of  prying  light  creeps  in, 

So  closely  do  the  sweets  enfold  each  other. 

’Tis  twilight’s  home  ; come  in,  my  gentle  love. 

And  talk  to  me.  So  ! I’ve  a rival  here  ; 

What’s  this  that  sleeps  so  sweetly  on  your  neck  ! 
Floribel.  Jealous  so  soon,  my  Hesperus  ? Look 
then. 

It  is  a bunch  of  flowers  I pulled  for  you  : 

Here’s  the  blue  violet,  like  Pandora’s  eye. 

When  first  it  darkened  with  immortal  life. 

Hesperus.  Sweet  as  thy  lips.  Fie  on  those  taper 
fingers. 

Have  they  been  brushing  the  long  grass  aside, 

To  drag  the  daisy  from  its  hiding-place, 

M’here  it  shuns  light,  the  Danac  of  flowers. 

With  gold  up-hoarded  on  its  virgin  lap? 

Floribel.  And  here’s  a treasure  that  I found  by 
chance, 

A lily  of  the  valley  ; low  it  lay 

Over  a mossy  mound,  withered  and  weeping, 

As  on  a fairy’s  grave. 

Hesperus  Of  all  the  posy 
Give  me  the  rose,  though  there’s  a tale  of  blood 
Soiling  its  name.  In  elfin  annals  old 
’Tis  writ,  how  Zephyr,  envious  of  his  love 
(The  love  he  bare  to  Summer,  who  since  then 
Has,  weeping,  visited  the  world),  once  found 
The  baby  Perfume  cradled  in  a violet ; 

(’Twas  said  the  beauteous  bantling  was  the  child 
Of  a gay  bee,  that  in  his  wantonness 
Toyed  with  a pea  bud  in  a lady’s  garland)  ; 

The  felon  winds,  confederate  with  him, 

Bound  the  sweet  slumberer  with  golden  chains, 

Pulled  from  the  wreathed  laburnum,  and  together 
Deep  cast  him  in  the  bosom  of  a rose, 

And  fed  the  fettered  wretch  with  dew  and  air. 

And  there  is  an  expression  in  the  same  scene  (where 
tlie  autlior  is  speaking  of  sleepers’  fancies,  &c.) 

While  that  winged  song,  the  restless  nightingale 
Turns  her  sad  heart  to  music — 

which  is  perfectly  beautiful. 

'The  reader  may  now  t:ike  a passage  from  the 
scene  where  Hesperus  murders  the  girl  Floribeh  She 


is  waiting  for  him  in  the  Divinity  patli,  alone,  and 
is  terrified.  At  last  he  comes ; and  slie  sighs  out — 

Speak  ! let  me  hear  thy  voice. 

Tell  me  the  joyful  news  1 

and  thus  he  answers — 

Ay,  I am  come 

In  all  my  solemn  pomp.  Darkness  and  Fear, 

And  the  great  Tempest  in  his  midnight  car. 

The  sword  of  lightning  girt  across  his  thigh. 

And  the  whole  demon  brood  of  night,  blind  Fog 
And  withering  Blight,  all  these  are  my  retainers  ; 
How?  not  one  smile  for  all  this  bravery? 

What  think  you  of  my  minstrels,  the  hoarse  winds. 
Thunder,  and  tuneful  Discord  ? Hark,  they  play. 
Well  [liped,  methinks ; somewhat  too  rough,  perhaps, 
Floribel.  1 know  you  practise  on  my  silliness. 

Else  1 might  well  be  scared.  But  leave  this  mirth, 
Or  I must  weep. 

Hcspenis.  ’Twill  serve  to  fill  the  goble*s 
For  our  carousal  ; but  we  loiter  here. 

The  bride-maids  are  without;  well-picked,  thou’lt  say. 
Wan  ghosts  of  wo-begone,  self-slaughtered  damsels 
In  their  best  winding-sheets;  start  not ; 1 bid  them 
wipe 

Their  gory  bosoms  ; they’ll  look  wondrous  comely ; 
Our  link-boy,  Will-o’-the-Wisp,  is  wailing  too 
To  light  us  to  our  grave. 

After  some  further  speech,  she  asks  him  what  he 
means,  and  he  replies — 

What  mean  T ? Death  and  murder. 

Darkness  and  misery.  To  thy  prayers  and  shrift. 
Earth  gives  thee  back.  Thy  God  hath  sent  me  for  thee ; 
Repent  and  die. 

She  returns  gentle  answers  to  him;  but  in  the  end 
he  kills  her,  and  afterwards  mourns  thus  over  her 
body 

Dead  art  thou,  Floribel ; fair,  painted  earth. 

And  no  warm  breath  shall  ever  more  disport 
Between  those  ruby  lips  : no  ; they  have  quaffed 
Life  to  the  dregs,  and  found  death  at  the  bottom. 

The  sugar  of  the  draught.  All  cold  and  still; 

Her  very  tresses  stiffen  in  the  air. 

Look,  what  a face ! had  our  first  mother  worn 
But  half  such  beauty  when  the  serpent  came. 

His  heart,  all  malice,  would  have  turned  to  love; 

No  hand  but  this,  which  1 do  think  was  once 
Cain,  the  arch  murderer’s,  could  have  acted  it. 

And  1 must  hide  tlpese  sweets,  not  in  my  bosom; 

In  the  foul  earth.  She  shudders  at  my  grasp  ; 

Just  so  she  laid  her  head  across  my  bosom 
When  first — oh  villain  1 which  way  lies  the  g.ave? 

MISS  MITFOBD — SIR  EDWARD  LYTTON  llULWER — 
THOJIAS  NOON  TALFOURD. 

Miss  Mitford,  so  well  known  for  her  fine  prose 
tales  and  sketches,  has  written  three  tragedies — 
Julian,  Rienzi.  and  The  Vespers  of  Palermo.  They' 
were  all  brought  on  the  stage,  but  ‘ Rienzi’  only'  met 
with  decided  success.  An  eqmil  number  of  dramas 
has  been  produced  by’  anotlier  novelist.  Sir  Edward 
Lytton  Bui.wf.r:  these  are  entitled.  T'le  Lady  oj 
Lyons,  La  Valliere,  and  Richelieu.  The  first  of 
these  pieces  is  the  best,  and  it  seldom  fails  of  draw- 
ing tears  when  well  repre.sented.  It  is  a ]>icturesque 
and  romantic  play,  with  passages  of  fine  poetry 
and  genuine  feeling.  ‘La  Valliere’  is  founded  on 
the  court  and  times  of  Louis  XIV.,  but  it  wants  pro- 
minence of  character  and  dramatie  art.  ‘ Kiclu  lieu’ 
is  a drama  of  greater  energy  aud  power,  but  is  also 
loosely  constructed.  'Thojias  Noon  Talfourd,  ser- 
geant-at-law, an  eloquent  English  barrister,  has 
written  two  classic  plays,  Ion,  and  The  Athenian 

521 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRSSEM  TIM*. 


Captive,  reniark.Tble  for  a gentle  beauty,  refinement, 
and  pathos.  He  lias  also  produced  a domestic 
drama.  The  Massacre  of  Glencoe,  but  it  is  mucli 
inferior  to  his  other  productions.  ‘ Ion’  was  acted 
witli  great  success,  and  published  in  1835.  It  seems 
an  embodiment  of  the  simplicity  and  grandeur  of 
tlie  Greek  drama,  and  its  plot  is  founded  on  the  old 
Grecian  notion  of  destiny,  apart  from  all  moral 
agencies.  The  oracle  of  Delphi  had  announced  that 
the  vengeance  which  the  misrule  of  the  race  of 
Argos  had  brought  on  the  people,  in  the  form  of  a 
pestilence,  could  only  be  disarmed  by  the  extirpation 
of  tlie  guilty  race,  and  Ion,  the  hero  of  the  play,  at 
length  offers  himself  a sacrifice.  The  character  of 
Ion — the  discovery  of  his  birth,  as  son  of  the  king — 
his  love  and  patriotism,  are  drawn  with  great  power 
and  effect.  The  style  of  Mr  Talfourd  is  chaste  and 
clear,  yet  full  of  imagery.  Take,  for  example,  the 
delineation  of  the  character  of  Ion : — 

Ion,  our  sometime  darling,  whom  we  prized 
As  a stray  gift,  by  bounteous  Heaven  dismissed 
From  .some  bright  sphere  which  sorrow  may  not  cloud 
To  make  the  happy  happier!  Is  he  sent 
To  grapple  with  the  miseries  of  this  time. 

Whose  nature  such  ethereal  aspect  wears 
As  it  would  perish  at  the  touch  of  wrong! 

By  no  internal  contest  is  he  trained 

For  such  hard  duty  ; no  emotions  rude 

Hath  his  clear  spirit  vanquished — Love,  the  germ 

Of  his  mild  nature,  hath  .spread  graces  forth, 

F.xpanding  with  its  progress,  as  the  store 

Of  rainbow  colour  which  the  seed  conceals 

Sheds  out  its  tints  from  its  dim  treasury, 

To  flush  and  circle  in  the  flower.  No  tear 
Hath  filled  his  eye  save  that  of  thoughtful  joy 
When,  in  the  evening  stillness,  lovely  things 
Pres.sed  on  his  soul  too  busily  ; his  voice. 

If,  in  the  earnestness  of  childi.sh  sports. 

Raised  to  the  tone  of  anger,  checked  its  force. 

As  if  it  feared  to  break  its  being’s  law. 

And  faltered  into  music ; when  the  forms 
Of  guilty  passion  have  been  made  to  live 
In  pictured  speech,  and  others  have  waxed  loud 
In  righteous  indignation,  he  hath  heard 
With  sceptic  smile,  or  from  some  slender  vein 
Of  goodness,  which  surrounding  gloom  concealed. 
Struck  sunlight  o’er  it : so  his  life  hath  flowed 
From  its  mysterious  urn  a sacred  stream. 

In  whose  calm  depth  the  beautiful  and  pure 
Alone  are  mirrored  ; which,  though  shapes  of  ill 
May  hover  round  its  surface,  glides  in  light. 

And  takes  no  shadow  from  them. 

[Extracts  from,  ‘Ion.’] 

[Ton  being  declared  the  rightful  heir  of  the  throne,  is  waited 
upon  by  Clem.anthe,  daughter  of  the  high  priest  of  the  temple, 
wherein  Ion  had  been  reared  in  obscurity.] 

Ion.  What  wouldst  thou  with  me,  lady  1 

Clenianthe.  Is  it  so  ? 

Nothing,  my  lord,  save  to  implore  thy  pardon. 

That  the  departing  gleams  of  a bright  dream. 

From  which  I scarce  had  wakened,  made  me  bold 
To  crave  a word  with  thee  ; but  all  are  fled — 

Ion.  ’Twas  indeed  a goodly  dream  ; 

But  thou  art  right  to  think  it  was  no  more ; 

And  study  to  forget  it. 

Clem.  To  forget  it  ! 

Indeed,  my  lord,  I will  not  wish  to  lose 
What,  being  past,  is  all  my  future  hath. 

All  I shall  live  for  ; do  not  grudge  me  this. 

The  brief  space  I shall  need  it. 

Ion.  Speak  not,  fair  one, 

In  tone  so  mournful,  for  it  makes  me  feel 
Tro  sensibly  the  hapless  wretch  I am. 


That  troubled  the  deep  quiet  of  thy  soul 
In  that  pure  fountain  which  reflected  heaven. 

For  a brief  taste  of  rapture, 

Clem.  Dost  thou  yet 

Esteem  it  rapture,  then  ? My  foolish  heart. 

Be  still  ! Yet  wherefore  should  a crown  divide  us  I 
0,  my  dear  Ion  ! let  me  call  thee  so 
This  once  at  least — it  could  not  in  my  thoughts 
Increase  the  distance  that  there  was  between  us 
When,  rich  in  spirit,  thou  to  strangers’  eyes 
Seemed  a poor  foundling. 

Ion.  It  must  separate  us  ! 

Think  it  no  harmless  bauble ; but  a curse 
Will  freeze  the  current  in  the  veins  of  youth. 

And  from  familiar  touch  of  genial  hand. 

From  household  pleasures,  from  sweet  daily  tasks. 
From  airy  thought,  free  wanderer  of  the  heavens. 

For  ever  banish  me  ! 

Clem.  Thou  dost  accuse 

Thy  state  too  harshly  ; it  may  give  some  room. 

Some  little  room,  amidst  its  radiant  cares. 

For  love  and  Joy  to  breathe  in. 

Ion.  Not  for  me  ; 

My  pomp  must  be  most  lonesome,  far  removed 
From  that  sweet  fellowship  of  humankind 
The  slave  rejoices  in  : my  solemn  robes 
Shall  wrap  me  as  a panoply  of  ice. 

And  the  attendants  who  may  throng  around  me 
Shall  want  the  flatteries  which  may  basely  warm 
The  sceptral  thing  they  circle.  Dark  and  cold 
Stretches  the  path  which,  when  I wear  the  crown, 

I needs  must  enter  : the  great  gods  forbid 
That  thou  shouldst  follow  in  it  ! 

Clem.  0 unkind ! 

And  shall  we  never  see  each  other  ? 

Ion.  [After  a panse.]  Yes! 

I have  asked  that  dre.adful  question  of  the  hill* 

That  look  eternal  ; of  the  flowing  streams 
That  lucid  flow  for  ever  ; of  the  stars. 

Amid  whose  fields  of  azure  my  raised  spirit 
Hath  trod  in  glory  : all  were  dumb ; but  now. 

While  I thus  gaze  upon  thy  living  face, 

I feel  the  love  that  kindles  through  its  beauty 
Can  never  wholly  perish  : we  shall  meet 
Again,  Clcmanthe ! 

Clem.  Bless  thee  for  that  name  ; 

Pray,  call  me  so  again  ; thy  words  sound  strangely. 
Yet  they  breathe  kindness,  and  I’ll  drink  them  in. 
Though  they  destroy  me.  Shall  we  meet  indeed  ? 
Think  not  I would  intrude  upon  thy  cares. 

Thy  councils,  or  thy  pomps  ; to  sit  at  distance. 

To  weave,  with  the  nice  labour  which  preserves 
The  rebel  pulses  even,  from  gay  threads 
Faint  records  of  thy  deeds,  and  sometimes  catch 
The  falling  music  of  a gracious  word. 

Or  the  stray  sunshine  of  a smile,  will  be 
Comfort  enough  : do  not  deny  me  this  ; 

Or  if  stern  fate  compel  thee  to  deny. 

Kill  me  at  once  ! 

Ion.  No  ; thou  must  live,  my  fair  one  : 

There  are  a thousand  joyous  things  in  life. 

Which  pass  unheeded  in  a life  of  joy 
As  thine  hath  been,  till  breezy  sorrow  comes 
To  ruffle  it  ; and  daily  duties  paid 
Hardly  at  first,  at  length  will  bring  repose 
To  the  sad  mind  that  studies  to  perform  them. 

Thou  dost  not  mark  me. 

Clem.  0,  I do  ! I do  ! 

Ion.  If  for  thy  brother’s  and  thy  father’s  sake 
Thou  art  content  to  live,  the  healer  Time 
Will  reconcile  thee  to  the  lovely  things 
Of  this  delightful  world — and  if  another, 

A happier — no,  I cannot  bid  thee  love 
Another ! — I did  think  I could  have  said  it. 

But  ’tis  in  vain. 

Clan.  Thou  art  my  own,  then,  still  ? 


523 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  NOON  rALFOCRIk. 


/(»(.  I am  tliine  own ! thus  let  me  clasp  thee;  nearer; 
joy  too  thrilling  and  too  short ! 

Enter  Aoenoo. 

Agaior.  My  lord, 

The  sacrificial  rites  await  thy  presence. 

Ion.  1 come.  One  more  embrace — the  last,  the  last 
In  this  world  ! Now,  farewell  1 \_Exit. 

Clem.  The  last  embrace  1 
Then  he  has  cast  me  oft'!  no — ’tis  not  so  ; 

Some  mournful  secret  of  his  fate  divides  us  ; 

I’ll  struggle  to  bear  that,  and  snatch  a comfort 
From  seeing  him  uplifted.  I will  look 
Upon  him  in  his  throne  ; Minerva’s  shrine 
Will  shelter  me  from  vulgar  gaze  ; I’ll  hasten 
And  feast  my  sad  eyes  with  his  greatness  there.  [Exit. 

[Ion  is  installed  in  his  royal  di;m>ty.  attended  by  the  high 
priest,  the  senators,  &c.  The  people  receive  him  with  shouta] 

Jon.  I thank  you  for  your  greetings — shout  no  more. 
But  in  deep  silence  raise  your  hearts  to  heaven. 

That  it  may  strengthen  one  so  young  and  frail 
As  I am  for  the  business  of  this  hour. 

Must  1 sit  here  1 

Medon.  My  son  ! my  son  ! 

What  ails  thee  ? When  thou  shouldst  reflect  the  joy 
Of  Argos,  the  strange  paleness  of  the  grave 
Marbles  thy  face. 

Ion  Am  I indeed  so  pale  ? 

It  is  a solemn  office  I assume. 

Which  well  may  make  me  falter ; yet  sustained 
By  thee,  and  by  the  gods  1 serve,  I take  it. 

[5ifs  on  the  throne. 

Stand  forth,  Agenor. 

Agenor.  I await  thy  will. 

Ion.  To  thee  I look  as  to  the  wisest  friend 
Of  this  arilicted  people  ; thou  must  leave 
Awhile  the  quiet  which  thy  life  has  earned 
To  rule  our  councils  ; fill  the  seats  of  justice 
With  good  men,  not  so  absolute  in  goodness 
As  to  forget  what  human  frailty  is; 

And  order  my  sad  country. 

Agenor.  Pardon  me — 

Ion.  Nay,  I will  promise  ’tis  my  last  request ; 

Grant  me  thy  help  till  this  distracted  state 
Rise  tranquil  from  her  griefs — ’twill  not  be  long, 

If  the  great  gods  smile  on  us  now.  Remember, 
Meanwhile,  thou  hast  all  power  my  word  can  give, 
Whether  1 live  or  die. 

Agenor.  Die!  Ere  that  hour. 

May  even  the  old  man’s  epitaph  be  moss-grown  I 
Ion.  Death  is  not  jealous  of  the  mild  decay 
That  gently  wins  thee  his  ; exulting  youth 
Provokes  the  ghastly  monarch’s  sudden  stride, 

And  makes  his  horrid  fingers  quick  to  clasp 
His  prey  benumbed  at  noontide.  Let  me  see 
The  captain  of  the  guard. 

Cri/lhea.  I kneel  to  crave 
Humbly  the  favour  which  thy  sire  bestowed 
On  one  who  loved  him  well. 

Ion.  I cannot  mark  thee. 

That  wakest  the  memory  of  my  father’s  weakness, 

But  I will  not  forget  that  thou  hast  shared 
The  light  enjoyments  of  a noble  spirit. 

And  learned  the  need  of  luxury.  I grant 
For  thee  and  thy  brave  comrades  ample  share 
Of  such  rich  treasure  as  my  stores  contain. 

To  grace  thy  passage  to  some  distant  land. 

Where,  if  an  honest  cause  engage  thy  sword. 

May  glorious  issues  wait  it.  In  our  realm 
We  shall  not  need  it  longer. 

Crythes.  Dost  intend 

To  banish  the  firm  troops  before  whose  valour 
Barbarian  millions  shrink  appalled,  and  leave 
Our  city  naked  to  the  first  assault 
Of  reckless  foes  ? 

Ion.  No,  Crythes;  in  ourselves. 


In  our  own  honest  hearts  and  chainless  hauls 
Will  be  our  safeguard  ; while  we  do  not  use 
Our  power  towards  others,  so  that  we  should  blush 
To  teach  our  children  ; while  the  simple  love 
Of  justice  and  their  country  shall  be  born 
With  dawning  reason  ; while  their  sinews  grow 
Hard  ’midst  the  gladness  of  heroic  sports. 

We  shall  not  need,  to  guard  our  walls  in  peace. 

One  selfish  passion,  or  one  venal  sword. 

I would  not  grieve  thee  ; but  thy  valiant  troop — 
For  I esteem  them  valiant — must  no  more 
With  luxury  which  suits  a desperate  camp 
Infect  us.  See  that  they  embark,  Agenor, 

Ere  night. 

Crythes.  My  Lord — 

Ion.  No  more — my  word  hath  passed. 

Medon,  there  is  no  office  I can  add 

To  those  thou  hast  grown  old  in  ; thou  wilt  guard 

The  shrine  of  Phoebus,  and  within  thy  home — 

Thy  too  delightful  home — befriend  the  stranger 
As  thou  didst  me  ; there  sometimes  waste  a thought 
On  thy  spoiled  inmate. 

Medon.  Think  of  thee,  my  lord  ? 

Long  shall  we  triumph  in  thy  glorious  reign. 

Ion.  Prithee  no  more.  Argives  1 I have  a boon 
To  crave  of  you.  Whene’er  I shall  rejoin 
In  death  the  father  from  whose  heart  in  life 
Stern  fate  divided  me,  think  gently  of  him  ! 

Think  that  beneath  his  panoply  cf  pride 
Were  fair  aft'ections  crushed  by  bitter  wrongs 
Which  fretted  him  to  madness ; what  he  did, 

Alas  ! ye  know  ; could  you  know  what  he  suffered. 
Ye  would  not  curse  his  name.  Yet  never  more 
Let  the  great  interests  of  the  state  depend 
Upon  the  thousand  chances  that  may  sway 
A piece  of  human  frailty  ; swear  to  me 
That  ye  will  seek  hereafter  in  yourselves 
The  means  of  sovereignty  : our  country’s  space. 

So  happy  in  its  smallness,  so  compact. 

Needs  not  the  magic  of  a single  name 
Which  wider  regions  may  require  to  draw 
Their  interest  into  one  ; but,  circled  thus. 

Like  a blest  family,  by  simple  laws 
May  tenderly  be  governed — all  degrees. 

Not  placed  in  dexterous  balance,  not  combined 
By  bonds  of  parchment,  or  by  iron  clasps. 

But  blended  into  one — a single  form 
Of  nymph-like  loveliness,  which  finest  chords 
Of  sympathy  pervading,  shall  endow 
With  vital  beauty  ; tint  with  roseate  bloom 
In  times  of  happy  peace,  and  bid  to  flash 
With  one  brave  impulse,  if  ambitious  bands 
Of  foreign  power  should  threaten.  Swcai  to  me 
That  ye  will  do  this  1 

Medon.  Wherefore  ask  this  now  ? 

Thou  shalt  live  long  ; the  paleness  of  thy  hice. 
Which  late  seemed  death-like,  is  grown  radiant  now. 
And  thine  eyes  kindle  with  the  prophecy 
Of  glorious  years. 

Ion.  The  gods  approve  me  then  ! 

Yet  I will  use  the  function  of  a king. 

And  claim  obedience.  Swear,  that  if  I die. 

And  leave  no  issue,  ye  will  seek  the  povi'er 
To  govern  in  the  free-born  people’s  choice. 

And  in  the  prudence  of  the  wise. 

Medon  and  others.  We  swear  it ! 

Jon.  Hear  and  record  the  oath,  immortal  powers. 
Now  give  me  leave  a moment  to  ajiproach 
That  altar  unattended.  [He  goes  to  the  altar. 

Gracious  gods  1 

In  whose  mild  service  my  glad  youth  was  spent, 

Look  on  me  now  ; and  if  there  is  a power. 

As  at  this  solemn  time  I feel  there  is. 

Beyond  ye,  that  hath  breathed  through  all  your  shapel 
The  spirit  of  the  beautiful  that  lives 
In  earth  and  heaven  ; to  ye  I ofl'er  up 


523 


FBJU  17'!0 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  llMR 


This  conscious  bein;;,  full  of  life  anil  love, 

Kor  niy  dear  country’s  welfare.  Let  this  blow 
laid  all  her  sorrows  1 [67a6s  Idmielf. 

Clkmanthk  rushes  forward. 

Clan.  Ifold! 

Let  me  support  him — stand  away — indeed 
I hare  best  ri^ht,  althouiih  ye  know  it  not, 

To  cleave  to  him  in  death. 

hm.  This  is  a joy 

I did  not  hope  for — this  is  sweet  indeed. 

B"’:d  thine  eyes  on  me! 

Clan.  And  for  this  it  was 
Th.'u  wouldst  have  weaned  me  from  thee  ! 

Couldst  thou  think 
I would  be  so  divorced  ? 

Ion.  Thou  art  riolit,  Clemanthe — 

It  was  a shallow  and  an  idle  thought ; 

’Tis  past ; no  show  of  coldness  frets  us  now ; 

No  vain  disguise,  my  girl.  Yet  thou  wilt  think 
On  that  which,  when  I feigned,  1 truly  spoke— 

Wilt  thou  not,  sweet  one  ? 

Clem.  I will  treasure  all. 

Enter  Inus. 

/jus.  I bring  you  glorious  tidings — 

Ha ! no  joy 
Can  enter  here. 

Ion.  Yes— is  it  as  I hope  ? 

IrUfS.  The  pestilence  abates. 

Ion.  [iS'/jria^s  to  his  feel.]  Do  ye  not  hear  1 
Why  shout  ye  not  ? ye  are  strong — think  not  of  me ; 
Hearken  1 the  curse  my  ancestry  had  spread 
O’er  .Argos  is  dispelled!  My  own  Clemanthe  ! 

Let  this  console  thee — Argos  lives  again — 

The  offering  is  accepted — all  is  well ! [Dies. 

HENRY  TAYLOR — .T.  BROWNING — LEIGH  HUNT 

WILLIAM  SMITH. 

Two  dramatic  poems  have  been  produced  by 
Henry  Taylor,  Ksq.,  wbicb.  though  not  popular, 
evince  high  genius  and  careful  preparation.  The 
first,  Philip  van  Artevehle,  was  published  in  1834, 
and  the  scene  is  laid  in  Flanders,  at  the  close  of  the 
fourteenth  century.  The  second,  Edivin  the  Fair 
(184.3),  relates  to  e.arly  English  history.  Though 
somewhat  too  measured  and  reflective  for  the  stage, 
the  jdays  of  Mr  Taylor  contain  excellent  scenes 
and  dialogues.  ‘The  blended  dignity  of  thought, 
and  a sedate  moral  habit,  invests  Mr  Taylor’s  poetry 
with  a stateliness  in  which  the  drama  is  generally 
deficient,  and  makes  his  writings  illustrate,  in  some 
degree,  a new  form  of  the  art — such  a form,  indeed, 
as  we  might  expect  the  written  drama  naturally  to 
assume  if  it  were  to  revive  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, and  maintain  itself  as  a branch  of  literature 
apart  from  the  stage,’  * Strafford,  a tragedy  by  J. 
Browning,  was  brought  out  in  1837,  and  acted  with 
success.  It  is  the  work  of  a young  poet,  but  is  well 
conceived  and  arranged  for  effect,  while  its  relation 
to  a deeply  interesting  and  stirring  period  of  British 
liistory  gives  it  a peculiar  attraction  to  an  English 
audience.  Mr  Leigh  Hunt,  in  1840,  came  before 
the  public  as  a dramatic  writer.  His  work  was  a 
mixture  of  romance  and  comedy,  entitled,  A Legend 
of  Florence.-,  it  was  acted  at  Covent  Garden  theatre 
with  some  success,  but  is  too  sketchy  in  its  mate- 
rials, and  too  extravagant  in  plot,  to  be  a popular 
acting  jilay.  Athelivold,  a tragedy  by  William 
Smith  (1842),  is  a drama  also  for  the  closet;  it 
wants  variety  and  scenic  effect  for  the  stage,  and 
in  style  and  sentiment  is  not  unlike  one  of  Miss 

* Quarterly  Review. 


Baillie’s  jilays.  The  following  Christian  sentiment 
is  finely  expressed  : — 

.loy  is  a weak  and  giddy  thing  that  laughs 
Itself  to  weariness  or  sleep,  and  wakes 
To  the  same  barren  laughter  ; ’tis  a child 
Perpetually,  and  all  its  past  and  future 
Lie  in  the  compass  of  an  infant’s  day. 

Crushed  from  our  sorrow  all  that’s  great  in  man 
Has  ever  sprung.  In  the  bold  pagan  world 
Men  deified  the  beautiful,  the  glad. 

The  strong,  the  boastful,  and  it  came  to  nought; 

We  have  raised  I'ain  and  Sorrow  into  heaven, 

And  in  our  temples,  on  our  altars.  Grief 
Stands  symbol  of  oui  faith,  and  it  shall  last 
As  long  as  man  is  mortal  and  unhappy. 

The  gay  at  heart  may  wander  to  the  skies, 

And  harps  may  there  be  found  them,  and  the  branch 
Of  palm  be  put  into  their  hands  ; on  earth 
We  know  them  not ; no  votarist  of  our  faith, 

Till  he  has  dropped  his  tears  into  the  stream. 

Tastes  of  its  sweetness. 

We  shall  now  turn  to  the  comic  muse  of  the 
drama,  which,  in  the  earlier  years  of  this  period, 
produced  some  w'orks  of  genuine  humour  aud  inte- 
rest, 

GEORGE  COLMAN, 

The  most  able  and  successful  comic  dramatist  of 
his  day  was  George  Colman,  the  younger,*  who 
was  born  on  the  21st  of  October  17  02.  The  sou  of 


George  ^./swjnan. 

the  author  of  the  .Jealous  Wife  and  Clandestine 
Marriage,  Colman  had  a hereditary  attachment  to 
the  drama.  He  was  educated  at  Westminster  school, 
and  afterwards  entered  of  Christ’s  Church  college, 
Oxford ; but  his  idleness  and  dissipation  at  the  uni- 
versity led  his  father  to  withdraw  him  from  Oxford, 
and  banish  him  to  Aberdeen.  Hero  ho  was  distin- 
guished for  his  eccentric  dress  and  fully,  but  he  also 
applied  himself  to  his  classical  and  other  studies. 

* Colman  added  ‘ the  younger'  to  his  name  after  the  con- 
demnation of  his  play.  The  Iron  ChosL  * Lest  my  fiitlier’s 
memory,'  he  says,  ‘ may  be  injured  by  mistalics,  and  in  the 
confusion  of  after-time  tlie  translator  of  Terence,  and  the 
author  of  the  Jealous  Wife,  should  be  supposed  guilty  of  The 
Iron  Chest,  I shall,  were  I to  reach  the  patriarchal  longevity 
of  Methuselah,  continue  tin  all  toy  dramatic  publications)  to 
subscribe  myself  George  Colman,  tie  younger.* 


524 


DHAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  COLMAN. 


•\t  Alienioon  1m>  i\  poi'ni  on  Clmrles  Janies 

Fox,  entilleil  The  Man  of  the  People,  ami  wrote  a 
musical  farce.  The  Femole  Dramatist,  wliieli  his  father 
hrou;,;ht  out  at  the  llaymarket  theatre,  but  it  was 
comleiuneil.  A secoiul  draumtic  attempt,  entitled 
Tiro  to  (hie,  brouftht  out  in  1784,  enjoyed  consider- 
able success.  Tliis  seems  to  have  fixed  his  literary 
taste  and  inclinationsj  forthou”h  his  father  intended 
him  for  the  bar,  and  entered  him  of  Lincoln’s  Inn, 
the  drama  engrossed  his  attention.  In  1784  he 
contracted  a thoughtless  marriage  with  a Miss 
Catherine  Morris,  with  whom  he  eloped  to  Gretna 
Green,  and  next  year  brought  out  a second  musical 
comedy,  Tiir/t  and  no  Turh.  Ilis  father  becoming 
incapacitated  from  attacks  of  paralysis,  the  younger 
(,'olmau  undertook  the  management  of  the  theatre 
in  llaymarket,  and  was  thus  fairly  united  to  the 
stage  and  the  drama.  Various  pieces  proceeded 
from  his  pen  : Inhle  and  Yarico,  a musical  opera, 
brought  out  with  success  in  1787  ; Ways  and  Means, 
a comedy,  1788;  The  Battle  of  Hexham,  1789;  The 
Snrrende- of  Calais.  1791;  The  Mountaineers,  1793; 
The  Iron  Chest  (founded  on  Godwin’s  novel  of  Caleb 
M’illiams),  1796;  The  Heir  at  Law,  1797;  Blue  Beard 
(a  mere  jiiece  of  scenic  display  and  music),  1798; 
The  Beniew,  or  the  I Fog.'!  of  IF/ndsor,  an  excellent 
farce,  1798;  The  Poor  Gentleman,  a comedy,  1802; 
Love  Laughs  at  Locksmiths,  a farce,  1803;  Gay  De- 
ceivers. a farce,  1804;  John  Bull,  a comedy,  1805; 
117(0  I Fonts  a Guinea?  1805;  IFe  Fly  by  Night,  a 
farce.  1806;  The.  Africans,  a play,  1808;  X.  Y.  Z., 
a farce,  1810;  The  Law  of  Java,  a musical  drama, 
1822,  &c.  No  modern  dramatist  h.as  added  so  many 
stock-pieces  to  the  theatre  as  Colman,  or  imparted 
so  much  genuine  mirth  and  humour  to  all  playgoers. 
His  society  was  also  much  courted  ; he  was  a favou- 
rite with  George  IV.,  and,  in  conjunction  with 
Sheridan,  was  wont  to  set  the  royal  table  in  a roar. 
His  gaiety,  however,  was  not  always  allied  to  pru- 
dence, and  theatrical  property  is  a very  precarious 
possessimi.  As  a manager,  Colman  got  entangled 
in  lawsuits,  and  was  f>rced  to  reside  in  the  King’s 
Bench.  The  king  stept  forward  to  relieve  him,  by 
appointing  him  to  the  situation  of  licenser  and  exa- 
miner of  plays,  an  office  worth  from  £300  to  £400 
a-year.  In  this  situation  Colman  incurred  the 
enmity  of  several  dramatic  authors  by  the  rigour 
with  which  he  scrutinised  their  productions.  His 
own  plays  are  far  from  being  strictly  correct  or 
moral,  but  not  an  oath  or  double  entendre  was  suffered 
to  escape  his  expurgutorial  pen  as  licenser,  and  he 
was  peculiarly  keen-scented  in  detecting  all  politic;d 
allusions.  Besides  his  numerous  plays,  Colman 
wrote  som>  poetical  travesties  and  pieces  of  levity, 
published  under  the  title  of  My  Nightgown  and 
Slippers  fll'H'),  which  were  afterwards  republished 
(1802)  with  additions,  and  nameA  Broad  Grins;  also 
Poetical  Vagaries,  Vagaries  Vindicated,  and  Eccen- 
tricities for  Edinburgh.  In  these,  delicacy  and  de- 
corum are  often  sacrificed  to  broad  mirth  and 
humour.  The  last  work  of  the  lively  author  was 
memoirs  of  his  own  early  life  and  times,  entitled 
Random  Records,  and  published  in  1830.  He  died 
in  London  on  the  26th  Oc^toher  1836.  The  comedies 
of  Colman  abound  in  witty  and  ludicrous  delinea- 
tions of  character,  interspersed  with  bursts  of  ten- 
derness and  feeling,  somewhat  in  the  style  of  Sterne, 
whom,  indeed,  he  has  closely  copied  in  his  ‘ Poor 
Gentleman.’  Sir  W;dter  Scott  has  praised  his  ‘ John 
Bull’  as  by  far  the  best  effort  of  our  late  comic  drama. 
‘ The  scenes  of  broad  humour  are  executed  in  the 
best  possible  taste ; and  the  whimsical,  yet  native 
characters,  reflect  the  manners  of  real  life.  The 
sentimental  parts,  .although  one  of  them  includes  a 
finely  wrought-up  scene  of  paternal  distress,  par- 


take of  the  falsetto  of  German  pathos.  But  the 
piece  is  both  humorous  and  affecting;  and  we  readily 
excuse  its  obvious  im])erfections  in  consideratioi, 
of  its  exciting  our  laughter  and  our  tears.’  'I’ho 
whimsical  character  of  Ollapod  in  the  • Poor  Gentle- 
man’ is  one  of  Colman’s  most  original  .and  laughable 
conceptions ; Pangloss,  in  the  ‘ Heir  at  Law,’  is  also 
an  excellent  satirical  portrait  of  a pedant  (proud  of 
being  an  LL.l).,  and,  moreover,  an  A.  double  S.)  ; 
.and  Ids  Irishmen,  Yorkshiremen.  and  country'  rustics 
(all  admirably  performed  at  the  time),  are  highly 
entertaining,  though  overcharged  portraits.  A ten- 
dency to  farce  is  indeed  the  besetting  sin  of  Colrnan’s 
comedies  ; and  in  his  more  serious  plays,  there  is  a 
curious  mixture  of  prose  and  verse,  high-toned  sen- 
timent and  low  humour.  Their  effect  on  the  stage 
is,  however,  irresistible.  We  have  quoted  Joanna 
Baillie’s  description  of  Jane  de  Montfort  as  a por- 
trait of  Mrs  Siddons ; and  Colmau’s  Octavian  in 
‘The  Mountaineers’  is  an  equally  faithful  likenesa 
of  John  Kemble: — 

Lovely  as  day  he  was — but  envious  clouds 
Have  dimmed  his  lustre.  He  is  as  a rock 
Opposed  to  the  rude  sea  that  beats  against  it ; 

Worn  by  the  waves,  yet  still  o’ertopping  them 
In  sullen  majesty.  Rugged  now  his  look — 

For  out,  alas!  calamity  has  blurred 
The  fairest  pile  of  manly  comeliness 
That  ever  reared  its  lofty  head  to  heaven  ! 

’Tis  not  of  late  that  1 have  heard  his  voice; 

But  if  it  be  not  changed — -I  think  it  cannot — 

There  is  a melody  in  every  tone 

Would  charm  the  towering  eagle  in  her  flight, 

And  tame  a hungry  lion. 

[Scene  from  the  ‘Heir  at  La%u.’'\ 

[D.-iniel  Dowlas,  an  old  Gosport  shopkeeper,  from  the  supposed 
loss  of  the  son  of  Lord  Diiberly,  succeeds  to  the  peerage  and  an 
estate  worth  £15. COO  per  annum,  lie  engages  Dr  Pangloss — 
a poor  pedant  just  created  by  the  Society  of  Arts,  Artimn 
Societatis  Socius — as  tutor  to  his  son,  with  a salary  of  £500 
a-year.j 

A Room  in  the  Blue  Boar  Inn. 

Enter  Dr  Pa.xgloss  and  Waiter. 

Pang.  Let  the  chariot  turn  about.  Dr  Panglos.s  in 
a lord’s  chariot!  ‘ Curru  portatur  eodem.’ — Juvenal 
— Hem  ! Waiter! 

Waiter.  Sir. 

Pang.  Have  you  any  gentleman  here  who  arrived 
this  morning  ! 

Waiter.  There’s  one  in  the  house  now,  sir. 

Pang.  Is  he  juvenile  1 

Waiter.  No,  sir  ; he’s  Derbyshire. 

Pang.  He!  he!  he!  Of  what  appearance  is  the 
gentleman  ? 

Waiter.  Y’hy,  plaguy  poor,  sir. 

Pang.  ' I hold  him  rich,  al  had  he  not  a sherte.’ 
— Chaucer  — Hem!  Denominated  the  Honourable 

Mr  Dowlas  ? 

Waiter.  Honourable!  He  left  his  name  plain  Dow- 
las at  the  bar,  sir. 

Pang.  Plain  Dowlas,  did  he  1 that  will  do.  ‘ Fcr 

all  the  rest  is  leather ’ 

Waiter'.  Leather,  sir ! 

Pang.  ‘And  prunello.’ — Pope — Hem!  Tell  Mr 
Dowlas  a gentleman  requests  the  honour  of  an  inter- 
view. 

Waiter.,  This  is  his  room,  sir.  He  is  but  just  stept 
into  our  parcel  warehouse — he’ll  be  with  you  directly 

[Evil 

Pang.  Never  before  did  honour  and  affiuence  let 
fall  such  a shower  on  the  head  of  Doctor  Pangloss ! 
Fortune,  I thank  thee  ! Propitious  goddess,  I an 
grateful ! I,  thy  favoured  child,  who  c;  -nmencej  his 

525 


17flO 


CYCLOPiEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMIl, 


career  in  the  loftiest  apartment  of  a muffin  maker  in 
Milk-alley.  Little  did  I think — ‘good  easy  man’ — 
Shakspeare — llem  1 — of  the  riches  and  literary  dig- 
nities which  now 

Enter  Dick  Dowlas. 

My  pupil  ! 

Dkk.  [Speaking  while  entering.]  Well,  where  is  the 
man  that  wants — oh ! you  are  he  I suppose 

Pang.  I am  the  man,  young  gentleman  ! ‘ Homo 

sum.’ — Terence  — llem  I Sir,  the  person  who  now 
presumes  to  address  you  is  Peter  Pangloss ; to  whose 
name,  in  the  college  of  Aberdeen,  is  subjoined  LL.D. 
signifying  Doetor  of  Laws;  to  which  has  been  recently 
added  the  distinction  of  A.  double  S. ; the  Roman  ini- 
tials for  a Fellow  of  the  Society  of  Arts. 

Dick.  Sir,  I am  your  most  obedient,  Richard  Dow- 
las ; to  whose  name,  in  his  tailor’s  bill,  is  subjoined 
D.  R.,  signifying  Debtor ; to  which  are  added  L.S.D. ; 
the  Roman  initials  for  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence. 

Pang.  Ha  ! this  youth  was  doubtless  designed  by 
destiny  to  move  in  the  circles  of  fashion  ; for  he’s  dipt 
in  debt,  and  makes  a merit  of  telling  it.  [Aside. 

Dick.  Put  what  are  your  commands  with  me,  doctor  ? 

Pang.  I have  the  honour,  young  gentleman,  of 
being  deputed  an  ambassador  to  you  from  your  father. 

Dick.  Then  you  have  the  honour  to  be  ambassador 
of  as  good-natured  an  old  fellow  as  ever  sold  a 
ha’porth  of  cheese  in  a chandler’s  shop. 

Pang.  Pardon  me,  if,  on  the  subject  of  your  father’s 
cheese,  I advise  you  to  be  as  mute  as  a mouse  in  one 
for  the  future.  ’Twere  better  to  keep  that  ‘alta  mente 
repostum.’ — Virgil — Hem  ! 

Dick.  Why,  what’s  the  matter  ? Any  misfortune ! 
— Broke,  I fear? 

Pang.  No,  not  broke;  but  his  name,  as  ’tis  cus- 
tomary in  these  case.s,  has  appeared  in  the  Gazette. 

Dkk.  Not  broke,  but  gazetted  1 Why,  zounds  and 
the  devil  ! 

Pang.  Check  your  passions  — learn  philosophy. 
When  the  wife  of  the  great  Socrates  threw  a — hum  ! 

• — threw  a teapot  at  his  erudite  head,  he  was  as  cool 
as  a cucumber.  When  Plato 

Dick.  Damn  Plato  ! What  of  my  father  ? 

Pang.  Don’t  damn  Plato.  The  bees  swarmed  round 
his  inellitluous  mouth  as  soon  as  he  was  swaddled. 

‘ Cum  in  cunis  apes  in  labellis  consedissent.’ — Cicero 
— Hem  ! 

Dick.  I wish  you  had  a swarm  round  yours,  with 
all  my  heart.  Come  to  the  point. 

Pang.  In  due  time.  But  calm  your  choler.  ‘ Ira 
furor  brevis  est.’ — Horace — Hem  1 Read  this. 

[Gives  a letter. 

Dick.  [Snatches  the  letter,  breaks  it  open,  and  reads.] 

‘ Dear  Dick — This  comes  to  inform  you  1 am  in  a 
perfect  .state  of  health,  hoping  you  are  the  same’ — 
ay,  that’s  the  old  beginning—*  It  was  my  lot,  last 
week,  to  be  made’ — ay,  a bankrupt,  I suppose  ? — ‘ to  be 
made  a’ — what  ? — ‘ to  be  made  a P,  E,  A,  R ;’• — a pear ! 

' — to  be  made  a pear!  What  the  devil  does  he  mean 
by  that  ? 

Pang.  A peer  I — a peer  of  the  realm.  His  lordship’s 
orthography  is  a little  loose,  but  several  of  his  equals 
counienance  the  custom.  Lord  Loggerhead  always 
spells  physician  with  an  F. 

Dkk.  A peer! — what,  my  father? — I’m  electrified  ! 
Old  Daniel  Dowlas  made  a peer ! But  let  me  see ; 
[Reads  on.] — ‘A  pear  of  the  realm.  Lawyer  Ferret 
got  me  my  tittle’ — titt — oh,  title  ! — ‘ and  an  estate 
of  fifteen  thou.sand  per  ann. — by  making  me  out  next 
of  kin  to  old  Lord  Duberly,  because  he  died  without 
— without  hair’ — ’Tis  an  odd  reason,  by  the  by,  to  be 
nest  of  kin  to  a nobleman  because  he  died  bald. 

Pang.  His  lordship  means  heir — heir  to  his  estate. 
We  shall  meliorate  his  style  speedily.  ‘Reform  it 
•Jtogether.’ — Shaksp  ^are—  -Hem ! 


Dick.  ‘ I send  my  carrot.’ — Carrot ! 

J^ang,  He!  he!  he!  Chariot  his  lordship  means. 

Dick.  ‘ With  Dr  Pangloss  in  it.’ 

Pang.  That’s  me. 

Dick.  ‘ Respect  him,  for  he’s  an  LL.D.,  and,  more- 
over, an  A.  double  S.’  [They  how. 

Pang.  His  lordship  kindly  condescended  to  insert 
that  at  my  request. 

Dick.  ‘ And  I have  made  him  your  tutorer,  to  mend 
your  cakelology. 

Pang.  Cacology ; from  Kakos,  ‘ malus,’  and  Logos, 
‘ verbum.’ — Vide  Lexicon — Hem  ! 

Dick.  ‘ Come  with  the  doctor  to  my  house  in  Hanover 
Square.’ — Hanover  Square  ! — ‘ 1 remain  your  affec- 
tionate father,  to  command. — Duberly.’ 

Pang.  That’s  his  lordship’s  title. 

Dick.  It  is  ? 

Pang.  It  is. 

Dick.  Say  sir  to  a lord’s  son.  You  have  no  more 
manners  than  a bear! 

Pang.  Bear  ! — under  favour,  young  gentleman,  I 
am  the  bear-leader  ; being  appointed  your  tutor. 

Dick.  And  what  can  you  teach  me? 

Pang.  Prudence.  Don’t  forget  yourself  in  sudden 
success.  ‘Tecum  habita.’ — Persius — Hem! 

Dick.  Prudence  to  a nobleman’s  son  with  fifteen 
thousand  a-year ! 

Pang.  Don’t  give  way  to  your  passions. 

Dick.  Give  way!  Zounds! — I’m  wild — mad!  You 
teach  me  ! — Pooh! — 1 have  been  in  London  belore, 
and  know  it  requires  no  teaching  to  be  a modern  fine 
gentleman.  Why,  it  all  lies  in  a nutshell — spore  a 
curricle — walk  Bond  Street — play  at  Faro — get  drunE 
— dance  reels — go  to  the  opera — cut  off  your  tail — 
pull  on  your  pantaloons — and  there’s  a buck  of  the 
first  fashion  in  town  for  you.  D’ye  think  I don’t 
know  what’s  going  ? 

Pang.  Mercy  on  me!  I shall  have  a very  refrac- 
tory pupil ! 

Dick.  Not  at  all.  We’ll  be  hand  and  glove  to- 
gether, my  little  doctor.  I’ll  drive  you  doivn  to  all 
the  races,  with  my  little  terrier  between  your  legs,  in 
a tandem. 

Pang.  Doctor  Pangloss,  the  philosopher,  with  a 
terrier  between  his  legs,  in  a tandem ! 

Dick.  I’ll  tell  you  what,  doctor.  I’ll  make  you  my 
long-stop  at  cricket — you  shall  draw  corks  when  I’m 
president — laugh  at  my  jokes  before  company — squeeze 
lemons  for  punch — cast  up  the  reckoning — and  wo 
betide  you  if  you  don’t  keep  sober  enough  to  see  me 
safe  home  after  a jollification  ! 

Pang.  Make  me  a long-stop,  and  a squeezer  of 
lemons  ! Zounds  ! this  is  more  fatiguing  than  walking 
out  with  the  lap-dogs ! And  are  these  the  quali- 
fications for  a tutor,  young  gentleman  ? 

Dick.  To  be  sure  they  are.  ’Tis  the  way  that  half 
the  prig  parsons,  who  educate  us  honourables,  jump 
into  fat  livings. 

Pang.  ’Tis  well  they  jump  into  something  fat  at 
last,  for  they  must  wear  all  the  flesh  off  their  bones 
in  the  process. 

Dick.  Come  now,  tutor,  go  you  and  call  the  waiter. 

Pang.  Go  and  call!  Sir — sir!  I’d  have  you  to 
understand,  Mr  Dowlas 

Dick,  Ay,  let  us  understand  one  another,  doetor. 
My  father,  I take  it,  comes  down  handsomely  to  you 
for  your  management  of  me? 

Pang,  My  lord  has  been  liberal. 

Dick.  But  ’tis  I must  manage  you,  doctor.  Ac- 
knowledge this,  and,  between  ourselves,  I’ll  find 
means  to  double  your  pay. 

Pang.  Double  my 

Dick.  Do  you  hesitate?  Why,  man,  you  have 
set  up  for  a modern  tutor  without  knowing  your 
trade! 

Pang.  Double  my  pay ! Say  no  more — done.  ‘ Ac- 

326 


DRAMATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


tumest.’ — Terence — Hem.  Waiter!  \_Bawling.'\  Gad, 
IVe  reached  the  right  reading  at  last! 

‘ I’ve  often  wished  that  I had,  clear. 

For  life,  six  hundred  pounds  a-year.’ 

Swift — Hera.  Waiter! 

Dick.  That’s  right ; tell  him  to  pop  my  clothes  and 
linen  into  the  carriage ; they  are  in  that  bundle. 

Enter  Waitsr. 

Pang.  Waiter!  Here,  put  all  the  Honourable  Mr 
Dowlas’s  clothes  and  linen  into  his  father’s.  Lord 
Oaberly’s,  chariot. 

Waiter.  Where  are  they  all,  air  ? 

Pang.  All  wrapt  up  in  the  Honourable  Mr  Dow- 
las’s pocket  handkerchief.  [Exit  waiter  with  bundle. 

Dick.  See  ’em  safe  in,  doctor,  and  I’ll  be  with  you 
directly. 

Pang.  I go,  most  worthy  pupil.  Six  hundred  pounds 
a-year ! However  deficient  in  the  classics,  his  know- 
ledge of  arithmetic  is  admirable! 

‘ I’ve  often  wished  that  1 had,  clear. 

For  life ’ 

Dick.  Nay,  nay,  don’t  be  so  slow. 

Pang.  Swift — Hem.  I’m  gone.  [Exit. 

Dick.  What  am  I to  do  with  Zekiel  and  Cis? 
When  a poor  man  has  gro«m  great,  his  old  acquain- 
tance generally  begin  to  be  troublesome. 

Enter  Zekiel. 

Zek.  Well,  I han’t  been  long. 

Dick.  No,  you  are  come  time  enough,  in  all  con- 
science. [Coolly. 

Zek.  Cicely  ha’  gotten  the  place.  I be  e’en  almost 
stark  wild  wi’  joy.  Such  a good-natured  young 
madam!  Why,  you  don’t  seem  pleased,  man  ; sure, 
and  sure,  you  be  glad  of  our  good  fortune,  Dick  ? 

Dick.  Dick  ! hy,  what  do  you — oh  ! but  he 
doesn’t  know  yet  that  I am  a lord’s  son.  I rejoice  to 
hear  of  your  success,  friend  Zekiel. 

Zek.  Why,  now,  that’s  hearty.  But,  eh  ! Why, 
you  look  mortal  heavy  and  lumpish,  Dick.  No  bad 
tidings  since  we  ha’  been  out,  I hope  ? 

Dick.  Oh  no. 

Zek.  Eh  ? Let’s  ha’  a squint  at  you.  Od  rabbit  it, 
but  suramut  have  happened.  You  have  seen  your 
father,  and  things  ha’  gone  crossish.  Who  have  been 
here,  Dick  ? 

Dick.  Only  a gentleman,  who  had  the  honour  of 
being  deputed  ambassador  from  my  father. 

Zek.  What  a dickens — an  ambassador ! Pish,  now 
you  be  a queering  a body.  An  ambassador  sent  from 
an  old  chandler  to  Dick  Dowlas,  Lawyer  Latitat’s 
clerk  1 Come,  that  be  a good  one,  fegs  ! 

Dick.  Dick  Dowlas ! and  lawyer’s  clerk ! Sir,  the 
gentleman  came  to  inform  me  that  my  father,  by 
being  proved  next  of  kin  to  the  late  lord,  is  now  Lord 
Duberly  ; by  which  means  1 am  now  the  Honourable 
Mr  Dowlas. 

Zek.  Ods  flesh  ! gi’e  us  your  fist,  Dick ! I ne’er 
shook  the  fist  of  an  honourable  afore  in  all  my  bom 
days.  Old  Daniel  made  a lord!  I be  main  glad  to 
hear  it.  This  be  news  indeed.  But,  Dick,  I hope  he 
ha’  gotten  some  ready  along  wi’  his  title ; for  a lord 
without  money  be  but  a foolish  wishy-washy  kind  of 
a thing  a’ter  all. 

Dick.  My  father’s  estate  is  fifteen  thousand  a-year. 

Zek.  Mercy  on  us  ! — you  ha’  ta’en  away  my  breath  ! 

Dick.  M ell,  Zekiel,  Cis  and  you  shall  hear  from  me 
soon. 

Zek.  WTiy,  you  ben’t  a going,  Dick  ? 

Dick.  I must  pay  ray  duty  to  his  lordship ; his 
chariot  waits  for  me  below.  We  have  been  some 
time  acquainted,  Zekiel,  and  you  may  depend  upon 
my  good  ofiices. 

Zek,  You  do  seem  a little  flustrated  with  these 


OEOnOE  COI.MAN. 


tidings,  Dick.  I— I should  be  loath  to  think  our 
kindness  was  a cooling. 

Dick.  Oh  no.  Rely  on  my  protection. 

Zek.  Why,  lookye,  Dick  Dowlas  ; as  to  protection, 
and  all  that,  we  ha’  been  old  friends  ; and  if  I should 
need  it  from  you,  it  be  no  more  nor  my  right  to  ex- 
pect it,  and  your  business  to  give  it  me : but  Cicely 
ha’  gotten  a place,  and  I ha’  hands  and  health  to  get 
a livelihood.  Fortune,  good  or  bad,  tries  the  man, 
they  do  say  ; and  if  I should  hap  to  be  made  a lord 
to-morrow  (as  who  can  say  what  may  betide,  since 
they  ha’  made  one  out  of  an  old  chandler) 

Dick.  Well,  sir,  and  what  then  1 

Zek.  VV’hy,  then,  the  finest  feather  in  my  lordship’s 
cap  would  be,  to  show  that  there  would  be  as  much 
shame  in  slighting  an  old  friend  because  he  be  poor, 
as  there  be  pleasure  in  owning  him  when  it  be  in  our 
power  to  do  him  service. 

Dick.  You  mistake  me,  Zekiel.  I — I — s’denth  ! 
I’m  quite  confounded ! I’m  trying  to  be  as  fashion- 
able here  as  my  neighbours,  but  nature  comes  in,  and 
knocks  it  all  on  the  head.  [Aside.]  Zekiel,  give  me 
your  hand. 

Zek.  Then  there  be  a hearty  Castleton  slap  for  you. 
The  grasp  of  an  honest  man  can’t  di.sgrace  the  hand 
of  a duke,  Dick. 

Dick.  You’re  a kind  soul,  Zekiel.  I regard  you 
sincerely ; I love  Cicely,  and — hang  it.  I’m  going 
too  far  now  for  a lord’s  son.  Pride  and  old  friendship 
are  now  fighting  in  me  till  I’m  almost  bewildered. 
[Aside].  You  shall  hear  from  me  in  a few  hours. 
Good-by,  Zekiel  ; good-by.  [E.rit. 

Zek.  I don’t  know  what  ails  me,  but  I be  almost 
ready  to  cry.  Dick  be  a high-mettled  youth,  and  this 
news  ha’  put  him  a little  beside  himself.  I should 
make  a bit  of  allowance.  His  heart,  I do  think,  be 
in  the  right  road  ; and  when  that  be  the  case,  he  be  a 
hard  judge  that  wont  pardon  an  old  friend’s  .spirits 
when  they  do  carry  him  a little  way  out  on’t.  [Exit. 

[From  ‘ The  Poor  Gentleman.'] 

Sib  Chablxb  Cropland  at  breakfast;  his  Valet  de  Chambrt 
adjusting  his  hair. 

Sir  Cha.  Has  old  Warner,  the  steward,  been  told 
that  I arrived  last  night  ? 

Valet.  Yes,  Sir  Charles;  with  orders  to  attend  you 
this  morning. 

Sir  Cha.  [ Yawning  and  stretching.]  What  can  a man 
of  fashion  do  with  hira.self  in  the  country  at  this 
wretchedly  dull  time  of  the  year! 

Valet.  It  is  very  pleasant  to-day  out  in  the  park. 
Sir  Charles. 

Sir  Cha.  Pleasant,  you  booby!  How  can  the  coun- 
try be  pleasant  in  the  middle  of  spring?  All  the 
world’s  in  London. 

Vedet.  I think,  somehow,  it  looks  so  lively.  Sir 
Charles,  when  the  corn  is  coming  up. 

Sir  Cha.  Blockhead  ! Vegetation  makes  the  face 
of  a country  look  frightful.  It  spoils  hunting.  Yet 
as  ray  business  on  my  estate  here  is  to  raise  supplies 
for  my  pleasures  elsewhere,  my  journey  is  a wise  one. 
What  day  of  the  month  was  it  yesterday,  when  I left 
town  on  this  wise  expedition  ? 

Valet.  The  first  of  April,  Sir  Charles. 

Sir  Cha.  Umph ! When  Mr  Warner  comes,  show 
him  in. 

Valet.  I shall.  Sir  Charles.  [Eanf. 

Sir  Cha.  This  same  lumbering  timber  upon  my 
ground  has  its  merits.  Trees  are  notes,  issued  from 
the  bank  of  nature,  and  as  current  as  those  payable 
to  Abraham  Newland.  I must  get  change  for  a few 
oaks,  for  1 want  cash  consumedly.  So,  Mr  Warner ! 

Enter  W'arnkii. 

Warner.  Your  honour  is  right  welcoirre  into  Kent. 

I am  proud  to  see  Sir  Charles  Cropland  on  his  estate 

527 


ruoM  17B0  CYCLOI’TKDI A OF  till  the  puksent  tima. 

a"iiiii.  1 hope  you  mean  to  stay  on  the  spot  for  some 
lime,  Sir  Chill  les  ! 

Sir  C/ia.  A very  tedious  time.  Three  days,  Mr 
W'anier. 

irunicr.  Ah,  good  air!  things  would  prosper  better 
if  you  hoiiouled  us  with  your  ])iesence  a little  more. 
I wish  you  lived  entirely  upon  the  estate.  Sir 
Chiu'lea. 

Sir  Cha.  Thank  you,  Warner ; but  modern  men  of 
fashion  find  it  dillicult  to  live  upon  their  estates. 

Il'unicr.  The  country  about  you  so  charming! 

Sir  Cha.  Look  ye,  Warner — 1 must  hunt  in  I.cices- 
tersliire- — for  that’s  the  thing.  In  the  frosts  and  the 
spring  months,  I must  be  in  tow’ii  at  the  clubs — for 
thai’s  tlie  tliiiiL'.  In  summer  I must  be  at  tlie  water- 
ing pOaces— for  that’s  the  thing.  ' Now,  Warner,  un- 
der tliese  circumstances,  how  is  it  iiossible  for  me 
to  reside  upon  my  estate  ? For  my  estate  being  in 
Kent 

ll'cinicr.  The  most  beautiful  part  of  the  county. 

Sir  Cha.  I’sha,  beauty  ! we  don’t  mind  that  in 
Leicestershire.  My  estate,  1 say,  being  in  Kent 

Warmr.  A land  of  milk  and  honey  ! 

Sir  Cha.  1 hate  milk  and  honey. 

Warner.  A land  of  fat! 

Sir  Cha.  Hang  your  fat!— listen  to  me — my  estate 
boino  in  Kent 

]\'arner.  So  woody! 

Sir  Cha.  Curse  the  wood  ! No— that’s  wrong;  for 
it’s  convenient.  I am  come  on  purpose  to  cut  it. 

War)u-r.  Ah!  1 was  afraid  so!  Dice  on  the  table, 
and  ihen  the  axe  to  the  root!  Money  lost  at  play, 
and  then,  good  lack!  the  forest  groans  for  it. 

Sir  Cha.  But  you  are  not  the  forest,  and  why  do 
you  groan  for  it! 

Warner.  1 heartily  wish.  Sir  Charles,  you  may  not 
encumber  the  goodly  estate.  Your  worthy  ancestors 
had  views  for  their  posterity. 

Sir  Cha.  And  I shall  have  views  for  my  posterity — 
I shall  take  special  care  the  trees  shan’t  intercept 
their  prospect. 

Enter  Servant. 

Serrant.  Mr  Ollapod,  the  apothecary,  is  in  the  hall. 
Sir  Charles,  to  inquire  after  your  health. 

Sir  Cha.  Show  him  in.  [Exit  serraat.']  The  fellow’s 
a character,  and  treats  time  as  he  does  his  iiatients 
He  shall  kill  a quarter  of  an  hour  for  me  this  morning. 
In  short,  Mr  Warner,  1 must  have  three  thousand 
pounds  in  three  days.  Fell  timber  to  that  amount 
immediately.  ’Tis  my  peremptory  order,  sir. 

11  unicf.  1 shall  obey  you.  Sir  Charles  ; but  ’tis 
with  a heavy  heart ' Forgive  an  old  servant  of  the 
fainilv  if  he  grieves  to  see  you  forget  some  of  the 
duties  for  which  society  has  a claim  upon  you. 

Sir  Cha.  What  do  you  mean  hy  duties! 

11  07-JICT.  Duties,  Sir  Charles,  which  the  extravagant 
man  of  property  can  never  '.  alfil  -such  as  to  sujiport 
the  dignity  of  an  Fnglish  landholder  for  the  honour 
of  old  Fngland  ; to  promote  the  w elfare  of  his  honest 
tenants;  and  to  succour  the  industrious  poor,  who 
naturally  look  up  to  him  for  assistance.  But  1 shall 
obey  you.  Sir  Charle.s.  [Exit. 

Sir  Cha.  ,K  tiresome  old  blockhead!  But  wdiere  is 
this  Ollapod!  His  jumble  of  ffhysic  and  shooting 
may  enliven  me  ; and,  to  a man  of  gallantry  in  the 
country,  his  intelligence  is  by  no  means  uninteresting, 
nor  his  services  inconvenient.  Ha,  Ollapod! 

Enter  Ollapod. 

Ollapod.  Sir  Charles,  1 have  the  honour  to  be  your 
slave.  Hope  your  health  is  good.  Been  a hard 
winter  here.  Sore  throats  were  plenty  ; so  were  wood- 
cocks. Flushed  four  couple  one  morning  in  a half- 
mile  walk  from  our  town  to  cure  Mrs  Quarles  of  a 
quinsey.  May  coming  on  soon.  Sir  Charles — season 

of  delight,  love  ami  campaigning  ! Hope  you  come 
to  sojourn.  Sir  Charles.  Shouldn’t  be  always  on  the 
wing — that’s  being  too  flighty.  He,  he,  he!  Do  you 
take,  good  sir — do  you  take  f 

Sir  Cha.  Oh  yes,  1 take.  But,  by  the  cockade  in 
your  hat,  Ollapod,  you  have  added  lately,  it  seems,  tc 
your  avocations. 

Otla.  He!  he!  yes.  Sir  Charle.s.  I have  now  the 
honour  to  be  cornet  in  the  Volunteer  Association 
corps  of  our  town.  It  fell  out  unexpected — pop,  on  a 
sudden  ; like  the  going  off  of  a field-piece,  or  an  alder- 
man in  an  apoplexy. 

Sir  Cha.  Explain. 

Olla.  Ha]>pening  to  be  at  home — rainy  day — no 
going  out  to  sjiort,  blister,  shoot,  nor  bleed — was  bu.sy 
behind  the  counter.  You  know  my  shop.  Sir  Charles 
— Galen’s  head  over  the  door — new  gilt  him  last  week, 
hy  the  by — looks  as  fresh  as  a pill. 

Sir  Cha.  Well,  no  more  on  that  head  now.  Pro- 
ceed. 

Olla.  On  that  head  ! he,  he,  he!  That’s  very  well — 
very  well,  indeed!  Thank  you,  good  sir;  I owe  you 
one.  Churchwarden  Posh,  of  our  town,  being  ill  of 
an  indigestion  from  eating  three  pounds  of  measly 
pork  at  a vestry  dinner,  I was  making  up  a cathartic 
for  the  patient,  when  who  should  strut  into  the  shop 
but  Lieutenant  Grains,  the  brewer — sleek  as  a dray- 
hor.se — in  a smart  scarlet  jacket,  tastily  turned  up 
with  a rhubarb-coloured  lapelle.  1 confess  his  figure 
struck  me.  I looked  at  him  as  I was  thumping  the 
mortar,  and  felt  instantly  inoculated  with  a military 
ardour. 

Sir  Cha.  Inoculated  ! I hope  your  ardour  was  of  a 
favourable  sort  ? 

CUa.  Ha!  ha!  That’s  very  well — very  well,  indeed  ! 
Thank  you,  good  sir;  I owe  you  one.  We  first  talked 
of  shooting.  He  knew  my  celebrity  that  way,  Sir 
Charles.  1 told  him  the  day  before  I hail  killed  si.x 
brace  of  birds.  1 thumpt  on  at  the  mortar.  V\’e  then 
talked  of  physic.  I told  him  the  day  before  I had 
killed — lost,  I mean — six  brace  of  patients.  1 thumpt 
on  at  the  mortar,  eyeing  him  all  the  while;  for  he 
looked  very  flashy,  to  be  sure;  and  1 felt  an  itch- 
ing to  belong  to  the  corps.  The  medical  and  military 
both  deal  in  death,  you  know ; so  ’tw'as  natural.  He! 
he  ! Do  you  take,  good  sir — do  you  take  ! 

Sir  Cha.  Take  ! Oh,  nobody  can  miss. 

OHa.  He  then  talked  of  the  corps  itself ; .said  it  was 
sickly  ; and  if  a professional  person  would  administer 
to  the  health  of  the  Association — dose  the  men  and 
drench  the  horse — he  could  perhaps  procure  him  a 
cornetcy. 

Sir  Cha.  Well,  you  jumped  at  the  offer! 

Olla.  .lumped!  I junqied  over  the  counter,  kicked 
down  Churchwarden  Posh’s  cathartic  into  the  pocket 
of  Lieutenant  Grain.s’  small  scarlet  jacket,  tastily 
turned  up  with  a rhubarb-coloured  lapelle;  embraced 
him  and  his  offer;  and  I am  now  Cornet  Ollapod, 
apothecary  at  the  Galen’s  Head,  of  the  Association 
Corps  of  Cavalry,  at  your  service. 

Sir  Cha.  I wish  you  joy  of  your  appointment.  You 
may  now  distil  water  for  the  shop  from  the  laurels 
you  gather  in  the  field. 

OHa.  Water  for — oh!  laurel  water — he  ! he!  Come, 
that’s  very  well — very  well  indeed!  Thank  you, 
good  sir ; 1 owe  you  one.  M hy,  I fancy  fame  wdll 
follow  when  the  poison  of  a small  mistake  1 made 
has  ceased  to  operate. 

Sir  Cha.  A mistake! 

Olla.  Having  to  attend  Lady  Kitty  Carbuncle  on 
a grand  field-day,  I clapt  a pint  bottle  of  her  lady- 
ship’s diet-drink  into  one  of  my  holsters,  intending 
to  proceed  to  the  patient  after  the  exercise  was  over. 

I reached  the  martial  ground,  and  jalloped  — gal- 
lopped,  1 mea  . — wheeled,  and  flourished,  with  great 
cclal ; but  when  the  word  ‘ Fire’  was  given,  meaning 

S28 

OR»MATISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


GEOnCE  COLMAN. 


in  |mll  out  m_v  I'istol  in  a terrible  hurry,  I |>i-esented, 
iieek  foremost,  the  hanged  diet-drink  of  Lady  Kitty 
Carbuni  le ; and  the  medicine  being  unfortunately 
fermented  by  the  jolting  of  my  horse,  it  forced  out 
tlie  cork  witli  a prodigious  pop  full  in  the  face  of  my 
pvllant  commander. 

fOLLATOD  visits  Mifs  LucRBTtA  MacTab,  a ‘stiff  maiden 
aunt,’  sister  of  one  of  the  oldest  barons  in  Scotland.] 

Knter  Foss. 

Foss.  There  is  one  Mr  Ollapod  at  the  gate,  an’ 
please  your  ladyship’s  honour,  come  to  pay  a visit  to 
the  family. 

lAuntia.  Ollapod  ? What  is  the  gentleman  ? 

Fuss,  lie  says  he’s  a cornet  in  the  Galen’s  Head. 
Tis  the  first  time  1 ever  heard  of  the  corps. 

/,nc.  I la!  some  new  raised  regiment.  Show  the 
gentleman  in.  [E.clt  Foss.'^  The  country,  then,  has 
heard  of  iny  arrival  at  last.  A woman  of  condition, 
in  a family,  can  never  long  conceal  her  retreat. 
Ollapod  1 that  sounds  like  an  ancient  name.  If  1 
am  not  mistaken,  he  is  nobly  descended. 

Enter  Oi  la  POD. 

Olla.  Madam,  I have  the  honour  of  paying  my 
respects.  Sweet  spot,  here,  among  the  cows  ; good 
for  consumptions  — chavming  woods  hereabouts — 
pheasants  flourish — so  do  agues — sorry  not  to  see  the 
good  lieutenant — admire  his  room — hope  soon  to  have 
his  conijainy.  Uo  you  take,  good  madam — do  you 
take  ! 

Lkc.  1 beg,  .sir,  you  will  be  seated. 

Olla.  Oh,  (lear  madam  1 \_Sitting  t/oten.]  A charm- 
ing chair  to  bleed  in!  {^AsiJe. 

Lstc.  1 am  sorry  Mr  Worthington  is  not  at  home  to 
receive  you,  sir. 

Olla.  You  are  a rehation  of  the  lieutenant,  madam  ? 

Lac.  1!  only  by  his  marriage,  I assure  you,  sir. 
Aunt  to  his  deceased  wife:  but  I am  not  surpri.sed 
I at  your  question.  My  friends  in  town  would  won- 
der to  see  the  Honourable  Miss  Lucretia  MacTab, 

1 sistt  r to  the  late  Lord  I ofty,  cooped  up  in  a farm- 
house. 

Olla.  [.ifsaWe.]  The  honourable ! humph ! a bit  of 
j quality  tumbled  into  decay.  The  sister  of  a dead  peer 
1 in  a pig-stye ! 

Lvc.  You  are  of  the  military,  I am  informed,  sir? 

Olla.  lie!  he!  Ye.s,  madam.  Cornet  Ollapod, 
of  our  volunteers — a fine  healthy  troop — ready  to 
give  the  enemy  a dose  whenever  they  dare  to 
attack  us. 

I Lw.  I was  always  prodigiously  partial  to  the 
I military.  My  great  grandfather,  Marmaduke  Baron 
Loftv,  coramaudeil  a troop  of  horse  under  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough,  that  famous  general  of  his  age. 

1 Olla.  Marlborough  was  a hero  of  a man,  madam  ; 
j and  lived  at  Woodstock — a sweet  sporting  country  ; 
where  Ro.samond  perished  by  poison — arsenic  as  likely 
•IS  anything. 

I Luc.  And  have  you  served  much,  Mr  Ollapod  ? 

I Olla.  lie,  he!  Yes,  madam  ; served  all  the  nobility 

j and  gentry  for  five  miles  round. 

I Liu;.  Sir ! 

j OUa.  And  shall  be  happy  to  serve  the  good  lieu- 
j tenant  and  his  family.  \^Bowhig. 

Luc.  We  shall  be  proud  of  your  acquaintance,  sir. 
A gentleman  of  the  army  is  always  an  acquisition 
among  the  Goths  and  Vandals  of  the  country,  where 
gvery  sheepi.sh  squire  has  the  air  of  an  apothecary. 

Olla.  Madam!  An  apothe Zounds!  — hum! — 

He!  he!  I — You  must  know,  I — 1 deal  a little  in 
Galenicals  myself  [^Sheepishly]. 

Luc.  Galenicals!  Oh,  they  are  for  operations,  I sup- 
pose, among  the  military  ? 

OUa.  Operations ! he ! he  1 Come,  that’s  very  well — 
76 


very  well  indeed!  Thank  you,  good  madam  ; I owe  you 
one.  Galenicals,  madam,  are  medicines. 

Luc.  Medicines  ! 

Olla.  Yes,  physic:  buckthorn,  senna,  and  so  forth. 

Luc.  [Rising.]  Why,  then,  you  are  an  apothecarv  f 

Olla.  [Rising  loo,  and  boiciug.]  Alid  nian-midwile 
at  your  service,  madam. 

Luc.  At  my  service,  indeed! 

OUa.  Yes,  madam ! Cornet  Ollapod  at  the  gilt 
Galen’s  Head,  of  the  V'olunteer  Association  Corps  of 
Cavalry — as  ready  for  the  foe  as  a customer  ; always 
willing  to  charge  them  both.  Uo  you  take,  good 
madam — do  you  take  ? 

Luc.  And  has  the  Honourable  Miss  Lucretia  | 
MacTab  been  talking  all  this  while  to  a petty  dealer  j 
in  drugs? 

Olla.  Drugs!  Why,  she  turns  up  her  honourable 
nose  as  if  she  was  going  to  swallow  them!  [AsjVc.] 
No  m.an  more  respected  than  myself,  madam.  Courted 
by  the  corps,  idoli.^ed  by  invalids  ; and  for  a shot — ask 
my  friend  Sir  Charles  Cropland. 

Luc.  Is  Sir  Charles  Cropland  a friend  of  yours, 
sir? 

Olla.  Intimate.  He  doesn’t  make  wry  faces  at 
physic,  whatever  others  may  do,  madam.  This  vil- 
lage flanks  the  intrenchments  of  his  park — full  of 
fine  fat  venison  ; which  is  as  light  a food  for  digestion 
as 

Luc.  But  he  is  never  on  his  estate  here,  I am  told. 

Olla.  He  quarters  there  at  this  moment. 

Luc.  Ble.ss  me  ! has  Sir  Charles  then 

OUa.  Told  me  all — your  accidental  meeting  in 
the  metropolis,  and  his  visits  when  the  lieutenant 
was  out. 

Luc.  Oh,  shocking!  I declare  I shall  faint. 

Olla.  Faint ! never  mind  that,  with  a medical  man 
in  the  room.  I can  bring  you  about  in  a twinkling. 

Luc.  And  what  has  Sir  Charles  Cropland  presumed 
to  advance  about  me  ? 

OUa.  Oh,  tiothing  derogatory.  Respectful  as  a duck- 
legged  drummer  to  a cominander-in-chief. 

Luc.  I have  only  proceeded  in  this  affair  from  the 
purest  motives,  and  in  a mode  becoming  a MacTab. 

Olla.  None  dare  to  doubt  it. 

Iaic.  And  if  Sir  Charles  htis  dropt  in  to  a dish  of 
tea  with  my.self  and  flmily  in  London,  when  the 
lieutenant  was  out,  1 see  no  harm  in  it. 

Ol'a.  Nor  I neither:  e.\cept  that  tea  shakes  the 
nervous  system  to  shatters.  But  to  the  point:  the 
baronet’s  my  bosom  friend.  ILaving  heard  you  were 
here,  ‘Ollapod,’  says  he,  .squeezing  my  hand  in  hi* 
own,  which  had  strong  symptoms  of  fever — ‘ Ollapod,’ 
says  he,  ‘ you  are  a military  man,  and  may  be  trusted.’ 

‘ I’m  a cornet,’  says  I,  ‘and  close  as  a pill-box.’ 

‘ Fly,  then,  to  Miss  Lucretia  MacTab,  that  honourable 
picture  of  prudence ’ 

Luc.  He!  he!  Did  Sir  Charles  .say  that ? 

Olla.  [Asfrfe.]  How  these  tabbies  love  to  be  toaded! 

Luc.  In  short.  Sir  Charles,  I perceive,  has  appointed 
you  his  emissary,  to  consult  with  me  when  he  may 
have  an  interview'. 

Olla.  Madam,  you  are  the  sharpest  shot  at  the 
truth  I ever  met  in  my  life.  And  now  we  are  in 
consultation,  what  think  you  of  a walk  with  Miss 
Emily  by  the  old  elms  at  the  back  of  the  village 
this  evening  ? 

Luc.  Why,  I am  willing  to  take  any  steps  which 
may  promote  Emily’s  future  welfare. 

OUa.  Take  steps ! what,  in  a walk  ? He  ! he!  Come, 
that’s  very  well — very  well  indeed  ! Thank  you,  good 
madam  ; I owe  you  one.  I shall  communicate  to  my 
friend  with  due  despatch.  Command  Cornet  Ollapod 
on  all  occasions  ; and  whatever  the  gilt  Galen’s  Head 
can  produce 

Luc.  [Curtsying.]  Oh,  sir! 

Olla.  By  the  by,  I have  some  double-distilled 

52» 


FROM  I7H0  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  tili,  the  present  tihe> 


iaveiider  water,  much  admired  in  our  corps.  Permit 
me  to  send  a pint  bottle  by  way  of  present. 

Jaic,  Dear  aii,  I shall  rob  you. 

OUa.  Quite  the  contrary  ; for  I’ll  set  it  down  to  Sir 
Charles  as  a quart.  [Aside.  | Madam,  your  slave. 
You  have  prescribed  for  our  patient  like  an  able 
physician.  Not  a step. 

Liu:.  Nay,  I insist 

OUa.  Then  I must  follow  in  the  rear — the  physi- 
cian always  before  the  apothecary. 

Lik.  Apothecary ! Sir,  in  this  business  I look  upon 
you  as  a general  ofiicer. 

OUa.  Do  you  ? Thank  you,  good  ma’am ; I owe 
you  one.  l_Lxcunt. 

The  humorous  poetry  of  Colman  has  been  as 
popular  as  his  plays.  Of  his  ‘ Broad  Grins,’  the 
eighth  edition  (London,  1839)  is  now  before  us. 
Some  of  the  pieces  are  tinged  with  indelicacy,  but 
others  display  his  lively  sparkling  powers  of  wit  and 
observation  in  a very  agreeable  light.  We  subjoin 
tw'o  of  these  pleasant  levities. 

The  Newcastle  Apothecary. 

A man  in  many  a country  town,  we  know. 

Professes  openly  with  death  to  wrestle ; 

Entering  the  field  .against  the  grimly  foe, 

Armed  with  a mortar  and  a pestle. 

Yet  some  affirm,  no  enemies  they  are  ; 

But  meet  just  like  prize-fighters  in  a fair, 

Who  first  shake  Inands  before  they  box. 

Then  give  each  other  plaguy  knocks, 

With  all  the  love  and  kindness  of  a brother: 

So  (many  a .suffering  patient  saith) 

Though  the  apothecary  fights  with  Death, 

Still  they’re  sworn  friends  to  one  another. 

A member  of  this  yEsculapian  line. 

Lived  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne; 

No  man  could  better  gild  a pill. 

Or  make  a bill  ; 

Or  mix  a draught,  or  bleed,  or  blister ; 

Or  draw  a tooth  out  of  your  head ; 

Or  chatter  scandal  by  your  bed  ; 

Or  give  a clyster. 

Of  occupations  these  were  quantum  svff.: 

Yet  still  he  thought  the  list  not  long  enough ; 

And  therefore  midwifery  he  chose  to  pin  to’t. 

This  balanced  things  ; for  if  he  hurled 
A few  score  mortals  from  the  world. 

He  made  amends  by  bringing  others  into’t. 

His  fame  full  six  miles  round  the  country  ran; 

In  short,  in  reputation  he  was  solus: 

All  the  old  women  called  him  ‘ a fine  man  !’ 

His  name  was  Bolus. 

Benjamin  Bolus,  though  in  trade 

(Which  oftentimes  will  genius  fetter), 

Read  works  of  fancy,  it  is  said. 

And  cultivated  the  belles  lettres. 

And  why  should  this  be  thought  so  odd  ? 

Can’t  men  have  taste  who  cure  a phthisic  ? 

Of  poetry,  though  patron  god, 

Apollo  patronises  physic. 

Bolus  loved  ver.se,  and  took  so  much  delight  in’t, 
That  his  prescriptions  he  resolved  to  write  in’t. 

No  opportunity  he  e’er  let  pass 

Of  writing  the  directions  on  his  labels 
In  dapper  couplets,  like  Gay’s  Fables, 

Or  rather  like  the  lines  in  Hudibras. 

Apothecary’s  verse  ! and  where’s  the  treason  ? 

’Tis  simply  honest  dealing ; not  a crime  ; 

When  patients  swallow  physic  without  reason, 

It  is  but  fair  to  give  a little  rhyme. 


He  had  a p.atient  lying  at  death’s  door. 

Some  three  miles  from  the  town,  it  might  be  four; 

To  whom,  one  evening.  Bolus  .sent  an  article 
In  pharmacy  that’s  called  cathartical. 

And  on  the  label  of  the  stuff 

He  wrote  this  verse. 

Which  one  would  think  was  clear  enough. 

And  terse: — 

‘ When  taken, 

To  be  well  shaken,’ 

Next  moniing  early.  Bolus  rose. 

And  to  the  patient’s  house  he  goes 
Upon  his  p.ad. 

Who  a vile  trick  of  stumbling  had : 

It  was,  indeed,  a very  .sorry  hack; 

But  that’s  of  course  ; 

For  what’s  expected  from  a horse. 

With  an  apothecary  on  his  back  ? 

Bolus  arrived,  and  gave  a doubtful  tap, 

Between  a single  and  a double  rap. 

Knocks  of  this  kind 

Are  given  by  gentlemen  who  teach  to  dance  J 
By  fiddlers,  and  by  opera-singers  ; 

One  loud,  and  then  a little  one  behind. 

As  if  the  knocker  fell  by  chance 
Out  of  their  fingers. 

The  servant  lets  him  in  with  dismal  face. 

Long  as  a courtier’s  out  of  place — 

Portending  some  disaster; 

John’s  countenance  as  rueful  looked  and  grim, 

As  if  the  apothecary  had  physiced  him. 

And  not  his  m.aster. 

‘ Well,  how’s  the  patient!’  Bolus  said  ; 

John  shook  his  head. 

‘ Indeed  ! — hum  ! ha! — that’s  very  odd  ! 

He  took  the  draught  ?’  John  gave  a nod. 

‘ Well,  how?  what  then!  .speak  out,  you  dunce f 
‘ Why,  then,’  .says  John,  ‘ we  shook  him  once.’ 

‘ Shook  him  ! — how  ?’  Bolus  stammered  out. 

‘ We  jolted  him  about.’ 

‘Zounds!  sh.ake  a patient,  man! — a shake  won’t  do.’ 

‘ No,  sir,  and  .so  we  gave  him  two.’ 

‘ Two  shakes!  od’s  cur.se  ! 

’Twould  make  the  patient  worse.’ 

‘ It  did  .so,  sir,  and  so  a third  we  tried.’ 

‘ Well,  and  what  then  1’  ‘ Then,  sir,  my  master  died.’ 

Lodgings  for  Single  Qcntlemen. 

Who  has  e’er  been  in  London,  that  overgrown  place. 
Has  seen  ‘ Lodgings  to  Let’  stare  him  full  in  the  face  ; 
Some  are  good,  and  let  dearly ; while  some,  ’tis  well 
known. 

Are  so  dear,  and  so  bad,  they  are  best  let  alone. 

Will  Waddle,  whose  temper  was  studious  and  lonely. 
Hired  lodgings  that  took  single  gentlemen  only; 

But  Will  was  so  fat,  he  appeared  like  a ton. 

Or  like  two  single  gentlemen  rolled  into  one. 

He  entered  his  rooms,  and  to  bed  he  retreated, 

But  all  the  night  long  he  felt  fevered  and  heated; 
And  though  heavy  to  weigh,  as  a score  of  fat  sheep, 
He  was  not  by  any  means  heavy  to  sleep. 

Next  night  ’twas  the  same ; and  the  next,  and  the 
next ; 

He  perspired  like  an  ox  ; he  was  nervous  and  vexed ; 
Week  passed  after  week,  till,  by  weekly  succe.ssion. 
His  weakly  condition  was  past  all  expression. 

In  six  months  his  acquaintance  began  much  to  doubt 
him  ; 

For  his  skin,  ‘like  a lady’s  loose  gown,’ hung  about  him. 
He  sent  for  a doctor,  and  cried  like  a ninny ; 

I have  lost  many  pounds — make  me  well — there’s  a 
guinea.’ 

S30 


dramatists. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THOMAS  HOLCROri. 


The  doctor  looked  wise  ; ‘ A slow  fever,’  he  said  : 
Prescribed  sudorifics  and  going  to  bed. 

'Sudorilics  in  bed,’  exclaimed  Will,  ‘ are  humbugs  ! 
I’ve  enough  of  them  there  without  paying  for  drugs  1’ 

Will  kicked  out  the  doctor ; but  when  ill  indeed, 

E’en  dismissing  the  doctor  don’t  always  succeed  ; 

So,  eallini;  his  host,  he  said,  ‘ Sir,  do  you  know, 

I’m  the  fat  single  gentleman  six  months  ago? 

Look’e,  landlord,  I think,’  argued  Will  with  a grin, 
‘That  with  honest  intentions  you  first  took  me  in: 

Hut  from  the  fii'st  night — and  to  say  it  I’m  bold — 

I’ve  been  so  hanged  hot,  that  I’m  sure  I caught  cold.’ 

Quoth  the  landlord,  ‘ Till  now,  I ne’er  had  a dispute ; 
I’ve  let  lodgings  ten  years  ; I’m  a baker  to  boot ; 

In  airing  yonr  sheets,  sir,  my  wife  is  no  sloven  ; 

And  your  bed  is  immediately  over  my  oven.’ 

‘ The  oven ! ’ says  Will.  Says  the  host,  ‘ Why  this 
passion  ? 

In  that  excellent  bed  died  three  people  of  fashion. 
Why  so  crusty,  good  sir?’  ‘Zounds  !’  cries  Will,  in 
a taking, 

‘ Who  wouldn’t  be  crusty  with  half  a year’s  baking  ?’ 

Will  paid  for  his  rooms ; cried  the  host,  with  a sneer, 

‘ Well,  I see  you’ve  been  going  away  half  a year.’ 

‘ Friend,  we  can’t  well  agree  ; yet  no  quarrel,’  Will 
said  ; 

‘But  I’d  rather  not peinsh  while  you  make  your  bread.' 
MRS  ELIZABETH  INCHBALD. 

Mrs  Elizabeth  Inchbald,  an  actress,  dramatist, 
and  novelist,  produced  a number  of  popular  plays. 
Her  two  tales.  The  Simple  Story,  and  Nature  and  Art, 
are  the  principal  sources  of  her  fiime ; but  her  light 
dramatic  pieces  are  marked  by  various  talent.  Her 
first  production  was  a farce  entitled  The  Mogid  Tale, 
brought  out  in  1784,  and  from  this  time,  down  to 
1805,  she  wrote  nine  other  plays  and  farces.  By 
some  of  these  pieces  (as  appears  from  her  memoirs) 
she  received  considerable  sums  of  money.  Her  first 
production  realised  £100 ; her  comedy  of  Such  Things 
Are  (her  greatest  dramatic  performance)  brought  her 
in  £410,  12s.;  The  Married  Man,  £100;  The  Wed- 
ding Day,  £200;  I'he  Midnight  Hour,  £130;  Every 
One  Has  His  Fault,  £700;  Wives  as  they  Were,  and 
Maids  as  they  Are,  £427,  10s.;  Lovers’  Vows,  £150; 
&c.  The  personal  history  of  this  lady  is  as  singular 
as  any  of  her  dramatic  plots.  She  w'as  born  of 
Roman  Catholic  parents  residing  at  Standyfield, 
near  Bury  St  Edmunds,  in  the  year  1753.  At  the 
age  of  sixteen,  full  of  giddy  romance,  she  ran  oflf  to 
London,  having  with  her  a small  sum  of  money,  and 
some  wearing  apparel  in  a bandbox.  After  various 
adventures,  she  obtained  an  engagement  for  a 
country  theatre,  but  suffering  some  personal  indig- 
nities in  her  unprotected  state,  she  applied  to  Mr 
Inchbald,  an  actor  whom  she  had  previously  known. 
The  gentleman  counselled  marriage.  ‘ But  who 
would  marry  me?’  cried  the  lady'.  ‘I  would,’  re- 
plied her  friend,  ‘ if  you  would  have  me.’  ‘ Yes,  sir, 
and  would  for  ever  be  grateful’ — and  married  they 
were  in  a few  days.  The  union  thus  singularly 
brought  about  seems  to  have  been  happy  enough ; 
but  Mr  Inchbald  died  a few  years  afterwards.  Mrs 
Inchbald  performed  the  first  parts  in  the  Edinburgh 
theatre  for  four  years,  and  continued  on  the  stage, 
acting  in  London,  Dublin,  &c.  till  1789,  when  she 
quitted  it  for  ever.  Her  exemplary  prudence,  and 
the  profits  of  her  works,  enabled  her  not  only  to  live, 
but  to  save  money.  The  applause  and  distinction 
I with  which  she  was  greeted  never  led  her  to  deviate 
from  her  simple  and  somewhat  parsimonious  habits. 
‘ Last  Thursday,’  she  writes,  ‘ I finished  scouring  my 
bed-room,  while  a coach  with  a coronet  and  two 


footmen  waited  at  my  door  to  take  me  an  airing.’ 
She  allowed  a sister  who  was  in  ill  healtli  £100  ,a- 
year.  ‘ Many  a time  tliis  winter,’  she  records  in  her 
diary,  ‘ when  I cried  for  cold,  I said  to  myself,  “ but, 
thank  God!  my  sister  has  not  to  stir  from  her  room; 
she  has  her  fire  lighted  every  morning  ; all  her  pro- 
visions bought  and  brought  ready  cooked  ; she  is 
now  the  less  able  to  bear  what  I bear ; and  how 
much  more  should  I suffer  but  for  this  reflection.”  ’ 
This  was  noble  and  generous  self-denial.  The  in- 
come of  Mrs  Inchbald  was  now  £172  per  annum, 
and,  after  the  death  of  her  sister,  she  went  to  reside 
in  a boarding  house,  where  she  enjoyed  more  of  the 
comforts  of  life.  Traces  of  female  weakness  break 
out  in  her  private  memoranda  amidst  the  sterner 
reeords  of  her  struggle  for  independence.  The  fol- 
lowing entry  is  amusing:  ‘ 1798.  London.  Re- 
hearsing “ Lovers’  Vows ; ” happy',  but  for  a sus- 
picion, amounting  to  a certainty,  of  a rapid  appear- 
ance of  age  in  my  face.’  Her  last  literary  labour 
was  writing  biographical  and  critical  prefaces  to  a 
collection  of  plays,  in  twenty-five  volumes  ; a col- 
lection of  farces,  in  seven  volumes;  and  the  Modern 
Theatre,  in  ten  volumes.  Phillips,  the  publisher, 
offered  her  a thousand  pounds  for  her  memoirs,  hut 
she  declined  the  tempting  ofler.  This  autobiography 
was,  by  her  own  orders,  destroyed  after  her  decease; 
but  in  1833,  her  Memoirs  were  published  by  Mr 
Boaden,  compiled  from  an  autograph  journal  which 
she  kept  for  above  fifty  y'ears,  and  from  her  letters 
written  to  her  friends.  Mrs  Inchbald  died  in  a 
boarding-house  at  Kensington  on  the  1st  of  August 
1821.  By  her  will,  dated  four  months  before  her 
decease,  she  left  about  £6000.  judiciously  divided 
amongst  her  relatives.  One  of  her  legacies  marks 
the  eccentricity  of  thought  and  conduct  which  was 
mingled  .with  the  talents  and  virtues  of  this  original- 
minded  woman:  she  left  £20  each  to  her  late  laun- 
dress and  hair-dresser,  provided  they  should  inquire 
of  her  executors  concerning  her  deceasa 

THOMAS  HOLCROFT. 

Thomas  Holcroft,  author  of  the  admired  comedy 
The  Road  to  Ruin,  and  the  first  to  introduce  thi 
melo-drama  into  England,  was  born  in  London  on 
the  10th  of  December  1745.  ‘Till  I was  six  years 
old,’  says  Holcroft,  ‘ my  father  kept  a shoemaker’s 
shop  in  -Orange  Court;  and  I have  a faint  recol- 
lection that  my  mother  dealt  in  gree.  s and  oysters.’ 
Humble  as  this  condition  was,  it  seems  to  have  been 
succeeded  by  greater  poverty,  and  the  future  dramatist 
and  comedian  was  employed  in  the  country  by  his 
parents  to  hav-k  goods  as  a pedlar.  He  was  after- 
wards engaged  as  a stable-boy  at  New-market,  and 
was  proud  of  his  new  livery-.  A charitable  person, 
who  kept  a school  at  New-market,  taught  him  to 
read.  He  was  afterwards  a rider  on  the  turf ; and 
when  sixteen  years  of  age,  he  worked  for  some  time 
w-ith  his  father  as  a shoemaker.  A passion  for 
books  w-as  at  this  time  predominant,  and  the  con- 
finement of  the  shoemaker’s  stall  not  agreeing  with 
him,  he  attempted  to  raise  a school  in  the  country-. 
He  afterw-ards  became  a provincial  actor,  and  spent 
seven  years  in  strolling  about  England,  in  every 
variety  of  wretchedness,  with  ditferent  companies. 
In  1780  Holcroft  appeared  as  an  author,  his  first 
work  being  a novel,  entitled  Alwyn,  or  the  Gentleman 
Comedian.  In  the  follow-ing  year  his  comedy  of 
Duplicity  was  acted  w-ith  great  success  at  Covent 
Garden.  Another  comedy-.  The  Deserted  Daughter, 
experienced  a very  favourable  reception ; but  The 
Road  to  Ruin  is  universally  acknowledged  to  be  the 
best  of  his  dramatic  works.  ‘This  comedy,’  says 
Mrs  Inchbald,  ‘ ranks  among  the  most  successful  of 

£31 


I 

FROM  17!i0  CYCLOPiHDIA  OF  till  the  presrnt  tim», 


niodt'm  plays.  There  is  merit  in  tlie  writiiifr,  but 
much  more  in  tliat  dramatie  science  whicli  dispo.ses 
character,  scenes,  and  dialojine  with  minute  attention 
to  theatric  exhibition.’  llolcroft  wrote  a great 
number  of  dramatic  pieces — more  than  thirty  be- 
tween tlie  years  1778  and  180G;  three  other  novels 
(^Anna  St  Ives,  llityh  Trevor,  and  Ihxjan  Perdue' 
besides  a Totir  in  Germany  and  France,  and  nume- 
rous translations  from  the  (Jerman,  and  French,  and  , 
Italian.  During  the  period  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution he  was  a zealous  reformer,  and  on  hearing 
that  his  name  was  incluiled  in  the  same  bill  of  in- 
dictment with  'I’ooke  and  Hardy,  he  surrendered 
himself  iti  open  court,  but  no  iiroof  of  guilt  w.as  ever 
adduced  against  him.  His  busy  and  remarkable 
life  was  terminated  on  the  23d  of  March  1809. 


JOHN  TOI5IN. 

,Toh.n  Touin  was  a sad  example,  as  Mrs  Inchb.ald 
has  retnarked,  ‘of  the  fallacious  hopes  by  whicdi 
half  mankind  are  allured  to  vexatious  enterprise. 
He  passed  many  years  in  the  anxious  labour  of 
writing  plays,  which  were  rejected  by  the  managers; 
and  no  sooner  had  they  accepted  The  Iluney-Muon, 
than  he  died,  and  never  enjoyed  the  recompense  of 
seeing  it  performed.’  Tobin  was  born  at  Salisbury 
in  the  year  1770,  and  educated  for  the  law.  In  1785 
he  was  articled  to  an  eminent  solicitor  of  Lincoln’s 
Inn,  and  afterwards  entered  into  business  himself. 
Such,  however,  was  his  devotion  to  the  drama,  that 
before  the  age  of  twenty-four  he  had  written  several 
plays.  His  attachment  to  literary  composition  did 
not  withdraw  him  from  his  legal  engagements;  but 
his  time  was  incessantly  occupied,  and  symptoms  of 
consumption  began  to  appear.  A change  of  climate 
was  recommended,  and  Tobin  went  first  to  Ccrnwall, 
and  thence  to  Bristol,  where  he  embarked  for  the 
West  Indies.  'J'he  vessel  arriving  at  Cork,  w.as 
detained  there  for  some  days;  but  on  the  7th  of 
December  1804,  it  sailed  from  that  port,  on  which 
day — without  any  apparent  change  in  his  disorder 
to  indicate  the  apiiroacdi  of  death — the  invalid  ex- 
pired. Before  quitting  London,  Tobin  had  left  the 
‘ Honey-Moon  ’ with  his  brother,  the  manager  having 
given  a jiromise  that  it  should  be  performed.  Its 
success  wais  instant  and  decisive,  and  it  is  still  a 
favourite  acting  play.  Two  other  pieces  by  the  same 
author  {The  Cur/eux,  and  The  School  for  Authors')  were 
subsequently  brought  forward,  but  they  are  of  infe- 
rior merit.  The  “ Honey-Moon’  is  a romantic  drama, 
partly  in  blank  verse,  and  written  somewhat  in  the 
style  of  Beaumont  and  idetcher.  The  scene  is  laid 
in  Spain,  and  the  plot  taken  from  Catherine  and 
Petruchio,  though  tlie  reform  of  the  h.aughty  lady  is 
accomplished  less  roughly.  The  Duke  of  Aranza 
conducts  his  biide  to  a cottage  in  the  country,  pre- 
tending tliat  he  is  a peasant,  and  that  he  has  obtained 
her  hand  by  deception.  The  proud  Juliana,  after  a 
struggle,  submits,  and  the  duke  having  accomplished 
his  purpose  of  rebuking  ‘the  domineering  spirit  of 
her  sex,’  asserts  his  true  rank,  and  places  Juliana  in 
his  palace — 

This  truth  to  manifest — A gentle  wife 

Is  still  the  sterling  comfort  of  man’s  life  ; 

To  fools  a torment,  but  a lasting  boon 

To  those  who — wisely  keep  their  honey-moon. 

The  following  passage,  where  the  duke  gives  his 
directions  to  Juliana  respecting  her  attire,  is  pointed 
out  by  Mrs  Inchbald  as  peculiarly  worthy  of  admi- 
ration, from  the  truths  which  it  contains.  The  fair 
critic,  like  the  hero  of  the  play,  was  not  ambitious  of 
i'eBS: — 


ni  have  no  glittering  gewgaws  stuck  about  you, 

To  stretch  the  gaping  eyes  of  idiot  wonder. 

And  make  meii  stare  upon  a jiiece  of  earth 
As  on  the  star-wrought  tinnament — no  featheu 
To  wave  as  streamers  to  your  vanity — 

Nor  cumbrous  silk,  that,  with  its  rustling  sound. 
Makes  proud  the  flesh  that  bears  it.  She’s  adorned 
\mply,  that  in  her  hu.sband’s  eye  looks  lovelv  - 
idle  truest  mirror  that  an  honest  wife 
Can  see  her  beauty  in! 

Jul.  I shall  observe,  sir. 

Duke.  I should  like  well  to  see  you  in  the  dress 
I last  presented  you. 

Jul,  The  blue  one,  sir? 

Duke.  No,  love — the  white.  Thus  modestly  .attir-*d, 
A half-blown  rose  stuck  in  thy  braided  hair. 

With  no  more  diamonds  than  these  eyes  are  made  t ", 
No  deeper  rubies  than  conqiose  thy  lips. 

Nor  jiearls  more  precious  than  inhabit  them  ; 

With  the  pure  red  and  white,  which  that  .same  hand 
Which  blends  the  rainbow  mingles  in  thy  checks; 
This  well-proportioned  form  (think  not  1 flatter) 

In  graceful  motion  to  harmonious  sounds, 

.^nd  thy  free  tresses  dancing  in  the  wind  ; 

Thou’lt  fix  as  much  observance,  as  chaste  dames 
Can  meet,  without  a blush. 

JOH.V  o’kEEFE — FREDERICK  REYNOLDS — THOMAS 
MORTON. 

John  O'Keefe,  a prolific  farce  writer,  was  born 
in  Dublin  in  I74G.  While  studying  the  art  of 
drawing  to  fit  him  for  an  artist,  he  imbdicd  a pas- 
sion fur  the  stage,  and  commenced  the  career  of  an 
actor  in  his  native  city.  He  yirodiiced  generally 
some  dramatic  yiiece  every  year  for  his  benefit,  and 
one  of  these,  entitled  Touy  Lumpkin,  was  played 
with  success  at  the  Haymarket  theatre,  London,  in 
1778.  He  continued  stipjilying  the  theatres  with 
new  pieces,  and  up  to  the  year  1809,  had  written,  in 
all,  about  fifty  plays  and  farces.  Most  of  these 
were  denominated  comic  oyieras  or  musical  farces, 
and  some  of  them  enjoyed  great  success.  The  Ayrce- 
ahle  Surprise,  Wild  Oats,  Modern  Aniixpies,  I'ontain- 
hleau.  The  Highland  Reel,  Love  in  a Camp,  The  Poos 
Soldier,  and  Sprigs  of  Laurd,  are  still  favourites, 
especially  the  first,  in  which  the  character  (d  Lingo, 
the  schoolmaster,  is  a laughable  jiiece  of  broad 
humour.  O'Keefe’s  writings,  it  is  said,  were  merely 
intended  to  make  people  laugh,  and  they  h.ive  fully 
answered  that  intent.  The  lively  dramati.st  was  in 
his  latter  years  afflicted  with  blindness,  and  in  1800 
he  obtained  a benefit  at  Covent  Garden  theatre,  on 
which  occasion  he  was  led  forward  by  Mr  Lewis 
the  actor,  and  delivered  a poetical  address.  He 
died  at  Southampton  on  the  4th  of  February  1833, 
having  reached  the  advanced  age  of  8G. 

F'rkderick  Reynolds  (1765-1841)  was  one  of 
the  most  voluminous  of  dramatists,  author  of  seven- 
teen popular  comedies,  and,  altogether,  of  about  .a 
hundred  dramatic  jiieces.  He  served  Covent  Gardec 
for  forty  years  in  the  capaedty  of  what  he  called 
‘ thinker’ — that  is,  performer  of  every  kind  of  lite- 
rary labour  required  in  the  establishment.  Among  his 
best  jiroductions  are.  The  Dramatist,  Laugh  when  you 
Can,  The  Delinquent,  The  Will,  Polly  as  it  Flies,  Li  fe, 
Management,  Notoriety.  How  to  Grow  Rich,  The  Rage, 
Speculation,  The  Blind  Bargain,  Fortune's  Feel,  &c. 
&c.  Of  these,  the  ‘Dramatist’  is  the  best.  The 
hero  Vapid,  the  dramatic  author,  who  goes  to  Bath 
‘ to  pick  up  characters,’  is  a laughable  caricature, 
in  which  it  is  said  the  author  drew  a likeness  of 
himself;  for,  like  Vajiid,  he  had  ‘the  ardor scribendi 
upon  him  so  strong,  that  he  would  rather  you’d  ask 
him  to  write  an  epilogue  or  a scene  than  offer  him 
your  whole  estate — the  theatre  was  his  world,  i« 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


NOVELISTS. 


which  wore  iiicliuiod  all  his  hopes  anil  wishes.’  Out 
of  the  theatre,  however,  as  in  it,  Reynolds  was  much 
esteemed. 

Another  veteran  comic  writer  for  the  stage  is 
Thomas  Mokton,  whose  Speed  the  Plough,  iray  to 
Get  Married,  Cure  for  the  Heartache,  and  The  School 
o/'  Jxcform,  ni.ay  he  considered  standard  comedies  on 
the  stage.  Ilesides  these,  Mr  Morton  produced 
Zorinski,  Secrets  H'ort/i  Knowing,  and  various  other 
plaj’s,  most  of  which  were  performed  with  great 
applause.  The  acting  of  Lewis,  Munden,  and  Emery, 
was  greatly  in  favour  of  Mr  Morton’s  productions 
on  their  first  appearance ; but  they  contain  the 
elements  of  theatrical  success.  The  characters  are 
strongly  contrasted,  and  the  scenes  and  situations 
well  arranged  for  effect,  with  occiisionally  a mixture 
of  pathos  iind  tragic  or  romantic  incident.  In  tlie 
closet,  these  works  fail  to  arrest  attention;  for  their 
merits  are  more  artistic  than  literary,  and  the  im- 
probability of  many  of  the  incidents  appears  glaring 
when  submitted  to  sober  inspection. 

Various  new  pieces  have  since  been  produced  in 
the  London  theatres  by  Messrs  Poole,  Theodore 
Hook,  Planche,  Jerrold,  Huckstone,  &c.  Tlie  novels 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  IMr  Dicketis  have  been 
dramatised  with  considerable  success ; but  most  of 
these  recent  productions  require  the  aids  of  good 
acting,  music,  and  scenery,  to  render  them  tolerable. 
There  is  no  want  of  novelties ; but  the  wit,  the 
Bprightly  dialogue,  and  genuine  life  of  the  true 
English,  comedy,  may  be  said  to  be  extinct. 


NOVELISTS. 

In  prose  fiction,  the  last  forty  years  have  been  rich 
and  prolific.  It  was  natural  that  tlie  genius  and  the 
6ucces.s  of  the  great  masters  of  the  modern  English 
novel  ’hould  have  led  to  imitation.  Mediocrity  is 
seldon  deterred  from  attempting  to  rival  excellence, 
especially  in  any  department  tliat  is  popular,  and 
may  be  profitable ; and  there  is,  besides,  in  romance, 
as  in  the  drama,  a wide  and  legitimate  field  for 
native  talent  and  exertion.  The  highly-wrought 
tenderness  and  pathos  of  Richardson,  and  the  models 
of  real  life,  wit,  and  humour  in  Fielding,  Smollett, 
and  Sterne,  produced  a few  excellent  imitations. 
The  fictions  of  Mackenzie,  Dr  Moore,  Miss  Burney, 
and  Cumberland,  are  all  greatly  superior  to  the  ordi- 
nary run  of  novels,  and  stand  at  the  head  of  the 
second  class.  These  writers,  however,  exercised  but 
little  influence  on  the  national  taste  : they  supported 
the  dignity  and  respectability  of  the  novel,  but  did 
not  extend  its  dominion  ; and  accordingly  we  find 
that  there  was  a long  dull  period  in  which  this  de- 
lightful species  of  composition  had  sunk  into  general 
contempt.  There  w.as  no  lack  of  novels,  but  they 
were  of  a very  inferior  and  even  debased  description. 
In  place  of  natural  incident,  character,  and  dialogue, 
we  had  affected  and  ridiculous  sentimentalism — plots 
utterly  absurd  or  pernicious — and  stories  of  love  and 
honour  so  maudlin  in  conception  and  drivelling  in 
execution,  that  it  is  surprising  they  could  ever  have 
been  tolerated  even  by  the  most  defective  moral 
sense  or  taste.  The  circulating  libraries  in  town  and 
country  swarmed  with  these  worthless  productions 
(known  from  their  place  of  publication  by  the  mis- 
nomer of  the  ‘Minerva  Rress’  novels);  but  their 
perusal  was  in  a great  measure  confined  to  young 
people  of  both  sexes  of  imperfect  education,  or  to 
half-idle  inquisitive  persons,  whose  avidity  for  ex- 
citement was  not  restrained  by  delicacy  or  judgment. 
In  many  cases,  even  in  the  humblest  walks  of  life, 
this  love  of  novel-reading  amounted  to  a passion  as 
strong  and  uncontrollable  as  that  of  dram-driiiking ; 


and,  fed  upon  such  garbage  as  we  have  described,  it 
was  scarcely  less  injurious  ; for  it  dwarfed  tlie  intel- 
lectual faculties,  and  unfitted  its  votaries  equally  for 
the  study  or  relish  of  sound  literature,  and  for  the 
proper  jicrformance  and  enjoyment  of  the  actual 
duties  of  the  world.  The  enthusiastic  novel  reader 
got  bewildered  and  entangled  among  love-plots  and 
high-flown  adventures,  >n  which  success  was  often 
awarded  to  profligacy,  and,  among  scenes  of  jire- 
tended  existence,  exhibited  in  the  masquerade  attire 
of  a distempered  fancy.  Instead,  therefore,  of 

Truth  severe  by  fairy  Fiction  dressed, 

we  had  Falsehood  decked  out  in  frippery  and  non- 
sense, and  courting  applause  from  its  very  extrava- 
gance. 

The  first  successful  inroad  on  this  accumulating 
mass  of  absurdity  w'as  made  by  Charlotte  Smith, 
w'hose  tvorks  may  be  said  to  hold  a middle  station 
between  the  true  and  the  sentimental  in  fictitious 
composition.  Sliortly  afterwards  succeeded  the 
political  tales  of  llolcroft  and  Godwin,  the  latter 
animated  by  the  fire  of  genius,  and  possessing  great 
intellectual  power  and  energy.  The  romantic  fables 
of  Mrs  Kadcliffe  were  also,  as  literary  productions, 
a vast  im])rovement  on  the  old  novels;  and  in  their 
moral  effects  they  were  less  mischievous,  for  the 
extraordinary  machinery  employed  by  tlie  autlioress 
was  so  far  removed  from  the  common  course  of  hu- 
man affairs  and  experience,  that  no  one  could  think 
of  drawing  it  into  a precedent  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances. At  no  distant  interval  Miss  Edgeworth 
came  forward  with  her  moral  lessons  and  satirical 
portraits,  daily  advancing  in  her  powers  as  in  her 
desire  to  increase  the  virtues,  prudence,  and  sub- 
stantial happiness  of  life ; Mrs  Opie  told  her  jiathetic 
and  graceful  domestic  tales  ; and  Miss  Austen  ex- 
hibited her  exquisite  delineations  of  every-day  Eng- 
lish society  and  character.  T crown  all,  Sir  Walter 
Scott  commenced,  in  1814  bis  brilliant  gallery  of 
portraits  of  all  classes,  living  and  historical,  which 
completely  exterminated  the  monstrosities  of  the 
Minerva  press,  and  inconceivably  extended  the  circle 
of  novel  readers,  i'ictitious  composition  was  now 
again  in  the  ascendant,  and  never,  in  its  palmiest 
days  of  chivalrous  romance  or  modern  fashion,  did  it 
command  more  devoted  admiratiiii,  or  shine  w'ith 
greater  lustre.  The  public  taste  tin  lerwetit  a rapid 
and  important  change;  and  as  curiesity  was  stimu- 
lated and  supplied  in  such  unexam])led  profusion 
from  this  master-source,  the  most  exorbitant  de- 
vourers  of  novels  soon  learned  to  look  with  tiversion 
and  disgust  on  the  painted  and  unreal  mockeries 
which  had  formerly  deluded  them.  It  appears  to  be 
a law  of  our  nature,  that  recreation  and  amusement 
are  as  necessary  to  the  mind  as  exercise  is  to  the 
body,  and  in  this  light  Sir  Walter  Scott  must  be 
viewed  as  one  of  the  greatest  benefactors  of  his 
species.  He  has  supplied  a copious  and  almost  ex- 
haustless source  of  amusement,  as  innocent  as  it  is 
delightful.  He  revived  the  glories  of  past  ages ; 
illustrated  the  landscape  and  the  history  of  his 
native  country  ; painted  the  triumphs  of  patriotism 
and  virtue,  and  the  meanness  and  misery  of  vice; 
awakened  our  best  and  kindliest  feelings  in  favour 
of  suffering  and  erring  humanity — of  the  low-born 
and  the  persecuted,  the  peasant,  the  beggar,  and  the 
Jew ; he  has  furnished  an  intellectual  banquet,  as 
rich  as  it  is  various  and  picturesque,  from  his  curi- 
ous learning,  extensive  observation,  forgotten  man- 
ners, and  decaying  superstitions — the  whole  embel- 
lished with  the  lights  of  a vivid  imagination,  and  a 
correct  and  gracefully  regulated  taste.  In  tlie  num- 
ber and  variety  of  his  conceptions  and  characters, 
Scott  is  entitled  to  take  his  seat  beside  the  greatest 

.“iaa 


FROM  17S0  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  presf.nt  time. 


masters  of  fiction,  Itritisli  or  foreign.  Some  liave 
excelled  him  in  iiarticular  qualities  of  the  novelist, 
hut  none  in  their  harmonious  and  rich  combina- 
tion. 

We  had  now  a new  race  of  imitators,  aiming  at  a 
high  standard  of  excellence,  both  as  respects  the 
design  and  the  execution  of  their  works.  The 
peculiarities  of  Scottish  manners  in  humble  life, 
which  Scott  had  illustrated  in  his  early  novels,  were 
successfully  devidoped  by  Galt,  and  in  a more  tender 
and  imaginative  light  by  Wilson.  Galt,  indeed,  has 
high  merit  as  a minute  painter:  his  delineations, 
like  those  of  Allan  Ramsay,  bring  home  to  his  coun- 
trymen ‘ traits  of  undefinable  exiiression,  which  had 
escapeil  every  eye  but  that  of  familiar  afiection.’  Ills 
pathos  is  the  simple  grief  of  nature.  In  this  jiaint- 
ing  of  national  manners,  Scott’s  example  was  all- 
potent.  From  Scotland  it  spread  to  Ireland.  Miss 
Edgeworth,  indeed,  had  jneviously  portrayed  the 
lights  and  shades  of  the  Irish  character,  and  in  this 
respect  was  the  preceptress  of  Scott.  Hut  with  all 
her  talent  and  penetration,  this  excellent  authoress 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  reached  the  heart  of  her 
suliject.  and  she  stirred  up  no  enthusiasm  among  her 
countrymen.  Miss  Edgeworth  pursued  her  high 
vocation  as  a moral  teacher.  Miss  Owenson,  who 
had.  as  early  as  1807,  published  her  Wild  Irish  Girl, 
continued  (as  Lady  Morgan)  her  striking  and  humo- 
rous pictures  of  Irish  societi’,  and  they  were  after- 
wards greatly  surpas.'cd  by  Banirn,  Griffin,  Lover, 
Carleton,  and  others.  The  whole  soil  of  Ireland,  and 
its  races  of  people,  have  been  laid  open,  like  a new 
world,  to  the  general  reader.  English  history  was 
in  like  manner  ransacked  for  materials  for  fiction. 
Scott  had  shown  how  much  could  be  done  in  this 
department  by  gathering  up  the  scattered  fragments 
of  antiquarian  research,  or  entering  with  the  spirit 
and  skill  of  genius  into  the  manners  and  events  of  a 
bygone  age.  He  had  vivified  and  embodied — not 
described — the  past.  Many  authors  have  followed 
in  his  train — Mr  Horace  Smith,  Mr  James,  Sir 
Edward  Lytton  Bulwer,  Ainsworth,  and  other  men 
of  talent  and  genius.  Classic  and  foreign  manners 
were  also  depicted.  The  Valerius  of  Lockhart  is  an 
exquisite  Roman  story;  IMorier  and  Fraser  have 
familiarised  us  with  the  domestic  life  of  Persia ; Mr 
Hope,  in  his  Anastasias,  has  drawn  the  scenery  and 
manners  of  Italy,  Greece,  and  Turkey,  with  the 
fidelity  and  minuteness  of  a native  artist,  ,and  the 
imiiassioned  beauty  of  a poet ; while  the  character 
and  magnificent  natural  features  of  America — its 
trazkless  forests,  lakes,  wild  Indian  tribes,  and  an- 
tique settlers — have  been  depicted  by  its  gifted  sons, 
Irving  ami  Cooper.  All  these  may  be  said  to  have 
been  prompted  by  the  national  and  historical  ro- 
mances of  Scott,  The  current  of  imagination  and 
description  had  been  turned  from  verse  to  prose. 
The  stage  also  caught  the  enthusiasm  ; and  the  tales 
which  had  charmed  in  the  closet  were  reproduced, 
with  scenic  effect,  in  our  theatres. 

Tlie  fashionable  novels  of  Theodore  Hook  formed 
a new  feature  in  modern  fiction.  His  first  series  of 
Sayings  and  Doings  appeared  in  1824,  and  attracted 
considerable  attention.  The  principal  object  of  these 
clever  tales  was  to  describe  manners  in  high-life,  and 
the  ridiculous  .and  awkward  assumption  of  them  by 
citizens  and  persons  in  the  middle  ranks.  As  the 
author  advanced  in  his  career,  he  extended  his  can- 
vas.s,  and  sketched  a greater  variety  of  scenes  and 
figures.  Their  general  character,  however,  remained 
the  same  ; too  much  importance  was,  in  all  of  them, 
attached  to  the  mere  externals  of  social  intercourse, 
as  if  the  use  of  the  ‘ silver  fork,’  or  the  etiquette  of 
the  drawing-room,  were  ‘ the  be-all  and  the  end-.all’ 
nf  English  society.  The  life  of  the  accomplishec 


author  gives  a sad  and  moral  interest  to  his  tales. 

He  obtained  the  distinction  he  coveted,  in  the  notice 
and  favour  of  the  great  and  the  fashionable  world  ; 
for  this  he  sacrificed  the  fruits  of  his  industry  ami 
the  independence  of  genius;  he  lived  in  a round  of 
distraction  and  gaiety,  illuminated  by  his  wit  and 
talents,  and  he  died  a premature  death,  the  victim 
of  disajjpointment,  debt,  and  misery.  This  personal 
example  is  the  true  ‘ handwriting  on  the  wall,’  to 
warn  genius  and  integrity  in  tlie  middle  classes 
against  hunting  after  or  coj)ying  the  vices  of  fiishion- 
able  dissii)ation  and  splendour!  Mr  Ward,  l/>rd 
Normaidn',  Mrs  Trollope,  Lady  Blessington,  and 
others,  followed  up  these  tales  of  high-life  with  per- 
fect knowledge  of  the  subject,  wit,  refinement,  and 
sarcasm,  but  certainly  with  less  vigour  and  le.ss  real 
knowledge  of  mankind  than  Theodore  Hook.  Bulwer 
imparted  to  it  the  novelty  and  attraction  of  strong 
contrast,  hy  conducting  his  fashionable  characters 
into  the  imrlieus  of  vice  and  slang  society,  which 
also  in  its  turn  became  the  rage,  ami  provoked  imi- 
tation. ‘Dandies’  and  highwaymen  were  jiainted 
en  beau,  and  the  Newgate  Calendar  was  rifled  for 
heroes  to  figure  in  the  novel  ami  <ju  the  stage.  This 
unnatural  absurdity  soo.i  palled  upon  the  public 
taste,  and  Bulwer  did  justice  to  his  high  and  un- 
doubted talents  by  his  historical  and  more  legitimate 
romances.  Among  the  most  original  of  our  living 
novelists  should  be  included  Cajitain  Marryat,  the 
parent,  in  his  own  person  and  in  that  of  others,  of  a 
long  progeny  of  nautical  tales  and  sketches. 

The  last  and,  next  to  Scott,  the  greatest  of  modem 
writers  of  fiction,  is  Mr  Charles  Dickens,  who  also 
deals  with  low-hfe  and  national  peculiarities,  espe- 
cially such  as  spring  up  in  the  streets  and  resorts  of 
crowded  cities.  The  varied  surface  of  English  so- 
ciety, in  the  ordinary  and  middle  ranks,  has  aflbrded 
this  close  observer  and  humorist  a rich  harvest  of 
characters,  scenes,  and  adventures — of  follies,  oddi- 
ties, vices,  and  frailties,  of  which  he  has  made  a 
copious  and  happy  use.  In  comic  humour,  blended 
with  tenderness  and  pathos,  and  united  to  unrivalled 
powers  of  observation  and  description,  Dickens  has 
no  equal  among  his  contemporaries;  and  as  a painter 
of  actual  life,  he  seems  to  be  the  most  genuine  Eng- 
lish novelist  we  have  had  since  Fielding.  His  faults 
lie  upon  the  surface.  Like  Bulwer,  he  delights  in 
strong  colouring  and  contr.asts — the  melodrame  of 
fiction — and  is  too  prone  to  caricature.  The  artist, 
delighting  in  the  exhibition  of  his  skill,  is  apparent 
in  many  of  his  scenes,  where  probability  and  nature 
are  sacrificed  for  effect.  But  there  is  ‘a  spirit  of 
goodness’  at  the  heart  of  all  Dickens’s  stories,  anc 
a felicitous  humour  and  fancy,  which  are  unknown 
to  Bulwer  and  his  other  rivals.  His  vivid  pictures 
of  those  poor  in- door  sufferers  ‘in  populous  city 
pent’  have  directed  sympathy  to  the  obscure  dwellers 
in  lanes  and  alleys,  and  m.ay  prove  the  precursor  of 
practical  amelioration.  He  has  made  fiction  the 
handmaid  of  humanity  and  benevolence,  without  I 
losing  its  comp.anionsliip  with  wit  and  laughter.  | 
The  hearty  cordiality  of  his  mirth,  his  warm  and  i 
kindly  feelings,  alive  to  whatever  interests  or 
amuses  others,  and  the  undisguised  pleasure,  ‘ brim-  | 
ming  o’er,’  with  which  he  enters  upon  every  scene 
of  humble  city-life  and  family  affection,  make  us  iu 
love  with  human  nature  in  situ,ations  and  under  cir- 
cumstances rarely  penetrated  hy  the  light  of  imagi- 
nation. He  is  a sort  of  discoverer  in  the  moral  world, 
and  h.as  found  an  El  Dorado  in  the  outskirts  and 
byways  of  humanity  wiicre  previous  explorers  saw 
little  but  dirt  and  ashes,  .and  could  not  gather  a 
single  flower.  This  is  the  triumph  of  genius,  as  bene- 
ficial as  it  is  brilliant  and  irresistible. 

It  will  be  remarked  tha  s large  proportion  of  the 

584 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


FRANCES  nURNF.Y 


iiovelists  of  this  period  are  ladies.  ‘ There  are  some 
things,’  says  a periodical  critic,  ‘ which  women  do 
better  than  men,  and  of  these,  perhaps,  novel-writ- 
ing is  one.  Naturally  endowed  with  greater  delicacy 
of  taste  .and  feeling,  with  a moral  sense  not  blunted 
and  debased  by  those  contaminations  to  which  men 
are  exposed,  leading  lives  rather  of  observation  than 
of  action,  with  leisure  to  attend  to  the  minutiae  of 
conduct  and  more  subtle  developments  of  character, 
they  are  peculiarly  qualified  for  the  task  of  exhibit- 
ing faithfully  and  pleasingly  the  various  phases  of 
domestic  life,  and  those  varieties  which  chequer  the 
surface  of  society.  Accordingly,  their  delineations, 
though  perhaps  less  vigorous  than  those  afforded  by 
the  ether  sex.  are  distinguished,  for  the  most  part, 
by  greater  fidelity  and  consistency,  a more  refined 
and  happy  discrimination,  and,  we  must  also  add,  a 
more  correct  estimate  of  right  and  wrong.  In  works 
which  come  from  a female  pen,  we  are  seldom 
offended  by  those  moral  monstrosities,  those  fantas- 
tic perversio.ns  of  principle,  which  are  too  often  to 
be  met  with  in  the  fictions  which  have  been  written 
by  men.  Women  are  less  stilted  in  their  style ; 
they  are  more  content  to  describe  naturally  what 
they  have  observed,  without  attempting  the  intro- 
duction of  those  extraneous  ornaments  which  are 
sometimes  sought  at  the  expense  of  truth.  They  are 
less  ambitious,  and  are  therefore  more  just;  they 
are  far  more  exempt  from  that  prevailing  literary 
vice  of  the  present  day,  exaggeration,  and  have  not 
taken  their  stand  among  the  feverish  followers  of 
what  maybe  called  the  intense  style  of  writing;  a 
style  much  praised  by  those  who  inquire  only  if  a 
work  is  calculated  to  make  a strong  impression,  and 
omit  entirely  the  more  important  question,  whether 
that  impression  be  founded  on  truth  or  on  delusion. 
Hence  the  agonies  and  convulsions,  and  dreamy 
rhaps  .dies,  and  heated  exhibitions  of  stormy  pas- 
sions, in  which  several  of  our  writers  have  lately 
indulged.  Imagination  has  been  flattered  into  a self- 
sufficient  abandonment  of  its  alliance  with  judgment, 
to  which  disunion  it  is  ever  least  prone  where  it  has 
most  real  power;  and  “ fine  creations”  (well  so  called, 
as  being  unlike  anything  previously  existing  in  na- 
ture) have  been  lauded,  in  spite  of  their  internal 
falsity,  as  if  they  were  of  more  value  than  the  most 
accurate  delineations  of  that  world  which  we  see 
around  us.’* 

FRANCES  BURNEY  (mADAME  d’ARBEAT). 

Frances  Burney,  authoress  of  Evelina  and  Cecilia, 
was  the  wonder  and  delight  of  the  generation  of 
novel  readers  succeeding  that  of  Fielding  and 
Smollett,  and  she  has  maintained  her  popularity 
better  than  most  secondary  writers  of  fiction.  Her 
name  has  been  lately  revived  by  the  publication  of 
her  Diary  and  Letters,  containing  some  clever 
sketches  of  society  and  manners,  notices  of  the 
court  of  George  III.,  and  anecdotes  of  Johnson, 
Burke,  Reynolds,  &c.  Miss  Burney  was  the  second 
daughter  of  Dr  Burney,  author  of  the  History  of 
Music.  She  was  born  at  Lynn-Regis,  in  the  county 
of  Norfolk,  on  the  13th  of  June  1752.  Her  father 
was  organist  in  Lynn,  but  in  1760  he  removed  to 
lamdon  (where  he  had  previously  resided),  and 
numbered  among  his  famili.ar  friends  and  visitors 
David  Garrick,  Sir  Robert  Strange  the  engraver, 
the  poets  Mason  and  Armstrong,  Barry  the  painter, 
and  other  persons  distinguished  in  art  and  literature. 
Such  society  just  have  had  a highly  beneficial  effect 
Jn  his  family,  and  accordingly  we  find  they  all  made 
themselves  distinguished:  one  son  rose  to  be  aji 

♦ Edinturgf:  Review  for  1830. 


admiral ; the  second  son,  Charles  Burney,  became  a 
celebrated  Greek  scholar ; both  the  daughters  were 
novelists.*  Fanny  was  long  held  to  be  a sort  of 
prodigy.  At  eight  years  of  age  she  did  not  even 
know  her  letters,  but  she  w.as  shrewd  and  obser- 
vant. At  fifteen  she  had  written  several  tales,  w'as 
a great  reader,  and  even  a critic.  Her  authorship 
was  continued  in  secret,  her  sister  only  being  aware 


of  the  circumstance.  In  this  way,  it  is  said,  she 
had  composed  ‘Evelina’  when  she  was  only  seven- 
teen. The  novel,  however,  was  not  published  till 
January  1778,  when  ‘little  Fanny’  was  in  her 
twenty-sixth  year ; and  the  wonderful  precocity  of 
‘ Miss  in  her  teens’  may  be  dismissed  as  at  least 
doubtful.  The  work  was  offered  to  Dodsley  the 
publisher,  but  rejected,  as  the  worthy  bibliopole 
‘declined  looking  at  anything  anonymous.’  An- 
other bookseller,  named  Lowndes,  agreed  to  publish 
it,  and  gave  £20  for  the  manuscript.  Evelina,  or  a 
Young  Lady's  Entrance  into  the  World,  soon  became 
the  talk  of  the  town.  Dr  Burney,  in  the  fulness  of 
his  heart,  told  Mrs  Thrale  that  ‘ our  Fanny’  was  the 
author,  and  Dr  Johnson  protested  to  Mrs  Thrale 
that  there  were  p.assages  in  it  which  might  do 
honour  to  Richardson  ! Miss  Burney  was  invited 
to  Streatham,  the  country  residence  of  the  Thrales, 
and  there  she  met  Johnson  and  his  illustrious  band 
of  friends,  of  whom  we  have  ample  notices  in  the 
Diary.  Wherever  she  went,  to  London,  Bath,  or 
Tunbridge,  ‘Evelina’  was  the  theme  of  praise,  and 
Miss  Burney  the  happiest  of  authors.  In  1782  ap- 
peared her  second  work,  ‘ Cecilia,’  which  is  more 
liighly  finished  than  ‘Evelina,’  but  less  rich  in  comic 
characters  and  di;ilogue.  Miss  Burney  having  gone 
to  reside  for  a short  time  with  Mrs  Del.any,  a vener- 
able lady,  the  friend  of  Swift,  once  connected  with 

♦ R«ar-Admiral  Jamas  Burney  accompanied  Captain  Cook 
in  two  of  his  voyages,  and  was  author  of  a History  of  Voyages 
of  Discovery,  5 vols.  quarto,  and  an  Account  of  the  Russian 
Eastern  Voyages.  He  died  in  1820.  Dr  Charles  Burney  wrote 
several  critical  works  on  the  Greek  classics,  was  a prebendary 
of  Lincoln,  and  one  of  the  king’s  chaplains.  .After  his  death, 
in  1817,  the  valuable  lib  ary  of  this  great  scholar  was  piiF- 
-.based  by  government  for  the  British  Museum. 

53.5 


tlic-  court,  iiiid  will)  MOW  livi'd  on  a petision  from 
tlieir  iiiiijcstics  at  Windsor,  was  iiitroduccd  to  Die 
kiiiK  iiiid  qiu.'i;n,  and  spcodily  becaiiK!  a favourite. 
The  result  was,  tliat  in  1786  our  authoress  was  ap- 
pointed second  keeper  of  the  rohes  to  Queen 
Charlotte,  with  a salary  of  X‘i()0  a-year,  a footman, 
apartments  in  the  palace,  and  a eoaeh  hetween  her 
and  her  eolleajiue.  'I'he  situation  was  only  a sort 
of  splendid  slavery.  ‘ 1 was  averse  to  the  union.’ 
said  Miss  Hurney,  ‘and  I endeavoured  to  escape  it; 
but  my  friends  interfered — they  prevailed — and  the 
knot  Is  tied.’  The  (|iieen  appears  to  have  been  a 
kind  and  considerate  mistress;  hut  the  stift'eti(]uette 
and  formality  of  the  eonrt,  ami  the  unremitting;  atten- 
tion whieli  its  irksome  duties  reipiired,  rendered  the 
situation  peeuliarly  disapreeahle  to  one  who  had  Ireen 
so  long  flattered  and  courted  by  the  hi-illiant  society 
of  her  day.  Her  colleague,  Mrs  tSchwellenberg,  a 
coarse-minded,  jealous,  disagreeable  (jerman  favour- 
ite, was  also  a per)x.'tual  source  of  annoyance  to 
lier ; and  )K)or  I'am.y  at  court  was  worse  off  fhan 
her  heroine  Cecilia  was  in  choosing  among  her 
guardians.  Her  first  official  duty  was  to  mix 
the  queen’s  snuff,  and  keep  her  box  always  re- 
plenisheil,  after  which  she  was  promoted  to  the 
great  business  of  the  toilet,  hel[)ing  her  majesty  off 
and  on  with  her  dresses,  and  being  in  strict  attend- 
ance from  six  or  seve..  in  the  morning  till  twelve  at 
night!  From  this  grinding  and  intolerable  destiny 
Miss  Burney  was  emanciiiated  by  her  marriage,  in 
179.3,  with  a French  refugee  officer,  the  Count 
D’Arblay.  She  then  resumed  her  pen,  and  in  179.') 
produced  a tragedy,  entitled  Eilivin  and  Elyitha, 
which  was  brought  out  at  Drury  Lane,  and  jios- 
sessed  at  least  one  novelty — there  were  three  bishops 
among  the  dramatis  persunce.  Mrs  Siddons  per- 
sonated the  heroine,  but  in  the  dying  scene,  where 
the  lady  is  brought  from  behind  a heilge  to  exjiire 
before  the  audience,  and  is  aftenv.ards  carried  once 
more  to  the  back  of  the  hedge,  the  hoii.se  was  con- 
vulsed with  laughter!  Her  ne.xt  effort  was  her  novel 
of  Camilla,  which  she  ]iublished  by  subscription, 
anil  realiseil  by  it  no  less  tban  three  thousand 
guineas.  In  1802  Madame  D’Arblay  accompanied 
her  husband  to  Paris,  'i’be  count  joined  the  army 
of  Napoleon,  and  his  wife  was  forced  to  remain  in 
France  till  1812,  when  she  returned  and  piirchaseil, 
from  the  proceeds  of  her  novel,  a small  but  handsome 
villa,  named  Camilla  Cottage.  Her  success  in 
prose  fiction  urgeii  her  to  another  trial,  and  in  1814 
s’ne  producer!  The  Wanderer,  a tedious  tale  in  five 
volumes,  which  had  no  other  merit  than  that  of 
bringing  the  authoress  the  large  sum  of  Xl.'iOO. 
The  only  other  literary  labour  of  Madame  D’.Arblay 
was  a memoir  of  her  father.  Dr  Burney,  published 
in  18.32.  Her  husband  and  her  son  (the  Hev.  A. 
D’Arblay  of  Camden  Town  chapel,  near  London) 
both  predeceased  her — the  former  in  1818,  and  tlie 
latter  in  1837.  Three  years  after  this  last  melan- 
choly bereavement,  Madame  D’Arblay  herself  paid 
tile  liebt  of  nature,  dying  at  B.ith  in  January  1840, 
at  the  great  age  of  eighty-eight.  Her  Diary  and 
Letters,  eiiited  by  her  niece,  were  published  in  1842 
in  five  volumes.  If  judiciously  condensed,  this  work 
would  have  been  both  entertaining  and  valuable; 
but  at  least  one  half  of  it  is  filled  with  small  unim- 
portant details  and  private  gossi]),  and  the  self-ad- 
miring weakness  of  the  authoress  shines  out  in 
almost  every  page.  The  early  novels  of  Miss 
Burney  form  the  most  iileasing  memorials  of  her 
name  and  history.  In  them  we  see  her  quick  in 
disc-ernment,  lively  in  invention,  and  inimitable,  in 
lierown  way,  in  portray  ing  the  humours  and  oddities 
of  English  society.  Her  good  sense  and  correct 
feeling  are  more  remarkable  than  her  jiassion.  Her 


TILL  THE  PRESE.XT  TIMB. 


love  scenes  are  prosaic  enough,  but  in  ‘showing 
up’  a party  of  ‘ vulgarly  genteel’  person.s,  p:iinting 
the  characters  in  a drawing-room,  or  catching  the 
follies  and  absurdities  that  float  on  the  surface  of 
fa.shionable  society,  she  has  rarely  been  equalled. 
She  deals  with  the  iialpableand  familiar;  and  though 
society  has  changed  since  the  time  of ‘Evelina,’  and 
the  glory  of  Kanelagh  and  Mary-le-bone  Cardens 
has  departed,  there  is  enough  of  real  life  in  her 
personages,  and  real  morality  in  her  lessons,  to  in- 
terest, amuse,  and  instruct.  Her  sarcasm,  di  /Ueiy, 
and  broad  humour,  must  always  be  relished. 

[A  Game  of  III yh way  RobUry,] 

[From  ‘ Evelina.'] 

M'lien  we  had  been  out  near  two  hours,  and  expected 
every  nioinent  to  .stop  at  the  place  of  our  destination, 
I observed  that  Lady  Howard’s  servant,  who  attended 
us  on  horseback,  rode  on  forward  till  he  was  out  of 
sight,  and  soon  after  returning,  came  up  to  the  ehai  iot 
window,  and  delivering  a note  to  Madame  Duvid, 
said  he  had  met  a boy  who  was  just  coining  with  it  to 
llow'ard  Crove,  from  the  clerk  of  Mr  Tyrell. 

While  she  was  reading  it,  he  rode  round  to  the 
other  window,  and,  making  a sign  for  secrecy,  put  into 
my  hand  a slip  of  paper  on  which  was  written,  ‘ What- 
ever happens,  be  not  alarmed,  for  you  are  safe,  though 
you  en  langer  all  mankind  !’ 

I readily  imagined  that  Sir  Clement  must  be  the 
author  of  this  note,  which  prepared  me  to  expect  some 
disagreeable  adventure;  but  I had  no  time  to  ponder 
upon  it,  for  Madame  Duval  had  no  .sooner  read  her 
own  letter,  than,  in  an  angry  tone  of  voice,  she  ex- 
claimed, ‘ Why,  now,  what  a thing  is  this ; here  we’re 
come  all  this  way  for  nothing!’ 

She  then  gave  me  the  note,  which  informed  her  that 
she  need  not  trouble  herself  to  go  to  Mr  Tyrell’s,  as 
the  prisoner  had  had  the  address  to  escape.  1 con- 
gratulated her  upon  this  fortunate  incident ; but  she 
was  so  much  concerned  at  having  rode  so  far  in  vain, 
that  she  seemed  le.ss  pleased  tlnm  ])rovoked.  However, 
she  ordered  t!ie  man  to  make  what  haste  he  could 
home,  as  she  hoped  at  least  to  return  before  the  cap- 
tain .should  suspect  what  had  passed. 

The  carriage  turned  about,  and  we  journeyed  so 
quietly  for  near  an  hour  that  1 began  to  flatter  my- 
■self  we  should  be  suffered  to  pioceed  to  Howard  drove 
without  further  molestation,  when,  suddenly,  the 
footniai.  Called  out,  ‘.lohn,  are  we  going  right !’ 

‘ Why,  I ain’t  sure,’  said  the  coachman ; ‘ but  I’m 
afraid  we  turned  wrong.’ 

‘ What  do  you  mean  by  that,  sirrah  V said  Madame 
Duval  ; ‘ why,  if  you  lo.se  your  way,  we  shall  be  all  in 
the  dark.’ 

‘ I think  we  should  turn  to  the  left,’  said  the  foot- 
man. 

‘To  the  left!’  answered  the  other ; ‘No,  no;  I’m 
pretty  sure  we  should  turn  to  the  right.’ 

‘ Vou  had  better  make  some  inquiry,’  said  I. 
'Mafoi,'  cried  Madame  Duval,  ‘we're  in  a fine 
hole  here ; they  neither  of  them  know  no  more  than 
the  post.  However,  I’ll  tell  my  lady  as  sure  a.s you’re 
born,  so  you’d  better  find  the  way.’ 

‘ Let’s  try  this  road,’  said  the  footrn.an. 

‘ No,’  said  the  coachman,  ‘ that’s  the  road  to  Can- 
terbury ; we  had  best  go  straight  on.’ 

‘ ^Vhy,  that’s  the  direct  London  road,’  returned 
the  footman,  ‘and  will  lead  us  twenty  miles  about.’ 

‘ Pardie,’  cried  Madame  Duval  ; ‘ vvhy,  they  wont 
go  one  way  nor  t’other  ; and,  now  we’re  come  ail 
this  jaunt  for  nothing,  I suppose  we  shan’t  get  home 
to  night.’ 

‘ Let’s  go  back  to  the  public-house,’  said  the  foil- 
man,  ‘ and  ask  for  a guide.’ 

b3f 


en(;lisii  literature. 


FRANCES  BURNET. 


‘No,  no,’  saiil  the  other;  ‘if  we  stay  here  a few 
minutes,  somebody  or  other  will  p.ass  by  ; and  the 
horses  are  almost  knocked  up  already.’ 

‘ Well,  1 protest,’  cried  Madame  Duval,  ‘ I’d  give  a 
guinea  to  .see  them  sots  hoi-se-whipped.  As  sure  as 
I’m  alive  they’re  drunk.  Ten  to  one  but  they’ll 
overturn  us  ne.\t.’ 

After  much  debating  they  at  length  agreed  to  go 
on  till  we  came  to  .some  inn,  or  met  with  a piussenger 
who  could  direct  us.  We  soon  arrived  at  a small 
farm-house,  and  the  footman  alighted  and  went 
into  it 

In  a few  minutes  he  returned,  and  told  usAve  might 
proceed,  for  that  he  had  procured  a direction.  ‘ Hut,' 
added  he,  ‘ it  seems  there  are  some  thieves  hereabouts, 
and  .so  the  best  way  will  be  for  you  to  leave  your 
watches  and  i>urses  with  the  farmer,  whom  I know  very 
well,  and  who  is  an  honest  man,  and  a tenant  of  my 
Lilly’s.’ 

‘ Thieves  !’  cried  Mad.ame  Duval,  looking  aghast ; 
‘the  Lord  help  us!  I’ve  no  dcubt  but  we  shall  be  all 
murdered  !’ 

The  farmer  came  to  ns,  an  1 we  gave  him  all  we 
were  worth,  and  the  servants  followed  our  example. 
M'e  then  procee'ed,  and  Madame  Duval’s  anger  so 
entirely  subsided,  that,  in  the  mildest  manner  imagin- 
able, she  intreated  them  to  make  haste,  and  promised 
to  tell  their  lady  how  diligent  and  obliging  they  had 
been.  She  perpetually  stopped  them  to  ask  if  they 
ai'prehended  any  danger,  and  was  at  length  so  much 
overpowered  by  her  fears,  that  she  made  the  footman 
fasten  hi.i  horse  to  the  back  of  the  carriage,  and  then 
come  and  scat  him.self  within  it.  My  endeavours  to 
encourage  her  were  fruitless  ; she  sat  in  the  middle, 
held  the  man  by  the  arm,  and  protested  that  if  he  did 
but  save  her  life,  she  would  make  his  fortune.  Her 
uneasiness  gave  me  much  concern,  and  it  was  with 
the  utmost  difficulty  I forbore  to  acquaint  her  that 
she  Wits  imposed  upon  ; but  the  mutual  fear  of  the 
captain’s  resentment  to  me,  and  of  her  own  to  him, 
neither  of  which  would  have  any  moderation,  deterred 
me.  As  to  the  footman,  he  was  evidently  in  torture 
from  restraining  his  laughter,  and  I observed  that  he 
w.as  frequently  obliged  to  make  most  horrid  grimaces 
from  pretended  fear,  in  order  to  conceal  his  risibi- 
lity. 

Very  soon  after,  ‘ The  robbers  are  coming  1’  cried  the 
coachman. 

The  footman  opened  the  door,  and  jumped  out  of 
the  chariot. 

Madame  Duval  gave  a loud  scream. 

1 could  no  longer  preserve  my  silence.  ‘For heaven’s 
sake,  my  dear  madam,’  said  1,  ‘ don’t  be  alarmed  ; 
you  are  in  no  danger  ; you  are  quite  safe  ; there  is 
nothing  but ’ 

Here  the  chariot  was  stopped  by  two  men  in  masks, 
who  at  each  side  put  in  their  hands,  as  if  for  our 
purses.  Madame  Duval  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the 
chariot,  and  implored  their  mercy.  I shrieked  in- 
voluntarily, although  prepared  for  the  attack  : one  of 
them  held  me  fast,  while  the  other  tore  poor  Madame 
Duval  out  of  the  carriage,  in  spite  of  her  cries,  threats, 
and  resistiince. 

1 was  really  frightened,  and  trembled  exceedingly. 
‘My  angel  !’  cried  the  man  who  held  me,  ‘you  cannot 
surely  be  alarmed.  Do  you  not  know  me?  1 shall 
hold  myself  in  eternal  abhorrence  if  I have  really 
terrified  you.’ 

‘ Indeed,  Sir  Clement,  you  have,’  cried  I ; ‘ but,  for 
heaven’s  sake,  where  is  Madame  Duval ! — why  is  she 
forced  away?’ 

‘ She  is  perfectly  safe ; the  captain  has  her  in 
charge;  but  suffer  me  now,  my  adored  Miss  Anville, 
to  take  the  only  opportunity  that  is  allowed  me  to 
speak  upon  another,  a much  dearer,  much  sweeter 
subject.’ 


And  then  he  hastily  came  into  the  chariot,  and 
.seated  him.self  next  to  me.  I would  fain  have  di.scn- 
gaged  myself  from  him,  but  he  would  not  let  me. 

• Deny  me  not,  most  charming  of  women,’  cried  he — 

‘ deny  me  not  this  only  moment  lent  me  to  pour 
forth  my  soul  into  your  gentle  ear.s,  to  tell  you  how 
much  1 suffer  from  your  absence,  how  much  I dread 
your  di.s]deasure,  and  how  cruelly  1 am  affected  by 
your  coldne.ss  I’ 

‘ Oh,  sir,  this  is  no  time  for  such  language ; pray, 
leave  me  ; pray,  go  to  the  relief  of  hladame  Duval  ; I 
cannot  bear  that  she  should  be  treated  with  such  in- 
dignity.’ 

‘ .\nd  Avill  you — can  you  command  my  absence  ? 
When  may  I speak  to  you,  if  not  now! — dots  the 
caiitain  suffer  me  to  breathe  a moment  out  of  his  sight  ? 
— and  are  not  a thousand  impertinent  people  for  ever 
at  your  elbow  ?’ 

‘ Indeed,  Sir  Clement,  you  must  change  your  style, 
or  I will  not  hear  you.  The  impertinent  people  you 
mean  are  among  my  best  friends,  and  you  would  not, 
if  you  really  wished  me  well,  speak  of  them  so  disre- 
spectfully.’ 

‘ Wish  you  well  ! Oh,  Miss  Anville,  point  but  out 
to  me  how  in  what  manner  I may  convince  you  of 
the  fervour  of  my  passion — tell  me  but  what  services 
you  will  accept  from  me,  and  you  shall  find  my  life, 
my  fortune,  my  whole  soul  at  your  devotion.’ 

‘ I want  notliing,  sir,  that  you  can  offer.  I beg  you 
not  to  talk  to  me  so — so  strangely.  Pray,  leave  me  ; 
and  pray,  assure  yourself  you  cannot  take  any  method 
so  successless  to  show  any  regard  for  me  as  entering 
into  schemes  so  frightful  to  Madame  Duval,  and  so 
disagreeable  to  myself.’ 

‘ The  scheme  ivas  the  captain’s  ; I even  opposed  it  ; 
though  I own  1 could  not  refu.se  myself  the  .«o  long 
wished-for  happiness  of  speaking  to  you  once  more 
without  so  many  of — your  friends  to  watch  me.  And 
I had  flattered  myself  that  the  note  1 charged  the 
footman  to  give  you  would  have  prevented  the  alarm 
you  have  received.’ 

‘ Well,  sir,  you  have  now,  I hope,  said  enough  ; and 
if  you  will  not  go  yourself  to  seek  for  Madame  Duval, 
at  least  suffer  me  to  inquire  what  is  become  of  her.’ 

‘ And  when  may  I speak  to  you  again  V 

‘ No  matter  when  ; I don’t  know  ; perhaps ’ 

‘ Perhaps  what,  my  angel !’ 

‘ Perhaps  never,  sir,  if  you  torment  me  thus.’ 

‘ Never  1 <)h,  IMiss  Anville,  how  cruel,  how  piercing 
to  my  soul  is  that  icy  word!  Indeed  I cannot  endure 
such  displeasure.’ 

‘ Then,  sir,  you  must  not  provoke  it.  Pray,  leave 
me  directly.’ 

‘ I will,  madam  ; but  let  me  at  least  make  a merit 
of  my  obedience — allow  me  to  hope  that  you  will  in 
future  be  less  averse  to  trusting  yourself  for  a few 
moments  alone  with  me.’ 

1 was  surprised  at  the  freedom  of  this  request ; but 
while  I hesitated  how  to  answer  it,  the  other  mask 
came  up  to  the  chariot  door,  and  in  a voice  almost 
stifled  Avith  laughter,  said,  ‘ I’ve  done  for  her!  The  old 
buck  is  safe ; but  we  must  sheer  off  directly,  or  we 
shall  be  all  a-ground.’ 

Sir  Clement  instantly  left  me,  mounted  his  horse, 
and  rode  off.  The  captain  having  given  some  direc- 
tions to  his  servants,  followed  him. 

1 Avas  both  uneasy  ami  impatient  to  know  the  fate 
of  Madame  Duval,  and  immediately  got  out  of  the 
chariot  to  seek  her.  1 desired  the  footman  to  shoAV 
me  AA’hich  Avay  she  was  gone  ; he  pointed  with  his 
finger,  by  Avay  of  answer,  and  I saw  that  he  dared  not 
trust  his  voice  to  make  any  other.  I Avalked  on  at  a 
very  quick  pace,  and  soon,  to  my  great  consternation, 
perceived  the  j)oor  lady  seated  upright  in  a ditch.  I 
flcAv  to  her,  Avith  unfeigned  concern  at  her  situa.ion. 
I She  Avas  s..bbing,  nay,  almost  roaring,  and  in  the  ut- 

.5.37 


FBOH  1780  CYCL0P-3SDIA  OF  till  the  prese>(t  timf. 

most  agony  of  rage  and  terror.  As  soon  as  slie  saw 
rnc,  she  redoubled  her  cries,  but  her  voice  was  so 
broken,  I could  not  understand  a word  she  said.  I 
was  so  much  shocked,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  I 
forbore  exclaiming  against  the  cruelty  of  the  captain 
for  tlius  wantonly  ill-treating  her,  and  1 could  not 
forgive  my.self  for  having  passively  sufl'ered  the  de- 
ception. I u.scd  my  utmost  endeavours  to  comfort 
her,  a.s.suring  her  of  our  present  safety,  and  begging 
her  to  rise  and  return  to  the  chariot. 

Almost  bursting  with  )iassion,  she  pointed  to  her 
feet,  and  with  frightful  violence  she  actually  beat  the 
ground  with  her  hands. 

1 then  saw  that  her  feet  were  tied  together  with  a 
strong  rope,  which  was  fastened  to  the  upper  branch 
of  a tree,  even  with  a hedge  which  ran  along  the 
ditch  where  she  sat.  I endeavoured  to  untie  the 
knot,  but  soon  found  it  was  infinitely  beyond  my 
strength.  I was  therefore  obliged  to  a])piy  to  the 
footman  ; but  being  very  unwilling  to  add  to  his 
mirth  by  the  sight  of  Madame  Duval’s  situation,  I 
desired  him  to  lend  me  a knife.  I returned  with  it, 
and  cut  the  rope.  Her  feet  were  soon  di.scntangled, 
and  then,  though  with  great  difficulty,  I assisted  her 
to  rise.  But  what  was  my  astonishment  when,  the 
moment  she  was  up,  she  hit  me  a violent  slap  on  the 
face!  I retreated  from  her  with  precipitation  and 
dread,  and  she  then  loaded  me  with  reproaches  which, 
though  almost  unintelligible,  convinced  me  that  she 
imagined  I had  voluntarily  deserted  her;  but  she 
seemed  not  to  have  the  slightest  su.spicion  that  she 
had  not  been  attacked  by  real  robbers. 

I was  so  much  surprised  and  confounded  at  the 
blow’,  that  for  some  time  I suffered  her  to  rave  without 
making  any  answer  ; but  her  extreme  agitation  and 
real  suffering  soon  dispelled  my  anger,  which  all  turned 
into  compassion.  I then  told  her  that  I had  been 
forcibly  detained  from  following  her,  and  assured  her 
of  my  real  sorrow  at  her  ill-usage. 

She  began  to  be  somewhat  appeased,  and  I again 
intreated  her  to  return  to  the  carriage,  or  give  me 
leave  to  order  that  it  should  draw  up  to  the  place 
where  we  stood.  She  made  no  answ-er,  till  I told  her 
that  the  longer  we  remained  .still,  the  greater  would 
be  the  danger  of  our  ride  home.  Struck  with  this 
hint,  she  suddenly,  and  with  hasty  steps,  moved 
forward. 

Her  dress  was  in  such  disorder  that  I was  quite 
sorry  to  have  her  figure  exposed  to  the  servants,  who 
all  of  them,  in  imitation  of  their  master,  hold  her  in 
derision  ; however,  the  disgrace  was  unavoidable. 

The  ditch,  happily,  was  almost  dry,  or  she  must 
have  suffered  still  more  seriously ; yet  so  forlorn, 
so  miserable  a figure,  1 never  before  saw.  Her  head- 
dress had  fallen  off ; her  linen  was  torn  ; her  negligee 
had  not  a pin  left  in  it ; her  petticoats  she  was  obliged 
to  hold  on  ; and  her  shoes  were  perpetually  slipping 
off.  She  was  covered  with  dirt,  weeds,  and  filth,  and 
her  face  was  really  horrible,  for  the  pomatum  and 
powder  from  her  head,  and  the  dust  from  the  road, 
were  quite  pasted  on  her  skin  by  her  tears,  which, 
with  her  rouge,  made  so  frightful  a mixture  that  she 
hardly  looked  human. 

The  servants  were  ready  to  die  with  laughter  the 
moment  they  saw  her ; but  not  all  my  remonstrances 
could  prevail  on  her  to  get  into  the  carriage  till 
she  had  most  vehemently  reproached  them  both  for 
not  rescuing  her.  The  footman,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  as  if  fearful  of  again  trusting  him.self  to  look 
at  her,  protested  that  the  robbers  avowed  they  would 
shoot  him  if  he  moved  an  inch,  and  that  one  of  them 
had  stayed  to  watch  the  chariot,  while  the  other 
carried  her  off;  adding,  that  the  reason  of  their  be- 
having so  barbarously,  was  to  revenge  our  having 
secured  our  purses.  Notwithstanding  her  anger,  she 
gave  immediate  credit  to  what  he  said,  and  really 

imagined  that  her  want  of  money  had  irritated  the 
pretended  robbers  to  treat  her  with  such  cruelty.  I 
determined,  therefore,  to  be  carefully  on  my  guard, 
not  to  betray  the  imposition,  which  could  now  answer 
no  other  purp'ose  than  occasioning  an  irreparable 
breach  between  her  and  the  captain. 

Just  as  we  were  seated  in  the  chariot,  she  discovered 
the  loss  which  her  head  had  sustained,  and  called  out, 
‘ My  (jod  ! what  is  become  of  my  hair  1 Why,  the 
villain  has  stole  all  my  curls  !’ 

She  then  ordered  the  man  to  run  and  see  if  he  could 
find  any  of  them  in  the  ditch.  He  went,  and  pre- 
sently returning,  produced  a great  quantity  of  hair  in 
such  a nasty  condition,  that  I was  amazed  she  would 
take  it ; and  the  man,  as  he  delivered  it  to  her,  found 
it  impossible  to  keep  his  countenance;  which  she  no 
sooner  observed,  than  all  her  stormy  passions  were 
again  raised.  She  flung  the  battered  curls  in  his  face, 
saying,  ‘Sirrah,  what  do  you  grin  for?  1 wish  you’d 
been  served  so  yourself,  and  you  wouldn’t  have  found 
it  no  such  joke  ; you  are  the  impudentest  fellow  ever 
1 see,  and  if  I find  you  dare  grin  at  me  any  more,  I 
shall  make  no  ceremony  of  boxing  your  ear.s.’ 

Satisfied  with  the  threat,  the  man  hastily  letired, 
and  we  drove  on. 

[Af/ss  Bumey  explains  to  King  George  III.  the  circum- 
stances attending  the  composition  of  ‘ Bvelina.’] 

The  king  went  up  to  the  table,  and  looked  at  a book 
of  prints,  from  Claude  Lorraine,  which  had  been 
brought  down  for  Miss  Dewes  ; but  Mrs  Delany,  by 
mistake,  told  him  they  were  for  me.  He  turned  over 
a leaf  or  two,  and  then  said — 

‘ Pray,  does  Miss  Burney  draw  too?’ 

The  too  was  pronounced  very  civilly. 

‘ I believe  not,  sir,’  answered  IMrs  Delany ; ‘ at  least 
she  does  not  tell.’ 

‘ Oh,’  cried  he,  laughing,  ‘ that’s  nothing ; she  is 
not  apt  to  tell ; she  never  does  tell,  you  know.  Her 
father  told  me  that  himself.  He  told  me  the  whole 
history  of  her  “ Evelina.”  And  1 shall  never  forget 
his  face  when  he  spoke  of  his  feelings  at  first  taking 
up  the  book  ; he  looked  quite  frightened,  just  as  if  he 
was  doing  it  that  moment.  I never  can  forget  his 
face  while  1 live.’ 

Then  coming  up  close  to  me,  he  said,  ‘ But  what! 
what ! how  was  it  ?’ 

‘Sir,’  cried  I,  not  well  understanding  him. 

‘How  came  you — how  happened  it — what — what?’ 

‘ 1 — 1 only  wrote,  sir,  for  my  own  amusement — only 
in  some  odd  idle  hours.’ 

‘But  your  publishing — your  printing — how  was 
that  1’ 

‘ That  was  only,  sir — only  because ’ 

I hesitated  most  abominably,  not  knowing  how  tc 
tell  him  a long  story,  and  growing  terribly  confused 
at  these  questions ; besides,  to  say  the  truth,  his  own 
‘ what  1 what  ?’  so  reminded  me  of  those  vile  Proba- 
tionary Odes,  that,  in  the  midst  of  all  my  flutter,  I 
was  really  hardly  able  to  keep  my  countenance. 

The  uhaU  was  then  repeated,  with  so  earnest  a look, 
that,  forced  to  say  something,  1 stammeringly  an- 
swered, ‘ 1 thought,  sir,  it  would  look  very  well  in 
print.’ 

1 do  really  flatter  mj’self  this  is  the  silliest  speech 
I ever  made.  I am  quite  provoked  with  myself  for 
it ; but  a fear  of  laughing  made  me  eager  to  utter 
anything,  and  by  no  means  conscious,  till  I had 
spoken,  of  what  I was  saying. 

He  laughed  very  heartily  himself — well  he  might — 
and  walked  away  to  enjoy  it,  crying  out,  ‘ Veiy  fair 
indeed  ; that’s  being  very  fair  and  honest.’ 

Then  returning  to  me  again,  he  said,  ‘ But  your 
father — how  came  you  not  to  show  him  what  you 
wrote  ?’ 

538 

ROT  ELI  STS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  BECKFOKU 


‘ I was  too  much  ashanieil  of  it,  sir,  seriously.’ 
Literal  trutli  tliat,  I am  sure. 

‘ Aiul  how  did  he  find  it  outl’ 

‘ 1 don’t  know  myself,  sir.  lie  never  would  tell 
me.’ 

Literal  truth  again,  my  dear  father,  as  you  can 
testify. 

‘ liut  how  did  you  get  it  printed?’ 

‘ 1 sent  it,  sir,  to  a bookseller  my  father  never  em- 
ployed, and  that  1 never  had  seen  myself,  Mr  Lowndes, 
in  full  hope  that  by  that  means  he  never  would  hear 
of  it.’ 

‘ Rut  how  could  you  manage  that?’ 

‘ Rv  means  of  a brother,  sir.’ 

‘ 0,  you  confided  in  a brother  then  ?’ 

‘ Yes,  sir — that  is,  for  the  publication.’ 

‘ AVhat  entcitainment  you  must  have  had  from 
hearing  people’s  conjectures  before  you  were  known! 
Do  you  vcineinber  any  of  them  ?’ 

‘ Yes,  sir,  many.’ 

‘And  what?’ 

‘ I heard  that  ^Ir  Baretti  laid  a wager  it  was  written 
by  a man  ; for  no  woman,  he  said,  could  have  kept 
her  own  counsel.’ 

This  diverted  him  extremely. 

‘ But  how  was  it,’  he  continued,  ‘ you  thought  most 
likely  for  your  father  to  discover  you  ?’ 

‘Sometimes,  sir,  1 have  supposed  I must  have  dropt 
some  of  the  manuscript ; sometimes,  that  one  of  my 
sisters  betrayed  me.’ 

‘ 0,  your  sister?  what!  not  your  brother ?’ 

‘ No,  sir,  he  could  not,  for ’ 

I was  going  on,  but  he  laughed  so  much  I could  not 
be  heard,  exclaiming,  ‘Vastly  well!  I see  you  are  of 
hir  Baretti’s  mind,  and  think  your  brother  could  keep 
your  secret  and  not  your  si.ster.  Well,  but,’  cried  he, 
presently,  ‘ how  was  it  first  known  to  you  you  were 
betrayed  ?’ 

‘ By  a letter,  sir,  from  another  sister.  I was  very 
ill,  and  in  the  country  ; and  she  wrote  me  word  that 
my  father  had  taken  up  a review,  in  which  the  book 
was  mentioned,  and  had  put  his  finger  upon  its  name, 
and  said,  “ Contrive  to  get  that  book  for  me.’” 

‘ And  when  he  got  it,’  cried  the  king,  ‘ he  told  me 
he  was  afraid  of  looking  at  it,  and  never  can  I forget 
his  face  when  he  mentioned  his  first  opening  it.  But 
you  have  not  kept  your  pen  unemployed  all  this 
time  V 

‘ Indeed  I have,  sir.’ 

‘ But  why  ?’ 

‘ I — 1 believe  I hare  exhausted  myself,  sir.’ 

He  laughed  aloud  at  this,  and  went  and  told  it  to 
Mrs  Delany,  civilly  treating  a plain  fact  as  a mere 
hon  mot. 

Then  returning  to  me  again,  he  said  more  seriously, 
‘ But  you  have  not  determined  against  writing  any 
more  ?’ 

‘ N — o,  sir.’ 

‘ You  have  made  no  vow — no  real  resolution  of  that 
sort  ?’ 

‘ No,  sir.’ 

‘ Y ou  only  wait  for  inclination  ?’ 

How  admirably  Mr  Cambridge’s  speech  might  have 
come  in  here. 

‘ No,  sir.’ 

A very  civil  little  bow  spoke  him  pleased  with  this 
answer,  and  he  went  again  to  the  middle  of  the  room, 
where  he  chiefly  stood,  and,  addressing  us  in  general, 
talked  upon  the  different  motives  of  writing,  conclud- 
ing with,  ‘ I believe  there  is  no  constraint  to  be  put 
upon  real  genius;  nothing  but  inclination  can  set  it 
to  work.  Miss  Burney,  however,  knows  best.’  And 
then  hastily  returning  to  me,  he  cried,  ‘ What ! 
what  ?’ 

‘No,  sir,  T — I — believe  not,  certainly,’  quoth  I very 
awkwardly,  for  1 seemed  taking  a v’  .’ent  compliment 


only  as  my  due ; but  I knew  not  how  to  put  him  off 
as  I would  another  person. 

Sarah  Harriet  Burney,  half-sister  to  Madame 
D’Arblay,  is  authoress  of  several  novels,  Geraldine, 
Fauconherg,  Country  Neighbours,  &c.  This  lady  has 
copied  the  style  of  her  relative,  but  has  not  her  raei- 
ness  of  humour,  or  power  of  painting  the  varieties 
of  the  human  species. 

WILLIAM  BECKFORD. 

In  1784  there  appeared,  originally  in  French,  the 
rich  oriental  story  entitled  Valhek  : an  Arabian  Jale. 
An  English  edition  (somewhat  chastened  in  its 
colouring)  was  afterwards  issued  by  the  author,  and 
has  passed  through  many  editions.  Byron  praises 
the  work  for  its  correctness  of  costume,  beauty  of  de- 
scription, and  power  of  imagination.  ‘ As  an  Eastern 
tale,’  he  say’s,  ‘ even  Rasselas  must  bow  before 
it:  his  Happy  Valley  will  not  be:ir  a comparison 
with  the  Hall  of  Eblis.’  It  would  be  difficult  to 
institute  a comparison  between  scenes  so  very  dis- 
similar— almost  as  different  as  the  garden  of  Eden 
from  Pandemonium;  but  ‘Vathek’  seems  to  have 
powerfully  impressed  the  youthful  fancy  of  Byron, 
It  contains  some  minute  Eastern  painting  and  cha- 
racters (a  Giaour  being  of  the  number),  uniting 
energy  and  fire  with  voluptuousness,  such  as  Byron 
loved  to  draw.  The  Caliph  Vathek,  who  had  ‘ sul- 
lied himself  with  a thousand  crimes,’  like  the  Cor- 
sair, is  a magnificent  Childe  Harold,  and  may  have 
suggested  the  char.acter. 

William  Beceford,  the  author  of  this  remark- 
able w'ork,  still  lives.  He  has  had  as  great  a p.assion 
for  building  towers  as  the  caliph  himself,  and  both 
his  fortune  and  his  genius  have  something  of  oriental 
splendour  about  them.  His  father,  Alderman  Beck- 
ford  of  Eonthill,  was  leader  of  the  city  of  London 
opposition  in  the  stormy  times  of  Wilkes,  Chatham, 
and  the  American  discontents.  lie  is  celebrated  for 
having  bearded  King  George  HI.  on  his  throne  on 
the  occasion  of  presenting  a petithm  and  remon- 
strance to  his  majesty  while  holding  the  office  of 
lord-mayor  of  the  city.  Shortly  after  this  memor- 
able exploit  Mr  Beckford  died  (June  21st,  1770), 
and  the  city  voted  a statue  to  his  memory  in  Guild- 
hall, and  ordered  that  the  speech  he  had  delivered 
to  the  king  should  be  engraved  on  the  pedestal  t 
His  only  son  and  heir,  the  author  of  ‘ Vathek,’  was 
then  a bov,  distinguished  by  the  favour  and  affection 
of  the  Earl  of  Chatham.  He  succeeded  to  the  estate 
of  Eonthill,  to  a valuable  West  Indian  property,  and 
a fortune,  it  is  said,  of  more  than  £100,000  per  an- 
num. At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  published  Biogra- 
phical Memoirs  of  Extraordinary  Painters,  a work 
satirising  some  English  artists  under  feigned  names. 
In  1780  he  made  a tour  to  the  continent,  which 
formed  the  subject  of  a series  of  letters,  picturesque 
and  poetical,  since  published  under  the  title  of  Italy, 
with  Sketches  of  Spain  and  Portugal.  The  high-bred 
ease,  voluptuousness,  and  classic  taste  of  some  of 
these  descriptions  and  personal  adventures,  have  a 
striking  and  unique  effect.  On  his  return  to  Eng- 
land, Mr  Beckford  sat  for  the  borough  of  Hindon  in 
several  parliaments.  He  afterwards  went  to  Por- 
tugal, and  purchasing  an  estate  at  Cintra — that 
‘glorious  Eden’  of  the  south — he  built  himself  a 
palace  for  a residence. 

There  thou,  too,  Vathek  ! England’s  wealthiest  son, 

Once  formed  thy  paradise,  as  not  aware 

When  wanton  Wealth  her  mightiest  deeds  hath 
done, 

Meek  Peace  veduptuous  lures  was  ever  wont  to  .shun. 

533 


FROM  17f!0  CYCLOI'TliDI  A OF  till  tiir  prf.sen't  time. 

IK  rc  (Uilst  thou  dwell,  here  schemes  of  ideasure  plan 

lieiieath  _\oii  momitiiiii’s  ever-beauteous  brow; 

Iliit  now,  as  if  a thing  uiddcst  by  man, 

Thy  f.iiry  dwelling  is  as  lone  as  thou  ! 

Here  giant  weeds  a passage  scarce  allow 

'I'o  halls  deserted,  [mrtals  gaping  wide; 

Fresh  lessons  to  the  thinking  bosom,  how 

Vain  are  the  plcasaunces  on  earth  supplied  ; 

Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  Time’s  ungentle  tide. 

Childc  Harold^  Canto  L 

Jfr  Bockford  has  left  a literary  memorial  of  his 
residence  in  I’ortngal  in  his  RecdUetlions  e/'  an  Ki- 
cursUm  tu  the  ^lonastericK  of  Ak-uhaga  and  liataUia, 
imblisheil  in  18.3.1.  The  excursion  was  made  in 
June  1794,  at  the  desire  of  the  prince  regent  of  Por- 
tugal. The  monastery  of  Aleoba^a  was  the  grandest 
ceelesiastieal  edifice  in  that  country,  with  paintings, 
antique  tombs,  and  fountains  ; the  nohlest  architec- 
ture. in  the  finest  situation,  and  irdiabitcd  by'  monks 
who  lived  like  princes.  The  whole  of  these  sketches 
are  interesting,  and  present  a gorgeous  picture  of 
ecclesiastical  pomp  and  wealth.  Mr  Beckford  and 
his  friends  were  conducted  to  the  kitchen  by  the 
abbot,  in  his  costume  of  High  Almoner  of  Portugal, 
that  they  might  see  what  preparations  had  been 
made  to  regale  them.  T'he  kitchen  was  worthy  of 
a Vathek  ! ‘Through  the  centre  of  the  immense 
and  nobly-groined  hall,  not  less  than  sixty  feet  in 
diameter,  ran  a brisk  rivulet  of  the  clearest  water, 
containing  everi)  sort  and  size  of  the  finest  river  fish. 
On  one  side  loads  of  game  and  venison  were  heaped 
up  ; on  the  other  vegetables  and  fruits  in  endless 
variety'.  Beyond  a long  line  of  stores,  extended  a 
row  of  ovens,  and  close  to  them  hillocks  of  wheaten 
flour  w'hiter  than  snow,  rocks  of  s;igar,  jars  of  the 
purest  oil,  and  pastry  in  vast  abundance,  which  a 
numerous  tribe  of  lay  brothers  and  their  attendants 
were  rolling  out,  and  puffing  up  into  a hundred  dif- 
ferent shaiies,  singing  all  the  while  as  blithely  as 
larks  in  a corn-field.’  Alas!  this  regal  splendour  is 
all  gone.  The  magnificent  monastery  of  Alcob.'i^'a 
was  plundered  and  given  to  the  flames  by'  the  French 
troops  under  Massena  in  1811.  After  leaving  Cin- 
tra,  Mr  Beckford  took  np  his  abode  on  his  paternal 
estate  in  I'higland,  and  for  twenty  years  empdoyed 
himself  in  rearing  the  magnificent  hut  unsubstantial 
Gotliic  structure  known  as  Fonthill  Abbey,  and  in 
embelli-shing  the  surrounding  grounds.  The  latter 
were  laid  out  in  the  most  exquisite  style  of  landscape- 
gardening, aided  by  the  natural  inequality  and 
beauty  of  the  ground,  and  enriched  by  a lake  and 
fine  sy  lvan  scenery.  One  grand  tower  of  the  abbey 
(of  disproportioned  height,  for  it  afterwards  tumbled 
down  a mighty  ruin)  occupied  the  owner’s  care  and 
anxiety  for  years.  The  structure  was  like  a romance. 
‘ On  one  occasion,  when  this  lofty  tower  was  pushing 
its  crest  towards  heaven,  an  elevated  part  of  it 
taught  fire,  and  was  destroyed.  The  sight  was 
sublime;  and  we  have  heard  that  it  was  a spectacle 
which  the  owner  of  the  mansion  enjoy’ed  with  as 
much  composure  as  if  the  flames  had  not  been  de- 
vouring what  it  would  cost  a fortune  to  repair. 
The  building  was  carried  on  by  him  with  an  energy 
and  enthusi:ism  of  which  duller  minds  can  hardly 
form  a conception.  At  one  jieriod  every  cart  and 
wagon  in  the  district  were  pressed  into  the  service, 
though  all  the  agricultural  labour  of  the  country 
stood  still.  At  another,  even  the  royal  works  of 
St  George’s  chapel,  Windsor,  were  abandoned,  that 
460  men  might  be  employed  night  and  day  on 
Fonthill  Abbey.  These  men  were  made  to  relieve 
each  other  by  regular  watches;  and  during  the 
longest  and  darkest  nights  of  winter,  the  astonished 
traveller  might  see  the  tower  rising  under  their 

hands,  the  trow(  l and  torch  Ijcing  associated  for  tfial 
])urpose.  This  must  have  had  a very  extraordinary 
appearance  ; and  we  are  told  that  it  was  another  of 
those  exhibitions  which  Mr  Beckford  was  fond  of 
contemplating.  He  is  rcprc.sentcd  as  siirveying  the 
work  thus  expedited,  the  busy  levy  of  ma.sons,  the 
high  and  giddy  dancing  of  the  lights,  and  the  strange 
effects  produced  upon  the  architecture  and  woods 
below,  from  one  of  the  eminences  in  the  walks,  and 
wasting  the  coldest  hmtrs  of  Dcccnd)er  darkness  in 
feasting  his  sense  with  this  display  of  almost  super- 
human power.'*  'I'hese  details  are  (diaracterislic  of 
the  author  of  ‘Vathek,’  and  form  an  interesting  il- 
lustration of  his  peculiar  taste  and  genius.  In  182‘2 
— satiated  with  the  treasures  around  him,  and  de- 
siring fresh  excitement — Mr  Beckford  sold  his 
mansion  and  grounds  at  Fonthill,  and  removed  to 
Hath.  ‘To  realise  the  dreams  and  fictions  of  his 
fancy,’  it  has  been  truly  said,  ‘ seems  to  have  been 
the  main  purport  of  Mr  Beckford's  life  ; fiir  this  he 
commanded  his  fairy  palace  to  glitter  amid  the 
orange  groves,  and  palms,  and  aloes  of  Cintra — fur 
this  he  crowned  the  Wiltshire  hills  with  his  rich 
monastic  turrets — for  this,  in  later  days,  he  has 
placed  his  airy  coronet  on  the  turreted  brow  of  the 
city  of  Bladud — fur  this  he  collected  in  his  romance 
of  Vathek  every  gorgeous  accumulation  of  luxury 
and  pleasure  ; and  lived  in  idea  among  them,  since 
a too  cruel  fate  had  forbidden  him,  even  with  the 
boundless  prodigality  of  his  wealth,  to  equal  the  son 
of  Motassem.’ 

The  outline  nr  plot  of  ‘Vathek’  posscs.ses  all  the 
wildness  of  Arabian  fiction.  The  hero's  the  grand- 
son of  Ilaroun  al  Ihc'chid  {Aaron  the  .fust),  whose 
dominions  stretched  from  Africa  to  India.  He  is 
fearless,  proud,  inquisitive,  a gourmand.  Un\d  of  tlieo- 
logical  controversy,  cruel  and  magnificent  in  his 
power  as  a caliph  ; in  short,  an  F.astcrn  Henry  VHI. 
He  dabbles,  moreover,  in  the  occult  sciences,  and 
interprets  the  stars  and  [ilanetary'  influences  from 
the  top  of  his  high  tower.  In  these  mysterious  arts 
the  caliph  is  assisted  by  his  mother,  Carathis,  a 
Greek,  a woman  of  superior  genius.  'J'heir  ambi- 
tion and  guilt  render  them  a jney  to  a Giaour — a 
supernatural  personage,  who  ])lays  an  important 
part  in  the  drama,  and  hurries  the  cali])h  to  dcstruc-  ' 
tion.  But  the  character  of  Vathek.  and  the  splen- 
dour of  his  palaces,  is  described  with  such  picturesque 
distinctness,  that  we  shall  extract  some  of  the  open- 
ing sentences. 

* Liter,ary  Gazette,  1H22, — II.izl!tt,  wlio  visited  the  spot  at 
the  same  time,  says,  * Fontliill  Abbey,  after  being  enveloi)ed 
in  impenetrable  mystery  for  a length  of  years,  has  been  un- 
expectedly thrown  open  to  the  vulg;ir  gaze,  and  has  lost  none 
of  Its  reputation  for  magnificence — tlioiigh  perhaps  its  visionary 
glory,  its  classic  renown,  have  vanishcl  from  the  public  mind 
for  ever.  It  is,  in  a word,  a desert  of  luagnilicence,  a glittering 
waste  of  laborious  idleness,  a cathedral  turned  into  !i  toy-shop, 
an  immense  museum  of  till  that  is  most  curious  and  costly, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  most  worthle.ss,  in  the  productions  of 
art  and  natime.  Ships  of  pearl  and  seas  of  amber  are  scarce  a 
fable  hero — a nautilus's  shell,  surmounted  with  a gilt  triumph 
of  Neptune— tables  of  agate,  cabinets  of  ebony,  ami  iirecinua 
stones,  painted  windows  shedding  a gaudy  crimson  tight, 
satin  borders,  m.arble  floors,  and  lamps  of  solid  gold— Chinese 
pagodas  and  Persian  tapestry— all  the  splendour  of  Soloiuen’s 
temple  is  displayed  to  the  view  in  minlatuic — whatever  is  | 
far-fetched  and  dear-bought,  rich  in  the  materials,  or  rate  and  i 
difficult  in  the  workmanship — but  scarce  one  genuine  work  of  | 
art,  one  solid  proof  of  t.a-ste,  one  lofty  relic  of  sentiment  or 
imagination.*  The  collection  of  bijnnlrrie  and  articles  of  tvrtu 
was  allowed  to  be  almost  unprecedented  in  extent  and  value. 
Mr  lieclcford  disposed  of  Fonthill,  in  1H22,  to  Mr  l-'anpiluir,  a 
gentleman  who  had  amassed  a fortune  in  India,  for 
or  jeMfl.lHH),  the  late  proprietor  retaining  only  his  family  pic- 
tures and  a few  books. — Gentleman's  Magazbxc^  Oct.  IH22. 

540 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


■WILLIAM  BKCK.'OHD. 


[Disci-i  ■'lion  of  the  CaUph  Vathek  and  his  Magnificent 
Palaces.} 

Valliclv,  lintli  caliph  of  the  race  of  the  Abassulea, 
was  the  sou  of  Motassem,  ami  the  graiulaoii  of  llaroun 
al  Kaschiil.  From  an  early  accession  to  the  tlirone, 
ami  the  talents  he  possessed  to  adorn  it,  his  subjects 
were  iiidnced  to  expect  that  his  reign  would  be  long 
and  happy.  His  figure  was  pleasing  and  majestic; 
but  when  he  was  angry,  one  of  his  eyes  became  so 
terrible  that  no  person  could  bear  to  behold  it;  and 
the  wretch  upon  whom  it  was  fi.xeii  instantly  fell  back- 
waril,  and  sometimes  expired.  For  fear,  however,  of 
depo]inlating  his  dominions,  and  making  his  palace 
desidatc,  he  but  rarely  gave  w.ay  to  his  anger. 

Rcing  much  addicted  to  women,  and  the  pleasures 
of  the  labl ',  he  sought  by  his  affability  to  procure 
agreeable  com]ainions  ; and  he  succeeded  the  better 
as  his  cenerosity  was  unbounded  and  his  indulgences 
unrestrained  ; for  he  did  not  think,  with  the  caliph 
Omar  lien  .■\bdalaziz,  that  it  was  necessary  to  make 
a hell  of  this  world  to  enjoy  paradise  in  the  next. 

He  surpassed  in  magnificence  all  his  predecessors. 
The  palace  of  Alkoremi,  which  his  father,  Motassem, 
had  erected  on  the  hill  of  I’ied  Horses,  and  which 
commanded  the  whole  city  of  Samarah,  was  in  his 
idea  far  too  scanty  ; he  added,  therefore,  five  wings, 
or  rather  other  palaces,  which  he  destined  for  the  par- 
ticular gratification  of  each  of  the  senses.  In  the 
first  of  these  were  tables  continually  covered  with 
the  most  exuuisitc  dainties,  which  were  supplied  both 
by  night  and  by  day,  according  to  their^  constant 
consumption  ; wliilst  the  most  delicious  wines,  and 
the  choicest  cordials,  flowed  forth  from  a hundred 
fountains  that  were  never  exhausted.  This  palace 
was  called  The  Eternal,  or  I.hisatiating  Banquet. 
The  second  was  styhd  The  Temple  of  Melody,  or 
The  Nectar  of  the  Soul.  It  was  inhabited  by  the  most 
skilful  music. ans  and  admired  poets  of  the  time,  who 
not  onlv  di'playcd  their  talents  within,  but,  dispers- 
ing in  bands  with  'ut,  caused  every  surrounding  scene 
to  reverberate  then  songs,  which  were  continually 
varied  in  the  mc“t  delightful  succession. 

The  pal. ice  nan.jd  The  Uelight  of  the  Eyes,  or  The 
Support  of  Mc'Uvir}',  was  one  entire  enchantment. 
Rarities,  collected  from  every  corner  of  the  earth, 
were  tliere  found  in  such  profusion  as  to  dazzle  and 
confound,  but  for  the  order  in  which  they  were  ar- 
ranged. One  gallery  exhibited  the  pictures  of  the 
celebrated  Mani,  and  statues  that  seemed  to  be  alive. 
Here  a well  managed  per.^pective  attracted  the  sight  ; 
there  the  magic  of  ojitics  agreeably  deceived  it  ; whilst 
the  naturali.'t,  on  his  part,  exhibited  in  their  several 
classes  the  various  gifts  that  Heaven  had  bestowed  on 
our  globe.  In  a word,  Vathek  omitted  nothing  in  this 
palace  that  might  gratify  the  curiosity  of  those  who 
resorted  to  it,  although  he  wa.s  not  able  to  satisfy  his 
own,  for  of  all  men  he  was  the  most  curious. 

The  I’alace  of  Perfumes,  which  was  termed  likewise 
The  Incentive  to  Pleasure,  consisted  of  various  halls, 
where  the  different  perfumes  which  the  earth  produces 
were  kept  perpetually  burning  in  censers  of  gold. 
Flambeaux  and  aromatic  lamps  were  here  lighted  in 
open  day.  But  the  too  pmverful  effects  of  this  agree- 
able delirium  might  be  alleviated  by  descending  into 
an  immense  garden,  where  an  assemblage  of  every 
fragrant  Ilower  diffused  through  the  air  the  pwest 
odours. 

The  fifth  palace,  denominated  The  Retreat  of  Mirth, 
or  The  Dangerous,  was  frequented  by  troops  of  young 
females,  beautiful  as  the  Houris,  and  not  less  seduc- 
ing, who  never  failed  to  receive  with  caresses  all  whom 
the  caliph  allowed  to  approach  them,  and  enjoy  a few 
hours  of  their  company. 

Notwithstanding  the  sensuality  in  which  Vathek 
indulged,  he  experienced  no  abatement  in  the  love  of 


his  people,  who  thought  that  a sovereign  giving  him- 
self up  to  pleasure  was  as  able  to  govern  as  one  who 
declared  himself  an  enemy  to  it.  But  the  unquiet 
and  impetuous  disi>osition  of  the  caliph  would  :.ot 
allow  him  to  rest  there.  He  had  studieil  so  much  for 
his  amusement  in  the  lifetime  of  his  father  as  to  ac- 
quire a great  deal  of  knowledge,  though  not  a suffi- 
ciency to  satisfy  him.self ; for  he  wished  to  know  ev<  ry- 
thing,  even  sciences  that  did  not  exist.  He  was  fond 
of  engaging  in  disputes  with  the  learned,  but  did  not 
allow  them  to  push  their  opposition  with  warmth.  He 
stopped  with  presents  the  mouths  of  those  whose 
mouths  could  be  stopped  ; whilst  others,  whom  his 
liberality  was  unable  to  subdue,  he  sent  to  pri.sou  to 
cool  their  blood — a remedy  that  often  succeeded. 

Vathek  di.scovered  also  a predilection  for  theologi- 
c.al  controversy  ; but  it  was  not  with  the  orthodox  that 
he  usually  held.  By  this  means  he  induced  the  zea- 
lots to  oppose  him,  and  then  persecuted  them  in  re- 
turn ; for  he  resolved,  at  any  rate,  to  have  reason  on 
his  side. 

The  great  prophet,  Mahomet,  whose  vicars  the 
caliphs  are,  beheld  with  indignation  from  his  abode  in 
the  seventh  heaven  the  irreligious  conduct  of  such  a 
vicegerent.  ‘ Let  us  leave  him  to  himself,’  said  he  to 
the  genii,  who  are  always  ready  to  receive  his  com- 
mands ; ‘ let  us  see  to  what  lengths  his  folly  and  im- 
piety will  carry  him  ; if  he  run  into  excess,  we  shall 
know  how  to  chastise  him.  Assist  him,  therefore,  to 
complete  the  tower,  which,  in  imitation  of  Nimrod, 
he  hath  begun  ; not,  like  that  great  warrior,  to  escape 
being  drowned,  but  from  the  insolent  curiosity  of 
penetrating  the  secrets  of  Heaven  : he  will  not  divine 
the  fate  that  awaits  him.’ 

The  genii  obeyed  ; and,  when  the  workmen  had 
raised  their  structure  a cubit  in  the  day  time,  two 
cubits  more  were  adiled  in  the  night.  The  expedition 
with  which  the  fabric  arose  was  not  a little  flattering 
to  the  vanity  of  Vathek  ; he  fancied  that  even  insen- 
sible matter  showed  .a  forwardness  to  subserve  his  de- 
signs, not  considering  that  the  successes  of  the  foolish 
and  wicked  form  the  first  rod  of  their  chastisement. 

His  pride  arrived  at  its  height  when,  having  as- 
cended for  the  first  time  the  fifteen  hundred  .stairs  of 
his  tower,  he  cast  his  eyes  below,  and  beheld  men  not 
larger  than  pismires,  niou  tains  than  shells,  and  cities 
than  bee-hives.  The  idea  which  such  an  elevation 
inspired  of  his  own  grandeur  completely  beniUlered 
him  ; he  was  almost  ready  to  adore  himself,  till,  lilt- 
ing his  eyes  upward,  he  saw  the  stars  as  high  above  him 
as  th(5y  appeared  when  he  sti'od  on  the  surface  of  the 
earth.  He  consoled  himself,  nowever,  for  this  intrud- 
ing and  unwelcome  perception  of  his  littleness,  with 
the  thought  of  being  great  in  the  eyes  of  others  ; and 
flattered  himself  that  the  light  of  his  mind  would  ex- 
tend beyond  the  reach  of  his  sight,  and  extort  from 
the  stars  the  decrees  of  his  destiny. 

After  some  horrible  sacrifices,  related  with  great 
power,  Carathis  reads  from  a roll  of  parchment  an 
injunction  that  Vathek  should  depart  from  his 
palace  surrounded  by  all  the  pageants  of  majestyq 
and  set  forward  on  his  way  to  Istakar.  ‘ There,’ 
added  the  writing  of  the  mysterious  Giaour,  ‘ I 
await  thy  coming:  that  is  the  region  of  wonders: 
there  shidt  thou  receive  the  diadem  of  Gian  Ben 
Gian,  the  talismans  of  Soliman,  and  the  treasures 
of  the  pre-adamite  sultans  : there  shalt  thou  be 
solaced  with  all  kinds  of  delight.  But  beware  how 
thou  enterest  any  dwelling  on  thy  route,  or  thou 
shalt  feel  the  effects  of  my  anger.’  The  degenerate 
commander  of  the  true  .believers  sets  off  on  his 
journey  with  much  pomp.  Carathis  remains,  hut 
gives  the  caliph  a series  of  tablets,  fraught  with 
supernatural  qualities,  which  he  is  to  consult  on  ill 
emergencies.  Vathek,  to  conciliate  the  spirits  of  the 

641 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


subtcrriinean  palace,  resolved  that  his  expedition 
Bliouhi  be  uneomnioiily  splendid.  ‘ Tlie  great  stan- 
dard of  tlie  ealiphat  was  displayed  ; twenty  tliousand 
lances  shone  round  it;  and  the  caliph,  treading  on 
the  cloth  of  gold  which  had  been  spread  for  his  feet, 
ascended  his  litter  amidst  the  general  acclamations 
of  his  subjects.’  Tlie  impious  enterprise  is  inter- 
rupted by  various  portentous  omens — by  darkness, 
fire,  and  tempest — and  at  length  the  party  get  be- 
wildered among  the  mountains.  The  good  Emir 
Fakreddin,  hearing  of  their  perplexity,  sends  two 
iwarfs  laden  with  fruit  to  regale  the  commander  of 
the  faithful,  and  invites  the  expedition  to  repose  in 
his  ‘happy  valley.’  Vathek  consults  his  tablets, 
which  forbid  sucb  a visit ; but  rather  than  perish  in 
the  deserts  with  thirst,  he  resolves  to  go  and  refresh 
himself  in  the  delicious  valley  of  melons  and  cucum- 
bers. Here  the  caliph  becomes  enamoured  of  the 
emir’s  daughter,  the  lovely  Nouronihar,  who  is  be- 
trothed to  her  young  cousin,  Gulchenrouz.  Ilis  pas- 
sion is  returned,  and,  while  luxuriating  in  the  valley, 
screened  from  the  eyes  of  intruders,  listening  to  the 
voice  and  lute  of  Nouronihar,  drinking  the  fragrant 
and  delicious  wine  of  Schiraz,  ‘ which  had  been 
hoarded  up  in  bottles  prior  to  the  birth  of  Mahomet,’ 
or  eating  manebets  prepared  by  the  hands  of  Nou- 
ronihar, Vathek  entirely  forgot  the  object  of  his 
expedition,  and  his  desire  to  visit  the  palace  of  fire. 
Carathis  being  informed  of  the  fascination  which 
detained  him,  ordered  her  camel  and  attendants, 
and  set  off  for  Fakreddin.  There  she  encountered 
her  sensual  son,  and  prevailed  upon  him  to  continue 
his  journe}',  and  complete  his  adventure.  Nouroni- 
har accompanies  the  caliph  in  his  litter.  In  four 
days  they  reached  the  spacious  valley  of  Rocknabad, 
and,  having  devoted  two  days  to  its  pleasures,  pro- 
ceeded towards  a large  plain,  from  whence  were 
discernible,  on  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  the  dark 
summits  of  the  mountains  of  Istakar.  One  of  the 
beneficent  genii,  in  the  guise  of  a shepherd,  endea- 
vours to  arrest  Vathek  in  his  mad  c.areer,  and  warns 
him,  that  beyond  the  mountains  Eblis  and  his  ac- 
cursed dives  hold  their  infernal  empire.  That 
moment,  he  said,  was  the  last  of  grace  allowed  him, 
and  as  soon  as  the  sun,  then  obscured  by  clouds, 
recovered  his  splendour,  if  his  heart  was  not  changed 
the  time  of  mercy  assigned  to  him  would  be  past 
for  ever.  Vathek  audaciously  spurned  from  him 
the  warning  and  the  counsel.  ‘ Let  the  sun  appear,’ 
he  s.aid  ; ‘let  him  illume  my  career!  it  matters  not 
where  it  may  end.’  At  the  approach  of  night  most 
of  his  attendants  escaped;  but  Nouronihar,  whose 
impatience,  if  po.'sible,  exceeded  his  own,  importuned 
him  to  hasten  his  march,  and  lavished  on  him  a 
thousand  caresses  to  beguile  all  reflection. 

{The  Hall  of  EUis.'] 

In  this  manner  they  advanced  by  moonlight  till 
they  came  within  view  of  the  two  towering  rocks  that 
form  a kind  of  portal  to  the  valley,  at  the  extremity 
of  which  rose  the  vast  ruins  of  Istakar.  Aloft,  on  the 
mountain,  glimmered  the  fronts  of  various  royal  mau- 
soleums, the  horror  of  which  was  deepened  by  the 
shadows  of  night.  They  passed  through  two  villages, 
almost  deserted  ; the  only  inhabitants  remaining 
being  a few  feeble  old  men,  who,  at  the  sight  of 
horses  and  litters,  fell  upon  their  knees  and  cried  out, 

‘ 0 heaven  ! is  it  then  by  the.se  phantoms  that  we  have 
oeen  for  six  months  tormented ! Alas  I it  was  from 
the  terror  of  these  spectres,  and  the  noise  beneath  the 
mountains,  that  our  people  have  fled  and  left  us  at 
the  mercy  of  the  maleficent  spirits!’  The  caliph,  to 
whom  these  complaints  were  but  unpromising  au- 
guries, drove  over  the  bodies  of  these  wretched  old 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMIL 


men,  and  at  length  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace 
of  black  marble.  There  he  descended  from  his  litter, 
handing  down  Nouronihar;  botli,  with  beating  hearts, 
stared  wildly  around  them,  and  expected,  with  an 
apprehensive  shudder,  the  approach  of  the  Giaour. 
But  nothing  as  yet  announced  his  appearance. 

A deathlike  stillness  reigned  over  the  mountain 
and  through  the  air.  The  moon  dilated  on  a vast 
platform  the  shades  of  the  lofty  columns  which 
reached  from  the  terrace  almost  to  the  clouds.  Tlie 
gloomy  watch-towers,  whose  number  could  not  be 
counted,  were  covered  by  no  roof ; and  their  capitals, 
of  an  architecture  unknown  in  the  records  of  the 
eartli,  served  as  an  asylum  for  the  birds  of  night, 
which,  alarmed  at  the  approach  of  such  visitants,  fled 
away  croaking. 

The  chief  of  the  eunuchs,  trembling  with  fear, 
besought  Vatliek  that  a fire  might  be  kindled.  ‘ No,’ 
replied  he,  ‘there  is  no  time  left  to  tliink  of  such 
trifles ; abide  where  thou  art,  and  expect  my  com- 
mands.’ Having  thus  spoken,  he  presented  his  hand 
to  Nouronihar,  and,  ascending  the  steps  of  a vast 
staircase,  reached  the  terrace,  which  was  flagged  with 
squares  of  marble,  and  resembled  a smooth  expanse  of 
water,  upon  whose  surface  not  a blade  of  grass  ever 
dared  to  vegetate.  On  the  right  rose  the  watch- 
towers,  ranged  before  the  ruins  of  an  immense  palace, 
whose  walls  were  embossed  with  various  figures.  In 
front  stood  forth  the  colo.ssal  forms  of  four  creatures, 
composed  of  the  leopard  and  the  gi'ifiin,  and  though 
but  of  stone,  inspired  emotions  of  terror.  Near  these 
were  distinguished,  by  the  splendour  of  the  moon, 
which  streamed  full  on  the  place,  characters  like  those 
on  the  sabres  of  the  Giaour,  and  which  possessed  the 
same  virtue  of  changing  every  moment.  These,  after 
vacillating  for  some  time,  fixed  at  last  in  Arabic 
letters,  and  prescribed  to  the  caliph  the  following 
words  : — ‘ Vathek  ! thou  hast  violated  the  conditions 
of  my  parchment,  and  deserveth  to  be  sent  back  ; but 
in  favour  to  thy  companion,  and,  as  the  meed  for 
wdiat  thou  hast  done  to  obtain  it,  Eblis  permitteth 
that  the  portal  of  his  palace  shall  be  opened,  and  the 
subterranean  fire  will  receive  thee  into  the  number  of 
its  adorers.’ 

He  scarcely  had  read  these  words  before  the  moun- 
tain against  which  the  terrace  was  reared  trembled, 
and  the  watch-towers  were  ready  to  topple  headlong 
upon  them.  The  rock  yawned,  and  disclosed  within  it  a 
staircase  of  polished  marble  that  seemed  to  approach 
the  abyss.  Upon  each  stair  were  planted  two  large 
torches,  like  those  Nouronihar  had  .seen  in  her  vision  ; 
the  camphorated  vapour  of  which  ascended  and 
gathered  itself  into  a cloud  under  the  hollow  of  the 
vault. 

This  appearance,  instead  of  terrifying,  gave  new 
courage  to  the  daughter  of  Fakreddin.  Scarcely 
deigning  to  bid  adieu  to  the  moon  and  the  firmament, 
she  abandoned,  without  hesitation,  the  pure  atmo- 
.sphere,  to  plunge  into  these  infernal  exhalations. 
The  gait  of  those  impious  personages  was  haughty  and 
determined.  As  they  de.scended  by  the  effulgence  of 
the  torches,  they  gazed  on  each  other  with  mutual 
admiration  ; and  both  appeared  so  resplendent,  th.at 
they  already  esteemed  themselves  spiritual  intelli- 
gences. The  only  circumstance  that  perplexed  them 
was  their  not  arriving  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  On 
hastening  their  descent  with  an  ardent  impetuosity, 
they  felt  their  steps  accelerated  to  such  a degree  that 
they  seemed  not  walking  but  falling  from  a precipice. 
Their  progress,  however,  was  at  length  impeded  by  a 
vast  portal  of  ebony,  which  the  calijih  without  diffi- 
culty recognised.  Ilere  the  Giaour  awaited  them 
with  the  key  in  his  hand.  ‘ Ye  are  welcome  !’  said 
he  to  them  with  a ghastly  smile,  ‘ in  spite  of  Maho- 
met and  all  his  dependents.  I will  now  usher  you 
into  that  palace  where  you  have  so  highly  merited  a 

642 


WOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  liRChLORD. 


pliiCP.’  Whilst  he  wa.s  uttering  these  words,  he 
touched  the  enamelled  lock  with  his  key,  and  the 
doors  at  once  flew  open  with  a noise  still  louder  than 
the  thunder  of  the  dog  days,  and  as  suddenly  recoiled 
the  moment  they  had  entered. 

The  caliph  and  Nouronihar  beheld  each  other  with 
amazement  at  finding  themselves  in  a place  which, 
though  roofed  with  a vaulted  ceiling,  was  so  spacious 
and  lofty  that  at  first  they  took  it  for  an  immeasur- 
able plain.  But  their  eyes  at  length  growing  familiar 
to  the  grandeur  of  the  surrounding  objects,  they  ex- 
tended their  view  to  those  at  a distance,  and  disco- 
vered rows  of  columns  and  arcades  which  gradually 
diminished  till  they  tei  ninated  in  a point  radiant  as 
the  sun  when  he  darts  his  last  beams  athwart  the 
ocean.  The  pavement,  strewed  over  with  gold  dust 
and  saffron,  exhaled  so  subtle  an  odour  as  almost 
overpowered  them.  They,  however,  went  on,  and 
observed  an  infinity  of  censers,  in  which  ambergris 
and  the  wood  of  aloes  were  continually  burning.  Be- 
tween the  several  columns  were  placed  tables,  each 
spread  with  a profusion  of  viands,  and  wines  of  every 
species  sparkling  in  v.ases  of  crystal.  A throng  of 
genii  ami  other  fantastic  spirits  of  either  sex  danced 
lasciviously  at  the  sound  of  music  which  issued  from 
beneath. 

In  the  midst  of  this  immense  hall  a vast  multitude 
was  incessantly  passing,  who  severally  kept  their  right 
hands  on  their  hearts,  without  once  regarding  any- 
thing around  them.  They  had  all  the  livid  paleness 
of  death.  Their  eyes,  deep  sunk  in  their  sockets,  re- 
sembled those  phosphoric  meteors  that  glimmer  by 
night  in  places  of  interment.  Some  stalked  slowly 
on,  absorbed  in  profound  reverie ; some,  shrieking  with 
agony,  ran  furiously  about  like  tigers  wounded  with 
poisoned  arrows ; whilst  others,  grinding  their  teeth 
in  rage,  foamed  along  more  frantic  than  the  wildest 
maniac.  They  all  avoided  each  other ; and  though 
surrounded  by  a multitude  that  no  one  could  number, 
each  wandered  at  random,  unheedful  of  the  rest,  as  if 
alone  on  a desert  where  no  foot  had  trodden. 

Vathek  and  Nouronihar,  frozen  with  terror  at  a 
sight  so  baleful,  demanded  of  the  Giaour  what  these 
appearances  might  mean,  and  why  these  ambulating 
spectres  never  withdrew  their  hands  from  their  hearts  ? 
‘Perplex  not  yourselves  with  so  much  at  once,’  replied 
he  bluntly,  ‘you  will  soon  be  acquainted  with  all; 
let  us  haste  and  present  you  to  Eblis.’  They  con- 
tinued their  way  through  the  multitude,  but  not- 
withstanding their  confidence  at  first,  they  were  not 
sufficiently  composed  to  examine  with  attention  the 
various  perspective  of  halls  and  of  galleries  that  opened 
on  the  right  hand  and  left,  which  were  all  illuminated 
by  torches  and  braziers,  whose  flames  rose  in  pyra- 
mids to  the  centre  of  the  vault.  At  length  they 
came  to  a place  where  long  curtains,  brocaded  with 
crimson  and  gold,  fell  from  all  parts  in  solemn  confu- 
sion. Here  the  choirs  and  dances  were  heard  no 
longer.  The  light  which  glimmered  came  from  afar. 

After  some  time  Vathek  and  Nouronihar  perceived 
a gleam  brightening  through  the  drapery,  and  entered 
a vast  tabernacle  hung  round  with  the  skins  of  leo- 
pards. An  infinity  of  elders,  with  streaming  beards, 
and  afrits  in  complete  armour,  had  prostrated  them- 
iel  \ es  before  the  ascent  of  a lofty  eminence,  on  the  top 
of  which,  upon  a globe  of  fire,  sat  the  fonnidable  Eblis. 
His  person  was  that  of  a young  man,  whose  noble  and 
regular  features  seemed  to  have  been  tarnished  by 
malignant  vapours.  In  his  large  eyes  appeared  both 
Bride  and  despair ; his  flowing  hair  retained  some  re- 
eemblance  to  that  of  an  angel  of  light.  In  his  hand, 
which  thunder  had  blasted,  he  swayed  the  iron  sceptre 
that  causes  the  monster  Ouranbad,  the  afrits,  and  all 
the  powers  of  the  abyss,  to  tremble.  At  his  presence 
the  heart  ol  the  caliph  sunk  within  him,  and  he  fell 
prostrate  on  his  face.  Nouronihar,  however,  though 


greatly  dismayed,  could  not  help  admiring  the  person 
of  Eblis,  for  she  expected  to  have  seen  some  stu- 
pendous giant.  Eblis,  with  a voice  more  mild  than 
might  be  imagined,  but  such  as  penetrated  the  soul 
and  filled  it  with  the  deepest  melancholy,  said — 

‘ Creatures  of  clay,  I receive  you  into  mine  enijiire  ; ye 
are  numbered  amongst  my  adorers  ; enjoy  whatever 
this  palace  affords;  the  treasures  of  the  pre-adamite 
sultans ; their  fulminating  sabres  ; and  those  talis- 
mans that  compel  the  dives  to  open  the  subterranean 
expanses  of  the  mountain  of  Kaf,  which  communicate 
with  these.  There,  insatiable  as  your  curiosity  may 
be,  shall  you  find  sufficient  objects  to  gratify  it.  You 
shall  i)0.sse.ss  the  exclusive  privilege  of  entering  the 
fortresses  of  Aherman,  and  the  halls  of  Argenk,  where 
are  portrayed  all  creatures  endowed  with  intelligence, 
and  the  various  animals  that  inhabited  the  earth  prior 
to  the  creation  of  that  contemptible  being  whom  ye 
denominate  the  father  of  mankind.’ 

Vathek  and  Nouronihar,  feeling  themselves  revived 
and  encouraged  by  this  harangue,  eagerly  said  to  the 
Giaour,  ‘Bring  us  instantly  to  the  place  which  con- 
tains the.se  precious  talismans.’  ‘ Come,’  answered  this 
wicked  dive,  with  his  malignant  grin,  ‘come  and  pos- 
sess all  that  my  sovereign  hath  promised,  and  more.’ 
He  then  conducted  them  into  a long  aisle  adjoining  the 
tabernacle,  preceding  them  with  hasty  steps,  and  fol- 
lowed by  his  disciples  with  the  utmost  alacrity.  They 
reached  at  length  a hall  of  great  extent,  and  covered 
with  a lofty  dome,  around  which  appeared  fifty  por- 
tals of  bronze,  secured  with  as  many  fastenings  of  iron. 
\ funereal  gloom  prevailed  over  the  whole  scene.  Here, 
upon  two  beds  of  incorruptible  cedar,  lay  recumbent 
the  fleshless  forms  of  the  pre-adamite  kings,  who  had 
been  monarchs  of  the  whole  earth.  They  still  possessed 
enough  of  life  to  be  conscious  of  their  deplorable  con- 
dition. Their  eyes  retained  a melancholy  motion  ; 
they  regarded  one  another  with  looks  of  the  deepest 
dejection,  each  holding  his  right  hand  motionless  on 
his  heart.  At  their  feet  were  inscribed  the  events  of 
their  several  reigns,  their  pow'er,  their  pride,  and  their 
crimes;  Soliman  Daki,  and  Soliman,  called  Gian  Ben 
Gian,  who,  after  having  chained  up  the  dives  in  the 
dark  caverns  of  Kaf,  became  so  presumptuous  as  to 
doubt  of  the  Supreme  Power.  All  these  maintained 
great  state,  though  not  to  be  compared  with  the  emi- 
nence of  Soliman  Ben  Daoud. 

This  king,  so  renowned  for  his  wisdom,  was  in  the 
loftiest  elevation,  and  placed  immediately  under  the 
dome.  He  appeared  to  possess  more  animation  than 
the  rest.  Though,  from  time  to  time,  he  laboured 
with  profound  sighs,  and,  like  his  companions,  kept 
his  right  hand  on  his  heart,  yet  his  countenance  was 
more  composed,  and  he  seemed  to  be  listening  to  the 
sullen  roar  of  a cataract,  visible  in  part  through  one 
of  the  grated  portals.  This  was  the  only  sound  that 
intruded  on  the  silence  of  these  doleful  mansions.  A 
range  of  brazen  vases  surrounded  the  elevation.  ‘ Re- 
move the  covers  from  these  cabalistic  depositories,’ 
said  the  Giaour  to  Vathek,  ‘and  avail  thyself  of  the 
talismans  which  will  break  asunder  all  these  g.ates  of 
bronze,  and  not  only  render  thee  master  of  the  trea- 
sures contained  within  them,  but  also  of  the  spirits  by 
which  they  are  guarded.’ 

The  caliph,  whom  this  ominous  preliminary  had 
entirely  disconcerted,  approached  the  vases  with  fal- 
tering footsteps,  and  was  ready  to  sink  with  terror 
when  he  heard  the  groans  of  Soliman.  As  he  pro- 
ceeded, a voice  from  the  livid  lips  of  the  prophet  arti- 
culated these  words: — ‘In  my  lifetime  1 filled  a 
magnificent  throne,  having,  on  my  right  hand,  twelve 
thousand  seats  of  gold,  where  the  patriarchs  and  the 
prophets  heard  my  doctrines  ; on  my  left,  the  sages 
and  doctors,  upon  as  many  thrones  of  silver,  were  pre- 
sent at  all  my  decisions.  Whilst  I thus  administered 
justice  to  innumerable  multitudes,  the  birds  of  the 
* 543 


FROM  )7fl0 


cYCI/)l’7^:I)IA  OF 


TII.I.  TMF.  PUESKNl  TIMh 


air,  liovFi  in"  over  me,  served  as  a canopy  against  tlie 
rays  of  tlie  siin.  My  people  liuurislied,  and  my  palace 
rose  to  tlie  clouds.  1 erected  a temple  to  the  Most 
llieh,  which  was  the  wonder  of  the  universe;  hut  1 
hasely  sulfercd  myself  to  he  seduced  by  the  love  of 
women,  and  a curiosity  that  could  not  be  restrained 
bv  sublunary  things.  I listened  to  the  counsels  of 
Ahcrman,  ami  the  daughter  of  I’haraoh  ; and  adored 
fire,  and  the  hosts  of  heaven.  I forsook  the  holy  city, 
and  commamled  the  genii  to  rear  the  stupendous 
palace  of  l>takar,  and  the  terrace  of  the  watch-towers, 
each  of  which  was  consecrated  to  a star.  There  for  a 
w hile  1 en  joyed  myself  in  the  zenith  of  glory  and  plea- 
sure. Not  only  men,  but  supernatural  beings,  were 
subject  also  to  my  will.  1 beeau  to  think,  as  these 
unhappy  monarchs  around  had  already  thought,  that 
the  vengeance  of  Heaven  was  asleep,  when  at  once 
the  thunder  burst  my  structures  asunder,  and  preci- 
pitated me  hither,  where,  however,  1 do  not  remain, 
like  the  other  inhabitants,  totally  destitute  of  hope; 
for  an  angel  of  light  hath  revealed  that,  in  considera- 
tion of  the  jiiety  of  my  early  youth,  my  woes  shall 
come  to  an  end  when  this  cataract  shall  for  ever  cease 
to  How.  Till  then,  I am  in  torments — ineffable  tor- 
ments ! an  unrelenting  fire  preys  on  my  heart.’ 

Having  uttered  this  exclamation,  Soliman  raised 
his  hands  towards  Heaven  in  token  of  supplication  ; 
and  the  caliph  discerned  through  his  bosom,  which  was 
transparent  as  crystal,  his  heart  enveloped  in  flames. 
At  a sight  so  full  of  horror,  Nouronihar  fell  back,  like 
one  petrified,  into  the  arms  of  Vathek,  w ho  cried  out 
with  a couvuhsive  sob — ‘ 0 Giaour!  whither  hast  thou 
brought  us  I .\llow  us  to  depart,  and  I will  relinquish 
all  thou  hast  promised.  0 Mahomet!  remains  there 
no  more  mercy!’  ‘ None,  none!’  replied  the  malicious 
Jive.  ‘ Know,  miserable  prince!  thou  art  now  in  the 
.rbode  of  vengeance  and  desjiair.  Thy  heart,  also,  will 
be  kindled  like  those  of  tlie  other  votaries  of  Eblis. 
A few  days  are  allotted  thee  previous  to  this  fatal 
period  ; employ  them  as  thou  w ilt  ; recline  on  these 
heaps  of  gold;  command  the  infernal  potentates; 
~ange  at  thy  pleasure  through  these  immense  subter- 
anean  domains,  no  barrier  shall  be  shut  against  thee. 
As  for  me,  1 have  fulfilled  my  mission  ; I now  leave 
thee  to  tliy.self.’  At  these  words  he  vanished. 

'J'he  caliph  and  Nouronihar  remained  in  the  most 
abject  afilietion.  Their  tears  were  unable  to  flow,  and 
scarcely  could  they  support  themselves.  At  length, 
taking  each  other  despoudiugly  by  the  hand,  they 
went  falteringly  from  this  fatal  hall,  iiidifTerent  which 
way  they  turned  their  steps.  Every  portal  opened  at 
their  a]iproach.  The  dives  fell  prostrate  before  them. 
Every  reservoir  of  riche.s  was  disclosed  to  their  view, 
but  they  no  longer  felt  the  incentives  of  curiosity,  of 
pride,  or  avarice.  \\’ith  like  apathy  they  heard  the 
chorus  of  genii,  and  saw  the  stately  banquets  pre- 
pared to  regale  them.  They  went  wandering  on,  from 
chamber  to  chamber,  hall  to  hall,  and  gallery  to 
gallery,  all  without  bounds  or  limit;  all  distinguish- 
able by  the  same  lowering  gloom,  all  adorned  with 
the  same  awful  grandeur,  all  traversed  by  persons 
in  search  of  rejio.se  and  consolation,  but  who  sought 
them  in  vain  ; for  every  one  carrieil  within  him  a 
heart  tormented  in  Hames.  Shunned  bv  these  various 
siifferers,  wdio  seemed  by  their  looks  to  he  upbraiding 
the  partners  of  their  guilt,  they  withdrew  from  them 
to  wait,  in  direful  suspense,  the  moment  wdiich  should 
render  them  to  each  other  the  like  objects  of  terror. 

‘What!’  exclaimed  Nouronihar,  ‘ wUl  the  time 
come  wdien  I shall  snatch  my  hand  from  thine !’ 
‘Ah  !’  said  Vathek,  ‘ and  shall  my  eyes  ever  cease  to 
drink  from  thine  long  draughts  of  enjoyment!  Shall 
the  moments  of  our  reciprocal  ecstacies  be  reflected  on 
with  horror!  It  was  not  thou  that  broughtst  me 
hither;  the  principles  by  which  Carathis  perverted 
n>y  youth  have  been  the  sole  cause  of  my  perdition ! 


It  is  but  right  she  should  have  her  share  of  it.’  Hav- 
ing given  vent  to  these  painful  expressions,  he  called 
to  an  afrit,  who  was  stirring  up  one  of  the  braziers, 
and  bade  liim  fetch  the  Princess  Carathis  from  the 
palace  of  Samarah. 

After  issuing  these  orders,  the  caliph  and  Nouroni- 
har  continued  walking  amidst  the  silent  crowd,  till 
they  heard  voices  at  the  end  of  the  gallery.  I’r.  sinn- 
ing them  to  proceed  from  some  unliappy  beings  who, 
like  themselves,  were  awaiting  their  final  doom,  they 
followed  the  sound,  and  found  it  to  come  from  a small 
square  chamber,  where  they  discovered,  sitting  on 
sofas,  four  young  men  of  goodly  figure,  and  a lovely 
female,  who  were  holding  a melancholy  conversation 
by  the  glimmering  of  a lonely  lamp.  Each  had  a 
gloomy  and  forlorn  air,  and  two  of  them  were  em- 
bracing each  other  with  great  tendernes.s.  On  seeing 
the  caliph  and  the  daughter  of  Eakreddin  enter,  they 
aro.se,  saluted,  and  made  room  for  them.  Then  he 
who  appeared  the  most  considerable  of  the  group 
addressed  himself  thus  to  Vathek  : — ‘ Strangers,  who 
doubtless  are  in  the  same  state  of  suspen.se  with  our- 
selves, as  you  do  not  yet  bear  your  hand  on  your  heart, 
if  you  are  come  hither  to  pass  the  interval  allotted, 
previous  to  the  infliction  of  our  common  punishment, 
condescend  to  relate  the  adventures  that  have  brought 
you  to  this  fat.al  jdace  ; and  we,  in  return,  will  ac- 
quaint you  with  ours,  which  deserve  but  too  well  to 
be  hcaril.  To  trace  back  our  crimes  to  their  source, 
though  we  are  not  permitted  to  repent,  is  the  only 
emjdoyment  suited  to  wretches  like  us.’ 

The  caliph  and  Nouronihar as.sented  to  the  proposal, 
and  Vathek  began,  not  without  tears  and  lamenta- 
tions, a sincere  recital  of  every  circumstance  that  had 
passed.  When  the  afflicting  narrative  was  closed,  the 
young  man  entered  on  his  own.  Elach  person  pro- 
ceeded in  order,  and  when  the  third  prince  had 
reached  the  midst  of  his  adventures,  a sudden  noise 
interru]ited  him,  which  caused  the  vault  to  tremble 
and  to  open. 

Immediatelv  a cloud  descended,  which,  gradually 
dissipating,  discovered  Carathis  on  the  back  of  an 
afrit,  who  grievously  conqilained  of  his  burden.  She, 
instantly  springing  to  the  ground,  advanced  towards 
her  son,  and  said,  ‘ What  dost  thou  here  in  this  little 
square  chamber?  As  the  dives  are  become  subject  to 
thv  beck,  I expected  to  have  found  thee  on  the  throne 
of  the  pre-adamite  kings.’ 

‘Execrable  woman!’  answered  the  caliph,  ‘cursed 
be  the  day  tbou  gavest  me  birth  ! Go,  follow  this  afrit ; 
let  hitn  conduct  thee  to  the  hall  of  the  I’rophet  Soli- 
man : there  tbou  wilt  learn  to  what  these  jialaces  are 
destined,  and  how  much  I ought  to  abhor  the  im- 
pious knowledge  thou  hast  taught  me.’ 

‘ Has  the  height  of  power  to  which  thou  art  arrived 
turned  thy  brain!’  answered  Carathis:  ‘but  I ask  no 
more  than  permission  to  .show  my  respect  for  Soliman 
the  projihet.  It  is,  however,  proper  thou  shouldst 
know  that  (as  the  afrit  has  informed  me  neither  of  us 
shall  return  to  Samarah)  1 requested  his  permission 
to  arrange  my  affairs,  and  he  politely  consented. 
Availing  myself,  therefore,  of  the  few  moments  allowed 
me,  I set  fire  to  the  tower,  and  consumed  in  it  the 
mutes,  negresses,  and  serpents,  which  have  rendered 
me  .so  much  good  service:  nor  should  I have  been 
less  kind  to  Morakanabad,  had  he  not  prevented  mo 
by  deserting  at  last  to  thy  brother.  As  for  Bababa- 
louk,  who  had  the  folly  to  return  to  Samarah  to  pro- 
vide husbands  for  thy  wives,  I undoubtedly  would 
have  put  him  to  the  torture,  but,  being  in  a hurry,  I 
only  hung  him,  after  having  decoyed  him  in  a snare 
with  thy  wives,  whom  1 buried  alive  by  the  help  of 
my  negresses,  who  thus  spent  their  last  moments 
greatly  to  their  satisfaction.  With  respect  to  Dilara, 
who  ever  stood  high  in  my  favour,  she  hath  evinced 
the  greatness  of  her  mind  by  fixing  herself  near  iu 

.'544 


RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 


AovEusTS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


the  service  of  one  of  the  magi,  and,  1 think,  will  soon 
be  one  of  onr  society.' 

Vathek,  too  much  ra-st  down  to  express  the  indig- 
n.atiun  excited  by  such  a discourse,  ordered  the  afrit 
to  remove  Carath is  fr<  111  his  presence,  and  continued 
iniiiiersed  in  thoughts  which  his  companions  durst 
I not  disturb. 

Carathis,  however,  eagerly  entered  the  dome  of 
Soliniaii,  and  without  regarding  in  the  least  the 
groans  of  the  prophet,  undauntedly  removed  the 
coveisi  of  the  vases,  and  violently  seized  on  the  talis- 
nians.  Then,  with  a voice  more  loud  than  had 
I hitherto  been  heard  within  these  mansions,  she  com- 
pelled the  dives  to  disclose  to  her  the  most  secret 
I treasures,  the  most  pr 'found  stores,  which  the  afrit 
I himself  had  not  seen.  .She  passed,  by  rapid  descents, 
known  only  to  Eblis  and  his  most  favoured  poten- 
tates; and  thus  penetrated  the  very  entrails  of  the 
earth,  where  breathes  the  sansar,  or  the  icy  wind  of 
death.  Nothing  appalled  her  dauntless  soul.  She 
I perceived,  however,  in  all  the  inmates  who  bore  their 
hands  on  their  heart,  a little  singularity,  not  much 
to  her  taste. 

As  she  was  emerging  from  one  of  the  abysses,  Eblis 
stood  forth  to  her  view  ; but  notwithstanding  he  dis- 
played the  full  effulgence  of  his  infernal  majesty,  she 
preserved  her  countenance  unaltered,  and  even  paid 
her  compliments  with  considerable  firmness. 

This  superb  monarch  thus  answered : ‘ Princess, 
whose  knowledge  and  whose  crimes  have  merited  a 
conspicuous  rank  in  my  empire,  thou  dost  well  to 
avail  thyself  of  the  leisure  that  remains : for  the 
flames  and  torments  which  are  ready  to  seize  on  thy 
heart  will  not  fail  to  provide  thee  soon  with  full  em- 
ployment.’ He  said,  and  was  lost  in  the  curtains  of 
his  tabernacle. 

Carathis  paused  for  a moment  with  surprise  ; but 
resolved  to  follow  the  advice  of  Eblis,  she  assembled 
all  the  choirs  of  genii,  and  all  the  dives  to  pay  her 
homage.  Thus  marched  she  in  triumph,  through  a 
vapour  of  perfumes,  amidst  the  acclamations  of  all 
the  malignant  spirits,  with  most  of  whom  she  had 
formed  a previous  acquaintance.  .She  even  attempted 
to  dethrone  one  of  the  Solimans,  for  the  purpose  of 
usurping  his  place  ; when  a voice,  proceeding  from  the 
abyss  of  death,  proclaimed  : ‘ .All  is  accomplished  !’ 
Instantaneously  the  haughty  forehead  of  the  intrepid 
princess  became  corrugated  with  agony  : she  utteied 
a tremendous  yell  ; and  fixed,  no  more  to  be  with- 
drawn, her  right  hand  upon  her  heart,  which  was  be- 
come a receptacle  of  eternal  fire. 

In  this  delirium,  forgetting  all  ambitious  projects, 
and  her  thii^st  for  that  knowledge  which  should  ever 
be  hidden  from  mortals,  she  overturned  the  offerings 
of  the  genii ; and  having  execrated  the  hour  she  was 
begotten,  and  the  womb  that  had  borne  her,  glanced 
off  in  a rapid  whirl  that  rendered  her  invisible,  and 
continued  to  revolve  without  intermission. 

Almost  at  the  same  instant  the  same  voice  an- 
nounced to  the  caliph,  Nouronihar,  the  four  princes, 
and  the  princess,  the  awful  and  irrevocable  decree. 
Their  hearts  immediately  took  fire,  and  they  at  once 
lo.st  the  most  precious  gift  of  Heaven — Hope.  These 
unhappy  beings  recoiled  with  looks  of  the  most  furi- 
ous distraction.  Vathek  beheld  in  the  eyes  of  Nouro- 
nihar nothing  but  rage  and  vengeance  ; nor  could  she 
di.scern  aught  in  his  but  aversion  and  despair.  The 
two  princes,  who  were  friends,  and,  till  that  moment, 
had  preserved  their  attachment,  shrunk  back,  gnash- 
ing their  teeth  with  mutual  and  unchangeable  hatred. 
Kalilah  and  his  sister  made  reciprocal  gestures  of  im- 
precation : all  testified  their  horror  for  each  other  by 
the  most  ghastly  convulsions  and  screams  that  could 
not  be  smothered.  All  severally  plunged  themselves 
into  the  accursed  multitude,  there  to  wander  in  an 
eternity  of  unabating  anguish. 

77 


Such  was,  and  such  should  be,  the  punishment  of 
unrestrained  passions  and  atrocious  deeds  ! Such  shall 
be  the  chastisement  of  that  blind  curiosity  which 
would  transgress  those  bounds  the  wisdom  of  the 
Creator  has  prescribed  to  human  knowledge  ; and  such 
the  dreadful  disappointment  of  that  restless  ambition 
which,  aiming  at  discoveries  reserved  for  beings  of  a 
supernatural  order,  perceives  not,  through  its  infa- 
tuated pride,  that  the  condition  of  man  upon  earth  is 
to  be — humble  and  ignorant. 

Thus  the  Caliph  Vathek,  who,  for  the  sake  of  empty 
pomp  and  forbidden  power,  had  sullied  him.self  with 
a thousand  crimes,  became  a prey  to  grief  without 
end,  and  remorse  without  mitigation ; whilst  the 
humble,  the  despised  Gulchenrouz,  passed  whole  ages 
in  undisturbed  tranquillity,  and  in  the  pure  happiness 
of  childhood. 

There  is  astonishing  force  and  grandeur  in  some 
of  these  conceptions.  The  catastrophe  possesses  a 
sort  of  epic  sublimity,  and  the  spectacle  of  the  vast 
multitude  incessantly  pacing  those  halls,  from  which 
all  hope  has  fled,  is  worthy  the  genius  of  Milton. 
The  numberless  graces  of  description,  the  piquant 
allusions,  the  humour  and  satire,  and  the  wild  yet 
witty  spirit  of  mockery  and  derision  (like  the  genius 
of  Voltaire'  which  is  spread  over  the  work,  we  must 
leave  to  the  reader.  The  romance  altogether  places 
Mr  Beckford  among  the  first  of  our  imaginative 
ivriters,  independently  of  the  surprise  which  it  is 
calculated  to  excite  as  the  w-ork  of  a youth  of  nine- 
teen or  twenty,  who  had  never  been  in  the  countriei 
he  describes  with  so  much  animation  and  accuracy'. 


RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 

Richard  Cumberland,  the  dramatist,  was  author 
of  three  novels,  Arutidel,  Henry,  and  John  de  Lan- 
caster. The  learning,  knowledge  of  society  (in- 
cluding foreign  manners),  and  the  dramatic  talents 
of  this  author,  would  seem  to  have  qualified  him  in 
an  eminent  degree  for  novel  writing ; but  this  is  by 
no  means  the  case.  His  fame  must  rest  on  his 
comedies  of  The  ITest  Indian,  The  Wheel  of  Fortune, 
and  The  Jew.  Mr  Cumberland  was  son  of  Mr 
Denison  Cumberland,  bishop  of  Clonfort,  and  after- 
wards of  Kilmore.  He  was  born  in  1732,  in  the 
Master’s  Lodge  of  Trinity  college,  Cambridge,  then 
occupied  by  his  celebrated  maternal  grandfather. 
Dr  Bentley.  He  was  designed  for  the  church  ; but 
in  return  for  some  services  rendered  by  his  father, 
the  j'oung  student  was  appointed  private  secretary 
to  the  Marquis  of  Halifax,  whom  he  accompanied 
to  Ireland.  Through  the  influence  of  his  patron,  he 
was  made  crown  agent  for  the  province  of  Nova 
Scotia;  and  he  was  afterw-ards  appointed,  by  Lord 
George  Germain,  secretary’  to  the  goard  of  Trade. 
The  dramatic  performances  of  Cumberland  written 
about  this  time  were  highly  successful,  and  intro- 
duced him  to  all  the  literary  and  distinguished 
society  of  his  day.  The  character  of  him  by  Gold- 
smith in  his  Retaliation,  where  he  is  praised  as 

The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts, 

is  one  of  the  finest  compliments  ever  paid  by  one 
author  to  another.  In  the  year  1780  Cumberland  was 
employed  on  a secret  mission  to  Spain,  in  order  to 
endeavour  to  detach  that  country  from  the  hostile 
confederacy'  against  England.  He  seems  to  have  beer, 
misled  by  the  Abbe  Hussey,  chaplain  to  the  king  of 
Spain  ; and  after  residing  a twelvemonth  at  Madria, 
he  was  recalled  and  payment  of  his  drafts  refused.  A 
sum  of  £5000  was  due  him;  but  as  Cumberland  had 
failed  in  the  negotiation,  and  had  exceeded  hi.s  CMm  ■ 
mission  through  excess  of  zeal,  the  minister  harshly 

545 


»noM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


refiiseJ  to  remunerate  him.  Thus  situated,  the  un- 
fortunate dramatist  was  eompelled  to  sell  his  pater- 
nal estate  and  retire  into  private  life.  He  took  up 
his  abode  at  Tunbridge,  and  there  poured  forth  a 
variety  of  dramas,  essays,  and  other  works,  among 
whieh  were  two  epic  poems.  Calvary  and  The  Exo- 
diad,  the  latter  written  in  conjunction  with  Sir 
James  Bland  Burgess.  None  of  these  efforts  can 
be  said  to  have  overstepped  the  line  of  mediocrity  ; 
for  though  Cumberland  had  erudition,  taste,  and 
accomplishments,  he  wanted,  in  all  but  two  or  three 
of  his  plays,  the  vivifying  power  of  genius.  His 
Memoirs  of  his  Own  Life  (for  which  he  obtained 
£500)  are  graphic  and  entertaining,  but  too  many  of 
his  anecdotes  of  his  contemporaries  will  not  bear  a 
rigid  scrutiny.  Mr  Cumberland  died  on  tlie  7th  of 
Miiy  1811.  His  first  novel,  ‘Arundel’ (1789),  was 
hurriedly  composed ; but  the  scene  being  partly  in 
college  and  at  court,  and  treating  of  scenes  and 
characters  in  high-life,  the  author  drew  upon  his 
recollections,  and  painted  vigorously  what  he  had 
felt  and  witnessed.  His  second  work,  ‘ Henry’ 
(1795),  which  he  polished  with  great  care,  to  imi- 
tate the  elaborate  style  of  Fielding,  was  less  happy ; 
for  in  low-life  Cumberland  was  not  so  much  at 
home,  and  his  portraits  are  grossly  overcharged. 
The  character  of  Ezekiel  Dow,  a Methodist  preacher, 
is  praised  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  as  not  only  an  ex- 
quisite but  a just  portrait.  The  resemblance  to 
Fielding’s  Parson  Adams  is,  however,  too  marked, 
while  the  Methodistic  traits  introduced  are,  how- 
ever faithful,  less  pleasing  than  the  learned  sim- 
plicity and  bonhomie  of  the  worthy  parson.  An- 
other peculiarity  of  the  author  is  thus  touched  upon 
by  Scott : ‘ He  had  a peculiar  taste  in  love  affairs, 
which  induced  him  to  reverse  the  natural  and  usual 
practice  of  courtship,  and  to  throw  upon  the  softer 
sex  the  task  of  wooing,  which  is  more  gracefully,  as 
well  as  naturally,  the  province  of  the  man.’  In 
these  wooing  scenes,  too,  there  is  a great  want  of 
delicacy  and  propriety : Cumberland  was  not  here 
a ‘ mender  of  hearts.’  The  third  novel  of  our  author 
was  the  work  of  his  advanced  years,  and  is  of  a very 
inferior  description.  It  would  be  unjust  not  to  add, 
that  the  prose  style  of  Cumberland  in  his  memoirs 
and  ordinary  narratives,  w'here  humour  is  not  at- 
tempted, is  easy  and  flowing — the  style  of  a scholar 
and  gentleman. 

THOMAS  HOLCROFT. 

Thomas  Holcroft,  whose  singular  history  and 
dramatic  performances  we  have  already  noticed,  was 
author  of  several  once  popular  novels.  The  first 
was  published  in  1780,  under  the  title  of  Aluyn,  or 
the  Gentleman  Comedian.  This  had,  and  deserved  to 
have,  but  little  success.  His  second,  Anna  St  Ives, 
in  seven  volumes  (1792),  was  well  received,  and 
attracted  attention  from  its  political  bearings  no 
less  than  the  force  of  its  style  and  characters.  The 
principal  characters  are,  as  Hazlitt  remarks,  merely 
the  vehicles  of  certain  general  sentiments,  or  ma- 
chines, put  into  action,  as  an  experiment  to  show  how 
these  general  principles  would  operate  in  particular 
situations.  The  same  intention  is  manifested  in  his 
third  novel,  Hugh  Trevor,  the  first  part  of  which 
appeared  in  1794,  and  the  remainder  in  1797.  In 
‘ Hugh  Trevor,’  Holcroft,  like  Godwin,  depicted  the 
vices  and  distresses  which  he  conceived  to  be 
generated  by  the  existing  institutions  of  society. 
There  are  some  good  sketches,  and  many  eloquent 
■nd  just  observations  in  the  work,  and  those  who 
have  read  it  in  youth  will  remember  the  vivid  im- 
pression that  some  parts  are  calculated  to  convey. 
The  political  doctr  nes  inculcated  by  the  author  are 


captivating  to  young  minds,  and  were  enforced  oy 
Holcroft  in  the  form  of  well-contrasted  characters, 
lively  dialogue,  and  pointed  satire.  He  was  himself 
a true  believer  in  the  practicability  of  such  a 
Utopian  or  ideal  state  of  society.  The  song  of 
Gaffer  Gray  in  ‘Hugh  Trevor,’  which  glances  ironi- 
cally at  the  inhumanity  of  the  rich,  has  a forcible 
simplicity  and  truth  in  particular  cases,  which  made 
it  a favourite  with  the  public. 

Qaffer  Gray. 

Ho  ! why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake, 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

And  why  does  thy  nose  look  so  blue  J 
‘ ’Tis  the  weather  that’s  cold, 

’Tis  I’m  grown  very  old, 

And  my  doublet  is  not  very  new, 

M'ell-a-day  1’ 

Then  line  thy  worn  doublet  with  ale. 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

And  warm  thy  old  heart  with  a glass. 

‘ Nay,  but  credit  I’ve  none. 

And  my  money’s  all  gone ; 

Then  say  how  may  that  come  to  pass  I 
Well-a-day  !’ 

Hie  away  to  the  house  on  the  brow. 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

And  knock  at  the  jolly  priest’s  door. 

‘ The  priest  often  preaches 
Against  worldly  riches, 

But  ne’er  gives  a mite  to  the  poor, 

Well-a-day !’ 

The  lawyer  lives  under  the  hill. 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

Warmly  fenced  both  in  back  and  in  front. 

‘ He  will  fasten  his  locks. 

And  will  threaten  the  stocks 

Should  he  ever  more  find  me  in  want, 
Well-a-day !’ 

The  squire  has  fat  beeves  and  brown  ale. 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

And  the  season  will  welcome  you  there. 

‘ His  fat  beeves  and  his  beer. 

And  his  merry  new  year. 

Are  all  for  the  flush  and  the  fair, 

Well-a-day !’ 

My  keg  is  but  low,  I confess. 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

What  then  ? While  it  lasts,  man,  we’ll  live. 

‘ The  poor  man  alone. 

When  he  hears  the  poor  moan. 

Of  his  morsel  a morsel  will  give, 

M'ell-a-day !’ 

Holcroft  wrote  another  novel,  Brian  Perdue,  but  it 
is  greatly  inferior  to  his  former  productions.  His 
whole  works,  indeed,  were  eclipsed  by  those  of 
Godwin,  and  have  now  fallen  out  of  notice. 

ROBERT  BADE. 

Another  novelist  of  a similar  stamp  was  Robert 
Bage,  a Quaker,  who,  like  Holcroft,  imbibed  the 
principles  of  the  French  revolution,  and  infused 
them  into  various  works  of  fiction.  Bage  was  born 
at  Darley,  in  Derbyshire,  on  the  29th  of  February 
1728.  His  father  was  a paper-maker,  and  his  son 
continued  in  the  same  occupation  through  life.  His 
manufactory  was  at  Elford,  near  Tamworth,  where 
he  realised  a decent  competence.  During  the  la.st 
eight  years  of  his  life,  Bage  resided  at  Tamworth, 
where  he  died  on  the  1st  of  September  1801.  The 
works  of  this  author  are.  Mount  Kenneth,  1781; 

546 


Sovelisto. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SOPHIA  AND  HARRIET  LEE. 


Barham  Downs,  1784  ; The  Fair  S;/rian,  1787  ; 
I James  Wallace,  1788  ; Alan  as  He  Is,  1792  ; llerms- 

prong,  or  Man  as  He  Is  Not,  1796.  Rage’s  novels 
I are  decidedly  inferior  to  those  of  Ilolcroft,  and  it  is 

surprising  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  should  have  ad- 
mitted them  into  his  novelists’  library,  and  at  the 
same  time  excluded  so  many  superior  works.  ‘ Bar- 
ham Downs’  and  ‘Hermsprong’  are  the  most  inte- 
resting of  the  series,  and  contain  some  good  satirical 
portraits,  though  the  plots  of  both  are  crude  and 
defective. 


SOPHIA  AND  HARRIET  LEE. 

These  ladies,  authoresses  of  The  Canterbury  Tales, 
a series  of  striking  and  romantic  fictions,  were  the 
daughters  of  Mr  Lee,  a gentleman  who  had  been 
articled  to  a solicitor,  but  who  adopted  the  stage  as 
a profession.  Sophia  was  born  in  London  in  1750. 
She  was  the  eldest  of  the  sisters,  and  the  early  death 
of  her  mother  devolved  upon  her  the  cares  of  the 
household.  She  secretly  cultivated,  however,  a 
strong  attachment  to  literature.  Her  first  appear- 
ance as  an  author  was  not  made  till  her  thirtieth 
year,  when  she  produced  her  comedy,  The  Chapter 
of  Accidents,  which  was  brought  out  at  the  Hay- 
market  theatre  by  the  elder  Colman,  and  received 
with  great  applause.  The  profits  of  this  piece  were 
devoted  by  Miss  Lee  towards  establishing  a semi- 
nary for  young  ladies  at  Bath,  which  was  rendered 
the  more  necessary  by  the  death  of  her  father  in 
1781.  Thither,  accordingly,  the  sisters  repaired, 
and  their  talents  and  prudence  were  rewarded  by 
rapid  and  permanent  success.  In  1784  she  published 
the  first  volume  of  The  Recess,  or  a Tale  of  Other 
Times;  which  was  soon  followed  hy  the  remainder 
of  the  tale,  the  work  having  instantly  become  popu- 
lar. The  time  selected  by  Miss  Lee  as  the  subject 
of  her  story  was  that  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  her 
production  may  be  considered  one  of  the  earliest  of 
our  historical  romances.  It  is  tinged  with  a melan- 
choly and  contemplative  spirit;  and  the  same  feeling 
is  displayed  in  her  next  production,  a tragedy  entitled 
Almeijda,  Queen  of  Grenada,  produced  in  1796.  In 
the  succeeding  year,  Harriet  Lee  published  the  first 
volume  of  ‘ The  Canterbury  Tales,’  which  ultimately 
extended  to  five  volumes.  Two  only  of  the  stories 
were  the  production  of  Sophia  Lee,  namely.  The 
Young  Lady's  Tale,  or  the  Two  Emilys,  and  The  Clergy- 
mans Tale.  They  are  characterised  by  great  ten- 
derness and  feeling ; but  the  more  striking  features 
of  the  ‘ Canterbury  Tales,’  and  the  great  merit  of 
the  collection,  belong  to  Harriet  Lee.  Kruitzner,  or 
the  German’s  Tale,  fell  into  the  hands  of  Byron  when 
he  was  about  fourteen.  ‘ It  made  a deep  impression 
upon  me,’  he  says,  ‘ and  may  indeed  be  said  to  con- 
tain the  germ  of  much  that  I have  since  written.’ 
While  residing  at  Pisa  in  1821,  Byron  dramatised 
Miss  Lee’s  romantic  story,  and  published  his  version 
of  it  under  the  title  of*  Werner,  or  the  Inheritance.’ 
The  incidents,  and  much  of  the  language  of  the  play, 
are  directly  copied  from  the  novel,  and  the  public 
were  unanimous  in  considering  Harriet  Lee  as  more 
interesting,  passionate,  and  even  more  poetical,  than 
her  illustrious  imitator.  ‘ The  story,’  says  one  of 
the  critics  whom  Byron’s  play  recalled  to  the  merits 
of  Harriet  Lee,  ‘ is  one  of  the  most  powerfully  con- 
ceived, one  of  the  most  picturesque,  and  at  the  same 
time  instructive  stories,  that  we  are  acquainted  with. 
Indeed,  thus  led  as  we  are  to  name  Harriet  Lee, 
we  cannot  allow  the  opportunity  to  pass  without 
saying  that  we  have  always  considered  her  works 
as  standing  upon  the  verge  of  the  very  first  rank  of 
excellence ; that  is  to  say,  as  inferior  to  no  English 
novels  whatever,  excepting  those  of  Fielding,  Sterne, 


Smollett,  Richardson,  Defoe,  Radcliffe,  Godwin, 
Edgeworth,  and  the  author  of  Waverley.  It  would 
not,  perhaps,  be  going  too  far  to  say,  that  the  “ Can- 
terbury Tales”  exhibit  more  of  that  species  of  inven- 
tion which,  as  we  have  already  remarked,  was  never 
common  in  English  literature,  than  any  of  the  works 
even  of  those  first-rate  novelists  we  have  named, 
with  the  single  exception  of  Fielding.  “ Kruitzner, 
or  the  German’s  Tale,”  possesses  mystery,  and  yet 
clearness,  as  to  its  structure,  strength  of  characters, 
and,  above  all,  the  most  lively  interest,  blended  with, 
and  subservient  to,  the  most  affecting  of  moral  les- 
sons. The  main  idea  which  lies  at  the  root  of  it  is 
the  horror  of  an  erring  father,  who,  having  been 
detected  in  vice  by  his  son,  has  dared  to  defend  his 
own  sin,  and  so  to  perplex  the  son’s  notions  of  moral 
rectitude,  on  finding  that  the  son,  in  his  turn,  has 
pushed  the  false  principles  thus  instilled  to  the  last 
and  worst  extreme — on  hearing  his  own  sophistries 
flung  in  his  face  by  a murderer.’*  The  short  and 
spirited  style  of  these  tales,  and  the  frequent  dia- 
logues they  contain,  impart  to  them  something  of  a 
dramatic  force  and  interest,  and  prevent  their  tiring 
the  patience  of  the  reader,  like  too  many  of  the  three- 
volume  novels.  In  1803  Miss  Sophia  Lee  retired 
from  the  duties  of  her  scholastic  establishment, 
having  earned  an  independent  provision  for  the 
remainder  of  her  life.  Shortly  afterwards  she  pub- 
lished The  Life  of  a Lover,  a tale  which  she  had 
written  early  in  life,  and  which  is  marked  by  juve- 
nility of  thought  and  expression,  though  with  her 
usual  warmth  and  richness  of  description.  In  1807, 
a comedy  from  her  pen,  called  The  Assignation,  was 
performed  at  Drury  Lane?  but  played  only  once, 
the  audience  conceiving  that  some  of  the  satirical 
portraits  were  aimed  at  popular  individuals.  Miss 
Lee  finally  settled  at  Clifton,  where  she  resided 
twelve  years,  and  died  on  the  13th  of  March  1824, 
in  the  arms  of  her  affectionate  and  accomplished 
sister. 

Miss  Harriet  Lee,  besides  the  ‘ Canterbury  Tales,’ 
wrote  two  dramas.  The  New  Peerage,  and  The  Three 
Strangers.  The  plot  of  the  latter  is  chiefly  taken 
from  her  German  tale.  The  play  was  brought  out 
at  Covent  Garden  theatre  in  December  1835,  but 
was  barely  tolerated  for  one  night. 

[^Introduction  to  the  Canterhwy  Tales.'\ 

Theie  are  people  in  the  world  who  think  their  lives 
well  employed  in  collecting  shells  ; there  are  others 
not  less  satisfied  to  spend  theirs  in  classing  butterflies. 
For  my  own  part,  I always  preferred  animate  to  inani- 
mate nature  ; and  would  rather  post  to  the  antipodes 
to  mark  a new  character,  or  develop  a singular  inci- 
dent, than  become  a fellow  of  the  Royal  Society  by  en- 
riching museums  with  nondescripts.  From  this  account 
you,  my  gentle  reader,  may,  without  any  extraordi- 
nary penetration,  have  discovered  that  I am  among 
the  eccentric  p.art  of  mankind,  by  the  courtesy  of  each 
other,  and  themselves,  ycleped  poets — a title  which, 
however  mean  or  contemptible  it  may  sound  to  those 
not  honoured  with  it,  never  yet  was  rejected  by  a 
single  mortal  on  whom  the  suffrage  of  mankind  con- 
ferred it  ; no,  though  the  laurel  leaf  of  Apollo,  barren 
in  its  nature,  was  twined  by  the  frozen  fingers  ot 
Poverty,  and  shed  upon  the  brow  it  crowned  her  chill 
ing  influence.  But  when  did  it  so  ? Too  often  des- 
tined to  deprive  its  graced  owner  of  every  real  good 
by  an  enchantment  which  we  know  not  how  to  define, 
it  comprehends  in  itself  such  a variety  of  pleasures 
and  possessions,  that  well  may  one  of  us  cry — 

Thy  lavish  charter,  taste,  appropriates  all  we  see ! 

* Blackwood's  Magazine,  vok  xii. 


547 


fROM  1780 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TILL  HIE  PRESENT  T/Mh, 


llaiipily,  too,  we  are  not  like  virtuosi  in  general,  en- 
cumbered with  the  treasures  gathered  in  our  peregri- 
nations. Compact  in  their  nature,  they  lie  all  in  the 
sniail  cavities  of  our  brain,  which  are,  indeed,  often  so 
small,  as  to  render  it  doubtful  whether  we  have  any 
at  all.  The  few  discoveries  I have  made  in  that 
richest  of  mines,  the  human  soul,  I have  not  been 
churl  enough  to  keep  to  myself ; nor,  to  say  truth, 
unlc.ss  1 can  find  out  some  other  means  of  sujiporting 
my  corporeal  existence  than  animal  food,  do  1 think 
I shall  ever  be  able  to  afford  that  sullen  affectation  of 
superiority. 

Travelling,  I have  already  said,  is  my  taste ; and, 
to  make  my  journeys  pay  for  themselves,  my  object. 
Much  against  my  good  liking,  some  troublesome  fel- 
lows, a few  months  ago,  took  the  liberty  of  making  a 
little  home  of  mine  their  own  ; nor,  till  I had  coined 
a small  portion  of  my  brain  in  the  mint  of  my  worthy 
friend  George  Robinson,  could  I induce  them  to  de- 
part. I gave  a proof  of  my  politeness,  however,  in 
leaving  my  hou.se  to  them,  and  retired  to  the  coast  of 
Kent,  where  I fell  to  work  very  busily.  Gay  with  the 
hope  of  shutting  my  door  on  these  unwelcome  visi- 
tants, 1 walked  in  a severe  frost  from  Deal  to  Dover, 
to  secure  a seat  in  the  stage-coach  t(  London.  One 
only  was  vacant ; and  having  engaged  t,  ‘ maugre  the 
freezing  of  the  bitter  sky,’  I wandered  forth  to  note 
the  memorabilia  of  Dover,  and  was  soon  lost  in  one  of 
my  fits  of  exquisite  abstraction. 

With  reverence  I looked  up  to  the  cliff  which  our 
immortal  bard  has,  with  more  fancy  than  truth,  de- 
scribed. With  toil  mounted,  by  an  almost  endless 
staircase,  to  the  top  of  a castle,  which  added  nothing 
to  my  poor  stock  of  ideas  but  the  length  of  our  virgin 
queen’s  pocket-pistol — that  truly  Dutch  present : cold 
and  weary,  1 was  pacing  towards  the  inn,  when  asharp- 
visaged  barber  popped  his  head  over  his  shop-door  to 
reconnoitre  the  inquisitive  stranger.  A bri.-k  fire, 
which  I suddenly  ca.st  my  eye  on,  invited  my  fro,".en 
hands  and  feet  to  its  precincts.  A civil  question  to 
the  honest  man  produced  on  his  part  a civil  invita- 
tion ; and  having  placed  me  in  a snug  seat,  he  readily 
gave  me  the  benefit  of  all  his  oral  tradition. 

‘ Sir,’  he  said,  ‘ it  is  mighty  lucky  you  came  across 
me.  The  vulgar  people  of  this  town  have  no  geiiiu.s, 
sir — no  taste ; they  never  show  the  greatest  curiosity 
in  the  place.  Sir,  we  have  here  the  tomb  of  a poet !’ 

‘ The  tomb  of  a poet !’  cried  I,  with  a spring  that 
electrified  my  informant  no  less  than  myself.  ‘ What 
poet  lies  here?  and  where  is  he  buried?’ 

‘ Ay,  that  is  the  curiosity,’  returned  he  exultingly. 

I smiled  ; his  distinction  was  so  like  a barber.  While 
he  had  been  speaking,  I recollected  he  must  allude  to 
the  grave  of  Churchill — that  vigorous  genius  who,  well 
calculated  to  stand  forth  the  champion  of  freedom, 
has  recorded  himself  the  slave  of  party,  and  the  vic- 
tim of  spleen!  So,  however,  thought  not  the  barber, 
who  considered  him  as  the  first  of  human  beings. 

‘ This  great  man,  sir,’  continued  he,  ‘ who  lived  and 
died  in  the  cause  of  liberty,  is  interred  in  a very  re- 
markable spot,  sir ; if  you  were  not  so  cold  and  so 
tired,  sir,  I could  show  it  you  in  a moment.’  Curio- 
sity is  an  excellent  greatcoat : I forgot  I had  no 
other,  and  strode  after  the  barber  to  a spot  surrounded 
by  ruined  walls,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  the  white 
marble  tablet,  marked  with  Churchill’s  name — to  ap- 
pearance its  only  distinction. 

‘ Cast  your  eyes  on  the  walls,’  said  the  important 
barber ; ‘ they  once  enclosed  a church,  as  you  may 
see  I’ 

On  inspecting  the  crumbling  ruins  more  narrowly, 

I did,  indeed,  discern  the  traces  of  Gothic  architec- 
ture. 

‘ Y es,  sir,’  cried  my  friend  the  barber,  with  the  con- 
•oious  pride  of  an  Englishman,  throwing  out  a gaui.t 
leg  and  arm,  ‘ Churchill,  the  champion  of  liberty,  is 


interred  here!  Here,  sir,  in  the  vti7  ground  where 
King  .John  did  homage  for  the  crown  he  disgraced.’ 

The  idea  was  grand.  In  the  eye  of  fancy  the  slen- 
der pillars  again  lifted  high  the  vaulted  ro(jf  that 
rang  with  solemn  chantings.  I saw  the  insolent 
legate  seated  in  scarlet  pride.  I saw  the  sneers  < f 
many  a mitred  abbot.  I saw,  bareheaded,  the  meat 
the  [irostrate  king.  I saw,  in  short,  everything  but 
the  barber,  whom  in  my  flight  and  swell  of  soul  1 
had  outwalked  and  lost.  Some  more  curious  traveller 
may  again  pick  him  up,  perhaps,  and  learn  more  mi- 
nutely the  fact. 

Waking  from  my  reverie,  I found  myself  on  the 
pier.  The  pale  beams  of  a powerless  sun  gilt  the  fluc- 
tuating waves  and  the  distant  spires  of  Calais,  which 
I now  clearly  surveyed.  What  a new  train  of  images 
here  sprung  up  in  my  mind,  borne  away  by  succeed- 
ing impressions  with  no  less  rapidity  ! From  the  monk 
of  Sterne  I travelled  up  in  five  minutes  to  the  inflex- 
ible Edward  III.  sentencing  the  noble  burghers  ; and 
having  seen  them  saved  by  the  eloquence  of  Philiiipa, 
I wanted  no  better  seasoning  for  my  mutton-cliop, 
and  pitied  the  empty-headed  peer  who  was  stamping 
over  my  little  parlour  in  fury  at  the  cook  for  having 
over-roasted  his  pheasant. 

The  coachman  now  showed  his  ruby  face  at  the  door, 
and  I jumped  into  the  stage,  where  were  already  seated 

two  passengers  of  my  own  sex,  and  one  of would 

I could  say  the  fairer!  But,  though  truth  may  not 
be  spoken  at  all  times,  even  upon  paper,  one  now  and 
then  may  do  her  justice.  Half  a glance  di.scovered 
that  the  good  lady  opposite  to  me  had  never  been 
handsome,  and  now  added  the  injuries  of  time  to  the 
■severity  of  nature.  Civil  but  cold  compliments  hav- 
ing passed,  I closed  my  eyes  to  expand  my  soul  ; and, 
while  fabricating  a brief  poetical  history  of  England, 
to  help  short  memories,  was  something  astonished  to 
find  myself  tugged  violently  by  the  sleeve ; and  not 
less  so  to  see  the  coach  empty,  and  hear  an  ob.stinate 
waiter  insist  upon  it  that  we  were  at  Canterbury,  and 
the  supper  ready  to  be  put  on  the  table.  It  had 
snowed,  I found,  for  some  time ; in  consideration  of 
which  mine  host  had  prudently  suffered  the  fire  nearly 
to  <ro  out.  A dim  candle  was  on  the  table,  without 
snuffers,  and  a bell-string  hanging  over  it,  at  whicl 
we  pulled,  but  it  had  long  ceased  to  operate  on  thal 
noi.sy  convenience.  Alas,  poor  Shenstone!  how  often, 
during  these  excursions,  do  I think  of  thee.  Cold, 
indeed,  must  have  been  thy  acceptation  in  .society,  if 
thou  couldst  seriously  say. 

Whoe’er  has  travelled  life’s  dull  round. 
Where’er  his  various  course  has  been. 

Must  sigh  to  think  how  oft  he  found 
His  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn. 

Had  the  gentle  bard  told  us  that,  in  this  sad  sub- 
stitute for  home,  despite  of  all  our  impatience  to  be 
gone,  we  must  stay  not  only  till  wind  and  weather, 
but  landlords,  postilions,  and  ostlers  choose  to  permit. 

I should  have  thought  he  knew  more  of  travelling 
and,  stirring  the  fire,  snuffing  the  candles,  reconnoit- 
ring the  company,  and  modifying  my  own  humour, 
should  at  once  have  tried  to  make  the  best  of  my  situ- 
ation. After  all,  he  is  a wise  man  who  does  at  first 
what  he  must  do  at  last;  and  I was  just  breaking  the 
ice  on  finding  that  1 had  nursed  the  fire  to  the  general 
satisfaction,  when  the  coach  from  London  added  three 
to  our  party ; and  common  civility  obi*  ed  those  who 
came  first  to  make  way  for  the  yet  more  frozen  tra- 
vellers. We  supped  together;  and  1 was  something 
surprised  to  find  our  two  coachmen  allowed  us  such 
.ample  time  to  enjoy  our  little  bowl  of  punch  ; when 
lo!  with  dolorous  countenances  they  came  to  give  us 
notice  that  the  snow  was  so  heavy,  and  already  so  deep, 
as  to  make  our  jiroceeding  by  either  road  dangerous, 
if  not  utterly  impracticable. 


548 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SOHIUA  AND  HARRIET  LEB. 


‘ If  that  ia  really  the  case,’  cried  I mentally,  ‘ let 
us  -ic  what  we  may  hope  from  the  construction  of  the 
8e  -?n  heads  that  constitute  our  company.’  Observe, 
go  .tie  reader,  that  I do  not  mean  the  outward  and 
visible  form  of  those  heads;  for  I am  not  amongst 
the  new  race  of  physiognomists  who  exhaust  in- 
vention only  to  ally  their  own  species  to  the  animal 
creation,  and  would  rather  prove  the  skull  of  a man 
reseinbled  an  ass,  than,  looking  within,  find  in  the 
intellect  a glorious  similitude  of  the  Deity.  An  ele- 
gant author  more  justly  conveys  my  idea  of  phy- 
siognomy, when  he  says,  that  ‘ different  sensibilities 
gather  into  the  countenance  and  become  beauty  there, 
as  colours  mount  in  a tulip  and  enrich  it.’  It  was 
my  interest  to  be  as  happy  as  I could,  and  that  can 
; only  be  when  we  look  around  with  a wish  to  be  pleased : 

I nor  could  I ever  find  a way  of  unlocking  the  human 
I heart,  but  by  frankly  inviting  others  to  peep  into  my 
I own.  And  now  for  my  survey. 

In  the  chimney-corner  sat  nij’  old  gentlewoman,  a 
little  alarmed  at  a coffin  that  had  popped  from  the  fire, 
instead  of  a purse ; ergo,  superstition  was  her  weak 
side.  In  sad  conformity  to  declining  years,  she  had 
put  on  her  spectacles,  taken  out  her  knitting,  and  thus 
humbly  retired  from  attention,  which  she  had  long, 
perhaps,  been  hopeless  of  attracting.  Close  by  her 
was  placed  a young  lady  from  London,  in  the  bloom 
of  nineteen  : a cross  on  her  bosom  showed  her  to  be 
a Catholic,  and  a peculiar  accent  an  Irishwoman  ; her 
face,  especially  her  eyes,  might  be  termed  handsome  ; 
of  those  archness  would  have  been  the  expression,  had 
not  the  absence  of  her  air  proved  that  their  sense  was 
turned  inward,  to  contemplate  in  her  heart  some 
chosen  cherished  image.  Love  and  romance  reigned 
in  every  lineament. 

A French  abbe  had,  as  is  usual  with  gentlemen  of 
that  country,  edged  himself  into  the  seat  by  the  belle, 
to  whom  he  continually  addres.sed  himself  with  all 
sorts  of  petits  soins,  though  fatigue  was  obvious  in  his 
air  ; and  the  impression  of  some  danger  escaped  gave 
a wild  sharpness  to  every  feature.  ‘ Thou  hast  cora- 
pri.sed,’  thought  I,  ‘ the  knowledge  of  a whole  life  in 
perhaps  the  last  month  : and  then,  perhaps,  didst  thou 
first  study  the  art  of  thinking,  or  learn  the  misery  of 
feeling  !’  Neither  of  these  seemed,  however,  to  have 
troubled  his  neighbour,  a portly  Englishman,  who, 
though  with  a sort  of  surly  good  nature  he  had  given 
up  his  place  at  the  fire,  yet  contrived  to  engross  both 
candles,  by  holding  before  them  a newspaper,  where 
he  dwelt  upon  the  article  of  stocks,  till  a bloody  duel 
in  Ireland  induced  communication,  and  enabled  me 
to  discover  that,  in  spite  of  the  importance  of  his  air, 
credulity  might  be  reckoned  amongst  his  charac- 
teristics. 

The  opposite  comer  of  the  fire  had  been,  by  general 
consent,  given  up  to  one  of  the  London  travellers, 
whose  age  and  infirmities  challenged  regard,  while 
his  aspect  awakened  the  most  melting  benevolence. 
Suppose  an  anchorite,  sublimed  by  devotion  and  tem- 
perance from  all  human  frailty,  and  you  will  see  this 
interesting  aged  clergyman  : so  pale,  so  pure  was  his 
complexion,  so  slight  his  figure,  though  tall,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  his  soul  was  gradually  divesting  itself  of 
I the  covering  of  mortality,  that  when  the  hour  of  sepa- 
I rating  it  from  the  body  came,  hardly  should  the  greedy 
grave  claim  aught  of  a being  so  ethereal!  ‘Oh,  what 
lessons  of  patience  and  sanctity  couldst  thou  give,’ 
thought  I,  ‘ were  it  my  fortune  to  find  the  key  of  thy 
I heart !’ 

An  officer  in  the  middle  of  life  occupied  the  next 
seat.  Mar''  ial  and  athletic  in  his  person,  of  a coun- 
tenance open  and  sensible,  tanned,  as  it  seemed,  by 
severe  service,  his  forehead  only  retained  its  whiteness  ; 
et  that,  with  assimilating  graceful  manners,  rendered 
im  very  prepossessing. 

That  seven  sensible  people,  for  I include  myself  in 


that  description,  should  tumble  out  of  two  stage- 
coaches, and  be  thrown  together  so  oddly,  was,  in  my 
opinion,  an  incident ; and  why  not  make  it  really 
one  ? 1 hastily  advanced,  and,  turning  my  back  to 

the  fire,  fixed  the  eyes  of  the  whole  company — not  on 
my  person,  for  that  was  noway  singular — not,  I would 
fain  hope,  upon  my  coat,  which  I had  forgotten  till 
that  moment  was  threadbare ; I had  rather  of  the 
three  imagine  my  assurance  the  object  of  general  at- 
tention. However,  no  one  spoke,  and  I was  obliged 
to  second  my  own  motion. 

‘ Sir,’  cried  I to  the  Englishman,  who,  by  the  time 
he  had  kept  the  jiaper,  had  certainly  spelt  its  con- 
tents, ‘ do  you  find  anything  entertaining  in  that 
newspaper  ?’ 

‘ No,  sir,’  returned  he  most  laconically. 

‘Then  you  might  perhaps  find  something  entertain- 
ing out  of  it,’  added  I. 

‘ Perhaps  I might,’  retorted  he  in  a provoking 
accent,  and  surveying  me  from  top  to  toe.  The  French- 
man laughed — so  did  I — it  is  the  only  way  when  one 
has  been  more  witty  than  wise.  I returned  presently, 
however,  to  the  attack. 

‘ How  charmingly  might  we  fill  a long  evening,’  re- 
sumed I,  with,  as  1 thought,  a most  ingratiating  smile, 

‘ if  each  of  the  company  would  relate  the  most  re- 
markable story  he  or  she  ever  knew  or  heard  of !’ 

‘Truly  we  might  make  a long  evening  that  way,’ 
again  retorted  my  torment,  the  Englishman.  ‘ However, 
if  you  please,  we  will  waive  your  plan,  sir,  till  to-mor- 
row ; and  then  we  shall  have  the  additional  resort  of 
our  dreams,  if  our  memories  fail  us.’  He  now,  with  a 
negligent  yawn,  rang,  and  ordered  the  chambermaid. 
The  two  females  rose  of  course,  and  in  one  moment 
an  overbearing  clown  cut  short  ‘ the  feast  of  reason 
and  the  flow  of  soul.’  I forgot  it  snowed,  and  went 
to  bed  in  a fever  of  rage.  A charming  tale  ready  for 
the  press  in  my  travelling  desk — the  harvest  I might 
make  could  I prevail  on  each  of  the  company  to  tell 
me  another  ! Reader,  if  you  ever  had  an  empty  purse, 
and  an  unread  performance  of  your  own  burning  ia 
your  pocket  and  your  heart,  I need  not  ask  you  to  pity 
me. 

Fortune,  however,  more  kindly  than  usual,  took  my 
case  into  consideration  ; for  the  morning  showed  me 
a snow  .so  deep,  that  had  Thomas  a Becket  conde- 
scended to  attend  at  his  own  shrine  to  greet  those  who 
inquired  for  it,  not  a soul  could  have  got  at  the 
cathedral  to  pay  their  devoirs  to  the  complaisant 
iiichbishop. 

On  entering  the  breakfast-room,  I found  mine 
host  had,  at  the  desire  of  some  one  or  other  of  the 
company,  already  produced  his  very  small  stock  of 
books,  consisting  of  the  Army  List,  the  Whole  Art  of 
Farriery,  and  a volume  of  imperfect  magazines  ; a 
small  supply  of  mental  food  for  seven  hungry  people. 
Vanity  never  deserts  itself:  I thought  I was  greeted 
with  more  than  common  civility ; and  having  satis- 
fied my  grosser  appetite  with  tea  .and  toast,  resumed 
the  idea  of  the  night  before — assuring  the  young  lady 
that  ‘ I was  certain,  from  her  fine  eyes,  she  could 
melt  us  with  a tender  story  ; while  the  sober  matron 
could  improve  us  by  a wise  cue:’  a circular  bow 
showed  similar  hopes  from  the  gentlemen.  The  plan 
was  adopted,  and  the  exultation  of  oon.scious  supe- 
riority flushed  my  cheek. 

DR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Dr  John  Moore,  author  of  Zeruiro,  ana  other 
works,  was  born  at  Stirling  in  the  year  1729.  His 
father  was  one  of  the  clergymen  of  that  town,  but 
died  in  1737,  leaving  seven  children  to  t'le  care  of 
his  excellent  widow.  Mrs  Moore  removed  to  Glas- 
gow-, where  her  relations  resided,  possessed  of  consi- 
derable property.  After  the  usual  education  at  the 

549 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMB. 


university  of  Glasfrow,  Jolin  was  jiut  apprentice  to 
Mr  (lonlon.  a surpeoii  of  extensive  practice,  witli 
whom  Smollett  had  been  apprenticed  a few  years 
before.  In  his  nineteenth  year,  Moore  accompanied 
the  Duke  of  Arffyle’s  regiment  abroad,  and  at- 
tended the  military  hospitals  at  Macstricht  in  the 
capacity  of  surgeon’s  mate.  From  thence  he  went 
to  Flushing  and  Breda;  and  on  the  termination  of 
ho.stilities,  he  accompanied  General  Braddock  to 
England.  Soon  afterwards  he  became  household 
surgeon  to  the  Earl  of  Albemarle,  the  British  am- 
bassador at  the  court  of  Versailles.  Ilis  old  master, 
Mr  Gorilon,  now  invited  him  to  become  a partner  in 
his  business  in  Glasgow,  and,  after  two  years’  resi- 
dence in  Paris,  Moore  accepted  the  invitation.  lie 
practised  for  many  years  in  Glasgow  with  great 
success.  In  1772  he  was  induced  to  accompany  the 
young  Duke  of  Hamilton  to  the  continent,  where 
they  resided  five  years,  in  France,  Switzerland,  Ger- 
many, and  Italy.  Keturning  in  1778,  Moore  re- 
moved his  family  to  London,  and  commenced  phy- 
sician in  the  metropolis.  In  1779  he  published  A 
T'ieio  of  Society  and  Manners  in  France,  Switzerland, 
and  Germany,  in  two  volumes,  which  was  received 
with  general  approbation.  In  1781  appeared  his 
View  of  Society  and  Manners  in  Italy;  in  1785 
Medical  Sketches;  and  in  1786  his  Zehico : Various 
Views  of  Human  Nature,  tiken  from  Life  and  Man- 
ners, Foreign  and  Domestic.  The  object  of  this 
novel  w'as  to  prove  that,  in  spite  of  the  gayest  and 
most  prosperous  appearances,  inward  misery  al- 
ways accompanies  vice.  'I'he  hero  of  the  tale  was  the 
only  son  of  a noble  family  in  Sicily,  spoiled  by 
maternal  indulgence,  and  at  length  rioting  in  every 
prodigality  and  vice.  The  idea  of  such  a character 
w.as  probably  suggested  by  Smollett’s  Count  Fathom, 
but  Moore  took  a wider  range  of  character  and  inci- 
dent. He  made  his  hero  accomplished  and  fas- 
cinating, thus  avoiding  the  feeling  of  contempt  with 
which  the  abject  villany  of  Fathom  is  unavoidably 
regarded ; and  he  traced,  step  by  step,  through  a 
succession  of  scenes  and  adventures,  the  progress  of 
depravity,  and  the  effects  of  uncontrolled  passion. 
The  incident  of  the  favourite  sparrow,  wdiich  Zeluco 
squeezed  to  death  when  a boy,  because  it  did  not 
perform  certain  tricks  which  he  had  taught  it,  lets 
us  at  once  into  the  pampered  selfishness  and  p.as- 
sionate  cruelty  of  his  disposition.  The  scene  of  the 
novel  is  laid  chiefly  in  Italy  ; and  the  author’s  fami- 
liarity with  foreign  manners  enabled  him  to  impart 
to  his  narrative  numerous  new  and  graphic  sketches. 
Zeluco  also  serves  in  the  Spanish  army;  and  at 
another  time  is  a slave-owner  in  the  West  Indies. 
The  latter  circumstance  gives  the  author  an  oppor- 
tunity of  condemning  the  system  of  slavery  with 
eloquence  and  humanity,  and  presenting  some  affect- 
ing pictures  of  suffering  and  attachment  in  the 
negro  race.  The  death  of  Hanno,  the  humane  and 
generous  slave,  is  one  of  Jloore’s  most  masterly 
delineations.  The  various  scenes  and  episodes  in  the 
novel  relieve  the  disagreeable  shades  of  a character 
constantly  deepening  in  vice ; for  Zeluco  has  no  re- 
deeming trait  to  link  him  to  our  sympathy  or  for- 
giveness. Moore  visited  Scotland  in  the  summer  of 
1786,  and  in  the  commencement  of  the  following 
year  took  a warm  interest  in  the  genius  and  fortunes 
of  Burns.  It  is  to  him  that  we  owe  the  precious 
autobiography  of  the  poet,  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing and  powerful  sketches  that  ever  was  written. 
In  their  correspondence  we  see  the  colossal  strength 
srid  lofty  mind  of  the  peasant-bard,  even  when 
placed  by  the  side  of  the  accomplished  and  learned 
traveller  and  man  of  taste.  In  August  1792,  Dr 
Moore  accompanied  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale  to  Paris, 
and  witnessed  some  of  the  e;irly  excesses  of  the 


French  revolution.  Of  this  tour  he  published  an 
account,  entitled  A Journal  During  a Hesidence  in 
France,  from  the  beginning  of  August  to  the  middle  of 
December  1792,  &c.  The  first  volume  of  this  work 
was  published  in  179.3,  and  a second  in  1794.  In 
1795  Dr  Moore,  wishing  to  give  a retrospective 
detail  of  the  circumstances  which  tended  to  hasten 
the  revolution,  drew  up  a carefully  digested  narra- 
tive, entitled  A View  of  the  Causes  and  Progress  of 
the  French  Revolution,  in  two  volumes.  'I'his  is  a 
valuable  w-ork,  and  it  has  been  pretty  closely  fol- 
lowed by  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  his  animated  and  pic- 
turesque survey  of  the  events  preceding  the  career 
of  Napoleon.  In  1796  Dr  Moore  produced  a second 
novel,  Edward:  Various  Views  of  Human  Nature, 
taken  from  Life  and  Manners,  chiefly  in  England.  As 
Zeluco  W'as  a model  of  villany,  Edward  is  a model  of 
virtue.  The  work,  altogether,  displays  great  know- 
ledge of  the  world,  a lively  rather  than  a correct 
style,  and  some  amusing  portraits  of  English  cha- 
racter; among  these,  that  of  Barnet  the  epicure 
(who  falls  in  love,  and  marries  a lady  for  her  skill 
in  dressing  a dish  of  stewed  carp,  and  who  is  made 
a good  husband  chiefly  by  his  wdfe’s  cookery  and 
attention  to  his  comforts)  is  undoubtedly  the  best. 

In  the  following  year  Moore  furnished  a life  of  his 
friend  Smollett  for  a collective  edition  of  his  works. 

In  1800  appeared  his  last  production,  Mordaunt: 
Sketches  of  Life,  Character,  and  Manners,  in  Various 
Countries,  including  the  Memoirs  of  a French  Lady  of 
Quality.  In  this  novel  our  author,  following  the 
example  of  Richardson  and  Smollett’s  Humphry 
Clinker,  threw  his  narrative  into  the  form  of  letters, 
part  being  dated  from  the  continent,  and  part  from 
England.  A tone  of  languor  and  insipidity  pervades 
the  story,  and  there  is  little  of  plot  or  incident  to 
keep  alive  attention.  Dr  Moore  died  at  Richmond 
on  the  21st  of  January  1802.  A complete  edition  of 
his  w'orks  has  been  published  in  seven  volumes,  with 
memoirs  of  his  life  and  writings  by  Dr  Robert  An- 
derson. Of  all  the  writings  of  Dr  Moore,  his  novel 
of  ‘Zeluco’  is  the  most  popular.  Mr  Dunlop  has 
given  the  preference  to  ‘Edward.’  The  latter  may 
boast  of  more  variety  of  character,  and  is  distin- 
guished by  judicious  observation  and  witty  remark, 
but  it  is  deficient  in  the  strong  interest  and  forcible 
painting  of  the  first  novel.  Zeluco’s  murder  of  his 
child  in  a fit  of  frantic  jealousy,  and  the  discovery 
of  the  circumstance  by  means  of  the  picture,  is  con- 
ceived with  great  originality,  and  has  a striking 
effect.  It  is  the  poetry  of  romance.  The  attach- 
ment between  Laura  and  Carlostein  is  also  de- 
scribed with  tenderness  and  delicacy,  without  de- 
generating into  German  sentimentalism  or  im- 
morality. Of  the  lighter  sketches,  the  scenes 
between  the  two  Scotchmen,  Targe  and  Buchanan, 
are  perhaps  the  best ; and  their  duel  about  Queen 
Mary  is  an  inimitable  piece  of  national  caricature. 

On  English  ground.  Dr  Moore  is  a careful  ob-  j 
server  of  men  and  manners.  The  conventional 
forms  of  society,  the  smartness  ot  dialogue,  the 
oddities  and  humours  of  particular  individuals,  the 
charlatanry  of  quacks  and  pretenders,  are  well  por-  ; 
trayed.  He  fails  chiefly  in  depth  of  passion  arid 
situations  of  strong  interest.  In  constructing  a plot, 
he  is  greatly  inferior  to  Smollett  or  Fielding.  Ed-  I 

ward,  like  Tom  Jones,  is  a foundling;  but  ‘ the  wind-  I 

ing  up  of  the  story  by  the  trite  contrivance  of  recog-  1 
nising  a lost  child  from  a mark  on  the  shoulder,  a | 
locket,  and  a miniature  picture,’  forms  a humbling 
contrast  to  the  series  of  incidents  and  events,  so 
natural,  dramatic,  and  interesting,  by  which  the 
birth  of  Fielding’s  hero  is  established.  There  is  no 
great  aiming  at  moral  effect  in  Moore’s  novels,  un- 
less it  be  in  depicting  the  wretchedness  of  vice,  and 

550 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


NOVEUSTS. 


its  tragic  termination  in  tlie  character  of  Zeluco. 
He  was  an  observer  rather  than  an  inventor;  he 
noted  more  tlian  he  felt.  The  same  powers  of 
observation  displayed  in  his  novels,  and  his  extensive 
acquaintance  with  mankind,  rendered  him  an  ad- 
mirable eliron  icier  of  the  striking  scenes  of  the 
French  revolution.  Numerous  as  are  the  works 
since  published  on  this  great  event,  the  journals 
and  remarks  of  Dr  Moore  may  still  be  read  with 
pleasure  and  instruction.  It  may  here  be  mentioned, 
that  the  distinguished  Sir  John  Moore,  who  fell  at 
Corunna,  was  the  eldest  son  of  the  novelist. 

{Disp'ite  and  Dud  'between  the  Two  Scotch  Servants  in 
Italy.} 

[From  ‘ Zeluco.’] 

[Duncan  Tarjee,  a hot  Highlander,  who  had  been  out  in  the 
Forty-Five,  and  George  Buchanan,  bom  and  educated  among 
the  Whigs  of  the  west  of  Scotland,  both  serving-men  in  Italy, 
meet  and  dine  together  during  the  absence  of  their  masters. 
After  dinner,  and  the  bottle  having  circulated  freely,  they  dis- 
agree as  to  politics.  Targe  being  a keen  Jacobite,  and  the  other 
a stanch  Whig.] 

Buchanan  filled  a bumper,  and  gave,  for  the  toast, 
‘ The  Land  of  Cakes  !’ 

This  immediately  dispersed  the  cloud  which  began 
to  gather  on  the  other’s  brow. 

Targe  drank  the  toast  with  enthusiasm,  saying, ‘May 
the  Almighty  pour  his  blessings  on  every  hill  and 
valley  in  it ! that  is  the  worst  wish,  Mr  Buchanan, 
that  I shall  wer  wish  to  that  land.’ 

‘ It  would  delight  your  heart  to  behold  the  flourish- 
ing condition  it  is  now  in,’  replied  Buchanan  ; ‘ it 
was  fast  improving  when  I left  it,  and  I have  been 
credibly  informed  since  that  it  is  now  a perfect  garden.’ 
‘ I am  very  happy  to  hear  it,’  said  Targe. 

‘ Indeed,’  added  Buchanan,  ‘ it  has  been  in  a state 
of  rapid  improvement  ever  since  the  Union.’ 

‘ Confound  the  Union  !’  cried  Targe ; ‘ it  would  have 
improved  much  faster  without  it.’ 

‘ I am  not  quite  clear  on  that  point,  Mr  Targe,’ 
said  Buchanan. 

‘ Depend  upon  it,’  replied  Targe,  ‘ the  Union  was 
the  worst  treaty  that  Scotland  ever  made.’ 

‘ I siiall  admit,’  said  Buchanan,  ‘ that  she  might 
have  made  a better ; but,  bad  as  it  is,  our  country 
reaps  some  advantage  from  it.’ 

‘All  the  advantages  are  on  the  side  of  England.’ 

‘ What  do  you  think,  Mr  Targe,’  said  Buchanan, 
‘of  the  increase  of  trade  since  the  Union,  and  the 
riches  which  have  flowed  into  the  Lowlands  of  Scot- 
land from  that  quarter  ?’ 

‘ Think,’  cried  Targe;  ‘why,  I think  they  have  done 
a great  deal  of  mischief  to  the  Lowlands  of  Scotland.’ 
‘ How  so,  my  good  friend  V said  Buchanan. 

‘ By  spreading  luxury  among  the  inhabitants,  the 
never-failing  forerunner  of  efleminacy  of  manners. 
Why,  I was  assured,’  continued  Targe,  ‘ by  Sergeant 
Lewis  Jlacneil,  a Highland  gentleman  in  the  Prussian 
service,  that  the  Lowlanders,  in  some  parts  of  Scot- 
land, are  now  very  little  better  than  so  many  English.’ 
‘ O fie  !’  cried  Buchanan  ; ‘ things  are  not  come  to 
that  pass  as  yet,  Mr  Targe : your  friend,  the  sergeant, 
assuredly  exaggerates.’ 

‘ I hope  he  does,’  replied  Targe  ; ‘ but  you  must  ac- 
knowledge,’ continued  he,  ‘ that  by  the  Union  Scot- 
land has  lost  her  existence  as  an  independent  state ; 
her  name  is  swallowed  up  in  that  of  England  1 Only 
read  the  English  newspapers ; they  mention  England, 
as  if  it  were  the  name  of  the  whole  island.  They  talk 
of  the  English  army,  the  English  fleet,  the  English 
everything.  They  never  mention  Scotland,  except 
when  one  of  our  countrymen  happens  to  get  an  ofiice 
under  government;  we  are  then  told,  with  some  stale 


DR  JOHN  MOORK. 


gibe,  that  the  person  is  a Scotchman  : or,  which  hap- 
pens still  more  rarely,  when  any  of  them  are  con- 
demned to  die  at  Tyburn,  p.articular  care  is  taken  to 
inform  the  public  that  the  criminal  is  originally  from 
Scotland  ! But  if  fifty  Englishmen  get  places,  or  are 
hanged,  in  one  year,  no  remarks  are  made.’ 

‘ No,’  said  Buchanan  ; ‘ in  that  case  it  is  passed  over 
as  a thing  of  course.’ 

The  conversation  then  taking  another  turn.  Targe, 
who  was  a great  genealogist,  descanted  on  the  anti- 
quity of  certain  gentlemen’s  families  in  the  Highlands ; 
which,  he  asserted,  were  far  more  honourable  than 
most  of  the  noble  families  either  in  Scotland  or  Eng- 
land. ‘ Is  it  not  shameful,’  added  he,  ‘ that  a parcel 
of  mushroom  lords,  mere  sprouts  from  the  dunghills 
of  law  or  commerce,  the  grandsons  of  grocers  and 
attorneys,  should  take  the  pass  of  gentlemen  of  the 
oldest  families  in  Europe?’ 

‘ Why,  as  for  that  matter,’  replied  Buchanan,  ‘ pro- 
vided the  grandsons  of  grocers  or  attorneys  are  de- 
serving citizens,  I do  not  perceive  why  they  should  be 
excluded  from  the  king’s  favour  more  than  other 
men.’ 

‘ But  some  of  them  never  drew  a sword  in  defence 
of  either  their  king  or  country,’  rejoined  Targe. 

‘ Assuredly,’  said  Buchanan,  ‘ men  may  deserve 
honour  and  pre-eminence  by  other  means  than  by 
drawing  their  swords.  I could  name  a man  who  was 
no  soldier,  and  yet  did  more  honour  to  his  country 
than  all  the  soldiers,  or  lords,  or  lairds  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lived.’ 

‘ Who  was  he  ?’  said  Targe. 

‘ The  man  whose  name  I have  the  honour  to  bear,’ 
replied  the  other ; ‘ the  great  George  Buchanan.’ 

‘ Who  ? Buchanan  the  historian  ?’  cried  Targe. 

‘ Ay,  the  very  same !’  replied  Buchanan  in  a loud 
voice,  being  now  a little  heated  with  wine  and  ele- 
vated with  vanity  on  account  of  his  name.  ‘ Why, 
sir,’  continued  he,  ‘ George  Buchanan  was  not  only 
the  most  learned  man,  but  also  the  best  poet  of  his 
time.’ 

‘ Perhaps  he  might,’  said  Targe  coldly. 

‘ Perhaps !’  repeated  Buchanan  ; ‘ there  is  no  dubi- 
tation  in  the  case.  Do  you  remember  his  description 
of  his  own  country  and  countrymen?’ 

‘ I cannot  say  I do,’  replied  Targe. 

‘ Then  I will  give  you  a sample  of  his  versification,’ 
said  Buchanan,  who  immediately  repeated,  with  an 
enthusiastic  emphasis,  the  following  lines  from  Bucha- 
nan’s Epithalamium  on  the  Marriage  of  Francis  the 
Dauphin  with  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  : — 

Ilia  pharetratis  est  propria  gloria  Scotis, 

Cingere  venatu  saltus,  superare  natando 
Flumina,  ferre  famem,  contemnere  frigora  et  estus, 

Nec  fossa  et  muris  patriam,  sed  marte  tueri, 

Et  spreta  incolumcm  vita  defendere  famam ; 

Polliciti  servare  fidem,  sanctumque  vereri 
Numen  amicitias,  mores,  non  munus  amare 
Artibus  his,  totum  fremerunt  t um  bella  per  orbem, 
Nullaque  non  leges  tellus  muta.et  avitas 
Externo  subjecta  jugo,  gens  una  vetiistis 
Sedibus  antiqua  sub  libertate  resedit. 

Substitit  hie  Gothi  furor,  hie  gravis  impetus  hssit 
Baxonis,  hie  Cimber  superato  Saxone,  et  acri 
Perdomito,  Neuster  Cimbro. 

‘ I cannot  recollect  any  more.’ 

‘ Y ou  have  recollected  too  much  for  ,ne,’  said  Targe, 
‘ for  although  I was  several  years  at  an  academy  iu 
the  Highlands,  yet  I must  confess  I am  no  great 
Latin  scholar.’ 

‘ But  the  great  Buchanan,’  said  the  other,  ‘ was  the 
best  Latin  scholar  in  Europe ; he  wrote  that  language 
as  well  as  Livy  or  Horace.’ 

‘ I shall  not  dispute  it,’  said  Targe. 

‘ And  was,  over  and  above,  a man  of  the  first-rate 
genius!’  continued  Buchanan  with  exultation. 

S51 


FROM  I7B0  CYCLOPJiiDIA  OF  till  the  priwent  timl. 


‘ Well,  well ; all  that  may  be,’  replied  Targe  a 
little  peevishly;  ‘hut  let  me  tell  you  one  thing,  Mr 
Iluchanan,  if  he  could  have  swept*  one-half  of  his 
genius  for  a little  more  honesty,  he  would  have  made 
an  advantageous  exchange,  although  he  had  thrown 
all  his  Latin  into  the  bargain.’ 

‘ In  what  did  he  ever  show  any  want  of  honesty?’ 
said  Iluchanan. 

‘ In  calumniating  and  endeavouring  to  blacken  the 
reputation  of  his  rightful  sovereign,  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots,’  rej)lied  Targe,  ‘ the  most  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished princess  that  ever  .sat  on  a throne.’ 

‘ I have  nothing  to  say  either  against  her  beauty 
Qr  her  accomplishments,’  resumed  Buchanan;  ‘but 
6 irely,  Mr  'large,  you  must  acknowledge  that  she  was 
a V 

‘ Have  a care  what  you  say,  sir  !’  interrupted  Targe  ; 

‘ I’ll  permit  no  man  that  ever  wore  breeches  to  speak 
disrespectfully  of  that  unfortunate  queen  !’ 

‘No  man  tliat  ever  wore  either  breeches  or  a phi- 
labeg,’  replied  Buchanan,  ‘shall  prevent  me  from 
speaking  the  truth  when  I see  occasion !’ 

‘ Speak  as  much  truth  as  you  plea.se,  sir,’  rejoined 
Targe  ; ‘ but  I declare  that  no  man  shall  calumniate 
the  memory  of  that  beautiful  and  unfortunate  prin- 
cess in  my  pre.senco  while  I can  wield  a claymore.’ 

‘ If  you  should  wield  fifty  claymores,  you  cannot 
deny  that  she  was  a Papist !’  said  Buchanan. 

‘ Well,  sir,’  cried  Targe,  ‘ what  then  ? She  was, 
like  other  people,  of  the  religion  in  which  she  was 
bred.’ 

‘ I do  not  know  w’here  you  may  have  been  bred,  Mr 
Targe,’  said  Buchanan  ; ‘ for  aught  I know,  you  may 
be  an  adherent  to  the  worship  of  the  scarlet  lady 
yourself.  Unless  that  is  the  case,  you  ought  not  to 
interest  yourself  in  the  reputation  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots.’ 

‘ ’ fear  you  are  too  nearly  related  to  the  false  slan- 
derer whose  name  you  bear!’  said  Targe. 

‘I  glory  in  the  name;  and  should  think  myself 
greatly  obliged  to  any  man  who  could  prove  my  rela- 
tion to  the  great  George  Buchanan  !’  cried  the  other. 

‘ He  was  nothing  but  a disloyal  calumniator,’  cried 
Targe ; ‘ wdio  attempted  to  support  falsehoods  by  for- 
geries, which,  1 thank  Heaven,  are  now  fully  de- 
tected !’ 

‘ You  are  thankful  for  a very  small  mercy,’  resumed 
Buchanan  ; ‘ but  since  you  provoke  me  to  it,  I will 
tell  you,  in  plain  English,  that  your  bonny  Queen 
Mary  was  the  strumpet  of  Bothwell  and  the  murderer 
of  her  husband !’ 

No  sooner  had  he  uttered  the  last  sentence,  than 
Targe  flew  at  him  like  a tiger,  and  they  were  sejia- 

rated  with  difficulty  by  Mr  N ’s  groom,  who  was 

in  the  adjoining  chamber,  and  had  heard  the  alter- 
cation. 

‘ 1 insist  on  your  giving  me  sati.sfaction,  or  retracting 
what  you  have  said  against  the  beautiful  Queen  of 
Scotland  I’  cried  Targe. 

‘As  for  retracting  what  I have  said,’  replied  Bucha- 
nan, ‘ that  is  no  habit  of  mine;  but,  with  regard  to 
giving  you  satisfaction,  I am  ready  for  that  to  the 
best  of  ray  ability  ; for  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  though  I 
am  not  a Highlandman,  I am  a Scotchman  as  well 
as  yourself,  and  not  entirely  ignorant  of  the  use  of  the 
claymore;  so  name  your  hour,  and  I will  meet  you  to- 
morrow morning.’ 

‘ Why  not  directly  V cried  Targe ; ‘ there  is  nobody 
in  the  garden  to  interrupt  us.’ 

‘ I should  have  chosen  to  have  settled  some  things 
first ; but  since  you  are  in  such  a hurry,  I will  not 
baulk  you.  I will  step  home  for  my  sword  and  be 
with  you  directly,’  said  Buchanan. 

♦ To  swop  is  an  old  English  word  still  used  in  Scotland, 
dgnitbing  to  exchange. 


'fhe  groom  interposed,  and  endeavoured  to  reconcile 
the  two  enraged  Scots,  but  without  success.  Buchanan 
soon  arrived  with  his  sword,  and  they  retired  to  a 
private  spot  in  the  garden.  The  groom  next  tried  to 
persuade  them  to  decide  their  diircrence  by  fair  boxing. 
This  was  rejected  by  both  the  champions  as  a mode 
of  fighting  unbecoming  gentlemen,  'fhe  groom  as- 
serted that  the  best  gentlemen  in  England  sometimes 
fought  in  that  manner,  and  gave,  as  an  instance,  a 
boxing  match,  of  which  he  himself  had  been  a wit- 
ness, between  Lord  G.’s  gentleman  and  a gentleman- 
farmer  at  York  races  about  the  price  of  a mare. 

‘ But  our  quarrel,’  said  Targe,  ‘ is  about  the  repu- 
tation of  a queen.’ 

‘ 'fhat,  for  certain,’  replied  the  groom,  ‘ makes  a 
difference.’ 

Buchanan  un.sheathed  his  sword. 

‘ Are  you  ready,  sir  ?’  cried  'Large. 

‘ That  I am.  Come  on,  sir,’  said  Buchanan  ; ‘ and 
the  Lord  be  with  the  righteous.’ 

‘ Amen  !’  cried  Targe  ; and  the  conflict  began. 

Both  the  combatants  understood  the  weaiion  they 
fought  with  ; and  each  parried  his  adver“ary’s  blows 
with  such  dexterity,  that  no  blood  was  shed  for  some 
time.  At  length  'Large,  making  a feint  at  Buchanan’s 
head,  gave  him  suddenly  a severe  wound  in  the  thigh. 

‘ 1 hope  you  are  now  sensible  of  your  error  ?’  said 
Targe,  dropping  his  point. 

‘ 1 am  of  the  same  opinion  I was  I ’ cried  Buchanan  ; 
‘ so  keep  your  guard.’  So  saying,  he  advanced  more 
briskly  than  ever  upon  Targe,  who,  after  warding  off 
several  strokes,  wounded  his  antagonist  a second  time. 
Buchanan,  however,  showed  no  disposition  to  relin- 
quish the  combat.  But  this  second  wound  being  in 
the  forehead,  and  the  blood  flowing  with  profusion 
into  his  eyes,  he  could  no  longer  see  distinctly,  but 
was  obliged  to  flourish  his  sword  at  random,  without 
being  able  to  perceive  the  movements  of  his  adversary, 
who,  closing  with  him,  became  master  of  his  sword, 
and  with  the  same  effort  threw  him  to  the  ground  ; 
and,  standing  over  him,  he  said,  ‘ This  may  convince 
you,  Mr  Buchanan,  that  yours  is  not  the  righteous 
cau.se!  You  are  in  my  power  ; but  I will  act  as  the 
queen  whose  character  I defend  would  order  were  .she 
alive.  I hope  you  will  live  to  repent  of  the  injustice 
you  have  done  to  that  amiable  and  unfortunate  prin- 
cess.’ He  then  assisted  Buchanan  to  rise.  Buchanan 
made  no  immediate  answer;  but  when  he  saw  Targe 
assisting  the  groom  to  stop  the  blood  which  flowed 
from  his  wounds,  he  said,  ‘ I must  acknowledge,  Mr 
Targe,  that  you  behave  like  a gentleman.’ 

After  the  bleeding  was  in  some  degree  diminished 
by  the  dry  lint  which  the  groom,  who  was  an  excel- 
lent farrier,  applied  to  the  wounds,  they  assisted  him 
to  his  chamber,  and  then  the  groom  rode  away  to 

inform  Mr  N of  what  had  happened.  But  the 

wound  becoming  more  painful.  Targe  proposed  sending 
for  a surgeon.  Buchanan  then  said  that  the  surgeon’s 
mate  belonging  to  one  of  the  ships  of  the  British 
.squadron  then  in  the  bay  was,  he  believed,  on  shore, 
and  as  he  was  a Scotchman,  he  would  like  to  emidoy 
him  rather  than  a foreigner.  Having  mentioned 

where  he  lodged,  one  of  Mr  N ’s  footmen  went 

immediately  for  him.  He  returned  soon  after,  saying 
that  the  surgeon’s  mate  was  not  at  his  lodging,  nor 
expected  for  some  hour.s.  ‘ But  1 will  go  and  bring 
the  Ercnch  .surgeon,’  continued  the  footman. 

‘ I thank  you,  Mr  'Lhomas,’  said  Buchanan  ; ‘but  I 
w'ill  have  patience  till  my  own  countryman  returns.’ 

‘ He  may  not  return  for  a long  time,’  said  'Lhomas. 
‘You  had  best  let  me  run  for  the  Ercnch  surgeon, 
who,  they  say,  has  a great  deal  of  skill.’ 

‘ 1 am  obliged  to  you,  Mr 'Lhomas,’ added  Buchanan; 

‘ but  neither  Frenchman  nor  Spani.shman  shall  dress 
my  wounds  when  a Scottishman  is  to  be  found  for 
love  or  money.’ 

5.52 


NOVELISTS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURR  mrs  inciibald. 


‘ Tlivy  arc  to  bo  found,  for  tlie  one  or  the  other,  as 
I am  credibly  informed,  in  most  parts  of  the  world,’ 
said  Thomas. 

‘ As  my  countrymen,’  replied  Buchanan,  ‘ are  dis- 
tinguished for  letting  slip  no  means  of  imiiroveraent, 
it  would  be  very  strange  if  many  of  them  did  not  use 
that  of  travelling,  Mr  Thomas.’ 

‘ It  would  be  very  strange  indeed,  I own  it,’  said 
the  footman. 

‘ But  are  you  certain  of  this  young  man’s  skill  in 
his  business  when  he  does  come!’  said  Targe. 

‘ I confess  1 have  had  no  opportunity  to  know  any- 
thing of  his  skill,’  answered  Buchanan  ; ‘but  I know, 
for  certain,  that  he  is  sprung  from  very  respectable 
people.  His  father  is  a minister  of  the  gospel,  and 
it  is  not  likely  that  his  father’s  son  will  be  deficient 
in  the  profession  to  which  he  was  bred.’ 

‘ It  would  be  still  less  likely  had  the  son  been  bred 
to  preaching ! ’ said  Targe. 

‘ That  is  true,’  replied  Buchanan  ; ‘ but  I have  no 
doubt  of  the  young  man’s  skill : he  seems  to  be  a very 
douce*  lad.  It  will  be  an  encouragement  to  him  to 
see  that  I prefer  him  to  another,  and  also  a comfort  to 
me  to  be  attended  by  my  countryman.’ 

‘ Countryman  or  not  countryman,’  said  Thomas, 
‘ he  will  expect  to  be  paid  for  his  trouble  as  well  as 
another.’ 

‘ Assuredly,’  said  Buchanan  ; ‘ but  it  was  always  a 
maxim  with  me,  and  shall  he  to  my  dying  day,  that 
we  should  give  our  own  fish-guts  to  our  own  sea-mews.’ 
‘ Since  you  are  so  fond  of  your  own  sea-mews,’  said 
Thomas,  ‘ I am  surprised  you  were  so  eager  to  destroy 
Mr  Targe  there.’ 

‘ That  proceeded  from  a difference  in  politics,  Mr 
Thomas,’  replied  Buchanan,  ‘ in  which  the  best  of 
friends  are  apt  to  have  a misunderstanding ; but 
though  I am  a Whig  and  he  is  a Tory,  1 hope  we  are 
both  honest  men  ; and  as  he  behaved  generously  when 
my  life  was  in  his  power,  I have  no  scruple  in  saying 
that  I am  sorry  for  having  spoken  di.srespectfully  of 
any  person,  dead  or  alive,  for  whom  he  has  an  esteem.’ 
‘ Mary  Queen  of  Scots  acquired  the  esteem  of  her 
very  enemies,’  resumed  Targe.  ‘ The  elegance  and 
engaging  sweetness  of  her  manners  were  irresistible 
to  every  heart  that  was  not  steeled  by  prejudice  or 
jealousy.’ 

‘ She  is  now  in  the  hands  of  a Judge,’  said  Buchanan, 
‘who  can  neither  be  seduced  by  fair  appearances,  nor 
imposed  on  by  forgeries  and  fraud.’ 

‘ She  is  so,  Mr  Buchanan,’  replied  Targe  ; ‘ and  her 
rival  and  accusers  are  in  the  hands  of  the  s.ame  Judge.’ 
‘We  had  best  leave  them  all  to  llis  justice  and 
mercy  then,  and  say  no  more  on  the  subject,’  added 
Buchanan  ; ‘ for  if  Queen  hlary’s  conduct  on  earth  was 
what  you  believe  it  was,  she  will  receive  her  reward 
in  heaven,  where  her  actions  and  sufferings  are  re- 
corded.’ 

‘ One  thing  more  I will  say,’  rejoined  Targe,  ‘ and 
that  is  only  to  ask  of  you  whether  it  is  probable  that 
a woman,  whose  conscience  was  loaded  with  the  crimes 
imputed  to  her,  could  have  closed  the  varied  scene  of 
her  life,  and  have  met  death  with  such  serene  and 
dignified  courage  as  Mary  did?’ 

‘ I always  admired  that  last  awful  scene,’  replied 
Buchanan,  who  was  melted  by  the  recollection  of 
Mary’s  behaviour  on  the  scaffold  ; ‘ and  1 will  freely 
acknowledge  that  the  most  innocent  person  that  ever 
lived,  or  the  greatest  hero  recorded  in  history,  could 
not  face  death  with  greater  composure  than  the  queen 
of  Scotland : she  supported  the  dignity  of  a queen 
while  she  displayed  the  meekness  of  a Christian.’ 

‘ I am  exeeedingly  sorry,  ray  dear  friend,  for  the 
misunderstanding  that  happened  between  us ! ’ said 
Targe  afiectionately,  and  holding  forth  his  hand  in 

♦ A Scottish  expression,  meaning  gentle  and  well-disposed. 


token  of  reeonciliation : ‘ and  I am  new  willing  to 
believe  that  your  friend,  Mr  George  Buchanan,  was  a 
very  great  poet,  and  understood  Latin  as  well  as  any 
man  alive  !’  Here  the  two  friends  shook  hands  with 
the  utmost  cordiality. 

MRS  INCHBAI.D. 

Mrs  Inchbald,  the  dramatist,  attained  deserved 
celebrity  by  her  novels,  A Simple  Story,  in  four 
volumes,  published  in  1791  ; and  Nature  and  Art, 
two  volumes,  1796.  As  this  lady  affected  plainness 
and  precision  in  style,  and  aimed  at  drawing  sketches 
from  nature,  she  probably  designated  her  first  novel 
simple,  without  duly  considering  that  the  plot  is  in- 
tricate and  involved,  and  that  some  of  her  characters 


(as  Lord  and  Lady  Elmwood)  belo-ig  to  the  ranks 
of  the  aristocracy.  There  are  many  striking  and 
passionate  scenes  in  the  novel,  and  notwithstanding 
the  disadvantage  attending  a double  plot,  the  in- 
terest is  well  sustained.  Tlie  authoress’s  knowledge 
of  dramatic  rules  and  effect  may  be  seen  in  the  skilful 
grouping  of  her  personages,  and  in  the  liveliness  of 
the  dialogue.  Her  second  work  is  much  simpler 
and  coarser  in  texture.  Its  object  may  be  gathered 
from  the  concluding  maxim — ‘Let  the  poor  no  more 
be  their  own  persecutors — no  longer  pay  homage  to 
wealth — instantaneously  the  whole  idolatrous  wor- 
ship will  cease — the  idol  will  be  broken.’  Mrs  Inch- 
bald  illustrated  this  by  her  own  practice ; yet  few  of 
her  readers  can  feel  aught  but  mortification  and  dis- 
appointment at  the  denouement  of  the  tale,  wherein 
the  pure  and  noble-minded  Henry,  after  the  rich 
promise  of  his  youth  and  his  intellectual  culture, 
finally  settles  down  with  his  father  to  ‘cheerful 
labour  in  fishing,  or  the  tending  of  a garden,  the 
))roduce  of  which  they  carry  to  the  next  market- 
town  ?’  The  following  brief  allusion  to  the  miseries 
of  low  London  service  reminds  us  of  the  vividness 
and  stern  pathos  of  Dickens  : — ‘ In  romances,  and 
in  some  plays,  there  are  scenes  of  dark  and  un- 
wholesome mines,  wherein  the  labourer  works 
during  the  brightest  day  by  the  aid  of  artifi- 
cial light.  There  are,  in  London,  kitchens  equally 
dismal,  though  not  quite  so  much  exposed  to  damp 
and  noxious  vapours.  In  one  of  these  under  ground, 

,653 


fROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  present  tma. 


liiciiien  from  the  cheerful  light  of  the  sun,  poor 
Agnes  was  doomed  to  toil  from  morning  till  night, 
subjected  to  the  command  of  a dissatisfied  mistress, 
who,  not  estimating  as  she  ought  the  misery 
incurred  by  serving  her,  constantly  threatened  her 
servants  with  a dismission,  at  which  the  unthink- 
ing wretches  would  tremble  merely  from  the  sound 
of  the  words ; for  to  have  reflected — to  have  con- 
sidered what  their  purport  was — to  be  released 
from  a dungeon,  relieved  from  continual  upbraid- 
ings  and  vile  drudgery,  must  have  been  a subject 
of  rejoicing;  and  yet,  because  these  good  tidings 
were  delivered  as  a menace,  custom  had  made  the 
hearer  fearful  of  the  consequence.  So,  death  being 
de.scribed  to  children  as  a disaster,  even  poverty 
and  sh.ame  will  start  from  it  with  affright ; whereas, 
had  it  been  pictured  with  its  benign  aspect,  it  would 
have  been  feared  but  by  few,  and  many,  many 
would  welcome  it  with  gladness.’ 

CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 

The  novels  of  Mrs  Charlotte  Smith  were  of  a 
more  romantic  cast  than  those  of  Miss  Burney  : they 
aimed  more  at  delineating  affections  than  manners, 
and  they  alt  evinced  superior  merit.  The  first, 
Emmeline,  published  in  1788,  had  an  extensive  sale. 
Ethclinde  (1789),  and  Celestina  (1791),  were  also  re- 
ceived with  favour  and  approbation.  Her  best  is 
the  Old  EnyJish  Manor-House,  in  which  her  descrip- 
tive ])owers  are  found  united  to  an  interesting  plot 
and  well-sustained  dramatis  personce.  The  haste 
with  which  this  lady  produced  her  works,  and  her 
unfortunate  domestic  circumstances,  led  her  often 
to  be  defective  in  arrangement  and  exaggerated  in 
style  and  colouring.  She  took  a peculiar  pleasure 
in  caricaturing  lawyers,  having  herself  suffered 
deeply  from  the  ‘ law’s  delay ;’  and  as  her  husband 
had  ruined  himself  and  family  by  foolish  schemes 
and  projects,  she  is  supposed  to  have  drawn  him  in 
the  projector  who  hoped  to  make  a fortune  by 
manuring  his  estate  with  old  wigs!  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  ‘ in  acknowledgment  of  many  pleasant  hours 
derived  from  the  perusal  of  Mrs  Smith’s  works,’  in- 
cluded her  in  his  British  Novelists,  and  prefixed  an 
interesting  criticism  and  memoir.  He  alludes  to 
her  defective  narratives  or  plots,  but  considers  her 
characters  to  be  conceived  with  truth  and  force, 
though  none  bear  the  stamp  of  actual  novelty.  He 
adds,  ‘she  is  uniformly  happy  in  supplying  them 
with  language  fitted  to  their  station  in  life  ; nor 
are  there  many  dialogues  to  be  found  which  are  at 
once  so  entertaining,  and  approach  so  nearly  to  truth 
and  reality.’ 

ANN  RADCLIFFE. 

Mrs  Ann  Eadcliffe  (who  may  he  denominated 
the  Salvator  Rosa  of  British  novelists)  was  born  in 
London,  of  respectable  parents,  on  the  9th  of  July 
1764.  Her  maiden  name  was  Ward.  In  her  twenty- 
third  year  she  married  Mr  William  Eadcliffe,  a 
student  of  law,  but  who  afterwards  became  the  edi- 
tor and  proprietor  of  a weekly  paper,  the  English 
Chronicle.  Two  years  after  her  marriage,  in  1789, 
Mrs  Eadcliffe  published  her  first  novel.  The  Castles 
of  Athlin  and  Dunbayne,  the  scene  of  which  she  laid 
in  Scotland  during  the  remote  and  warlike  times  of 
the  feudal  barons.  This  work  gave  but  little  in- 
dication of  the  power  and  fascination  which  the 
authoress  afterwards  evinced.  She  had  made  no 
attempt  to  portray  national  manners  or  historical 
events  (in  which,  indeed,  she  never  excelled),  and 
the  plot  was  wild  and  unnatural.  Her  next  effort, 
made  in  the  following  year,  was  more  successful. 


The  Sicilian  Romance  attracted  attention  by  its 
romantic  and  numerous  adventures,  and  the  copious 
descriptions  of  scenery  it  contained.  These  were 
depicted  with  the  glow  and  richness  of  a poetical 
fancy.  ‘Fielding,  Richardson,  Smollett,  and  even 
Walpole,’  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘though  writing 
upon  an  imaginative  subject,  are  decidedly  prose 
authors.  Mrs  Eadcliffe  has  a title  to  be  considered 
as  the  first  poetess  of  romantic  fiction  ; that  is,  if 
actual  rhythm  shall  not  be  deemed  essential  to 
poetry.  * Actual  rhythm  was  also  at  the  command 
of  the  accomplished  authoress.  She  has  interspersed 
various  copies  of  verses  throughout  her  works,  but 
they  are  less  truly  poetical  than  her  prose.  They 
have  great  sameness  of  style  and  diction,  and  are 
often  tedious,  because  introduced  in  scenes  already 
too  protracted  with  description  or  sentiment.  In 
1791  appeared  The  Romance  of  the  Forest,  exhibiting 
the  powers  of  the  novelist  in  full  maturity.  To  her 
wonderful  talent  in  producing  scenes  of  mystery 
and  surprise,  aided  by  external  phenomena  and 
striking  description,  she  now  added  the  powerful 
delineation  of  passion.  Her  painting  of  the  charac- 
ter of  La  Motte,  hurried  on  by  an  evil  counsellor, 
amidst  broken  resolutions  and  efforts  at  recall,  to 
the  most  dark  and  deliberate  guilt  and  cruelty,  ap- 
proaches in  some  respects  to  the  genius  of  Godwin. 
Variety  of  character,  however,  was  not  the  forte  of 
Mrs  Eadcliffe.  Her  strength  lay  in  the  invention 
and  interest  of  her  narrative.  Like  the  great  painter 
with  whom  she  has  been  compared,  she  loved  to 
sport  with  the  romantic  and  the  terrible — with  the 
striking  imagery  of  the  mountain-forest  and  the 
lake — the  obscure  solitude — the  cloud  and  the  storm 
— wild  banditti — ruined  castles — and  with  those 
half-discovered  glimpses  or  visionary  shadows  of 
the  invisible  world  which  seem  at  times  to  cross  our 
path,  and  which  still  haunt  and  thrill  the  imagina- 
tion. This  peculiar  faculty  was  more  strongly  evinced 
in  Mrs  Radcliffe’s  next  romance.  The  Mysteries  oj 
Udolpho,  published  in  1794,  which  was  the  most 
popular  of  her  performances,  and  is  justly  considered 
her  best.  Mrs  Barbauld  seems  to  prefer  the  ‘ Ro- 
mance of  the  Forest,’  as  more  comjdete  in  character 
and  story;  but  in  this  opinion  few  will  concur:  it 
wants  the  sublimity  and  boldness  of  the  later  work. 
The  interest,  as  Scott  remarks,  ‘is  of  a more  agitat- 
ing and  tremendous  nature,  the  scenery  of  a wilder 
and  more  terrific  description,  the  characters  distin- 
guished by  fiercer  and  more  gigantic  features. 
Montoni,  a lofty-souled  desperado  and  captain  of 
condottieri,  stands  beside  La  Motte  and  his  marquis, 
like  one  of  Milton’s  fiends  beside  a witch’s  familiar. 
Adeline  is  confined  within  a ruined  manor-house, 
but  her  sister  heroine,  Emily,  is  imprisoned  in  a 
huge  castle  like  those  of  feudal  times  ; the  one  is 
attacked  and  defended  by  bands  of  armed  banditti, 
the  other  only  threatened  by  constables  and  thief- 
takers.  The  scale  of  the  landscape  is  equally  diffe- 
rent ; the  quiet  and  limited  woodland  scenery  of  the 
one  work  forming  a contrast  with  the  splendid  and 
high-wrought  descriptions  of  Italian  mountain  gran- 
deur which  occur  in  the  other.’  This  parallel  applies 
very  strikingly  to  the  critic’s  own  poems,  the  Lay 
and  Marmion.  The  latter,  like  Mrs  Radclifie’s 
second  novel,  has  blemishes  of  construction  and  style 
from  which  the  first  is  free ; but  it  has  the  breadth 

* This  honour  more  properly  belongs  to  Sir  PhiKy  Sidney; 
and  does  not  even  John  Bunyan  demand  a share  oi  it  ? In 
Smollett’s  novels  there  are  many  poetical  conceptions  and  de- 
scriptions. Indeed  on  this  point  Sir  Walter  partly  contradicts 
himself,  for  he  elsewhere  states  that  Smollett  expended  in  hig 
novels  many  of  the  ingredients  both  of  grave  and  humorous 
poetry.  Mrs  RadclifFe  gave  a greater  prominence  to  poetical 
description  than  any  of  her  predecessor! 

554 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ANN  RADCLIFFE. 


and  niapnifii'c'nce,  and  the  careless  freedom  of  a 
niaster’s  liatid,  in  a greater  degree  than  can  be  found 
in  the  first  production.  About  this  time  Mrs  Rad- 
clili’e  made  a journey  through  Holland  and  the 
western  frontier  of  Germany,  returning  down  the 
Rhine,  of  which  she  published  an  account  in  1795, 
adding  to  it  some  observations  during  a tour  to  the 
lakes  of  Lancashire,  Westmoreland,  and  Cumber- 
land. The  picturesque  fancy  of  the  novelist  is  seen 
in  these  sketches  with  her  usual  luxuriance  and 
copiousness  of  style.  In  1797  Mrs  Radcliffe  made 
her  last  appearance  in  Action.  The  ‘ Mysteries  of 
Udolpho’  had  been  purchased  by  her  publisher  for 
what  was  then  considered  an  enormous  sum,  £500  ; 
but  her  new  work  brought  her  £800.  It  was  en- 
titled The  Italian,  and  displayed  her  powers  in  un- 
diminished  strength  and  brilliancy.  Having  ex- 
hausted the  characteristics  of  feudal  pomp  and 
tyranny  in  her  former  productions,  she  adopted  a 
new  machinery  in  ‘ The  Italian,’  having  selected  a 
period  when  the  church  of  Rome  was  triumphant 
and  unchecked.  The  grand  Inquisition,  the  confes- 
sional, the  cowled  monk,  the  dungeon,  and  the  rack, 
were  agents  as  terrible  and  impressive  as  ever  shone 
in  romance.  ]Mrs  Radcliffe  took  up  the  popular 
notions  on  this  subject  without  adhering  to  historical 
accuracy,  and  produced  a work  which,  though  very 
unequal  in  its  execution,  contains  the  most  vivid 
and  appalling  of  all  her  scenes  and  paintings.  The 
opening  of  the  story  has  been  praised  by  all  critics 
for  the  exquisite  art  with  which  the  authoress  con- 
trives to  excite  and  prepare  the  mind  of  the  reader. 
It  is  as  follows  : — 


[English  Traveller^  Visit  a Neapolitan  Church.'] 

Within  the  shade  of  the  portico,  a person  with 
folded  arras,  and  eyes  directed  towards  the  ground, 
was  pacing  behind  the  pillars  the  whole  extent  of  the 
pavement,  and  was  apparently  so  engaged  by  his  own 
thoughts  as  not  to  observe  that  strangers  were  ap- 
proaching. He  turned,  however,  suddenly,  as  if 
startled  by  the  sound  of  steps,  and  then,  without 
farther  pausing,  glided  to  a door  that  opened  into  the 
church,  and  disappeared. 

There  was  something  too  extraordinary  in  the  Agure 
of  this  man,  and  too  singular  in  his  conduct,  to  pass 
unnoticed  by  the  visitors.  He  was  of  a tall  thin 
Agure,  bending  forward  from  the  shoulders  ; of  a sal- 
low complexion  and  harsh  features,  and  had  an  eye 
which,  as  it  looked  up  from  the  cloak  that  muffled 
the  lower  part  of  his  countenance,  was  expressive  of 
uncommon  ferocity. 

The  travellers,  on  entering  the  church,  looked  round 
for  the  stranger  who  had  passed  thither  before  them, 
but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  ; and  through  all  the 
shade  of  the  long  aisles  only  one  other  person  ap- 
peared. This  was  a friar  of  the  adjoining  convent, 
who  sometimes  pointed  out  to  strangers  the  objects  in 
the  church  which  were  most  worthy  of  attention,  and 
who  now,  with  this  design,  approached  the  party  that 
had  just  entered. 

When  the  party  had  viewed  the  different  shrines, 
and  whatever  had  been  judged  worthy  of  observation, 
and  were  returning  through  an  obscure  aisle  towards 
the  portico,  they  perceived  the  person  who  had  ap- 
peared upon  the  steps  passing  towards  a confessional 
on  the  left,  and  as  he  entered  it,  one  of  the  party 
pointed  him  out  to  the  friar,  and  inquired  who  he 
was.  The  friar,  turning  to  look  after  him,  did  not 
immediately  reply ; but  on  the  question  being  re- 
peated, he  inclined  his  head  as  in  a kind  of  obeisance, 
and  calmly  replied,  ‘ He  is  an  assassin.’ 

‘An  assassin!’  exclaimed  one  of  the  Englishmen; 
‘ an  assassin,  and  at  liberty!’ 


An  Italian  gentleman  who  was  of  the  party  smiled 
at  the  astonishment  of  bis  friend. 

‘ He  has  sought  sanctuary  here,’  replied  the  friar; 
‘ within  these  walls  he  may  not  be  hurt.’ 

‘ Do  your  altars,  then,  protect  a murderer  V said  the 
Englishman. 

‘ He  could  And  shelter  nowhere  else,’  answered  the 
friar  meekly. 

A * « 

‘ But  observe  yonder  confessional,’  added  the  Ita- 
lian, ‘ that  beyond  the  pillars  on  the  left  of  the  aisle, 
below  a painted  window.  Have  you  discovered  it? 
The  colours  of  the  glass  throw,  instead  of  a light,  a 
shade  over  that  part  of  the  church,  which  perhaps 
prevents  your  distinguishing  what  I mean.’ 

The  Englishman  looked  whither  his  friend  pointed, 
and  observed  a confessional  of  oak,  or  some  very  dark 
wood,  adjoining  the  wall,  and  remarked  also  that  it 
was  the  same  which  the  assassin  had  just  entered. 
It  consisted  of  three  compartments,  covered  with  a 
black  canopy.  In  the  central  division  was  the  chair 
of  the  confessor,  elevated  by  several  steps  above  the 
pavement  of  the  church ; and  on  either  hand  was  a 
small  closet  or  box,  with  steps  leading  up  to  a grated 
partition,  at  which  the  penitent  might  kneel,  and, 
concealed  from  observation,  pour  into  the  ear  of  the 
confessor  the  consciousness  of  crimes  that  lay  heavy 
at  his  heart. 

‘ You  observe  it?’  said  the  Italian. 

‘ I do,’  replied  the  Englishman ; ‘ it  is  the  same 
which  the  assassin  had  passed  into,  and  I think  it 
one  of  the  most  gloomy  spots  I ever  beheld  ; the  view 
of  it  is  enough  to  strike  a criminal  with  despair.’ 

‘ We  in  Italy  are  not  so  apt  to  despair,’  replied  the 
Italian  smilingly. 

‘ Well,  but  what  of  this  confessional  ?’  inquired  the 
Englishman.  ‘The  assassin  entered  it.’ 

‘ He  has  no  relation  with  what  I am  about  to  men- 
tion,’ said  the  Italian  ; ‘ but  I wish  you  to  mark  the 
place,  because  some  very  extraordinary  circumstances 
belong  to  it.’ 

‘ What  are  they?’  said  the  Englishman. 

‘ It  is  now  several  years  since  the  confession  which 
is  connected  with  them  was  made  at  that  very  con- 
fessional,’ added  the  Italian  ; ‘the  view  of  it,  and  the 
sight  of  the  assassin,  with  your  surprise  at  the  liberty 
which  is  allowed  him,  led  me  to  a recollection  of  the 
story.  When  you  return  to  the  hotel  I will  com- 
municate it  to  you,  if  you  have  no  pleasanter  mode  cf 
engaging  your  time.’ 

‘ After  I have  taken  another  view  of  this  solemn 
ediAce,’  replied  the  Englishman,  ‘ and  particularly  of 
the  confessional  you  have  pointed  to  my  notice.’ 

While  the  Englishman  glanced  his  eye  over  the 
high  roofs  and  along  the  solemn  perspectives  of  the 
Santa  del  Pianto,  he  perceived  the  Agure  of  the  as- 
sassin stealing  from  the  confessional  across  the  choir, 
and,  shocked  on  again  beholding  him,  he  turned  his 
eyes  and  hastily  quitted  the  church. 

The  friends  then  separated,  and  the  Englishman 
soon  after  returning  to  his  hotel,  received  the  volume. 
He  read  as  follows. 

After  such  an  introduction,  who  could  fail  to  con- 
tinue the  perusal  of  the  story  ? Scott  has  said  that 
one  of  the  Ane  scenes  in  ‘ The  Italian,’  where  Sche- 
doni  the  monk  (an  admirably-drawn  character)  is 
‘ in  the  act  of  raising  his  arm  to  murder  his  sleep- 
ing victim,  and  discovers  her  to  be  his  own  child,  is 
of  a new,  grand,  and  powerful  character ; and  the 
horrors  of  the  wretch  who,  on  the  brink  of  murder, 
has  just  escaped  from  committing  a crime  of  yet 
more  exaggerated  horror,  constitute  the  strongest 
painting  which  has  been  produced  by  Mrs  Radcliffe’s 
pencil,  and  form  a crisis  v/ell  Atted  to  be  actually 
embodied  on  canvass  by  some  great  master.’  Most 

S55 


CYCLOPJliDIA  OF  till  the  present  time. 


PROW  1780 


of  this  Indy’s  novcds  abound  in  jiictures  and  situa- 
tions as  strikiiif;  and  as  wcdi  grouped  as  tiiose  of  tiie 
artist  ami  lULdo-dramatist.  'I'iie  latter  years  of  Mrs 
Uadcliffe  were  spent  in  retirement,  partly  induced 
by  ill  health.  She  had  for  a long  period  been  afflicted 
with  spasmodic  asthma,  and  an  attack  proved  fatal 
to  her  on  the  7th  of  February  1823.  She  died  in 
London,  and  was  interred  in  a vault  of  the  chapel- 
of  case  at  Uayswater,  belonging  to  St  George’s, 
Hanover  Square. 

The  success  which  crowned  Mrs  Kadcliffe’s  ro- 
mances led  several  writers  to  copy  her  peculiar 
manner,  but  none  approached  to  the  original  either 
in  art  or  genius.  She  eclipsed  all  her  imitators  and 
contemporaries  in  exciting  emotions  of  surprise, 
awe,  and  terror,  and  in  constructing  a story  which 
should  carry  the  reader  forward  with  undiminished 
anxiety  to  its  close.  She  dwelt  always  in  the  regions 
of  romance.  She  does  not  seem  ever  to  have  at- 
tempted humour  or  familiar  narrative,  and  there  is 
little  of  real  character  or  natural  incident  in  her 
work.s.  The  style  of  which  she  may  be  considered 
the  founder  is  powerfully  attractive,  and  few  are 
.able  to  resist  the  fascinations  of  her  narrative,  but 
that  style  is  obviously  a secondary  one.  To  de- 
lineate character  in  the  many-coloured  changes  of 
life,  to  invent  natural,  lively,  and  witty  dialogues 
and  situations,  and  to  combine  the  whole,  as  in 
Tom  Jones,  in  a regular  progressive  story,  complete 
in  all  its  parts,  is  a greater  intellectual  effort  than 
to  construct  a romantic  plot  where  the  author  is  not 
confined  to  probability  or  to  the  manners  and  insti- 
tutions of  any  particular  time  or  country.  When 
Scott  transports  us  back  to  the  days  of  chivalry 
and  the  crusades,  we  feel  that  he  is  embodying  his- 
tory, animating  its  records  with  his  powerful  ima- 
gination, and  introducing  us  to  actual  scenes  and 
persons  such  as  once  existed.  His  portraits  are  not 
of  one,  but  of  various  classes.  There  is  none  of  this 
reality  about  Mrs  Radcliffe’s  creations.  Her  scenes 
of  mystery  and  gloom  will  not  bear  the  light  of 
sober  investigation.  Deeply  as  they  affect  the  ima- 
gination at  the  time,  after  they  have  been  once  un- 
folded before  the  reader,  they  break  up  like  dreams 
in  his  recollection.  The  remembrance  of  them  is 
confused,  though  pleasant,  and  we  have  no  desire  to 
return  to  what  enchanted  us,  unless  it  be  for  some 
passages  of  pure  description.  The  want  of  moral 
interest  and  of  character  and  dialogue,  natural  and 
truthful,  is  the  cause  of  this  evanescence  of  feeling. 
When  the  story  is  unravelled,  the  great  charm  is 
over — the  talisman  ceases  to  operate  when  we  know 
the  materials  of  which  it  is  composed. 

Mrs  Radcliffe  restricted  her  genius  by  an  arbi- 
trary rule  of  composition.  She  made  the  whole  of 
her  mysterious  circumstances  resolve  into  natural 
causes.  The  seemingly  supernatural  agencies  are 
explained  to  be  palpable  and  real : every  mystery 
is  cleared  up,  and  often  by  means  very  trifling  or 
disproportioned  to  the  end.  ‘In  order  to  raise 
strong  emotions  of  fear  and  horror  in  the  body  of 
the  work,  the  author  is  tempted  to  go  length.s,  to 
account  for  which  the  subsequent  explanations  seem 
utterly  inadequate.  Thus,  for  example,  after  all  the 
wonder  and  dismay,  and  terror  and  expectation  ex- 
cited by  the  mysterious  chamber  in  the  castle  of 
Udolpho,  how  much  are  we  disappointed  and  dis- 
gusted to  find  that  all  this  pother  has  been  raised 
by  a waxen  statue  !’*  In  one  sense  this  restriction 
increases  our  admiration  of  the  writer,  as  evincing. 
In  general,  the  marvellrus  ingenuit}’  with  which  she 
prepares,  invents,  and  arranges  the  incidents  for 
immediate  effect  as  well  as  subsequent  explanation. 

• ♦ Dunlnp’s  History  of  Fiction. 


Kvery  feature  in  the  surrounding  landscape  or  objects 
described — every  subordinate  circumstance  in  the 
scene,  however  minute,  is  so  disiiosed  as  to  deepen 
the  impression  and  keep  alive  curiosity.  'J'his  pre- 
lude, as  Mrs  Barbauld  has  remarked,  ‘ like  the 
tuning  of  an  instrument  by  a skilful  hand,  has  the 
effect  of  producing  at  once  in  the  mind  a tone  of 
feeling  correspondent  to  the  future  story.’  No 
writer  has  excelled,  and  few  have  approached.  Mrs 
Radcliffe  in  this  peculiar  province.  A higher 
genius,  however,  would  have  boldly  seized  upon 
supernatural  agency  as  a proper  element  of  romance. 
There  are  feelings  and  superstitionshirking  in  every 
breast  which  would  have  responded  to  such  an 
appeal;  and  while  we  have  the  weird  sisters  of 
Macbeth,  and  the  unburied  majesty  of  Denmark, 
all  must  acknowledge  the  adaptation  of  such  ma- 
chinery to  produce  the  greatest  effects  of  which 
human  genius  is  capable.  The  ultimate  explana- 
tions of  Mrs  Radcliffe  certainly  give  a littleness  to 
the  preliminary  incidents  which  affected  us  so 
powerfully  while  they  were  dim  and  obscure  and 
foil  of  mystery.  It  is  as  if  some  theatrical  artist 
were  to  disi)lay  to  his  audience  the  eoarse  and  mean 
materials  by  which  his  brilliant  stage  effects  were 
produced,  inste.ad  of  leaving  undisturbed  the  strong 
impressions  they  have  produced  on  the  imagination. 
Apart,  however,  from  this  defect — which  applies 
only  to  the  interest  of  the  jilot  or  narrative — the 
situations  and  descriptions  of  Mrs  Radcliffe  are  in 
the  highest  degree  striking  and  perfect.  She  had 
never  been  in  Italy  when  she  wrote  the  ‘ Mysteries 
of  Udolpho,’  yet  her  paintings  of  Italian  scenery, 
and  of  the  mountains  of  Switzerland,  are  conceived 
with  equal  truth  and  richness  of  colouring.  And 
what  poet  or  painter  has  ever  surpassed  (Byron  has 
imitated)  her  account  of  the  first  view  of  Venice,  as 
seen  by  her  heroine  Emily,  ‘ with  its  islets,  jialaces, 
and  terraces  rising  out  of  the  sea ; and  as  they 
glided  on,  the  grander  features  of  the  city  appear- 
ing more  distinctly — its  terraces  crowned  with  airy 
yet  majestic  fabrics,  touched  with  the  splendour  of 
the  setting  sun,  appearing  as  if  they  had  been  called 
up  from  the  ocean  by  the  wand  of  an  enchanter 
rather  than  reared  by  human  hands.’  Her  pictures  | 
are  innumerable,  and  they  are  alwa3's  introduced  ' 
with  striking  effect.  ‘ Set  off,’  says  a judicious 
critic,  ‘ against  the  calm  beautj'  of  a summer  even- 
ing, or  the  magnificent  gloom  of  a thunder-storm, 
her  pastor.al  or  banditti  groups  stand  out  with 
double  effect;  while  to  the  charge  of  vagueness  of 
description,  it  may  be  answered  that  Mrs  Radcliffe 
is  by  no  means  vague  where  distinctness  of  imagery 
is  or  ought  to  be  her  object,  as  any  one  may 
satisfy  himself  who  recalls  to  his  recollection  her 
description  of  the  lonclj'  house  bi'  the  IMediterra- 
nean,  with  the  scudding  c'ouds,  the  screaming  sea- 
birds, and  the  stormy  sea,  the  scene  selected  for  the 
murder  of  Ellena ; or  another  picture,  in  the  best 
manner  of  Salvator,  of  the  first  glimpse  of  the  castle 
of  Udolpho,  rising  over  a mountain  pass,  with  the 
slant  sunbeams  lighting  up  its  ancient  weather- 
beaten towers.  Indeed  the  whole  description  of 
that  Apennine  fastness,  both  without  and  within,  is 
in  the  best  style,  not  of  literal,  indeed,  but  of  ima- 
ginative painting — “ fate  sits  on  those  dark  battle- 
ments and  frowns:”  the  very  intricacy  of  its  internal 
architecture  and  its  endless  passages — a mighty 
maze,  and,  we  fe.ar,  without  a plan — only  serve  to 
deepen  the  impression  of  imprisonment,  and  be- 
wilderment, and  gloom.’  The  romantic  colouring 
which  Mrs  Radcliffe  could  throw  over  actual  objects, 
at  the  same  time  preserving  their  symmetry'  and 
appearance  entire,  is  finely  displav  ed  in  ner  English 
descriptions,  particularly  in  that  of  Windsor. 

,5.’i0 


N0VKUST8.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  ann  radcliffe. 


of  the  Cattle  of  Udolpho.] 

Towards  the  close  of  the  day,  the  road  wound  into 
a deep  valley.  Mountains,  whose  shagfry  steeps  ap- 
peared to  be  inaccessible,  almost  surrounded  it.  To  the 
east  a vista  opened,  and  exhibited  the  Apennines  in 
their  darkest  horrors  ; and  the  long  perspective  of  retir- 
ing summits  rising  over  each  other,  their  ridges  clothed 
with  p'nes,  exhibited  a stronger  image  of  grandeur 
than  any  that  Emily  had  yet  seen.  The  sun  had  just 
sunk  below  the  top  of  the  mountains  she  was  descend- 
ing, whose  long  shadow  stretched  athwart  the  valley  ; 
but  his  sloping  rays,  shooting  through  an  opening  of 
the  dills,  touched  with  a yellow  gleam  the  summits 
cf  the  forest  that  hung  upon  the  opposite  steeps,  and 
streamed  in  full  splendour  upon  the  towers  and  battle- 
ments of  a castle  that  spread  its  extensive  ramparts 
along  the  brow  of  a precipice  above.  The  splendour 
of  these  illumined  objects  was  heightened  by  the  con- 
trasted shade  which  involved  the  valley  below. 

‘ There,’  said  Montoni,  speaking  for  the  first  time 
in  .several  hours,  ‘ is  Udolpho.’ 

Emily  gazed  with  melancholy  awe  upon  the  castle, 
which  she  understood  to  be  hlontoni’s ; for,  though  it 
was  now  lighted  up  by  the  setting  sun,  the  Gothic 
greatness  of  its  features,  and  its  mouldering  walls  of 
dark  gray  stone,  rendered  it  a gloomy  and  sublime 
object.  As  she  gazed  the  light  died  away  on  its  walls, 
leaving  a melancholy  purple  tint,  which  spread  deeper 
and  deeper  as  the  thin  vapour  crept  up  the  mountain, 
while  the  battlements  above  were  still  tipped  with 
S]ilendour.  From  these,  too,  the  rays  soon  faded,  and 
the  whole  edifice  was  invested  with  the  solemn  duski- 
ness of  evening.  Silent,  lonely,  and  sublime,  it  seemed 
to  stand  the  sovereign  of  the  scene,  and  to  frown  de- 
fiance on  all  who  dared  to  invade  its  solitary  reign. 
As  the  twilight  deepened,  its  features  became  more 
awful  in  obscurity,  and  Emily  continued  to  gaze  till 
its  clustering  towers  were  alone  seen  rising  over  the 
to])s  of  the  woods,  beneath  whose  thick  shade  the  car- 
riages soon  after  began  to  ascend. 

The  extent  and  darkness  of  these  tall  woods  awak- 
ened terrific  images  in  her  mind,  and  she  almost  ex- 
pected to  see  banditti  start  up  from  under  the  tree.s. 
At  length  the  carriages  emerged  upon  a heathy  rock, 
and  soon  after  reached  the  castle  gates,  where  the  deep 
tone  of  the  portal  bell,  which  was  struck  upon  to  give 
notice  of  their  arrival,  increased  the  fearful  emotions 
that  had  .assailed  Emily.  While  they  waited  till  the 
servant  within  should  come  to  open  the  g.ates,  .she 
anxiously  surveyed  the  edifice;  but  the  gloom  that 
overspread  it  allowed  her  to  distinguish  little  more 
than  a p.art  of  its  outline,  with  the  massy  walls  of  the 
ramparts,  and  to  know  that  it  w.as  vast,  ancient,  and 
dreary.  From  the  parts  she  saw,  she  judged  of  the 
heavy  .strength  and  extent  of  the  whole.  The  gateway 
before  her,  leading  into  the  courts,  was  of  gigantic  size, 
and  w.as  defended  by  two  round  towers,  crowned  by 
overhanging  turrets,  embattled,  where,  instead  of  b.an- 
ners,  now  waved  long  grass  and  wild  plants  that  had 
taken  root  among  the  mouldering  stones,  and  which 
seemed  to  sigh,  as  the  breeze  rolled  past,  over  the 
desolation  around  them.  The  towers  were  united  by 
a curtain,  pierced  and  embattled  also,  below  which 
appeared  the  pointed  arch  of  a huge  portcullis  sur- 
mounting the  gates  ; from  these  the  walls  of  the  ram- 
parts extended  to  other  towers,  overlooking  the  preci- 
pice, whose  shattered  outline,  appearing  on  a gleam 
that  lingered  in  the  west,  told  of  the  ravages  of  war. 
Beyond  these  all  was  lost  in  the  obscurity  of  evening. 

[ffardwick,  in  Derbyshire.'] 

Northward,  beyond  London,  we  may  make  one  stop, 
after  a country  not  otherwise  necessary  to  be  noticed, 
to  mention  Ilardwick,  in  Derbyshire,  a seat  of  the 


Duke  of  Devonshire,  once  the  residence  of  the  Earl  of 
Shrewsbury,  to  whom  Elizabeth  deputed  the  custody 
of  the  unfortunate  Mary.  It  stands  on  an  ea.sy  height, 
a few  miles  to  the  left  of  the  road  from  Mansfield  to 
Chesterfield,  and  is  approached  through  shady  lane.s, 
which  conceal  the  view  of  it  till  you  are  on  the  con- 
fines of  the  park.  Three  towers  of  hoary  gray  then 
ri.se  with  great  majesty  among  old  woods,  and  their 
summits  appear  to  be  covered  with  the  lightly- 
shivered  fragments  of  battlements,  which,  however, 
are  soon  discovered  to  be  perfectly  carved  open  work, 
in  which  the  letters  E.  S.  frequently  occur  under  a 
coronet,  the  initials  and  the  memorials  of  the  vanity 
of  Elizabeth,  Countess  of  Shrewsbury,  who  built  the 
present  edifice.  Its  tall  feature.s,  of  a most  pictu- 
resque tint,  were  finely  disclosed  bet  v vn  the  luxu- 
riant woods  and  over  the  lawns  of  rh  park,  which 
every  now  and  then  let  in  a glimpse  of  ;h-,‘  Derbyshire 
hills. 

In  front  of  the  great  gates  of  the  castle  court,  the 
ground,  adorned  by  old  oaks,  suddenly  sinks  to  a 
darkly-shadowed  glade,  and  the  view  opens  over  the 
vale  of  Scarsdale,  bounded  by  the  wild  mountains  of 
the  Peak.  Immedi.ately  to  the  left  of  the  present 
residence,  some  ruined  fe.atures  of  the  ancient  one, 
enwreathed  with  the  rich  draper}'  of  ivy,  give  an  in- 
terest to  the  scene,  which  the  later  but  more  histori- 
cal structure  heightens  .and  prolongs.  We  followed, 
not  without  emotion,  the  walk  which  Mary  had  so 
often  trodden,  to  the  folding-doors  of  the  great  hall, 
whose  lofty  grandeur,  aided  by  silence,  and  seen  under 
the  influence  of  a lowering  sky,  suited  the  temper  of 
the  whole  scene.  The  tall  windows,  which  half  sub- 
due the  light  they  admit,  just  allowed  us  to  distin- 
guish the  large  figures  in  the  tapestry  above  the  oak 
waiiisoot'ng,  and  showed  a colonnade  of  oak  support- 
ing a gallery  along  the  bottom  of  the  hall,  witli  a paii 
of  gigantic  elk’s  horiiS  flouri.shing  between  the  win- 
dows opposite  to  the  entrance.  The  scene  of  Mary’s 
arrival,  and  her  feelings  upon  entering  thi.s  solemn 
shade,  Ciune  involuntarily  to  the  mind  ; the  noi.se  of 
horses’  feet,  and  many  voices  from  the  court ; her 
proud,  yet  gentle  and  melancholy  look,  as,  led  by 
my  loi'd  keeper,  she  passed  slowly  up  the  hall ; his 
somewhat  obsequious,  yet  jealous  and  vigilant  air, 
while,  awed  by  her  dignity  and  beauty,  he  rememljer.s 
the  terrors  of  his  own  queen  ; the  silence  and  anxiet  / 
of  her  maids,  and  the  bustle  of  the  surrounding  at 
tendants. 

From  the  hall,  a staircase  ascends  to  the  gallery  c.' 
a small  chapel,  in  which  the  chairs  and  cushions  u.sed 
by  Mary  still  remain,  and  proceeds  to  the  fii'.st  stor  ey, 
where  only  one  apartment  bears  memorials  of  her  im- 
prisonment— the  bed,  tapestry,  and  chairs,  har  ing 
been  worked  by  herself.  This  tapestry  is  richly  eir.- 
bossed  with  emblematic  figures,  each  with  its  title 
w'orked  above  it,  and  having  been  scrupulously  pre- 
served, is  still  entire  and  fresh. 

Over  the  chimney  of  an  adjoining  dining-room,  to 
which,  as  well  as  to  other  apartments  on  this  floor, 
some  modern  furniture  has  been  added,  is  this  motto 
carved  in  oak  : — 

‘ There  is  only  this : To  fear  God,  and  keep  his 
commandments.’  So  much  less  valuable  was  tim- 
ber than  workmanship  when  this  mansion  was  con- 
structed, that  where  the  staircases  are  not  of  stone, 
they  are  formed  of  solid  oaken  steps,  instead  of 
planks ; such  is  that  from  the  second,  or  state  storey, 
to  the  roof,  whence,  on  clear  days,  York  and  Lincoln 
cathedrals  are  said  to  be  included  in  the  extensivi: 
prospect.  This  second  floor  is  that  whirh  gives  its 
chief  interest  to  the  edifice.  Nearly  all  the  apart- 
ments of  it  were  allotted  to  Mary  ; some  of  them  for 
state  purpo.ses;  and  the  furniture  is  knewa,  by  other 
proof  than  its  appearance,  to  remain  as  >he  left  it. 
The  chief  room,  or  that  of  audience,  is  of  oncommon 

S.57 


FROM  1780 


cyclop^:dia  of 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


loftiness,  and  strikes  by  its  grandeur,  before  the  rene- 
ration  and  tenderness  arise  which  its  antiquities  and 
the  plainly-told  tale  of  the  sufferings  they  witnessed 
excite. 


[An  Italian  Landscape."] 

These  excursions  sometimes  led  to  Puzzuoli,  Baia, 
or  the  woody  cliffs  of  Pausilippo  ; and  as,  on  their  re- 
turn, they  glided  along  the  moonlight  bay,  the  melo- 
dies of  Italian  strains  seemed  to  give  enchantment  to 
the  scenery  of  its  shore.  At  this  cool  hour  the  voices 
of  the  vine-dressers  were  frequently  heard  in  trio,  as 
they  reposed  after  the  labour  of  the  day  on  some 
pleasant  promontory  under  the  shade  of  poplars ; or 
the  brisk  music  of  the  dance  from  fishermen  on  the 
margin  of  the  w’aves  below.  The  boatmen  rested  on 
their  oars,  while  their  company  listened  to  voices  mo- 
dulated by  sensibility  to  finer  eloquence  than  it  is  in 
the  power  of  art  alone  to  display  ; and  at  others,  while 
they  observed  the  airy  natural  grace  which  distin- 
guishes the  dance  of  the  fishermen  and  peasant  girls  of 
Naples.  Frequently,  as  they  glided  round  a promon- 
tory, whose  shaggy  masses  impended  far  over  the  sea, 
such  magic  scenes  of  beauty  unfolded,  adorned  by  these 
dancing  groups  on  the  bay  beyond,  as  no  pencil  could 
do  justice  to.  The  deep  clear  waters  reflected  every 
image  of  the  landscape  ; the  cliffs,  branching  into  wild 
forms,  crowned  with  groves  whose  rough  foliage  often 
spread  down  their  steeps  in  picturesque  luxuriance  ; 
the  ruined  villa  on  some  bold  point  peeping  through  the 
trees  ; peasants’  cabins  hanging  on  the  precipices,  and 
the  dancing  figures  on  the  strand — all  touched  with 
the  silvery  tint  and  soft  shadows  of  moonlight.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  sea,  trembling  with  a long  line  of 
radiance,  and  showing  in  the  clear  distance  the  sails 
of  vessels  stealing  in  every  direction  along  its  surface, 
presented  a prospect  as  grand  as  the  landscape  was 
beautiful. 


MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS. 

Among  the  most  successful  imitators  of  Mrs  Rad- 
cliffe’s  peculiar  manner  and  class  of  subjects,  was 
Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  whose  wild  romance. 
The  Monk,  published  in  1796,  was  received  with 
niingled  astonishment,  censure,  and  applause.  The 
first  edition  was  soon  disposed  of,  and  in  preparing 
a seconii,  Lewis  threw  out  some  indelicate  passages 
which  had  given  much  offence.  He  might  have  car- 
ried his  retrenchments  farther,  with  benefit  both  to 
the  story  and  its  readers.  ‘ The  Jlonk’  was  a youth- 
ful production,  written,  as  the  author  states  in  his 
rhyming  preface,  when  he  ‘ scarce  had  seen  his  twen- 
tieth year.’  It  has  all  the  marks  of  youth,  except 
modesty.  Lewis  was  the  boldest  of  hobgoblin  writers, 
and  dashed  away  fearlessly  among  scenes  of  monks 
and  nuns,  church  processions,  Spanish  cavaliers, 
maidens  and  duennas,  sorcerers  and  enchantments, 
the  Inquisition,  the  wandering  Jew,  and  even  Satan 
himself,  whom  he  brings  in  to  execute  justice  visibly 
and  without  compunction.  The  hero,  Ambrosio,  is 
abbot  of  the  Capuchins  at  Madrid,  and  from  his 
reputed  sanctity  and  humility,  and  his  eloquent 
preaching,  he  is  surnamed  the  Man  of  Holiness. 
Ambrosio  conceives  himself  to  be  exempted  from 
the  failings  of  humanity,  and  is  severe  in  his  saintly 
judgments.  He  is  full  of  religious  enthusiasm  and 
pride,  and  thinks  himself  proof  against  all  tempta- 
tion. The  hint  of  this  character  was  taken  from  a 
paper  in  the  Guardian,  and  Lewis  filled  up  the  out- 
line with  considerable  energy  and  skilful  delinea- 
tion. The  imposing  presence,  strong  passions,  and 
wretched  downfall  of  Ambrosio,  are  not  easily  for- 


gotten by  the  readers  of  the  novel.  The  haughty 
and  susceptible  monk  is  tempted  by  an  infernal 
spirit — the  Mephostophilis  of  the  tale — who  assumes 
the  form  of  a young  and  beautiful  woman,  and,  after 
various  efforts,  completely  triumphs  over  the  virtue 
and  the  resolutions  of  Ambrosio.  He  proceeds  from 
crime  to  crime,  till  he  is  stained  with  the  most 
atrocious  deeds,  his  evil  genius,  Matilda,  being  still 
his  prompter  and  associate,  and  aiding  him  by  her 
powers  of  conjuration  and  sorcery.  He  is  at  length 
caught  in  the  toils,  detected  in  a deed  of  murder, 
and  is  tried,  tortured,  and  convicted  by  the  Inquisi- 
tion. While  trembling  at  the  approaching  auto 
de  fe,  at  which  he  is  sentenced  to  perish,  Ambrosio 
is  again  visited  by  Matilda,  who  gives  him  a certain 
mysterious  book,  by  reading  which  he  is  able  to 
summon  Lucifer  to  his  presence.  Ambrosio  ven- 
tures on  this  desperate  expedient.  The  Evil  One 
appears  (appropriately  preceded  by  thunder  and 
earthquake),  and  the  wretched  monk,  having  sold 
his  hope  of  salvation  to  recover  his  liberty,  is  borne 
aloft  far  from  his  dungeon,  but  only  to  be  dashed 
to  pieces  on  a rock.  Such  is  the  outline  of  the 
monk’s  story,  in  which  there  is  certainly  no  shrinking 
from  the  supernatural  machinery  that  Mrs  KadclilTe 
adopted  only  in  semblance,  without  attempting  to 
make  it  real.  Lewis  relieved  his  narrative  by 
episodes  and  love-scenes,  one  of  which  (the  bleeding 
nun)  is  told  with  great  animation.  He  introduces 
us  also  to  a robber’s  hut  in  a forest,  in  which  a 
striking  scene  occurs,  evidently  suggested  by  a 
similar  one  in  Smollett’s  Count  Fathom.  Besides 
his  e.xcessive  use  of  conjurations  and  spirits  to  carry 
on  his  story,  Lewis  resorted  to  another  class  of 
horrors,  which  is  simply  disgusting;  namely,  loath- 
some images  of  mortal  corruption  and  decay,  the 
festering  relics  of  death  and  the  grave.  The  ac- 
count of  the  confinement  of  Agnes  in  the  dungeon 
below  the  shrine  of  St  Clare,  and  of  her  dead  child, 
which  she  persisted  in  keeping  constantly  in  her 
arms,  is  a repulsive  description  of  this  kind,  puerile 
and  offensive,  though  preceded  by  the  masterly  nar- 
rative of  the  ruin  and  conflagration  of  the  convent 
by  the  exasperated  populace. 

The  only  other  tale  by  Lewis  which  has  been 
reprinted  is  the  Bravo  of  Venice,  a short  production, 
in  which  there  is  enough  of  banditti,  disguises, 
plots,  and  mysterious  adventures — the  dagger  and 
the  bowl — but  nothing  equal  to  the  best  parts  of 
‘ The  Monk.’  The  style  is  more  chaste  and  uniform, 
and  some  Venetian  scenes  are  picturesquely  de 
scribed.  The  hero,  Abellino,  is  at  one  time  a 
beggar,  at  another  a bandit,  and  ends  by  marrying 
the  lovely  niece  of  the  Doge  of  Venice — a genuine 
character  for  the  mock-heroic  of  romance.  In 
none  of  his  works  does  Lewis  evince  a talent  for 
humour. 

[Scene  of  Conjuration  by  the  Wandering  Jew.] 

[RajTnond,  in  ‘ The  Monk/  is  pursued  by  a spectre  repre- 
senting a bleeding  nun,  which  appears  at  one  o’clock  in  the 
morning,  repeating  a certain  chant,  and  pressing  her  lips  to 
his.  Every  succeeding  visit  inspires  him  with  greater  horror, 
and  he  becomes  melancholy  and  deranged  in  health.  His  ser* 
vant,  Theodore,  meets  with  a stranger,  wlio  tells  him  to  bid 
his  master  wish  for  him  when  the  clock  strikes  one,  and  the 
tale,  as  related  by  Raymond,  proceeds.  The  ingenuity  with 
which  Lewis  avails  himself  of  the  ancient  legend  of  the  Wan- 
dering Jew,  and  the  fine  description  of  the  conjuration,  are 
worthy  of  remark.] 

He  was  a man  of  majestic  presence;  his  counte- 
nance was  strongly  marked,  and  his  eyes  were  large, 
black,  and  sparkling:  yet  there  was  a something  in 
his  look  which,  the  moment  that  I saw  him,  inspired 

558 


KOTELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MATTHEW  GRECORT  LEWI?. 


me  with  a secret  awe,  not  to  say  horror.  He  was 
dressed  plainly,  his  hair  was  unpowdered,  and  a 
band  of  black  velvet,  which  encircled  his  forehead, 
spread  over  his  features  an  additional  gloom.  His 
countenance  wore  the  marks  of  profound  melancholy, 
his  step  wail  slow,  and  his  manner  grave,  stately,  and 
solemn.  He  saluted  me  with  politeness,  and  having 
replied  to  the  usual  compliments  of  introduction,  he 
motioned  to  Theodore  to  quit  the  chamber.  The 
])iige  instantly  withdrew.  ‘ I know  your  business,’ 
said  he,  without  giving  me  time  to  speak.  ‘ I have 
the  power  of  releasing  you  from  your  nightly  visitor  ; 
but  this  cannot  be  done  before  Sunday.  On  the  hour 
when  the  Sabbath  morning  breaks,  spirits  of  darkness 
have  least  influence  over  mortals.  After  Saturday, 
the  nun  shall  visit  you  no  more.’  ‘ May  I not  in- 
quire,’ said  I,  ‘ by  what  means  you  are  in  possession 
of  a secret  which  I have  carefully  concealed  from  the 
knowledge  of  every  one  1’  ‘ How  can  I be  ignorant  of 
your  distresses,  when  their  cause  at  this  moment 
st.ands  before  you  ?’  I started.  The  stranger  con- 
tinued : ‘ though  to  you  only  visible  for  one  hour  in 
the  twenty-four,  neither  day  nor  night  does  she  ever 
quit  you ; nor  will  she  ever  quit  you  till  you  have 
granted  her  request.’  ‘And  what  is  that  request?’ 
‘ That  she  must  herself  explain  ; it  lies  not  in  my 
knowledge.  Wait  with  patience  for  the  night  of 
Saturday  ; all  shall  be  then  cleared  up.’  1 dared  not 
press  him  further.  He  soon  after  changed  the  con- 
versation, and  talked  of  various  matters.  He  named 
people  who  had  ceased  to  exist  for  many  centuries, 
and  yet  with  whom  he  appeared  to  have  been  per- 
sonally acquainted.  I could  not  mention  a country, 
however  distant,  which  he  had  not  visited  ; nor  could 
I sufficiently  admire  the  extent  and  variety  of  his 
information.  I remarked  to  himj  that  having  tra- 
velled, seen,  and  known  so  much,  must  have  given 
him  infinite  pleasure.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
‘ No  one,’  he  replied,  ‘ is  adequate  to  comprehending 
the  misery  of  my  lot ! Fate  obliges  me  to  be  con- 
stantly in  movement ; I am  not  permitted  to  pass 
more  than  a fortnight  in  the  same  place.  I have  no 
friend  in  the  world,  and,  from  the  restlessness  of  my 
destiny,  I never  can  acquire  one.  Fain  would  I lay 
down  ray  miserable  life,  for  I envy  those  who  enjoy 
the  quiet  of  the  grave ; but  death  eludes  me,  and 
flies  from  my  embrac  >.  In  vain  do  I throw  myself  in 
the  way  of  danger.  I plunge  into  the  ocean,  the 
waves  throw  me  back  with  abhorrence  upon  the 
shore ; I rush  into  fire,  the  flames  recoil  at  ray  ap- 
proach ; I oppose  myself  to  the  fury  of  banditti, 
their  swords  become  blunted,  and  break  against 
my  breast.  The  hungry  tiger  shudders  at  my  ap- 
proach, and  the  alligator  flies  from  a monster  more 
horrible  than  itself.  God  has  set  his  seal  upon  me, 
and  all  his  creatures  respect  this  fatal  mark.’  He 
put  his  hand  to  the  velvet  which  was  bound  round  his 
forehead.  There  was  in  his  eyes  an  expression  of 
fury,  despair,  and  malevolence,  that  struck  horror  to 
my  very  soul.  An  involuntary  convulsion  made  me 
shudder.  The  stranger  perceived  it.  ‘ Such  is  the 
curse  imposed  on  me,’  he  continued  ; ‘ I am  doomed 
to  inspire  all  w'ho  look  on  me  with  terror  and  detesta- 
tion. You  already  feel  the  influence  of  the  charm, 
and  with  every  succeeding  moment  will  feel  it  more. 
I will  not  add  to  your  sufferings  by  my  presence. 
Farewell  till  Saturday.  As  soon  as  the  clock  strikes 
twelve,  expect  me  at  your  chamber.' 

Having  said  this  he  departed,  leaving  me  in  asto- 
nishment at  the  mysterious  turn  of  his  manner  and 
conversation.  His  assurances  that  I should  soon  be 
relieved  from  the  apparition’s  visits  produced  a good 
effect  upon  my  constitution.  Theodore,  whom  I 
rather  treated  as  an  adopted  child  than  a domestic, 
was  surprised,  at  his  return,  to  observe  the  amend- 
ment in  my  looks.  He  congratulated  me  on  this 


symptom  of  returning  health,  and  declared  himself 
delighted  at  my  having  received  so  much  benefit  from 
my  conference  with  the  Great  Mogul.  Upon  inquiry 
I found  that  the  stranger  had  already  passed  eight 
days  in  Ratisbon.  According  to  his  own  account, 
therefore,  he  was  only  to  remain  there  six  days  longer. 
Saturday  was  still  at  a distance  of  three.  Oh  ! with 
what  impatience  did  I expect  its  arrival!  In  the 
interim,  the  bleeding  nun  continued  her  nocturnal 
visits ; but  hoping  soon  to  be  released  from  them 
altogether,  the  effects  which  they  produced  on  me 
became  less  violent  than  before. 

The  wished-for  night  arrived.  To  avoid  creating 
suspicion,  1 retired  to  bed  at  my  usual  hour  ; but  as 
soon  as  my  attendants  had  left  me,  I dressed  myself 
again,  and  prepared  for  the  stranger’s  reception.  He 
entered  my  room  upon  the  turn  of  midnight.  A 
small  chest  was  in  his  hand,  which  he  placed  near  the 
stove.  He  saluted  me  without  speaking ; I returned 
the  compliment,  observing  an  equal  silence.  He  then 
opened  the  chest.  The  first  thing  which  he  produced 
was  a small  wooden  crucifix  ; he  sunk  upon  his  knees, 
gazed  upon  it  mournfully,  and  cast  his  eyes  towards 
heaven.  He  seemed  to  be  praying  devoutly.  At 
length  he  bowed  his  head  respectfully,  kissed  the 
crucifix  thrice,  and  quitted  his  kneeling  posture.  He 
next  drew  from  the  chest  a covered  goblet ; with  the 
liquor  which  it  contained,  and  which  appeared  to  be 
blood,  he  sprinkled  the  floor  ; and  then  dipping  in  it 
one  end  of  the  crucifix,  he  described  a circle  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  Round  about  this  he  placed 
various  reliques,  skulls,  thigh-bones,  &c.  I observed 
that  he  disposed  them  all  in  the  forms  of  crosses. 
Lastly,  he  took  out  a large  Bible,  and  beckoned  me 
to  follow  him  into  the  circle.  1 obeyed. 

‘ Be  cautious  not  to  utter  a syllable !’  whispered 
the  stranger : ‘ step  not  out  of  the  circle,  and  as  you 
love  yourself,  dare  not  to  look  upon  my  face.’  Holding 
the  crucifix  in  one  hand,  the  Bible  in  the  other,  he 
seemed  to  read  with  profound  attention.  The  clock 
struck  one ; as  usual  I heard  the  spectre’s  steps  upon 
the  staircase,  but  I was  not  seized  with  the  accus- 
tomed shivering.  I waited  her  approach  with  confi- 
dence. She  entered  the  room,  drew  near  the  circle, 
and  stopped.  The  stranger  muttered  some  words,  to 
me  unintelligible.  Then  raising  his  head  from  the 
book,  and  extending  the  crucifix  towards  the  ghost, 
he  pronounced,  in  a voice  distinct  and  solemn, 
‘ Beatrice  ! Beatrice  I Beatrice!’  ‘ What  wouldst  thou?’ 
replied  the  apparition  in  a hollow  faltering  tone. 
‘What  disturbs  thy  sleep?  Why  dost  thou  afflict 
and  torture  this  youth  ? How  can  rest  be  restored  to 
thy  unquiet  spirit?’  ‘ I dare  not  tell,  I must  not  tell. 
Fain  would  I repose  in  my  grave,  but  stem  commands 
force  me  to  prolong  my  punishment !’  ‘ Knowest 

thou  this  blood  ? Knowest  thou  in  whose  veins  it 
flowed  ? Beatrice ! Beatrice ! in  his  name  I charge 
thee  to  answer  me.’  ‘ 1 dare  not  disobey  my  taskers.’ 
‘ Barest  thou  disobey  me  ?’  He  spoke  in  a command- 
ing tone,  and  drew  the  sable  band  from  his  forehead. 
In  spite  of  his  injunction  to  the  contrary,  curiosity 
would  not  suffer  me  to  keep  my  eyes  off  his  face : I 
raised  them,  and  beheld  a burning  cross  impressed 
upon  his  brow.  For  the  horror  with  which  this  object 
inspired  me  I cannot  account,  but  I never  felt  its 
equal.  My  senses  left  me  for  some  moments ; a 
mysterious  dread  overcame  my  courage ; and  had  not 
the  exerciser  caught  my  hand,  I should  have  fallen 
out  of  the  circle.  When  I recovered  myself,  I per- 
ceived that  the  burning  cross  had  produced  an  effect 
no  less  violent  upon  the  spectre.  Her  countenance 
expressed  reverence  and  horror,  and  her  visionary 
limbs  were  shaken  by  fear.  ‘ Y es,’  she  said  at  length, 
‘ I tremble  at  that  mark ! I respect  it ! I obey  you ! 
Know,  then,  that  my  bones  lie  still  unburied — they 
rot  in  the  obscurity  of  Lindenberg-hole.  None  but 

559 


FROM  I7H0 


CYCLOP^:i)IA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIJJi 


tills  youth  lias  the  riaht  of  consigning  them  to  the 
grave.  Ills  own  lips  have  made  over  to  me  his  body 
and  his  soul  ; never  will  I give  back  his  promise  ; 
never  shall  he  know  o,  night  devoid  of  terror  unless 
he  engages  to  collect  my  mouldering  bones,  and  de- 
posit them  in  the  family  vault  of  his  Andalusian 
castle.  Then  let  thirty  masses  he  said  for  the  repose 
of  my  spirit,  and  I trouble  this  world  no  more.  Now 
let  me  depart ; those  rtames  are  scorching.’ 

lie  let  the  hand  drop  slowly  which  held  the  crucifix, 
and  which  till  then  he  had  pointed  towards  her. 
The  apparition  bowed  her  head,  and  her  form  melted 
into  air. 


MRS  OPIE. 

AfRS  Amelia  Opie  (Miss  Alderson  of  Norwich), 
the  widow  of  .John  Opie,  the  celebrated  artist,  coni- 
nieiieed  her  literary  career  in  1801,  when  she  pub- 
lished her  domestic  and  pathetic  tale  of  The  Father 
anil  Diiiiyhler.  Without  venturing  out  of  ordinary 
life,  Mrs  Opie  invested  her  narrative  with  deep  in- 
terest, hy  her  genuine  painting  of  nature  and  pas- 
sion, her  animated  dialogue,  and  feminine  delicacy  of 
feeling.  Her  first  novel  has  gone  through  eight  edi- 
tions, and  is  still  popular.  A long  series  of  works 
of  fiction  has  since  iiroceeded  from  the  pen  of  this 
lady.  Her  Simple  Tales,  in  four  volumes,  1806; 
New  7«/cs,  four  volumes,  1818;  Temper,  or  Domes- 
tic Scenes,  a tale,  in  three  volumes  ; Tales  of  Real 
Life,  three  volumes;  Tales  of  the  Heart,  four  volumes; 
are  all  marked  by  the  same  characteristics  — the 
portraiture  of  domestic  life,  drawn  with  a view  to 
regulate  the  heart  and  affections.  In  1828  Mrs 
Opie  jmblished  a moral  treatise,  entitled  Detraction 
Displa licit,  in  order  to  expose  that  ‘ most  common  of 
all  vices,’  which  she  says  justly  is  found  ‘ in  every 
class  or  rank  m society,  from  the  peer  to  the  pea- 
sant, from  the  master  to  the  valet,  from  the  mi.stress 
to  the  maid,  from  the  most  learned  to  the  most  igno- 
rant, from  the  man  of  genius  to  the  meanest  capa- 
city.’ The  tales  of  this  lady  have  been  thrown  into 
the  shaile  by  the  brilliant  fictions  of  Scott,  the 
stronger  moral  delineations  of  Miss  Edgeworth,  and 
the  generally  masculine  character  of  our  more  mo- 
dern literature.  She  is,  like  Mackenzie,  too  uni- 
formly |)athetic  and  tender.  ‘ She  can  do  nothing 
well,’  says  .Jefi'rey,  ‘ that  requires  to  be  done  with 
formality,  and  therefore  has  not  succeeded  in  copy- 
ing either  the  concentrated  force  of  weighty  and 
deliberate  reason,  or  the  severe  and  solemn  dignity 
of  majestic  virtue.  To  make  amends,  however,  she 
represents  admirably  everything  that  is  amiable,  ge- 
nerous, and  gentle.’  Perhaps  we  should  adii  to  this 
the  power  of  exciting  and  harrowing  up  the  feelings 
in  no  ordinary  degree.  Some  of  her  short  tales  are 
full  of  gloomy  and  terrific  painting,  alternately  re- 
sembling those  of  Godw  in  and  Mrs  Radcliffe. 

In  Miss  Sedgwick’s  Letters  from  Abroad  (1841), 
we  find  the  following  notice  of  the  venerable  no- 
velist : — ‘ I owed  Mrs  Opie  a grudge  for  having 
made  me  in  my  youth  cry  niy  eyes  out  over  her 
stories  ; but  her  fair  cheerful  face  forced  me  to  for- 
get it.  She  long  ago  forswore  the  world  and  its 
vanities,  and  adopted  the  Quaker  faith  and  costume ; 
but  I fancied  that  her  elaborate  simplicity,  and  the 
fashionable  little  train  to  her  pretty  satin  gown, 
indicated  how  much  easier  it  is  to  adopt  a theory 
than  to  change  one’s  habits.’ 

WILLIAM  GODWIN. 

William  Godwin,  author  of  Caleb  Williams,  was 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  his  times.  The 


boldness  of  his  speculations  and  opinions,  and  his 
apparent  depth  and  ardour  of  feeling,  were  curiously 
contrasted  with  his  jilodding  habits,  his  imperturb 
able  temper,  and  the  quiet  obscure  simplicity  of  his 
life  and  manners.  The  most  startling  and  astound- 
ing theories  were  propounded  by  him  with  undoubt- 
ing confidence ; and  sentiments  that,  if  reduced  to 


action,  would  have  overturned  the  whole  framework 
of  society,  were  complacently  dealt  out  by  their 
author  as  if  they  had  merely  formed  an  ordinary 
portion  of  a busy  literary  life.  Godwin  was  born  at 
Wisbeach,  in  Cambridgeshire,  on  the  3d  of  March 
17.66.  His  father  was  a dissenting  minister — a pious 
nonconformist — and  thus  the  future  novelist  may  be 
said  to  have  been  nurtured  in  a love  of  religious 
and  civil  liberty,  without  perhaps  much  reverence 
for  existing  authority.  He  soon,  however,  far  over- 
stepped the  pale  of  dissent.  After  receiving  the 
necessary  education  at  the  dissenting  college  at  Hox- 
ton,  Mr  Godwin  became  minister  of  a congregation 
in  the  vicinity  of  London.  He  also  officiated  for 
some  time  at  Stowmarket,  in  Suffolk.  About  the 
year  1782,  having  been  five  years  a nonconformist 
preacher,  he  settled  in  London,  and  applied  himself 
wholly  to  literature.  His  first  work  was  entitled 
Sketches  of  History,  in  Six  Sermons  ; and  he  shortly 
afterwards  became  principal  writer  in  the  New  An- 
nual Register.  He  was  a zealous  political  reformer ; 
and  his  talents  were  so  well  known  or  recommended, 
that  he  obtained  the  large  sum  of  i.'700  for  his  next 
publication.  This  was  his  fiimcil  Engniry  concerning 
Political  Justice,  and  its  Influences  on  General  Virtue 
and  Happiness,  published  in  1793.  Mr  Godwin’s 
work  was  a sincere  advocacy  of  an  intellectual  re- 
public— a splendid  argument  for  universal  philan- 
thropy and  benevolence,  and  for  the  omnipotence  of 
mind  over  matter.  His  views  of  the  perfectibility 
of  man  and  the  regeneration  of  society  (all  private 
affections  and  ijiterests  being  merged  in  the  public 
good)  were  clouded  by  no  misgivings,  and  he  urote 
with  the  force  of  conviction,  and  with  no  ordinary 
powers  of  persuasion  and  eloquence.  The  Enquiry 
was  highly  successful,  and  went  through  several 

560 


•WVF.LISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  GODWIN. 


tKlitioiis.  In  a twelvemonth  afterwards  appeared  his 
novel  nt  Thinfix  as  they  Are,  or  the  Ailoentiires  of  Caleb 
Williatss.  His  objeet  here  was  also  to  inculcate  his 
peculiar  doctrines,  and  to  comprehend  ‘ a general 
review  of  the  modes  of  domestic  and  unrecorded 
despotism,  by  which  man  becomes  the  destroyer  of 
man.’  llis  hero,  Williams,  tells  his  own  tale  of  suf- 
fering and  of  wrong — of  innocence  persecuted  and 
reduced  to  the  brink  of  death  and  infamy  by  aristo- 
cratic power,  and  by  tyrannical  or  partially-admi- 
nistered laws ; but  his  storj’  is  so  fraught  with 
interest  and  energy,  that  we  lose  sight  of  the  politi- 
cal object  or  satire,  and  think  only  of  the  characters 
and  incidents  that  pass  in  review  before  us.  The 
imagination  of  the  author  overpowered  his  philo- 
sophy ; he  was  a greater  inventor  than  logician.  His 
character  of  Falkland  is  one  of  the  finest  in  the 
whole  range  of  English  fictitious  composition.  The 
opinions  of  Godwin  were  soon  brought  still  more 
prominently  forward.  His  friends,  Holcroft,  Thel- 
wall,  Horne  Tookc,  and  others,  were  thrown  into 
the  Tower  on  a charge  of  high  treason.  The  novelist 
had  joined  none  of  their  societies,  and  however  ob- 
noxious to  those  in  power,  had  not  rendered  himself 
amenable  to  the  laws  of  his  country.*  Godwin, 
however,  was  re.ady  with  his  pen.  Judge  Eyre,  in 
his  charge  to  the  grand  jury,  had  laid  down  prin- 
ciples very  different  from  those  of  our  author,  and 
the  latter  instantly  published  Cursory  Strictures  on 
the  judge’s  charge,  so  ably  written  that  the  pamph- 
let is  said  to  have  mainly  led  to  the  acquittal  of  tlie 
accused  parties.  In  1 T96  Mr  Godwin  issued  a series 
of  essays  on  education,  manners,  and  literature, 
entitled  The  Enquirer.  In  the  following  year  he 
married  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  autlior  of  Vindica- 
tion of  the  Riyhts  of  Woman,  &c.  a lady  in  many  re- 
spects as  remarkable  as  her  husband,  and  who  died 
after  having  given  birth  to  a daughter  (Mrs  Shelley) 
still  more  justly  distinguished.  Godwin’s  contempt 
of  the  ordinary  modes  of  thinking  .sod  acting  in  this 
country  was  displayed  by  this  marriage.  His  wdfe 
brought  with  her  a natural  daughter,  the  fruit  of  a 
former  connexion.  She  had  lived  with  Godwin  for 
some  time  before  their  marriage;  and  ‘the  principal 
motive,’  he  says,  ‘for  complying  with  the  ceremony, 
w.as  the  circumstance  of  Mary’s  being  in  a state  of 
pregnancy.’  Such  an  open  disregard  of  the  ties  and 
principles  that  sweeten  life  and  adorn  society  asto- 
nished even  Godwin’s  philosophic  and  reforming 
friends.  But  whether  acting  in  good  or  in  bad  taste, 
he  seems  alw.ays  to  have  been  fearless  and  sincere. 
He  wrote  Memoirs  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  Godwin 
(who  died  in  about  half  a year  after  her  marriage), 
and  in  this  curious  work  all  the  details  of  her  life 
and  conduct  are  minutely  related.  We  are  glad, 

* If  we  may  credit  a curious  entry  in  Sir  Walter  Scott’s 
d'ary,  Godwin  must  have  been  early  mixed  up  with  the  Eng- 
lish Jacobins.  ‘ Canning's  convei'sion  from  popular  opinions,* 
says  Scott,  ‘ was  strangely  brought  round.  While  he  was  study- 
ing in  the  Tcm.ple.  and  rather  entertaining  revolutionary'  opi- 
nions, Godwin  sent  to  say  that  he  was  coming  to  breakfast 
with  him,  to  speak  on  a subject  of  tlie  higliest  importance. 
Canning  knew  little  of  him,  but  received  his  visit,  and  learned 
to  his  astonishment  that,  in  expectation  of  a new  order  of 
th'ngs,  the  English  Jacobins  designed  to  place  him.  Canning, 
a t the  liead  of  the  revolution.  He  was  much  struck,  and  asked 
time  to  think  what  course  he  should  take ; and  having  thought 
the  mx-.ter  over,  he  went  to  Mr  Pitt,  and  made  the  Anti- 

•lacobin  confession  of  faith,  in  which  he  persevered  until . 

Canning  himself  mentioned  this  to'ff.r  W.  Knighton  upon  occa- 
eion  of  giving  a place  in  the  Charter-house,  of  some  ten  pounds 
a-ye.ar,  to  Godwin’s  brother.  He  could  scarce  do  less  for  one 
who  had  offered  him  the  dictator’s  cunile  chair.’ — Lockhart's 
Life  of  S.to/t.  This  occurrence  must  have  taken  piace  before 
1793,  as  in  that  year  Canning  v/aa  introduced  by  Pitt  into  par- 
liament. 


after  this  mentid  pollution,  to  meet  Godwin  again 
as  a novelist — 

He  licars  no  token  of  the  sabler  streams. 

And  mounts  far  off  among  the  swans  of  Thames. 

In  1799  appeared  his  St  Leon,  a story  of  the  ‘ mira- 
culous class,’  as  he  himself  states,  and  designed  to 
mix  human  feelings  and  passions  with  incredible 
situations.  His  hero  attains  the  possession  of  the 
philosopher’s  stone,  and  secures  exhaustless  wealth 
by  the  art  of  transmuting  metals  into  gold,  and  at 
the  same  time  he  learns  the  secret  of  the  elixir  vike, 
by  which  he  h.as  the  power  of  renewing  his  youtli. 
These  are,  indeed,  ‘ incredible  situations ;’  but  the 
romance  has  many  attractions — splendid  descrip- 
tion and  true  pathos.  Its  chief  defect  is  an  ex- 
ce.ss  of  the  terrible  and  marvellous.  In  1800  Mr 
Godwin  produced  his  unlucky  tragedy  of  Antonio ; 
in  1801  Thonohis  on  Dr  Parr's  S/jital  Sermon,  being 
a reply  to  some  attacks  m.ade  upon  him,  or  rather 
on  his  code  of  morality,  by  Parr,  Mackintosh,  and 
others.  In  180,3  he  brought  out  a voluminous  Life 
of  Chmtcer,  in  two  quarto  volumes.  With  Mr  God- 
win the  great  business  of  this  world  was  to  write 
books,  and  whatever  subject  he  selected,  he  treated 
it  with  a due  sense  of  its  importance,  and  pursued 
it  into  all  its  ramifications  with  intense  ardour  and 
application.  The  ‘Life  of  Chancer’  was  ridiculed 
by  Sir  W, alter  Scott  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  in 
consequence  of  its  enormous  bulk  and  its  extraneous 
dissertations,  but  it  is  creditable  to  the  author’s  taste 
and  research.  The  student  of  our  early  literature 
will  find  in  it  manj’  interesting  facts  connected  with 
a chivalrous  and  romantic  period  of  our  history — 
much  sound  criticism,  and  a fine  relish  for  true 
poetry.  In  1804  Mr  Godwin  produced  his  novel  of 
Fleetwood,  or  the  New  Man  of  Feeling.  The  title 
was  unfortunate,  as  reminding  the  reader  of  the  old 
Man  of  Feeling,  by  far  the  most  interesting  and 
amiable  of  the  two.  Mr  Godwin’s  hero  is  self-willed 
and  capricious,  a morbid  egotist,  whose  irritability 
and  frantic  outbursts  of  passion  move  contempt 
rather  than  sympathy.  Byron  has  said — 

Romances  paint  at  full  length  people’s  wooings. 

But  only  give  a bust  of  marriages. 

This  cannot  be  said  of  Mr  Godwin.  Great  part  of 
Fleetwood  is  occupied  with  the  hero’s  matrimonial 
troubles  and  afflictions  ; but  they  only  exemplify 
the  noble  poet’s  farther  observation — 10  one  cares 
for  matrimonial  cooings.’  The  better  parts  of  the 
novel  consist  of  the  episode  of  the  Macneills,  a tale 
of  family  pathos,  and  some  detached  descriptions  of 
Welsh  scenery.  For  some  years  Mr  Godwin  was 
little  heard  of.  He  had  married  again,  and.  as  a 
more  certain  means  of  maintenance,  had  opened  a 
bookseller’s  shop  in  London,  under  the  assumed 
name  of  ‘ Edward  Baldwin.’  In  this  situation  he 
ushered  forth  a number  of  children’s  books,  small 
bistories  and  other  compilations,  some  of  them  by 
himself.  Charles  Lamb  mentions  an  English  Gram- 
mar, in  which  Hazlitt  assisted.  He  tried  another 
tragedy,  Faulhner,  in  1807,  but  it  was  unsuccessful. 
Next  year  he  published  an  Essay  on  Sepulchres, 
written  in  a fine  meditative  spirit,  with  great  beauty 
of  expression;  and  in  1815  Lines  of  Edward  and 
John  Phillips,  the  nephews  of  Milton.  The  latter  is 
also  creditable  to  the  taste  and  research  of  the 
author,  and  illustrates  our  poetical  history  about 
the  time  of  the  Restoration.  In  1817  Mr  Godwin 
.again  entered  the  arena  of  fiction.  He  had  paid  a 
visit  to  Scotland,  and  concluded  with  Constable  for 
another  novel,  Mandeville.  a tale  of  the  times  of 
Cromw'ell.  The  style  of  this  work  is  measured  and 
stately,  and  it  abounds  in  that  moral  anatomy  in 

£61 


78 


i>ROM  17no  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  presemt  riMii 

wliicli  the  author  delighted,  but  often  carried  be- 
yond truth  and  nature.  The  vindictive  feelings 
delineated  in  ‘ Mandeville’  are  pushed  to  a revolt- 
ing extreme.  I’assag  >s  of  energetic  and  beautiful 
composition — reflective  and  descriptive — are  to  be 
found  in  the  novel ; and  we  may  remark,  that  as 
the  author  advanced  in  years,  he  seems  to  have  cul- 
tivated more  sedulously  the  graces  of  language  and 
diction.  The  staple  of  his  novels,  however,  was 
taken  from  the  depths  of  his  own  mind — not  from 
extensive  surveys  of  mankind  or  the  universe  : and 
it  was  obvious  that  the  oft-drawn-upon  fountain  be- 
gan to  dry  up,  notwithstanding  the  luxuriance  of 
the  foliage  that  shaded  it.  We  next  find  Mr  God- 
win comhating  the  opinions  of  Malthus  upon  popu- 
lation (1820),  and  then  setting  about  an  elaborate 
Histwy  of  the  Commotiwealth.  The  great  men  of 
that  era  were  exactly  suited  to  his  taste.  Their  re- 
solute energy  of  character,  their  overthrow  of  the 
monarchy,  tlieir  republican  enthusiasm  and  strange 
notions  of  faith  and  the  saints,  were  well  adapted  to 
fire  his  imagination  and  stimulate  his  research.  The 
history  extended  to  four  large  volumes,  which  were 
published  at  intervals  between  1824  and  1828.  It 
is  evident  that  Mr  Godwin  tasked  himself  to  pro- 
duce authorities  for  all  he  advanced.  He  took  up, 
as  might  be  expected,  strong  opinions ; but  in  striv- 
ing to  be  accurate  and  minute,  he  became  too  spe- 
cific and  chronological  for  the  interest  of  his  narra- 
tive. It  w'as  truly  said  that  the  style  of  his  history 
‘ creeps  and  hitches  in  dates  and  authoritie.s.’  In 
18.30  Mr  Godwin  published  Cloudedey,  a tale,  in 
three  volumes.  Reverting  to  his  first  brilliant  per- 
formance as  a novelist,  he  made  his  new  hern,  like 
I Caleb  Williams,  a person  of  humble  origin,  and  he 
arrays  him  against  his  patron  ; but  there  the  ]ia- 
rallel  ends.  The  elastic  vigour,  the  verisimilitude, 
the  crowding  incidents,  the  absorbing  interest,  and 
the  overwhelming  catastrophe  of  the  first  novel, 
are  not  to  be  found  in  • Cloudesley.’  There  is  even 
little  delineation  of  character.  Instead  of  these  we 
have  fine  English,  ‘clouds  of  reflections  without  any 
new’  occasion  to  call  them  forth ; an  expanded  flow 
of  words  without  a single  pointed  remark.’  The 
next  production  of  this  veteran  author  was  a meta- 
physical treatise.  Thoughts  on  Man,  &c. ; and  his 
last  work  (1834)  a compilation,  entitled  Lives  of  the 
Necromancers.  In  his  later  years  Mr  Godwin  en- 
joyed a small  government  office,  yeoman  usher 
of  the  Exchequer,  which  was  conferred  upon  him 
by  Earl  Grey’s  ministry.  In  the  residence  attached 
to  this  appointment,  in  New  Palace  Yard,  he  ter- 
minated his  long  and  laborious  scholastic  life  on  the 
7th  of  April  1836.  No  man  ever  panted  more 
ardently,  or  toiled  more  heroically',  for  literary  fame ; 
and  we  think  that,  before  he  closed  his  eyes,  he  must 
have  been  conscious  that  he  had  ‘left  something  so 
written  to  after-times,  as  they  should  not  willingly 
let  it  die.’ 

‘ Caleb  Williams’ is  unquestionably  the  most  in- 
teresting and  original  of  Mr  Godwin’s  novels,  and 
is  altogether  aw’ork  of  extraordinary  art  and  power. 
It  has  the  plainness  of  narrative  and  the  apparent 
reality  of  the  fictions  of  Defoe  or  Swift,  but  is 
far  more  pregnant  with  thought  and  feeling,  and 
touches  far  higher  sympathies  and  associations. 
The  incidents  and  characters  are  finely  developed 
and  contrasted,  an  intense  earnestness  pervades 
the  whole,  and  the  story  never  flags  for  a moment. 
The  lowness  of  some  of  the  scenes  never  inspires 
such  disgust  as  to  repel  the  reader,  and  the  awful 
crime  of  which  Falkland  is  guilty  is  allied  to  so 
much  worth  and  nobleness  of  nature,  that  we  are 
involuntarily  led  to  regard  him  with  feelings  of  ex- 
alted pity  and  commiseration.  A brief  glance  at  1 

the  story  will  show  the  materials  with  which  God- 
win ‘framed  his  spell.’  Caleb  Williams,  an  intel- 
ligent young  peasant,  is  taken  into  the  house  of 
Mr  Falkland,  the  lord  of  the  manor,  in  the  capacity 
of  amanuensis,  or  private  secretary.  His  master 
is  kind  and  compassionate,  but  stately  and  solemg 
in  manner.  An  air  of  mystery  hangs  about  ..  , 

his  address  is  cold,  and  his  sentiments  impenetrable; 
and  he  breaks  out  occasionally  into  fits  of  causeless 
jealousy  and  tyrannical  violence.  One  day  Williams 
surprises  him  in  a closet,  where  he  heard  a deep 
groan  expressive  of  intolerable  anguish,  then  the  lid 
of  a trunk  hastily  shut,  and  the  noise  of  fastening 
a lock.  Finding  he  was  discovered,  Falkland  flies 
into  a transport  of  rage,  and  threatens  the  intnider 
with  instant  death  if  he  does  not  withdraw.  The 
astonished  youth  retires,  musing  on  this  strangi 
scene.  His  curiosity  is  aw’akened,  and  he  learns 
part  of  Falkland’s  history  from  an  old  confidential 
steward — how  that  his  master  was  once  the  gayest 
of  the  gay,  and  had  achieved  honour  and  fane.- 
abro.'id,  till  on  his  return  he  was  persecuted  with  a 
malignant  destiny.  His  nearest  neighbour,  Tyrrel, 
a man  of  estate  equal  to  his  own,  but  of  coarse  and 
violent  mind  and  temjier,  became  jealous  of  Falk- 
land’s superior  talents  and  accomplishments,  and 
conceived  a deadly  enmity  at  him.  The  series  of 
events  detailing  the  jirogress  of  this  mutual  hatred 
(particularly  th.e  episode  of  Miss  Melville)  is  deve- 
loped with  great  skill,  but  all  is  creditable  to  the 
high-minded  and  chivalrous  Falkland.  The  con- 
duct of  Tyrrel  becomes  at  length  so  atrocious,  that 
the  country  gentlemen  shun  his  society.  He  in- 
trudes himself,  however,  into  a rural  assembl)’,  an 
altercation  ensues,  and  Falkland  indignantly  up- 
braids him.  and  bids  him  begone.  Amidst  the  boot- 
ings and  rejiroaches  of  the  assembly,  Tyrrel  retires, 
but  soon  returns  inflamed  with  liquor,  and  with  one 
blow  of  his  muscular  arm  levels  Falkland  to  the 
ground.  His  violence  is  repeated,  till  he  is  again 
forced  to  retreat.  This  complication  of  ignominy, 
base,  humiliating,  and  public,  stung  the  proud  and 
sensitive  Falkland  to  the  soul ; he  left  the  room  ; 
but  one  other  event  closed  the  transactions  of  that 
memorable  evening — Tywrel  was  found  dead  in  the 
street,  having  been  murdered  (stabbed  with  a knife) 
at  the  distance  of  a few  yards  from  the  assembly 
house.  From  this  crisis  in  Falkland’s  history 
commenced  his  gloomy  and  unsociable  melancholy — 
life  became  a burden  to  him.  A private  investiga- 
tion was  made  into  the  circumstances  of  the  murder; 
but  Falkland,  after  a lofty  and  eloquent  denial  of 
all  knowledge  of  the  crime,  was  discharged  with 
every  circumstance  of  honour,  and  amidst  the  plau- 
dits of  the  people.  A few  weeks  afterwards,  a 
peasant,  named  Hawkins,  and  his  son  were  taken 
up  on  some  slight  suspicion,  tried,  condemned,  and 
executed  for  the  murder.  Justice  was  satisfied,  but 
a deepening  gloom  had  settled  on  the  solitary  Falk- 
land. Williams  heard  all  this,  and  joined  in  pitying 
the  noble  sufferer;  but  the  question  occurred  to  him 
— was  it  possible,  after  all,  that  his  master  should  be 
the  murderer  ? The  idea  took  entire  possession  of 
his  mind.  He  determined  to  place  himself  as  a 
watch  upon  Falkland — a perpetual  stimulus  urged 
him  on.  Circumstances,  also,  were  constantly  oc- 
curring to  feed  his  morbid  inquisitiveness.  At 
length  a fire  broke  out  in  the  house  during  Falk- 
land’s absence,  and  Williams  was  led  to  the  room 
containing  the  mysterious  trunk.  With  the  energy 
of  uncontrollable  passion  he  forced  it  open,  and 
was  in  the  act  of  .lifting  up  the  lid,  when  Falkland 
entered,  wild,  breathless,  and  distraction  in  his  looks. 
The  first  act  of  the  infuriate  master  was  to  present 
a pistol  at  the  head  of  the  youth,  but  he  instantiy 

SG2 

NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  GODWIIV 


chaiijjed  his  resolution,  and  ordered  him  to  with- 
draw. Next  day  Falkland  disclosed  the  seeret.  ‘ I 
i am  the  blackest  of  villains ; I am  the  murderer  of 
I Tyrrel ; I am  the  ass.assin  of  the  Hawkinses  I’  He 
I made  Williams  swear  never  to  disclose  the  secret, 

I on  pain  of  death  or  worse.  ‘ I am,’  said  Falkland, 
‘ as  much  the  fool  of  fame  as  ever  ; I clinpr  to  it  as 
I my  last  breath  : though  I be  the  blackest  of  villains, 

I I will  leave  behind  me  a spotless  and  illustrious 
I name : there  is  no  crime  so  malignant,  no  scene  of 
: blood  so  horrible,  in  which  that  object  cannot  engage 

me.’  Williams  took  the  oath  and  submitted.  His 
j spirit,  however,  revolted  at  the  servile  submission 
I that  was  required  of  him,  and  in  time  he  escaped 
from  the  house.  He  was  speedily  taken,  and  accused 
at  the  instance  of  Falkland  of  abstracting  valuable 
property  from  the  trunk  he  had  forced  open  on  the 
day  of  the  lire.  He  was  cast  into  prison.  The  in- 
I terior  of  the  prison,  and  its  wretched  inmates,  are 
then  described  with  great  minuteness.  Williams,  to 
whom  the  confinement  became  intolerable,  escaped. 

I He  is  first  robbed  and  then  sheltered  by  a band  of 
robbers — he  is  forced  to  flee  for  his  life — assumes 
different  disguises — is  again  in  prison,  and  again 
escapes:  but  misery  and  injustice  meet  bim  at  every 
step.  He  had  innocently  fastened  on  himself  a 
second  enemy,  a villain  named  Gines,  who  from  a 
highwayman  had  become  a thief-taker ; and  the  in- 
cessant exertions  of  this  lellow,  tracking  him  from 
place  to  place  like  a blood-hound,  are  related  with 
uncommon  spirit  and  effect.  The  whole  of  these  ad- 
rentures  possess  an  enchaining  interest,  and  cannot 
be  perused  without  breathless  anxiety.  The  inno- 
cence of  Williams,  and  the  manifestations  of  his  cha- 
racter— artless,  buoyant,  and  fast  maturing  underthis 
stern  discipline — irresistibly  attract  and  carry  for- 
ward the  reader.  The  connection  of  Falkland  and 
Williams  is  at  last  wound  up  in  one  scene  of  over- 
powering interest,  in  which  the  latter  comes  forward 
publicly  as  the  accuser  of  his  former  master.  The 
place  is  the  hall  of  a magistrate  of  the  metropolitan 
town  of  Falkland’s  county. 

[Conchiding  Scene  of  Caleb  Williams.'] 

I can  conceive  of  no  shock  greater  than  that  I re- 
ceived from  the  sight  of  hlr  Falkland.  His  appear- 
ance on  the  last  occasion  on  which  we  met  had  been 
haggard,  ghost-like,  and  wild,  energy  in  his  gestures, 
and  phrensy  in  his  aspect.  It  was  now  the  appear- 
ance of  a corpse.  He  was  brought  in  in  a chair, 
unable  to  stand,  fatigued  and  almost  destroyed  by 
the  journey  he  had  just  taken.  His  visage  was  colour- 
less ; his  limbs  destitute  of  motion,  almost  of  life. 
His  head  reclined  upon  his  bosom,  except  that  now 
and  then  he  lifted  it  up,  and  opened  his  eyes  with  a 
languid  glance,  immediately  after  which  he  sank  back 
into  his  former  apparent  insensibility.  He  seemed  not 
to  have  three  hours  to  live.  He  had  kept  his  chamber 
for  several  weeks,  but  the  summons  of  the  magistrate 
had  been  delivered  to  him  at  his  bedside,  his  orders 
respecting  letters  and  written  papers  being  so  peremp- 
tory thatno  one  dared  to  disobey  them.  Upon  reading 
the  paper,  he  was  seized  with  a very  dangerous  fit ; 
but  as  soon  as  he  recovered,  he  insisted  upon  being 
conveyed,  with  all  practicable  expedition,  to  the  place 
I of  appointment.  Falkland,  in  the  most  helpless  state, 

I was  still  Falkland,  firm  in  command,  and  capable  to 
I extort  obedience  from  every  one  that  approached  him. 

What  a sight  was  this  to  me!  Till  the  moment 
! that  Falkland  was  presented  to  my  view,  my  breast 
I was  steeled  to  pity.  I thought  that  I had  coolly 
j entered  into  the  reason  of  the  case  (passion,  in  a state 
of  solemn  and  omnipotent  vehemence,  always  appears 
to  be  coolness  to  him  in  whom  it  domineers),  and 


that  I had  determined  impartially  and  justly.  1 
believed  that,  if  Mr  Falkland  were  permitted  to 
persist  in  his  schemes,  we  must  both  of  us  be  com- 
pletely wretched.  I believed  that  it  was  in  my  power, 
by  the  re.solution  I h.id  formed,  to  throw  my  share  of 
this  wretchedness  from  me,  and  that  his  could  scarcely 
be  increased.  It  appeared,  therefore,  to  my  mind  to 
be  a mere  piece  of  equity  and  justice,  such  as  an 
impartial  spectator  would  desire,  that  one  person 
should  be  miserable  in  preference  to  two,  that  one 
person,  rather  than  two,  should  be  incapacitated  from 
acting  his  part,  and  contributing  his  share  to  the 
general  welfare.  I thought  that  in  this  business  I 
had  risen  superior  to  personal  considerations,  and 
judged  with  a total  neglect  of  the  suggestions  of  self- 
regard.  It  is  true  Mr  Falkland  was  mortal : but  not- 
withstanding his  apparent  decay,  he  might  live  long. 
Ought  1 to  submit  to  waste  the  best  years  of  my  life 
in  my  present  wretched  situation  1 He  had  declared 
that  his  reputation  should  be  for.CTer  inviolate  ; this 
was  his  ruling  passion,  the  thou^t  that  worked  his 
soul  to  madness.  He  would  probably,  therefore,  leave 
a legacy  of  persecution  to  be  received  by  me,  from  the 
hands  of  Gines,  or  some  other  villain  equally  atro- 
cious, when  he  should  himself  be  no  more.  Now  or 
never  was  the  time  for  me  to  redeem  my  future  life 
from  endless  wo. 

But  all  these  fine-spun  reasonings  vanished  before 
the  object  that  was  now  presented  to  me.  Shall  I 
trample  upon  a man  thus  dreadfully  reduced  ? Shall 
I point  ray  animosity  against  one  whom  the  system  of 
nature  has  brought  down  to  the  grave?  Shall  I 
poison,  with  sounds  the  most  intolerable  to  his  ears, 
the  last  moments  of  a man  like  Falkland  ? It  is  im- 
possible. There  must  have  been  some  dreadful  mistake 
in  the  train  of  argument  that  persuaded  me  to  be  the 
author  of  this  hateful  scene.  There  must  have  been 
a better  and  more  magnanimous  remedy  to  the  evils 
under  which  I groaned. 

It  was  too  late.  The  mistake  I had  committed  was 
now  gone,  past  all  power  of  recall.  Here  was  Falkland, 
solemnly  brought  before  a magistrate  to  answer  to  a 
charge  of  murder.  Here  I stood,  having  alre.ady  de- 
clared myself  the  author  of  the  charge,  gravely  and 
sacredly  pledged  to  support  it.  This  was  my  situation; 
and  thus  situated  I was  called  upon  immediately  to 
act.  My  whole  frame  shook.  I would  eagerly  have 
consented  that  that  moment  should  have  been  the 
last  of  my  existence.  I,  however,  believed  that  the 
conduct  now  most  indispensably  incumbent  on  me 
was  to  lay  the  emotions  of  ray  soul  naked  before  ray 
hearers.  I looked  first  at  Mr  Falkland,  and  then  at 
the  magistrate  and  attendants,  and  then  at  Mr  Falk- 
land again.  My  voice  was  suffocated  with  agony.  I 
began: — ‘Would  to  God  it  were  possible  for  me  to 
retire  from  this  scene  without  uttering  another  word  ! 
I would  brave  the  consequences — I would  submit  to 
any  imputation  of  cowardice,  falsehood,  and  profli- 
gacy, rather  than  add  to  the  weight  of  misfortune 
with  which  Mr  Falkland  is  overwhelmed.  But  the 
situation,  and  the  demands  of  Mr  Falkland  hira.self, 
forbid  me.  He,  in  compassion  for  whose  fallen  state 
I would  willingly  forget  every  interest  of  my  own, 
would  compel  me  to  accuse,  that  he  might  enter  upon 
his  justification.  I will  confess  every  sentiment  of  my 
heart.  Mr  Falkland  well  knows — I affirm  it  in  his 
presence — how  unwillingly  I have  proceeded  to  this 
extremity.  I have  reverenced  him  ; he  was  worthy 
of  reverence.  From  the  first  moment  I saw  him,  I con- 
ceived the  most  ardent  admiration.  He  condescended 
to  encourage  me ; I attached  myself  to  him  with  the 
fulness  of  affection.  He  was  unhappy ; I exerted 
myself  with  youthful  curiosity  to  discover  the  secret 
of  his  wo.  This  was  the  beginning  of  misfortune. 
What  shall  I say?  He  was  indeed  the  murderer  of 
Tyrrel ! He  suffered  the  Hawkinses  to  be  executed, 

563 


KUOM  1780 


CYCLOP^IDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  TKESENT  TIME 


ViHiwiii"  that  they  were  innocent,  ami  that  ho  alone 
was  iruilty  ! After  Buccessive  BurrniBes,  after  various 
imliscrctions  on  iny  part,  and  indications  on  his,  he 
at  Iciifrth  confided  to  me  at  full  the  fatal  tale!  Mr 
Kalklaml!  I most  solemnly  conjure  you  to  recollect 
yourself!  Did  1 ever  prove  myself  unworthy  of  your 
confidence?  The  secret  was  a most  painful  burthen 
to  me:  it  was  the  extremest  folly  that  led  me  un- 
thinkingly to  gain  possession  of  it ; but  1 would  have 
died  a thousand  deaths  rather  than  betray  it.  It  was 
the  jealousy  of  your  own  thoughts,  and  the  weight 
that  hung  upon  your  mind,  that  led  you  to  watch  my 
motions,  and  conceive  alarm  from  every  particle  of 
my  conduct.  You  began  in  confidence — why  did  you 
not  continue  in  confidence?  The  evil  that  resulted 
from  my  original  imprudence  would  then  have  been 
comparatively  little.  You  threatened  me  : did  1 then 
betray  you  ? A word  from  my  lips  at  that  time  would 
have  freed  me  from  your  threats  for  ever.  I bore  them 
for  a considerable  period,  and  at  last  quitted  your 
service,  and  threw  myself  a fugitive  upon  the  world, 
in  silence.  Why  di<l  you  not  suffer  me  to  depart  ? 
You  brought  me  back  by  stratagem  and  violence,  and 
wantonly  accused  me  of  an  enormous  felony  ! Did  I 
then  mention  a syllable  of  the  murder,  the  secret  of 
which  was  in  my  posse.ssion  ? Where  is  the  man  that 
has  suffered  more  from  the  injustice  of  society  than  I 
have  done  ? I was  accused  of  a villany  that  my  heart 
abhorred.  I was  sent  to  jail.  I will  not  enumerate 
the  horrors  of  my  prison,  the  lightest  of  which  would 
make  the  heart  of  humanity  shudder.  I looked  for- 
ward to  the  gallows ! Young,  ambitious,  fond  of  life, 
innocent  as  the  child  unborn,  I looked  forward  to  the 
gallows.  I believed  that  one  word  of  resolute  accu- 
sation against  my  patron  would  deliver  me  : yet  I 
was  silent  ; 1 armed  myself  with  patience,  uncertain 
whether  it  were  better  to  accuse  or  to  die.  Did  this 
■show  me  a man  unworthy  to  be  trusted  ? I determined 
to  break  out  of  prison.  VV'ith  infinite  difficulty,  and 
repeated  miscarriages,  I at  length  effected  my  pui-pose. 
Instantly  a proclamation,  with  a hundred  guineas’ 
reward,  was  issued  for  apprehending  me.  I was  obliged 
to  take  shelter  among  the  refuse  of  mankind,  in  the 
midst  of  a gang  of  thieves.  I encountered  the  most 
imminent  peril  of  my  life  when  I entered  this  retreat, 
and  when  I quitted  it.  Immediately  after,  1 travelled 
almost  the  whole  length  of  the  kingdom,  in  poverty 
and  distress,  in  hourly  danger  of  being  retaken  and 
manacled  like  a felon.  I would  have  fled  my  country  ; 
I was  prevented.  I had  recourse  to  various  disguises  ; 
I was  innocent,  and  yet  was  compelled  to  as  many 
arts  and  subterfuges  as  could  have  been  entailed 
on  the  worst  of  villains.  In  London  I was  as  much 
harassed,  and  as  repeatedly  alarmed,  as  I had  been  in 
my  flight  through  the  country.  Did  all  these  per- 
secutions persuade  me  to  put  an  end  to  my  silence? 
No  : 1 suffered  them  with  patience  and  submission  ; 
1 did  not  make  one  attempt  to  retort  them  upon  their 
author.  I fell  at  last  into  the  hands  of  the  miscreants. 
In  this  terrible  situation  I,  for  the  first  time,  at- 
tempted, by  turning  informer,  to  throw  the  weight 
from  myself.  Happily  for  me  the  London  magistrate 
listened  to  my  tale  with  insolent  contempt.  I soon, 
and  long,  repented  of  my  rashness,  and  rejoiced  in 
my  miscarriage.  1 acknowledge  that  in  various  ways 
Mr  Falkland  showed  humanity  towards  me  during 
this  period.  He  would  have  prevented  my  going  to 
prison  at  first  ; he  contributed  to  my  subsistence 
during  my  detention  ; he  had  no  share  in  the  pursuit 
that  had  been  set  on  foot  against  me  : he  at  length 
procured  my  discharge  when  brought  forward  for 
trial.  But  a great  part  of  his  forbearance  was  unknown 
to  me  ; I supposed  him  to  be  my  unrelenting  pursuer. 
I could  not  forget  that,  whoever  heaped  calamities  on 
me  in  the  sequel,  they  all  originated  in  his  forged 
accusation.  The  prosecution  against  me  for  felony 


was  now  at  an  end.  Why  were  not  my  sufferings  per- 
mitted to  terminate  then,  and  1 allowed  to  hide  my 
weary  head  in  some  obscure  yet  tranquil  retreat?  Had 
1 not  sufficiently  proved  my  constaney  and  fidelity  ' 
Would  not  a compromise  in  this  situation  have  been 
moat  wise  and  moat  secure  ? But  the  restless  and 
jealous  anxiety  of  Mr  Falkland  would  not  permit  him 
to  repose  the  least  atom  of  confidence.  The  only  com- 
promise that  he  proposed  was,  that,  with  my  own 
hand,  I should  sign  myself  a villain.  I refused  this 
proposal,  and  have  ever  since  been  driven  from  place 
to  place,  deprived  of  peace,  of  honest  fame,  even  of 
bread.  For  a long  time  1 persisted  in  the  resolution 
that  no  emergency  should  convert  me  into  the  assail- 
ant. In  an  evil  hour  I at  last  listened  to  my  resent- 
ment and  impatience,  and  the  hateful  mistake  into 
which  1 fell  has  produced  the  present  scene.  I now 
see  that  mistake  in  all  its  enormity.  1 am  sure  that 
if  1 had  opened  my  heart  to  Mr  Falkland,  if  1 had 
told  to  him  privately  the  tale  that  1 have  now  been 
telling,  he  could  not  have  resisted  my  reasc liable 
demand.  After  all  his  precautions,  he  must  ulti- 
mately have  depended  upon  my  forbearance.  Could 
he  be  sure,  that  if  1 were  at  last  worked  up  to  disclose 
everything  1 knew,  and  to  enforce  it  with  all  the 
energy  1 could  exert,  I should  obtain  no  credit?  If 
he  must  in  every  case  be  at  my  mercy,  in  which  mode 
ought  he  to  have  sought  his  saf'.dy — in  conciliation, 
or  in  inexorable  cruelty  ? Mr  Falkland  is  of  a noble 
nature.  Yes!  in  spite  of  the  catastrophe  of  Tyrrel, 
of  the  miserable  end  of  the  Hawkinses,  and  of  all  that 
1 have  myself  suffered,  I affirm  that  he  has  qualities 
of  the  most  admirable  kind.  It  is  therefore  impossible 
that  he  could  have  resisted  a frank  and  fervent  ex- 
postulation, the  frankness  and  the  fervour  in  which 
the  whole  soul  was  poured  out.  I despaired  while  it 
w-as  yet  time  to  have  made  the  just  experiment ; but 
my  despair  was  criminal,  was  treason  against  the 
sovereignty  of  truth.  I have  told  a plain  and  unadul- 
terated tale.  I came  hither  to  curse,  but  1 remain  to 
bless.  I came  to  accuse,  but  am  compelled  to  applaud. 
I proclaim  to  all  the  world  that  Mr  Falkland  is  a man 
worthy  of  affection  and  kindness,  and  that  1 art 
myself  the  basest  and  most  odious  of  mankind  ! Never 
will  I forgive  myself  the  iniquity  of  tnis  day.  'fhe 
memory  will  always  haunt  me,  and  embitter  everj 
hour  of  my  existence.  In  thus  acting,  I have  been 
a murderer — a cool,  deliberate,  unfeeling  murderer. 
I have  said  what  my  accursed  precipitation  has 
obliged  me  to  say.  Do  with  me  as  you  please.  I a-.k 
no  favour.  Death  would  be  a kindness  compared  to 
what  I feel !’ 

Such  were  the  accents  dictated  by  my  remor.se.  I 
poured  them  out  with  uncontrollable  impetuosity,  for 
my  heart  was  pierced,  and  I was  compelled  to  give 
vent  to  its  anguish.  Every  one  that  heard  me  was 
petrified  with  astonishment.  Every  one  that  heard 
me  was  melted  into  tears.  They  could  not  resist  the 
ardour  with  which  I praised  the  great  qualities  of 
Falkland ; they  manifested  their  sympathy  in  the 
tokens  of  my  penitence. 

How  shall  I describe  the  feelings  of  this  unfortunate 
man  ! Before  I began,  he  seemed  sunk  and  debili- 
tated, incapable  of  any  strenuous  impre.ssion.  When 
I mentioned  the  murder,  I could  perceive  in  him  an 
involuntary  shuddering,  though  it  was  counteracted, 
partly  by  the  feebleness  of  his  frame,  and  jiartly  by 
the  energy  of  his  mind.  This  was  an  allegation  he 
expected,  and  he  had  endeavoured  to  prepare  himself 
for  it.  But  there  was  much  of  what  1 said  of  which 
he  had  had  no  previous  conception.  When  1 ex- 
pressed the  angui.sh  of  my  mind,  he  seemed  at  first 
startled  and  alarmed,  lest  this  should  be  a new  expe- 
dient to  gain  credit  to  my  tale.  His  indigna'ion 
against  me  was  great  for  having  retained  a>'  ~iy 
resentment  towards  him,  thus,  as  it  might  be,  in  the 

664 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  GODWIN. 


last  hour  of  his  existence.  It  was  increased  wlien  he 
discovered  me,  as  ho  supposed,  using  a pretence  of 
liberality  and  sentiment  to  give  new  edge  to  my 
hostility.  Bat  as  I went  on,  he  could  no  longer  resist. 
He  saw  ray  sincerity;  he  was  penetrated  with  my 
grief  and  compunction.  He  rose  from  his  seat,  sup- 
ported by  the  attendants,  and — to  my  infinite  asto- 
nishment— threw  himself  into  my  arms! 

‘ Williams,’  said  he,  ‘you  have  conquered!  I see 
too  late  the  greatness  and  elevation  of  your  mind.  I 
confess  that  it  is  to  my  fault,  and  not  yours,  that  it  is 
to  the  excess  of  jealousy  that  was  ever  burning  in  my 
bosom  that  I owe  my  ruin.  I could  have  resisted  any 
plan  of  malicious  accusation  you  might  have  brought 
against  me.  But  I see  that  the  artless  and  manly  story 
you  have  told,  has  carried  conviction  to  every  hearer. 
All  my  prospects  are  concluded.  All  that  I most  ar- 
dently desired  is  for  ever  frustrated.  I have  spent  a 
life  of  the  basest  cruelty  to  cover  one  act  of  momentary 
vice,  and  to  protect  myself  against  the  prejudices  of 
my  species.  I stand  now  completely  detected.  My 
name  will  be  consecrated  to  infamy,  while  your  heroism, 
your  patience,  and  your  virtues,  will  be  for  ever  ad- 
mired. You  have  inflicted  on  me  the  most  fatal  of 
all  mischiefs,  but  I bless  the  hand  that  wounds  me. 
And  now’  turning  to  the  magistrate — ‘and  now,  do 
with  me  as  you  please.  I am  prepared  to  suffer  all 
the  venge.ance  of  the  law.  Y ou  cannot  inflict  on  me 
more  than  I deserve.  Y ou  cannot  hate  me  more  than 
1 hate  myself.  I am  the  most  execrable  of  all  vil- 
lains. I have  for  many  years  (1  know  not  how  long) 
dr.agged  on  a miserable  existence  in  insupportable 
pain.  I am  at  last,  in  recompense  for  all  my  labours 
and  my  crimes,  dismissed  from  it  with  the  disappoint- 
ment of  my  only  remaining  hope,  the  destruction  of 
th.it  for  the  sake  of  which  alone  1 consented  to  exist. 
It  was  worthy  of  such  <i  life  that  it  should  continue 
just  long  enough  to  witness  this  final  overthrow.  If, 
however,  you  wish  to  punish  me,  you  must  be  speedy 
in  your  justice  ; for  as  reputation  was  the  blood  that 
wanned  my  heart,  so  I feel  that  death  and  infamy 
must  seize  me  together!’ 

I record  the  praises  bestowed  on  me  by  Falkland, 
not  because  I deserve  them,  but  because  they  serve  to 
aggravate  the  baseness  of  my  cruelty.  He  survived 
but  three  daj's  this  dreadful  scene.  I have  been  his 
murderer.  It  w'as  fit  that  he  should  praise  my  patience, 
who  has  fallen  a victim,  life  and  fame,  to  my  pre- 
cipitation! It  would  have  been  merciful,  in  com- 
parison, if  I h.id  planted  a dagger  in  his  heart.  He 
would  have  thanked  me  for  my  kindness.  But  atro- 
cious, execrable  wretch  that  I have  been,  I wantonly 
inflicted  on  him  an  anguish  a thousand  times  worse 
than  death.  Meanwhile  I endure  the  penalty  of  my 
crime.  His  figure  is  ever  in  imagination  before  me. 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I still  behold  him.  He  seems 
mildly  to  expostulate  with  me  for  my  unfeeling 
behaviour.  I live  the  devoted  victim  of  conscious 
reproach.  Alas  ! I am  the  same  Caleb  Williams  th.at 
so  short  a time  ago  boasted  that,  however  great  were 
the  calamities  I endured,  I was  still  innocent. 

Such  has  been  the  result  of  a project  I formed  for 
delivering  myself  from  the  evils  that  had  so  long  at- 
tended me.  I thought  that  if  Falkland  were  dead,  I 
should  return  once  again  to  all  that  makes  life  w’orth 
possessing.  I thought  that  if  the  guilt  of  Falkland 
were  established,  fortune  and  the  world  would  smile 
upon  my  efforts.  Both  these  events  are  accomplished, 
and  it  is  now  only  that  I am  truly  miserable. 

Why  should  my  reflections  perpetually  centre  upon 
tnyself! — self,  an  overweening  regard  to  wdiich  has 
jeen  the  source  of  my  errors  ! Falkland,  I will  think 
only  of  thee,  and  from  that  thought  \vill  draw  ever- 
fresh  nourishment  for  my  sorrows  ! One  generous,  one 
disinterested  tear,  I will  consecrate  to  thy  ashes!  A 
ftobler  irit  lived  not  among  the  sons  of  men.  Thy 


intellectual  powers  were  truly  sublime,  and  thy 
bosom  burned  with  a godlike  ambition.  But  of  what 
use  are  talents  and  sentiments  in  the  corrupt  wilder- 
ness of  human  .society!  It  is  a rank  and  rotten  .soil, 
from  which  every  finer  shrub  draws  poison  as  it  grows. 
All  that,  in  a happier  field  and  a purer  air,  w'ould 
expand  into  virtue  and  germinate  into  usefulness,  is 
thus  converted  into  henbane  and  deadly  nightshade. 

Falkland ! thou  enteredst  upon  thy  career  with  the 
purest  and  most  laudable  intentions.  But  thou  iin- 
bibedst  the  poison  of  chivalry  with  thy  earliest  youth  ; 
and  the  base  and  low-minded  envy  that  met  thee  on 
thy  return  to  thy  native  seats,  operated  wdth  this 
poison  to  hurry  thee  into  madness.  Soon,  too  soon, 
by  this  fatal  coincidence,  were  the  blooming  hopes  of 
thy  youth  blasted  for  ever!  From  that  moment  thou 
only  continuedst  to  live  to  the  phantom  of  departed 
honour.  From  that  moment  thy  benevolence  was,  in 
a great  measure,  turned  into  rankling  jealousy  and 
inexorable  precaution.  Year  after  year  didst  thou 
spend  in  this  miserable  project  of  imposture ; and 
only  at  last  continuedst  to  live  long  enough  to  see, 
by  my  misjudging  and  abhorred  intervention,  thy 
closing  hope  disappointed,  and  thy  death  accompanied 
with  the  foulest  disgrace  ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott  has  objected  to  what  may  be 
termed  the  master  incident  in  Caleb  Williams,  and 
calls  it  an  instance  of  the  author’s  coarseness  and 
bad  taste ; namely,  that  a gentleman  passionately 
.addicted  to  the  manners  of  ancient  chivalry  should 
become  a midnight  assassin  when  an  honourable 
revenge  was  in  his  power.  Mr  Godwin  might  have 
defended  himself  by  citing  the  illustrious  critic’s 
ow'ii  example  : the  forgery  by  Marmion  is  less  con- 
sistent with  the  manners  of  chivalry  than  the  as- 
sassination by  Falkland.  Without  the  latter,  the 
novel  could  have  had  little  interest — it  is  the  key- 
stone of  the  arch.  Nor  does  it  appear  so  unsuited 
to  the  character  of  the  hero,  who,  though  smit 
with  a romantic  love  of  fame  and  honour,  is 
supposed  to  have  lived  in  modern  times,  and  has 
been  wound  up  to  a pitch  of  phrensy  by  the  public 
brutality  of  Tyrrel.  The  deed  was  instantaneous — 
the  knife,  he  says,  fell  in  his  way.  There  was  no 
time  for  reflection,  nor  was  Tyrrel  a person  whom 
he  could  think  of  meeting  on  equal  erms  in  open 
combat.  He  was  a noisome  pest  and  nuisance, 
despatched  in  a moment  of  fury  by  one  whom  fie 
luid  injured,  insulted,  and  trampled  upon,  solely 
because  of  his  worth  and  his  intellectual  superiority. 

We  have  incidentally  alluded  to  the  other  novels 
of  Godwin.  ‘St  Leon’  will  probably  descend  to 
posterity  in  company  with  ‘ Caleb  Williams,’  but  we 
cannot  conceive  that  a torso  of  any  of  the  others  will 
be  preserved.  They  have  all  a strong  family  like- 
ness. What  Dugald  Stewart  supposed  of  human 
invention  generally,  that  it  was  limited,  like  a 
barrel-organ,  to  a specific  number  of  tunes,  is  strictly 
true  of  Mr  Godwin’s  fictions.  In  ‘ St  Leon,’  how- 
ever, we  have  a romantic  story  with  much  fine 
writing.  Setting  aside  the  ‘ incredible’ conception 
on  which  it  proceeds,  we  find  the  subordinate  in- 
cidents natural  and  justly  proportioned.  The  pos- 
sessor of  the  philosopher’s  stone  is  an  interesting 
visionary — a French  Falkland  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, aud  as  unfortunate,  for  his  miraculous  gifts 
entail  but  misery  on  himself,  and  bring  ruin  to  his 
family.  Even  exhaustless  wealth  is  in  itself  no 
blessing ; and  this  is  the  moral  of  the  story.  The 
adventures  of  the  hero,  both  warlike  and  domestic, 
are  related  with  much  gorgeousness  and  amplitude. 
The  character  of  the  heroic  Marguerite,  the  wife  ol 
Leon,  is  one  of  the  author’s  finest  delineations. 
Bethlem  Gabor  is  .also  a vigorous  and  striking 
sketch,  though  introduced  too  late  in  the  novel  to 

565 


PROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OP  till  the  prhakni  time 


relieve  the  fliigging  interest  after  tlie  deatli  of  Mar- 
guerite. Ttie  tliumJer-storrn  whieh  destroys  tlie 
(iroperty  of  Leon  is  deserihed  witli  great  power  and 
vividness;  and  his  early  distresses  and  losses  at  the 
gaming  table  are  also  in  the  author’s  best  manner. 
The  feene  may  be  said  to  shift  too  often,  and  the 
want  of  fortitude  and  energy  in  the  eharaeter  of  the 
hero  lessens  our  sympathy  for  his  reverses.  At  the 
wme  time  his  tenderness  and  affection  as  a husband 
and  father  are  inexpressibly  touching,  when  we  see 
them,  in  eonsequence  of  his  strange  destiny,  lead  to 
the  ruin  of  tho.se  for  whom  alone  he  wishes  to  live. 
‘How  minute,’  says  one  of  Godwin’s  critics,  ‘how 
patiietic,  how  tragical  is  the  detail  of  the  gradual 
ruin  wliich  falls  on  this  weak  devoted  man,  up  to 
its  heart-breaking  eonsummation  in  the  deatli  of 
the  noble  Marguerite  de  Damville!  how  tremendous 
and  perfect  is  Ids  desolation  after  voluntarily  leaving 
his  daughters,  and  cutting  the  last  thread  which 
binds  him  to  his  kind  1 “ I saw  my  dear  children 

set  forward  on  their  journey,  and  I knew  not  that 
I should  ever  behold  them  more.  I was  determined 
never  to  see  them  again  to  their  injury,  and  I could 
not  take  to  myself  the  consolation,  on  such  a day, 
in  such  a month,  or  even  after  such  a lapse  of  years, 
I will  again  have  the  joy  to  embrace  them.  In  a 
little  while  they  were  out  of  sight,  and  I was  alone.” 
How  complete  is  the  description  of  his  escape  from 
the  procession  to  the  auto  de  fe;  of  his  entrance  into 
the  Jew’s  house;  his  fears;  his  decaying  strength 
just  serving  to  make  up  the  life  restoring  elixir; 
the  dying  taper;  the  insensibility  ; the  resurrection 
to  new  life,  and  the  day-spring  of  his  young  man- 
hood ! How  shall  we  speak  of  the  old  man,  the 
bequeather  of  the  fatal  legacy  to  St  Leon,  and  his 
few  fearful  words,  “ Friendless,  friendles.s — alone, 
alone!”  Alas  ! how  terrible  to  imagine  a being  in 
possession  of  such  endowments,  who  could  bring 
himself  to  think  of  death  ! able  to  turn  back  upon 
his  path,  and  meet  immortal  youth,  to  see  again  the 
morning  of  his  day,  and  find  in  fresh  renewed  life 
and  beauty  a disguise  impenetrable  to  his  former 
enemies,  yet,  in  the  sadness  of  his  experience,  so 
dreading  the  mistakes  and  persecution  of  his  fellow- 
men,  as  to  choose  rather  to  lie  down  with  the  worm, 
and  seek  oblivion  in  the  seats  of  rottenness  and  cor- 
ruption.’* 

[.?<  Leon's  Escape  from  the  Auto  de  Fe.'] 

[St  Leon  is  imprisoned  by  the  Inquisition  on  suspicion  of 
exercising  tlie  powers  of  necromancy,  and  is  carried  with 
other  prisoners  to  feed  the  flames  at  an  auto  de  fe  at  Valla- 
dolid.] 

Our  progress  to  Valladolid  was  slow  and  solemn, 
and  occupied  a space  of  no  less  than  four  days.  On 
the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  we  approached  that 
city'.  The  king  and  his  court  came  out  to  meet  us ; 
he  saluted  the  inquisitor-general  with  all  the  demon- 
strations of  the  deepest  submission  and  humility  ; and 
then  having  y ielded  him  the  place  of  honour,  turned 
round  his  horse,  and  accompanied  us  back  to  Valla- 
dolid. The  cavalcade  that  attended  the  king  broke  into 
two  files,  and  received  us  in  the  midst  of  them.  The 
whole  city  seemed  to  empty  itself  on  this  memorable 
occasion,  and  the  multitudes  that  crowded  along  the 
road,  and  were  scattered  in  the  neighbouring  fields, 
were  innumerable.  The  day  was  now  closed,  and  the 
procession  went  forward  amidst  the  light  of  a thou- 
sand torches.  We,  the  condemned  of  the  Inquisition, 
had  been  conducted  from  the  metropolis  upon  tum- 
brils; but  as  we  arrived  at  the  gates  of  Valladolid, 
we  were  commanded,  for  the  greater  humiliation,  to 

• Criticism  preflxed  to  Bentley’s  Standard  Novels — * Caleb 
Villiams 


alight  and  proceed  on  foot  to  the  place  of  our  con- 
finement, as  many  as  could  not  walk  without  assist- 
ance being  supported  by  the  attendants.  We  were 
neither  chained  nor  bound;  the  practice  of  the  In- 
quisition being  to  deliver  the  condemned  upon  such 
occasions  into  the  hands  of  two  sureties  each,  who 
placed*  their  charge  in  the  middle  between  them ; 
and  men  of  the  most  respectable  characters  were 
accustomed,  from  religious  motives,  to  sue  for  this 
melancholy  office. 

Dejected  and  despairing  I entered  the  streets  of 
the  city,  no  object  present  to  the  eyes  of  my  mind 
but  that  of  my  approaching  execution.  The  crowd 
was  vast,  the  confusion  inexpre.ssible.  As  we  passed 
by  the  end  of  a narrow  lane,  the  horse  of  one  of  the 
guards,  who  rode  exactly  in  a line  with  me,  plunged 
and  reared  in  a violent  manner,  and  at  length  threw 
his  rider  upon  the  pavement.  Others  of  the  horse- 
guards  attempted  to  catch  the  bridle  of  the  enraged 
animal ; they  rushed  against  each  other ; several  of 
the  crowd  were  thrown  down,  and  trampled  under  the 
horses’  feet.  The  shrieks  of  the.se,  and  the  loud 
cries  and  exclamations  of  the  by.standers  mingled  in 
confused  and  discordant  chorus  ; no  sound,  no  object 
could  be  distinguished.  From  the  excess  of  the 
tumult,  a sudden  thought  darted  into  my  mind, 
where  all,  an  instant  before,  had  been  relaxation  and 
despair.  Tw-o  or  three  of  the  horses  pushed  forward 
in  a particular  direction  ; a moment  after,  they  re-filed 
with  equal  violence,  and  left  a wide  but  transitory 
gap.  My  project  was  no  sooner  conceived  than  exe- 
cuted. Weak  as  I had  just  now  felt  myself,  a super- 
natural tide  of  strength  seemed  to  come  over  me ; I 
sprung  away  with  all  imaginable  impetuosity,  and 
rushed  down  the  lane  I have  just  mentioned.  Every 
one  amidst  the  confusion  was  attentive  to  his  per- 
sonal safety,  and  several  minutes  elapsed  before  I 
was  missed. 

In  the  lane  everything  was  silent,  and  the  darkne.ss 
was  extreme.  Man,  woman,  and  child,  were  gone  out 
to  view  the  procession.  For  some  time  I could  scarcely 
distinguish  a single  object ; the  doors  and  windows 
were  all  closed.  I now  chanced  to  come  to  an  open 
door  ; within  I saw  no  one  but  an  old  man,  who  was 
busy  over  some  metallic  work  at  a chafing  dish  of  fire. 

I had  no  room  for  choice  ; I expected  every  moment 
to  hear  the  myrmidons  of  the  Inquisition  at  my  heels. 

I rushed  in  ; I impetuously  closed  the  door,  and  bolted 
it ; 1 then  seized  the  old  man  by  the  collar  of  his  shirt 
with  a determined  grasp,  and  swore  vehemently  that 
I would  annihilate  him  that  instant  if  he  did  not 
consent  to  afford  me  assistance.  Though  for  some  time 
I had  perhaps  been  feebler  than  he,  the  terror  that  now 
drove  me  on  rendered  me  comparatively  a giant.  He 
intreated  me  to  permit  him  to  breathe,  and  promised 
to  do  whatever  I should  desire.  I looked  round  the 
•apartment,  and  saw  a rapier  hanging  against  the  wall, 
of  which  I instantly  proceeded  to  make  myself  master. 
While  I was  doing  this,  my  involuntary  host,  who  was 
extremely  terrified  at  my  procedure,  nimbly  attempted 
to  slip  by  me  and  rush  into  the  street.  With  diffi- 
culty I c.aught  hold  of  his  arm,  and  pulling  him  back, 
put  the  point  of  my  rapier  to  his  breast,  solemnly  as- 
suring him  that  no  consideration  on  earth  should  s.ave 
him  from  my  fury  if  he  attempted  to  escape  a second 
time.  He  immediately  dropped  on  his  knees,  and 
with  the  most  piteous  accents  intreated  me  to  spare 
his  life.  I told  him  that  I w’as  no  robber,  that  I did 
not  intend  him  the  slightest  harm  ; and  that,  if  he 
would  implicitly  yield  to  my  direction,  he  might  .as- 
sure him.self  he  never  .should  have  reason  to  repent 
his  compliance.  By  this  decl.aration  the  terrors  of  the 
old  man  were  somewhat  appeased.  I took  the  opjior- 
tunity  of  this  calm  to  go  to  the  street  door,  which  I 
instantly  locked,  and  put  the  key  in  my  bosom.  * * 

We  were  still  engaged  in  discussing  the  topics  I 

566 


NOTEHSTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  GODWin. 


have  mentioned,  when  I was  suddenly  alarmed  by  the 
noise  of  some  one  stirring  in  the  inner  apartment.  I 
had  looked  into  this  room,  and  had  perceived  nothing 
hut  the  bed  upon  which  the  old  man  nightly  reposed 
himself.  I .sprung  up,  however,  at  the  sound,  and 
perceiving  that  the  door  had  a bolt  on  the  outside,  I 
eagerly  fiistenej  it.  I then  turned  to  Mordecai^that 
was  the  name  of  my  host : Wretch,  said  I,  did  not 
you  assure  me  that  there  was  no  one  but  yourself  in 
the  house!  Oh,  cried  Mordecai,  it  is  my  child!  it  is 
my  child  I she  went  into  the  inner  apartment,  and  has 
fallen  asleep  on  the  bed.  Beware,  I answered ; the 
slightest  falsehood  more  .shall  iu.stantly  be  expiated 
in  your  blood.  I call  Abraham  to  witness,  rejoined 
the  once  more  terrified  Jew,  it  is  my  child  I only  my 
child ! Tell  me,  cried  I with  severity  of  accent,  how 
old  is  this  child  ? Only  five  years,  said  ^Mordecai : my 
dear  Leah  died  when  she  was  a year  old,  and  though 
we  had  several  children,  this  single  one  has  .survived 
her.  Speak  to  your  cliild ; let  me  hear  her  voice ! 
He  spoke  to  her,  and  she  answered.  Father,  I want  to 
come  out.  I was  satisfied  it  was  the  voice  of  a little 
girl.  I turned  to  the  Jew : Take  care,  said  I,  how 
you  deceive  me  now  ; is  there  no  other  person  in  that 
room!  He  imprecated  a curse  on  himself  if  there 
were.  I opened  the  door  with  caution,  and  the  little 
girl  came  forward.  As  soon  as  I saw  her,  I seized  her 
with  a rapid  motion,  and  returned  to  my  chair.  Man, 
said  I,  you  have  trifled  with  me  too  rashly  ; you  have 
not  considered  what  I am  escaped  from,  and  what  I 
have  to  fear  ; from  this  moment  this  child  shall  be  the 
pledge  of  my  safety ; I will  not  part  with  her  an  in- 
stant as  long  as  I remain  in  your  house ; and  with 
this  rapier  in  my  hand  I will  pierce  her  to  the  heart 
the  moment  I am  led  to  imagine  that  I am  no  longer 
in  safety.  The  Jew  trembled  at  ray  resolution ; the 
emotions  of  a father  worked  in  his  features  and  glis- 
tened in  his  eye.  At  least  let  me  kiss  her,  said  he. 
Be  it  so,  replied  I : one  embrace,  and  then,  till  the 
dawn  of  the  coming  day,  she  remains  with  me.  I re- 
leased my  hold  ; the  child  rushed  to  her  father,  and 
he  caught  her  in  his  arms.  My  dear  Leah,  cried  Mor- 
decai, now  a sainted  spirit  in  the  bosom  of  our  father 
Abraham  ! I call  God  to  witness  between  us,  that,  if 
all  my  caution  and  vigilance  can  prevent  it,  not  a hair 
of  this  child  shall  be  injured!  Stranger,  you  little 
know  by  how  strong  a motive  you  have  now  engaged 
me  to  your  cause.  We  poor  Jews,  hunted  on  the  face 
of  the  earth,  the  abhorrence  and  execration  of  man- 
kind, have  nothing  but  family  aftections  to  support 
us  under  our  multiplied  disgraces  ; and  family  affec- 
tions are  entwined  with  our  existence,  the  fondest  and 
best  loved  part  of  ourselves.  The  God  of  Abraham 
bless  you,  my  child!  Now,  sir,  speak ! what  is  it  you 
require  of  me ! 

I told  the  Jew  that  I must  have  a suit  of  clothes 
conformable  to  the  appearance  of  a Spanish  cavalier, 
and  certain  medical  ingredients  that  I named  to  him, 
together  with  his  chafing-dish  of  coals  to  prepare  them  ; 
and  that  done,  I would  then  impose  on  him  no  further 
trouble.  Having  received  his  instructions,  he  imme- 
diately set  out  to  procure  what  I demanded.  He  took 
with  him  the  key  of  the  house  ; and  as  soon  as  he  was 
gone,  I retired  with  the  child  into  the  inner  apart- 
ment, and  fastened  the  door.  At  first  I applied  my- 
self to  tranquillise  the  child,  who  had  been  somewhat 
alarmed  at  what  she  had  heard  and  seen  : this  was  no 
very  difficult  task.  She  presently  left  me,  to  amuse 
herself  with  some  playthings  that  lay  scattered  in  a 
corner  of  the  apartment,  hly  heart  was  now  compa- 
ratively at  ease;  I saw  the  powerful  hold  I had  on  the 
fidelity  of  the  Jew,  and  firmly  persuaded  myself  that 
I had  no  treachery  to  fear  on  his  part.  Thus  circum- 
stanced, the  exertion  and  activity  with  which  I had 
lately  heen  imbued  left  me,  and  I insensibly  sunk 
into  a sort  of  slumber.  * * 


Now  for  the  first  time  I was  at  leisure  to  attend  to 
the  state  of  my  strength  and  ray  health.  My  con- 
finement in  the  Inquisition,  and  the  treatment  I had 
experienced,  had  before  rendered  me  feeble  and  almost 
helplc.ss ; but  these  appeared  to  be  circumstaiices 
scarcely  worthy  of  attention  in  the  situation  in  which 
I was  then  placed.  The  impulse  I felt  in  the  midst 
of  the  confusion  in  the  grand  street  of  Valladolid,  pro- 
duced in  me  an  energy  and  power  of  exertion  which 
nothing  but  the  actual  experience  of  the  fact  could 
have  persuaded  me  was  possible.  This  energy,  once 
begun,  appeared  to  have  the  faculty  of  prolonging 
itself,  and  I did  not  relapse  into  imbecility  till  the 
occasion  seemed  to  be  exhausted  which  called  for  my 
exertion.  I examined  myself  by  a mirror  with  which 
Mordecai  furnished  me  ; I found  my  hair  as  white  as 
snow,  and  my  face  ploughed  with  a thousand  furrows. 
I was  now  fifty-four,  an  age  which,  with  moderate  ex- 
ercise and  a vigorous  constitution,  often  appears  like 
the  prime  of  human  existence  ; but  whoever  had  looked 
upon  me  in  my  present  condition  would  not  have 
doubted  to  affirm  that  I had  reached  the  eightieth 
year  of  my  age.  I examined  with  dispassionate  re- 
mark the  state  of  my  intellect : I was  persuaded  that 
it  had  subsided  into  childishness.  My  mind  had 
been  as  much  cribbed  and  immured  as  my  body.  I 
was  the  mere  shadow  of  a man,  of  no  more  power  and 
worth  than  that  which  a magic  lantern  produces 
upon  a wall.  These  are  thy  works,  superstition  ! this 
the  genuine  and  proper  operation  of  what  is  called 
Christianity  ! Let  the  reader  judge  of  what  I had 
passed  through  and  known  within  those  cursed  walls 
by  the  effects  ; I have  already  refused,  I continue  to 
refuse,  to  tell  how  those  effects  were  produced.  Enough 
of  compassion ; enough  of  complaint ; I will  confine 
myself,  as  far  as  1 am  able,  to  simple  history. 

* « ♦ 

I was  now  once  again  alone.  The  little  girl,  who 
had  been  unusually  disturbed  and  roused  at  an  un- 
seasonable hour,  sunk  into  a profound  sleep.  I heard 
the  noise  which  Mordecai  made  in  undressing  himself, 
and  composing  his  limbs  upon  a u attress  which  he  had 
dragged  for  the  present  occasion  u to  the  front  room, 
and  spread  before  the  hearth.  1 soon  found  by  the 
hardness  of  his  breathing  that  he  also  was  asleep.  1 
unfolded  the  papers  he  had  brought  me  ; they  consisted 
of  various  medical  ingredients  I had  directed  him  to 
procure  ; there  were  also  two  or  three  vials  containing 
sirups  and  essences.  1 had  near  me  a pair  of  scales 
with  which  to  weigh  my  ingredients,  a vessel  of  water, 
the  chafing-dish  of  my  host  in  which  the  fire  was  nearly 
extinguished,  and  a small  taper,  with  some  charcoal 
to  relight  the  fire  in  case  of  necessity.  While  I was 
occupied  in  surveying  these  articles  and  arranging  my 
materials,  a sort  of  torpor  came  suddenly  over  me,  so 
as  to  allow  me  no  time  for  resistance.  I sunk  upon 
the  bed.  I remained  thus  for  about  half  an  hour, 
seemingly  without  the  power  of  collecting  my  thoughts. 
.■!.t  length  I started,  felt  alarmed,  and  applied  my  ut- 
most force  of  mind  to  rouse  my  exertions.  While  I 
drove,  or  attempted  to  drive,  my  animal  spirits  from 
limb  to  limb,  and  from  part  to  part,  as  if  to  inquire 
into  the  general  condition  of  my  frame,  I became  con- 
vinced that  I was  dying.  Let  not  the  reader  be  sur- 
prised at  this ; twelve  years’  imprisonment  in  a nar- 
row and  unwholesome  cell  may  well  account  for  sc 
sudden  a catastrophe.  Strange  and  paradoxical  as  it 
may  seem,  I believe  it  will  be  found  in  the  experi- 
ment, that  the  calm  and  security  which  succeed  to 
great  internal  injuries  are  more  dangerous  than  the 
pangs  and  hardships  that  went  before.  I was  now 
thoroughly  alarmed  ; I applied  myself  with  all  vigi- 
lance and  expedition  to  the  compounding  my  materials. 
The  fire  was  gone  out ; the  taper  was  glimmering  in 
the  socket : to  swallow  the  julep,  when  I had  prepared 
it,  seemed  to  be  the  last  effort  of  which  my  organs  and 

3(37 


CYCU)i’^';i)lA  OF 


imi.icles  were  civpiible.  It  was  the  elixir  of  iiiiinor- 
tiility,  exactly  made  up  according  to  the  prcNcription 
of  the  Ktraiiger. 

Whether  from  the  potency  of  the  ..ledicine  or  the 
effect  of  imagination,  I felt  revived  the  moment  I had 
Bwal lowed  it.  I placed  myself  deliberately  in  Mor- 
decai’s  bed,  and  drew  over  me  the  bedclothes.  I fell 
asleep  almost  in.stantly.  * * 

My  sleep  was  not  long : in  a few  hours  I awaked. 
With  difficulty  I recognised  the  objects  about  me, 
and  recollected  where  I had  been.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  my  heart  had  never  beat  so  vigorously,  nor  my 
spirits  flowed  so  gay.  I was  all  elasticity  and  life  ; I 
could  .sc.u'cely  hold  myself  quiet ; 1 felt  imiielled  to 
bouml  and  leap  like  a kid  upon  the  mountains.  1 
perceived  that  my  little  .lewess  was  still  asleep;  she 
had  been  unusually  fatigued  the  night  before.  1 know 
not  whether  Mordeoai’s  hour  of  rising  were  come  ; if 
it  were,  he  was  careful  not  to  disturb  his  guest.  1 put 
on  the  garments  he  had  prepared  ; I gazed  upon  the 
mirror  he  had  left  in  my  apartment.  1 recollect 
no  sensation  in  the  course  of  my  life  so  unexpected 
and  surprising  as  what  I felt  at  that  moment.  The 
evening  before  I had  seen  my  hair  white,  and  my  face 
ploughed  with  furrows  ; I looked  fourscore.  What  I 
beheld  now  was  totally  different,  yet  altogether  fami- 
liar ; it  was  myself — myself  as  I had  appeared  on  the 
day  of  my  marriage  with  Marguerite  de  Damville  ; 
Ae  eyes,  the  mouth,  the  hair,  the  complexion,  every 
circumstance,  point  by  point,  the  same.  I leaped  a 
gulf  of  thirty-two  years.  I waked  from  a dream, 
troublesome  and  distre.ssful  beyond  all  description  ; 
but  it  vanished  like  the  shades  of  night  upon  the 
burst  of  a glorious  morning  in  July,  and  left  not  a 
trace  behind.  I knew  not  how  to  take  away  my  eyes 
from  the  mirror  before  me. 

I soon  began  to  consider  that,  if  it  were  astonish- 
ing to  me  that,  through  all  the  regions  of  mv  counte- 
nance, I could  discover  no  trace  of  what  I had  been  the 
night  before,  it  would  be  still  more  astonishing  to  my 
host.  This  sort  of  sensation  1 had  not  the  smallest 
ambition  to  produce:  one  of  the  advantages  of  the 
metamorphosis  1 had  sustained,  consisted  in  its  ten- 
dency, in  the  eyes  of  all  that  saw  me,  to  cur  off  every 
species  of  connexion  between  iny  present  and  ray  for- 
mer self.  It  fortunately  hapi>ened  that  the  room  in 
which  I slept,  being  constructed  upon  the  model  of 
many  others'  in  Spain,  had  a stair  at  the  further  end, 
with  a trap-door  in  the  ceiling,  for  the  purpose  of  en- 
abling the  inhabitant  to  ascend  on  the  roof  in  the  cool 
of  the  day.  The  roofs  were  flat,  and  so  constructed 
that  there  was  little  difficulty  in  passing  along  them 
from  house  to  house,  from  one  end  of  the  street  to  the 
other.  1 availed  my.self  of  the  opportunity,  and  took 
leave  of  the  residence  of  my  kind  host  in  a way  per- 
fectly unceremonious,  determined,  however,  speedily 
to  transmit  to  him  the  reward  1 had  promised.  It 
m.ay  easily  be  believed  that  Mordecai  was  not  les.s 
rejoiced  at  the  absence  of  a guest  whom  the  vigilance 
of  the  Inquisition  rendered  an  uncommonly  dangerous 
one,  than  I was  to  quit  his  habitation.  1 closed  the 
trap  after  me,  and  clambered  from  roof  to  roof  to 
a considerable  distance.  At  length  I encountered  the 
occasion  of  an  open  window,  and  fortunately  de- 
scended, unseen  by  any  human  being,  into  the  street. 

ANNA  MARIA  PORTER. 

This  lady  was  a daughter  of  an  Irish  officer,  who 
died  shortly  after  her  birth,  leaving  a widow  and 
several  children,  with  but  a small  patrimony  for 
their  support.  Mrs  Porter  took  her  family  into  Scot- 
land, while  Anna  Maria  was  still  in  her  nurse- 
maid’s arms,  and  there,  with  her  only  and  elder 
sister  Jane,  and  their  brother.  Sir  Uobert  Ker 
Porter,  she  received  the  rudiments  of  her  education. 


TILL  THE  PRESE.VI  TISll 


Sir  Walter  Scott,  when  a student  at  college,  was 
intimate  with  the  family,  and,  we  are  told,  ‘ was 
very  fond  of  either  teaziiig  the  little  female  student 
when  very  gravely  engaged  with  her  book,  or  more 
often  fondling  her  on  his  knees,  and  telling  her 
stories  of  witches  and  warlocks,  till  both  forgot  their 
former  playful  merriment  in  the  marvellous  interest 
of  the  tale,’  Mrs  Porter  removed  to  Ireland,  and 
subsequently  to  London,  chiefly  with  a view  to  the 
education  of  her  children.  Anna  Maria  became  an 
authoress  at  the  age  of  twelve.  Her  first  work  bore 
the  appropriate  title  of  Artless  Tales,  the  first  volume 
being  published  in  179.1,  and  a second  in  ITO.'i.  In 
1797  she  came  forward  again  with  a tale  entitled 
Walsh  Colville ; and  in  the  following  year  a novel  in 
three  volumes,  Octavia,  was  produced.  A numerous 
series  of  works  of  fiction  now  proceeded  from  Miss 
Porter — The  Lake  of  Killarney,  1804;  A Sailor’s 
Friendship  and  a Soldier’s  Love,  1805;  The  Hunga- 
rian Brothers,  1807  ; Don  Sebastian,  or  the  House  of 
Braganza,  1809;  Ballad  Romances,  and  other  Poems, 
1811;  The  Recluse  of  Norway,  1814;  The  Village 
of  Mariendorpt;  The  Fast  of  St  Alagdalen;  Tales  of 
Pityfor  Youth;  The  Knight  of  St  John;  Roche  Blanche; 
and  Honor  O'Hara.  Altogether,  the  works  of  this 
lady  amount  to  about  fifty  volumes.  In  private  life 
Miss  Porter  was  much  beloved  for  her  unostentatious 
piety  and  active  benevolence.  She  died  at  Bristol 
while  on  a visit  to  her  brother.  Dr  Porter  of  that 
city,  on  the  21st  of  June  1832,  aged  fift_v-two.  The 
most  popular,  and  perhaps  the  best  of  Miss  Porter’s 
novels,  is  her  ‘ Don  Sebastian.’  In  all  of  them  she 
portrays  the  domestic  affections  and  the  charms  of 
benevolence  and  virtue  with  warmth  and  earnest- 
ness, but  in  ‘Don  Sebastian’  we  have  an  interesting 
though  melancholy  plot,  and  characters  finely  dis- 
criminated and  drawn. 

IMiss  Jane  Pouter,  who  still  survives,  is  au- 
thoress of  two  romances,  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  18()3, 
ami  The  Scottish  Chiefs,  1810;  both  were  highly 
popular.  The  first  is  the  best,  and  contains  a good 
plot  and  some  impassioned  scenes.  The  second  fails 
entirely  as  a picture  of  national  manners  (the  Scot- 
tish patriot  Wallace,  for  exanqde,  lieing  represented 
as  a sort  of  drawing-room  hero),  but  is  written  with 
great  animation  and  picturesque  effect.  In  appeals 
to  the  tender  and  heroic  jiassions,  and  in  vivid  scene- 
painting,  both  these  ladies  have  evinced  geinus,  but 
their  works  want  the  permanent  interest  of  real  life, 
variety  of  character,  and  dialogue.  A third  work 
by  Miss  Porter  has  been  published,  entitled  The 
Pastor’s  Fireside. 

MISS  EDGEWORTH. 

Maria  Edgeworth,  one  of  our  best  painters  of 
national  manners,  whose  works  stimulated  the  genius 
of  Scott,  and  have  delighted  and  instructed  genera- 
tions of  re.aders,  commenced  her  career  as  an  autho- 
ress about  the  year  1800.  She  was  of  a respectable 
Irish  family,  long  settled  at  Edgeworthtown,  county 
of  Longford,  and  it  was  on  their  property  that  Gold- 
smith was  born.  Her  father,  Kichard  Lovell  Edge- 
worth  (1744-1817),  was  himself  a man  attached  to 
literary  pursuits,  and  look  great  pleasure  in  ex(  iting 
and  directing  the  talents  of  his  daughter.*  When- 

* Mr  Edgeworth  wrote  a work  on  Professional  Ediicaljm, 
one  volume,  quarto,  1B08;  also  some  papers  in  the  Philosophical 
Transactions,  including  an  essay  on  Spring  and  NN'lieel  Car- 
riages, and  an  account  of  a telegraph  which  he  invented.  This 
gentleman  was  educated  at  Trinity  college,  Dublin,  and  was 
afterwards  sent  to  Oxford.  Before  he  was  twenty,  he  ran  otf 
with  Miss  Elers,  a young  lady  of  Oxford,  to  whom  he  was 
married  at  Gretna  Green,  lie  then  embarked  on  a life  of 
fashionable  gaiety  and  dissipation,  and  in  I77U  succeeded,  by 

568 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MISS  EDGEWOKrn 


ever  the  latter  tlioupht  of  writing;  any  essay  or  story, 
slie  always  submitted  to  him  the  first  rough  plans: 
and  his  ready  invention  and  infinite  resource,  when 
she  had  run  into  difficulties  or  absurdities,  never 
failed  to  extricate  her  at  her  utmost  need.  ‘ It  was 
the  happy  experience  of  this,’  says  Miss  Edgeworth, 

‘ and  my  con.sequent  reliance  on  his  ability,  decision, 
and  perfect  truth,  that  relieved  me  from  the  vacilla- 
tion and  anxiety  to  which  I was  so  much  subject, 
that  I am  sure  I should  not  have  written  or  finished 
■anything  without  his  support.  He  inspired  in  my 
mind  a degree  of  hope  and  confidence,  essential,  in 
the  first  instance,  to  the  full  exertion  of  the  mental 
powers,  and  necessary  to  insure  perseverance  in  any 
occupation.’  An  able  work,  the  joint  production  of 
Mr  and  Miss  Edgeworth,  appeared  in  1801  under 

the  death  of  his  father,  to  his  Irish  property.  During  a visit  to 
Licliticid,  lie  became  enamoured  of  Miss  Ilonora  Sneyd,  a 
cousin  of  Anna  Seward’s,  and  married  her  shortly  after  the 
death  of  his  wife.  In  six  years  this  lady  died  of  consumption, 
and  he  married  her  sister,  a circumstance  which  exposed  him 
to  a good  deal  of  observation  and  censure.  After  a matrimo- 
nial union  of  seventeen  years,  his  third  wife  died  of  the  same 
malady  as  her  sister;  and,  although  past  fifty,  Mr  Edgeworth 
scarce  lost  a year  till  he  was  united  to  an  Irish  lady.  Miss 
Beaufort.  His  latter  years  were  spent  in  active  exertions  to 
benefit  I reland,  by  reclaiming  bog  land,  introducing  agricultural 
and  mechanical  improvements,  and  promoting  education.  He 
was  fond  of  mechanical  pursuits  and  new  projects  of  all  kinds. 
Among  his  numerous  schemes,  was  an  attempt  to  educate  his 
eldest  son  on  the  plan  delineated  in  Housseau's  Emile.  He 
dressed  him  in  ji'cket  and  trousers,  with  arms  and  legs  bare, 
and  allowed  him  to  run  about  wherever  he  pleased,  and  to  do 
nothing  but  what  was  .agreeable  to  himself.  In  a few  years  he 
found  that  the  scheme  had  succeeded  completely,  so  far  as  re- 
lated to  the  body;  the  youth's  health,  strength,  and  agility 
were  conspicuous ; I ut  the  state  of  his  mind  induced  some  per- 
plexity. He  had  aU  the  virtues  that  are  found  in  the  hut  of 
the  savage;  he  was  quick,  fearless,  generous;  but  he  knew  not 
what  it  was  to  ohi'i/.  't  was  impossible  to  induce  him  to  do 
anything  that  he  did  not  please,  or  prevent  him  from  doing 
anything  that  he  did  ple.ase.  Under  the  former  head,  learning, 
even  of  the  lowest  description,  was  never  included.  In  fine, 
this  child  of  nature  grew  up  perfectly  ungovernable,  and  never 
could  or  would  apply  to  anything;  so  that  there  remained  no 
alternative  but  to  allow  him  to  follow  his  own  inclination  of 
going  to  sea  ! Maria  Edgeworth  was  by  her  father’s  first  mar- 
riage; she  was  born  in  Oxfordshire,  and  was  twelve  years  old 
before  she  was  taken  to  Ireland,  'fhe  family  were  involved  in 
the  troubles  of  the  Irish  rebellion  (1798',  and  were  obliged  to 
make  a precipitate  retreat  from  their  house,  and  leave  it  in  the 
hands  of  the  rebels ; but  it  was  spared  from  being  pillaged  by 
one  of  the  invaders,  to  whom  Mr  Edgeworth  had  previously 
done  some  kindness.  Their  return  home,  when  the  troubles 
were  over,  is  thus  described  by  Miss  Edgeworth  in  her  father’s 
memoirs.  It  serves  to  show  the  affection  which  subsisted 
between  the  landlord  and  his  dependents. 

* When  we  came  near  Edgeworthtown,  we  saw  many  well- 
known  faces  at  the  cabin  doors  looking  out  to  welcome  us. 
One  man,  who  was  digging  in  his  field  by  the  road-side,  when 
he  looked  up  as  our  horses  passed,  and  saw  my  father,  let  fall 
his’  spade  and  clasped  his  hands  ; his  face,  as  the  morning  sun 
shone  upon  it,  was  the  strongest  picture  of  joy  I ever  saw.  The 
village  was  a melancholy  spectacle ; windows  shattered  and 
doors  broken.  But  though  the  mischief  done  was  great,  there 
had  been  little  pillage.  Within  our  gates  we  found  all  property 
safe  ; literally  “ not  a twig  touched,  nor  a leaf  harmed.” 
Within  the  house  everything  was  as  we  had  left  it.  A map  that 
we  had  been  consulting  was  still  open  on  the  library  table,  with 
pencils,  and  slips  of  paper  containing  the  first  lessons  in  arith- 
metic, in  which  some  of  the  young  people  (Mr  Edgeworth’s 
children  by  his  second  and  third  wife)  had  been  engaged  the 
morning  we  had  been  driven  from  home ; a pansy,  in  a glass 
of  water,  which  one  of  the  children  had  been  copying,  was 
still  on  the  chimney-piece.  These  trivial  circumstances,  mark- 
ing repose  and  tranquillity,  struck  us  at  this  moment  with  an 
unreasonable  sort  of  surprise,  and  all  that  had  passed  seemed 
like  an  incoherent  dream.’ 


tlie  title  of  .an  Essay  un  Irish  Bulls.  Resides  some 
eritieal  and  humorous  illustration,  the  authors  did 
justice  to  the  better  traits  of  the  Irish  dmraeter,  and 
illustrated  them  by  some  interesting  and  patlietic 
stories.  The  same  object  was  pursued  in  the  tale, 
Caslle  Rackrent,  and  in  Belinda,  a novel  of  real  life 
and  ordinary  characters.  In  1804  Miss  Edgeworth 
came  forward  with  three  volumes  of  Popular  Tales, 
characterised  by  the  features  of  her  genius  — ‘a 
genuine  display  of  nature,  and  a certain  tone  of 
ratiomdity  and  good  sense,  which  w:is  the  more 
pleasing,  because  in  a novel  it  was  then  new.’  The 
pnictical  cast  of  her  father’s  mind  probably  assisted 
in  directing  Miss  Edgeworth’s  talents  into  this  use- 
ful and  unromantic  channel.  It  appeared  strange  at 
first,  and  the  best  of  the  authoress’s  critics,  Mr 
Jeffrey,  said  at  the  time  ‘ that  it  required  almost 
the  same  courage  to  get  rid  of  the  jargon  of  fashion- 
able life,  ami  the  swarms  of  peers,  foundlings,  and 
seducers,  as  it  did  to  sweep  away  the  mythological 
persons  of  antiquity,  and  to  introduce  characters 
who  spoke  and  acted  like  those  who  were  to  jieruse 
their  adventures.’  In  1806  appeared  Leonora,  a 
novel,  in  two  volumes.  A moral  purpose  is  here 
aimed  iit,  and  the  same  skill  is  displayed  in  working 
up  ordinary  incidents  into  the  materials  of  powerful 
fiction ; but  the  plot  is  painful  and  disagi'eeable. 
The  seduction  of  an  exemplary  husband  by  an  aban- 
doned female,  and  his  subsequent  return  to  his  in- 
jured but  forgiving  wife,  is  the  groundwork  of  the 
story.  Irish  characters  figure  off  in  ‘ Leonora’  .as  in 
the  ‘ Popular  Tales.’  In  1809  Miss  Edgeworth  issued 
three  volumes  of  Tales  of  Fashionable  Life,  more 
])owerful  and  various  than  any  of  her  previous  pro- 
ductions. The  history  of  Lord  Glenthorn  affords  a 
striking  picture  of  ennui,  and  contains  some  excel- 
lent delineation  of  character;  while  the  story  of 
Almeria  represents  the  misery  and  heartlessness  of 
a life  of  mere  fashion.  Three  other  volumes  of 
Fashionable  Tales  were  issued  in  1812,  and  fully 
supported  the  authoress’s  reputation.  The  number 
of  tales  in  this  series  was  three — ‘ Vivian,’  illus- 
trating the  evils  and  perple.xities  arising  from 
vacillation  and  infirmity  of  purpose;  ‘Emilie  de 
Coulanges,’  depicting  the  life  and  manners  of  a 
fashionable  French  lady;  and  ‘The  Absentee’  (by 
fir  the  best  of  the  three  stories),  written  to  expose 
the  evils  and  mortifications  of  the  system  which  the 
authoress  saw  too  many  instances  of  in  Ireland,  of 
persons  of  fortune  forsaking  their  country  seats  and 
native  vales  for  the  frivolity,  scorn,  and  expense 
of  fashionable  London  society.  In  1814  Miss  Edge- 
worth  entered  still  more  extensively  and  sarcastically 
into  the  manners  and  characters  in  high-life,  by  her 
novel  of  Patronage,  in  four  volumes.  The  miseries 
resulting  from  a dependence  on  the  patronage  of  the 
great — a system  which  she  says  is  ‘ twice  accursed 
— once  in  giving,  and  once  in  receiving’ — are  drawn 
in  vivid  colours,  and  contrasted  with  the  cheerful- 
ness, the  buoyancy  of  spirits,  and  the  manly  virtues 
arising  from  honest  and  independent  exertion.  In 
1817  our  authoress  supplied  the  public  with  two  other 
tales,  Harrington  and  Ormond.  The  first  was  written 
to  counteract  the  illiberal  prejudice  entertained  by 
many  against  the  Jews  ; the  second  is  an  Irish  tale, 
equal  to  any  of  the  former.  The  death  of  Mr  Edge- 
worth  in  1817  made  a break  in  the  literary  e.xertiou 
of  his  accomplished  daughter,  but  she  completed  a 
memoir  which  that  gentleman  had  begun  of  himself, 
and  which  was  published  in  two  volumes  in  1820 
In  1822  she  returned  to  her  course  of  moral  instruc- 
tion, and  published  in  that  year  Rosamond,  a Sequel 
to  Early  Lessons,  a w’ork  for  juvenile  readers,  of 
which  an  earlier  specimen  had  been  published.  A 
further  continuation  appeared  in  1825,  under  tho 

569 


- — - ■■  -- 

tiROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  present  timb 

title  of  Harriet  and  Lucy,  four  volumes.  These 
tales  had  been  begun  fifty  years  before  by  Mr  Edge- 
worth,  at  a time  ‘ when  no  one  of  any  literary  cha- 
racter, excepting  Dr  W atts  and  Mrs  Barbauld,  conde- 
scended to  write  for  children.’ 

It  is  worthy  of  mention,  that,  in  the  autumn  of 
182.3,  Miss  Edgeworth,  accompanied  by  two  of  her 
sisters,  made  a visit  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  Abbots- 
ford. She  not  only,  he  said,  completely  answered, 
but  exceeded  the  expectations  which  he  h.ad  formed, 
and  he  was  particularly  pleased  with  the  naiveti  and 
good-humoured  ardour  of  mind  which  she  united 
with  such  formidable  powers  of  acute  observation. 
‘Never,’  says  Mr  Lockhart,  ‘did  I see  a brighter 
day  at  Abbotsford  than  that  on  which  Miss  Edge- 
worth  first  arrived  there ; never  can  I forget  her 
look  and  accent  when  she  was  received  by  him  at 
his  archway,  and  exclaimed,  “everything  about  you 
is  exactly  what  one  ought  to  have  had  wit  enough  to 
dream.”  The  weather  was  beautiful,  and  the  edifice 
and  its  appurtenances  were  all  but  complete ; and 
day  after  day,  so  long  as  she  could  remain,  her  host 
had  always  some  new  plan  of  gaiety.’  Miss  Edge- 
worth  remained  a fortnight  at  Abbotsford.  Two 
years  afterwards  she  had  an  opportunity  of  repay- 
ing the  hospitalities  of  her  entertainer,  by  receiving 
him  at  Edgeworth  town,  where  Sir  Walter  met  with 
as  cordial  a welcome,  and  where  he  found  ‘ neither 
mud  hovels  nor  naked  peasantry,  but  snug  cottages 
and  smiling  faces  all  about.’  Literary  fame  had 
spoiled  neither  of  these  eminent  persons,  nor  unfitted 
them  for  the  common  business  and  enjoyment  of 
life.  ‘We  shall  never,’  said  Scott,  ‘learn  to  feel  and 
respect  our  real  calling  and  destiny,  unless  we  have 
taught  ourselves  to  consider  everything  as  moon- 
shine compared  with  the  education  of  the  heart.’ 

‘ Maria  did  not  listen  to  this  without  some  water 
in  her  eyes;  her  tears  are  always  ready  when  any 
generous  string  is  touched — (fur,  as  Pope  says,  “ the 
finest  minds,  like  the  finest  metals,  dissolve  the 
easiest”)  ; but  she  brushed  them  gaily  aside,  and 
said,  “You  see  how  it  is;  Dean  Sw’ift  said  he  had 
written  his  books  in  order  that  people  might  learn 
to  treat  him  like  a great  lord.  Sir  Walter  writes 
his  in  order  that  he  may  be  able  to  treat  his  people 
as  a great  lord  ought  to  do.”’* 

In  1834  Miss  Edgew'orth  reappeared  as  a novelist: 
her  Helen,  in  three  volumes,  is  fully  equal  to  her 
‘ Fashionable  Tales,’  and  possesses  more  of  ardour 
and  pathos.  The  gradations  of  vice  and  folly,  and 
the  unhappiness  attending  falsehood  and  artifice,  are 
strikingly  depicted  in  this  novel,  in  connexion  with 
characters  (that  of  Lady  Davenant,  for  example) 
drawn  with  great  force,  truth,  and  nature.  This  is 
the  latest  \vork  of  fiction  we  have  had  from  the  pen 
of  the  gifted  authoress  ; nor  is  it  likely,  from  her 
advanced  age,  that  she  will  make  further  incursions 
into  that  domain  of  fancy  and  observation  she  has 
enriched  with  so  many  admirable  performances. 
Long,  however,  may  she  be  able  to  ‘ dispense  com- 
mon sense  to  her  readers,  and  to  bring  them  within 
the  precincts  of  real  life  and  natural  feeling  1’  The 
good  and  evil  of  this  world  have  supplied  Miss  Edge- 
worth  with  materials  sufficient  for  her  purposes  as 
a novelist.  Of  poetical  or  romantic  feeling  she  has 
exhibited  scarcely  a single  instance.  She  is  a strict 
utilitarian.  Her  knowledge  of  the  world  is  exten- 
sive and  correct,  though  in  some  of  her  representa- 
tions of  fashionable  folly  and  dissipation  she  borders 
upon  caricature.  The  plan  of  confining  a tale  to 
the  exposure  and  correction  of  one  particular  vice, 
or  one  erroneous  line  of  conduct,  as  Joanna  Baillie 
^•onflued  her  dramas  each  to  the  elucidation  of  one 

♦ bifo  of  Scott,  voL  vi.  p.  61. 

particular  passion,  would  have  been  a hazardous  ex- 
periment in  common  hands.  Miss  Edgeworth  over- 
came it  by  the  ease,  spirit,  and  variety  of  her  de- 
lineations, and  the  truly  masculine  freedom  with 
which  she  exposes  the  crimes  and  follies  of  mankind. 
Her  sentiments  are  so  just  and  true  and  her  style  so 
clear  and  forcible,  that  they  comjx;.  an  instant  assent 
to  her  moral  views  and  deductions,  though  some- 
times, in  winding  up  her  tale,  and  distributing  jus- 
tice among  her  characters,  she  is  not  always  very 
consistent  or  probable.  Iler  delineations  of  her 
countrymen  have  obtained  just  praise.  The  highest 
compliment  paid  to  them  is  the  statement  of  Scott, 
that  ‘ the  rich  humour,  pathetic  tenderness,  and  ad- 
mirable tact’  of  these  Irish  portraits  led  him  first  to 
think  that  something  might  be  attempted  for  his 
own  country  of  the  same  kind  with  th.at  which 
Miss  Edgeworth  so  fortunately  achieved  for  Ireland. 
He  excelled  his  model,  because,  with  equal  know- 
ledge and  practical  sagacity,  he  possessed  that 
higher  order  of  imagination,  and  more  extensive 
sympathy  with  man  and  nature,  which  is  mire 
powerful,  even  for  moral  uses  and  effects,  than  the 
most  clear  and  irresistible  reasoning.  Tlie  object  of 
Miss  Edgeworth,  to  inculcate  instruction,  and  the 
style  of  the  preceptress,  occasionally  interfere  with 
the  cordial  sympathies  of  the  reader,  even  in  her 
Irish  descriptions ; whereas  in  Scott  this  is  never 
apparent.  He  deals  more  with  passions  and  feelings 
than  with  mere  manners  and  peculiarities,  and  by 
the  aid  of  his  poetical  imagination,  and  careless  yet 
happy  eloquence  of  expression,  imparts  the  air  of 
romance  to  ordinary  incidents  and  characters.  It 
must  be  admitted,  however,  that  in  originality  and 
in  fertility  of  invention  Miss  Edgeworth  is  inferior 
to  none  of  her  contemporary  novelists.  She  never 
repeats  her  inciiients,  her  characters,  dialogues,  or 
jilots,  and  few  novelists  have  written  more.  Her 
brief  and  rapid  talcs  fill  above  twenty  closely-printed 
volumes,  and  may  be  read  one  after  the  other  with- 
out any  feeling  of  satiety  or  sense  of  repetition. 

In  a work  lately  published,  ‘Ireland,’  by  Mr  ana 
Mrs  Hall,  there  is  a very  interesting  account  of  the 
residence  and  present  situation  of  iMiss  Edgeworth : — 

‘ The  library  at  Edgeworthtown,’  say  the  writers, 
‘is  by  no  means  the  reserved  and  solitary  room  that 
libiaries  are  in  general.  It  is  large,  and  spacious, 
and  lofty  ; well  stored  with  books,  and  embellished 
with  those  most  valuable  of  all  classes  of  prints — 
the  suggestive ; it  is  also  picturesque,  having  been 
added  to  so  as  to  increase  its  breadtii  ; the  addition 
is  supported  by  square  pillars,  and  the  beautiful 
lawm  seen  through  the  windows,  embellished  and 
varied  by  clumps  of  trees  judiciously  planted,  im- 
parts much  cheerfulness  to  the  exterior.  An  oblong 
table  in  the  centre  is  a sort  of  rallying-point  for  the 
family,  who  group  around  it — reading,  writing,  or 
working  ; while  Miss  Edgeworth,  only  anxious  upon 
one  point — that  all  in  the  house  should  do  exactly  as 
they  like  without  reference  to  her — sits  quietly  and 
abstractedly  in  her  own  peculiar  corner  on  the  sofa  ; 
her  desk,  upon  which  lies  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  pen, 
given  to  her  by  him  when  in  Ireland,  placed  before 
her  upon  a little  quaint  table,  as  unassuming  as  pos- 
sible. Miss  Eilgeworth’s  abstractedness  would  puzzle 
the  philosophers;  in  that  same  corner,  and  upon  that 
table,  sbe  has  written  nearly  all  that  has  enlightened 
and  delighted  the  world.  There  she  writes  as  elo- 
quently as  ever,  wrapt  up  to  all  appearance  in  her 
subject,  yet  knowing,  by  a sort  of  instinct,  when 
she  is  really  wanted  in  dialogue ; and,  without  lay- 
ing down  her  pen,  hardly  looking  up  from  her  page, 
she  will,  by  a judicious  sentence,  wisely  and  kindly 
spoken,  explain  and  elucidate  in  a few  words  so  as  U 
dear  up  any  difficulty,  or  turn  the  conversation  into 

570 

NOVELISTS. 


ENGIilSII  LITERATURE. 


MISS  AUSTEN. 


a new  mul  more  pleasing  current.  She  has  the  most 
harmonious  way  of  throwing  in  explanations— in- 
forming without  embarrassing.  A very  large  family- 
party  assemble  daily  in  this  charming  room,  young 
and  old  bound  alike  to  the  spot  by  the  strong  cords 


of  memory  and  love.  Mr  Francis  Edgeworth,  thj 
youngest  son  of  the  present  Mrs  Edgeworth,  and 
of  course  Miss  Edgeworth’s  youngest  brother,  has 
a family  of  little  ones,  who  seem  to  enjoy  the  free- 
dom of  the  library  as  much  as  their  elders : to  set 


Miss  Edgeworth’s  House. 


these  little  people  right  if  they  are  wrong ; to  rise 
from  her  table  to  fetch  them  a toy,  or  even  to  save 
a servant  a journey ; to  mount  the  steps  and  find  a 
volume  that  escapes  all  eyes  but  her  own,  and  having 
done  so,  to  find  exactly  the  passage  wanted,  are 
hourly  employments  of  this  most  unspoiled  and  ad- 
mirable woman.  She  will  then  resume  her  pen,  and, 
what  is  more  extraordinary,  hardly  seem  to  have 
even  frayed  the  thread  of  her  ideas ; her  mind  is  so 
rightly  b;ilanced,  everything  is  so  honestly  weighed, 
that  she  suffers  no  inconvenience  from  what  would 
’isturb  and  distract  an  ordinary  writer.’ 

MISS  AUSTEN. 

Jane  Austen,  a truly  English  novelist,  was  born 
on  the  16th  December  1775,  at  Steventon,  in  Hamp- 
shire, of  which  parish  her  father  was  rector.  Mr 
Austen  is  represented  as  a man  of  refined  taste  and 
acquirements,  who  guided,  though  he  did  not  live 
to  witness  the  fruits  of  his  daughter’s  talents.  After 
the  death  of  the  rector,  his  widow  and  two  daughters 
retired  to  Southampton,  and  subsequently  to  the 
village  of  Chawton,  in  the  same  county,  where  the 
novels  of  Jane  Austen  were  written.  Of  these,  four 
were  published  anonymously  in  her  lifetime,  namely. 
Sense  and  Sensibility,  Pride  and  Prejudice,  MansJieM 
Park,  and  Emma.  In  May  1817  the  health  of  the 
authoress  rendered  it  necessary  that  she  should  re- 
move to  some  place  where  constant  medical  aid  could 
be  procured.  She  went  to  Winchester,  and  in  that 
city  she  expired  on  the  24th  of  July  1817,  aged  forty- 
two.  Her  personal  worth,  beauty,  and  genius,  made 
her  early  death  deeply  lamented ; while  the  public 
had  to  'regret  the  failure  not  only  of  a source  of 
innocent  amusement,  but  also  of  that  supply  of 
practical  good  sense  and  instructive  e.xample  which 
she  would  probably  have  continued  to  furnish  bet- 
ter than  any  of  her  contemporaries.’*  The  insidious 

* Dr  TMiateley,  archbishop  of  Dublin  (Quarterly  Review, 
1821).  The  same  critic  thus  sums  up  his  estimate  of  Miss 
Auston’i?  works  : — ‘ They  may  be  safely  recommended,  not  only 
as  among  the  most  unexceptionable  of  their  class,  but  as  com- 
bining, in  an  eminent  degree,  instruction  with  amusement, 
thongli  without  the  direct  effort  at  the  former,  of  which  we 
hjive  complained  as  sometimes  defeating  its  object.  For  those 


decay  or  consumption  which  carried  off  Miss  Aus- 
ten seemed  only  to  increase  the  powers  of  her  mind. 
She  wrote  while  she  could  hold  a pen  or  pencil, 
and  the  day  preceding  her  death  composed  some 
stanzas  replete  with  fancy  and  vigour.  Shortly  after 
her  death,  her  friends  gave  to  the  world  two  novels, 
entitled  Northanger  Abbey  and  Persuasion,  the  first 
being  her  earliest  composition,  and  the  least  valu- 
able of  her  productions,  while  the  latter  is  a highly 
finished  work,  especi.ally  in  the  tender  and  pathetic 
passages.  The  great  charm  of  Miss  Austen’s  fictions 
lies  in  their  truth  and  simplicity.  She  gives  us 
plain  representations  of  English  society  in  the  middle 
and  higher  classes — sets  us  down,  as  it  were,  in  the 
country-house,  the  villa,  and  cottage,  and  intro- 
duces us  to  various  classes  of  persons,  whose  charac- 
ters are  displayed  in  ordinary  intercourse  and  most 
life-like  dialogues  and  conversation.  There  is  no 
attempt  to  express  fine  things,  nor  any  scenes  of  sur- 
prising daring  or  distress,  to  make  us  forget  that  we 
are  among  commonplace  mortals  and  real  existence. 
Such  materials  would  seem  to  promise  little  for  the 
novel  reader,  yet  Miss  Austen’s  minute  circum- 
stances and  common  details  are  far  from  tiresome. 
They  all  aid  in  developing  and  discriminating  her 
characters,  in  which  her  chief  strength  lies,  and  we 
become  so  intimately  acquainted  with  each,  that 
they  appear  as  old  friends  or  neighbours.  She  is 
quite  at  home  in  describing  the  mistakes  in  the  edu- 
cation of  young  ladies — in  delicate  ridicule  of  female 
foibles  and  vanity — in  family  differences,  obstinacy, 
and  pride — in  the  distinctions  between  the  different 
classes  of  society,  and  the  nicer  shades  of  feeling  and 
conduct  as  they  ripen  into  love  or  friendship,  or 
subside  into  indifference  or  dislike.  Her  love  is  not 

who  cannot  or  will  not  learn  anything  from  productions  of 
this  kind,  she  has  provided  entertainment  which  entities  her 
to  thanks ; for  mere  innocent  amusement  is  in  itself  a good, 
when  it  interferes  with  no  greater,  especially  as  it  may  occupy 
the  place  of  some  other  that  may  not  be  innocent.  The  Eastern 
monarch  who  proclaimed  a reward  to  him  who  should  discover 
a new  pleasure,  would  have  deserved  well  of  mankind  had  he 
stipulated  that  it  should  be  blameless.  Those,  again,  who  do- 
light  in  the  study  of  human  nature,  may  improve  in  the  knoMC- 
ledge  of  it,  and  in  the  profitable  application  of  that  knowledge, 
by  the  perusal  of  such  fictions  as  those  before  us.’ 


571 


Kiio.vi  17!i0 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  TAE  PRESENT  TIME. 


a liliii'J  jiassion,  the  offspring  of  romance;  nor  lias 
slie  any  of  tliat  morbid  colouring  of  the  darker  pas- 
sions in  \vhi(  hotlier  novelists  excel.  The  clear  day- 
liglitof  nature,  as  reflected  in  domestic  life,  in  scenes 
of  variety  and  .sorrowful  truth,  as  well  as  of  vivacity 
and  liuniour,  is  her  genial  and  inexhaustible  element. 
Instruction  is  always  blended  with  amusement.  A 
finer  moral  lesson  cannot  anywhere  be  found  than 
tile  distress  of  tlie  liertram  family  in  ‘ Mansfield 
Park,’  arising  from  the  vanity  and  callousness  of  the 
two  daughter.s,  who  had  been  taught  nothing  but 
‘accomplishments,’  without  any  regard  to  their  dis- 
positions and  temper.  Tliese  instructive  examples 
are  brought  before  us  in  action,  not  by  lecture  or 
preachment,  and  they  tell  with  double  force,  because 
they  are  not  inculcated  in  a didactic  style.  The 
genuine  but  unobtrusive  merits  of  Miss  Austen  have 
been  but  poorly  rewarded  by  the  public  as  respects 
fame  and  jmpularity,  though  her  works  are  now 
rising  in  public  esteem.  ‘ She  has  never  been  so 
popular,’  says  a critic  in  the  Edinburgh  Hoview,  ‘ as 
she  deserved  to  be.  Intent  on  fidelity  of  delineation, 
and  averse  to  tlie  commonplace  tricks  of  her  art,  she 
h.as  not,  in  tliis  age  of  literary  quackery,  received 
her  rew.ard.  Ordinary  readers  have  been  apt  to 
judge  of  her  as  Partridge,  in  Fielding’s  novel,  juiiged 
of  Garrick’s  acting.  lie  could  not  see  the  merit  of 
a man  who  merely  behaved  on  the  stage  as  anybody 
might  be  expected  to  behave  under  similar  circum- 
stances in  real  life.  He  infinitely  preferred  the 
“robustious  periwig- pated  fellow,”  who  flourished 
his  arms  like  a windmill,  and  ranted  with  the  voice 
of  three.  It  was  even  so  with  many  of  the  readers 
of  Miss  Austen.  Slie  was  too  natural  for  them.  It 
seemed  to  them  as  if  there  could  be  very  little  merit 
in  making  cliaracters  act  and  talk  so  exactly  like 
the  people  whom  tliey  saw  around  them  every  day. 
They  did  not  consider  that  the  highest  triumph  of 
art  consists  in  its  concealment;  and  here  the  art 
was  so  little  perceptible,  that  they  believed  there  was 
none.  Her  works,  like  well-proportioned  rooms,  are 
rendered  less  apparently  grand  and  imposing  by  the 
very  excellence  of  their  adjustment.’  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  after  reading  ‘ Pride  and  Prejudice’  for  the 
third  time,  thus  mentions  the  merits  of  Miss  Austen 
in  his  private  diary: — ‘That  young  la<ly  had  a 
talent  for  describing  the  involvements,  and  feelings, 
and  characters  of  ordinary  life,  which  is  to  me  the 
most  wonderful  I ever  met  with.  The  big  bow-wow 
strain  I can  do  myself,  like  any  now  going;  but  the 
exquisite  touch  which  renders  ordinary  common- 
place things  and  characters  interesting  from  the 
truth  of  the  description  and  the  sentiment,  is  denied 
to  me.  What  a pity  such  a gifted  creature  died  so 
early  I’ 

MRS  BRUNTON. 

Mrs  Mary  Brunton,  authoress  of  Self-Control 
and  Discipline,  two  novels  of  superior  merit  and 
moral  tendency,  was  born  on  the  1st  of  November 
1778.  She  was  a native  of  Burrey,  in  Orkney,  a 
small  island  of  about  600  inhabitants,  no  part  of 
which  is  more  than  300  feet  above  the  level  of  the 
sea,  and  which  is  destitute  of  tree  or  shrub.  In  this 
remote  and  sea-surrounded  region  the  parents  of 
Mary  Brunton  occupied  a leading  station.  Her 
fatlier  was  Colonel  Balfour  of  Elwick,  and  her 
mother,  an  accomplished  woman,  niece  of  field- 
marshal  Lord  Ligonier,  in  whose  house  she  had 
resided  previous  to  her  marriage.  Mary  was  care- 
fully educated,  and  instructed  by  her  mother  in  the 
French  and  Italian  languages.  She  was  also  sent 
iome  time  to  Edinburgh ; but  while  she  was  only 
sixteen,  her  mother  died,  and  the  wh'jle  cares  and 


duties  of  the  household  devolved  on  her.  Witii 
these  she  was  incessantly  occupied  for  four  years, 
and  at  the  expiration  of  that  time  she  was  married 
to  the  Rev.  Mr  Brunton,  minister  of  Bolton,  in 
Haddingtonshire.  In  1803  Mr  Brunton  was  called 
to  one  of  the  churches  in  Edinburgh,  and  Ids  lady 
had  thus  an  opportunity  of  meeting  with  persons 
of  literary  talent,  and  of  cultivating  her  own  mind. 

‘ Till  I began  Self-Control,’  she  s.ays  in  one  of  her 
letters,  ‘ 1 had  never  in  my  life  written  anything  but 
a letter  or  a recipe,  excepting  a few  hundreds  of  vile 
rhymes,  from  which  1 desisted  by  the  time  I had 
gained  the  wisdom  of  fifteen  years  ; therefore  I was 
so  ignorant  of  the  art  on  which  I was  entering,  that 
I formed  scarcely  any  plan  for  my  tale.  I merely 
intended  to  show  the  power  of  the  religious  principle 
in  bestowing  self  command,  and  to  bear  testimony 
against  a maxim  as  immoral  as  indelicate,  that  a 
reformed  rake  makes  the  best  husband  ’ ‘ Self- 

Control’  was  published  without  the  author’s  name 
in  181 1.  The  first  edition  was  sold  in  a month,  and 
a second  and  third  were  called  for.  In  1814  her 
second  work,  ‘Discipline,’  was  given  to  tlie  world, 
and  was  also  well  received.  She  began  a third, 
Emmeline,  but  did  not  live  to  finish  it.  She  died  on 
the  7th  of  December  1818.  The  unfinished  tale, 
and  a memoir  of  its  lamented  authoress,  were  pub- 
lished in  one  volume  by  her  husband.  Dr  Brunton. 

‘ Self-Control’  bids  fair  to  retain  a iiermanent 
place  among  British  novels,  as  a sort  of  Scottish 
Coelebs,  recommended  by  its  moral  and  religious 
tendency,  no  less  than  by  the  talent  it  displays. 
The  acute  observation  of  the  authoress  is  seen  in 
the  development  of  little  tr.aits  of  character  and  con- 
duct, which  give  individuality  to  her  portraits,  and 
a semblance  of  truth  to  the  story.  Thus  the  gradual 
decay,  mental  and  bodily,  of  Montreville,  the  ac- 
count of  the  De  Courcys,  and  the  courtship  of 
Montague,  are  true  to  nature,  and  completely  re- 
moved out  of  the  beaten  track  of  novels.  The  plot 
is  very  unskilfully  managed.  The  heroine,  Laura, 
is  involved  in  a jierpetual  cloud  of  difficulties  and 
dangers,  some  of  which  (as  the  futile  abduction  by 
Warren,  and  the  arrest  at  Lady  Telham’s)  are  un- 
necessary and  improbable.  The  character  of  Har- 
grave seems  to  have  been  taken  from  that  of  Love- 
lace, and  Laura  is  the  Clarissa  of  the  tale.  Her 
high  principle  and  purity,  her  devotion  to  her  father, 
and  the  force  and  energy  of  her  mind  (without  over- 
stepping feminine  softness),  impart  a strong  interest 
to  the  narrative  of  her  trials  and  adventures.  She 
surrounds  the  whole,  as  it  were,  with  an  atmosphere 
of  moral  light  and  beauty,  and  melts  into  something 
like  consistency  and  unity  the  discordant  materials 
of  the  tale.  The  style  of  the  work  is  also  calculated 
to  impress  the  reader:  it  is  always  appropriate,  and 
rises  frequently  into  passages  of  striking  sentiment 
and  eloquence. 

[Fmal  Escape  of  Laura.'] 

[The  heroine  is  carried  off  by  the  6trata;;eni3  of  ITarprrave, 
put  on  board  a vessci,  and  taken  to  tlie  shores  of  Canada. 
There,  in  a remote  secluded  cabin,  prepared  for  iicr  reception, 
falie  is  confined  till  Hargrave  can  arrive.  Even  lier  wonted 
firmness  and  religious  faith  seem  to  forsake  lier  in  tliis  last  and 
greatest  of  her  calamities,  and  her  health  sinks  under  the  con- 
tinued influence  of  grief  and  fear.] 

The  whole  of  the  night  preceding  llargr.ave’s  arriva* 
was  passed  by  Laura  in  acts  of  devotion.  In  her  life, 
blameless  as  it  had  appeared  to  others,  .she  saw  so 
much  ground  for  condemnation,  that,  had  her  hopes 
rested  upon  her  own  merit,  they  would  have  vanished 
like  the  sun.shine  of  a winter  storm.  Their  support 
was  more  mighty,  and  they  remained  unshaken.  The 
raptures  of  faith  beamed  on  her  soul.  By  degrees  they 

572 


H0VF.MST8. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRb  BRUNTON. 


triuiii|.hi-(i  oviT  every  fear ; and  the  first  sound  that 
awoke  ihe  niorniug,  was  her  voice  raised  in  a trembling 
hymn  c f praise. 

' Her  .’ountenance  elevated  as  in  hope,  her  eyes  cast 
upwarils,  her  hands  clasped,  her  lips  lialf  open  in  the 
unfinished  adoration,  her  face  brightened  with  a smile 
the  dawn  of  eternal  day,  .she  was  found  by  her  atten- 
dant. .Awe-struck,  the  woman  paused,  and  at  a reve- 
rent distance  gazed  upon  the  seraph  ; but  her  entrance 
bad  called  back  the  unwilling  spirit  from  its  flight; 
and  Laura,  once  more  a feeble  child  of  earth,  faintly 
inquired  whether  her  enemy  were  at  hand.  Mary 
answered,  that  her  master  was  not  e.xpected  to  arrive 
iiA'ore  the  evening,  and  intreated  that  Laura  would 
trv  to  recruit  her  spirits,  and  accept  of  some  refresh- 
ment. Laura  made  no  opposition.  She  unconsciously 
swallowed  what  was  placed  before  her;  unwittingly 
suffered  her  atteudaut  to  lead  her  abroad  ; nor  once 
heeded  aught  that  was  done  to  her,  nor  aught  that 
passed  before  her  eyes,  till  her  exhausted  limbs 
found  rest  u[)Ou  the  trunk  of  a tree,  which  lay  moul- 
dering near  the  spot  where  its  root  was  sending  forth  a 
luxuriant  thicket. 

The  breath  of  morning  blew  chill  on  the  wasted 
form  of  Laura,  while  it  somewhat  revived  her  to 
strength  and  recollection.  Her  attendant  seeing  her 
shiver  in  the  breeze,  eompassionately  wrapt  her  more 
closely  in  her  cloak,  and  ran  to  seek  a wanner  cover- 
ing. ‘ She  feels  for  my  bodily  wants,’  said  Laura. 

‘ Will  she  have  no  pity  for  the  sufferings  of  the  soul  ? 
Yet  what  relief  ran  she  afford?  What  help  is  there 
for  me  in  man  ? Oh,  be  Thou  my  help,  who  art  the 
gtiard  of  the  defenceless  1 thou  who  canst  shield  in 
every  danger  1 thou  who  canst  guide  iu  every  diffi- 
culty !’ 

Her  eye  rested  as  it  fell  upon  a track  as  of  recent 
foot.stc])S.  They  had  brushed  away  the  dew,  and  the 
rank  grass  had  not  yet  risen  from  their  pressure.  The 
unwonted  trace  of  man’s  presence  arrested  her  atten- 
tion ; and  her  mind,  exhausted  by  suffering,  and 
sharing  the  weakness  of  its  frail  abode,  admitted  the 
superstitious  thought  that  these  marks  afforded  a 
providential  indication  for  her  guidance.  Transient 
animation  kindling  in  her  frame,  she  followed  the 
track  as  it  wound  round  a thicket  of  poplar ; then, 
sudilenly  recollecting  herself,  she  became  conscious  of 
the  delusion,  and  shed  a tear  over  her  mental  decay. 

She  was  about  to  return,  when  she  perceived  that 
she  was  near  the  bank  of  the  river.  Its  dark  flood 
was  stealing  noiseles.sly  by,  and  Laura,  looking  on  it, 
breathed  the  oft-repeated  wish  that  she  could  seek 
rest  beneath  its  waves.  Again  she  moved  feebly  for- 
ward. She  reached  the  brink  of  the  stream,  and  stood 
unconsciously  following  its  course  with  her  eye,  when, 
a light  wind  stirring  the  canes  that  grew  down  to  the 
water’s  edge,  she  beheld  close  by  her  an  Indian  canoe. 
With  suddenness  that  mocks  the  speed  of  light,  hope 
Cashed  on  the  darkened  soul  ; and  stretching  her 
arms  in  wild  ecstacy,  ‘ Help,  help  !’  cried  Laura,  and 
sprang  towards  the  boat.  A feeble  echo  from  the 
farther  shore  alone  returned  the  cry.  Again  she 
called.  No  human  voice  replied.  But  delirious 
transport  lent  vigour  to  her  frame.  She  sprang  into 
the  bark  ; she  pressed  the  slender  oar  against  the 
bank.  The  light  ves.sel  yielded  to  her  touch.  It 
floated.  The  stream  bore  it  along.  The  woods 
closed  around  her  prison.  ‘ Thou  hast  delivered  mel’ 
she  cried  ; and  sank  senseless. 

A meridian  sun  beat  on  her  uncovered  head  ere 
Laura  began  to  revive.  Recollection  stole  upon  her 
like  the  remembrance  of  a feverish  dream.  As  one 
who,  waking  from  a fearful  vision,  still  trembles  in 
his  joy,  she  scarcely  dared  to  hope  that  the  dread 
hour  was  past,  till  raising  her  eyes,  she  saw  the  dark 
woods  bend  over  her,  and  steal  slowly  away  as  the 
canoe  glided  on  with  the  tide.  The  raptures  of  fallen 


m.an  own  their  alliance  with  pain,  by  seeking  the 
same  expre.ssion.  .loy  and  gratitude,  too  big  for 
utterance,  long  poured  themselves  forth  in  tears.  At 
length,  returning  composure  permitting  the  language 
of  ccstac}',  it  was  breathed  in  the  accents  of  devo- 
tion ; and  the  lone  wild  echoed  to  a song  of  deliver- 
ance. 

The  saintly  strain  arose  unmixed  with  other  sound. 
No  breeze  moaned  through  the  impervious  woods  ; no 
ri|)ple  broke  the  stream.  The  dark  shadows  trembled 
for  a moment  in  its  bosom  as  the  little  bark  stole  by, 
and  then  reposed  again.  No  trace  appeared  of  human 
pre.sence.  The  fox  peeping  from  the  brushwood,  the 
wild  duck  sailing  stately  in  the  stream,  saw  the  un- 
wonted stranger  without  alarm,  untaught  as  yet  to 
flee  from  the  destroyer. 

The  day  declined,  and  Laura,  with  the  joy  of  her 
escape,  began  to  mingle  a wish,  that,  ere  the  darkness 
closed  around  her,  she  might  find  shelter  near  her 
fellow-beings.  Slie  was  not  ignorant  of  the  dangers 
of  her  voyage.  She  knew  that  the  navigation  of  the 
river  was  interrujited  by  rapid.s,  which  had  been  pur- 
posely described  in  her  hearing.  She  examined  hei 
frail  vessel,  and  trembled  ; for  life  was  again  becomj 
precious,  and  feeble  seemed  her  defence  against  t'.e 
torrent.  The  canoe,  which  could  not  have  contaii  ed 
more  than  two  persons,  was  constructed  of  a slenler 
frame  of  wood,  covered  with  the  bark  of  the  biich. 
It  yielded  to  the  slightest  motion,  and  caution  was 
nece.ssary  to  poise  in  it  even  the  light  form  of  Laura. 

Slowly  it  floated  down  the  lingering  tide;  and  when 
a pine  of  larger  size  or  form  more  fantastic  than  his 
fellows  enabled  her  to  measure  her  progress,  she 
thought  that  through  wilds  less  impassable  her  cwn 
limbs  would  have  borne  her  more  swiftly.  In  vt.in, 
behind  each  tangled  point,  did  her  fancy  picture  the 
haunt  of  man.  Vainly  amid  the  mists  of  eve  did  she 
trace  the  smoke  of  sheltered  cottages.  In  vain  at 
every  winding  of  the  stream  she  sent  forward  a Icng- 
ing  eye  in  search  of  human  dwelling.  The  narrow 
view  was  bounded  by  the  dark  wilderness,  repeating 
ever  the  same  picture  of  dreary  repose. 

The  sun  went  down.  The  shadows  of  evening  f'll 
not  such  as  in  her  happy  native  land  blend  .softly  w itl 
the  last  radiance  of  day,  but  black  and  heavy,  harsMy 
contrasting  with  the  light  of  a naked  sky  reflected 
from  the  waters,  where  they  spread  beyond  the  gloom 
of  impending  woods.  Dark  and  more  dark  the  night 
came  on.  Solemn  even  amid  the  peopled  land,  in 
this  vast  solitude  it  became  more  awful. 

Ignorant  how  near  the  place  of  danger  might  be, 
fearing  to  pursue  darkling  her  perilous  way,  Laura 
tried  to  steer  her  light  bark  to  the  shore,  intending  to 
moor  it,  to  find  in  it  a rude  resting-]>lace,  and  in  the 
morning  to  pursue  her  way.  Laboriously  she  toiled, 
and  at  length  reached  the  bank  in  safety  ; but  in  vain 
she  tried  to  draw  her  little  ves.sel  to  land.  Its  weight 
resisted  her  strength.  Dreading  that  it  should  slip 
from  her  grasp,  and  leave  her  without  iii  lans  of  escape, 
she  re-entered  it,  and  again  glided  on  in  her  dismal 
voyage.  She  had  found  in  the  canoe  a little  coarse 
bread  made  of  Indian  corn  ; and  this,  with  the  water 
of  the  river,  formed  her  whole  sustenance.  Her  frame 
worn  out  with  previous  suffering,  awe  and  fear  at  last 
yielded  to  fatigue,  and  the  weary  wanderer  sank  to 
sleep. 

It  was  late  on  the  morning  of  a cloudy  day,  v.hen  a 
low  murmuring  sound,  stealing  on  the  silence,  awoke 
Laura  from  the  rest  of  innocence.  She  listened.  The 
murmur  seemed  to  swell  on  her  ear.  She  looked  up. 
The  dark  woods  still  bent  over  her ; but  they  no 
longer  touched  the  margin  of  the  stream.  They 
stretched  their  giant  arms  from  the  summit  of  a 
precipice.  Their  image  was  no  more  reflected  un- 
broken. The  giay  rocks  which  supported  them,  but 
half  lent  their  colours  to  the  rippling  water.  The  wild 

573 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  riiE  i r-ESENi  time. 


duck  no  longer  tempting  the  stream,  flew  scre.aming 
over  its  bed.  Kach  object  hastened  on  with  fearful 
rapidity,  and  the  murmuring  sound  was  now  a deafen- 
iug  roar. 

hear  supplying  superhuman  strength,  Laura  strove 
to  turn  the  course  of  her  vessel.  She  strained  every 
nerve;  she  used  the  force  of  desperation.  Half  hoping 
that  the  struggle  might  save  her,  half  fearing  to  note 
her  dreadful  progress,  she  toiled  on  till  the  oar  was 
torn  from  her  powerless  grasp,  and  hurried  along  with 
the  tide. 

The  fear  of  death  alone  had  not  the  power  to  over- 
whelm the  soul  of  Laura.  Somewhat  might  yet  be 
done  perhap.s  to  avert  her  fate,  at  least  to  prepare  for 
it.  Feeble  as  was  the  chance  of  life,  it  was  not  to  be 
rejected.  Fixing  her  cloak  more  firmly  round  her, 
Laura  bound  it  to  the  slender  frame  of  the  canoe. 
Then  commending  herself  to  Heaven  with  the  fervour 
of  a last  prayer,  .she  in  dread  .stillness  awaited  her  doom. 

With  terrible  speed  the  vessel  hurried  on.  It  was 
whirled  round  by  the  torrent,  tossed  fearfully,  and 
hurried  on  again.  It  shot  over  a smoothness  more 
dreadful  than  the  eddying  whirl.  It  rose  upon  its 
prow.  Laura  clung  to  it  in  the  convulsion  of  terror. 
A moment  she  trembled  on  the  giddy  verge.  The 
next,  all  was  darkness  ! 

When  Laura  was  restored  to  recollection,  she  found 
herself  in  a plain  decent  apartment.  Several  persons 
of  her  own  sex  were  humanely  busied  in  attending 
her.  Her  mind  retaining  a confused  impression  of 
the  past,  she  inquired  where  she  was,  and  how  she 
had  been  brought  thither.  An  elderly  woman,  of  a 
prepossessing  appearance,  answered,  with  almost  ma- 
ternal kindness,  ‘ that  she  was  among  friends  all 
anxious  for  her  safety ; begged  that  she  would  try  to 
sleep,  and  promised  to  satisfy  her  curiosity  when  she 
.should  be  more  able  to  converse.’  This  benevolent 
person,  whose  name  was  Falkland,  then  administered 
a restorative  to  her  patient,  and  Laura,  uttering 
almost  incoherent  expressions  of  gratitude,  composed 
herself  to  rest. 

Awaking  refreshed  and  collected,  she  found  Mrs 
Falkland  and  one  of  her  daughters  still  watching  by 
her  bedside.  Laura  again  repeated  her  questions, 
and  Mrs  Falkland  fulfilled  her  promise,  by  relating 
that  her  husband,  who  was  a farmer,  having  been 
employed  with  his  two  sons  in  a field  which  over- 
looked the  river,  had  observed  the  canoe  enter  the 
rapid : that  seeing  it  too  late  to  prevent  the  accident, 
they  had  hurried  down  to  the  bed  of  the  stream  below' 
■rhe  fall,  in  hopes  of  intercepting  the  boat  at  its  reap- 
pearance : that  being  accustomed  to  float  wood  down 
the  torrent,  they  knew  precisely  the  spot  where  their 
assistance  was  most  likely  to  prove  effectual : that  the 
canoe,  though  covered  with  foam  for  a moment,  had 
instantly  risen  again ; and  that  Mr  Falkland  and  his 
sons  had,  not  without  danger,  succeeded  in  drawing 
it  to  land. 

She  then,  in  her  turn,  inquired  by  what  accident 
Laura  had  been  exposed  to  such  a perilous  adventure ; 
expressing  wonder  at  the  direction  of  her  voyage, 
since  Falkland  farm  was  the  last  inhabited  spot  in 
that  district.  Laura,  mingling  her  natural  reserve 
with  a desire  to  satisfy  her  kind  hostess,  answered 
that  she  had  been  torn  from  her  friends  by  an  in- 
human enemy,  and  that  her  perilous  voyage  was  the 
least  effect  of  his  barbarity.  ‘ Do  you  know,’  said 
Mrs  Falkland,  somewhat  mistaking  her  meaning, 
‘ that  to  his  cruelty  you  partly  owe  your  life ; for 
had  he  not  bound  you  to  the  canoe,  you  must  have 
sunk  while  the  boat  floated  on  !’  Laura  heard  with 
a faint  smile  the  effect  of  her  self-possession ; but 
considering  it  as  a call  to  pious  gratitude  rather 
than  a theme  of  self-applause,  she  forbore  to  offer  any 
claim  to  praise,  and  the  subject  was  suffered  to  drop 
without  further  explanation. 


Having  remained  for  two  days  with  this  hospit.ible 
family,  Laura  expressed  a wish  to  depart.  She  com- 
municated to  Mr  I'alkland  her  desire  of  retuniing 
immediately  to  Europe,  and  begged  that  he  would 
introduce  her  to  some  asylum  where  she  might  wait 
the  departure  of  a vessel  for  Ilritain.  She  expressed 
her  willingness  to  content  herself  with  the  poorest 
accommodation,  confessing  that  she  had  not  the  means 
of  purchasing  any  of  a higher  class.  All  the  wealth, 
indeed,  which  she  could  command,  consisted  in  a few 
guineas  which  she  had  accidentally  had  about  her 
when  she  was  taken  from  her  home,  and  a ring  which 
Mrs  De  Courcy  had  given  her  at  parting.  Her  host 
kindly  urged  her  to  remain  with  them  till  they  should 
a.scertain  that  a vessel  was  immediately  to  sail,  in 
which  she  might  secure  her  passage  ; assuring  her  a 
week  scarcely  ever  elapsed  without  some  departure 
for  her  native  country.  Finding,  however,  that  she 
was  anxious  to  be  gone,  Mr  Falkland  himself  accom- 
panied her  to  Quebec. 

They  travelled  by  land.  The  country  at  first  bore 
the  characters  of  a half-redeemed  wilderness.  The 
road  wound  at  times  through  dreary  woods,  at  others 
through  fields  where  noxious  variety  of  hue  bespoke 
imperfect  cultivation.  At  last  it  approached  the  great 
river  ; and  Laura  gazed  with  delight  on  the  ever- 
changing,  rich,  and  beautiful  scenes  which  were  pre- 
sented to  her  view  ; scenes  which  she  had  passed 
unheeded  when  grief  and  fear  veiled  every  prospect 
in  gloom. 

One  of  the  nuns  in  the  Hotel  Dieu  was  the  sister  of 
Mrs  Falkland,  and  to  her  care  Mr  Falkland  intended 
to  commit  his  charge.  But  before  he  had  been  an  hour 
in  the  town,  he  received  information  that  a ship  was 
weighing  anchor  for  the  Clyde,  and  Laura  eagerly  em- 
braced the  opportunity.  The  captain  being  informed 
by  Mr  Falkland  that  she  could  not  advance  the  price 
of  her  passage,  at  first  hesitated  to  receive  her  ; bi.t 
when,  w'ith  the  irresistible  candour  and  majesty  t'.iat 
shone  in  all  her  looks  and  words,  she  assured  him  of 
his  reward,  when  she  spoke  to  him  in  the  accents  of 
his  native  land,  the  Scotsman’s  heart  melted  ; and 
having  satisfied  himself  that  she  was  a Highlander, 
he  closed  the  bargain  by  swearing  that  he  was  sure  he 
might  trust  her. 

With  tears  in  her  eyes  Laura  took  leave  of  her 
benevolent  host ; yet  her  heart  bounded  with  joy  as 
she  saw  the  vessel  cleaving  the  tide,  and  each  object 
in  the  dreaded  land  of  exile  swiftly  retiring  from  her 
view.  In  a few  days  that  dreaded  land  disappeared. 
In  a few  more  the  mountains  of  Cape  Breton  sank 
behind  the  wave.  The  brisk  gales  of  autumn  wafted 
the  vessel  cheerfully  on  her  way ; and  often  did  Laura 
compute  her  progress. 

In  a clear  frosty  morning  towards  the  end  of  Sep- 
tember she  heard  once  more  the  cry  of  ‘ Land  !’  now 
music  to  her  ear.  Now  with  a beating  breast  she  ran 
to  gaze  upon  a ridge  of  mountains  indenting  the  disk 
of  the  rising  sun  ; but  the  tears  of  rapture  dimmed 
her  eyes  when  eVery  voice  at  once  shouted  ‘ Scotland !’ 

All  day  Laura  remained  on  deck,  oft  measuring 
with  the  light  splinter  the  vessel’s  course  through  the 
deep.  The  winds  favoured  not  her  impatience.  To- 
wards evening  they  died  away,  and  scarcely  did  the 
vessel  steal  along  the  liquid  mirror.  Another  and 
another  morning  came,  and  Laura’s  ear  was  ble.ssed 
with  the  first  sounds  of  her  native  land.  The  tolling 
of  a bell  was  borne  along  the  water,  now  swelling 
loud,  and  now  falling  softly  away.  The  humble  vil- 
lage church  was  seen  on  the  shore  ; and  L.aura  could 
distinguish  the  gay  colouring  of  her  countrywomen’s 
Sunday  attire ; the  scarlet  plaid,  transmitted  from 
generation  to  generation,  pinned  decently  over  the 
plain  clean  coif ; the  bright  blue  gown,  the  trophy  of 
more  recent  housewifery.  To  her  every  form  in  the 
well-known  garb  seemed  the  form  of  a friend.  The 

574 


NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MRS  HAMILTO:*. 


blue  mountains  in  the  distance,  the  scattered  woods, 
the  fields  yellow  with  the  harvest,  the  river  sparkling 
in  the  sun,  seemed,  to  the  wanderer  returning  from 
the  land  of  strangers,  fairer  than  the  gardens  of  Para- 
dise. 

Land  of  my  affections ! — when  ‘ I forget  thee,  may 
my  right  hand  forget  her  cunning !’  Blessed  be  thou 
among  nations  1 Long  may  thy  wanderers  return  to 
thee  rejoicing,  and  their  hearts  throb  with  honest 
*>ride  when  they  own  themselves  thy  children ! 

MRS  HAMILTON. 

Elizabeth  Hamilton,  an  amiable  and  accom- 
plished miscellaneous  writer,  was  authoress  of  one 
excellent  little  novel,  or  moral  tale.  The  Cottagers  of 
Glenbumie,  which  has  probably  been  as  efl'ective  in 
promoting  domestic  improvement  among  the  rural 
pop  \lation  of  Scotland  as  Johnson’s  Journey  to  the 
Hebrides  was  in  encouraging  the  planting  of  trees 
by  the  landed  proprietors.  In  both  cases  there 
was  some  exaggeration  of  colouring,  but  the  pictures 
Were  too  provokingly  true  and  sarcastic  to  be  laughed 
away  or  denied.  They  constituted  a national  re- 
proach, and  the  only  way  to  wipe  it  off  was  by  timely 
reformation.  There  is  still  much  to  accomplish,  but 
a marked  improvement  in  the  dwellings  and  internal 
economy  of  Scottish  farm-houses  and  villages  may 
be  dated  from  the  publication  of  the  ‘ Cottagers  of 
Glenbumie.’  Elizabeth  Hamilton  was  born  in  Bel- 
fast in  the  year  1758.  Her  father  was  a merchant, 
of  a Scottish  family,  and  died  early,  leaving  a widow 
and  three  children.  The  latter  were  educated  and 
brought  up  by  relatives  in  better  circumstances, 
Elizabeth,  the  youngest,  being  sent  to  Mr  Marshall, 
a farmer  in  Stirlingshire,  married  to  her  father’s 
sister.  Her  brother  obtained  a cadetship  in  the 
East  India  Company’s  service,  and  an  elder  sister 
was  retained  in  Ireland.  A feeling  of  strong  affec- 
tion seems  to  have  existed  among  these  scattered 
members  of  the  unfortunate  family.  Elizabeth 
found  in  Mr  and  Mrs  Marshall  all  that  could  have 
been  desired.  She  was  adopted  and  educated  with 
a care  and  tenderness  that  has  seldom  been  equalled. 

‘ No  child,’  she  says,  ‘ ever  spent  so  happy'  a life,  nor 
have  I ever  met  with  anything  at  all  resembling  our 
way  of  living,  except  the  description  given  by  Rous- 
seau of  Wolmar’s  farm  and  vintage.’  A taste  for 
literature  soon  appeared  in  Elizabeth  Hamilton. 
Wallace  was  the  first  hero  of  her  studies ; but  meet- 
ing with  Ogilvie’s  translation  of  the  Iliad,  she 
idolized  Achilles,  and  dreamed  of  Hector.  She  had 
opportunities  of  visiting  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow, 
after  which  she  carried  on  a learned  correspondence 
with  Dr  Moyse,  a philosophical  lecturer.  She 
wrote  also  many  copies  of  verses — that  ordinary 
outlet  for  the  warm  feelings  and  romantic  sensi- 
bilities of  youth.  Her  first  appearance  in  print 
was  accidental.  Having  accompanied  a pleasure 
party  to  the  Highlands,  she  kept  a journal  for 
the  gratification  of  her  aunt,  and  the  good  woman 
showing  it  to  one  of  her  neighbours,  it  was  sent  to 
a provincial  magazine.  Her  retirement  in  Stirling- 
shire was,  in  1773,  gladdened  by  a visit  from  her 
brother,  then  about  to  sail  for  India.  Mr  Hamil- 
ton seems  to  have  been  an  excellent  and  able  young 
man,  and  his  subsequent  letters  and  conversations 
on  Indian  affairs  stored  the  mind  of  his  sister 
with  the  materials  for  her  Hindoo  Rajah,  a work 
equally  remarkable  for  good  sense  and  sprightliness. 
In  1778  Miss  Hamilton  lost  her  aunt,  whose  death 
was  a heavy  blow  to  the  happy  family.  For  the 
ensuing  six  years  she  devoted  herself  to  the  cares 
and  duties  of  the  household,  her  only  literary 
employments  being  her  correspondence  with  her 


brother,  and  the  composition  of  two  short  papers 
which  she  sent  to  the  Lounger.  Mr  Hamilton  re- 
turned from  India  in  1786,  in  order  that  lie  might 
better  fulfil  an  important  duty  intrusted  to  him,  the 
translation  of  the  Mussulman  Code  of  Laws.  It  would 
not  be  easy  to  paint  the  joy  and  affection  with  which 
he  was  received  by  his  sister.  They  spent  the 
winter  together  in  Stirlingshire,  and  in  1789,  when 
her  kind  friend  and  protector,  Mr  Marshall,  died, 
she  quitted  Scotland,  and  rejoined  her  brother  in 
London.  Mr  Hamilton  w'as  cut  off  by  a premature 
death  in  1792.  Shortly  after  this  period  commenced 
the  literary  life  of  Elizabeth  Hamilton,  and  her  first 
w’ork  was  that  to  which  we  have  alluded,  connected 
with  the  memory  of  her  lamented  brother.  The 
Letters  of  a Hindoo  Bajah,  in  two  volumes,  published 
in  1796.  The  success  of  the  work  stimulated  her 
e.xertions.  In  1800  she  published  The  Modem 
Philosophers,  in  three  volumes ; and  between  that 
period  and  1806  she  gave  to  the  world  Letters  on 
Education,  Memoirs  of  Agrippina,  and  Letters  to  the 
Daughters  of  a Nobleman.  In  1808  appeared  her 
most  popular,  original,  and  useful  w'ork,  ‘ The  Cot- 
tagers of  Glenbumie;’  and  she  subsequently  pub- 
lished Popular  Essays  on  the  Human  Mind,  and 
Hints  to  the  Directors  of  Public  Schools.  For  many 
years  Mrs  Hamilton  had  fixed  her  residence  in 
Edinburgh.  She  was  enfeebled  by  ill  health,  but 
her  cheerfulness  and  activity  of  mind  continued  un- 
abated, and  her  society  was  courted  by  the  most 
intellectual  and  influential  of  her  fellow-citizens. 
The  benevolence  and  correct  judgment  which  ani- 
mated her  writings  pervaded  her  conduct.  Having 
gone  to  Harrowgate  for  the  benefit  of  her  health, 
Mrs  Hamilton  died  at  that  place  on  the  23d  of  July 
1816,  aged  sixty-eight. 

The  ‘ Cottagers  of  Glenbumie’  is  in  reality  a tale 
of  cottage  life,  and  derives  none  of  its  interest  from 
those  strange  and  splendid  vicissitudes,  contrasts, 
and  sentimental  dangers  which  embellish  the  ideal 
world  of  so  many  fictitious  narratives.  The  scene 
is  laid  in  a poor  scattered  Scottish  hamlet,  and  the 
heroine  is  a retired  English  governess,  middle-aged 
and  lame,  with  £30  a-year!  This  person,  Mrs 
Mason,  after  being  long  in  a noble  family,  is  reduced 
from  a state  of  ease  and  luxury  into  one  of  compa- 
rative indigence,  and  having  learned  that  her  cousin, 
her  only  surviving  relative,  was  married  to  one  of  the 
small  farmers  in  Glenbumie,  she  agreed  to  fix  her 
residence  in  her  house  as  a lodger.  On  her  way  she 
called  at  Gowan-brae,  the  house  of  the  factor  or 
land -steward  on  the  estate,  to  whom  she  had  pre- 
viously been  known,  and  we  have  a graphic  account 
of  the  family  of  this  gentleman,  one  of  whose  daugh- 
ters figures  conspicuously  in  the  after-part  of  the 
tale.  Mr  Stewart,  the  factor,  his  youngest  daughter, 
and  boys,  accompany  Mrs  Mason  to  Glenbumie. 

\_Picture  of  Glenbumie,  and  View  of  a Scotch  Cottage 
in  the  Last  Century.'\ 

They  had  not  j>roceeded  many  paces  until  they 
were  struck  with  admiration  at  the  uncommon  wild- 
ness of  the  scene  which  now  opened  to  their  view.  The 
rocks  which  seemed  to  guard  the  entrance  of  the  glen 
were  abrupt  and  savage,  and  approached  so  near  each 
other,  that  one  could  suppose  them  to  have  been  riven 
asunder  to  give  a passage  to  the  clear  stream  which 
flowed  between  them.  As  they  advanced,  the  hills 
receded  on  either  side,  making  room  for  meadows  and 
corn-fields,  through  which  the  rapid  burn  pursued  its 
way  in  many  a fantastic  maze. 

If  the  reader  is  a traveller,  he  must  know,  and  if 
he  is  a speculator  in  canals,  he  must  regret,  that  rivers 
have  in  general  a trick  of  rimning  out  of  the  straight 

675 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THK  PRESENT  TIMB. 


lino.  But  however  they  may  in  tliis  resemble  the 
moral  eoiuiuct  of  man,  it  is  but  doing  justice  to  these 
favourite  children  of  nature  to  observe,  that,  in  all 
tlieir  wanderings,  each  stream  follows  the  strict  in- 
junctions of  its  parent,  and  never  for  a moment  loses 
its  original  character.  That  our  burn  had  a character 
of  its  own,  no  one  who  saw  its  spirited  career  could 
possibly  have  denied.  It  did  not,  like  the  lazy  and 
luxuriant  streams  which  glide  through  the  fertile 
valleys  of  the  south,  turn  and  wind  in  listless  aj>athy, 
as  if  it  had  no  other  object  than  the  gratification  of 
ennui  or  caprice.  Alert,  and  impetuous,  and  perse- 
vering, it  even  from  its  infancy  dashed  onward,  proud 
and  resolute  ; and  no  sooner  met  with  a rebuff  from 
the  rocks  on  one  side  of  the  glen,  than  it  flew  indig- 
nant to  the  other,  frequently  awaking  the  sleeping 
echoes  t)y  the  noise  of  its  wild  career.  Us  complexion 
was  untinged  by  the  fat  of  the  soil  ; for  in  truth  the 
soil  had  no  fat  to  throw  away.  But  little  as  it  owed 
to  nature,  and  still  less  as  it  was  indebted  to  cultiva- 
tion, it  had  clothed  itself  in  many  shades  of  verdure. 
The  hazel,  the  birch,  and  the  mountain-ash,  were  not 
only  scattered  in  profusion  through  the  bottom,  but  in 
many  places  clomb  to  the  very  tops  of  the  hills.  The 
meadows  and  corn-fields,  indeed,  seemed  very  evidently 
to  have  been  encroachments  made  by  stealth  on  the 
sylvan  region  ; for  none  had  their  outlines  marked 
with  the  mathematical  precision  in  which  the  modern 
ir.ilirover  so  much  delights.  Not  a straight  line  was 
to  be  seen  in  Clenburnie.  The  very  ploughs  moved 
in  curves  ; and  though  much  cannot  he  said  of  the 
richness  of  the  crops,  the  ridges  cei'tainly  waved  with 
all  the  grace  and  pride  of  beauty. 

The  rood,  which  winded  along  the  foot  of  the  hills, 
on  the  north  side  of  the  glen,  owed  as  little  to  art  as 
any  country  road  in  the  kingdom.  It  was  very  nar- 
row, and  much  encumbered  by  loo.se  stones,  brought 
down  from  the  hills  above  by  the  winter  torrents. 

Mrs  Mason  and  Mary  were  so  enchanted  by  the 
change  of  .scenery  which  was  incessantly  unfolding  to 
their  view,  that  they  made  no  complaints  of  the  slow- 
ne.ss  of  their  progres.s,  nor  did  they  much  regret  being 
obliged  to  stop  a few  minutes  at  a time,  where  they 
found  so  much  to  amuse  and  to  delight  them.  But  Mr 
Stewart  had  no  [)atience  at  meeting  with  obstructions, 
which,  with  a little  pains,  could  have  been  so  easily 
obviated  ; and  as  he  walked  by  the  side  of  the  car,  ex- 
patiated upon  the  indolence  of  the  people  of  the  glen, 
who.  though  they  had  no  other  road  to  the  market, 
could  contentedly  go  on  from  year  to  year  without 
making  an  effort  to  repair  it.  ‘ How  little  trouble 
would  it  cost,’  said  he,  ‘ to  throw  the  smaller  of  these 
loose  stones  into  these  holes  and  ruts,  and  to  remove 
the  larger  ones  to  the  side,  wdiere  they  would  form  a 
fence  between  the  road  and  the  hill  ! There  are 
enough  of  itlle  boys  in  the  glen  to  effect  all  this,  by 
working  at  it  for  one  hour  a-week  during  the  summer. 
But  then  their  fathers  must  unite  in  setting  them  to 
work  ; and  there  is  not  one  in  the  glen  who  would 
not  sooner  have  his  horses  lamed,  and  his  carts  torn  I 
to  pieces,  than  have  his  son  employed  in  a work  that  ; 
would  benefit  his  neighbours  as  much  as  himself.’  s 

As  he  was  speaking,  they  passed  the  door  of  one  of  1 
these  small  farmers  ; and  immediately  turning  a sharp 
corner,  began  to  descend  a steep,  which  appeared  so  i 
un.safe  that  Mr  Stewart  made  his  boys  alight,  which  f 
they  could  do  without  inconvenience,  and  going  to  the  i 
Iread  of  the  horse,  took  his  guidance  uiion  himself.  f 
At  the  foot  of  this  short  precipice  the  road  again 
made  a sudden  turn,  and  discovered  to  them  a mis-  t 
fortune  ndiicn  threatened  to  put  a stop  to  their  pro-  e 
ceeding  any  farther  for  the  present  evening.  It  was  ( 
no  other  than  the  overturn  of  a cart  of  hay,  occasioned  I 
by  the  breaking  down  of  the  bridge,  along  which  it  t 
had  been  passing.  Happily  for  the  poor  horse  that  t 
drew  this  ill-fated  load,  the  harness  by  which  he  was  t 


attached  to  it  was  of  so  frail  a nature  as  to  make 
little  resistance  ; so  that  he  and  his  rider  escaped  un- 
hurt from  the  fall,  notwithstanding  its  being  ^ne  ol 
considerable  depth. 

At  first,  indeed,  neither  boy  nor  horse  was  seen  ; 
but  as  Mr  Stewart  advanced  to  examine,  whether  by 
removing  the  hay,  which  partly  covered  the  bridge 
and  partly  hung  suspended  on  the  bushe.s,  the  road 
might  still  be  passable,  he  heard  a child’s  voice  in  the 
',  hollow  exclaiming,  ‘Come  on,  ye  muckle  brute!  ye 
had  as  weel  come  on!  I’ll  gar  ye  ! I’ll  gar  ye  ! That’s 
a glide  beast  now;  come  awa!  That’s  it!  Ay,  ye’re 
a gude  beast  now  1’ 

As  the  last  words  were  uttered,  a little  fellow  of 
about  ten  years  of  age  was  seen  issuing  from  the 
hollow,  and  pulling  after  him,  with  all  his  might,  a 
great  long-backed  clumsy  animal  of  the  horse  species, 
though  a|ip.arently  of  a very  mulish  temper. 

‘ You  have  met  with  a sad  accident,’  said  Mr 
Stewart ; ‘ how  did  all  this  happen  V ‘ You  may  .see 
how  it  happened  plain  enough,’  returned  the  boy  ; 

‘ the  brig  brak,  and  the  cart  couppet.’  ‘ And  did  you 
and  the  horse  coup  likewise!’  said  .Mr  Stewart.  ‘0 
ay,  we  a’  couppet  thegither,  for  I was  ridin’  on  his 
back.’  ‘ And  where  is  your  father,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  folk!’  ‘Whaur  sud  they  be  but  in  the  hay-field! 
Dinna  ye  ken  that  we’re  takin’  in  our  hay!  John 
'I'amson’s  and  Jamie  Forster’s  was  in  a week  syne,  but 
we’re  aye  ahint  the  lave.’ 

All  the  party  were  greatly  amused  by  the  com- 
posure which  the  young  peasant  evinced  under  his 
misfortune,  as  well  as  by  the  shrewdness  of  his  an- 
swers ; and  having  learned  from  him  that  the  hay- 
, field  W'as  at  no  great  distance,  gave  him  some  half-  I 
1 pence  to  hasten  his  speed,  and  promised  to  take  care 
of  his  hor.se  till  he  should  return  with  assistance. 

He  .soon  appeared,  followed  by  his  father  and  two 
other  men,  who  came  on  stepping  at  their  usual  pace. 

‘ M'hy,  farmer,’  said  Mr  Stewart,  ‘you  have  trusted 
rather  too  long  to  this  rotten  plank,  1 think’  (point- 
ing to  where  it  had  given  way)  ; ‘ if  you  remember 
the  la.st  time  I passed  this  road,  which  was  several 
months  since,  I then  told  you  that  the  bridge  was  in 
danger,  and  showed  you  how  easily  it  might  be  re- 
paired !’ 

‘ It  is  a’  true,’  said  the  farmer,  moving  his  bonnet; 
‘but  I thought  it  would  do  weel  enough.  I spoke  to 
Jamie  Forster  and  John  Tanison  about  it ; but  they 
said  they  wad  na  fash  themselves  to  mend  a brig  that 
was  to  serve  a’  the  folk  in  the  glen.’ 

‘ But  you  must  now  mend  it  for  your  own  sake,’ 
said  lUr  Stewart,  ‘ even  though  a’  the  folk  in  the  glen 
should  be  the  better  for  it.’ 

‘ .-Vy,  sir,’  .said  one  of  the  men,  ‘ that’s  spoken  like 
yoursel’  1 would  everybody  follow  your  example,  there 
would  be  nothing  in  the  world  but  peace  and  good 
neighbourhood.  Only  tell  us  what  we  are  to  do,  and 
I’ll  work  at  your  bidding  till  it  he  pit-mirk.' 

‘^\’ell,’  said  Mr  Stewart,  ‘ bring' down  the  planks 
that  I saw  lying  In  the  barn-yard,  and  which,  though 
you  have  been  obliged  to  step  over  them  every  day 
since  the  stack  they  propped  was  taken  in,  have  never 
been  lifted.  You  know  what  I mean !’ 

‘ O yes,  sir,’  said  the  farmer,  grinning,  ‘ we  ken 
what  3'e  mean  weel  eneugh : and  indeed  I may  ken 
for  I have  fallen  thrice  owre  them  since  they  lay  there, 
and  often  said  they  sud  be  set  by,  but  we  cou’dua  be 
fashed.’ 

While  the  farmer,  with  one  of  the  men,  went  up, 
taking  the  horse  with  them,  for  the  planks  in  question, 
all  that  remained  .set  to  work,  under  Mr  Stewart’s 
direction,  to  remove  the  hay,  and  clear  away  the  rub- 
bish ; Mrs  Mason  and  Mary  being  the  only  idle  .sjiec- 
tators  of  the  scene.  In  little  more  than  half  an  hour 
the  planks  were  laid,  and  covered  with  sod  cut  from 
the  bank,  and  the  bridge  now  only  wanted  a little 

576 


ENGl.lSI!  [,n  KRATUUE. 


MRS  HAMILTON. 


(rmvxl  to  imike  it  ns  ood  1 ns  iiciv.  This  ndJitinii, 
hoMoi  or,  «!is  not  essentinl  towards  ronderiiig  it  pa-ss- 
alilo  tin-  the  oar,  which  was  conveyed  over  it  in  safety  ; 
hut  Mr  .Stewart,  t'oresceini;  the  eonscquencc-s  of  it.s  re- 
main) no  in  this  nntinisherl  state,  urge<l  the  farmer  to 
complete  the  job  on  the  piesent  evening,  ami  at  the 
sjime  time  promised  to  reimburse  him  for  the  e.xjxtnse. 
The  only  answer  he  could  obtain  was,  ‘Ay,  ay,  we’U 
do’t  in  time  ; but  I’se  warriuit  it’ll  do  weel  eneugh.’ 
Our  paj-ty  then  droTO  off,  and  )it  every  turning  of 
the  ro.nd  expressed  fresh  admiration  at  the  increasing 
beauty  of  the  scene.  Towards  the  top  of  the  glen  the 
hills  .seemed  to  meet,  the  rocks  bec.ame  more  frequent 
and  more  prominent,  sometimes  st.anding  nuked  and 
exposed,  and  sometimes  peeping  over  the  tops  of  the 
r\>wan-tree  and  weeping  birch,  which  grew  in  great 
abundance  on  all  the  sleepy  bank.s.  At  length  the 
village  appe.'vred  in  view.  It  con.sistcd  of  about  twenty 
or  thirty  thatched  cottages,  which,  but  for  their  chim- 
iicy.s,  and  the  smoke  that  issued  from  them,  might 
have  pas.sed  for  .so  many  stables  or  hogsties,  .so  little 
liad  they  to  distinguish  them  as  the  abodes  of  man. 
That  one  horse,  at  least,  was  the  inhabitant  of  every 
dwelling,  there  was  no  room  to  doubt,  as  every  door 
could  not  only  boast  its  dunghill,  but  had  a small 
cart  stuck  up  on  end  directly  before  it  ; which  cart, 
though  often  broken,  and  always  dirfv,  .seemed  osten- 
tatiously displayed  as  a proof  of  wealth. 

In  the  middle  of  the  village  stood  the  kirk,  a 
humble  edifice,  which  meekly  raised  its  head  but  a 
few  degrees  above  the  neighbouring  house.s.  It  was, 
however,  graced  by  an  orn.ament  of  peculiar  beauty. 

I Two  fine  old  .ash-trees,  which  grew  at  the  east  end, 
spre.ad  their  protecting  arms  over  its  lowly  roof,  and 
served  all  the  uses  of  a steeple  and  a belfry  ; for  on 
one  of  the  Ic  I'tiest  of  these  branches  w ns  the  bell  sus- 
i pended  which,  on  each  returning  Sabbath, 

I ‘ Rang  the  blest  summons  to  the  house  of  God.’ 

On  the  other  side  of  the  churchyard  stood  the  m.anse, 
di.stinguished  from  the  either  hou.ses  in  the  village  by 
a sash  window  on  each  side  of  the  door,  and  garret 
windows  above  ; which  showed  that  two  floors  were, 
or  might  be,  inhabited  ; for  in  truth  the  house  had 
such  a sombre  air  that  Mrs  Mason,  in  p.assing,  con- 
I eluded  it  to  be  deserted. 

I As  the  houses  stood  separate  from  each  other  at  the 
distance  of  many  yards,  she  had  time  to  contemplate 
the  scene,  .and  was  particularly  struck  with  the  num- 
ber of  children  which,  as  the  car  advanced,  poured 
forth  from  every  little  cot  to  look  at  the  strangers 
and  their  uncommon  vehicle.  On  asking  for  .lohn 
Miieclarty’s,  three  or  four  of  them  started  forward  to 
offer  themselves  as  guides ; and  running  before  the 
car,  turned  down  a lane  towards  the  river,  on  a road 
so  deep  with  ruts,  that,  though  they  had  not  twenty 
yards  to  go,  it  was  attended  witli  some  danger.  Mrs 
Mason,  who  was  shaken  to  pieces  by  the  jolting,  wa-s 
very  glad  to  alight ; but  her  limbs  w'ere  in  such  a tre- 
mor, that  Mr  Stewaart’s  arm  was  scarcely  sufficient  to 
support  her  to  the  door. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  aspect  of  the  dwell- 
ing where  she  was  to  fix  her  residence  was  by  no  means 
j inviting.  The  walls  were  substantial,  built,  like  the 
houses  in  the  village,  of  stone  and  lime  ; but  they 
were  bl.ackeiied  by  the  mud  which  the  cart-wheels  had 
spattered  from  the  ruts  in  winter ; and  on  one  side  of 
the  door  completel)' covered  from  view  by  the  contents 
of  a great  dunghill.  On  the  other,  and  directly  under 
the  window,  was  a squashy  pool,  formeil  by  the  dirty 
water  thrown  from  the  house,  and  in  it  about  twenty 
young  ducks  were  at  this  time  dabbling, 
i At  the  threshold  of  the  door,  room  had  been  left  for 
a p iving-stone,  but  it  had  never  been  laid  ; and  con- 
sequently the  place  became  hollow,  to  the  great  ad- 
rantage  of  the  younger  ducklings,  who  always  found 
79 


in  it  a plentiful  supply  of  water,  in  which  they  could 
swim  without  danger.  Happily  Mr  Stewart  was  pro- 
vidixl  with  boots,  so  that  he  could  take  a firm  step  in 
it,  while  he  lifted  Mrs  Mo-son,  and  set  her  down  in 
safety  within  the  threshold.  Rut  there  an  unforeseen 
danger  awaited  her,  for  tl^ere  the  great  whey  pot  had 
stood  since  morning,  when  the  cheese  had  been  m.ade, 
and  was  at  the  pre.sent  moment  filled  with  chickens, 
which  were  busily  picking  at  the  bits  of  curd  which  had 
hardened  on  the  sides,  and  cruelly  mocked  their  wishes. 
Over  this  Mr  Stewart  .and  Mrs  Ma-son  unfortunately 
tumbled.  The  pot  wa.s  overturned,  and  the  chickens, 
cackling  with  hideous  din,  flew  about  in  all  direc- 
tions, some  over  their  heads,  and  others  making  their 
way  by  the  hallan  (or  inner  door)  into  the  house. 

The  accident  ivas  attendeil  with  no  further  bad  con- 
sequences than  a little  hurt  upon  the  shins  : and  all 
our  party  were  now  assembled  in  the  kitchen  ; but, 
though  they  found  the  doors  of  the  house  open,  they 
saw  no  appearance  of  any  inhabitants.  At  length  Mrs 
Macclarty  came  in,  all  out  of  breath,  followed  by  her 
daughters,  two  big  girls  of  eleven  and  thirteen  years 
of  age.  She  welcomed  Mrs  Mason  and  her  friends 
with  great  kindness,  and  made  many  apologies  for 
being  in  no  better  order  to  receive  them  ; but  said  that 
both  her  gudennvn  and  herself  thought  that  her  cousin 
wouhl  have  stayed  at  Gowan-brae  till  after  the  fair,  as 
they  were  too  far  off  at  Glenburnie  to  think  of  going 
to  it ; though  it  would,  to  be  sure,  be  only  natural  for 
Mrs  Mason  to  like  to  see  .all  the  gr.and  sights  that 
were  to  be  seen  there;  for,  to  be  sure,  she  would  gang 
mony  places  before  she  saw  the  like.  Mrs  Mason 
smiled,  and  as.sured  her  she  would  have  more  pleasure 
in  looking  at  the  fi)ie  view  from  her  door  than  in  all 
the  sights  at  the  fair. 

‘ Ay,  it’s  a bonny  piece  of  corn,  to  be  .sure,’  returned 
Mrs  ^lacclarty  with  great  simplicity  ; ‘but  then,  what 
with  the  trees,  and  rock.s,  and  wimplingso’  the  burn, 
we  have  nae  room  to  make  parks  o’  ony  size.’ 

‘ Rut  were  your  trees,  and  rocks,  and  wimplings  of 
the  burn  all  removed,’  said  Mr  Stewart,  ‘ then  youl 
prospect  would  be  worth  the  looking  at,  Mrs  Mac- 
clarty  ; would  it  not?’ 

Though  Mr  Stewart’s  irony  was  lost  upon  the  good 
woman,  it  produced  a laugh  among  the  young  folk.s, 
which  she,  however,  did  not  resent,  but  iiiinicdiately 
fell  to  busying  herself  in  sweeping  the  hearth,  and 
adding  turf  to  the  fire,  in  order  to  make  the  kettle 
boil  for  tea. 

‘ I think,’  said  Miss  Mary,  ‘ you  might  make  your 
daughters  save  you  th.at  trouble,’  looking  at  the  two 
girls,  who  stood  all  this  time  leaning  against  the  wall. 

‘ 0,  poor  things,’  said  their  mother,  ‘ they  have  not 
been  used  to  it ; they  have  eneugh  of  time  for  wark  yet.’ 

‘ Depend  upon  it,’  said  Mrs  Mason,  ‘ young  people 
can  never  begin  too  soon  ; your  eldest  daughter  there 
will  soon  be  as  tall  as  yourself.’ 

‘ Indeed  she’s  of  a stately  growth,’  said  Mrs  Mac- 
clarty, pleased  with  the  observ.ation  ; ‘ and  Jenny 
there  is  little  ahint  her  ; but  what  are  they  but  bairns 
yet  for  a’  that!  In  time,  I warrant,  they’ll  do  weel 
eneugh.  Jleg  can  milk  a cow  as  weel  as  1 can  do, 
when  she  likes.’ 

‘ .\nd  does  she  not  always  like  to  do  all  she  can  ?’ 
said  Mrs  Mason. 

‘ 0,  we  inauna  complain,’  returned  the  mother ; 
‘ she  does  well  eneugh.’ 

The  gawky  girl  now  began  to  rub  the  wall  up  and 
down  with  her  dirty  fingers ; but  happily  the  wall 
was  of  too  dusky  a hue  to  be  easily  stained.  And 
here  let  us  remark  the  advantage  which  our  cottages 
in  general  possess  over  those  of  our  southern  neigh- 
bours ; theirs  being  so  whitened  up,  that  no  one  can 
have  the  comfort  of  laying  a dirty  hand  upon  them 
without  leaving  the  impression ; an  inconvenience 
which  reduces  people  to  the  necessity  of  learning  u 

5/7 


vuoM  17H0 


cy{;ia)I'/h;i)Ia  of 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMR. 


stund  upot  their  legs,  without  the  assistance  of  their 
hands ; whereas,  in  our  eountry,  custom  has  rendered 
the  hands  in  standing  at  a door,  or  in  going  u])  or  down 
a stair,  no  less  necessary  than  the  feet,  as  may  la- 
plainly  seen  in  the  finger-marks  which  meet  one’s  eye 
hi  all  directions. 

Some  learned  authors  have  indeed  adduced  this 
propensity  in  support  of  the  theory  which  teaches 
that  mankind  originally  walked  upon  all  fours,  and 
that  standing  erect  is  an  outrage  on  the  laws  of  na- 
ture ; while  others,  willing  to  trace  it  to  a more  honour- 
able source,  contend  that,  as  the  propensity  evidently 
prevails  chiefly  among  those  who  are  conscious  of 
being  able  to  transmit  the  colour  of  their  hands  to  the 
objects  on  which  they  place  them,  it  is  decidedly  an 
impulse  of  genius,  and,  in  all  probability,  derived 
from  our  I’ictish  ancestors,  whose  passion  for  painting 
is  well  known  to  have  been  great  and  universal. 

The  interior  arrangements  and  aneommodation  of 
this  unpromising  cottage  are  neglected  and  uncom- 
fortable. The  farmer  is  a good  easy  man,  but  his 
wife  is  obstinate  and  prejudiited,  ami  the  children 
self-willed  and  rebellious.  Mrs  Mason  finds  the 
family  quite  incorrigible,  but  she  effects  a wonder- 
ful change  among  their  neighbours.  She  gets  a 
school  established  on  her  own  ])lan,  and  boys  and 
girls  exert  themselves  to  effect  a reformation  in  the 
cottages  of  their  parents.  The  most  sturdy  stick- 
lers for  the  gude  auld  gaits  are  at  length  convinced 
of  the  superiority  of  the  new  system,  and  the  village 
undergoes  a complete  transformation.  In  the  ma- 
nagement of  these  humble  scenes,  and  the  gradual 
display  of  character  among  the  ])eople,  Mrs  Hamil- 
ton evinces  her  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and 
her  fine  tact  and  discrimination  as  a novelist. 


HANNAH  MORE. 


Mrs  Hannah  More  adopted  fiction  merely  as  a 
means  of  conveying  religious  instruction.  She  can 
scarcely  be  said  to  have  been  ever  ‘ free  of  the  cor- 


poration’  of  novelists ; nor  would  she  perhaps  have 
cared  much  to  owe  lier  distinction  solely  to  her  con- 


nexion with  .so  motley  and  various  a band.  Hannah 
withdrew  from  the  fascinations  of  lamdon  society, 
the  theatres  and  opera,  in  obedience  to  what  she 
considered  the  call  of  duty,  and  VN-e  suspect  Tom 
.Jones  and  Peregrine  Pickle  would  have  been  as  un- 
worthy in  her  eyes.  'I'his  excellent  woman  was  one 
of  five  daughters,  children  of  .Jacob  More,  who 
taught  a school  in  the  village  of  Stapleton,  in  Glou- 
cestershire, vi'here  Hannah  was  born  in  the  year 
1745.  The  family  afterwards  removed  to  Bristol, 
and  there  Hannah  attracted  the  attention  and  p;i- 
tronage  of  Sir  .James  Stonehouse,  who  had  been 
many  years  a physician  of  eminence,  but  afterwards 
took  ordgrs  and  settled  at  Bristol.  In  her  seventeenth 
year  she  published  a i>astoral  drama.  The  Search 
after  Happiness,  which  in  a sliort  time  went  through 
tliree  editions.  Next  year  she  brought  out  a tragedy. 
The  Inflexible  Captive.  In  177.3  or  1774  she  made 
her  entrance  into  the  society  of  London,  and  was 
domesticated  with  Garrick,  who  proved  one  of  her 
kindest  and  steadiest  friends.  .She  was  received 
witii  favour  hy  .Johnson,  Itcynold.s.  Burke,  &c.  Her 
sister  has  thus  dcscril>ed  her  first  interview  with  the 
great  English  moralist  of  the  eighteenth  century: 

‘ We  have  paid  another  visit  to  Miss  lieynolds;  she 
h.ad  sent  to  engage  Dr  I’ercy  (Percy’s  Collection,  now 
you  know  him),  quite  a si)rightly  modern,  instead  of 
a rusty  antique,  as  1 expected  : he  was  no  sooner  gone 
th,an  the  most  amiable  and  obliging  of  women,  bliss 
Reynolds,  ordered  the  coach  to  take  us  to  Dr  John- 
son’s very  own  house:  yes,  Abyssinian  Johnson!  Dic- 
tionary Johnson  ! Ramblers,  Idlers,  and  Irene  John- 
son ! Can  you  picture  to  yourselves  the  palpitation 
of  our  he.arts  as  we  approached  his  mansion  ? Tbt 
conversation  turned  upon  a new  work  of  his  jusr  going 
to  the  press  (the  Tour  to  the  Hebrides),  and  his  old 
friend  Richardson.  Mrs  Williams,  the  blind  poet, 
who  lives  with  him,  was  introduced  to  us.  She  is 
eng.aging  in  her  manners,  her  Conversation  lively  and 
entertaining.  Miss  Reynolds  told  the  doctor  of  all 
our  rapturous  exclamations  on  the  road.  He  shook 
his  scientific  head  at  Hannah,  and  said  “ she  was  a 
silly  thing!”  When  our  visit  w.as  ended,  he  called 
for  his  hat,  as  it  rained,  to  attend  us  down  a very 
long  entry  to  our  coach,  and  not  Rasselas  could  have 
acquitted  himself  more  en  cavalier.  We  are  engaged 
with  him  at  Sir  Joshua’s  on  Wednesday  evening — 
what  do  you  think  of  us?  I forgot  to  mention,  that 
not  finding  .Johnson  in  his  little  parlour  when  we 
came  in,  Hannah  seated  herself  in  bis  great  chair, 
hoping  to  catch  a little  ray  of  his  genius;  when  he 
heard  it,  he  laughed  heartily,  and  told  her  it  was  a 
chair  on  which  he  never  sat.  He  said  it  reminded 
him  of  Boswell  and  him.self  when  they  stopt  a night, 
as  they  imagined,  where  the  weird  sisters  appearecl  to 
Macbeth.  The  idea  so  worked  on  their  enthusiasm, 
that  it  quite  deprived  them  of  re.st.  However,  they 
learned  the  next  morning,  to  their  mortification,  that 
they  had  been  deceived,  and  were  quite  in  anotho 
part  of  the  country.’ 

In  a subsequent  letter  (1776),  after  the  publica- 
tion of  Hannah’s  poem,  ‘ Sir  Eldred  of  the  Bower,’ 
the  same  lively  writer  says — ‘ If  a wedding  should 
take  place  before  our  return,  don’t  be  surprised — 
between  the  mother  of  Sir  Kldred  and  the  father  of 
my  much-loved  Irene ; nay,  Mrs  Montagu  says  if 
tender  words  are  the  precursors  of  connubial  engage- 
ments, we  may  expect  ggeat  things,  for  it  is  nothing 
but  “child,”  “little  fool,”  “ love,”  and  “dearest.” 
After  much  critical  di.scour.se,  he  turns  round  to  me, 
and  with  one  of  his  mo.st  amiable  looks,  which  must 
be  seen  to  form  the  least  idea  of  it  he  s.ays,  “ 1 have 
heard  that  you  are  engaged  in  the  useful  and  honour- 
able employment  of  teaching  young  ladies.”  Upon 
which,  with  all  the  same  ease,  familiarity,  and  confi- 


578 


ENGLISH  LITERATUllE. 


HANNiUt  MORR. 


ilcucow;  should  have  done  had  only  our  own  dear  Dr 
Stonehouse  been  |iresont,  we  entered  upon  the  his- 
tory of  our  birth,  parentage,  and  education  ; showing 
how  we  were  born  with  more  desires  than  guineas, 
and  how,  as  years  increased  our  appetites,  the  cuj)- 
board  at  home  began  to  grow  too  small  to  gratify 
them  ; and  how,  with  a bottle  of  water,  a bed,  and  a 
blanket,  we  set  out  to  seek  our  fortunes ; and  how  we 
found  a great  house  with  nothing  in  it  ; and  how  it 
was  like  to  remain  so,  till,  looking  into  our  knowledge- 
hoxes,  wt  happened  to  find  a little  la^'iiing,  a good 
thi'vg  when  land  is  gone,  or  rather  none;  and  so  at 
last,  by  giving  a little  of  this  little  laming  to  those 
who  had  less,  we  got  a good  store  of  gold  in  return  ; 
but  how,  alas ! we  wanted  the  wit  to  keep  it.  “ I 
love  you  both,”  cried  the  inamorato — “ I love  you  all 
five.  1 never  was  at  Bristol — I will  come  on  purpose 
to  see  you.  What!  five  women  live  happily  together! 
I will  come  and  see  you — I have  spent  a happy 
evening — I am  glad  I came — God  for  ever  bless  you  ! 
you  live  lives  to  shame  duchesses.”  He  took  his  leave 
with  so  much  warmth  and  tenderness,  we  were  quite 
affected  at  his  manner.  If  Hannah’s  head  stands 
proof  against  all  the  adulation  and  kindness  of  the 
great  folks  here,  why,  then,  I will  venture  to  say  no- 
thing of  this  kind  will  hurt  her  hereafter.  A literary 
anecdote : Mrs  Medalle  (Sterne’s  daughter)  sent  to 
all  the  correspondents  of  her  deceased  father,  begging 
the  letters  which  he  had  written  to  them ; among 
other  wits,  she  sent  to  Wilkes  with  the  same  request. 
He  sent  for  answer,  that  as  there  happened  to  be 
nothing  extraordinary  in  those  he  had  received,  he 
had  burnt  or  lost  them.  On  which  the  faithful 
editor  of  her  father’s  works  sent  back  to  say,  that  if 
Mr  Wilkes  would  be  so  good  as  to  write  a few  letters 
in  imitation  of  her  father’s  style,  it  would  do  just  as 
well,  and  she  would  insert  them.’ 

In  1777  Garrick  brought  out  Miss  Move’s  tragedy 
of  Percy  at  Drury  Lane,  where  it  was  acted  seventeen 
nights  successively.  Her  theatrical  profits  amounted 
to  £600.  and  for  the  copyright  of  the  play  she  got  X 1 .60 
more.  Two  legendary  poems.  Sir  Eldred  of  the  Bower, 
and  The  Bleeding  Rock,  formed  her  next  publication. 
In  1779  the  third  and  last  tragedy  of  Hannah  More 
was  produced  ; it  w'as  entitled  I'he  Fatal  Falsehood, 
but  was  acted  only  three  nights.  At  this  time  she 
had  the  misfortune  to  lose  her  friend  Mr  Garrick  by- 
death,  an  event  of  which  she  has  given  some  inte- 
resting particulars  in  her  letters. 

‘ From  Dr  Cadogan’s  I intended  to  have  gone  to  the 
Adelphi,  but  found  that  Mrs  Garrick  was  at  that 
moment  quitting  her  house,  while  preparations  were 
making  for  the  last  sad  ceremony : she  very  wisely 
fixed  on  a private  friend’s  house  for  this  purpose, 
where  she  could  be  at  her  ease.  I got  there  just  be- 
fore her ; she  was  prepared  for  meeting  me ; she  ran 
into  my  arms,  and  we  both  remained  silent  for  some 
minutes  ; at  last  she  whispered,  “ I have  this  moment 
embraced  his  coffin,  and  you  come  next.”  She  soon 
recovered  herself,  and  said  with  great  composure, 
“ The  goodness  of  God  to  me  is  inexpressible  ; I de- 
sired to  die,  but  it  is  his  will  that  I should  live,  and 
he  has  convinced  me  he  will  not  let  my  life  be 
quite  miserable,  for  he  gives  astonishing  strength 
to  my  body,  and  gi-ace  to  my  heart ; neither  do  I 
deserve,  but  I am  thankful  for  both.”  She  thanked 
me  a thousand  times  for  such  a real  act  of  friendship, 
and  bade  me  be  comforted,  for  it  was  God’s  will.  She 
told  me  they  had  just  returned  from  Althorp,  Lord 
Spencer’s,  where  he  had  been  reluctantly  dragged,  for 
I he  had  felt  unwell  for  some  time ; but  during  his  visit 
I he  was  often  in  such  fine  spirits,  that  they  could  not 
I believe  he  was  ill.  On  his  return  home,  he  appointed 
Cadogan  to  meet  him,  who  ordered  him  an  emetic, 
the  warm  bath,  and  the  usual  remedies,  but  with  very 


little  efl'ect.  On  the  Sunday  he  was  in  good  spirits 
and  free  from  pain  ; but  a.s  the  suppression  still  con- 
tinued, Dr  Cadogan  became  extremely  alarmed,  and 
sent  for  Pott,  Heberden,  and  Schomberg,  who  gave 
him  up  the  moment  they  saw  him.  Poor  Garrick 
stared  to  see  his  room  full  of  doctors,  not  being  con- 
scious of  his  real  state.  No  change  happened  till  the 
Tuesday  evening,  w-hen  the  surgeon  who  was  sent  for 
to  blister  and  bleed  him  made  light  of  his  illness, 
assuring  Mrs  Garrick  that  he  would  be  well  in  a day 
or  two,  and  insisted  on  her  going  to  lie  down.  To- 
wards morning  she  desired  to  be  called  if  there  was 
the  least  change.  Every  time  that  she  administered 
the  draughts  to  him  in  the  night,  he  always  squeezed 
her  hand  in  a particular  manner,  and  spoke  to  her 
with  the  greatest  tenderness  and  affection.  Imme- 
diately after  he  had  taken  his  last  medicine,  he  softly 
said,  “ Oh  dear !”  and  yielded  up  his  spirit  with  a 
groan,  and  in  his  perfect  senses.  His  behaviour 
during  the  night  was  all  gentleness  and  patience,  and 
he  fi-equently  made  apologies  to  those  about  him  for 
the  trouble  he  gave  them.  On  opening  him,  a .stone 
was  found  that  measured  five  inches  .and  a-half  round 
one  way,  and  four  and  a-half  the  other ; yet  this  was 
not  the  immediate  cause  of  his  death ; his  kidneys 
were  quite  gone.  I paid  a melancholy  visit  to  the 
coffin  yesterday,  where  I found  room  for  medit.ation 
till  the  mind  “ burst  with  thinking.”  His  new  hou.se 
is  not  so  pleasant  as  Hampton,  nor  so  splendid  as  the 
Adelphi,  but  it  is  commodious  enough  for  all  the 
wants  of  its  inhabitant ; and  besides,  it  is  so  quiet 
that  he  never  will  be  disturbed  till  the  eternal  morn- 
ing, and  never  till  then  will  a sweeter  voice  than  his 
own  be  heard.  May  he  then  find  mercy  ! They  are 
preparing  to  hang  the  house  with  black,  for  he  is  to 
lie  in  state  till  Monday.  I dislike  this  pageantry, 
and  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  disembodied  spirit 
must  look  with  contempt  upon  the  farce  that  is  played 
over  its  miserable  relics.  But  a sjdendid  funeral 
could  not  be  avoided,  as  he  is  to  be  laid  in  the  abbey 
with  such  illustrious  dust,  and  so  many  are  desirous 
of  testifying  their  respect  by  attending.  1 can  never 
cease  to  remember  with  affection  and  gratitude  so 
warm,  steady,  and  disinterested  a friend  ; and  I caii 
most  truly  bear  this  testimony  to  his  memory,  that  I 
never  witnessed  in  any  family  more  decorum,  pro- 
priety, and  regularity,  than  in  his ; where  I never 
saw  a card,  nor  even  met  (except  in  one  instance)  a 
person  of  his  own  profession  at  his  table,  of  which 
Mrs  Garrick,  by  her  elegance  of  .taste,  her  correctness 
of  manners,  and  very  original  turn  of  humour,  was 
the  brightest  ornament.  All  his  pursuits  and  tastes 
were  so  decidedly  intellectual,  that  it  made  the 
society,  and  the  conversation  which  was  always  to  be 
found  in  his  circle,  interesting  and  delightful.’ 

In  1782  Miss  More  presented  to  the  world  a 
volume  of  Sacred  Dramas,  with  a poem  annexed,  en- 
titled Sensibility.  All  her  works  were  successful, 
and  Johnson  said  he  thought  her  the  best  of  the 
female  versifiers.  The  poetry  of  Hannah  More  is 
now  forgotten,  but  ‘Percy’  is  a good  play,  .and  it 
is  clear  that  the  authoress  might  have  excelled  as 
a dramatic  writer,  had  she  devoted  herself  to  that 
difficult  species  of  composition.  In  1786  she  pub- 
lished another  volume  of  verse,  Florio,  a Tale  for 
Fine  Gentlemen  and  Fine  Ladies;  and  The  Bas  Bleu, 
or  Conversation.  The  latter  (which  Johnson  com- 
plimented as  ‘a  great  performance’)  was  an  elaborate 
eulogy  on  the  Bas  Bleu  Club,  a literary  assembly 
that  met  at  Mrs  Montagu’s."’  'The  following  couplets 

* These  meetings  were  called  the  Blue  Stocking  Club,  in  con- 
sequence of  one  of  the  most  admired  of  the  members,  Mr  Ben- 
jamin Stillingfleet,  always  wearing  blue  stockings.  The  appel- 
lation soon  became  general  as  a name  for  pedantic  or  ridicu- 
lous literary  ladies.  Hannah  More's  poem  proceeds  on  the 

579 


FnoM  1780 


CVCLOl’^iniA  OF 


liHve  been  quoted  and  remembered  as  terse  and 
pointed: — 

‘ In  men  this  blunder  still  you  find, 

All  think  their  little  set  mankind.’ 

* Small  habits  well  pursued  betimes, 

May  rcath  the  dignity  of  crimes.’ 

Snell  lines  mark  the  pood  sense  and  keen  observa- 
tion of  the  writer,  and  these  qualities  Hannah  now 
resolved  to  devote  exclusively  to  high  objects.  Tlie 
gay  life  of  the  fashionable  world  had  lost  its  charms, 
and,  having  published  her  ‘Bas  Bleu,’  she  retired  to 
a small  cottage  and  garden  near  Bristol,  where  her 
sisters  kept  a nourishing  hoarding-school.  Her  first 
jirose  publication  was  Thouijhts  on  the  Importance  of 
the  planners  of  the  Great  to  General  Society,  produced 
in  1788.  This  was  followed  in  1791  by  an  Estimate 
of  the  Ilcliyion  of  the  Fashionable  World.  As  a 
means  of  counteracting  the  political  tracts  and  exer- 
tions of  the  Jacobins  and  levellers,  Hannah  More, 
in  1794,  wrote  a number  of  tales,  published  monthly 
under  the  title  of  The  Cheap  I'epository.  which  at- 
tained to  a sale  of  about  a million  each  number. 
Some  of  the  little  stories  (as  the  ‘ Shepherd  of 
Salisbury  Plain’)  are  well  told,  and  contain  striking 
moral  and  religious  lessons.  With  the  same  object, 
our  authoress  published  a volume  called  Village 
Politics.  Her  other  principal  works  are — Strictures 
on  the  Modern  System  of  Female  Education,  1799  ; 
Hints  towards  Forming  the  Character  of  a Young  Prin- 
cess, 180,5;  Cwlebs  in  Search  of  a Wife,  comprehend- 
ing Ohsercations  on  Domestic  Habits  and  planners. 
Religion  and  Morals,  two  volumes,  1809  ; Practical 
Pu  ty.  or  the  Influence  of  the  Religion  of  the  Heart  on  the 
Conduct  of  Life,  two  volumes,  1811;  Chri.stian  Morals, 
two  volumes,  1812;  Essay  on  the  Character  and 
Writings  of  St  Paul,  two  volumes,  1815  ; and  Moral 
Shetches  of  Prevailing  Opinions  ami  Manners,  Foreign 
and  Domestic,  vnth  Reflections  on  Prayer,  1819.  The 
collection  of  her  works  is  comprised  in  eleven 
volumes  octavo.  The  work  entitled  ‘ Hints  towards 
Forming  the  Character  of  a Young  I’rincess,’  was 
written  with  a view  to  the  education  of  the  Princess 
Charlotte,  on  which  subject  the  advice  and  assist- 
ance of  Hannah  More  had  been  requested  by  Queen 
Charlotte.  Of  ‘ Cmlebs.’  we  are  told  that  ten  edi- 
tions were  sold  in  one  year — a remark.able  proof  of 
the  popularity  of  the  work.  The  t;de  is  admirably 
written,  with  a fine  vein  of  delicate  irony  and  sar- 
casm, and  some  of  the  characters  are  well  depicted, 
but,  from  the  nature  of  the  story,  it  jiresents  few' 
incidents  or  embellishments  to  attract  ordinaiy 
novel  readers.  It  has  not  inaptly  been  styled  ‘ a 
dram.atic  sermon.’  Of  the  other  publications  of  the 
authoress,  we  may  s.ay,  with  one  of  her  critics,  ‘ it 
would  be  idle  in  us  to  dwell  on  works  so  well  known 
as  the  '•  Thoughts  on  the  Manners  of  the  Great,” 
the  “ Ess;iy  on  the  Religion  of  the  Fashionable 
World,”  and  so  on,  which  finally  established  Miss 
More’s  name  as  a great  moral  writer,  possessing  a 
masterly  command  over  the  resources  of  our  lan- 
gu.age,  and  devoting  a keen  wit  and  a lively  fancy 
to  tlie  best  and  noblest  of  purposes.’  In  her  latter 
days  there  was  perhaps  a tincture  of  unnecessary 
gloom  or  severity  in  her  religious  views  ; yet,  when 
we  recollect  her  unfeigned  sincerity  and  practical 
■ benevolence — her  exertions  to  instruct  the  poor 
.miners  and  cottagers — and  the  untiring  zeal  with 
•■which  she  laboured,  even  amidst  severe  bodily  in- 
•firmities,  to  inculcate  sound  principles  and  intellec- 

.mistake  of  a foreigner,  who,  hearing  of  the  Blue  Stocking 
Club,  translated  it  literally  ‘Bas  Bleu,’  Byron  wrote  a light 
satirical  sketch  of  the  Blues  of  his  day — the  frequenters  of  the 
I.ondKs  saloons — but  it  is  unworthy  of  his  genius. 


TIU.  Tlin  IMtnSHN'r  TUlh. 


tual  cultivation,  from  the  palace  to  the  cottage,  it 
is  impossible  not  to  rank  her  among  the  best  bene- 
factors of  mankind. 

The  great  success  of  the  different  works  of  our 
authoress  enabled  ber  to  live  in  ease,  and  to  dis- 
pense ebarities  around  ber.  Her  sisters  also  secured 
a competency,  and  they  all  lived  together  iit  Barley 
Grove,  a property  of  some  extent  which  they  pur- 
chased and  improved.  ‘From  the  day  that  the 
school  w,as  given  up,  the  existence  of  the  whole  sis- 
terhood appears  to  have  flowed  on  in  one  uniform 
current  of  peace  and  contentment,  diversified  only  by 
new  ajipearances  of  Hannah  as  an  authoress,  and  the 
ups  and  downs  which  she  and  the  others  met  with 
in  the  prosecution  of  a most  brave  and  bumane  ex- 
I>criment — namely,  their  zealous  effort  to  extend 
the  blessings  of  education  a.id  religion  among  the 
inhabitants  of  certain  vill.ages  situated  in  a wild 
country  some  eight  or  ten  mdes  from  their  abode, 
who,  from  a concurrence  of  unhappy  local  and  tem- 
porary circumstances,  had  been  left  in  a st;ite  of 
ignorance  hardly  conceivable  at  the  jirescnt  day.’* 
These  exertions  were  ultimately  so  successful,  that 
the  sisterhood  had  the  gratification  of  witnessing  a 
yearly  festival  celebrated  on  the  hills  of  Cheddar, 
where  above  a thousand  children,  with  the  members 
of  female  clubs  of  industry  (also  established  by 
them),  after  attending  church  .service,  were  regaled 
at  the  expense  of  their  benefactors.  Hannab  More 
died  on  the  7th  of  September  IB.’l.'l,  aged  eighty- 
eigbt.  She  had  made  about  £.30,000  by  her  writ- 
ings, and  she  left,  by  her  will,  legacies  to  charitable 
and  religious  institutions  amounting  to  £10,000. 

In  1834,  Memoirs  of  the  L fe  and  Correspondence 
of  Mrs  Hannah  More,  by  William  Itoberts,  Ksq., 
were  published  in  four  volumes.  In  these  we  have 
a full  account  by  Hannah  herself  of  her  London  life, 
and  many  interesting  anecdotes. 

LADV  MORGAN. 

Lady  Morgan  (Sidney  Owenson)  h.as,  during  the 
last  thirty  or  forty  x'ears,  written  in  various  depart- 
ments of  literature — in  poetry,  the  drama,  novels, 
biograjihy,  ethic.s,  politics,  and  books  of  travels. 
Whether  she  has  written  .any  one  book  that  will 
become  a standard  portion  of  our  literature,  is  doubt- 
ful, but  we  are  indebted  to  her  pen  for  a numl>er  of 
clever  lively  national  sketches  and  anecdotes.  She 
has  fought  her  way  to  distinction,  self-edne:itcd,  in 
the  midst  of  raillery,  sarcasm,  and  vituperation,  pro- 
voked on  the  one  hand  by  her  careless  and  liold 
avowal  of  liberal  opinions  on  questions  of  politics 
and  the  ‘ minor  morals’  of  life,  and  on  the  other  by 
her  ill-concealed  worship  of  the  fashions  and  follies 
of  the  great,  which  has  led  her  democratic  friends 
to  pronounce  the  pretty  severe  opinion,  that  * tliere 
is  not  a pernicious  vanity  or  affectation  belonging 
to  tuft-hunting  or  modishness,  which  she  does  not 
labour  to  confirm  and  strengthen  by  precept,  senti- 
ment, and  her  own  goodly  example.’t  If  Lady  Mor- 
gan has  not  always  taste,  she  Inis  talent ; if  she  Inis 
not  alw.ays  delicacy,  she  speaks  boldly  and  freely  ; 
if  she  has  got  into  the  society  of  the  great  (the  repu- 
tation of  her  writings,  like  those  of  Swift,  ‘doing 
the  office  of  a blue  ribbon  or  of  a coach-and-six’), 
sbe  has  told  us  all  she  knows  about  them.  She  has 
been  as  liberal  of  satire  and  sarcasm  as  of  adulation. 
She  has  a masculine  disregard  of  common  opinion 
or  censure,  and  a temperament,  as  she  herself  st;ites. 
‘as  cheery’  and  genial  as  ever  went  to  that  strange 
medley  of  pathos  and  humour — the  Irish  clniraeler.' 
Mr  Owenson,  the  father  of  our  authoress,  w:is  a 

* Quarterly  Review,  1834. 

f 'V'^estminstcr  Review,  Oct.  UU9. 

r)8f» 


NOVKLiSTS,  ICNGLISII  LITERATURE.  miisshellky. 

rt'spfv'tiible  actor,  a favourite  in  ttie  society  of  Dub- 
lin, ami  author  of  some  popular  Irish  songs.  His 
daughter  inherited  his  predilection  for  national 
music  and  song.  Very  early  in  life  she  published 
a small  volume  of  poetical  etfusions,  and  afterwards 
77ie  Lny  of  the  Irhh  Harp,  and  a selection  of  twelve 
Irish  melodies,  with  music.  One  of  these  is  the 
popular  song  of  Kate  Kearney,  and  vi-e  question 
whether  this  lyric  will  not  outlive  all  Lady  Jlorgan’s 
other  lucubrations.  While  still  in  her  teens.  Miss 
Owenson  bec'ame  a novelist.  She  published  succes- 
sively iS<  Clair,  The  Novice  of  St  Dominick,  and 
The  Wild  Irish  Girl.  These  works  evinced  a fer- 
vid imagination,  though  little  acquaintance  with 
either  art  or  nature.  The  ‘ Wild  Irish  Girl’  was 
exceedingly  popular,  and  went  through  seven  editions 
in  two  years. 

Miss  Owenson  continued  her  Labours  as  a novel- 
ist. Patriotic  Sketches,  Ida,  and  I'he  Missionary, 
were  her  next  works.  O'Donnel  soon  followed,  and 
was  succeeded  by  Florence  Macarthy.  an  Irish  Talc 
(ISIS),  and  The  O'Briens  and  the  O’ Flahertys  {\S27 ). 
In  these  works  our  authoress  departed  from  the 
beaten  track  of  sentimental  novels,  and  ventured, 
like  Miss  Edgeworth,  to  portray  national  manners. 
AVe  have  the  high  authority  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  for 
the  opinion,  that  ‘O'Donnel,’  though  deficient  as  a 
story,  has  ‘some  striking  and  beautiful  passages  of 
situation  and  descrijition,  and  in  the  comic  part  is 
very  rich  and  entertaining.’  Lady  Morgan’s  sketches 
of  Irish  manners  are  not  always  ideasing.  Her 
high-toned  society  is  disfigured  with  grossness  and 
profligacy,  and  her  subordinate  characters  are  often 
caricatured.  The  vivacity  and  variety  of  these 
delineations  constitute  one  of  their  attractions : if 
not  always  true,  they  are  lively;  for  it  was  justly 
said,  that  ‘ whether  it  is  a review  of  volunteers  in 
the  Thoenix  Park,  or  a party  at  the  Castle,  or  a 
masquerade,  a meeting  of  United  Irishmen,  a riot 
in  Dublin,  or  a jug-day  at  Bog-Moy — in  every 
change  of  scene  and  situation  our  authoress  wields 
the  pen  of  a ready  writer.’  One  complaint  against 
these  Irish  sketches  was  their  personality,  the  autho- 
ress indicating  that  some  of  her  portraits  at  the 
vice-reg.al  court,  and  those  moving  in  the  ‘ best 
society’  of  Dublin,  were  intended  for  well-known 
characters.  Their  conversation  is  often  a sad  jargon 
of  prurient  allusion,  comments  on  dress,  and  quota- 
tions in  French  and  Italian,  with  wdiich  almost 
every  page  is  patched  and  disfigured.  The  un- 
fashionable characters  and  descriptions — even  the 
rapparees,  and  the  lowest  of  the  old  Irish  natives, 
are  infinitely  more  entertaining  than  these  offshoots 
of  the  aristocracy,  as  painted  by  Lady  Morgan. 
Her  strength  evidently'  lies  in  describing  the  bro.ad 
characteristics  of  her  nation,  their  boundless  mirth, 
their  old  customs,  their  love  of  frolic,  and  their  wild 
grief  at  scenes  of  death  and  calamity.  The  other 
works  of  our  authoress  are  France  and  Italy,  con- 
taining dissertations  on  the  state  of  society,  man- 
ners, literature,  government,  &c.  of  those  nations : 
these  are  v’ritten  in  a bold  sketchy  style,  and  with 
many  gross  faults,  they  are  spirited,  acute,  and  en- 
tertaining. Lord  Byron  has  borne  testimony  to  the 
fidelity  and  excellence  of  ‘ Italy  ;’  and  if  the  autho- 
ress had  been  ‘ less  ambitious  of  being  always  fine 
and  striking,’  and  less  solicitous  to  display  her 
reading  and  high  company,  she  might  have  been 
one  of  the  most  agreeable  of  tourists  and  observers. 
Besides  these  works.  Lady  Morgan  has  given  to  the 
world  The  Princess  (a  tale  founded  on  the  revolution 
in  Belgium) ; Dramatic  Scenes  from  Real  Life  (very 
poor  in  matter,  and  affected  in  style)  ; The  Life  and 
Times  of  Salvator  Rosa,  two  volumes  ; The  Book  of 
the  Boudoir  (autobiogr.aphical  sketches  and  renii- 

niscences);  ITo»iti«  and  her  Master  (a  philosophical 
history  of  woman  down  to  the  fall  of  the  Roman 
empire);  and  various  other  shorter  puhlications.  In 
18-11  Lady  Morgan  published,  in  conjunction  with 
her  husband.  Sir  T.  C.  Morgan,  M.l).  (author  of 
Sketches  of  the  Philosophy  of  Life  and  Morals,  &c.), 
two  volumes,  collected  from  the  portfolios  of  the 
writers,  and  str.ay  sketches  which  had  previou.sly 
appeared  in  periodicals,  entitling  the  collection  The 
Book  Without  a Name.  In  reviewing  the  literary 
progress  of  Lady  Jlorgan,  one  of  her  friendly  admi- 
rers (Mr  Henry  F.  Chorley)  has  the  following  obser- 
vations:— 

‘ The  strong  national  enthusiasm  of  childhood,  at 
once  somewhat  indiscriminate  in  its  warmth  and 
limited  in  its  scope,  will  be  seen  to  have  ended  in 
fearless  and  decided  political  partisanship,  in  the 
espousing  of  ultra-liberal  doctrines,  abroad  as  well 
as  at  home.  But  let  us  quote  Lady  Morgan’s  own 
words  from  the  preface  to  the  last  edition  of 
O’Donnel.  “After  all,  however,”  says  she,  “if  I 
became  that  reviled  but  now  very  fashionable  per- 
sonage, a female  politician,  it  was  much  in  the  same 
way  as  the  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme  spoke  prose  with- 
out knowing  it,  a circumstance  perhaps  not  un- 
common with  Irish  writers.  * * For  myself  at 

least,  born  and  dwelling  in  Ireland  amidst  my  coun- 
trymen and  their  sufl'erings,  I saw  and  I described, 
I felt  and  I pleaded:  and  if  a political  bias  was 
ultimately  taken,  it  originated  in  the  natural  con- 
dition of  things,  and  not  in  ‘ malice  aforethought’  of 
the  writer.”  In  each  successive  novel,  too,  the  cha- 
racters will  be  found  more  and  more  boldly  con 
trusted,  the  scenes  prepared  and  arranged  with  fim  i 
artifice.  If  we  cannot  but  note  the  strong  family 
likeness  which  exists  between  all  their  plots,  through 
every  one  of  which  a brilliant  and  devoted  woman 
flits  in  masquerade,  now  to  win  a lover,  now  to  save 
a friend,  now  to  nnake  a proselyte,  we  must  also 
iiisi.«t  upon  the  living  nature  of  many  of  their  dra- 
matis personce,  especially  the  broadly  comic  ones,  in- 
stancing the  Crawleys  (“  Florence  Macarthy”),  and 
Lieutenant  O’Mealy  (“  The  O'Briens”),  and  Law- 
rence Fegan  and  Sir  Ignatius  Dogherty  ("  The  Frin- 
cess”),  and  upon  the  thousand  indications  scattered 
here  and  there  with  apparent  artlessness,  but  real 
design,  which  prove  that  though  their  writer  loves 
to  float  upon  the  surface  of  life  and  society,  she  can 
••it  will  dive  into  their  depths,  and  bring  up  truths 
new  and  valuable.’ 

MRS  SHELLEY 

In  the  summer  of  1816,  Lord  Byron  and  Mr  and 
Mrs  Shelley  were  residing  on  the  banks  of  the  Lake 
of  Geneva.  They  were  in  habits  of  daily'  intercourse, 
and  when  the  weather  did  not  allow  of  their  boating 
excursions  on  the  lake,  the  Shelleys  often  passed 
their  evenings  with  Byron  at  his  house  at  Diodati. 
‘ During  a week  of  rain  at  this  time,’  says  Mr  Moore, 
‘ having  amused  themselves  with  reading  German 
ghost-stories,  they  agreed  at  last  to  write  something 
in  imitation  of  them.  “You  and  I,”  said  Lord  Byron 
to  Airs  Shelley,  “ will  publish  ours  together.”  He  then 
began  his  tale  of  the  'Vampire ; and  having  the  whole 
arranged  in  his  head,  repeated  to  them  a sketch  of  the 
story  one  evening,  but  from  the  narrative  being  m 
prose,  made  but  little  progress  in  filling  up  his  out- 
line. The  most  memorable  result,  indeed,  of  their 
story-telling  compact,  was  Mrs  Shelley’s  wild  and 
powerful  romance  of  Frankenstein — one  of  those  ori- 
ginal conceptions  that  take  hold  of  the  public  mind 
at  once  and  for  ever.’  ‘Frankenstein’  was  published 
in  1817,  and  was  instantly  recognised  as  worthy  of 
Godwin’s  daughter  and  Shelley’s  wife,  a.id  as,  in  fact, 

681 

FROM  i7no 


CYCLOPi^iDIA  OF 


posscssin)^  some  of  the  genius  and  peculiarities  of 
iiotli.  It  is  formed  on  the  model  of  St  Leon,  but  the 
snpernalural  power  ofHhat  romantic  visionary  pro- 
duces nothing  so  striking  or  awful  as  the  grand  con- 
ception of  ‘ Frankenstein’  — the  discovery  that  he 
can,  by  his  study  of  natural  philosophy,  create  a 
living  and  sentient  being.  The  hero,  like  Caleb 
W’illiams,  tells  his  own  story,  and  the  curiosity  it 
excites  is  ecpially  concentrated  and  intense.  A 
native  of  Geneva,  Frankenstein,  is  sent  to  the  uni- 
versity of  Ingolstadt  to  pursue  his  studies.  He  had 
previously  dabbled  in  the  occult  sciences,  and  the 
university  afforded  vastly  extended  facilities  for  pro- 
secuting his  abstruse  researches.  He  pores  over 
nooks  on  physiology,  makes  chemical  experiments, 
visits  even  tlie  receptacles  of  the  ilead  and  the  dis- 
secting-room of  the  anatomist,  and  after  da^'s  and 
nights  of  incredible  labour  and  fatigue,  he  succeeils 
in  discovering  the  cause  of  generation  and  life  ; nay 
more,  he  became  capable  of  bestowing  animation 
upon  lifeless  matter ! Full  of  his  extraordinary  dis- 
covery, he  proceeds  to  create  a man,  and  at  length, 
after  innumerable  trials  and  revolting  experiments 
to  seize  and  infuse  the  principle  of  life  into  his  image 
of  clay,  he  constructs  and  animates  a gigantic  figure, 
eight  feet  in  height,  flis  feelings  on  completing 
the  creation  of  this  monster  are  powerfully  de- 
scribed : — 

‘ It  was  on  a dreary  night  of  November  that  I be- 
held the  accomplishment  of  my  toils.  With  an 
anxiety  that  almost  amounted  to  agony,  I collected 
the  instruments  of  life  around  me,  that  I might  infuse 
a spark  of  being  into  the  lifeless  thing  that  lay  at  my 
feet.  It  was  already  one  in  the  morning;  the  rain 
pattered  dismally  against  the  panes,  and  my  candle 
was  nearly  burnt  out,  when,  by  the  glimmer  of  the 
half-extinguished  light,  I saw  the  dull  yellow  eye  of 
the  creature  open  ; it  breathed  hard,  and  a convulsive 
motion  agitated  its  limbs. 

How  can  I describe  my  emotions  at  this  catastrophe, 
or  how  delineate  the  wretch  whom  with  such  infinite 
pains  and  care  I had  endeavoured  to  form?  His 
limbs  were  in  proportion,  and  I had  selected  his 
features  as  beautiful.  Beautiful!  Great  God!  His 
vollow  skin  scarcely  covered  the  work  of  muscles  and 
H'teries  beneath  ; his  hair  was  of  a lustrous  black,  and 
Howing ; his  teeth  of  a pearly  whiteness ; but  these 
luxuriances  only  formed  a more  horrid  contrast  with 
his  watery  eyes,  that  seemed  almost  of  the  same  colour 
as  the  dun  white  sockets  in  which  they  were  set,  his 
shrivelled  complexion,  and  straight  black  lips. 

The  different  accidents  of  life  are  not  so  changeable 
as  the  feelings  of  human  nature.  I had  worked  hard 
for  nearly  two  years,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  infusing 
life  into  an  inanimate  body.  For  this  I had  deprived 
myself  of  rest  and  health.  I had  desired  it  with  an 
ardour  that  far  exceeded  moderation,  but  now  that  1 
had  finished,  the  beauty  of  the  dream  vanished,  and 
breathless  horror  and  disgust  filled  my  heart.  Un- 
able to  endure  the  aspect  of  the  being  I had  created, 
1 rushed  out  of  the  room,  and  continued  a long  time 
traversing  my  bed-chamber,  unable  to  compose  my 
mind  to  sleep.  At  length  lassitude  succeeded  to  the 
tumult  I had  before  endured,  and  I threw  myself  on 
the  bed  in  my  clothes,  endeavouring  to  seek  a few 
moments  of  forgetfulness.  But  it  was  in  vain  ; I slept 
indeed,  but  I was  disturbed  by  the  wildest  dreams. 
I thought  I saw  Elizabeth,  in  the  bloom  of  health, 
walking  in  the  streets  of  Ingolstadt.  Delighted  and 
surprised,  I embraced  her ; but  as  I imprinted  the 
first  kiss  on  her  lips,  they  became  livid  with  the  hue 
of  death  ; her  features  appeared  to  change,  and  I 
thought  that  I held  the  corpse  of  my  dead  mother  in 
my  arms ; a shroud  enveloped  her  form,  and  I .saw 
the  grave-worms  crawling  in  the  folds  of  the  flannel. 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


I started  from  my  sleep  with  horror,  a cold  dew 
covered  my  forehead,  my  teeth  chattered,  and  every 
limb  became  convulsed  when,  by  the  dim  and  yellow 
light  of  the  moon,  as  it  forced  its  way  through  the 
window  shutters,  I beheld  the  wretch — the  miserable 
monster  whom  I had  created.  He  held  up  the  curtain 
of  the  bed,  and  his  eyes,  if  eyes  they  may  be  called, 
were  fixed  on  me.  His  jaws  opened,  and  he  muttered 
some  inarticulate  sounds,  while  a grin  wrinkled  his 
cheeks.  He  might  have  .spoken,  but  1 did  not  hear; 
one  hand  was  stretched  out,  seemingly  to  detain  me, 
but  1 escaped,  and  rushed  down  stairs.  1 took  refuge 
in  the  court-yard  belonging  to  the  house  which  I in- 
habited, where  I remained  during  the  rest  of  the 
night,  walking  up  and  down  in  the  gi,'atest  agitation, 
listening  attentively,  catching  and  fearing  each  sound 
as  if  it  were  to  announce  the  approach  of  the  demo- 
niacal corpse  to  which  1 had  so  miserably  given  life. 

Oh ! no  mortal  could  support  the  horror  of  that 
countenance.  A mummy  again  endued  with  anima- 
tion could  not  be  so  hideous  as  that  wretch.  I had 
gazed  on  him  while  unfinished  ; he  was  ugly  then, 
but  when  those  muscles  and  joints  were  rendered 
capable  of  motion,  it  became  a thing  such  as  even 
Dante  could  not  have  conceived. 

I passed  the  night  wretchedly.  Sometimes  my 
pulse  beat  so  quickly  and  hardly  that  I felt  the 
palpntation  of  every  artery ; at  others  I nearly  sank 
to  the  ground  through  languor  and  extreme  weakness. 
Mingled  with  this  horror  I felt  the  bitteniess  of  dis- 
apjiointment ; dreams  that  had  been  my  food  and 
pleasant  rest  for  so  long  a space,  were  now  become  a 
liell  to  me,  and  the  change  was  so  rapid,  the  over- 
throw so  complete. 

Morning,  dismal  and  wet,  at  length  dawned,  and 
discovered  to  my  sleepless  and  aching  eyes  the  church 
of  Ingolstadt,  its  white  steeple  and  clock,  wdiich  in- 
dicated the  sixth  hour.  The  porter  opened  the  gates 
of  the  court  which  had  that  night  been  my  a.sylum, 
and  I issued  into  the  streets,  pacing  them  with  quick 
steps,  as  if  I sought  to  avoid  the  wretch  whom  I feared 
every  turning  of  the  street  would  present  to  my  view. 
I did  not  dare  return  to  the  apartment  which  I in- 
habited, but  felt  impelled  to  hurry  on,  although 
wetted  by  the  rain  which  poured  from  a black  and 
comfortless  sky. 

I continued  walking  in  this  manner  for  some  time, 
endeavouring,  by  bodily  exercise,  to  ease  the  load 
that  weighed  upon  my  miml.  I traversed  the  streets 
without  any  clear  conception  of  where  I was,  or  what 
I was  doing.  My  heart  palpitated  in  the  sickness  of 
fear,  and  1 hurried  on  with  irregular  steps,  not  daring 
to  look  about  me — 

Like  one  who  on  a lonely  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turned  round,  walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head  ; 

Because  he  knows  a frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread.* 

Continuing  thus,  I came  at  length  opposite  to  the 
inn  at  which  the  various  diligences  and  carriages 
usualiy  stopped.  Here  I paused,  1 knew  not  why, 
but  1 remained  some  minutes  with  my  eyes  fixed  on 
a coach  that  was  coming  towards  me  from  the  other 
end  of  the  street.  As  it  drew  nearer,  1 observed  that 
it  was  the  Swiss  diligence  ; it  stojiped  just  where  I 
was  standing,  and  on  the  door  being  opened,  1 per- 
ceived Henry  Clerval,  whb,  on  seeing  me,  instantly 
sprung  out.  “ My  dear  Frankenstein,”  exclaimed  he, 
“ how  glad  I am  to  see  you  ! how  fortunate  that  you 
should  be  here  at  the  very  moment  of  my  alighting!” 

Nothing  could  equal  my  delight  on  seeing  Clerval  ; 
his  presence  brought  back  to  my  thoughts  my  father, 
Elizabeth,  and  all  those  scenes  of  home  so  dear  to  my 

* Coleridge’s  * Ancient  Mariner. 

5811 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


recollection.  1 gra.<pcd  his  hand,  and  in  a moment 
forgot  my  horror  and  misfortune ; I felt  .suddenly, 
and  for  the  first  time  during  many  months,  calm  and 
serene  joy.  1 welcomed  my  friend,  therefore,  in  the 
most  cordial  manner,  and  we  walked  towards  my 
college.  Clerval  continued  talking  for  some  time 
about  our  mutual  friends,  and  his  own  good  fortune 
in  being  permitted  to  come  to  Ingolstadt.  “ You  may 
easily  believe,”  said  he,  “how  great  was  the  difficulty 
to  persuade  my  father  that  it  was  not  ab.solutely  ne- 
cessary for  a merchant  not  to  understand  anything 
except  book-keeping ; and,  indeed,  1 believe  I left 
him  incredulous  to  the  last,  for  his  constant  answer 
to  my  unwearied  intreaties  was  the  same  as  that  of 
the  Dutch  .schoolmaster  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield — 
‘ I have  ten  thousand  florins  a-year  without  Greek  ; I 
'•  eat  heartily  without  Greek.’  But  his  affection  for  me 
at  length  overcame  his  dislike  of  learning,  and  he  has 
|>ermitted  me  to  undcrtiike  a voyage  of  discovery  to 
the  land  of  knowledge.” 

“ It  gives  me  the  greatest  delight  to  see  you ; but 
tell  me  how  you  left  my  father,  brothers,  and  Eliza- 
beth.” 

“ Very  well,  and  very  happy,  only  a little  uneasy 
that  they  hear  from  you  so  seldom.  By  the  by,  I 
mean  to  lecture  you  a little  upon  their  account  my- 
self. But,  my  dear  Erankenstein,”  continued  he,  stop- 
ping short,  and  gazing  full  in  iny  face,  “ 1 did  not 
before  remark  how  very  ill  you  appear  ; so  thin  and 
pale  ; you  look  as  if  you  had  been  watching  for  seve- 
ral nights.” 

“ Y ou  have  guessed  right ; I have  lately  been  so 
deeply  engaged  in  one  occupation,  that  I have  not 
allowed  my.self  sufficient  rest,  as  you  see  ; but  I hope, 
I sincerely  hope,  that  all  thc.se  employments  are  now 
at  an  end,  and  that  I am  at  length  free.” 

I trembled  excessively  ; I could  not  endure  to  think 
of,  and  far  less  to  allude  to,  the  occurrences  of  the  pre- 
ceding night.  I walked  with  a quick  pace,  and  we 
soon  arrived  at  my  college.  I then  reflected,  and  the 
thought  made  me  shiver,  that  the  creature  whom  I 
had  left  in  my  apartment  might  still  be  there,  alive, 

! and  walking  about.  I dreaded  to  behold  this  mon- 
ster ; but  I feared  still  more  that  Henry  should  see 
him.  Intreating  him,  therefore,  to  remain  a few  mi- 
nutes at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  I darted  up  towards 
m”  own  room.  My  hand  was  already  on  the  lock  of 
the  toor  before  I recollected  myself.  I then  paused, 
anu  a cold  shivering  came  over  me.  I' threw  the  door 
for.?'u.y  open,  as  children  are  accustomed  to  do  when 
they  expect  a spectre  to  stand  in  waiting  for  them  on 
the  other  side ; but  nothing  appeared.  I stepped 
fearfully  in  ; the  apartment  was  empty,  and  ray  bed- 
room was  also  freed  from  its  hideous  guest.  I could 
hardly  believe  th.at  so  great  a good  fortune  could  have 
befallen  me ; but  when  I became  assured  that  my 
enemy  had  indeed  fled,  I clapped  my  hands  for  joy, 
and  ran  down  to  Clerval. 

We  ascended  into  my  room,  and  the  servant  pre- 
sently brought  breiikfast ; but  I was  unable  to  con- 
tain myself.  It  was  not  joy  only  that  possessed  me  : 
I felt  my  flesh  tingle  with  excess  of  sensitiveness,  and 
my  pulse  beat  rapidly.  I was  unable  to  remain  for  a 
single  instant  in  the  same  place  ; I jumped  over  the 
cffiiirs,  clapped  my  hands,  and  laughed  aloud.  Clerval 
at  first  attributed  my  unusual  spirits  to  joy  on  his 
arrival  ; but  when  he  observed  me  more  attentively, 
he  saw  a wildness  in  my  eyes  for  which  he  could  not 
account ; and  my  loud  unrestrained  heartless  laughter 
frightened  and  astonished  him. 

“ My  dear  Victor,”  cried  he,  “ what,  for  God’s  sake, 
is  the  matter  ? Do  not  laugh  in  that  manner.  How 
ill  you  are'  What  is  the  cause  of  all  this!” 

“ Do  not  ask  me,”  cried  I,  putting  my  hands  before 
lay  eyes,  for  I thought  I saw  the  dr^ded  spectre  glide 
into  the  room;  “/<e  can  tell.  Oh,  save  me!  save  me!” 


MBS  SIIELLET. 


I imagined  that  the  monster  seized  me ; I struggled 
furiously,  and  fell  down  in  a fit. 

Poor  Clerval!  what  must  have  been  his  feelings! 
A meeting  which  he  anticipated  with  such  joy  so 
strangely  turned  to  bitterness.  But  I was  not  the 
witness  of  his  grief  ; for  I was  lifeless,  and  did  not  re- 
cover my  senses  for  a long,  long  time.’ 

The  monster  ultimately  becomes  a terror  to  his 
creator,  and  haunts  him  like  a spell.  For  two  years 
he  disappears,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  is 
presented  as  the  murderer  of  Frankenstein’s  infant 
brother,  and  as  waging  war  with  all  mankind,  in 
consequence  of  the  disgust  and  violence  with  which 
his  appearance  is  regarded.  The  demon  meets  and 
confronts  his  maker,  demanding  that  he  should 
create  him  a helpmate,  as  a solace  in  his  forced  ex- 
patriation from  society.  E’rankenstein  retires  and 
begins  the  hideous  task,  and  while  engaged  in  it 
during  the  secrecy  of  midnight,  in  one  of  the  lonely 
islands  of  the  Orcades,  the  monster  appears  before 
him. 

‘ A ghastly  grin  wrinkled  his  lips  as  he  gazed  on 
me,  where  I sat  fulfilling  the  task  which  he  allotted 
to  me.  Yes,  he  had  followed  in  my  travels ; he  had 
loitered  in  forests,  hid  himself  in  caves,  or  taken 
refuge  in  wide  and  desert  heaths ; and  he  now  came 
to  mark  my  progress,  and  claim  the  fulfilment  of 
my  promise.  As  I looked  on  him,  his  countenance 
expressed  the  utmost  extent  of  malice  and  treachery. 
I thought  with  a sensation  of  madness  on  my  pro- 
mise of  creating  another  like  to  him,  and,  trembling 
w’ith  passion,  tore  to  piec'es  the  thing  on  which  I 
was  engaged.  The  wretch  saw  me  destroy'  the 
creature  on  whose  future  existence  he  depended  for 
happiness,  and  with  a howl  of  devilish  despair  and 
revenge,  withdrew.’ 

A series  of  horrid  and  malignant  events  now  mark 
the  career  of  the  demon.  He  murders  the  friend  of 
Frankenstein,  strangles  his  bride  on  her  wedding- 
night,  and  causes  the  death  of  his  father  from  grief. 
He  eludes  detection,  but  E'rankenstein,  in  agony  and 
despair,  resolves  to  seek  him  out,  and  sacrifice  him 
to  his  justice  and  revenge.  The  pursuit  is  pro- 
tracted for  a considerable  time,  and  in  various  coun- 
tries, and  at  length  conducts  us  to  the  ice-bound 
shores  and  islands  of  the  northern  ocean.  Franken- 
stein recognises  the  demon,  but  ere  he  can  reach 
him,  the  ice  gives  way,  and  he  is  afterwards  with 
difficulty  rescued  from  the  floating  wreck  by  the 
crew  of  a vessel  that  had  been  embayed  in  that  polar 
region.  Thus  saved  from  perishing,  Frankenstein 
relates  to  he  captain  of  the  ship  his  ‘ wild  and  won- 
drous tale,  but  the  suffering  and  exhaustion  had 
proved  too  much  for  his  frame,  and  he  expires  be- 
fore the  vessel  had  sailed  for  Britain.  The  monster 
visits  the  ship,  and  after  mourning  <.  ver  the  dead 
body  of  his  victim,  quits  the  vessel,  resolved  to  seek 
the  most  northern  extremity  of  the  globe,  and  there 
to  put  a period  to  his  wretched  and  unhallowed 
existence.  The  pow'er  of  genius  in  clothing  inci- 
dents the  most  improbable  with  strong  interest  and 
human  sympathies  is  evinced  in  this  remarkable 
story.  The  creation  of  the  demon  is  admirably  told. 
The  successive  steps  by  which  the  solitary  student 
arrives  at  his  great  secret,  after  two  years  of  labour, 
and  the  first  glimpse  which  he  obtains  of  tl.e  hide- 
ous monster,  form  a narrative  that  cannot  be  per- 
used without  sensations  of  awe  and  terror.  While 
the  demon  is  thus  partially  known  and  revealed,  or 
seen  only  in  the  distance,  gliding  among  cliffs  and 
glaciers,  appearing  by  moonlight  to  demand  justice 
from  his  maker,  or  seated  in  his  car  among  the 
tremendous  solitudes  of  the  northern  ocean,  the 
effect  is  striking  and  magnificent  The  interest 

583 


fuoM  ITiiO 


cyclop-®:l)ia  of 


■nix  THE  i'ui£Sii.vr  nvii 


ceasos  when  we.  are  tolii  of  tlie  self- education  of  the 
monster,  wliicli  is  disgustinfjly  minute  in  detail,  and 
absurd  in  conception;  ajid  wlien  we  consider  tlie 
iinprobal)ility  of  his  bein;i  able  to  commit  so  many 
crimes  in  dilferent  countries,  conspicuous  as  he  is  in 
form,  with  impunity,  and  witliout  detection,  llis 
malignity  of  disposition,  and  particularly  his  resent- 
ment t(;vvards  Frankenstein,  do  not  a[ipear  unna- 
tural when  we  recollect  how  he  has  Ixten  repelled 
from  sotfiety,  and  refused  a comi)anion  by  him  who 
could  alone  create  such  anotlier.  In  his  wildest 
outbursts  vre  l>artly  .sympathise  with  him.  and  his 
situation  .seems  to  justify  his  crimes.  In  depicting 
the  internal  workings  of  the  mind  and  the  various 
phases  of  the  passions,  Mrs  Shelley  evinces  skill  and 
acuteness.  Like  her  father,  she  e.xcels  in  mental 
analysis  and  in  coneeiitions  of  the  grand  and  the 
powerful,  hut  fails  in  the  management  of  her  fable 
where  jirobable  incidents  and  familiar  life  are  re- 
quired or  attempted. 

In  1823  Mrs  Shelley  published  another  work  of 
fiction,  Vttl/>eryii ; or  the  Life  and  Adventures  of  Cus- 
triiccio.  Prince  of  Luccu,  three  volumes.  Tlie  time 
of  the  story  is  tliat  of  the  struggle  between  tlie 
Guelphs  and  the  Ghiblrelines.  She  is  also  the  au- 
thor of  a novel  ujion  the  story  of  Perkin  Warhcck. 

[iorc.] 

It  is  said  that  in  love  we  idolize  the  object,  and 
placing  him  apart,  and  selecting  him  from  his  fel- 
lows, look  on  him  as  superior  in  nature  to  all  others. 
We  do  so ; but  even  as  we  idolize  the  object  of  our 
affections,  do  we  idolize  ourselves:  if  we  separate  him 
from  his  fellow  mortals,  so  do  we  separate  ourselves, 
and  glorying  in  belonging  to  him  alone,  feel  lifted 
above  all  other  sensations,  all  other  joys  .and  griefs, 
to  one  hallowed  circle  from  which  all  but  his  idea  is 
banished  : we  walk  as  if  a mist,  or  some  more  potent 
charm,  divided  us  from  all  but  him  ; a sanctified 
victim,  which  none  but  the  priest  set  apart  for  that 
office  could  touch  and  not  pollute,  enshrined  in  a 
cloud  of  glory,  m.ade  glorious  through  beauties  uot  our 
own. 

KEV.  C.  R.  MATUBIN. 

The  Rev.  C.  R.  MAruRiN,  the  poetic.al  and  eccen- 
tric curate  of  St  Peter’s,  Dublin,  came  forward  in 
1807  as  an  imitator  of  the  terrific  and  gloomy  style 
of  novel  writing,  of  which  Monk  Lewis  was  the 
modern  master.  Its  higher  mysteries  v/ere  known 
only  to  Mrs  Kaddiffe.  Tlve  date  of  that  style,  as 
Maturin  afterwards  confessed,  was  out  when  he  was 
a boy.  an  ’ he  h;ul  nof  powers  to  revive  it.  His 
youllii.*.  production  was  entitled  Fatal  Revenge,  or 
the  Faadig  of  Moutorio.  The  first  ])art  of  fids  title 
w,as  the  invention  of  the  publisher,  and  it  proved  a 
good  bookselling  apjsdlation,  for  the  novel  was  in 
high  favour  in  the  circulating  libraries.  It  is  un- 
doubtedly a work  of  genius — full  of  imagination 
and  energetic  language,  though  botli  are  sometimes 
carried  to  extravagance  or  bombast.  There  wa.s, 
however,  as  has  been  justly  remarked,  ‘ originality 
in  the  conception,  hideous  as  it  was,  of  the  hero 
employing  against  the  brother  who  had  deceived 
him  the  agency  of  that  brother’s  own  sons,  whom 
he  persuades  to  parricide,  by  working  on  their 
visionary  fears,  and  by  the  doctrines  of  fatalism ; 
and  then,  when  the  deed  is  done,  discovering  that 
the  victims  whom  he  had  reasoned  and  persecuted 
into  crime  were  his  own  children!’  The  author 
made  abundant  use  of  supernatural  machinery,  or 
at  least  what  appears  to  be  such,  until  the  unra- 
velling of  the  plot  discloses  that  the  whole  has  lieen 
“fleeted,  like  the  mysteries  of  the  Castle  of  Udolpho, 


by  natural  causes.  Circumstance  Ims  been  st.ilei) 

• an  unspiritual  god,’  and  he  seldom  a|)[iears  to  less 
advantage  than  in  the  plots  of  Mr  Maturin.  lie- 
tween  1807  and  1820  our  author  published  a nmn- 
her  of  works  of  romantic  fiction  — The  Milesian 
(.'/lief;  The  Wild  Irish  Hoy;  Women,  or  I’oiir  et 
(fontre;  and  Melmoth  the  Wanderer — all  w(/rks  in 
tliree  or  four  volumes  eaeli.  ‘ Women’  wa.s  well 
received  by  the  piihlic,  but  none  of  it.s  iiredeccssors, 
as  the  author  himself  states,  ever  reached  a second 
edition.  In  ‘Women’  he  aimed  at  depicting  real 
life  and  manners,  and  we  have  some  iiicturcs  of 
Calvinistic  Methodists,  an  Irish  Meg  Merrilees,  and 
an  Irish  hero,  De  Conrey,  whose  ctiaraetcr  is  made 
up  of  contradictions  and  improbabilitie.s.  Two  female 
ciiaracter.s,  Kva  Wentworth  and  Zaira,  a brilliant 
Italian  (who  afterwards  turns  out  to  be  the  mothei 
of  Eva),  are  drawn  with  delicacy  and  fine  eirect. 
The  former  is  educated  in  strict  seclusion,  and  is 
purity  itself.  De  Courcy  is  in  love  with  laith,  and 
both  are  blighted  by  his  inconstancy.  Eva  dies 
calmly  and  tranquilly,  elevated  by  religious  hope. 
Zaira  meditates  suicide,  but  desists  from  tiie  uttemiit, 
and  lives  on,  as  if  spell-bound  to  the  death -place  of 
her  daughter  and  lover.  De  Courcy  perishes  of 
remorse.  'I'hese  scenes  of  deep  passion  and  patlios 
are  coloured  with  the  lights  of  poetry  and  genius. 
Indeed  the  gradual  decay  of  Eva  is  the  happiest  of 
all  Mr  M.iturin’s  delineations,  and  has  rarely  been 
surpassed.  The  simple  truthfulness  of  the  deserii>- 
tioii  may  be  seen  in  jiassages  Tike  the  following; — 

‘ The  weather  was  unusually  fine,  though  it  was 
September,  and  the  evenings  mild  and  beautiful. 
Eva  passed  them  almost  entirely  in  the  garden.  She 
had  always  loved  the  fading  light  and  delicious  tints 
of  an  evening  sky,  and  now  they  were  endeared  by 
tliat  wliieh  endears  even  indifierent  tilings — an  in- 
ternal consciousness  that  we  have  not  long  to  behold 
them.  Mrs  Wentworth  remonstrated  against  this 
indulgence,  and  mentioned  it  to  the  iihysician  ; hut 
he  “answered  negleetingly said  anything  that 
amused  her  mind  could  do  her  no  harm,  &c.  Then 
Mrs  Wentworth  began  to  feel  there  was  no  hopev 
and  Eva  was  suffered  to  muse  life  away  unmolested. 

To  the  garden  every  evening  she  went,  and  brought 
her  library  with  her;  it  consisted  of  hut  three  hooks 
— the  Bible,  Young’s  Night  Thoughts,  and  Blair's 
Grave.  One  evening  tlie  unusual  beauty  of  the  sky 
made  her  involuntarily  drop  her  book.  She  gazed 
upward,  and  felt  as  if  a book  was  open  in  heaven, 
where  all  the  lovely  and  varying  iihemimena  pre- 
sented in  living  characters  to  her  view  the  name  of 
the  Divinity.  There  was  a sok-nin  congeniality  be- 
tween her  feelings  of  her  own  sttite  and  the  view  of 
the  declining  day — the  parting  light  and  the  ap- 
proaching darkness.  The  glow  of  the  western 
iieaven  was  still  resplendent  and  glorious;  a little  I 
above,  the  blending  hues  of  onmge  and  azure  were  j 
softening  into  a mellow  and  indefinite  light;  and  in  ( 
the  u])[)er  region  of  the  air,  a delicious  blue  darkness  j 
invited  the  eye  to  repose  in  luxurious  dimness:  one  i 
star  alone  showed  its  trembling  head — another  ami  j 
another,  like  infant  births  of  light ; and  in  the  dark  j 
east  the  half  moon,  like  a bark  of  pearl,  came  on  j 
tlirough  the  deep  still  ocean  of  heaven.  Eva  gazed  | 
on  ; some  tears  came  to  her  eyes  ; they  were  a luxury,  j 
Suddenly  she  felt  as  if  she  were  quite  well;  a glow  j 
like  that  of  health  pervadeil  her  whole  fra iiK — one  | j 
of  those  indescribable  sensations  that  seem  to  assure  j 
us  of  safety,  while,  in  fact,  they  are  annoum-iiig  ms-  j 
solution.  She  imagined  herself  suddenly  restored  to  1 1 
health  and  to  happiness.  She  saw  De  Courcy  once  j 
more,  :is  in  their  early  hours  of  love,  wIkii  his  face  M 
was  to  her  as  if  it  had  been  the  face  of  an  angel ; I 
thought  after  thought  came  back  on  her  lieart  like  j 

.'ll;-! 


NOVKLISTS.  ENGLISH  LI' 


gleams  of  paradise.  She  trembled  at  the  felicity 
that  filled  her  whole  soul ; it  was  one  of  those  fatal 
illusions,  that  disease,  when  it  i.s  connected  with 
strong  emotions  of  the  mind,  often  flatters  its  victim 
viih — that  mirage,  when  the  heart  is  a desert,  which 
rises  before  the  wanderer,  to  dazzle,  to  delude,  and 
to  destroy.’ 

‘ Mehnoth,’  another  of  iMr  Jlaturin’s  works,  is  the 
wildestof hisroniances.  The hero'gleanis withdemon 
light,’  and  owing  to  a compact  with  Satan,  lives  a 
century  and  a-half,  performing  all  manner  of  adven- 
tures, the  most  defensible  of  which  is  frightening  an 
Irish  miser  to  death.  Some  of  the  details  in  ‘ l\Iel- 
moth’  are  .absolutely  sickening  and  loathsome.  They 
seem  the  last  convulsive  eflTorts  and  distortions  of  the 
Monk  Lewis  school  of  romance.  In  1824  (the  year 
of  his  premature  death)  Jlr  Maturin  published  The 
Alblgenses,  a romance  in  four  volumes.  This  work 
was  intended  by  the  author  .as  one  of  a series  of  ro- 
mances illustrative  of  European  feelings  and  manners 
in  ancient,  in  middle,  and  in  modern  times.  L.aying 
the  scene  of  his  story  in  France,  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, the  .author  connected  it  with  the  wars  between 
the  Catholics  and  the  Albigenses,  the  latter  being 
the  earliest  of  the  reformers  of  the  faith.  Such  a 
time  was  well  adapted  for  the  purposes  of  romance : 
and  Mr  Maturin  in  this  work  presented  some  good 
pictures  of  the  crusaders,  and  of  the  Albigenses  in 
their  lonely  worship  among  rocks  and  mountains. 
He  had  not,  however,  the  power  of  delineating  va- 
rieties of  character,  and  his  attempts  at  humour  are 
wretched  failures.  In  constructing  a plot,  he  was 
also  deficient:  and  hence  ‘The  Albigenses,’  wanting 
the  genuine  fe.atures  of  a historical  romance,  and 
destitute  of  the  supernatural  machinery  which  had 
imparted  a certain  degree  of  wild  interest  to  the 
author’s  former  works,  was  universally  pronounced 
to  be  tedious  and  uninteresting.  Passages,  as  we 
have  said,  are  carefully  finished  and  well  drawn,  and 
we  subjoin  a brief  specimen. 

[A  Lady's  Chamber  in  the  Thirteenth  Century. 

‘ I am  weary,’  said  the  lady  ; ‘ disarray  me  for  rest. 
But  thou,  Claudine,  be  ne.ar  when  I sleep  ; 1 love  thee 
well,  wench,  though  1 have  not  shown  it  hitherto.  Wear 
this  c.arkanet  for  my  sake  ; but  wear  it  not,  I charge 
thee,  in  the  i)resence  of  Sir  Paladour.  Now  read  me 
my  riddle  once  more,  my  maidens.’  As  her  head 
sunk  on  the  silken  pillow — ‘ How  may  ladies  sink  most 
sweetly  into  their  first  slumber  1’ 

‘ I ever  sleep  best,’  said  Blanche,  ‘ when  some 
withered  crone  is  seated  by  the  hearth  fire  to  tell  me 
tales  of  wizardry  or  goblins,  till  they  are  mingled  with 
my  dreams,  and  I start  up,  tell  my  beads,  and  pray 
her  to  go  on,  till  I see  that  I am  talking  only  to  the 
dying  embers  or  the  fantastic  forms  shai>ed  by  their 
flashes  on  the  dark  tapestry  or  darker  ceiling.’ 

‘ And  I love,’  said  Germonda,  ‘ to  be  lulled  to  rest 
by  tales  of  knights  met  in  forests  by  fairy  damsels, 
and  conducted  to  enchanted  halls,  where  they  are  as- 
sailed bj  foul  fiends,  and  do  battle  with  strong  giants  ; 
and  are,  in  fine,  rewarded  with  the  hand  of  the  fair 
dame,  for  whom  they  have  periled  all  that  knight  or 
Christian  may  hold  precious  for  the  safety  of  body 
and  of  soul.’ 

‘ Peace  and  good  rest  to  you  all,  my  dame  and 
maidens,’  said  the  lady  in  whispering  tones  from  her 
silken  couch.  ‘ None  of  you  have  read  my  riddle. 
She  sleeps  sweetest  and  deepest  who  sleeps  to  dream 
of  her  first  love — her  first — her  last — her  only.  A fair 
good  night  to  all.  Stay  thou  with  me,  Claudine,  and 
touch  thy  lute,  wench,  to  the  strain  of  some  old  ditty 
— old  and  melancholy — such  as  may  .so  softly  usher 
sleep  that  I feel  not  his  downy  fingers  closing  mine 


TEUATUIIE.  RBV.  c.  B.  MSTURIW. 


eyelids,  or  the  stilly  rush  of  his  pinions  as  they  sweep 
my  brow.’ 

Claudine  prcp.ared  to  obey  as  the  lady  sunk  to  rest 
amid  softened  lights,  subdued  odours,  and  dying  me- 
lodies. A silver  lamp,  richly  fretted,  suspended  from 
the  raftered  roof,  gleamed  faintly  on  the  s]>lendid  bed. 
The  curtains  were  of  silk,  and  the  coverlet  of  velvet, 
faced  with  miniver  ; gilded  coronals  and  tufts  of  plu- 
mage shed  alternate  gleam  and  shadow  over  every 
angle  of  the  canopy;  and  tapestry  of  silk  and  silver 
covered  every  compartment  of  the  walls,  save  where 
the  uncouthly-constructed  doors  and  windows  broke 
them  into  angles,  irreconcilable  alike  to  every  rule 
of  symmetry  or  purpose  of  accommodation.  Near  the 
ample  hearth,  stored  with  blazing  wood,  were  placed 
a sculptured  desk,  furnished  with  a missal  and  bre- 
viary gorgeously  illumin.atcd,  and  a black  marble 
tripod  supporting  a vase  of  holy  water : certain  amu- 
lets, too,  lay  on  the  hearth,  placed  there  by  the  care 
of  Dame  Marguerite,  .some  in  the  shape  of  relics,  and 
others  in  less  con.secrated  forms,  on  which  the  lady 
was  often  ob.served  by  her  .attendants  to  look  some- 
what disregardfully.  The  great  door  of  the  chamber 
was  closed  by  the  departing  damsels  carefully  ; and 
the  rich  sheet  of  tapestry  dropt  over  it,  whose  hushful 
sweeping  on  the  floor  seemed  like  the  wish  for  a deep 
repos"  breathed  from  a thing  inanimate.  The  castle 
was  still,  the  silver  lamp  twinkled  silently  and  dimly  ; 
the  perfumes,  burning  in  small  silver  vases  round  the 
chamber,  began  to  abate  their  gleams  and  odours  ; the 
scented  waters,  scattered  on  the  rushes  with  which  the 
floor  was  strewn,  flagged  and  failed  in  their  delicious 
tribute  to  the  .sense;  the  bright  moon,  pouring  its 
glories  through  the  uncurtained  but  richly  tinted 
casement,  shed  its  borrowed  hues  of  crimson,  amber, 
and  purple  on  curtain  and  canopy,  as  in  defiance  of 
the  artificial  light  that  gleamed  so  feebly  within  the 
chamber. 

Claudine  tuned  her  lute,  and  murmured  the  rude 
song  of  a troubadour,  such  as  follows  : — 

Song. 

Sleep,  noble  lady!  They  sleep  well  who  sleep  in 
warded  castles.  If  the  Count  de  IMonfort,  the  cham- 
pion of  the  church,  and  the  strongest  lance  in  the 
chiv’alry  of  France,  were  your  foe  as  he  is  your  friend, 
one  hundred  of  the  arrows  of  his  boldest  archers  at 
their  best  flight  would  fail  to  reach  a loophole  of  your 
towers. 

Sleep,  noble  lady  I They  sleep  well  who  .are  guarded 
by  the  valiant.  Five  hundred  belted  knights  feast  in 
your  halls  ; they  would  not  see  your  towers  won,  tliough 
to  defend  them  they  took  the  place  of  your  vas.s.als, 
who  are  tenfold  that  number  ; and,  lady,  I wish  they 
were  more  for  your  sake.  Valiant  knight.s,  faithful 
v.assals,  watch  well  your  lady’s  slumbers  ; see  that 
they  be  never  broken  but  by  the  matin  bell,  or  the 
sighs  of  lovers  whispered  between  its  tolls. 

Sleep,  noble  lady  ! Your  castle  is  strong,  and  the 
brave  and  the  loyal  are  your  guard. 

Then  the  noble  lady  whi.spered  to  me  through  her 
silken  curtain,  ‘ A foe  hath  found  his  way  to  me, 
though  my  towers  are  strong,  and  the  valiant  are  my 
guard,  and  the  brave  and  the  beautiful  woo  me  in 
song,  and  with  many  kissings  of  tlieir  h.ands.’  And  I 
a-sked,  what  foe  is  that!  The  lady  dropt  her  silken 
curtain,  and  slept ; but  methought  in  her  dreams  she 
murmured — ‘ That  foe  is  Love!’ 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

We  have  alre.ady  touched  on  the  more  remark.ablo 
and  distinguishing  features  of  the  Waverlcy  novels, 
and  the  influence  whicli  they  exercised  not  only  on 
this  country,  but  over  the  whole  continent  of  Europe. 
That  long  array  of  immortal  fictions  can  only  be 

585 


VROM  1780 


CYCL0P-3-:DIA  of 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


l•onlI)!^^od  with  the  dramas  of  Sliakspeare,  as  pre- 
senting an  endless  variety  of  original  cliaracters, 
eeeiies,  historical  situations,  and  adventures.  They 

are  marked  by  the  same  universal  and  genial  sym- 
pathies, allied  to  every  form  of  humanity,  and  free 
from  all  selfish  egotism  or  moral  obliquity.  In 
painting  historical  personages  or  events,  these  two 
great  masters  evinced  a kindred  taste,  and  not  dis- 
similar powers.  The  highest  intellectual  traits  and 
imagination  of  Shakspeare  were,  it  is  true,  not  ap- 
proached by  Scott:  the  dramatist  looked  inwardly 
upon  man  and  nature  with  a more  profound  and 
searching  philosophy.  He  could  effect  more  with 
his  five  acts  than  Scott  with  his  three  volumes. 
The  novelist  only  pictured  to  the  eye  wdiat  his  great 
prototype  stamped  on  the  heart  and  feelings.  Yet 
both  were  great  moral  teachers,  without  seeming  to 
te.ach.  They  were  brothers  in  character  and  in  ge- 
nius, and  they  poured  out  their  imaginative  treasures 
with  a calm  easy  strength  and  conscious  mastery, 
of  which  the  world  has  seen  no  other  examples. 

So  early  as  ISO.'i,  before  his  great  poems  were 
produced,  Scott  had  entered  on  the  composition  of 
Waverlc!/,  the  first  of  his  illustrious  progeny  of  tales. 
He  wrote  about  seven  chapters,  evidently  taking 
Fielding,  in  his  grave  descriptive  and  ironical  vein, 
for  his  model ; but,  getting  dissatisfied  with  his 
attempt,  he  threw  it  aside.  Eight  years  afterwards 
he  met  accidentally  with  the  fragment,  and  deter- 
mined to  finish  the  story.*  In  the  interval  between 
the  commencement  of  the  novel  in  1805  and  its 
resumption  in  1813,  Scott  had  acquired  greater 
freedom  and  self  reliance  as  an  author.  In  Mar- 
mion  and  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  he  had  struck 
out  a path  for  himself,  and  the  latter  portion  of 
AVaverley’  partook  of  the  new  spirit  and  enthusiasm. 
A large  part  of  its  materials  resembles  those  em- 
ployed in  the  ‘Lady  of  the  Lake’ — Highland  feudal- 
ism, military  bravery  and  devotion,  and  the  most 
ea.sy  and  exquisite  description  of  natural  scenery. 
He  added  also  a fine  vein  of  humour,  chaste  yet 
ripened,  and  peculiarly  his  own,  and  a power  of 
uniting  history  with  fiction,  that  subsequently  be- 
came one  of  the  great  sources  of  his  strength.  His 
portrait  of  Charles  Edward,  the  noble  old  Baron  of 
Br.adwardine,  the  simple  faithful  clansman  Evan 
Dhu,  and  the  poor  fool  Davie  Gellatley,  with  his 
fragments  of  song  and  scattered  gleams  of  fancy  and 
sensibility,  were  new  triumphs  of  the  author.  The 
poetry  had  projected  shadows  and  outlines  of  the 
Highland  chief,  the  gaiety  and  splendour  of  the 
court,  and  the  agitation  of  the  camp  and  battle-field; 
but  the  humorous  contrasts,  homely  observation, 
and  pathos,  displayed  in  ‘ Waverley,’  disclosed  far 
deeper  observation  and  more  original  powers.  The 
work  was  published  in  July  1814.  Scott  did  not 
prefix  his  name  to  it,  afraid  that  he  might  compro- 
mise his  poetical  reputation  by  a doubtful  experi- 
ment in  a new  style  (particularly  by  his  copious  use 
of  Scottish  terms  and  expressions)  ; but  the  un- 
mingled applause  with  which  the  tale  was  received 
W'as,  he  says,  like  having  the  property  of  a hidden 
treasure,  ‘ not  less  gratifying  than  if  all  the  world 
knew  it  was  his  own.’  Henceforward  Scott  resolved, 

* He  had  put  the  chapters  aside,  as  he  tells  us,  in  a writing- 
desk  wherein  he  used  to  keep  fishing-tackle.  The  desk— a 
substantial  old  mahogany  cabinet — and  part  of  the  fi.shing- 
tiickle  are  now  in  the  posse.ssion  of  Scott’s  friend,  Mr  William 
Lajdlaw,  at  CoLtin,  in  F.-:ss-&liire, 


as  a novelist,  to  preserve  his  mask,  desirous  to  ob- 
viate all  personal  discussions  respecting  his  own 
productions,  and  aware  also  of  tlie  interest  and  curi- 
osity which  his  secrecy  would  impart  to  his  subse- 
quent productions. 

In  February  1815 — seven  months  after  ‘ Waverley’ 
— Scott  published  his  second  novel,  Guy  Mannering, 
It  was  the  work  of  six  weeks  about  Christmas, 
and  marks  of  haste  are  visible  in  the  construction 
of  the  plot  and  development  of  incidents.  Yet  what 
length  of  time  or  patience  in  revision  could  have 
added  to  the  charm  or  hilarity  of  such  portraits  as 
that  of  Dandy  Dinmont,  or  the  shrewd  and  witty 
Counsellor  Pleydell — the  finished,  desperate,  sea- 
beaten  villany  of  Hatteraick — the  simple  uncouth 
devotion  of  that  gentlest  of  pedants,  poor  Dominie 
Sampson — or  the  wild  savage  virtues  and  crazed 
superstition  of  the  gip.sy-dweller  in  Dcrncleugh  ? 
The  astrological  agency  and  predictions  so  marvel- 
lously fulfilled  are  undoubtedly  excrescences  on  the 
story,  though  suited  to  a winter’s  tale  in  Scotland. 
The  love  scenes  and  female  characters,  and  even 
Mannering  himself,  seem  also  allied  to  tlie  Minerva 
Press  family,  but  the  Scotch  characters  are  all  ad- 
mirably filled  up.  There  is  also  a captivating- 
youthful  feeling  and  spirit  in  the  description  of  the 
wanderings  and  dangers  of  Bertram,  and  the  events, 
improbable  as  they  appear,  which  restore  him  to 
his  patrimony ; while  the  gradual  decay  and  death 
of  the  old  Laird  of  Ellangowan — carried  out  to  the 
green  as  his  castle  and  effects  are  in  the  hands  of 
the  auctioneer — are  inexpressibly  touching  and  na- 
tural. The  interest  of  the  tale  is  sustained  through- 
out with  dramatic  skill  and  effect. 

In  May  1816  came  forth  The  Antiquary,  less  ro- 
mantic and  bustling  in  incidents  than  either  of  its 
predecessors,  but  infinitely  richer  in  character,  dia- 
logue, and  humour.  In  this  work  Scott  displayed 
his  thorough  knowledge  of  the  middle  and  lower 
ranks  of  Scottish  life.  He  confined  his  story 
chiefly  to  a small  fishing  town  and  one  or  two 
country  mansions.  His  hero  is  a testy  old  Whig 
laird  and  bachelor,  and  his  dramatis  personre  are 
little  better  than  this  retired  humorist — the  family 
of  a poor  fisherman — a blue-gown  mendicant — an 
old  barber — and  a few  other  humble  ‘landward  and 
burrows  town’  characters.  The  sentimental  Lord 
Glenallan,  and  the  pompous  Sir  Arthur  Wardour, 
with  Lovel  the  unknown,  and  the  fiery  Hector 
MTntyre  (the  latter  a genuine  Celtic  portrait),  are 
necessary  to  the  plot  and  action  of  the  jiiece,  but 
they  constitute  only  a small  degree  of  the  reader’s 
pleasure  or  the  author’s  fame.  These  rest  on  the 
inimitable  delineation  of  Oldbuck,  that  model  of 
black-letter  and  Koman-camp  antiquaries,  whose 
oddities  and  conversation  are  rich  and  racy  as  any 
of  the  old  crusted  port  that  John  of  the  Girnel 
might  have  held  in  his  monastic  cellars — on  the 
restless,  garrulous,  kind-hearted  gaherlunzie,  Edie 
Ochiltree,  who  delighted  to  daunder  down  the  burn- 
sides  and  green  shaws — on  the  cottage  of  the  Muckle- 
backets,  and  the  death  and  burial  of  Steenie — and 
on  that  scene  of  storm  and  tempest  by  the  sea-side, 
which  is  described  with  such  vivid  reality  and  ap- 
palling magnificence.  The  amount  of  curious  read- 
ing, knowledge  of  local  history  and  antiquities, 
power  of  description,  and  breadth  of  humour  in  tlie 
‘ Antiquary,’  render  it  one  of  the  most  perfect  of  the 
author’s  novels.  If  Cervantes  and  Fielding  really 
excelled  Scott  in  the  novel  (he  is  unapproached  in 
romance),  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  ‘Anti- 
quary’ ranks  only  second  to  Don  Quixote  and  Tom 
Jones.  In  none  of  his  works  has  Scott  shown 
greater  power  in  developing  the  nicer  sh.ades  of 
I feeling  and  character,  or  greater  felicity  of  phrase 

58G 


« 


KOVKMSTS.  KNGUSII  LI' 


and  ilKistmtion.  A hcaltliy  inond  tone  also  per- 
vades the  wlude — a clear  and  bracing  atmosphere 
of  real  life ; and  what  more  striking  lesson  in  prac- 
tical benevolence  was  ever  inctdcated  than  those 
words  of  the  rough  old  fisherman,  ejaculated  while 
he  was  mending  his  boat  after  returning  from  his 
son’s  funeral — ‘ What  would  you  have  me  do,  unless 
I wanted  to  see  four  children  starve  because  one  is 
drowned?  It’s  weel  wi’  you  gentles,  that  can  sit  in 
the  house  wi’  handkerchers  at  your  een,  when  ye 
lose  a freend,  but  the  like  of  tis  maun  to  our  wark 
again,  if  our  hearts  were  beating  as  hard  as  my 
hammer.’ 

In  December  of  the  same  year  Scott  was  ready 
with  two  other  novels,  The  Black  Dwarf,  and  Old 
Mortality.  These  formed  the  first  series  of  Tales  of 
My  Landlord,  and  were  represented,  by  a somewhat 
forced  and  clumsy  prologue,  as  the  composition  of 
a certain  ]\Ir  Peter  Pattieson,  assistant-teacher  at 
Gandercleuch,  ,and  published  after  his  death  by  his 
pedagogue  superior,  Jedediah  Cleishbotham.  The 
new  disguise  (to  heighten  which  a different  pub- 
lisher had  been  selected  for  the  tales)  was  as  un- 
availing .as  it  was  superfluous.  The  universal  voice 
assigned  the  works  to  the  iiuthor  of  ‘Waverley,’  and 
the  second  of  the  collection,  ‘ Old  Mortality,’  was 
pronounced  to  be  the  greatest  of  his  performances. 
It  was  another  for.ay  into  the  regions  of  history 
which  was  rewarded  with  the  most  brilliant  spoil. 
Happy  as  he  had  been  in  depicting  the  era  of  the 
Forty-five,  he  shone  still  more  in  the  gloomy  and 
troublous  times  of  the  Covenanters.  ‘ To  repro- 
duce a departed  age,’  says  Jlr  Lockhart,  ‘ with  such 
minute  and  life-like  accuracy  as  this  tale  e.xhibits, 
demanded  a far  more  energetic  sympathy  of  imagi- 
nation than  had  been  called  for  in  any  effort  of  his 
serious  verse.  It  is  indeed  most  curiously  instruc- 
tive for  any  student  of  art  to  compare  the  Round- 
heads of  Kokeby  with  the  Blue-bonnets  of  Old  Mor- 
tality. For  the  rest,  the  story  is  framed  with  a 
deeper  skill  than  any  of  the  preceding  novels ; the 
canvass  is  a broader  one  ; the  eharacters  are  con- 
trasted and  projected  with  a power  and  felicity 
which  ntffher  he  nor  any  other  master  ever  sur- 
passed : an  ’ notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  urged 
against  him  .-*5  a disparager  of  the  Covenanters,  it 
is  to  me  very  doubtful  whether  the  inspiration  of 
chivalry  ever  prompted  him  to  nobler  emotions 
than  he  has  lavished  on  the  reanimation  of  their 
stern  and  solemn  enthusi.asm.  This  work  has  al- 
ways appeared  to  me  the  Marraion  of  his  novels.’ 
He  never  surpassed  it  either  for  force  or  variety  of 
character,  or  in  the  interest  and  magfiificence  of  the 
train  of  events  described.  The  contrasts  are  also 
managed  w-ith  eonsummate  art.  In  the  early  scenes 
Morton  (the  best  of  all  his  young  heroes)  serves  as 
a foil  to  the  fanatical  and  gloomy  Burley,  and  the 
change  effected  in  the  character  and  feelings  of  the 
youth  by  the  changing  current  of  events,  is  traced 
with  perfect  skill  and  knowledge  of  human  nature. 
The  two  classes  of  actors — the  brave  and  dissolute 
cavaliers,  and  the  resolute  oppressed  Covenanters — 
are  not  only  drawn  in  their  strong  distinguishing 
features  in  bold  relief,  but  are  separated  from  each 
otlier  by  individual  traits  and  peculiarities,  the  re- 
sult of  native  or  acquired  habits.  The  intermingling 
of  domestic  scenes  and  low  rustic  humour  with  the 
stormy  events  of  the  warlike  struggle,  gives  vast 
additional  effect  to  the  sterner  passages  of  the  tale, 
and  to  the  prominence  of  its  principal  actors.  How 
admirably,  for  e.xample,  is  the  reader  prepared,  by 
contrast,  to  appreciate  that  terrible  encounter  with 
Burley  in  his  rocky  fastness,  by  the  previous  de- 
scription of  the  blind  and  aged  widow,  intrusted 
with  the  secret  of  his  retreat,  and  who  dw'elt  alone. 


:TERATURE.  sir  WALTER  set  TT. 


‘like  the  widow  of  Zarephath,’  in  her  poor  and 
solitary  cott.agel  The  dejection  and  anxiety  of 
Morton  on  his  return  from  Holland  are  no  less 
strikingly  contrasted  with  the  scene  of  rural  peace 
and  comfort  which  he  witnesses  on  the  banks  of  the 
Clyde,  where  Cuddie  Headrigg’s  cottage  sends  up 
its  thin  blue  smoke  among  the  trees,  ‘ showing  that 
the  evening  meal  was  in  the  act  of  being  made 
ready,’  and  his  little  daughter  fetches  water  in  a 
pitcher  from  the  fountain  at  the  root  of  an  old  oak- 
tree  ! The  humanity  of  Scott  is  exquisitely  illus- 
trated by  the  circumstance  of  the  pathetic  verses, 
wrapping  a lock  of  hair,  which  are  found  on  the  slain 
body  of  Bothwell — as  to  show  that  in  the  darkest 
and  most  dissolute  characters  some  portion  of  our 
higher  nature  still  lingers  to  attest  its  divine  origin. 
In  the  same  sympathetic  and  relenting  spirit,  Dirk 
Hatteraick,  in  ‘ Guy  Mannering,’  is  redeemed  from 
utter  sordidness  and  villany  by  his  one  virtue  of 
integrity  to  his  employers.  ‘ I was  always  faithful 
to  my  ship-owners — always  accounted  for  cargo  to 
the  last  stiver.’  The  image  of  God  is  never  wholly 
blotted  out  of  the  human  mind. 

The  year  1818  witnessed  two  other  coinages  from 
the  Waverley  mint,  Rob  Roy  and  The  Heart  of  Mid- 
Lothian,  the  latter  forming  a second  series  of  the 
Tales  of  My  Landlord.  The  first  of  these  works 
revived  the  public  enthusiasm,  excited  by  the  ‘Lady 
of  the  Lake’  and  ‘Waverley,’  with  respect  to  High- 
land scenery  and  manners.  The  sketches  in  the 
novel  are  bold  and  striking— hit  off  with  the  careless 
freedom  of  a master,  and  possessing  perhaps  more 
witchery  of  romantic  interest  than  elaborate  and 
finished  pictures.  The  character  of  Bailie  Nicol 
Jarvie  was  one  of  the  author’s  happiest  conceptions, 
and  the  idea  of  carrying  him  to  the  w'ild  rugged 
mountains,  among  outlaws  and  desperadoes — at  the 
same  time  that  he  retained  a keen  relish  cf  the 
comforts  of  the  Saltmarket  of  Glasgow,  and  a due 
sense  of  his  dignity  as  a magistrate — completed  the 
ludicrous  effect  of  the  picture.  None  of  Scott’s 
novels  was  more  popular  than  ‘ Rob  Roy,’  yet,  as  a 
story,  it  is  the  most  ill-concocted  and  defective  of 
the  whole  series.  Its  success  was  owing  to  its 
characters  alone.  Among  these,  however,  cannot 
be  reckoned  its  nominal  hero,  Osbaldiston,  who,  like 
Waverley,  is  merely  a walking  gentleman.  Scott’s 
heroes,  as  agents  in  the  piece,  are  generally  inferior 
to  his  heroines.  The  ‘Heart  of  Mid-Lothian’  is  as 
essentially  national  in  spirit,  language,  and  actors, 
as  ‘ Rob  Roy,’  but  it  is  the  nationality  of  the  Low- 
lands. No  other  author  but  Scott  (Galt,  his  best 
imitator  in  this  department,  would  have  failed) 
could  have  dwelt  so  long  and  with  such  circum- 
stantial minuteness  on  the  daily  life  and  occur- 
rences of  a family  like  that  of  Davie  Deans,  the 
cowfeeder,  without  disgusting  his  high-bred  readers 
with  what  must  have  seemed  vulgar  and  uninterest- 
ing. Like  Burns,  he  made  ‘rustic  life  and  poverty’ 

Grow  beautiful  beneath  bis  touch. 

Duchesses,  in  their  halls  and  saloons,  traced  with 
interest  and  delight  the  pages  that  recorded  the 
pious  firmness  and  humble  heroism  of  Jeanie  Deans, 
and  the  sufferings  and  disgrace  of  her  unfortunate 
sister ; and  who  shall  say  that  in  thus  uniting  diffe- 
rent ranks  in  one  bond  of  fellow-feeling,  and  exhibit- 
ing to  the  high  and  wealthy  the  virtues  that  often 
dwell  with  the  lowly  and  obscure,  Scott  was  not 
fulfilling  one  of  the  loftiest  and  most  sacred  missions 
upon  earth  ? 

A story  of  still  more  sustained  and  overwhelming 
pathos  is  The  Bride  of  Lanmermoor,  published  in 
1819  in  conjunction  with  The  Leyend  of  Montrose, 

587 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TIU,  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


1 ROM  17(i0 


iiiid  botli  f'uriiiiiifj  a tliinl  series  of  Tales  of  My 
Laiiillord.  'I'he  liride  is  one  of  the  most  finished 
of  Seott’s  tales,  ))resentin(f  a unity  and  entireness 
of  jilot  and  action,  as  if  the  w liole  were  bound  to- 
l^ether  hy  that  dreadful  destiny  which  hangs  over 
the  [irineipal  actors,  and  impels  them  irresistibly 
to  destruction.  ‘In  this  tale,’  says  Macaulay,  ‘above 
other  modern  productions,  we  see  embodied  the  dark 
spirit  of  fatalism — that  spirit  which  breathes  in  the 
writings  of  the  Greek  tragedians  when  they  traced 
the  persecuting  vengeance  of  Destiny  against  the 
hou.ses  of  Laius  and  of  Atreus.  Their  mantle  was 
for  a while  worn  uncon.sciously  by  him  who  showed 
to  us  Macbeth  : and  here  again,  in  the  deepening 
gloom  of  this  tragic  tale,  we  feel  the  oppressive 
influence  of  this  invisible  power.  From  the  time 
we  hear  the  prophetic  rhymes,  the  spell  has  begun 
its  work,  and  the  clouds  of  misfortune  blacken  round 
us;  and  the  fated  course  moves  solemnly  onward, 
irresistible  and  unerring  as  the  progress  of  the  sun, 
and  soon  to  end  in  a night  of  horror.  We  remember 
no  other  tale  in  whicb  not  doubt,  but  certainty,  forms 
the  groundwork  of  our  interest.’  If  Shakspeare 
was  unconscious  of  the  classic  fatalism  he  depicted 
with  such  unrivalled  power,  Scott  was  probably  as 
ignorant  of  any  such  premeditation  and  design. 
Both  followed  the  received  traditions  of  their  coun- 
try, and  the  novelist,  we  know,  composed  his  work 
in  intervals  of  such  acute  suffering,  allayed  only  by 
the  most  violent  remedies,  that  on  his  recovery, 
after  the  novel  had  been  printed,  he  recollected 
nothing  but  the  mere  outline  of  his  story,  with 
which  he  had  been  familiar  from  his  youth.  He 
had  entirely  forgot  what  he  dictated  from  his  sick- 
bed. The  main  incident,  however,  was  of  a nature 
likely  to  make  a strong  impression  on  his  nund, 
and  to  this  wo  must  impute  the  grand  simplicity 
and  seeming  completeness  of  art  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  fable.  The  character  of  the  old  butler, 
CEaleb  Balderston,  has  been  condemned  as  a ridicu- 
lous and  incongruous  e.Kaggeration.  We  are  not 
sure  that  it  does  not  materially  heighten  the  effect 
of  the  tragic  portion  of  the  tale,  by  that  force  of 
contrast  which  we  have  mentioned  as  one  of  Scott's 
highest  attiibutes  as  a novelist.  There  is,  however, 
too  much  of  the  butler,  and  some  of  his  inventions 
are  mere  tricks  of  farce.  As  Shakspeare  descended 
to  quibbles  and  conceits,  Scott  loved  to  harp  upon 
certain  phrases  — as  in  Dominie  Sampson,  Bailie 
Nicol  Jarvie,  and  the  dowager  lady  of  Tullietudlem 
— and  to  make  his  lower  characters  indulge  in  prac- 
tical jokes,  like  those  of  old  Caleb  and  Edie  Ochil- 
tree. The  proverbs  of  Sancho,  in  Don  Qui.xote, 
may  be  thought  to  come  under  the  same  class  of 
inferior  resources,  to  be  shunned  rather  than  copied 
by  tne  novelist  who  aims  at  truth  and  originality ; 
but  Sanebo’s  sayings  are  too  rich  and  apposite  to  be 
felt  as  mere  surplusage.  The  ‘ Legend  of  Montrose’ 
is  a brief  imperfect  historical  novel,  yet  contains 
one  of  the  author’s  most  lively  and  amusing  cha- 
racters. worthy  of  being  ranked  with  Bailie  Jarvie; 
namely,  the  redoubted  Ritt-master,  Dugald  Dalgetty. 
The  union  of  the  suldado  with  the  pedantic  student 
of  Mareschal  college  is  a conceptiou  as  original  as 
the  Uncle  Toby  of  Sterne. 

The  historical  romance  of  Ivanhoe  appeared  in 
1820.  It  is  the  most  brilliant  of  all  his  pure 
romances,  indeed  the  most  splendid  in  any  litera- 
ture. The  scene  being  laid  in  England,  and  in  the 
England  of  Richard  I.,  the  author  had  to  draw 
largely  on  his  fancy  and  invention,  and  was  debarred 
those  attractive  au.xiliaries  of  every-da}'  life,  speech, 
and  manners,  which  had  lent  such  a charm  to  his 
Scottish  novels.  Here  we  had  the  remoteness  of 
antiquity,  the  old  Saxon  halls  and  feasts,  the  resusci- 


tation of  chivalry  in  all  its  pomp  and  picturesque- 
ness,  the  realisation  of  our  boyish  dreams  about 
Coenr-de-lion,  Robin  Hood,  and  Sherwooil  Forest, 
with  its  grassy  glades,  and  sylvan  sjiorts,  and  im- 
penetrable foliage.  We  were  presented  with  a scries 
of  the  most  splendid  pictures,  the  canvass  crowded 
with  life  and  action — with  the  dark  shades  of 
cruelt}',  vice,  and  treason,  and  the  brightness  of 
heroic  courage,  dauntless  fortitude,  and  uncorrupted 
faith  and  purity.  The  thrilling  interest  of  the  story 
is  another  of  the  merits  of  ‘ Ivanhoe’ — the  incidents 
all  help  on  the  narrative,  as  well  as  illustrate  ancient 
manners.  In  the  hall  of  Cedric,  at  the  tournament 
or  siege,  we  never  cease  to  watch  over  the  fate  of 
Rowena  and  the  Disinherited  Knight;  and  the  steps 
of  the  gentle  Reliecca— the  meek  yet  high-souled 
Jewess — are  traced  with  still  deeper  and  holier  feel- 
ing.* 'I'lie  whole  is  a grand  picturesque  jiageant. 
yet  full  of  a gentle  nobleness  and  proud  simplicity. 

The  next  works  of  Scott  were  of  a tamer  cast, 
though  his  foot  was  on  Scottish  ground.  The  Mojhis- 
tery  and  Abbot,  both  imbli.shed  in  1820,  are  defective 
in  plot,  and  the  first  disfigured  by  absurd  sui>er- 
natural  machinery.  The  character  of  Queen  Mary 
in  the  ‘Abbot’  is,  however,  a correct  and  beautiful 
historical  portrait,  and  the  scenery  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  tlie  Tweed — haunted  glens  and  woods — is 
described  with  the  author’s  accustomed  felicity.  A 
counterpart  to  Queen  Mary,  still  more  highly' 
finished,  was  soon  afforded  in  the  delineation  of  her 
great  rival,  Elizaheth,  in  the  romance  of  Kenilworth. 
This  work  appeareii  in  January  1821,  and  was 
ranked  next  to  ‘ Ivanhoe.’  There  was  a profusion 
of  rich  picturesque  scenes  and  objects,  dramatic 
situations,  and  a well-arranged,  involved,  yet  inte- 
resting plot.  None  of  the  jilots  in  the  Waverley 
novels  are  without  blemish.  ‘ None,’  as  Mr  Macaulay 
remarks,  ‘ have  that  comiileteness  whicli  constitutes 
one  of  the  chief  merits  of  Fielding's  Tom  Jones: 
there  is  alw.ays  either  an  improbability,  or  a forced 
expedient,  or  an  incongruous  incident,  or  an  un- 
pleasant break,  or  too  much  intricacy,  or  a hurried 
conclusion  ; they  are  usually  languid  in  the  com- 
mencement, and  abrupt  in  the  close ; too  slowly 
opened,  and  too  hastily  summed  up.’  The  spirit  and 
fidelity  of  the  delineations,  the  variety  of  scenes,  and 
the  interest  of  jiarticular  passages  bearing  upon  the 
principal  characters,  blind  the  reader  to  these  de- 
fects, at  least  on  a first  perusal.  This  was  emi- 
nently the  case  with  ‘Kenilworth;’  nor  did  this 
romance,  amidst  all  its  courtly  gaieties,  ambition, 
and  splendour,,  fail  to  touch  the  heart ; t’ne  fate  of 
Amy  Robsart  has  perhajis  drawn  as  many'  tears  as 
the  story  of  Rebecca.  The  close  of  the  same  year 
witnessed  another  romantic,  though  less  powerful 
tale— T/ie  Pirate.  In  this  work  Scott  painted  the 
wild  sea  scenery  of  Shetland,  and  gave  a beautiful 
copy  of  primitive  manners  in  the  ])erson  and  liou.se- 
hold  of  the  old  Udaller,  Magnus  Troil,  and  his  t.iir 
daughters  ^linna  and  Breiaia.  Tlie  latter  are 
fiow'crs  too  delicate  for  such  a cold  and  stormy 
clime,  but  they  are  creations  of  great  loveliness,  and 
are  exquisitely'  discriminated  in  their  individiud 
characters.  The  novel  altogether  opened  a new 

* Rebecca  was  considered  by  Scott  himseF,  as  well  .a.s  by  the 
public,  to  bo  his  finest  female  character.  Mr  Laidlaw,  to  wlimn 
part  of  the  novel  was  dictated,  speaks  of  tiie  strong  interest 
whicli  Sir  tt'alter  evinced  in  filling  up  hi.s  outline.  ‘ 1 sluiU 
make  something  of  my  .Jewess,’  said  he  one  day  in  a tone  ol 
unusual  exultation.  ‘ You  will  indeed,’  replied  h:s  friend  ; 

‘ and  1 cannot  lielp  saying  tliat  you  are  doing  an  immense 
good.  Sir  Waiter,  by  such  sweet  and  noble  tales,  for  the  young 
people  now  will  never  bear  to  look  at  the  vile  trash  of  novels 
that  used  to  be  in  the  circulating  libraries.’  Sir  Walter’s  cycn 
filled  with  tears. 


,b88 


NOVM.ISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITKUATUUE. 


JOHN  CAI.T. 


worl.l  to  tlip  {leiKTiil  reader,  and  was  welcomed  with 
all  the  70st  of  novelty. 

Another  fjenuine  Lnglisli  historical  romance  made 
its  appearance  in  May  1822.  The  Fortunes  of  Niycl 
atforded  a complete  panorama  of  the  times  of  James 
I.,  executed  with  wonderful  vigour  and  truth.  The 
fulness  and  variety  of  the  details  show  how  closely 
Scott  had  studied  the  annals  of  this  period,  particu- 
lai'lv  all  relating  to  the  city  sind  the  court  of  London. 
Mis  account  of  Alsatia  surpas.ses  even  the  scenes  of 
Hen  Jonson,  and  the  dramatic  contemporaries  of 
Ben,  descriptive  of  similar  objects;  and  none  of  his 
historical  lilcenes.ses  are  more  faithful,  more  justly 
drawn,  or  more  richly  coloured,  th.an  his  portrait  of 
the  i>oor,  and  proud,  and  pedantic  King  James. 
Scott’s  political  predilections  certainly  did  not  in  this 
ease  betray  him  into  any  undue  reverence  for  sove- 
reignty. 

In  1823  no  less  than  three  separate  works  of  fic- 
tion were  issued — Fever'd  of  the  Peak,  Quentin  Dur- 
u-'inl.  and  St  Hunan's  Well.  The  first  was  a volume 
longer  than  any  of  its  predecessors,  and  was  more 
than  proportionally  heavy  in  style,  though  evincing 
in  ]inrts  undiminished  strength  and  talent.  ‘Quen- 
tin l)ur\\..rd’  was  a bold  and  successful  inroad  on 
French  history.  The  delineations  of  Louis  XI.  and 
Charles  the  Bold  may  stand  comparison  with  any  in 
the  whole  range  of  fiction  or  history  for  force  and 
discrimination.  They  seemed  literally  called  up  to 
a new  existence,  to  play  their  part  in  another  drama 
of  life,  as  natural  and  spirit-stirring  as  any  in  which 
they  had  been  .actors.  The  French  nation  exulted 
in  this  new  ])roof  of  the  genius  of  Scott,  and  led  the 
way  in  enthusiastic  admiration  of  the  work.  ‘ St 
Ronan’s  Well’  is  altogether  a secondary  performance 
of  the  author,  though  it  furnishes  one  of  his  best 
low  comic  cbaracter.s,  Meg  Dods  of  the  Gleikum 
Inn.  lieilyauntlet  (1824)  must  be  held  to  belong  to 
the  same  class  as  ‘ St  Honan’s  Well,’  in  spite  of  much 
vigorous  writing,  humorous  as  well  as  pathetic  (for 
the  career  of  Peter  Peebles  supplies  both),  and  not- 
withstanding that  it  embodies  e great  deal  of  Scott’s 
own  personal  history  and  experiences.  The  Tales  of 
the  Crusaders,  published  in  182.5,  comprised  two  short 
stories.  The  Betrothed  and  The  Talism.an,  the  se- 
cond a highly  animated  and  splendid  Eastern  ro- 
mance. Shortly  after  this  jieriod  came  the  calamitous 
wreck  of  Scott’s  fortunes — the  shivering  of  his  house- 
hold gods — amidst  declining  health  and  the  rapid 
advances  of  age.  His  novel  of  Woodstock  (1826)  was 
hastily  completed,  but  is  not  unworthy  of  his  fame. 
The  secret  of  the  paternity  of  the  novels  was  now 
divulged — how  could  it  ever  have  been  doubted? — 
and  there  was  some  satisfaction  in  having  the  ac- 
knowledgment from  his  own  lips,  and  under  his  own 
hand,  ere  death  had  broken  the  wand  of  the  magi- 
cian. The  Life  of  Napoleon,  in  nine  volumes,  was 
the  great  work  of  1827  ; but  at  the  commencement 
of  the  fiillowing  }'ear  Scott  published  The  Chronicles 
of  the  Ca/wnyate,  first  series,  containing  the  Two 
Drovers,  the  Highland  Widow,  and  the  Surgeon’s 
Daughter.  The  second  of  these  short  tales  is  the 
most  valuable,  and  is  pregnant  with  strong  pathetic 
interest  and  Celtic  im.agination.  The  preliminary 
introductions  to  the  stories  are  all  finely  e.xecuted, 
and  constitute  some  of  the  most  pleasing  of  the 
author’s  minor  contributions  to  the  elucidation  of 
past  manners  and  society.  A number  of  literary 
tasks  now  engaged  the  attention  of  Scott,  the  most 
important  of  which  were  his  Tales  of  a Grandfather, 
a History  of  Scotland  for  Lardner’s  Cyclopaedia,  Let- 
ters on  Demonoloyy,  and  new  introductions  and  notes 
to  the  colleeteii  edition  of  the  novels.  A second 
series  of  the  ‘ Chronicles  of  the  Canongate’  appeared 
in  \828,  with  only  one  tale,  but  that  conceived  and 


e.xecuted  with  great  s])irit,  and  in  his  best  ertistictil 
style — Tlie  Fair  Maid  of  Perth.  Another  romance 
was  ready  by  May  1829,  and  was  entitled  Anne  of 
Geierstein.  It  was  less  energetic  than  the  fortner — 
more  like  an  attempt  to  revive  old  fortns  and  images 
than  as  evincing  the  power  to  create  new  ones;  yet 
there  are  in  its  page.s,  as  Mr  Lockhart  justly  ob- 
serves, ‘occasional  outbreaks  of  the  old  poetic  spirit, 
more  than  sufficient  to  remove  the  work  to  ati  im- 
measurable distance  from  any  of  its  order  produceu 
in  this  country  in  our  ovrn  age.  Indeed,  the  various 
play  of  fancy  in  the  combination  of  persons  and 
events,  and  the  airy  liveliness  of  both  imagery  and 
diction,  may  well  justify  us  in  applying  to  the 
author  what  he  beautifully  says  of  his  King  Rene — 

A mirthful  man  he  w.as  ; the  snows  of  age 
Fell,  but  they  did  not  chill  him.  Gaiety, 

Even  in  life’s  closing,  touched  his  teeming  brain 
With  such  wild  visions  as  the  setting  .sun 
Rai.ses  in  front  of  some  hoar  glacier. 

Painting  the  bleak  ice  with  a thousand  hues.’ 

The  gaiety  of  Scott  was  the  natural  concomitant 
of  kindly  and  gentle  affections,  a sound  judgment, 
and  uninterrupted  industry.  The  minds  of  poets,  it 
is  said,  never  grow  old,  and  Scott  was  hopeful  to 
the  last.  Disease,  however,  was  fast  undermining 
his  strength.  His  last  work  of  fiction,  published  in 
1831,  was  a fourth  series  of ‘Tales  of  my  Landlord,’ 
containing  Count  Hubert  of  Paris  and  Castle  Dan- 
gerous. They  were  written  after  re])eated  shocks 
of  paralysis  and  apoplexy,  and  are  mere  shadows  of 
his  former  greatness.  And  with  this  efl'ort  closed 
the  noble  mind  that  had  so  long  swayed  the  sceidre 
of  romance.  The  public  received  the  imperfect 
voiumes  with  tenderness  and  indulgence,  as  the  fare- 
well offering  of  the  greatest  of  their  contemporaries — - 
the  last  feeble  gleams  of  a light  soon  to  be  extin- 
guished— 

A wandering  witch-note  of  the  di.stant  spell ; 

And  now  ’tis  silent  all ! Enchanter,  fare  thee  well ! 


JOHN  GALT. 

John  Galt,  author  of  The  Annals  of  the  Parish, 
and  other  novels  which  are  valuable  as  reflecting 
back  the  peculiarities  of  Scotti.'h  life  and  manners 
‘ si.xty  3'ears  since,’  was  a native  of  Irvine,  in  Ayr- 
shire. He  was  born  on  the  2<1  of  May  1779.  His 
father  commanded  a West  India  vessel,  and  when 
the  embryo  novelist  was  in  his  eleventh  year,  the 
family  went  to  live  permanently  at  Greenock.  Here 
Galt  resided  fourteen  or  fifteen  years,  displaying 
no  marked  proficiency  at  school,  but  evincing  a 
predilection  for  poetry,  music,  and  mechanics.  He 
was  placed  in  the  custom-house  at  Greenock,  and 
continued  at  the  desk  till  about  the  year  1804,  when, 
without  any  fixed  pursuit,  he  went  to  London  to 
‘push  his  fortune.’  He  had  written  a sort,  of  epic 
poem  on  the  battle  of  Largs,  and  this  he  committed 
to  the  press;  but,  conscious  of  its  imperfections,  he 
did  not  prefix  his  name  to  the  work,  and  he  almost 
immediately  sujipressed  its  sale.  He  tiien  formed  an 
unfortunate  commercial  connexion,  which  lasted 
three  years,  on  the  termination  of  wliich  he  entered 
himself  of  Lincoln’s  Inn,  with  the  view  of  being  in 
due  time  called  to  the  bar.  Haitpening  to  visit 
Oxford  in  company  with  some  friends,  he  conceived, 
while  standing  with  them  in  the  quadrangle  ol 
Cbrist-church,  the  design  of  writing  a life  of  Car- 
dinal Wolsey.  He  set  about  the  task  with  .ardour; 
but  his  health  failing,  he  went  a'broad.  At  Gibral- 
tar he  met  -Hath  Lord  Byron  and  Mr  Hobhonse,  then 
embarked  on  their  tour  for  Greece,  and  the  three 

583 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  present  time, 

sailed  in  the  same  packet.  Galt  resided  some  time 
ill  Sicily,  then  repaired  to  Malta,  and  afterwards 
proceeded  to  Greece,  where  he  again  met  with 
Pyron,  and  also  had  an  interview  with  All  Pacha. 
After  rambling  for  some  time  among  the  classic 
scenes  of  Greece,  he  proceeded  to  Constantinople, 
thence  to  Nicomedia,  and  northwards  to  Kirpe,  on 
the  shores  of  tlie  Black  Sea.  Some  commercial 
speculations,  as  to  the  practicability  of  landing  Bri- 
tish goods  in  defiance  of  the  Berlin  and  Milan  de- 
crees, prompted  these  unusual  wanderings.  At  one 
time,  when  detained  hy  quarantine,  Galt  wrote  or 
sketched  out  si.N  dramas,  which  were  afterwards 
published  in  a volume,  constituting,  according  to 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘the  worst  tragedies  ever  seen.’ 
On  his  return  he  published  his  Vuijayes  and  Travels, 
and  Letters  from  the  Levant,  which  were  well  received. 
He  next  repaired  to  Gibraltar,  to  conduct  a commer- 
cial business  which  it  was  proposed  to  establish 
there,  but  the  design  was  defeated  by  the  success  of 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  in  the  Peninsula.  He  ex- 
plored France  to  see  if  an  opening  could  be  found 
there,  but  no  prospect  appeared,  and  returning  to 
England,  he  contributed  some  dramatic  pieces  to 
the  New  British  Theatre.  One  of  these.  The  Appeal, 
was  brought  out  in  the  Edinburgh  theatre  in  1818, 
and  performed  four  nights.  Sir  Walter  Scott  having 
written  an  epilogue  for  the  play.  He  now  devoted 
himself  for  some  time  to  literary  pursuits,  writing 
in  the  periodical  works,  and  residing  in  Scotland. 
Among  his  more  elaborate  compositions  may  be 
mentioned  a Life  of  Benjamin  IPcif,  the  artist.  His- 
torical Pictures,  'The  Wandering  Jew,  and  The  Earth- 
quake, a novel  in  three  volumes.  He  wrote  for 
Blackwood’s  Magazine,  in  18i!0,  The  Ayrshire  Le- 
gatees. a series  of  letters  containing  an  amusing 
Scottish  narrative.  His  next  work  was  ‘ The  An- 
nals of  the  Parish’  (1821),  which  instantly  became 
popular.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  tlie  Annals 
nad  been  written  some  ten  or  twelve  years  before 
•■.he  date  of  its  publication,  and  anterior  to  the  ap- 
,<earance  of  Waverley  and  Guy  Mannering,  and  that 
it  was  rejected  by  the  publishers  of  those  works, 
■with  the  assurance,  that  a novel  or  work  of  fiction 
entirely  Scottish  would  not  take  with  the  public! 
Mr  Galt  went  on  with  his  usual  ardour  in  the  com- 
position of  Scotch  novels.  He  had  now  found  where 
his  strength  lay,  and  Sir  Andrew  Wylie,  The  Entail, 
The  Steam-Boat,  and  The  Provost,  were  succes- 
sively publislied— the  two  first  with  decided  success. 
These  were  followed  at  no  long  intervals  by  Kingan 
Gilhaize,  a story  of  the  Scottish  Covenanters;  by 
The  Spaewife,  a tale  of  the  times  of  James  I.  of  Scot- 
land : and  Rothelan.  a novel  partly  historical,  founded 
on  tlie  work  by  Barnes  on  the  life  and  reign  of 
Edward  I.  Mr  Galt  also  published  anonymously,  in 
1824,  an  interesting  imaginative  little  tale.  The  Omen, 
which  was  reviewed  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  Black- 
wmod’s  Magazine.  In  fertility,  Galt  was  only  sur- 
passed by  Scott ; and  perhaps  no  other  author  could 
have  written  an  equal  number  of  works  of  fiction, 
varied  in  style  and  maimer,  within  the  same  limited 
period.  His  genius  was  unequal,  and  he  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  able  to  discriminate  between  the 
good  and  the  bad ; but  the  vigour  and  copiousness 
of  his  mind  were  certainly  remarkable.  His  friendly 
biographer.  Dr  IMoir  of  Musselburgh,  says  justly, 
that  the  ‘ great  drawback  to  Mr  Galt’s  prosperity 
and  happiness  was  the  multitude  of  his  resources, 
and  from  his  being  equally  fitted  for  a student  and 
man  of  the  world.  As  the  old  proverb  hath  it,  “ tlie 
rolling  stone  gathers  no  fog;”  so  in  the  transition 
from  one  occupation  and  employment  to  another,  he 
expended  those  powers  which,  if  long  concentrated 
on  any  particular  object,  must  have  prod^aced  great 

results.’*  We  next  find  Mr  Galt  engaged  in  the 
formation  and  establishment  of  the  Canada  Com- 
pany, which  involved  him  in  a long  labyrinth  of 
troubles,  vexation,  and  embarrassment.  While  the 
preliminary  controversy  w.as  pending  between  the 
commissioners  of  this  company,  the  Canada  clergy, 
and  the  colonial  office,  previous  to  his  departure  for 
the  scene  of  his  new  operations  Galt  composed  his 
novel.  The  Last  of  the  I-airds,  also  descriptive  of 
Scottish  life.  He  set  out  for  America  in  1826,  his 
mission  being  limited  to  inquiry,  for  accomplishing 
which  eight  months  were  allowed.  His  duties, 
however,  were  increased,  and  his  stay  prolonged,  by 
the  numerous  offers  to  purchase  lots  of  land,  and  for 
determining  on  the  system  of  management  to  be 
pursued  by  the  company.  A million  of  capital  had 
been  intrusted  to  his  management.  On  the  2.3d  of 
April,  St  George’s  day,  1827,  Mr  Galt  proceeded  to 
found  the  town  of  Guelph,  in  the  upper  jirovince  of 
Canada,  which  he  did  with  due  ceremony.  The  site 
selected  for  the  town  having  been  pointed  out,  ‘ a 
large  maple  tree,’  he  says,  ‘ was  chosen ; on  which, 
taking  an  axe  from  one  of  the  woodmen,  I struck 
the  first  stroke.  To  me,  at  least,  the  moment  was 
impressive  ; and  the  silence  of  the  woods  that  echoed 
to  the  sound  was  as  the  sigh  of  the  solemn  genius 
of  the  wilderness  departing  for  ever.’  The  city  soon 
prospered : in  three  months  upwards  of  160  building 
lots  were  engaged,  and  houses  rising  as  fast  as  build- 
ing materials  could  be  prepared.  Before  the  end  of 
the  year,  however,  the  founder  of  the  city  was  em 
broiled  in  difficulties.  Some  secret  enemies  had 
misrepresented  him — he  was  accused  of  lowering  the 
company’s  stock — his  expenditure  was  complained 
of ; and  the  company  sent  out  an  accountant  to  act 
not  only  in  that  capacity,  but  as  cashier.  Matters 
caiTie  to  a crisis,  and  Mr  Galt  determined  to  return 
to  England.  Ample  testimony  has  been  borne  to 
the  skill  and  energy  ■with  which  he  conducted  the 
operations  of  this  company;  but  his  fortune  and  his 
prospects  had  fled.  Thwarted  and  depressed,  he  was 
resolved  to  battle  with  his  fate,  and  he  set  himself 
down  in  England  to  build  a new  scheme  of  life,  ‘in 
which  the  secondary  condition  of  authorship  was 
made  primary.’  In  six  montlis  he  had  six  volumes 
ready.  His  first  work  was  another  novel  in  three 
volumes,  Lawrie  Todd,  which  is  equal  to  ‘ The  An- 
nals of  the  Parish’  or  ‘ The  Entail.’  It  ■was  well 
received ; and  he  soon  after  produced  another,  de- 
scriptive of  the  customs  and  manners  of  Scotland  in 
the  reign  of  Queen  Mary,  and  entitled  Southennan. 
The  subject  ■\vas  a favourite  with  him,  but  his  mode 
of  treating  it  was  by  no  means  happy ; while  the 
public  taste,  accustomed  to  the  historical  novels  of 
Scott,  was  impatient  of  any  secondary  work  in  this 
department.  For  a short  time  in  the  same  year 
(1830)  Mr  Galt  conducted  the  Courier  newspaper, 
but  tills  new  employment  did  not  suit  him.  It  re- 
quired more  time,  and  incurred  more  responsibilities 
of  opinion  than  he  was  jirepared  for,  and  he  ghidly 
left  tlie  daily  drudgery  to  complete  a Life  of  Byron, 
on  which  he  was  engaged  for  Colburn  the  publisher. 
The  comparative  brevity  of  this  memoir  (one  small 
volume),  the  name  of  Galt  as  its  author,  and  the  in- 
teresting nature  of  the  subject,  soon  sold  three  or 
four  editions  of  the  work ; but  it  was  sharply  assailed 
by  the  critics.  . Some  of  the  positions  taken  up  by 
the  author  (as  that,  ‘ had  Byron  not  been  possessed 
of  geniu.s,  he  might  have  been  a better  man’),  and 
some  quaintness  and  affectation  of  expression,  e.x- 
posed  him  to  ■well-merited  ridicule.  Mr  Galt  next 
executed  a series  of  Lives  of  the  Players,  an  amusing 

* Biographical  Memoir  prefixed  to  Galt’s  novels,  in  Black- 
wood’s Standard  Novels, 

f)90 

NOVELISTS.  ICNGLISII  LITER /VTUKE.  john  galt. 


1‘omjMliition,  and  Boyle  Corbet,  anotlier  novel,  tlie 
(ilijeet  of  which,  he  said,  was  to  give  a view  of  society 
generally,  as  ‘The  I’rovost’  was  of  burgh  incidents 
simply,  and  of  the  sort  of  genteel  persons  who  are 
sometimes  found  among  the  emigrants  to  the  United 
States.  Disease  now  invaded  the  robust  frame  of 
the  novelist;  but  he  wrote  on,  and  in  a short  time 
four  other  works  of  fiction  issued  from  his  pen — 
Stanley  Buxton,  The  Member,  The  Radical,  and  Eben 
Erskine.  In  1832  an  affection  of  the  spine,  and  an 
attack  resembling  paralysis,  greatly  reduced  Mr 
Galt,  and  subjected  him  to  acute  pain.  Next  year, 
however,  he  was  again  at  the  press.  His  work  was 
a tale  entitled  The  Lost  Child.  He  also  composed  a 
memoir  of  his  own  life,  in  two  volumes — a curious 
ill-digested  melange,  bnt  worthy  of  perusal.  In  1834 
he  published  Literary  Miscellanies,  in  three  volumes, 
dedicated  to  King  William  IV.,  who  generously  sent 
a sum  of  £200  to  the  author.  He  returned  to  bis 
native  country  a perfect  wreck,  the  victim  of  re- 
peated attacks  of  paralysis ; yet  he  wrote  several 
pieces  for  perio<iical  works,  and  edited  the  produc- 
tions of  others.  After  severe  and  protnacted  suffer- 
ings, borne  with  great  firmness  and  patience,  Mr 
Galt  died  at  Greenock  on  the  1 1th  of  April  1839. 

Of  a long  list  of  our  author’s  works,  several  are 
already  forgotten.  Not  a few  of  his  novels,  however, 
bid  fair  to  be  permanent,  and  the  ‘ Annals  of  the 
Parish’  will  probably  be  read  as  long  as  Waverley  or 
Guy  Mannering.  'This  inimitable  little  tale  is  the 
simple  record  of  a country  minister  during  the  fifty 
years  of  his  incumbency.  Besides  many  amusing 
and  touching  incidents,  the  work  presents  us  with  a 
picture  of  the  rise  and  progress  of  a Scottish  rural 
village,  and  its  transition  to  a manufacturing  town, 
as  witnessed  by  the  minister,  a man  as  simple  as 
Abraham  Adams,  imbued  with  all  old-fashioned 
national  feelings  and  prejudices,  but  thoroughly  sin- 
cere, kind-hearted,  and  pious.  This  Presbyterian 
worthy,  the  Rev.  Micah  Balwhidder,  is  a fine  repre- 
sentative of  the  primitive  Scottish  pastor;  diligent, 
blameless,  loyal,  and  exemplary  in  his  life,  but 
without  the  fiery  zeal  and  ‘kirk-filling  eloquence’ 
of  the  supporters  of  the  Covenant.  Micah  is  easy, 
garrulous,  fond  of  a quiet  joke,  and  perfectly  ig- 
norant of  the  world.  Little  things  are  great  to 
him  in  his  retirement  and  his  simplicity ; and  thus 
we  find  him  chronicling,  among  his  memorable 
events,  the  arrival  of  a dancing-master,  the  planting 
of  a pear-tree,  the  getting  a new  bell  for  the  kirk, 

I the  first  appearance  of  Punch’s  Opera  in  the  coun- 
try-side, and  other  incidents  of  a like  nature,  which 
he  mixes  up  indiscriminately  with  the  breaking  out 
of  the  American  war,  the  establishment  of  manufac- 
tures, or  the  spread  of  French  revolutionary  prin- 
ciples. Amidst  the  quaint  humour  and  shrewd 
observation  of  honest  Micah  are  some  striking  and 
pathetic  incidents.  Mrs  Malcolm,  the  widow  of  a 
Clyde  shipmaster,  comes  to  settle  in  his  village;  and 
being  ‘a  genty  body,  calm  and  methodical,’  she 
brought  up  her  children  in  a superior  manner,  and 
they  all  get  on  in  the  world.  One  of  them  becomes 
a sailor;  and  there  are  few  more  touching  narratives 
in  the  language  than  the  account  of  this  cheerful 
gallant-hearted  lad,  from  his  first  setting  off  to  sea 
to  his  death  as  a midshipman,  in  an  engagement 
with  the  French.  Taken  altogether,  this  work  of 
Sir  Galt’s  is  invaluable  for  its  truth  and  nature,  its 
quiet  unforced  humour  and  pathos,  its  genuine  na- 
tionality as  a faithful  record  of  Scottish  feeling  and 
manners,  and  its  rich  felicity  of  homely  antique 
Scottish  phrase  and  expression,  w-hich  to  his  coun- 
trymen is  perhaps  the  crowning  excellence  of  the 
author. 

In  the  following  passage  the  placing  of  Mr  Bal- 


whidder as  minister  of  Ualmailing  is  admirably  de- 
scribed : — 

It  w'as  a great  affair  ; for  I was  put  in  by  the  patron, 
and  the  people  knew  nothing  whatsoever  of  me,  and 
their  hearts  were  stirred  into  strife  on  the  occasion, 
and  they  did  all  that  lay  within  the  compass  of  their 
power  to  keep  me  out,  in.somuch  that  there  was  ob- 
liged to  be  a guard  of  soldiers  to  protect  the  presby- 
tery ; and  it  was  a thing  that  made  my  heart  grieve 
when  1 heard  the  drum  beating  and  the  fife  playing 
as  we  were  going  to  the  kirk.  The  people  were  really 
mad  and  vicious,  and  flung  dirt  upon  us  as  we  passed, 
and  reviled  us  all,  and  held  out  the  finger  of  scorn  at 
me ; but  I endured  it  with  a resigned  spirit,  com- 
passionating their  wilfulness  and  blindness.  Poor 
old  Mr  Kilfuddy  of  the  Braehiil  gu,  such  a clash  of 
glaur  on  the  side  of  his  face,  that  his  eye  was  almost 
extinguished. 

When  we  got  to  the  kirk  door,  it  was  found  to  be 
nailed  up,  so  as  by  no  possibility  to  be  opened.  The 
sergeant  of  the  soldiers  wanted  to  break  it,  but  I was 
afraid  that  the  heritors  would  grudge  and  complain 
of  the  expense  of  a new  door,  and  I supplicated  him 
to  let  it  be  as  it  was  ; we  were  therefore  obligated  to  go 
in  by  a window,  and  the  crowd  followed  us  in  the  most 
unreverent  manner,  making  the  Lord’s  house  like  an 
inn  on  a fair  day  with  their  grievous  yelly-hooing. 
During  the  time  of  the  psalm  and  the  sermon  they  be- 
haved themselves  better,  but  when  the  induction  caire 
on,  their  clamour  was  dreadful ; and  Thomas  Thorl, 
the  weaver,  a pious  zealot  in  that  time,  got  up  and 
protested  and  said,  ‘ Verily,  verily,  I say  unto  you, 
he  that  entereth  not  by  the  door  into  the  sheepfold, 
but  climbeth  up  some  other  way,  the  same  is  a thief 
and  a robber.’  And  I thought  I would  have  a hard 
and  sore  time  of  it  with  sucli  an  outstrapolous  people. 
Mr  Given,  that  was  then  the  minister  of  Lugton,  was 
a jocose  man,  and  would  have  his  joke  even  at  a 
solemnity.  When  the  laying  of  the  hands  upon  mo 
was  a-doing,  he  could  not  get  near  enough  to  put  on 
his,  but  he  stretched  out  his  staff  and  touched  my 
head,  and  said,  to  the  grea,  diversion  of  the  rest, 
‘ This  will  do  well  enough — timber  to  timber  but  :l 

was  an  unfriendly  saying  of  Mr  Given,  considering 
the  time  and  the  place,  and  the  temper  of  my  people. 

After  the  ceremony  we  then  got  out  at  the  window, 
and  it  was  a heavy  day  to  me ; but  we  went  to  the 
manse,  and  there  we  had  an  excellent  dinner,  which 
Mrs  Watts  of  the  new  inn  of  Irville  prepared  at  my 
request,  and  sent  her  chaise-driver  to  serv  ?,  for  he 
was  likewise  her  waiter,  she  having  then  but  one 
chaise,  and  that  not  often  called  for. 

But  although  ray  people  received  me  in  this  un 
ruly  manner,  I was  resolved  to  cultivate  civility 
among  them  ; and  therefore  the  very  next  morning 
I began  a round  of  visitations;  but  oh!  it  was  a 
steep  brae  that  I had  to  climb,  and  it  needed  a stout 
heart,  for  I found  the  doors  in  some  places  barred 
against  me  ; in  others,  the  bairns,  when  they  saw  me 
coming,  ran  crying  to  their  mothers,  ‘ Heiv’s  the  feck- 
less Mess-John  and  then,  when  I went  in  into  the 
houses,  their  parents  would  not  .ask  me  to  sit  down, 
but  with  a scornful  way  said,  ‘ Honest  man,  what’s 
your  pleasure  herd’  Nevertheless,  I walked  about 
from  door  to  door,  like  a dejected  beggar,  till  I got 
the  almous  deed  of  a civil  reception,  and,  who  would 
have  thought  it,  from  no  less  a person  than  the  same 
Thomas  Thorl  that  was  so  bitter  against  me  in  the 
kirk  on  the  foregoing  day. 

Thomas  was  standing  at  the  door  with  his  green 
duffle  apron  and  his  red  Kilmarnock  nightcap — I 
mind  him  as  well  as  if  it  was  but  yesterday — and  ha 
had  seen  me  going  from  house  to  house,  and  in  what 
manner  I was  rejected,  and  his  bowels  were  moved, 
and  he  said  to  me  in  a kind  manner,  ‘ Come  in,  sir, 
and  ease  yoursel ; this  will  never  do  ; the  clergy  are 

591 


I'lioM  17!i0 


cv(;i.oi’yH:i)iA  OF 


TILL  THE  PUESKNT  TIIIIK 


(ioll’s  gorbies,  ami  fur  their  niaster’.s  sake  it  behoves 
us  to  respect  them.  There  was  no  aiie  in  the  whole 
parish  mair  ajiiiiiist  you  than  mysel,  but  this  early 
visitation  is  a symptom  of  grace  that  I couhlna  have 
e.xpectit  from  a bird  out  of  the  nest  of  patronage.’ 

I thanked  Thomas,  and  went  in  with  him,  and  we 
had  some  soliil  conversation  together,  and  I told  him 
that  it  was  not  so  much  the  pastor’s  duty  to  feed  the 
flock,  as  to  herd  them  well  ; and  that  although  there 
might  be  some  abler  with  the  head  than  me,  there 
wasna  a he  within  the  bounds  of  Scotland  more 
willing  (.0  watcdi  the  fold  by  night  and  by  day.  And 
Thomas  said  he  had  not  heard  a mair  sound  observe 
for  .some  time,  and  that  if  1 held  to  that  doctrine  in 
the  jioopit,  it  wouldna  be  lang  till  I would  work  a 
change.  ‘ 1 was  mindit,’  quoth  he,  ‘never  to  set  my 
foot  within  the  kirk  door  while  you  were  there;  but 
to  testify,  and  no  to  condemn  without  a trial.  I’ll  be 
there  next  Lord’s  day,  and  egg  my  neighbours  to  be 
likewise,  so  ye’ll  no  have  to  preach  just  to  the  bare 
walls  and  the  laird’s  family.’ 

The  ‘Ayrshire  Legatees’  is  a story  of  the  same 
cast  as  the  Annals,  and  describes  (chiefly  by  means 
of  eorrespondenee)  the  adventures  of  another  coun- 
try minister  and  his  family  on  a journey  to  London 
to  obtain  a rich  legacy  left  him  by  a cousin  in  India. 

‘ T’he  Provost’  is  another  jiortraiture  of  Scottish 
life,  illustrative  of  the  jealousies,  contentions,  local 
improvements,  and  jahhery  of  a small  burgh  in  the 
olden  time.  Some  of  the  descriptions  in  this  work 
are  very  powerfully  written.  ‘Sir  Andrew  Wylie’ 
and  ‘The  Entail’ are  more  regular  and  ambitious 
performances,  treble  the  length  of  the  others,  but 
not  so  carefully  finished.  The  paw/ae  Ayrshire 
baronet  is  humorous,  but  not  very  natural.  The 
character  of  Leddy  Gritipv  in  ‘The  Entail’  was  a 
jirodigious  favourite  with  Byron.  Both  Scott  and 
Byron,  it  is  said,  read  this  novel  three  times  over — 
no  slight  testimony  to  its  merits.  We  should  be 
dis])osed.  however,  to  give  the  preference  to  another 
of  Mr  Galt’s  three-volume  fictions,  ‘ Lawrie  Todd, 
or  tlie  Settlers,’  a work  which  seems  to  have  no 
parallel,  since  Defoe,  for  apparent  reality,  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  and  fertility  of  invention.  Tlie 
history  of  a real  individual,  a man  named  Grant 
Thorhurn,  sujiplied  the  author  with  part  of  his 
incidents,  as  tlie  story  of  Alexander  Selkirk  did 
Defoe;  but  the  mind  and  the  experience  of  Galt  are 
stamped  on  almost  every  page.  In  his  former  pro- 
ductions our  author  wrought  with  his  recollections 
of  the  Scotland  of  his  youth  ; the  mingled  worth, 
simplicity,  paiv/iiiiess,  and  enthusiasm  which  he  had 
seen  or  heard  of  as  he  loitered  about  Irvine  or 
Greenock,  or  conversed  witli  the  country  sires  and 
matrons;  hut  in  ‘ Lawrie  Todd’  we  have  the  fruit  of 
liis  observations  in  the  New  World,  presenting  an 
entirely  ditfereiit  and  original  phase  of  the  Scottish 
character.  Lawrie  is  by  trade  a nailniaker,  who 
emigrates  with  his  brother  to  America,  and  their 
stock  of  worldly  goods  and  riches,  on  arriving  at 
New  York,  consisted  of  :ibout  five  shillings  in  money, 
and  an  old  chest  containing  some  articles  of  dress 
and  other  necessaries.  Lawrie  works  hard  at  the 
nailniaking,  marries  a pious  and  industrious  maiden 
^who  soon  dies),  and  in  time  becomes  master  of  a 
grocer’s  shop,  which  he  exchanges  for  the  business 
of  a seedsman.  The  latter  is  a bad  affair,  and  Lawrie 
is  compelled  to  sell  all  off,  and  begin  the  world  again, 
lie  removes  with  his  family  to  the  b;iekwoods,  and 
once  more  is  prosperous.  He  clears,  builds,  purchases 
land,  and  speculates  to  great  advantage,  till  he  is  at 
length  enabled  to  return  to  Scotland  in  some  style, 
ami  visit  the  place  of  his  nativity.  This  Scottish 
jaunt  is  a blemish  in  the  work,  for  the  incidents 
and  descriptions  are  ridiculously  ex;iggerated ; but 


nothing  can  he  better  tban  the  account  of  the  early 
strngglesof  thishumble  hero — the  American  sketches 
of  charticter  vv  ith  which  the  work  abounds — the  view 
it  gives  of  life  in  the  backwoods — or  the  peculiar 
fi cslitien.i  iuu\  vigour  that  seem  to  accomiiany  every 
scene  and  every  movement  of  the  story.  In  percep- 
tion of  character  and  motive,  within  a certain  sphere, 
Mr  Galt  stands  unrivalled;  and  he  has  energy  as 
well  as  quickness.  11  is  taste,  however,  was  very  de- 
fective ; and  this,  combined  with  the  hurry  and  un- 
certainty of  his  latter  d;iys,  led  him  to  w:iste  his 
original  powers  on  subjects  unfitted  for  his  pen,  and 
injurious  to  his  reputation.  The  story  of  his  life  is 
a melancholy  one;  but  his  genius  was  an  honour  to 
his  country,  and  merited  a better  reward. 

THOMAS  HOPE. 

Thomas  Hope,  the  author  of  Anaslasius,  was  one 
of  the  merchant  jirinces  of  England  whom  com- 
merce had  led  to  opulence,  and  who  repaid  the  com- 
pliment by  ennobling  his  origin  and  pursuits  with 
taste,  munificence,  and  genius.  He  was  one  of  three 
brothers,  wealthy  merchants  in  Amsterdam.  When 
a young  man,  he  spent  some  years  in  foreign  travel, 
visiting  the  principal  places  in  Europe,  Asi;i,  and 
Africa.  On  hi,  return  he  settled  in  London,  pur- 
chased a large  house,  and  a country  mansion  (Deep- 
dene,  near  Dorking),  and  embellished  both  with 
drawings,  picture  galleries,  sculjiture,  amphitheatres 
for  antiques,  and  all  other  rare  and  costly  appliances. 
His  appearances  as  an  author  arose  out  of  these 
favourite  occupations  and  studies.  In  180.5  he  pub- 
lished a folio  vedume  of  drawings  and  descriptions,  I 
entitled  llousehuld  Furniture  ami  Decorations.  The 
ambitious  style  of  this  work,  and  the  author’s  devo- 
tion to  the  forms  of  chairs,  sofas,  couches,  and  tables, 
provoked  a witty  piece  of  ridicule  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review  ; but  the  man  of  taste  and  virtu  triumphed. 

A more  chissical  and  appropri;ite  style  of  furniture  and 
domestic  utensils  gained  ground  ; and  with  Mr  Hope 
rests  the  honour  of  having  achieved  the  improve- 
ment. Two  other  splendid  publications  proceeded 
from  Mr  Hope,  The  Costume  of  the  Ancients 
and  Designs  of  Modern  Costumes  both  works 

evincing  extensive  knowledge  and  curious  research. 

In  1819  Mr  Hope  burst  forth  as  a novelist  of  the  first 
order.  He  had  studied  human  nature  as  well  as 
architecture  and  costume,  and  his  e;irly  travels  had 
exhibited  to  him  men  of  various  creeds  and  countries. 
The  result  was  Anastasius,  or  Memoirs  of  a Modern 
Greeh,  written  at  the  Close  of  the  Fiyhteenth  Century, 
in  three  volumes.  The  author’s  name  was  not  pre- 
fixed fo  the  work — as  it  w’as  given  forth  as  a verit- 
able history  — but  the  secret  soon  became  known, 
:ind  Mr  Hope,  from  being  reputed  as  something  like 
a learned  upholsterer,  or  clever  draughtsman,  was 
at  once  elevated  into  a riv:dry  with  Byron  as  a glow- 
ing painter  of  foreign  scenery  and  manners,  and  with 
Le  Sage  and  the  other  masters  of  the  novel,  in  the 
art  of  conducting  a fable  and  delineating  clianicter. 
The  author  turned  from  fiction  to  metaphysics,  and 
composed  a work  On  the  Origin  and  Prospects  of  Man, 
which  he  did  not  live  to  see  through  the  press,  but 
which  was  published  after  his  decease.  Ilis  cosmo- 
gony is  strange  and  unorthodox ; hut  amidst  his 
p;ir;”idoxes,  conceits,  and  abstruse  speculations,  are 
nuiny  ingenious  views  and  eloquent  disquisitions. 
Mr  ilope  died  on  the  3d  of  February  1831,  and  pro- 
bate was  granted  for  £180,000  persomd  property. 
Mr  Beckford  and  ‘ Vathek’  are  the  only  parallels  to 
iMr  Hope  and  ‘Anastasius’  in  oriental  wealth  and 
imagination. 

‘ Amistasius’  is  one  of  the  most  original  and  dazz- 
ling of  modern  romances.  The  hero  is,  like  Zeluco, 

592 


TOVK>  rSTS. 


THOMAS  HOPE. 


KX<;URH  UTKKATUKR 


R villain  snoilcii  by  parly  indulKPm-c ; be*  beromps  a 
re-iu-cadi*  to  bis  faith,  a inercpnary,  ii  roltbpr,  ami 
an  as.sassin;  but  the  elements  of  a better  nature  are 
sown  in  his  eom()osition,  and  break  forth  at  times 
He  IS  R native  of  Chios  the  son  of  Greek  parents. 
To  avoid  the  consequences  of  an  amour  witli  Helena, 
tl<e  consul's  daujihter,  he  runs  o(T  to  .sea  in  a Vene- 
tian vessel,  which  is  Iwarded  by  pirates  and  cap- 
tured. The  i>irates  are  in  turn  taken  by  a Turkish 
frigate,  and  carried  before  Hassau  Hasha,  Anasta- 
siils  is  released,  fijthts  with  the  Turks  in  the  war 
i Rsrainst  the  Araonoots  and  accompanies  the  (Jreek 
drogueman  to  Constantinople.  Disgrace  and  beg- 
gary reduce  him  to  various  shifts  and  adventures. 
He  follows  a Jew  quack  doctor  selling  nostrums — is 
thrown  into  the  Bagnio,  or  state  prison — afterwards 
cnd'races  the  Turkish  faith — revisits  Greece — pro- 
ceeds to  Egypt — and  subsequently  ranges  over  Ara- 
hiiu  and  visits  Malta,  Sicily,  and  Italy.  Ilis  in- 
trigues, adventures,  sufferings,  &c.  are  innumerable. 
Every  as[)ect  of  Greek  and  Turkish  sixiiety  is  de- 
j picted — sarcasm,  piquant  allusion,  pathos  and  pas- 
sion. and  descriptions  of  scenery,  are  strangely  inter- 
mingled in  the  nar-.ative.  Wit,  epigram,  and  the 
glitter  of  rhetorical  amplification,  occupy  too  much 
space;  hut  the  sc*ene  is  cmistantly  shifting,  and  the 
work  possesses  the  truth  and  accuracy  of  a book  of 
travels  joined  to  t'iose  of  a romance.  The  traveller. 
tiHi,  i.-'  a thorough  man  of  the  world,  has  a keen  in- 
sight into  hum.au  weaknesses  and  foibles,  and  de- 
scrilK-s  his  adventures  and  impressions  without  hypo- 
crisy or  reserve.  The  most  powerful  passages  are 
those  in  which  pathos  is  predominant — such  as  the 
scenes  with  Euphrosyne,  whom  Anastasias  has 
basely  violated — his  sensations  on  revisiting  Greece 
and  the  tomb  of  Helena— his  reflections  on  witness- 
ing the  deatl  Araonoot  soldier  whom  he  had  slain — 
the  horrors  of  the  plague  and  famine — and,  above 
all,  the  account  of  the  death  of  Alexis,  the  child  of 
Anastasius,  and  in  whom  were  centred  the  only 
remains  of  his  human  affection,  his  love  and  hope. 
The  gradual  decay  of  this  youth,  and  the  intense 
anxiety  and  watchfulness  of  his  father,  constitute  a 
scene  of  genuine  grief  and  tenderness.  We  forget 
the  craft  and  villany  of  Anastasius,  thus  humbled 
and  prostrate.  His  wild  gaiety  and  heartless  jests, 
his  degeneracy  and  sensualism,  have  passed  away. 
They  had  palled  upon  himself,  but  one  spring  of 
pure  affection  remained  to  redeem  his  nature ; and 
it  is  not  without  the  strongest  pity  and  kindred 
commiseration  that  we  see  the  desperate  adventurer 
reduced  to  loneliness  and  heartbroken  despair.  The 
scene  is  introduced  by  an  account  of  his  recovering 
his  lost  son  in  Egypt,  and  carrying  him  off  to  Eu- 
rope : 

My  cousin’s  letter  had  promised  me  a brilli.ant  lot, 
and^ — what  was  better — my  own  pockets  insured  me 
a decent  competence.  The  refinements  of  a European 
education  should  add  every  external  elegance  to  my 
boy’s  innate  excellence,  and,  having  myself  mode- 
rately enjoyed  the  good  things  of  this  world,  while 
striving  to  deserve  the  better  promised  in  the  next,  I 
should,  ere  my  friends  became  tired  of  my  dotage, 
resign  my  last  breath  in  the  arms  of  my  child. 

The  blue  sky  seemed  to  smile  upon  my  cheerful 
thougnCs,  and  the  green  wave  to  murmur  approbation 
of  my  plan.  Almighty  God  ! what  was  there  in  it 
so  heinous  to  deserve  that  an  inexorable  fate  should 
cast  it  to  the  winds  ? 

In  the  midst  of  my  dream  of  happiness,  my  eye  fell 
upon  the  darling  object  in  which  centred  all  its 
sweets.  Insensibly  my  child’s  prattle  had  dimi- 
nished, and  had  at  last  subsided  in  an  unusual  silence. 
1 thought  he  looked  pale  ; his  eyes  seemed  heavy, 
ana  his  lips  felt  parched.  The  rose,  that  every  morn- 

80 


ing,  still  so  fresh,  so  erect  on  its  stalk,  at  mid-d.aj 
hung  its  heavy  head,  di.scolmired,  wan,  and  fading 
but  so  frequently  had  the  billows,  during  the  fury  o 
the  .storm,  drenched  my  boy’s  little  crib,  that  I coult 
not  womlcr  he  should  have  felt  their  effects  in  a seven 
cold.  1 put  him  to  bed,  and  tried  to  hush  him  ti 
sleep.  Soon,  however,  his  face  grew  flushed,  and  hii 
pulse  became  feverish.  1 failed  alike  in  my  endea 
vours  to  procure  him  repose  and  to  affoixl  him  amuse 
ment : but,  though  playthings  were  repulsed,  anf 
tales  no  longer  attended  to,  still  he  could  not  bea' 
me  .an  instant  out  of  his  sight ; nor  would  he  take 
anything  e.\cept  at  my  hands.  Even  when— as  too 
.soon  it  did — his  reason  began  to  wander,  his  filial 
affection  retained  its  pristine  hold  of  his  heart.  It 
had  grown  into  an  adoration  of  his  equally  doting 
father ; and  the  mere  consciousness  of  ray  presence 
seemed  to  relieve  liis  uneasiness. 

Had  not  my  feelings,  a few  moments  only  before, 
been  those  of  such  exceeding  happiness,  I should  not 
so  soon  perhaps  have  conceived  great  alarm  ; but  I 
had  throughout  life  found  every  extraordin.ary  burst 
of  joy  followed  by  some  unforeseen  calamity  ; and  my 
exultation  had  just  ri.sen  to  .so  unusual  a pitch,  that  a 
deep  dismay  now  at  once  struck  me  to  the  heart.  I 
felt  convinced  that  I had  only  Ikk  n carried  to  so  high 
a pinnacle  of  joy,  in  oi-der  to  be  hurled  with  greater 
rum  into  an  abyss  of  wo.  Such  became  my  anxiety 
to  reach  Trieste,  and  to  obtain  the  best  medical  assist- 
ance, that  even  while  the  ship  continued  to  cleave 
the  waves  like  an  arrow,  1 fancied  it  lay  like  a log 
upon  the  main.  How,  then,  did  my  pangs  increase 
when,  as  if  in  resentment  of  my  unjust  complaints, 
the  breeze,  dying  away,  really  left  our  keel  motionless 
on  the  waters  ! My  anguisli  haftled  all  expression. 

In  truth  I do  not  know  how  I pre.served  my  .senses, 
except  from  the  nee<l  I stood  in  of  their  aid : for, 
while  we  lay  cursed  with  absolute  immobility,  and 
the  sun  ever  found  u.s,  on  rising,  in  the  .same  place 
where  it  had  left  ns  on  setting,  my  child — my  dar- 
ling child — was  every  instant  growing  worse,  and 
sinking  apace  under  the  pressure  of  illness.  To  the 
deep  and  flushing  glow  of  a complexion  far  exceeding 
in  its  transient  brilliancy  even  the  brightest  hues  of 
health,  had  succeeded  a settled,  unchanging,  deadly 
paleness.  His  eye,  whose  round  full  orb  was  wont 
to  beam  upon  me  with  mild  but  fervent  radiance, 
now  dim  and  wandering,  for  the  most  part  re  nained 
half  closed  ; and  when,  roused  by  my  address,  the 
idol  of  my  heart  strove  to  raise  his  languid  look,  and 
to  meet  the  fearful  inquiries  of  mine,  he  only  showed 
all  the  former  fire  of  his  countenance  extinct.  In  the 
more  violent  bursts,  indeed,  of  his  unceasing  delirium, 
his  wasting  features  sometimes  acquired  a fresh  but 
sad  expression.  He  would  then  start  up,  and  with 
his  feeble  hands  clasped  together,  and  big  tears  rol- 
ling down  his  faded  cheeks,  heg  in  the  most  moving 
terms  to  be  restored  to  his  home : but  mostly  he 
seemed  ab.sorbed  in  inward  musings,  and,  no  longer 
taking  note  of  the  passing  hour,  he  frequently  during 
the  course  of  the  day  moved  his  pallid  lips,  as  if  re- 
peating to  himself  the  little  prayer  which  he  h.ad  been 
wont  to  say  at  bed-tirne  and  at  rising,  and  the  bless- 
ings I liad  taught  him  to  add,  addressed  to  his 
mother  on  beUalf  of  his  father.  If — wretched  to  see 
him  thus,  and  doubly  agonized  to  think  that  I alone 
had  been  the  cause — I burst  out  into  tears  which  1 
strove  to  hide,  his  perception  of  outward  objects 
seemed  all  at  once  for  a moment  to  return.  He  asked 
me  whether  I was  hurt,  and  would  lament  that,  young 
and  feeble  as  he  was,  he  could  not  yet  nurse  me  as  he 
wished  ; but  promised  me  better  care  when  he  should 
grow  stronger. 

In  this  way  hour  after  hour  and  day  after  day 
rolled  on,  without  any  progress  in  our  voyage,  while 
all  I had  left  to  do  was  to  sit  doubled  over  my  child’s 

593 


(,YCl-01*ii^:i)lA  OF 


TILL  TIIK  PRESENT  TIME 


FROM  1 7H ) 


couch,  watching  all  his  wants,  and  studying  all  his 
looks,  trying,  hut  in  vain,  to  discover  some  amend- 
ment. ‘ < >h  for  those  days!’  1 now  thought,  ‘when  a 
calm  at  sea  n])|>earcd  an  intolerahle  evil,  only  l>ecause 
it  sto]>i)ed  some  tide  of  folly  or  delayed  some  scheme 
of  vice  ! ’ 

At  last  one  afternoon,  when,  totally  exhausted  with 
want  of  sleep,  I sat  down  hy  my  child  in  all  the  com- 
posure of  tor[>id  despair,  the  sailors  rushed  in  one  anil 
all — for  even  they  had  felt  my  agony,  and  doted  on 
my  boy.  They  came  to  cheer  me  with  better  tidings. 
A breeze  had  just  sprung  up  ! The  waves  had  again 
begun  ta  ripple,  and  the  lazy  keel  to  stir.  As  minute 
pre.s3od  on  minute,  the  motion  of  the  ship  became 
swifter  and  presently,  as  if  nothing  had  been  want- 
ing bu  a first  im|iulse,  we  again  dashed  through  the 
waves  with  all  our  former  sjieed. 

Every  hour  now  brought  us  visibly  nearer  the  in- 
most recess  of  the  deep  .■\driatic  and  the  end  of  our 
jomney.  I’ola  seemed  to  glide  by  like  a vision  : pre- 
ecntly  we  passed  Eiume:  we  saw  Capo  d’lstria  but  a 
few  minutes:  at  last  we  descried  Trieste  itself! 
Another  half  hour,  and  every  separate  house  became 
risible,  and  not  long  after  we  ran  full  sail  into  the 
harbour.  The  sails  were  taken  in,  the  anchor  was 
dropped,  and  a boat  instantly  came  alongside. 

All  the  necessary  preparations  had  been  made  for 
immediately  conveyingmy  patient  on  shore.  Wrajiped 
up  in  a shawl,  he  was  lifted  out  of  his  crib,  laid  on  a 
pillow,  and  lowercil  into  the  boat,  where  I hidd  him  | 
in  my  lap,  protected  to  the  best  of  my  ]>ower  from  the 
roughness  of  the  blast  and  the  da.shing  of  the  spray 
until  we  reached  the  quay. 

In  my  distress  I had  totally  forgotten  the  taint 
contracted  at  Melad.a,  and  had  puiqiosed,  the  instant 
we  stepped  on  shore,  to  carry  my  child  straight  to  a 
physician.  New  anguish  pierced  my  soul  wlicii  two 
bayonets  crossed  ujioii  my  breast  forced  me,  in  spite 
of  iiiy  alternate  supplication  and  rage,  to  remain  on 
the  jettee,  there  to  wait  his  coming,  and  his  previous 
scrutiny  of  all  our  healthy  crew.  All  I could  obtain 
as  a special  favour  was  a messenger  to  hurry  his 
approach,  while,  panting  for  his  arrival,  I sat  down 
with  iny  Alexis  in  my  arms  under  a low  shed  which 
kept  off  a pelting  shower.  1 scarce  know  how  long 
this  situation  lasted.  My  mind  was  so  wriqiped  up  in 
the  danger  of  my  boy  as  to  remain  wholly  unconscious 
of  the  bustle  around,  except  when  the  removal  of 
gome  cask  or  barrel  forced  me  to  shift  my  station. 
Yet,  while  wholly  deaf  to  the  unceasing  din  of  the 
place,  1 could  discern  the  faintest  rumour  that  seemed 
to  announce  the  approaching  physician.  O,  how  I 
cursed  his  unfteling  delay  ! how  I would  have  paved 
his  way  with  gold  to  have  hastened  his  coming!  and 
yet  a something  whispered  continually  in  my  car  that 
the  utmost  speed  of  man  no  longer  could  avail. 

Ah  ! that  at  least,  confirmed  in  this  sad  persuasion, 

I might  have  tasted  the  heart-rending  jdeasure  of 
bestowing  upon  my  departing  child  the  last  earthly 
endearments  ! but,  tranquil,  composed,  and  softly 
slumbering  as  he  looked,  I feared  to  disturb  a repose 
01  which  I founded  my  only  remaining  hopes.  All  at 
once,  in  the  midst  of  my  despair,  1 saw  a sort  of  smile 
light  up  my  darling’s  features,  and  hard  as  1 strove  to 
guard  against  all  vain  illusions,  I could  not  at  this 
sight  stop  a ray  of  gladness  from  gliding  unchecked 
iuto  ray  trembling  heart.  Short,  however,  was  the 
joy : soon  vanished  the  deceitful  symptom ! On  a 
closer  view  it  only  appeared  to  have  been  a slight 
convulsion  which  had  hurried  over  my  child’s  now 
tranquil  countenance,  as  will  sometimes  dart  over  the 
smooth  mirror  of  a dormant  lake  the  image  of  a bird 
in  the  air.  It  l.';ked  like  the  response  of  a departing 
sngel,  to  those  already  on  high,  that  hailed  his  .speedy 
coming.  The  soul  of  my  Alexis  was  fast  preparing 
f»r  its  flight. 


Lest  he  might  feel  ill  at  ca.se  in  my  lap,  I laid  him 
.down  upon  my  cloak,  and  kneeled  by  his  side  to 
watch  the  growing  change  in  his  features.  The  present 
now  was  all  to  me ; the  future  I knew  I no  longer 
should  reck.  Eeeling  my  breath  close  to  his  cheek, 
he  half  opened  his  eyes,  looked  as  if  after  a long 
absence  again  suddeidy  recognising  liis  father,  and — 
putting  out  his  little  mouth — seemed  to  crave  one 
last  token  of  love.  The  temptation  was  too  powerful  ; 
1 gently  pressed  my  lip  ui>on  that  of  my  babe,  and 
gathered  from  it  the  proffered  kiss.  Life’s  last  faint 
spark  was  just  going  forth,  and  I caught  it  on  the 
thre.shold.  Scarce  had  I drawn  back  my  face,  when 
all  respiration  ceased.  His  eye-.strings  broke,  his 
features  fell,  and  his  limbs  stiffened  for  ever.  All  was 
over  : Alexis  was  no  more. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


Mr  'Washington  Irving,  a native  of  America, 
commenced  a career  of  literary  exertion  in  this 
country  by  the  publication  in  1820  of  The  Sketch- 


Washington  Irving. 

Book,  a series  of  short  tales  and  essays,  scntiment.al 
and  humorous,  which  were  originally  printed  in  an 
American  periodical,  but  illustrative  of  English 
manners  and  scenery.  Mr  Irving  had  previously 
published  in  his  native  conntry^a  humorous  Jlixlo-y 
of  New  York,  hy  Knickerbocker,  being  an  imaginary 
account  of  the  original  Dutch  inhabitants  of  that 
state;  and  he  had  also  issued  a satirical  periodical 
entitled  Salmagundi,  ‘The  Sketch-Book’  was  re- 
ceived with  great  favour  in  Britain  ; its  carefully 
elaborated  style  and  beauties  of  diction  were  highly 
praised,  and  its  portraitures  of  English  rural  life 
and  customs,  though  too  antiquated  to  be  strictly 
accurate,  were  pleasing  and  interesting.  It  was 
obvious  that  the  author  h.ad  formed  his  taste  upon 
that  of  Addison  and  Goldsmith  ; but  his  own  great 
country,  its  early  state  of  society,  the  red  Indians, 
and  native  traditions,  had  also  supplied  him  with  a 
fund  of  natural  and  original  description,  llis  stories 
of  Rip  "Yan  Winkle  and  the  Sleepy  Hollow  are  per- 
haps the  finest  piecas  of  original  fictitious  writing 
that  this  century  has  produced,  next  to  the  works 
of  Scott.  In  1822  Mr  Irving  continued  the  same 
style  of  fanciful  English  delineation  in  his  Bracehridge 
Hall,  in  which  we  are  introduced  to  the  interior  of 
a squire’s  mansion,  and  to  a number  of  original 

5.04 


I 


.'tOVEl.ISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WASHINGTON  IIIVINQ. 


i 

I 

1 


characters,  drawn  with  delicacy  and  discrimination 
equal  to  those  in  his  former  work.  In  1824  appeared 
another  series  of  tales  and  sketches,  but  greatly  in- 
ferior, entitled  Tales  of  a Traveller.  Having  gone  to 
Spain  in  connection  witlithe  United  States  embassy, 
Mr  Irving  studied  the  history  and  antiquities  of  tliat 
ronautic  coiuitry,  and  iu  1828  published  The  Life 


and  Voyages  of  Christopher  Columbus,  in  four  volumes, 
written  in  a less  ornate  style  than  liis  former 
works,  but  valuable  for  the  new  information  it  com- 
municates. Next  year  appeared  The  Conquest  of 
Granada,  and  in  1882  The  Alhambra,  both  connected 
with  the  ancient  Moorish  kingdom  of  Granada,  and 
partly  fictitious.  Several  lighter  works  have  since 


Washington  Irving  s Cottage. 


issued  from  hii  fertile  pen — Astoria,  a narrative  of 
American  adventure;  A Tour  in  the  Prairies;  Abbots- 
flrd  and  Newstead,  &c.  The  principal  works  of  Mr 
Irving  are  his  ‘Sketch-Book’  and  ‘ Bracebridge 
Hall these  are  the  corner-stones  of  his  fame,  and 
likely  to  be  durable.  In  all  his  writings,  however, 
there  are  passages  evincing  fine  taste,  gentle  affec- 
tions, and  graceful  description.  His  sentiments  are 
manly  and  generous,  and  his  pathetic  and  humorous 
sketches  are  in  general  prevented  from  degenerating 
into  extravagance  by  practical  good  sense  and  a cor- 
rect judgment.  Modern  authors  have  too  much 
neglected  the  mere  matter  of  style ; but  the  success 
of  Mr  Irving  should  convince  the  careless  that  the 
graces  of  composition,  when  employed  even  on  paint- 
ings of  domestic  life  and  the  quiet  scenes  of  nature, 
can  still  charm  as  in  the  days  of  Addison,  Gold- 
smith, and  Mackenzie. 

\^Manners  in  New  York  in  the  Dutch  Times.'\ 

The  houses  of  the  higher  class  were  generally  con- 
structed of  wood,  excepting  the  gable  end,  which  was 
of  small  black  and  yellow  Dutch  bricks,  and  always 
faced  on  the  street ; as  our  ancestors,  like  their  de- 
scendants, were  very  much  given  to  outward  show,  and 
were  noted  for  putting  the  best  leg  foremost.  The 
house  was  always  furnished  with  abundance  of  large 
doors  and  small  windows  on  every  floor ; the  date  of 
its  erection  was  curiously  designated  by  iron  figures 
on  the  front ; and  on  the  top  of  the  roof  was  perched 
a fierce  little  weathercock,  to  let  the  family  into  the 
important  secret  which  way  the  wind  blew.  These, 
like  the  weathercocks  on  the  tops  of  our  steeples, 
pointed  so  many  different  ways,  that  every  man  could 
have  a wind  to  his  mind  ; and  you  would  have  thought 
old  Atolus  had  set  all  his  bags  of  wind  adrift,  pell- 
meil,  to  gambol  about  this  windy  metropolis ; the 
most  stanch  and  loyal  citizens,  however,  always  went 
according  to  the  weathercock  on  the  top  of  the  gover- 
nor’s house,  which  was  certainly  the  most  correct,  as 
he  had  a trusty  servant  employed  every  morning  to 
climb  up  and  point  it  whichever  way  the  wind  blew. 

In  those  good  days  of  s'mplicity  and  sunshine,  a 


passion  for  cleanliness  was  the  leading  prineijile  in 
domestic  economy,  and  the  universal  test  of  an  able 
housewife  ; a character  which  formed  the  utmost  am- 
bition of  our  unenlightened  grandmothers.  The  front 
door  was  never  opened  except  on  marriages,  funerals, 
New-Year’s  days,  the  festival  of  St  Nicholas,  or  some 
such  great  occasion.  It  was  ornamented  with  a gor- 
geous brass  knocker  curiously  wrouglit,  sometimes 
into  the  device  of  a dog,  and  sometimes  of  a lion’s 
head ; and  was  daily  burnished  with  such  religious 
zeal,  that  it  was  ■ifttimes  worn  out  by  the  very  pre- 
cautions takeii  foi  its  preservation.  The  wh  de  house 
was  constantly  in  a state  of  inundation,  under  the  dis- 
cipline of  mops,  and  brooms,  and  scrubbing-brushes  ; 
and  the  good  housewives  of  those  days  were  a kind  of 
amphibious  animal,  delighting  exceedingly  to  be  dab- 
bling in  water,  insomuch  that  a historian  of  the  day 
gravely  tells  us,  that  many  of  his  townswomen  grew 
to  have  webbed  fingers  like  unto  a duck  ; and  some 
of  them,  he  had  little  doubt,  could  the  matter  be  ex- 
amined into,  would  be  found  to  have  the  tails  of  mer- 
maids ; but  this  I look  upon  to  be  a mere  spe  rt  of 
fancy,  or,  what  is  worse,  a wilful  misrepresentatio.i. 

The  grand  parlour  was  the  sanctum  sanctorun., 
where  the  passion  for  cleaning  was  indulged  without 
control.  In  this  sacred  apartment  no  one  was  per- 
mitted to  enter  excepting  the  mistress  and  her  confi- 
dential maid,  who  visited  it  once  a-week  for  the  pur- 
pose of  giving  it  a thorough  cleaning,  and  putting 
things  to  rights,  always  taking  the  precaution  of  leav 
ing  their  shoes  at  the  door,  and  entering  devoutly  on 
their  stocking  feet.  After  scrubbing  the  floor,  sprink- 
ling it  with  fine  white  sand,  which  was  curiously 
stroked  into  angles,  and  curves,  and  rhomboids,  with 
a broom,  after  washing  the  window.s,  rubbing  and 
polishing  the  furniture,  and  putting  a new  bunch  of 
evergreens  in  the  fireplace,  the  window-shutters  were 
again  closed  to  keep  out  the  flies,  and  the  room  care- 
fully locked  up  until  the  revolution  of  time  brought 
round  the  weekly  cleaning  day. 

As  to  the  family,  they  always  entered  in  at  the 
gate,  and  most  generally  lived  in  the  kitchen.  To 
have  seen  a numerous  household  assembled  around 
the  fixe,  one  would  have  imagined  that  he  was  traa- 

59.5 


FROM  I7fi0 


CYCi,orA:i)iA  OK 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TI.Mi. 


sported  back  to  those  liappy  days  of  primeval  simpli- 
city which  (loat  before  our  imaftinatioiis  like  golden 
visions.  The  fire]ilaces  were  of  a truly  patriarchal 
magnitude,  where  the  whole  family,  old  and  young, 
master  and  servant,  black  and  white,  nay,  even  the 
very  cat  and  dog,  enjoyed  a community  of  privilege, 
ami  had  each  a prescriptive  right  to  a corner.  Here 
the  old  burgher  would  sit  in  jierfcct  silence,  puffing 
his  pipe,  looking  in  the  fire  with  half-shut  eyes,  and 
thinking  of  nothing  for  liours  together;  the  goede 
Vrouw  on  the  opposite  side  would  employ  herself  dili- 
gently in  spinning  her  yarn  or  knitting  stockings, 
'i'he  young  folks  would  crowd  around  the  hearth, 
listening  with  breathless  attention  to  some  old  crone 
of  a negro  who  was  the  oracle  of  the  family,  and  who, 
perched  like  a raven  in  a corner  of  the  chimney, 
would  creak  forth  for  a long  winter  afternoon  a string 
of  incredible  stories  about  New  England  witches,  grisly 
ghosts,  horses  without  heads,  and  hairbreadth  escapes, 
and  bloody  encounters  among  the  Indians. 

In  those  happy  days  a well-regulated  family  always 
rose  with  the  dawn,  dined  at  eleven,  and  went  to  bed 
at  sundown.  Dinner  was  invariably  a private  meal, 
and  the  fat  old  burghers  showed  ineontestable  symp- 
toms of  disapprobation  and  uneasiness  at  being  sur- 
prised by  a visit  from  a neighbour  on  such  occasions. 
Hut  though  our  worthy  ancestors  were  thus  singularly 
averse  to  giving  dinners,  yet  they  kept  up  the  social 
bonds  of  intimacy  by  occasional  banquetings,  called 
tea-parties. 

As  this  is  the  first  introduction  of  those  delectable 
orgies,  which  have  since  become  so  fashionable  in  this 
city,  I am  conscious  my  fair  readers  will  be  very 
curious  to  receive  information  on  the  subject.  Sorry 
am  1 that  there  will  be  but  little  in  my  description 
calculated  to  excite  their  admiration.  I can  neither 
delight  them  with  accounts  of  suffocating  crowds,  nor 
brilliant  drawing-rooms,  nor  towering  feathers,  nor 
sparkling  diamonds,  nor  immeasurable  trains.  I can 
detail  no  choice  anecdotes  of  scandal,  for  in  tho.se 
primitive  times  the  simple  folk  were  either  too  stupid 
or  too  good-natured  to  pull  each  other’s  characters  to 
pieces;  nor  can  I furnish  p.ny  whimsical  anecdotes  of 
brag  ; how  one  lady  cheated,  or  another  bounced  into 
a passion  ; for  as  yet  there  was  no  junto  of  dulcet  old 
dowagers  who  met  to  win  each  others  money  and  lose 
their  own  tempers  at  a card-table. 

These  fashionable  parties  were  generally  confined 
to  the  higher  classes,  or  nobles.se — that  is  to  say,  such 
as  kept  their  own  cows  and  drove  their  own  wagons. 
The  company  commonly  assembled  at  three  o’clock, 
and  went  away  about  six,  unless  it  was  in  winter  time, 
when  the  fashionable  hours  were  a little  earlier,  that 
the  ladies  might  get  home  before  dark.  I do  not 
find  that  they  ever  treated  their  company  to  iced 
creams,  jellies,  or  syllabubs,  or  regaled  them  witli 
musty  almonds,  mouldy  raisins,  or  sour  oranges,  as  is 
often  done  in  the  present  age  of  refinement.  Our 
ancestors  were  fond  of  more  sturdy  substantial  fare. 
The  tea-table  was  crowned  with  a huge  earthen  dish 
well  stored  with  slices  of  fat  pork,  fried  brown,  cut  up 
into  morsels,  and  swimming  in  gravy.  The  company 
being  seated  around  the  genial  board,  and  each  fur- 
nished with  a fork,  evinced  their  dexterity  in  launch- 
ing at  the  fattest  pieces  of  this  mighty  dish,  in  much 
the  same  manner  as  .sailors  harpoon  porpoi.ses  at  sea, 
or  our  Indians  spear  salmon  in  the  lakes.  Sometimes 
the  table  was  graced  with  immense  apple-pies,  or 
saucers  full  of  preserved  peaches  and  pears  ; but  it 
was  always  sure  to  boast  of  an  enormous  dish  of  balls 
of  sweetened  dough  fried  in  hog’s  fat,  and  called 
dough-nuts,  or  oly  koeks  ; a delicious  kind  of  cake,  at 
present  scarce  known  in  this  city,  excepting  in  genuine 
Dutch  families. 

The  tea  was  .served  out  of  a majestic  delft  tea-pot 
'*ft»a'uented  with  paintings  of  fat  little  Dutch  shep- 


lierds  and  shepherde.sses,  tending  pigs — with  boats 
sailing  in  the  air,  and  hou.ses  built  in  the  clou'ls,  and 
sundry  other  ingenious  Dutch  fantasies.  The  beaux 
distinguished  themselves  by  their  adroitness  in  re- 
plenishing this  pot  from  a huge  copper  tea-kettle, 
which  would  have  made  the  pigmy  macaronies  oi 
these  degenerate  days  sweat  merely  to  look  at  it.  To 
sweeten  the  beverage,  a lump  of  sugar  was  laid  beside 
each  cup,  and  the  company  alternately  nibbled  and 
sipped  with  great  decorum,  until  an  improvement 
was  introduced  by  a shrewd  and  economic  old  lady, 
which  was,  to  suspend  a large  lump  directly  over  the 
tea-table  by  a string  from  the  ceiling,  so  that  it  could 
be  swung  from  mouth  to  mouth — an  ingenious  expe- 
dient, which  is  still  kept  up  by  some  families  in  Al- 
bany, but  which  prevails,  without  exception,  in  Com- 
munipaw,  Bergen,  Elat-Bush,  and  all  our  uncontami- 
nated Dutch  villages. 

At  these  primitive  tea-parties  the  utmost  propriety 
and  dignity  of  deportment  prevailed.  No  flirting  nor 
coquetting — no  gambling  of  old  ladies,  nor  hoyden 
chattering  and  romping  of  young  ones — no  self-.satis- 
fied  struttings  of  wealthy  gentlemen  with  their  brains 
in  their  pockets  ; nor  amusing  conceits  and  monkey 
divertisements  of  smart  young  gentlemen  with  no 
brains  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  the  young  ladies 
seated  themselves  demurely  in  their  rush-bottomed 
chairs,  and  knit  their  own  woollen  stockings ; nor 
ever  opened  their  lips,  excepting  to  .say  yuli  Mynheer 
or  yah  ya  Vrouw  to  any  question  that  was  asked 
them  ; behaving  in  all  things  like  decent  well-edu- 
cated damsels.  As  to  the  gentlemen,  each  of  them 
tranquilly  smoked  his  pipe,  and  seemed  lost  in  con- 
templation of  the  blue  and  white  tiles  with  which  the 
fireplaces  were  decorated  ; wherein  sundry  passages 
of  Scripture  were  piously  portrayed  : Tobit  and  his 
dog  figured  to  great  advantage;  Ilaman  swung  con- 
spicuously on  his  gibbet;  and  .lonah  appeared  mo.st 
manfully  bouncing  out  of  the  whale,  like  Harlequin 
through  a barrel  of  fire. 

The  parties  broke  up  without  noise  and  without 
confusion.  They  were  carried  home  by  their  own 
carriages — that  is  to  say,  by  the  vehicle.s  nature  had 
[irovided  them,  excepting  such  of  the  wealthy  as  could 
afford  to  keep  a wagon.  The  gentlemen  gallantly 
atteniled  their  fair  ones  to  their  respective  abodes, 
and  took  leave  of  them  with  a hearty  smack  at  the 
door;  which,  as  it  was  an  e.stablished  jiiece  of  etiquette, 
done  in  perfect  sim])licity  and  honcst3'  of  heart, 
occasioned  no  scandal  at  that  time,  nor  should  it  at 
the  present — if  our  great-grandfathers  approved  of  the 
custom,  it  would  argue  a great  want  of  reverence  in 
their  descendants  to  say  a word  again.st  it. 

[A  Rainy  Sunday  in  an  Inn.] 

[From  * Bracebridge  Hall.'] 

It  was  a rainy  Sunday  in  the  gloomy  month  of 
November.  I bail  been  detained  in  the  course  of  .a 
journey  by  a slight  indisposition,  from  which  1 wa.s 
recovering;  but  I was  still  feverish,  and  was  obliged 
to  keep  within  doors  all  day,  in  an  inn  of  the  small 
town  of  Derby'.  A wet  Sunday  in  a country  inn! 
whoever  has  had  the  luck  to  experience  one,  can  alone 
judge  of  my  situation.  The  rain  pattered  against  the 
casements,  the  bells  tolled  for  church  with  a melan- 
choly sound.  I went  to  the  windows  i;i  quest  of 
something  to  .amuse  the  eye,  but  it  seemed  as  if  I had 
been  placed  completely  out  of  the  roach  of  all  amuse- 
ment. The  windows  of  my  bed-room  looked  out  among 
tiled  roofs  and  stacks  of  chimneys,  while  those  of  my 
sitting-room  commanded  a full  view  of  the  stable-y.ard. 

I know  of  nothing  more  calculated  to  make  a man 
( sick  of  this  world  than  a stable-yard  on  a rainy  day. 

I The  place  was  littered  with  wet  straw  that  had  been 
I kicked  about  by  travellers  and  stable-boys.  J\  ' one 

5;r» 


JOHN  GinSON  LOCKHART. 


NOVF.M'TS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


corner  was  a stagnant  pool  of  water  surroundiii";  an 
island  of  muck  ; there  were  several  half-drowned  fowls 
crowded  together  under  a cart,  among  which  was  a 
iniserjible  crest-fallen  cock,  drenched  out  of  all  life 
and  spirit,  his  drooping  tail  matted,  as  it  were,  into 
a single  feather,  along  which  the  water  trickled  from 
his  back  ; near  the  cart  was  a half-dozing  cow  chew- 
ing the  cud,  and  standing  patiently  to  be  rained  on, 
with  wreaths  of  vapour  rising  from  her  reeking  hide  ; 
a wall-eyed  horse,  tired  of  the  loneliness  of  the  stable, 
wivs  poking  his  spectral  head  out  of  a window,  with 
the  rain  dripping  on  it  from  the  eaves  ; an  unhappy 
cur,  chained  to  a dog-house  hard  by,  uttered  some- 
thing every  now  and  then  between  a bark  and  a yelp  ; 
a drab  of  a kitchen  wench  tramped  backwards  and 
forwards  through  the  yard  in  pattens,  looking  as  sulky 
as  the  weather  itself ; everything,  in  short,  was  com- 
fortless and  forlorn,  excepting  a crew  of  hard-drink- 
ing ducks,  assembled  like  boon  companions  round  a 
puddle,  and  making  a riotous  noise  over  their  liquor. 

I sauntered  to  the  window,  and  stood  gazing  at  the 
leople  picking  their  way  to  church,  with  petticoats 
loisted  mid-leg  high,  and  dripping  umbrellas.  The 
bells  ceased  to  toll,  and  the  streets  became  silent.  I 
Uien  amused  myself  with  watching  the  daughters  of 
tradesman  opposite,  who,  being  confined  to  the 
Bouse  for  fear  of  wetting  their  Sunday  finery,  played 
ttf  their  charms  at  the  front  windows,  to  fascinate  the 
{hance  tenants  of  the  inn.  They  at  length  were  sum- 
moned away  by  a vigilant  vinegar-faced  mother,  and 
had  nothing  further  from  without  to  amuse  me. 

The  day  continued  lowering  and  gloomy  ; the 
►lovenly,  ragged,  spongy  clouds  drifted  heavily  along  ; 
Ihere  was  no  variety  even  in  the  rain  ; it  was  one 
\ull,  continued,  monotonous  patter,  patter,  patter, 
Bxcepting  that  now  and  then  I was  enlivened  by 
the  idea  of  a brisk  shower,  from  the  rattling  of  the 
drops  upon  a passing  umbrella.  It  was  quite  re- 
freshing (if  I may  be  allowed  a hackneyed  phrase 
of  the  day)  when  in  the  course  of  the  morning  a 
horn  blew,  and  a stage-coach  whirled  through  the 
street,  with  outside  passengers  stuck  all  over  it, 
cowering  under  cotton  umbrellas,  and  seethed  toge- 
ther, and  reeking  with  the  steams  of  w'et  box-coats 
and  upper  Benjamins.  The  sound  brought  out 
from  their  lurking-places  a crew  of  vagabond  boys 
and  v.agabond  dogs,  and  the  carroty-headed  hostler, 
and  that  nondescript  animal  yclept  Boots,  and  all 
the  other  vagabond  race  that  infest  the  purlieus  of  an 
inn  ; but  the  bustle  was  transient ; the  coach  again 
whirled  on  its  way ; and  boy  and  dog,  and  hostler 
and  Boots,  all  slunk  back  again  to  their  holes  ; the 
street  again  became  silent,  and  the  rain  continued 
to  rain  on. 

The  evening  gradually  w'ore  away.  The  travellers 
read  the  papers  two  or  three  times  over.  Some  drew 
round  the  fire,  and  told  long  stories  about  their 
I horses,  about  their  adventures,  their  overturns,  and 
breakings-down.  They  discussed  the  credits  of  diffe- 
rent merchants  and  different  inns,  and  the  two  wags 
told  several  choice  anecdotes  of  pretty  chambermaids 
and  kind  landladies.  All  this  passed  as  they  were 
quietly  taking  what  they  called  their  nightcaps  ; that 
is  to  say,  strong  glasses  of  brandy  and  water  or 
sugar,  or  some  other  mixture  of  the  kind;  after  which 
they  one  after  another  rang  for  Boots  and  the  cham- 
bermaid, and  walked  off  to  bed  in  old  shoes  cut  down 
into  marvellously  uncomfortable  slippers.  There  was 
only  one  man  left — a short-legged,  long-bodied,  ple- 
thoric fellow,  with  a very  large,  sandy  head.  He  sat 
by  hira.self  with  a glass  of.  port  wine  negus  and  a 
Br»oon,  sipping  and  stirring,  and  meditating  and  sip- 
ping, until  nothing  was  left  but  the  spoon.  He  gra- 
dually fell  asleep  bolt  upright  in  his  chair,  with  the 
empty  glass  standi)  g before  him  ; and  the  candle 
seemed  to  fall  aslee)  too,  for  the  wick  grew  long  and 


black,  and  cabbaged  at  the  end,  and  dimmed  the 
little  light  that  remained  in  the  chamber.  The  gloom 
that  now  prevailed  was  contagious.  Around  hung  the 
shaneless  and  almost  spectral  box-coats  of  departed 
travellers,  long  since  buried  in  deep  sleep.  1 only 
heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  with  the  deep-drawn 
breathings  of  the  sleeping  toper,  and  the  drippings  of 
the  rain — drop,  drop,  drop — from  the  eaves  of  tha 
house. 

JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHART. 

John  Gibson  Lockhart,  the  biographer  of  his 
illustrious  father-in-law.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  editor 
of  the  Quarterly  Review',  is  author  of  four  novels — 
V^alcrius,  a Roman  Story,  three  volumes,  1821 ; Adam 
Blair,  one  volume,  1822;  Reyhtald  Dalton,  three 
volumes,  1823;  and  Matthew  Wald,  one  volume, 
1824. 

The  first  of  Mr  Lockhart’s  productions  is  the 
best.  It  is  a tale  of  the  times  of  Trajan,  when  that 
emperor,  disregarding  the  example  of  his  pi'edecessor 
Nerva,  persecuted  the  small  Christian  community 
which  had  found  shxlter  in  the  bosom  of  the  Eternal 
City,  and  were  call  .ly  pursuing  their  pure  worship 
and  peaceful  lives.  As  the  blood  of  the  mai'tyr  is 
the  seed  of  the  church,  the  Christians  were  extend- 
ing their  numbers,  though  condemned  to  meet  in 
caves  and  sepulchres,  and  forced  to  renounce  the 
honours  and  ambition  of  tlie  world.  The  hero  of  the 
tale  visits  Rome  for  the  first  time  at  this  intei'esting 
period.  He  is  the  son  of  a Roman  commander,  who 
had  settled  in  Britain,  and  is  summoned  to  Rome 
after  the  death  of  his  parents  to  take  possession  of 
an  estate  to  which,  as  the  heir  of  the  Valerii,  he  had 
become  entitled.  His  kinsman  Licinius,  an  eminent 
lawyer,  receives  him  with  afiection,  and  introduces 
him  to  liis  friends  and  acquaintances.  We  aie  thus 
presented  with  sketches  of  the  domestic  society  of 
the  Romans,  with  pictures  of  the  Forum,  the  baths, 
temples,  and  other  marvels  of  Rome,  which  are 
hrietly,  but  distinctly  and  picturesquely  delineated. 
At  the  villa  of  Capito,  an  E[)icnrean  philosopher, 
Valerius  meets  with  the  two  fair  nieces  of  his  host, 
Sempronia  and  Athanasia.  The  latter  is  the  heroine 
of  the  tale — a pure  intellectuid  creation,  in  which  we 
see  united  the  Roman  grace  and  (‘.“minhie  sweetness 
of  the  patrician  lady,  with  the  high  s-  aled  fortitude 
and  elevation  of  the  Christian.  Atna.iasia  has  em- 
braced the  new-  faith,  and  is  in  close  communion 
with  its  professors.  Her  charms  overcome  V.alerius, 
who  soon  obtains  possession  of  her  secret;  and  af.'er 
various  adventures,  in  w-hich  he  succours  the  perse- 
cuted maiden,  and  aids  in  her  wonderful  escape,  he 
is  at  length  admitted  by  baptism  into  the  fellowship 
of  the  Christi;ins.  and  embarks  with  Athanasia  for 
Britain.  . The  niaterials  of  such  a story  are  neces- 
sarily roniantic  and  impressive.  The  taste  and 
splendour  of  ancient  Rome  present  a fertile  field  for 
the  imagination,  and  the  transition  from  these  to 
the  sufferings,  the  devotion,  and  dangers  of  the 
eai'ly  Christians,  calls  up  a different  and  not  less 
striking  train  of  feelings  and  associations.  In  his 
serious  and  pathetic  scenes  the  author  is  most  suc- 
cessful. In  the  low  humour  of  his  attendants,  the 
vulgar  display  of  the  rich  widow,  and  the  servile 
pedantry  of  the  stoic  tutor,  there  appear  to  us  many 
sins  against  good  taste.  Some  of  the  satirical  touches 
and  phrases  are  also  at  variance  with  the  purity  and 
elegance  of  the  general  strain  of  the  story,  and  with 
the  consummate  art  with  which  the  author  has 
wrought  up  his  situations  of  a tragic  and  lofty  na- 
ture, where  we  are  borne  along  by  a deep  and  steady 
feeling  of  refined  pleasure,  interest,  and  admiration 
One  of  the  most  striking  scenes  in  the  novel  is  a 

597 


PROM  1780  CYCLOl’iKDI A OF  till  the  present  time. 


criuul  (lisphiy  at  tin-  Flavian  ainpUiflioatrc,  given  by 


the  emperor  on  the  anniversary  of  the  hay  on  which 
he  was  adopted  by  Nerva.  On  this  oeeasion  a Chris- 
tian iirisoner  is  brought  forward,  either  to  renounce 
his  faitli  in  the  face  of  the  assembly,  or  todie  in  tbe 
arena.  Eighty  thousand  persons  were  there  met, 
from  the  lordly  senators  on  their  silken  couches, 
along  the  parapet  of  the  arena,  up  to  the  impene- 
trable mass  of  plebeian  heads  which  skirted  the 
horizon,  above  the  topmost  wall  of  tbe  amphitheatre 
itself.’  The  scene  concludes  with  the  execution  of 
the  Christian.  In  another  scene  there  is  great  classic 
grace,  united  with  delicacy  of  feeling.  It  describes 
Athanasia  in  prison,  and  visited  there  by  Valerius 
through  the  connivance  of  Silo,  the  jailer,  who  be- 
longs to  the  Christian  party  : — 

I had  hurried  along  the  darkening  streets,  and  up 
the  a.scent  of  the  Capitoline,  .scarce  listening  to  the 
story  of  the  Cretan.  On  reaching  the  summit,  we 
found  the  courts  about  the  temple  of  .lupiter  already 
occupied  by  detachments  of  foot.  1 hastened  to  the 
Mammertine,  and  before  the  postern  opened  to  admit 
us,  the  Frictorian  squadron  had  drawn  up  at  the  great 
gate.  Sabinus  beckoned  me  to  him.  ‘ Caius,’  said 
he,  stooping  on  his  horse,  ‘ would  to  Heaven  1 had  been 
spared  this  duty!  Cotilius  comes  forth  this  moment, 
and  then  we  go  back  to  the  Palatine  ; and  I fear — I 
fear  we  are  to  guard  thither  your  Athanasia.'  If  you 
wish  to  enter  the  prison,  quicken  your  steps.’ 

We  had  scarcely  entered  the  inner-court  ere  Sabinus 
also,  and  about  a score  of  his  Praetorians,  rode  into  it. 
Silo  and  Boto  were  standing  together,  and  both  had 
already  hastened  towards  me  ; but  the  jailer,  .seeing  the 
centurion,  was  constrained  to  part  from  me  with  one 
hurried  word  : — ‘ Pity  me,  for  I also  am  most  wretched. 
But  you  know  the  way  ; here,  take  this  key,  hasten  to 
my  dear  lady,  and  tell  her  what  commands  have  come.’ 

Alas  ! said  I to  myself,  of  what  tidings  am  I doomed 
ever  to  be  the  messenger  1 but  she  was  alone  ; and  how 
could  1 shrink  from  any  jialn  that  might  perhaps  alle- 
viate hers?  I took  the  key,  glided  along  the  corri- 
dors, and  stood  once  more  at  the  door  of  the  chamber 
in  which  I had  parteil  from  Athanasi.a.  Eo  voice 
answered  to  my  ’.cnock  ; 1 repeated  it  three  times,  and 
then,  agitated  with  indistinct  apprehension,  hesitated 
no  longer  to  open  it.  No  lamp  was  burning  within 
the  chamber,  but  from  without  tliere  entered  a waver- 
ing glare  of  deep  saffron-coloured  light,  which  showed 
me  Athanasia  e.xtended  on  her  couch.  Its  ominous 
and  troubled  hue  had  no  power  to  mar  the  image  of 
her  sleeping  tranquillity.  1 hung  over  her  for  a mo- 
ment, and  was  about  to  disturb  that  slumber — per- 
haps the  last  slumber  of  peace  and  innocence — when 
the  chamber  walls  were  visited  with  a yet  deeper  glare. 
‘ Caius,’  she  whispered,  as  1 stejiped  from  beside  the 
couch,  ‘ why  do  you  leave  me  ? Stay,  Valerius.’  I 
looked  back,  but  her  eyelids  were  still  closed ; the 
same  calm  smile  was  upon  her  dreaming  lips.  The 
light  streamed  redder  and  more  red.  All  in  an  in- 
stant became  as  quiet  without  as  within.  I approached 
the  window,  and  saw  Cotilius  standing  in  the  midst 
of  the  court,  Sabinus  and  Silo  near  him  ; the  hor.se- 
men  drawn  up  on  either  side,  and  a .soldier  close  be- 
hind resting  upon  an  unsheathed  sword.  I saw  the 
keen  blue  eye  as  fierce  as  ever.  I saw  that  the  blood 
was  still  fervid  in  his  cheeks ; for  the  complexion  of 
this  man  was  of  the  same  bold  and  florid  brightne.ss,  so 
uncommon  in  Italy,  which  you  have  seen  repre.sented  in 
the  pictures  of  Sylla  ; and  even  the  blaze  of  the  torches 
seemed  to  strive  in  vain  to  heighten  its  natural  scarlet. 
The  soldier  had  lifted  his  sword,  and  my  eye  was  fixed, 
as  by  fascination,  when  suddenly  a deep  voice  was 
heard  amidst  the  deadly  silence — ‘ Cotilius  1 — look  up, 
''jotilius !’ 

Aurelius,  tl  ’ Christian  priest,  standing  at  an  open 


window  not  far  distant  from  that  at  which  1 was 
placed,  stretched  forth  his  fettered  hand  as  he 
spake: — ‘Cotilius!  1 charge  thee,  look  upon  the  hand 
from  which  the  blessed  water  of  baptism  was  cast 
upon  thy  head.  I charge  thee,  look  upon  me,  and 
say,  ere  yet  the  blow  be  given,  upon  what  hope  thy 
thoughts  are  fixed ! Is  this  sword  bared  against  tbs 
rebel  of  Caesar,  or  a martyr  of  Jesus!  I charge  thee, 
speak  ; and  for  thy  soul’s  sake  speak  truly.’ 

A bitter  motion  of  derision  passed  over  his  lips, 
and  he  nodded,  as  if  impatiently,  to  the  Praetorian. 
Instinctively  1 turned  me  from  the  spectacle,  and  my 
eye  rested  again  upon  the  couch  of  Atlianasia — but  not 
upon  the  vision  of  her  tranquillity.  The  clap  with 
which  the  corpse  fell  upon  the  stones  had  perhaps 
reached  the  sleeping  ear,  and  we  know  with  what 
swiftness  thoughts  cha-se  thoughts  in  the  wilderness  of 
dreams.  So  it  was  that  she  started  at  the  very  mo. 
ment  when  the  blow  was  given  ; and  she  whispered^ 
for  it  was  still  but  a dee]>  whisper — ‘ Siiare  me,  I'rajan 
Caesar,  Prince — have  pity  on  my  youth — strengthen 
strengthen  rne,  good  Lord!  Fie  1 fie  1 we  must  not  lie 
to  save  life.  Felix — Valerius — come  close  to  me  Caius 
— h'ie  1 let  us  remember  we  are  Romans — ’Tis  the 
trumpet ’ 

The  Praetorian  trumpet  sounded  the  march  in  the 
court  below,  and  Athanasia,  starting  from  her  sleep, 
gazed  wildly  around  the  reddened  chamber.  The 
blast  of  the  trumpet  was  indeed  in  her  ear — and  Va- 
lerius hung  over  her  ; but  after  a moment  the  cloud 
of  the  broken  dream  passed  away,  and  the  maiden 
smiled  as  she  extended  her  hand  to  me  from  the 
couch,  and  began  to  gather  up  the  ringlets  that  floated 
all  down  upon  her  shoulder.  She  blushed  and  smiled 
mournfully,  and  asked  me  hastily  whence  I came, 
and  for  what  purpose  1 had  come  ; but  before  1 could 
answer,  the  glare  that  was  yet  in  the  chamber  seemed 
anew  to  be  perplexing  her,  and  she  g.azed  from  me  to 
the  red  walls,  and  from  them  to  me  again  ; and  then 
once  more  the  trumpet  was  blown,  and  Athanasia 
•sprung  from  her  couch.  1 know  not  in  what  terms  I 
was  e.ssaying  to  tell  her  what  was  the  truth  ; but  1 
know,  that  ere  I had  said  many  words,  she  discovered 
my  meaning.  For  a moment  she  looked  deadly  pale, 
in  spite  of  all  the  glare  of  the  torch  beams  ; but  she 
recovered  herself,  and  said  in  a voice  that  sounded 
almost  as  if  it  came  from  a light  heart — ‘ But,  Caius, 
I must  not  go  to  Czesar  without  having  at  least  a gar- 
land on  my  head.  Stay  here,  Valerius,  and  I shall 
be  ready  anon — quite  ready.’ 

1 1 seemed  to  me  as  if  she  were  less  hasty  than  she 
had  promised  ; yet  many  minutes  elapsed  not  ere  she 
returned.  She  plucked  a 'blo.ssom  from  her  hair  as 
she  drew  near  to- me,  and  said,  ‘Take  it:  you  must 
not  refuse  one  token  more  ; this  also  is  a sacred  gift. 
Caius,  you  must  learn  never  to  look  u])on  it  without 
kissing  these  red  streaks — these  blessed  streaks  of  the 
'Christian  flower.’ 

I took  the  flower  from  her  h.and  and  pressed  it  to 
my  lips,  and  I remembered  that  the  veiy  first  day  I 
saw  Athanasia  she  had  plucked  such  a one  when 
apart  from  all  the  rest  in  the  gardens  of  Capito.  1 
told  her  what  I remembered,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
little  circumstance  had  called  up  all  the  image  of 
peaceful  days,  for  once  more  sorrowfulness  gathered 
upon  her  countenance.  If  the  tear  was  ready,  how- 
ever, it  was  not  permitted  to  drop ; and  Athanasia  re- 
turned again  to  her  flower. 

‘ Do  you  think  there  are  any  of  them  in  Britain!’ 
said  she ; ‘ or  do  you  think  that  they  would  grow 
there?  You  must  go  to  my  dear  uncle,  and  he  will 
not  deny  you  when  you  tell  him  that  it  is  for  my 
sake  he  is  to  give  you  some  of  his.  They  call  it  the 
passion-flower — ’tis  an  emblem  of  an  awful  thing. 
Caius,  these  purple  streaks  are  like  trickling  drops ; 
and  here,  look  ye,  they  are  all  round  the  flower.  1* 

598 


H0VEL1ST8. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JOHN  GIDSON  GOCKIURT. 


it  not  very  like  a bloody  crown  upon  a pale  brow ! I 
will  take  one  of  them  in  niy  hand,  too,  Caius ; and 
metbiiiks  I shall  not  disgrace  myself  when  I look 
npon  it,  even  though  Trajan  should  be  frowning  upon 
me.’ 

I had  not  the  heart  to  interrupt  her ; but  heard 
silently  all  she  said,  and  I thought  she  said  the  words 
quickly  and  eagerly,  as  if  she  feared  to  be  interrupted. 

The  old  priest  came  into  the  chamber  while  she  was 
yet  speaking  so,  and  said  very  composedly,  ‘ Come, 
my  dear  child,  our  friend  has  sent  again  for  us,  and 
the  soldiers  have  been  waiting  already  some  space, 
who  are  to  convey  us  to  the  Palatine.  Come,  children, 
we  must  part  for  a moment — perhaps  it  may  be  but 
for  a moment — and  Valerius  may  remain  here  till  we 
return  to  him.  Here,  at  least,  dear  Caius,  you  shall 
have  the  earliest  tidings  and  the  surest.’ 

The  good  man  took  Athanasia  by  the  hand,  and 
she,  smiling  now  at  length  more  serenely  than  ever, 
said  only,  ‘ Farewell  then,  Caius,  for  a little  moment !’ 
And  so,  drawing  her  veil  over  her  face,  she  passed 
away  from  before  me,  giving,  I think,  more  support  to 
j the  ancient  Aurelius  than  in  her  turn  she  received 
I from  him.  I began  to  follow  them,  but  the  priest 
I waved  his  hand  as  if  to  forbid  me.  The  door  closed 
after  them,  and  I was  alone. 

‘ Adam  Blair.’  or,  as  the  title  runs,  Some  Passages 
in  the  Life  of  Mr  Adam  Blair,  Minister  of  the  Gospel 
at  Cross-Meikte,  is  a narrative  of  the  fall  of  a Scottish 
minister  from  the  purity  and  dignity  of  the  pastoral 
character,  and  his  restoration,  after  a season  of  deep 
penitence  and  contrition,  to  the  duties  of  his  sacred 
profession,  in  the  same  place  which  had  formerly 
witnessed  his  worth  and  usefulness.  The  unpleasant 
nature  of  the  story,  and  a certain  tone  of  exaggera- 
tion and  sentimentalism  in  parts  of  it,  render  the 
perusal  of  the  work  somewhat  painful  and  disagree- 
able, and  even  of  doubtful  morality.  But  ‘ Adam 
Blair’  is  powerfully  written,  with  an  accurate  con- 
ception of  Scottish  feeling  and  character,  and  pas- 
sages of  description  equal  to  any  in  the  author’s  other 
works.  The  tender-hearted  enthusiastic  minister  of 
Cross-Meikle  is  hurried  on  to  his  downfall  ‘ by  fate 
and  metaphysical  aid,’  and  never  appears  in  the 
light  of  a guilty  person ; while  his  faithful  elder,  John 
Maxwell,  and  his  kind  friends  at  Semplehaugh,  are 
just  and  honourable  representatives  of  the  good  old 
Scotch  rural  classes. 

‘ Reginald  Dalton’  is  the  most  extended  of  Mr 
Lockhart’s  fictions,  and  gives  us  more  of  the  ‘ gene- 
i ral  form  and  pressure’  of  humankind  and  society 
than  his  two  previous  works.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
England,  and  we  have  a full  account  of  college  life  in 
Jxford,  where  Reginald,  the  hero,  is  educated,  and 
where  he  learns  to  imbibe  port,  if  not  prejudice.  The 
lissipation  and  extravagance  of  the  son  almost  ruin 
Jiis  father,  an  English  clergyman ; and  some  scenes 
of  distress  and  suffering  consequent  on  this  miscon- 
duct are  related  with  true  and  manly  feeling.  Regi- 
nald joins  in  the  rows  and  quarrels  of  the  gownsmen 
(which  are  described  at  considerable  length,  and  with 
apparently  complete  knowledge  of  similar  scenes), 
but  he  has  virtue  enough  left  to  fall  in  love ; and 
the  scene  where  he  declares  his  passion  to  the  fair 
Helen  Hesketh  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and 
beautiful  in  the  book.  A duel,  an  elopement,  the 
subtlety  and  craft  of  lawyers,  and  the  final  succes- 
sion of  Reginald  to  the  patrimony  of  his  ancestors, 
supply'  the  usual  excitement  for  novel  readers  ; but 
much  of  this  machinery  is  clumsily  managed,  and 
the  value  of  the  book  consists  in  its  pictures  of  Eng- 
lisli  modern  manners,  and  in  its  clear  and  manly 
t('ne  of  thought  and  style.  The  following  is  a de- 
scription of  an  ancient  Englisl  mansion  : — 

They  ha.ted  to  bait  their  horses  at  a little  village 


on  the  main  coast  of  the  Palatinate,  and  then  pur- 
sued their  course  leisurely  througli  a rich  and  level 
country,  until  the  groves  of  Grypherwast  received 
them  amidst  all  the  breathless  splendour  of  a noble 
sunset.  It  would  be  difficult  to  express  the  emotions 
with  which  young  Reginald  regarded,  for  the  first 
time,  the  ancient  demesne  of  his  race.  The  scene  was 
one  which  a stranger,  of  years  and  experience  very 
superior  to  his,  might  have  been  pardoned  for  con- 
teni]dating  with  some  enthusiasm  ; but  to  him  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  venerable  front,  embosomed  amidst 
its 

‘ Old  contemporary  trees," 

Wits  the  more  than  realisation  of  cherished  dreams. 
Involuntarily  he  drew  in  his  rein,  and  the  whole  party 
as  involuntarily  following  the  motion,  they  approached 
the  gateway  together  at  the  slowest  pace. 

The  gateway  is  almost  in  the  heart  of  the  village, 
for  the  hall  of  Grypherwast  had  been  reared  long 
before  English  gentlemen  conceived  it  to  be  a point 
of  dignity  to  have  no  humble  roofs  near  their  own. 
A beautiful  stream  runs  hard  by,  and  the  hamlet  is 
almost  within  the  arms  of  the  princely  forest,  whose 
ancient  oaks,  and  beeches,  and  gigantic  pine-trees 
darken  and  ennoble  the  aspect  of  the  whole  surround- 
ing region.  The  peasantry,  who  watch  the  flocks  and 
herds  in  those  deep  and  grassy'  glades,  the  fishermen, 
who  draw  their  subsistence  from  the  clear  waters  of 
the  river,  and  the  w-oodmen,  whose  axes  resound  all 
day  long  among  the  inexhaustible  thickets,  are  the 
sole  inhabitants  of  the  simple  phice.  Over  their  cot- 
tages the  hall  of  Grypherwa.st  has  predominated  for 
many  long  centuries,  a true  old  northern  manor- 
house,  not  devoid  of  a certain  magnificence  in  its 
general  aspect,  though  making  slender  pretensions 
to  anything  like  elegance  in  its  details.  The  central 
tower,  square,  massy,  rude,  and  almost  destitute  of 
windows,  recalls  the  knightly  and  troubled  period  of 
the  old  Border  wars ; while  the  overshadowing  roofs, 
carved  balconies,  and  multifarious  chimney's  scattered 
over  the  rest  of  the  building,  attest  the  successive  in- 
fluence of  many  more  or  less  tasteful  generations. 
Excepting  in  the  original  baronial  tower,  the  upper 
parts  of  the  house  are  all  formed  of  oak,  but  this  with 
such  an  air  of  strength  and  solidity  as  might  well 
shame  many  modern  structures  raised  of  better  mate- 
rials. Nothing  could  be  more  jierfectly  in  harmony 
with  the  whole  character  of  the  place  than  the 
autumnal  brownness  of  the  stately  trees  around. 
The  same  descending  rays  were  tinging  with  rich 
lustre  the  outlines  of  their  bare  trunks,  and  the  pro- 
jecting edges  of  the  old-fashioned  bay-windows  which 
they  sheltered  ; and  some  rooks  of  very  old  family 
were  cawing  overhead  almost  in  the  midst  of  the 
hospitable  smoke-wreaths.  Within  a couple  of  yards 
from  the  door  of  the  house  an  eminently  respectable- 
looking old  man,  in  a powdered  wig  and  very  rich 
livery  of  blue  and  scarlet,  was  sitting  on  a garden 
chair  with  a pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  a cool  tankard 
within  his  reach  upon  the  ground. 

The  tale  of  Matthew  Wald  is  related  in  the  first 
person,  and  the  hero  experiences  a great  variety  of 
fortune.  He  is  not  of  the  amiable  or  romantie 
school,  and  seems  to  have  been  adopted  (in  the  man- 
ner of  Godwin)  merely  as  a medium  for  portraying 
strong  passions  and  situations  in  life.  The  story  of 
Matthew’s  first  love,  and  some  of  the  episodical  nar- 
ratives of  the  work,  are  interesting  and  ably  written. 
There  is  also  much  worldly  shrewdness  and  observa 
tion  evinced  in  the  delineation  of  some  of  the  scenes 
and  characters  -,  but  on  the  whole,  it  is  the  poorest 
of  Mr  Lockhart’s  novels.  The  awkward  improbable 
manner  in  which  the  events  are  brought  about,  and 
the  carelessness  and  inelegance  of  tiie  language  in 
many  places,  are  remarkable  in  a writer  of  critical 


I'uoM  17f!0 


CYCI,()I*^:i)IA  OF 


TII.I  THE  PRESENT  TIMS, 


liiiliits  iiiiii  iittiiinnieiits  as  a scholar.  Mr 

Lockhart,  we  aiispcet,  like  Slieridaii,  requires  time 
and  i)atieiit,  revision  to  hriiij;  out  fully  his  eoiicep- 
tions,  and  nevertheless  is  often  tempted  or  impelled 
to  hurry  to  a close. 

Mr  I,ockhart  is  a native  of  the  city  of  Glasgow, 
son  of  the  late  Kev.  John  Lockhart,  minister  of  the 
College  Church.  He  was  educateil  at  the  uuiversity 
of  his  native  city,  and,  in  cotiseqnenee.  of  his  supe- 
riority in  his  clas.ses,  was  selected  as  one  of  the  two 
students  whom  Glasgow  college  sends  annually  to 
O.tford,  in  virtue  of  an  endowment  named  •Snell’s 
Foundation.’  Having  taken  his  degree,  Mr  Lock- 
hart repiiirisi  to  Ldinburgh,  and  applied  himself  to 
the  study  of  the  law.  He  entered  at  the  bar,  but 
was  qpickly  induced  to  devote  himself  chiefly  to 
literature.  Besides  the  works  we  have  mentioned, 
Mr  Lockhart  was  a regular  contributor  to  Black- 
wood’s Magazine,  and  iniiiarted  to  that  work  a 
large  portion  of  the  spirit,  originality,  and  deter- 
mined political  character  which  it  has  long  main- 
tained. In  1820  he  was  married  to  Sophia,  the  eld- 
est daughter  of  Sir  WiJter  Scott,  a lady  who  pos- 
sessed much  of  the  conversational  talent,  the  unaf- 
fected good  humour,  and  liveliness  of  her  father. 
Mrs  Ijoekhart  died  on  the  17th  of  Jlay  18.37,  in  Lon- 
don, whither  Mr  Lockhart  had  gone  in  1825  to  re- 
side as  successor  to  Mr  Gifford  in  the  editorship  of 
the  Quarterly  Review. 

PROFESSOR  WILSON. 

Professor  Wilson  carried  the  peculiar  features 
and  characteristics  of  his  poetry  into  his  prose  com- 
positions. The  same  amiable  gentleness,  tenderness, 
love  of  nature,  pictures  of  solitary  life,  humble  affec- 
tions, luid  pious  hopes,  e.\'pressed  in  an  elaborate  but 
rich  structure  of  language,  which  fixed  upon  the 
author  of  the  Isle  of  Palms  the  title  of  a Lake  Poet, 
may  be  seen  in  all  bis  tales.  The  first  of  these  ap- 
peared in  1822,  under  the  name  of  Lii/hls  anil iS/uidowx 
of  Scottish  Life;  a Selection  from  the  Papers  of  the 
late  Arthur  Austin.  Tills  volume  consists  of  tw  enty- 
four  short  tales,  ttiree  of  which  (The  Elder’s  Fuue- 
rah  The  Snow-Storm,  and  The  Forgers)  bad  pre- 
viously been  published  in  Blackwood’s  Magazine. 
Most  of  tliem  are  tender  and  jiathetic,  and  relate  to 
Scottish  rural  and  pastoral  life.  Tlie  iunoeenee, 
simplicity,  and  strict  piety  of  ancient  manners  are 
described  as  stiil  lingering  in  our  vales;  but,  witli  a 
fine  spirit  of  homely  truth  and  antique  Scriptural 
phraseology,  the  author’s  scenes  and  characters  are 
too  Arcadian  to  be  real.  His  second  work.  The 
Trials  of  Margaret  Li/ndsai/  (one  volume,  1823),  is 
more  regular  in  construction  and  varied  in  incident. 
The  heroine  is  a maiden  in  humble  life,  whose  father 
imbibes  tlie  opinions  of  Paine,  and  is  imprisoned 
on  a charge  of  sedition,  but  afterwards  released.  He 
becomes  irreligious  and  profane  as  well  as  dis- 
affected, and  elopes  with  tlie  mistress  of  a brother 
reformer.  The  gradual  ruin  and  deepening  dis- 
tress of  this  man’s  innocent  family  are  related  with 
much  pathos.  Margaret,  the  eldest  daughter,  endea- 
Tours  to  maintain  the  family  by  keeping  a school; 
one  of  her  brothers  goes  to  sea,  and  Margaret 
forms  an  attachment  to  a sailor,  the  shipmate  of  lier 
brother,  who  is  afterwards  drowned  by  the  upset- 
ting of  a boat  in  the  Firth  of  Fortli.  Sorrows  and 
disasters  continually  accumulate  on  the  amiable 
heroine.  Her  fortitude  is  put  to  a series  of  severe 
trials,  and  though  it  is  impossible  to  resist  the 
numrnfiil  interest  of  tlie  story,  we  feel  that  the 
author  has  drawn  too  largely  on  the  sympathies  of 
his  readers,  and  represented  the  path  of  virtuous 
•duty  in  fur  too  meluiielioly  and  op]ire.ssive  a liglit. 


'I'lie  successive  bereavements  ami  affiietioiis  of  Mar- 
garet Lyndsay  are  little  relieved  by  episode  or 
dialogue:  they  proceed  in  unvaried  measure,  with 
no  bright  allurements  of  imagination  to  reeoiicile  tis 
to  the  scenes  of  suffering  that  are  so  forcibly  de- 
pleted. Ill  many  parts  of  tlie  tale  we  are  reminded 
of  tlie  affecting  pictures  of  Crabbe— so  true  tr 
human  nature,  so  heart-rending  in  tlieir  reality  and 
their  grief.  Of  tliis  kind  is  the  description  of  the 
removal  of  tlie  Lyndsays  from  tlieir  rural  dwelling 
to  one  of  the  close  lanes  of  the  city,  whicli  is  as 
natural  and  as  truly  pathetic  as  any  scene  in 
iiioiiern  fiction : — 

The  twenty-fourth  day  of  November  came  at  last — 
a dim,  dull,  dreary,  and  obscure  day,  fit  for  parting 
everlastingly  from  a place  or  person  tenderly  beloved. 
Tlieie  was  no  sun,  no  wind,  no  sound,  in  the  misty 
and  uneclioing  air.  A deadness  lay  over  the  wet 
eartli,  and  there  was  no  vi.sible  heaven.  Tlieir  goods 
and  chattels  were  few  ; but  many  little  delays  oc- 
curred, some  accidental,  and  more  in  tlie  unwilling- 
ne.ss  of  tlieir  hearts  to  take  a final  farewell.  A neigh- 
bour had  lent  his  cart  for  the  flitting,  and  it  was  now 
standing  loaded  at  the  door  ready  to  move  away.  The 
fire,  which  had  been  kindled  in  the  inorniiig  with  a few 
borrowed  peats,  was  now  out,  the  sliiitters  closed,  the 
door  was  locked,  and  the  key  put  into  the  hand  of  the 
I>erson  sent  to  receive  it.  And  now  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  said  or  done,  and  the  impatient  lior.se 
.started  briskly  away  from  Braehead.  'I'lie  liliiid  girl 
and  poor  Marion  were  .sitting  in  the  cart — Margaret 
and  her  mother  were  on  foot.  Esther  liad  two  or 
tliree  small  fiower-pots  in  her  lap,  for  in  her  blindness 
she  loved  the  sweet  fragrance  and  the  felt  forms  and 
imagined  beauty  of  flowers;  and  the  innocent  carried 
away  her  tame  pigeon  in  her  bosom,  .lust  as  Mar- 
garet lingered  on  the  thre.sliold,  the  Robin  Redbreast, 
that  liad  been  their  boarder  for  several  winters, 
hopped  upon  the  stone  seat  at  the  side  of  the  door, 
ami  turned  up  its  merry  eyes  to  her  face.  ‘ There,’ 
.said  she,  ‘ is  your  last  crumb  from  us,  sweet  Roby, 
but  there  is  a tiod’who  takes  care  o’  us  a’.’  'I'he 
widow  had  by  tliis  time  shut  down  the  lid  of  her 
iiiemory,  and  left  all  the  hoard  of  her  thoughts  and 
feelings,  joyful  or  despairing,  buried  in  darkness. 
The  a-sseiiibled  groiiji  of  ncighhours,  mostly  mothers, 
with  their  children  in  their  arms,  liad  given  the  ‘God 
ble.ss  you,  Alice,  God  bless  you,  Margaret,  and  tlie 
lave,’  and  began  to  disjierse  ; each  turning  to  lier  own 
cares  and  anxieties,  in  whicli,  before  niglit,  the  Lynd- 
says would  either  be  forgotten,  or  thought  on  with 
that  unpainful  .synipathj’  which  is  all  the  poor  can 
afford  or  expect,  hut  whicli,  as  in  this  ca.se,  often 
yields  the  fairest  fruits  of  cliarity  and  love. 

A cold  sleety  rain  accompanied  the  cart  and  the 
foot  travellers  all  the  way  to  the  city.  Sliort  as  the 
distance  was,  they  met  with  several  other  ttittings, 
some  seemingly  cheerful,  and  from  good  to  better — 
others  with  wo-begone  faces,  going  like  tlienisclves 
down  the  path  of  poverty  on  a journey  from  wliich 
they  were  to  rest  at  night  in  a bare  and  hungry 
house.  * * 

'fhe  cart  stopped  at  the  foot  of  a lane  too  narrow 
to  admit  the  wheels,  and  al.so  too  steep  for  a laden 
horse.  Two  or  three  of  their  new  iieiglibours — per- 
.sons  in  the  very  humblest  condition,  coar.sely  and 
negligently  dressed,  but  seemiiiolv  kind  and  decent 
people — came  out  from  their  lioiises  at  the  .stop|iing  of 
the  cart-wheels,  and  one  of  them  said,  ‘ Ay,  ay,  here’s 
the  flitting,  I’se  warrant,  frae  Braehead.  Is  that  you, 
Mrs  Lyndsay?  Hech,  sers,  but  you’ve  gotten  a nasty 
eauld  wet  day  for  coining  into  Auld  Reekie,  as  you 
kintra  folks  ca’  Embro.  llae  ye  liad  oiiv  tidings,  .say 
ye,  o’  your  gudeniaii  since  he  gaed  aff  wi’  iliat  liiii- 
iiier?  Dool  be  wi’  her  and  a’  sic  like.’  Alice  replied 

600 


.SOVKLISTS. 


ENca-ISll  U rKllATUllE. 


rnoFESSon  wilsoh. 


kindly  to  such  questioning,  for  she  knew  it  was  not 
meant  unkindly.  The  cart  was  soon  unladen,  and 
the  furniture  put  into  the  empty  room.  A cheerful 
fire  was  blazing,  and  the  animated  and  interested 
faces  of  the  honest  folks  who  crowded  into  it,  on  a 
slight  acquaintance,  unceremoniously  and  curiously, 
but  without  rudeness,  gave  a cheerful  welcome  to  the 
new  dwelling.  In  a quarter  of  an  hour  the  beds  were 
laid  down — the  room  decently  arranged — one  and  all 
of  the  neighbours  .said,  ‘Gude  night,’  and  the  door  was 
closed  upon  the  Lyndsays  in  their  new  dwelling. 

They  blessed  and  ate  their  bread  in  peace.  The 
Bible  was  then  opened,  and  Margaret  read  a chapter. 
There  was  freouent  and  loud  noise  in  the  lane  of  pass- 
ing merriment  or  anger,  but  this  little  congregation 
worshipped  God  in  a hymn,  Esther’s  sweet  voice  lead- 
ing the  sacred  melody,  and  they  knelt  together  in 
prayer.  It  has  been  beautifully  .said  by  one  whose 
works  are  not  unknown  in  the  dwellings  of  the  poor — 
Tired  Nature’s  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep  1 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  p.ays 
"Where  fortune  smiles ; the  wretched  he  forsakes ; 

Swift  on  his  downy  pinions  flies  from  wo. 

And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a tear. 

Not  so  did  sleep  this  night  forsake  the  wretched. 
He  came  like  moonlight  into  the  house  of  the  wddow 
and  the  fatherless,  and,  under  the  shadow  of  his 
wings,  their  souls  lay  in  oblivion  of  all  trouble,  or 
perhaps  solaced  even  with  delightful  dreams. 

In  1824  hir  Wilson  published  another  but  in- 
ferior story.  The  Foresters.  It  certainly  is  a singu- 
lar and  interesting  feature  in  the  genius  of  an 
author  known  as  an  active  man  of  the  world,  who 
has  spent  most  of  his  time  in  the  higher  social  circles 
of  his  native  country  and  in  England,  and  whose 
scholastic  and  political  tastes  would  seem  to  point 
to  a different  result,  that,  instead  of  portraying 
the  manners  with  which  he  is  familiar — instead  of 
indulging  in  witty'  dialogue  or  humorous  illustra- 
tion, he  should  have  selected  homely  Scottish  sub- 
jects for  his  works  of  fiction,  and  appeared  never  so 
happy  or  so  enthusiastic  as  when  expatiating  on  the 
joys  and  sorrow's  of  his  humble  countrymen  in  the 
sequestered  and  unambitious  walks  of  life. 

Various  other  novels  issued  about  this  time  from 
the  Edinburgh  press.  Mns  Johnstone  published 
anonymously  Clan  Albyn  (181. ‘5),  a tale  written 
before  the  appearance  of  Waverley',  and  approach- 
ing that  work  in  the  romantic  glow  which  it  casts 
over  Highland  character  and  scenery'.  Mrs  Grant 
of  Laggan  (a  highly  competent  authority)  h.as  borne 
testimony'  to  the  correctness  of  the  Highland  descrip- 
tions in  ‘ Clan  Albyn.’  A second  novel,  Elizabeth 
de  Bruce,  was  published  by  Mrs  .Johnstone  in  18'27, 
containing  happy  sketches  of  familiar  Scottish  life. 
This  lady  is  also  authoress  of  some  interesting  tales 
for  children.  'J’he  Diversions  of  HoHycot,  The  Niyhts 
of  the  Round  Table,  &c.  and  is  also  an  extensive  con- 
tributor to  the  periodical  literature  of  the  day.  Her 
style  is  easy  and  elegant,  and  her  writings  are  marked 
by  good  sense  and  a richly  cultivated  mind. 

Sir  Thomas  Dick  Lauder,  Bart.,  has  written 
two  novels  connected  with  Scottish  life  and  history, 
Lochandhu,  1825,  and  The  Wolf  of  Badenoch,  1827. 
In  1830  Sir  Thomas  wrote  an  interesting  account  of 
the  Great  Floods  in  Morayshire,  w'hich  happened  in 
the  autumn  of  1829.  He  was  then  a resident  among 
the  romantic  scenes  of  this  unexampled  inundation, 
and  has  described  its  effects  with  great  picturesque- 
ness and  beauty,  and  with  many  homely  and  pathetic 
episodes  relative  to  the  suffering  people.  Sir  Thomas 
has  also  published  a series  of  Hiyhland  Rambles,  much 
inferior  to  his  early'  novels,  though  abounding,  like 
them,  ill  striking  descriptions  of  natural  scenery. 


He  has  editeil  Gilpin’s  Forest  Scenery,  and  Sir 
Uvedale  Brice’s  Essays  on  the  B cturesque,  adding 
much  new  matter  to  each  ; ami  he  was  comniiasioned 
to  write  a memorial  of  her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria’s 
visit  to  Scotland  in  1842.  A coniiilete  knowledge 
of  his  native  country,  its  scenery,  people,  history, 
and  antiquities — a talent  for  picturesijue  delineation 
— and  a taste  for  architecture,  landscape-gardening, 
and  its  attendant  rural  and  elegant  pursuits,  distin- 
guish this  author. 

The  Youth  and  Manhood  of  Cyril  Thornton,  1827, 
was  hailed  as  one  of  the  most  vigorous  and  interest- 
ing fictions  of  the  day.  It  contained  sketches  of 
college  life,  military  campaigns,  and  other  hustling 
scenes  and  adventures  strongly  impressed  with  truth 
and  reality.  Some  of  the  foreign  scei.es  in  this  work 
are  very  vividly  drawn.  It  was  the  [iroduction  of 
the  late  Thomas  Hamii.ton,  Esq.,  who  visited  Ame- 
rica, and  wrote  a lively  ingenious  work  on  the 
new  world,  entitled  Men  and  Manners  in  America, 
1833.  Mr  Hamilton  was  one  of  the  many  travellers 
who  disliked  the  iieculiar  customs,  the  democratic 
government,  and  social  habits  of  the  Americans  ; and 
he  spoke  his  mind  freely,  but  apparently  in  a spirit 
of  truth  and  candour. 

In  1828  a good  imitation  of  the  stylo  of  Galt  was 
published  by  Mr  Moir  of  Musselburgh,  under  the 
title  of  The  Life  of  Mansie  Wauyh,  Tailor  in  Dalkeith, 
Parts  of  this  amusing  autobiograp.hy  had  jircvionsly 
appeared  in  Blackwood’s  Magazine,  and  it  was  much 
relished  for  its  quaint  simplicity,  shrewdness,  and 
exhibition  of  genuine  Scottish  character. 

Among  the  other  w'riters  of  fiction  who  at  this 
time  published  anonymously  in  Edinburgh  was  an 
English  divine,  Dr  James  Hook  (1771-1828),  the 
only  brother  of  Theodore  Hook,  and  who  wits  dean 
of  Worcester  and  arcluieacon  of  Huntingdon.  To 
indulge  his  native  wit  and  humour,  and  perhaps  to 
spread  those  loyal  Tory  principles  whicli,  hke  his 
brother,  he  carried  to  their  utmost  extent.  Dr  Hock 
wrote  two  novels,  Pen  Owen,  1822,  and  Percy  Mal- 
lory, 1823.  They'  are  clever  irrcguhtr  works,  touch- 
ing on  modern  events  and  living chiiracters,  and  dis- 
cussing various  political  questions  which  then  engaged 
attention.  ‘Pen  Owen’  is  the  superior  novel,  ind 
contains  some  good  humour  iind  satire  on  Welsh 
genealogy  and  antiquities.  Dr  Hook  wrote  several 
political  pamphlets,  sermons,  and  charges.  , 

Andrew  Picken  was  born  at  Paisley  in  the  year 
1788.  He  was  the  son  of  a manufacturer,  and  brought 
up  to  a mercantile  life.  lie  w'as  engaged  in  business 
for  some  time  in  the  West  Indies,  afterwards  in  a 
bank  in  Ireland,  in  Glasgow,  and  in  Liverpool.  At 
the  latter  place  he  established  himself  as  a book- 
seller, but  W'as  unsuccessful,  chiefly  through  some 
speculations  entered  into  at  that  feverish  period, 
W'hich  reached  its  ultimatum  in  the  panic  of  1826. 
Mr  Picken  then  w'ent  to  London  to  pursue  literature 
as  a profession.  While  resilient  in  Glasgow',  he 
published  his  first  work,  Tales  and  Sketches  of  the 
IBesJ  of  Scotland,  which  gave  ofifence  by  some  satiri- 
cal portraits,  but  w'as  generally  esteemed  for  its  local 
fidelity'  and  natural  painting.  His  novel  of  TIm 
Sectarian  ; or  the  Church  and  the  Meeting-House,  three 
volumes,  1829,  displayed  more  vigorous  and  concen- 
trated powers;  but  the  subject  was  unhappy,  and 
the  pictures  which  the  author  drew  of  the  dissenters, 
representing  them  as  selfish,  hypocritical,  and  sor- 
did, irritated  a great  body  of  the  public.  Next  year 
Mr  Picken  made  a more  successful  appearance.  The 
Dominie's  Legacy,  three  volumes,  was  warmly  wel- 
comed by  novel  readers,  and  a second  edition  was 
called  for  by  the  end  of  the  year.  Tiiis  work  con- 
sists of  a number  of  Scottish  stories  (like  i\lr  Carle- 
tou’s  Irish  Tales),  some  humorous  and  some  pathe- 

601 


I 


(■■iioM  17i!0  CYCI,Or/Kl)IA  OF  TllL  the  present  luiii. 

tic.  Miiu-sfer  Tam  and  Mary  Ogilvy  approacli  near 
to  tile  liap])iest  etlbrts  of  Galt,  'i’lie  eharacter.s  and 
incidents  are  alike  natural  and  striking.  The  same 
year  onr  author  conciliated  the  evangelical  dissenters 
by  an  interesting  religious  compilation — Travels  ami 
Researches  of  Kininent  TJmjlish  Missionaries;  includ- 
ing a Historical  IShetch  of  the  Progress  and  Present 
State  of  the  Principal  Protestant  Missions  of  late  Years. 
In  18.31  Mr  Ticken  issued  The  Club-Booh,  a collec- 
tion of  original  tales  by  dilferent  authors.  Mr  James, 
Tyrone  Tower,  Galt,  Mr  Moir,  James  Ilogg,  Mr 
Jerdan,  and  Allan  Cunningham,  contributed  each  a 
story,  and  the  editor  himself  added  two — The  Deer 
Stalkers,  and  the  'I'hree  Kearneys.  Ilis  next  work 
was  Traditionary  Stories  of  Old  Families,  the  first 
part  of  a series  which  was  to  embrace  the  legendary 
history  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland.  Such  a 
work  might  be  rendered  highly  interesting  and  po- 
pular, for  almost  every  oM  family  has  some  tradi- 
tionary lore — some  tale  of  love,  or  war,  or  supersti- 
tion— that  is  handed  down  from  generation  to  gene- 
ration. Mr  Ticken  now  ap])lied  himself  to  another 
Scottish  novel,  The  Black  Watch  (the  original  name 
of  the  gallant  42d  regiment) ; and  he  had  just  com- 
pleted this  work  when  he  was  struck  with  an  at- 
tack of  apople.xy,  which  in  a fortnight  proved  fatal. 
He  died  on  the  23d  of  November  1833.  Mr  Ticken, 
according  to  one  of  his  friends,  ‘ was  the  dominie  of 
his  own  tales — simple,  affectionate,  retiring;  dwell- 
ing apart  from  the  world,  and  blending  in  all  his 
views  of  it  the  gentle  and  tender  feelings  reflected 
from  his  own  mind.’ 

MISS  FERRIER. 

This  l.ady  is  authoress  of  Marriage,  published  in 
1818,  The  Inheritance,  1824,  and  Destiny,  or  the 
ChieJ^s  Daughter,  1831 — all  novels  in  three  volumes 
each.  We  learn  from  Mr  Lockhart’s  Life  of  Scott, 
tliat  MissFerrier  is  daughter  of  James  Terrier,  Esq., 
‘one  of  Sir  Walter’s  brethren  of  the  clerk’s  table;’ 
and  the  great  novelist,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  Tales 
of  My  Landlord,  allucied  to  his  ‘ sister  shadow,’  the 
author  of  ‘ the  very  lively  work  entitled  Marriage,’ 
as  one  of  the  l.abourers  capable  of  gathering  in  the 
large  harvest  of  Scottish  character  and  fiction.*  In 
his  private  diary  he  has  also  mentioned  Miss  Terrier 
as  ‘ a gifted  personage,  having,  besides  her  great 
talents,  conversation  the  least  exigeante  of  any  au- 

* In  describing  the  melancholy  situation  of  Sir  Walter  the 
year  before  his  death,  Mr  Lockhart  introduces  Miss  Ferrier  in 
a very  amiable  li.sht.  ‘ To  assist  them  (the  family  of  Scott)  in 
amusing  him  in  the  heurs  which  he  spent  out  of  his  study,  and 
especially  that  he  might  be  tempted  to  make  those  hours  more 
frequent,  his  daughters  had  invited  his  friend  the  authoress  of 
“ Marriage”  to  come  out  to  Abbotsford ; and  her  coming  was 
serviceable:  for  she  knew  and  loved  him  well,  and  she  had 
seen  enough  of  affliction  akin  to  his  to  be  well  skilled  in  deal- 
ing with  it.  She  could  not  be  an  hour  in  his  company  without 
observing  what  filled  his  children  with  more  sorrow  than  all 
the  rest  of  the  case.  lie  would  begin  a story  as  gaily  as  ever, 
and  go  on,  in  spite  of  the  hesitation  in  his  speech,  to  tell  it  with 
highly  picturesque  effect,  but  before  he  reached  the  point,  it 
would  seem  as  if  some  internal  spring  had  given  way ; he 
paused,  and  gazed  round  him  with  the  blank  anxiety  of  look 
that  a blind  man  has  when  he  has  dropped  his  staff.  Unthink- 
ing friends  sometimes  pained  him  sadly  by  giving  him  the 
cafeh-word  abruptly.  I noticed  the  delicacy  of  Miss  Ferrier 
on  such  occasions.  Her  sight  was  bad,  and  she  took  care  not 
to  use  her  glasses  when  he  was  speaking;  and  she  affected  to 
be  also  troubled  with  deafness,  and  would  say,  “ Well,  I am 
getting  as  dull  as  a post ; I have  not  heard  a word  since  you 
said  so  and  so,”  being  sure  to  mention  a circumstance  behind 
that  at  which  he  had  really  halted.  lie  then  took  up  the  thread 
With  his  habitual  smile  of  courtesy,  as  if  forgetting  his  case 
^sntirely  in  the  consideration  of  the  lady’s  infirmity.’ 

tlior,  female  at  least,  whom  he  had  ever  seen  among 
the  long  list  he  had  encountered  with ; aim jile,  full 
of  humour,  and  exceedingly  ready  at  repartee;  and 
all  this  without  the  least  alfectation  of  the  blue 
stocking.’  This  is  high  praise;  but  the  readers  of 
Miss  Terrier’s  novels  will  at  once  recognise  it  as 
characteristic,  and  exactly  what  they  would  have 
anticipated.  This  lady  is  a Scottish  Miss  Edge- 
wortli — of  a lively,  practical,  penetrating  cast  of 
mind ; skilful  in  depicting  character  and  seizing 
upon  national  peculiarities  ; caustic  in  her  wit  and 
humour,  with  a quick  sense  of  the  ludicrous;  and 
desirous  of  inculcating  sound  morality  and  attention 
to  the  courtesies  and  charities  of  life.  In  some  pas- 
sages, indeed,  she  evinces  a deep  religious  feeling, 
approaching  to  the  evangelical  views  of  Hannah 
More;  but  the  general  strain  of  her  writing  relates 
to  the  foibles  and  oddities  of  mankind,  and  no  one 
h.as  drawn  them  with  greater  breadth  of  comic  hu- 
mour or  effect.  Her  scenes  often  resemble  the  style 
of  our  best  old  comedies,  and  she  may  boast,  like 
Toote,  of  adding  many  new  and  original  characters 
to  the  stock  of  our  comic  literature.  Her  first  work 
is  a complete  gallery  of  this  kind.  The  plot  is  very 
inartificial;  but  after  the  first  twenty  pages,  when 
Douglas  conducts  his  pampered  and  selfish  Lady 
Juliana  to  Glenfern  castle,  the  interest  never  flags. 
The  three  maiden  aunts  at  Glenfern — Bliss  Jacky, 
who  was  all  over  sense,  the  universal  manager  and 
detected.  Miss  Grizzy,  the  letter-writer,  and  Miss 
Nicky,  who  was  not  wanting  for  sense  either, 
are  an  inimitable  family  gnnip.  Mrs  Violet  Mac- 
shake,  the  last  remaining  branch  of  the  noble  race 
of  Girnachgowl,  is  a representative  of  the  old  hard- 
featured,  close- handed,  proud,  yet  kind-hearted 
Scottish  matron,  vigorous  and  sarcastic  at  the  age 
of  ninety,  and  despising  all  modern  manners  and 
innovations.  Then  there  is  the  sentimental  Mrs 
Gaffaw,  who  had  weak  nervec  and  headaches ; was 
above  managing  her  house,  read  novels,  dyed  rib- 
bons, and  altered  her  gowns  according  to  every  pat- 
tern she  could  see  or  hear  of.  There  is  a shade  of 
caricature  in  some  of  these  female  portraits,  not- 
withstanding the  explanation  of  the  authoress  that 
they  lived  at  a time  when  Scotland  was  very  diffe- 
rent from  what  it  is  now — when  female  education 
was  little  attended  to  even  in  families  of  the  highest 
rank  ; and  consequently  the  ladies  of  those  days 
possessed  a raciness  in  their  manners  and  ideas  that 
we  should  vainly  seek  for  in  this  age  of  cultivation 
and  refinement.  It  is  not  only,  however,  in  satirising 
the  foibles  of  her  own  sex  that  .Miss  Terrier  displays 
such  original  talent  and  humour.  Dr  Kedgill,  a 
medical  hanger-on  and  diner-out,  is  a gourmand  of 
the  first  class,  who  looks  upon  bad  dinners  to  be  the 
source  of  much  of  the  mi.sery  we  hear  of  in  the 
married  life,  and  who  compares  a woman’s  reputa- 
tion to  a beefsteak — • if  once  bre.athed  upon,  ’tis  good 
for  nothing.’  Many  sly  s.atirical  touches  occur  through- 
out the  work.  In  one  of  Miss  Grizzy’s  letters  we  hear 
of  a Major  MacTavish  of  the  militia,  who,  indepen- 
dent of  his  rank,  which  Grizzy  thought  was  very 
high,  distinguished  himself,  and  showed  the  greatest 
bravery  once  when  there  was  a very  serious  riot 
about  the  raising  the  potatoes  a penny  a peek,  when 
there  was  no  occasion  for  it,  in  the  town  of  Dunoon. 
We  are  told  also  that  country  visits  should  seldom 
exceed  three  days — the  rest  day,  the  dressed  day,  and 
the  pressed  day.  There  is  a great  shrewdness  and 
knowledge  of  human  nature  in  the  manner  in  which 
the  three  aunts  got  over  their  sorrow  for  the  death 
of  their  father,  the  old  laird.  ‘ They  sighed  ami 
mourned  for  a time,  but  soon  found  occupation  con- 
genial to  their  nature  in  the  little  department  of 
life-  dressing  crape ; reviving  black  silk  ; converting 

602 

ENGLISH  LITERATUEE. 


NOVELISTS. 


MISS  I'JIkRIER. 


narrow  liems  into  broad  hems;  and,  in  short,  who 
so  l)usy,  so  important,  as  tlie  ladies  of  Glenfern?’ 
The  most  striking;  picture  in  the  book  is  that  of 
ttie  Mrs  Violet  MacShake,  wlio  is  introduced  as  liv- 
ing in  a lofty  lodging  in  the  Old  Town  of  Edinburgh, 
where  she  is  visited  by  her  grand-nephew  Mr  Doug- 
las, and  his  niece  Mary.  In  person  she  is  tall  and 
hard-favoured,  and  dressed  in  an  antiquated  style : — 

As  soon  as  she  recognised  Mr  Douglat,  she  welcom- 
ed him  with  much  cordiality,  shook  him  long  and 
heartily  by  the  hand,  patted  him  on  the  back,  looked 
into  his  face  with  much  seeming  satisfaction  ; and, 
in  short,  gave  all  the  demonstrations  of  gladness 
usual  with  gentlewomen  of  a certain  age.  Her 
pleasure,  however,  appeared  to  be  rather  an  im- 
promptu than  a habitual  feeling;  for,  as  the  sur- 
prise wore  otF,  her  visage  resumed  its  harsh  and  sar- 
ciistic  e.xpression,  and  she  seemed  eager  to  efface  any 
agreeable  impiession  her  reception  might  have  ex- 
cited. 

‘ And  wha  thought  o’  seein’  ye  enoo?’  said  she  in  a 
quick  gabbling  voice  ; ‘ what’s  brought  you  to  the 
toon  1 Are  you  come  to  spend  your  honest  faither’s  sil- 
ler ere  he’s  weel  cauld  in  his  grave,  puir  man  ?’ 

Mr  Douglas  explained  that  it  was  upon  account  of 
his  niece’s  health. 

‘Health!’  repeated  she  with  a sardonic  smile,  ‘ it 
wad  mak  an  ool  laugh  to  hear  the  wark  that’s  made 
aboot  young  fowk’s  health  noo-a  days.  I wonder 
what  ye’re  a’  made  o’,’  grasping  Mary’s  arm  in  her 
great  bony  hand — ‘ a wheen  puir  feckless  windle- 
straes— ye  maun  awa  to  Ingland  for  your  healths. 
Set  ye  up!  I wonder  what  cam  o’  the  lasses  i’  my 
time  that  bute’  to  bide  at  hame?  And  whilk  o’  ye, 
I sude  like  to  ken,  ’ll  e’er  leive  to  see  ninety-sax,  like 
me.  Health!  he,  he  !’ 

Mary,  glad  of  a pretence  to  indulge  the  mirth  the 
old  lady’s  manner  and  appearance  had  excited,  joined 
most  heartily  in  the  laugh. 

‘ Tak  aff  yere  bannet,  bairn,  an’  let  me  see  your 
face  ; wha  can  tell  what  like  ye  are  wi’  that  snule  o’ 
a thing  on  your  head  !’  Then  after  taking  an  accurate 
survey  of  her  face,  she  pushed  aside  her  pelisse — 
‘ Weel,  its  ae  mercy  1 see  ye  hae  neither  the  red 
heed  nor  the  muckle  cuits  o’  the  Douglases.  I kenna 
whuther  your  faither  has  them  or  no.  I ne’er  set  een 
on  him  : neither  him  nor  his  braw  leddy  thought  it 
worth  their  while  to  speer  after  me ; but  I was  at  nae 
loss,  by  a’  accounts.’ 

‘ Y ou  have  not  asked  after  any  of  your  Glenfern 
friends,’  said  Mr  Douglas,  hoping  to  touch  a more 
sympathetic  chord. 

‘ Time  eneugh — wull  ye  let  me  draw  my  breath, 
roan — fowk  canna  say  awthing  at  ance.  An’  ye  bute 
to  hae  an  Inglish  wife  tu,  a Scotch  lass  wadna  ser’ 
ye.  An’  yere  wean.  I’se  warran’  its  ane  o’  the  warld’s 
wonders — it’s  been  unca  lang  o’  coinin’ — he,  he!’ 

‘ He  has  begun  life  under  very  melancholy  auspices, 
poor  fellow!’  said  Mr  Douglas,  in  allusion  to  his 
father’s  death. 

‘ An’  wha’s  faut  was  th.at  ? I ne’er  heard  tell  o’  the 
like  o’t,  to  hae  the  bairn  kirsened  an’  its  grandfaither 
dceiiT ! But  fowk  are  naither  born,  nor  kirsened, 
nor  do  they  wad  or  dee  as  they  used  to  du — awthing’s 
changed.’ 

‘ You  must,  indeed,  have  witnessed  many  changes?’ 
observed  Mr  Dougl.as,  rather  at  a loss  how  to  utter 
anything  of  a conciliatory  nature. 

‘ Changes  ! — weel  a wat  I sometimes  wunder  if  it’s 
the  same  warld,  an’  if  it’s  my  ain  heed  that’s  upon 
toy  shootliers.’ 

‘ But  with  these  changes  you  must  also  have  seen 
many  improvements  ?’  said  Mary  in  a tone  of  diffi- 
dence. 

* Behoved. 


‘ Impruvements!’  turning  sharply  round  upon  her; 

‘ what  ken  ye  about  impruvements,  bairn  ? A bonny 
impruvement,  or  ens  no,  to  see  tyleyors  and  sclaters 
leavin’  whar  I mind  jewks  and  yerls.  An’  that  great 
glowerin’  New  Toon  there,’  pointing  out  of  her  win- 
dows, ‘ whar  I used  to  sit  an’  luck  oot  at  bonny  green 
parks,  an’  see  the  coos  milket,  and  the  bits  o’  bairnies 
rowin’  an’  tumliiT,  an’  the  lasses  trampin’  i’  their 
tubs — what  see  I noo  but  stane  an’  lime,  an’  stoor 
an’  dirt,  an’  idle  cheels  an’  diukit  oot  madams  pran- 
cin’. Impruvements  indeed  !’ 

Mary  found  she  was  not  likely  to  advance  her 
uncle’s  fortune  by  the  judiciousness  of  her  remarks, 
therefore  prudently  resolved  to  hazard  no  more.  I\Ir 
Douglas,  who  was  more  ati  fait  to  the  prejudices  of 
old  age,  and  who  was  always  amused  with  her  bitter 
remarks,  when  they  did  not  touch  himself,  encouraged 
her  to  continue  the  conversation  by  some  observation 
on  the  prevailing  manners. 

‘ Mainers !’  repeated  she  with  a contemptuous 
laugh ; ‘ what  ca’  ye  mainers  noo,  for  1 dinna  ken  • 
ilk  ane  gangs  bang  intill  their  neebor’s  hoos,  an’ 
bang  oot  o’t,  as  it  war  a chynge-hoos ; an’  as  for  the 
maister  o’t,  he’s  no  o’  sae  muckle  vaalu  as  the  flunky 
ahint  his  chyre.  I’  my  grandfaither’s  time,  as  I hae 
heard  him  tell,  ilka  maister  o’  a family  had  his  ain 
sate  in  his  ain  hoos;  ay!  an’  sat  wi’  his  hat  on  hi? 
heed  afore  the  best  o’  the  land,  an’  had  his  ain  dish, 
an’  was  ay  helplt  first,  an  keepit  up  his  owthority  as 
a man  sude  du.  Paurents  war  paurents  than — bairns 
dardna  set  up  their  gabs  afore  them  than  as  they  du 
noo.  They  ne’er  presumed  to  say  their  heeds  war 
their  ain  i’  thae  days — wife  an’  servants,  reteeners 
an’  childer,  a’  trummelt  i’  the  presence  o’  their 
heed.’* 

Here  a long  pinch  of  snuff  caused  a pause  in  the 
old  lady’s  harangue.  * 

Mr  Douglas  availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  to 
rise  and  take  leave. 

‘ Oo,  what’s  takin’  ye  awa,  Archie,  in  sic  a hurry  1 
Sit  doon  there,’  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  ‘ an’ 
rest  ye,  an’  tak  a glass  o’  wine  an’  a bit  breed  ; or 
maybe,’  turning  to  Mary,  ‘ ye  wad  rather  hae  a drap 
broth  to  warm  ye  1 What  gars  ye  look  sae  blae,  bairn  1 
I’m  sure  it’s  no  cauld  ; hut  ye’re  ji  st  like  the  lave  : ye 
gang  a’  skiltin’  about  the  streets  hhlf  naked,  an’ 
than  ye  maun  sit  an’  birsle  yoursels  afore  the  fire  at 
hame.’ 

She  had  now  shuffled  along  to  the  further  end  of 
the  room,  and  opening  a press,  took  out  wine  and  a 
plateful  of  various-shaped  articles  of  bread,  which  she 
handed  to  Mary. 

‘ Hae,  bairn — tak  a cookie — tak  it  up — what  are 
you  feared  for!  it’ll  no  bite  ye.  Heie’s  t’ye,  Glenfern, 
an’  your  wife  an’  your  wean  ; puir  tead,  it’s  no  had  a 
very  chancy  ootset,  weel  a wat.’ 

The  wine  being  drank,  and  the  cookies  discussed, 
Mr  Douglas  made  another  attempt  to  withdraw,  but 
in  vain. 

‘ Canna  ye  sit  still  a wee,  man,  an’  let  me  speer 
after  my  auld  freens  at  Glenfern  1 Hoo’s  Grizzy, 
an’  Jacky,  an’  Nicky  ? — aye  woikin’  awa  at  the  peels 
an’  the  drogs — he,  he  ! I ne’er  swallowed  a peel  nor 
gied  a doit  for  drogs  a’  my  days,  an’  see  an  ony  o’ 
them  ’ll  rin  a race  wi’  me  whan  they’re  naur  five 
score.’ 

Mr  Douglas  here  paid  some  compliments  upon  her 
appearance,  which  were  pretty  graciously  received ; 
and  added  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  a letter  from  his 
aunt  Grizzy,  which  he  would  send  along  with  a roe- 
buck and  brace  of  moor-game. 

‘ Gin  your  roebuck’s  nae  better  than  your  last, 
atweel  it’s  no  worth  the  sendin’:  poor  dry  fissinless 
dirt,  no  worth  the  chowin’  ; w-eel  a wat  1 be  zrudged 
my  teeth  on’t.  Your  muirfowl  war  nae  that  ill,  but 
they’re  no  worth  the  carry  in’;  they’re  diug  cheap  i’ 

6U3 


FllOM  1780 


CVCUiril'lDIA  OF 


TII.L  TUB  PKRSRNT  TIMK. 


lihe  ui-irket  eiioo,  so  it’s  nae  great  compliment,  (iin 
ye  had  brought  me  a leg  o’  gude  mutton,  or  a cauler 
sawmont,  there  would  hae  been  some  sense  in’t  ; but 
ye’re  ane  o’  the  fowk  that’ll  ne’er  harry  yoursell  wi’ 
your  presents  ; it’s  hut  the  pickle  powther  they  cost 
ye,  an’  I’se  warran’  ye’re  thinkin’  mair  o’ your  ain 
dirersion  than  o’  my  stamick  whan  ye’re  at  the 
sbootin’  o’  them,  puir  beasts.’ 

Mr  Douglas  had  borne  the  variou.s  indignities 
levelled  against  himself  and  his  family  with  a phi- 
losophy that  had  no  parallel  in  his  life  before,  but  to 
this  attack  upon  his  game  he  was  not  proof.  Ills 
colour  rose,  his  eyes  (lashed  fire,  and  something  re- 
Bcmbliug  an  oath  burst  from  his  lips  as  be  strode 
indignantly  towards  the  door. 

Ills  friend,  however,  was  too  nimble  for  him.  She 
stepped  before  him,  and,  breaking  into  a di.scordant 
laugh  as  she  patted  him  on  the  back,  ‘So  I see  ye’re 
just  the  auld  man,  Archie — aye  ready  to  tak  the 
strums  an  ye  diuna  get  a’  thing  your  ain  wye.  Mony 
a time  I had  to  (leech  ye  oot  o’  the  dorts  when  ye  was 
a callant.  Do  ye  mind  hoo  ye  was  affronted  because 
1 set  ye  doon  to  a cauld  pigeon-pye  an’  a tanker 
o’  ti[>penny  ae  night  to  your  fowerhoors  afore  some 
leddies — he,  he,  he ! Weel  a wat  yere  wife  maun  hae 
her  iiin  adoos  to  manage  ye,  for  ye’re  a cumstairy 
chield,  .\rchie.’ 

Mr  Douglas  still  looked  as  if  he  was  irresolute 
whether  to  laugh  or  be  angry. 

‘ Come,  come,  sit  ye  doon  there  till  I speak  to  this 
bairn,’  said  she,  as  she  pulled  Mary  into  an  ad  joining 
bcd-chamber,  which  wore  the  same  aspect  of  chilly 
aeatne.ss  as  the  one  they  had  quitted.  Then  pulling 
a huge  bunch  of  keys  from  her  pocket,  she  opened  a 
drawer,  out  of  which  she  took  a pair  of  diamond  ear- 
rings. ‘ Hae,  bairn,’  said  she,  as  she  stuffed  them 
into  Mary’s  hand  ; ‘ they  belanged  to  your  faither’s 
grandmother.  She  was  a gude  woman,  an’  had  four- 
an’-twonty  sons  an’  dochters,  an’  1 wuss  ye  nae  vvaur 
fortin  than  just  to  hae  as  mony.  But  mind  ye,’  with 
a shake  of  her  bony  finger,  ‘ they  maun  a’  be  Scots. 
Gin  1 thought  ye  wad  mairry  ony  pock-puddin’,  fient 
baed  wad  ye  hae  gotten  frae  me.  Noo  had  your 
tongue,  and  dinna  deive  me  wi’  thanks,’  almost  push- 
ing her  into  the  parlour  again  ; ‘ and  sin  ye’re  gawn 
awa’  the  morn.  I’ll  see  nae  mair  o’  ye  enoo— so  fare 
e weel.  But,  Archie,  ye  maun  come  an’  tak  your 
reakfast  wi’  me.  I hae  muckle  to  say  to  you  ; but 
ye  maun.a  be  sae  hard  upon  my  baps  as  ye  used  to  be,’ 
with  a facetious  grin  to  her  mollified  favourite  as 
they  shook  hands  and  parted. 

Awmre,  perhaps,  of  the  defective  outline  or  story 
of  her  first  novel.  Miss  Ferrier  has  bestowed  much 
more  pains  on  the  construction  of  the  ‘ Inheritance.’ 
It  is  too  complicated  for  an  analysis  in  this  place; 
but  we  may  mention  that  it  is  connected  with  high 
life  and  a wide  range  of  characters,  the  heroine  being 
a young  lady  born  in  France,  and  heiress  to  a splen- 
did estate  and  peerage  in  Scotland,  to  w hich,  after 
various  adventures  and  reverses,  she  finally  suc- 
ceeds. The  tale  is  well  arranged  and  developed. 
Its  chief  attraction,  however,  consists  in  the  deli- 
neation of  characters.  Uncle  Adam  and  Miss  Pratt 
— the  former  a touchy,  sensitive,  rich  East  Indian, 
and  the  latter  another  of  Miss  Perrier’s  inimitable 
old  maids— are  among  the  best  of  the  portraits;  but 
the  canvass  is  full  of  happy’  and  striking  sketches. 
‘Destiny’  is  connected  with  Highland  scenery  and 
Highland  manners,  but  is  far  from  romantic.  Miss 
Ferrier  is  as  human  and  as  discerning  in  her  tastes 
and  researches  as  Miss  Edgeworth.  The  chief, 
Glenroy,  is  proud  and  irascible,  spoiled  by  the  fawn- 
ing of  his  inferiors,  and  in  his  family  circle  is  gene- 
rous without  kindness,  and  profuse  without  benevo- 
lencfs.  The  Highland  minister,  ilr  Duncan  MacDow, 


is  an  admirable  character,  though  no  very  prepos- 
sessing specimen  of  the  eoujitry  pastor,  and,  wliether 
in  his  single  or  married  state,  is  sufficiently  amusing, 
Edith,  the  heroine,  is  a sweet  and  gentle  creation, 
and  there  is  strong  feelitig  and  passion  in  some  of 
the  scenes.  In  the  case  of  masculine  intellects,  like 
those  of  the  authoress  of  ‘ Marriage’  and  the  great 
Irish  novelist,  the  progress  of  years  seems  to  impart 
greater  softness  and  sensibility,  and  call  forth  all  the 
gentler  atl'ections, 

JAMES  MOniER, 

Mr  .James  Morier,  author  of  a Journey  through 
Persia,  and  sometime  secretary  of  embassy  to  the 
court  of  Persia,  has  embodied  his  knowledge  of  the 


East  in  a series  of  novels — The  Ailventures  of  TTajji 
Baba  of  Ispahan,  three  volumes,  1824  (with  a 
second  part  published  in  two  volumes  in  1828); 
Zuhrab,  the  Hostage,  three  volumes,  1832;  Ayesha, 
the.  Maid  of  Kars,  three  volumes,  18-34;  and  The 
Mirza,  three  volumes,  1841.  The  object  of  his  first 
work  was,  he  says,  the  single  idea  of  illustrating 
Eastern  manners  by  contrast  with  those  of  England, 
and  the  author  evinces  a minute  and  f.miiliar  ac- 
quaintance with  the  habits  and  customs  of  the  Per- 
sians. The  truth  of  his  satirical  descriptions  and 
allusions  was  felt  even  by  the  court  of  Persia;  for 
iSIr  Morier  has  published  a letter  from  a minister  of 
state  in  that  country,  expressing  the  displeasure 
which  the  king  felt  at  the  ‘ very  foolish  business’  of 
the  book.  It  is  probable,  however,  as  the  author 
supposes,  that  this  irritation  may  lead  to  reflection, 
and  reflection  to  amendment,  as  he  conceives  the 
Persians  to  be,  in  talent  and  natural  capacity,  equal 
to  any  nation  in  the  world,  and  would  be  no  less  on 
a level  with  them  in  feeling,  honesty,  and  the  higher 
moral  qualitie.s,  were  their  education  favourable. 
The  hero  of  itlr  Morier’s  tale  is  an  adventurer  like 
Gil  Bias,  and  as  much  buffeted  about  in  the  world. 

GUI 


.\OVI.I  ISIS. 


KN(iL[Sll  LITi;i{ATUUK. 


JAMES  MORI  Eli. 


Uf  IS  llic  soil  of  ii  Imrlici-  of  Ispiilioii,  and  is  suc- 


ci'ssivily  one  of  a liand  ot  '1  iireomans,  a menial  ser- 
vant, a pii|iil  of  the  jilivsieian  royal  of  I’ersia,  an 
attendant  on  the  eliief  e.xeeiU loner,  a religious 
devotee,  and  a seller  of  tohaeeo-pipes  in  Constan- 
tinople. llavin,i;  by  stratagem  espoused  a rich 
Turkish  widow,  he  becomes  an  official  to  the  Shah  ; 
and  on  his  further  distinguishing  himself  for  his 
knowledge  of  the  Europeans,  he  is  appointed  secre- 
tary to  the  mission  of  .Mirzah  Firouz,  and  accom- 
panies the  Persian  ambassador  to  the  court  of  Eng- 
land. In  the  course  of  his  multiplied  adventures, 
misfortunes,  and  escapes,  the  volatile  unprincipled 
Haiji  mixes  with  all  classes,  and  is  much  in  Tehran, 
Koordistan,  Georgia,  Ijagdad,  Constantinople,  &c. 
The  work  soon  became  po]iular.  ‘The  novelty  of 
the  style,’  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  ‘which  was  at  once 
perceived  to  be  genuine  oriental  by  such  internal 
evidence  as  establishes  the  value  of  real  old  China — 
the  gay  and  glowing  descriptions  of  Eastern  state 
and  pageantry — the  character  of  the  poetry  occa- 
sionally introduced— secured  a merited  welcome  for 
the  Persian  picaroon.  As  a jiicture  of  oriental 
manners,  the  work  had,  inileed,  a severe  trial  to 
sustain  by  a conijiarison  with  the  then  recent  ro- 
mance of  Anastasius.  But  the  public  found  appe- 
tite fur  both  ; and  indeed  they  differ  as  comedy  and 
tragedy,  the  deep  i>assion  anil  gloomy  interest  of  Mr 
Hope’s  work  hemg  of  a kind  entirely  different  from 
the  light  and  lively  turn  of  our  friend  Hajji’s  adven- 
tures. The  latter,  with  his  morals  sitting  easy 
about  him,  a rogue  indeed,  but  not  a malicious  one, 
with  as  much  wit  and  cunning  as  enable  him  to 
dupe  others,  and  as  much  vanity  as  to  afford  them 
perpetual  means  of  retaliation;  a sparrow-hawk, 
who,  while  he  floats  through  the  air  in  quest  of 
the  fanallcr  game,  is  himself  perpetually  exposed 
to  be  pounced  upon  by  some  stronger  bird  of  prey, 
interests  and  amuses  us.  while  neither  deserving  nor 
expecting  serious  regard  or  esteem  ; and  like  Will 
Vizard  of  the  hill,  ‘’the  knave  is  our  very  good 
friend.”  Mr  Morier,  however,  in  the  episode  of 
Yusuf,  the  Armenian,  and  the  account  of  the  death 
of  Zeenab,  has  successfully  entered  into  the  arena  of 
pathetic  and  romantic  description.  The  oriental 
scenes  are  the  most  valuable  and  original  portions 
of  “ Hajji  Baba,”  and  possess  the  attraction  of  novelty 
to  ordinary  readers,  3’et  the  account  of  the  constant 
embarrassment  and  surprise  of  the  Persians  at  Eng- 
lish manners  and  customs  is  highly  amusing.  Tlie 
ceremonial  of  the  dinner-table,  that  seemed  to  them 
“absolutely  bristling  with  instruments  of  offence,” 
blades  of  all  sizes  and  descriptions,  sufficient  to  have 
ornamented  the  girdles  of  the  Shah’s  household, 
could  not  but  puzzle  tho.se  who  had  been  accustomed 
simply  to  take  everything  cp  in  their  fingers.  The 
mail-coach,  the  variety  of  our  furniture  and  accom- 
modation, and  other  domestic  observances,  were 
Squally  astonishing;  but.  above  all,  the  want  of  cere- 
monial among  our  statesmen  and  public  officers  sur- 
prised the  embassy.  The  following  burst  of  oriental 
wonder  and  extravagance  succeeds  to  an  account  of 
a visit  paid  them  by  the  chairman  ;ind  deputy-chair- 
man of  the  East  India  Company,  who  came  in  a 
hackney-coach,  and,  after  the  interview,  walked 
away  upon  their  own  legs. 

“ When  they  were  well  off,  we  all  sat  mute,  only 
cccasionally  saying,  ‘ Allah  1 Allah  1 there  is  but 
one  Allah !’  so  wonderfully  astonished  were  we. 
What  1 India?  that  great,  that  magnificent  empire  1 
—that  scene  of  Persian  conquest  and  Persian  glory! 
• — the  land  of  elephants  and  precious  stones,  the 
seat  of  shawls  and  kincobs! — that  paradise  sung  by 
poets,  celebrated  by  historians  more  ancient  than 
Iran  itself! — at  whose  boundaries  the  sun  is  per- 


mitted to  rise,  and  around  wdio.se  majestic  moun- 
tains, some  clad  in  eternal  snows,  others  in  etcrmil 
verdure,  the  stars  and  the  moon  are  allowed  to 
gambol  and  carousel  What!  is  it  so  fallen,  so 
degraded,  as  to  be  swayed  b^'  two  obscure  mort.als, 
living  in  regions  that  know  not  the  warmth  of  the 
sun  ? Two  swine-eating  infidels,  shaven,  impure, 
walkers  on  foot,  and  wdio,  by  way  of  state,  travel 
in  dirty  coaches  filled  wdth  straw  ! 'Phis  seemed  to 
us  a greater  miracle  in  government  than  even  that 
of  Beg  Ian,  the  plaiter  of  w hijis,  w ho  governed  the 
Turcomans  and  the  countries  of  Samarcand  and 
Bokhara,  leading  a life  more  like  a beggar  than  a 
potentate.”’ 

‘Zohrab’  is  a historical  novel,  of  the  time  of  Aga 
Mohammed  Shah,  a famous  Persian  prince,  described 
by  Sir  John  Malcolm  as  having  taught  the  Russians 
to  beat  the  French  by  making  a desert  before  the 
line  of  the  invader’s  march,  and  thus  leaving  the 
enemy  master  of  only  so  much  ground  as  his  cannon 
could  command.  Tliis  celebrated  Shah  is  the  re.al 
hero  of  the  tale,  though  the  honour  is  nominally 
vw.arded  to  Zohrab,  an  independent  Mazanderini 
chief,  who  falls  in  love  with  the  gentle  and  beau- 
tiful Aminia,  niece  of  the  Shah.  'I’he  style  of  the 
work  is  light,  pleasant,  and  animated,  and  it  is  full 
of  Persian  life.  ‘ Ayesha,  the  Maid  of  Kars,’  is  in- 
ferior to  its  predecessors,  Ihrugh  certain  parts  (as 
the  description  of  the  freebooter.  Corah  Bey,  and 
the  ruins  of  Anni,  the  Spectre  City,  the  attack  on 
the  Russian  posts,  the  voyage  to  Constantinople, 
&e.)  are  in  the  author’s  happiest  and  most  graphic 
manner.  In  this  work  Mr  Morier  introduces  a 
novelty — he  makes  an  English  traveller.  Lord  Os- 
mond, fall  in  love  with  aTuikish  maiden,  and  while 
the  Englishman  is  bearing  oflf  the  Jlaid  of  Kars  to 
Constantinoiile,  Corah  Bey  intercepts  them,  and  gets 
the  lover  sent  off'  to  the  galleys.  He  is  releaced 
through  the  intercession  of  the  English  ambassador, 
and  carries  his  Eastern  bride  to  England.  Ayesha, 
the  heroine,  turns  out  to  be  the  daughter  of  8ir 
Eihvard  Wortley!  There  are  improbabilities  in 
this  story  which  cannot  be  reconciled,  :ind  the 
mixture  of  European  costume  and  characters  among 
the  scenery  and  society  of  the  East,  destroys  that 
oriental  charm  which  is  so  entire  and  so  fascinating 
in  ‘ Zohrab.’  ‘ The  Mirza’  is  a series  of  Eastern 
stories,  connected  by  an  outline  of  fiction  like 
Moore’s  Lalla  Rookh.  In  concluding  this  work, 
Mr  Morier  says,  ‘1  may  venture  to  assert  that  the 
East,  as  we  have  known  it  in  oriental  tales,  is  now' 
fast  on  the  change—"  C'cxt  le  covimenceiiient  Je  la 
fin."  Perhaps  we  have  gleaned  the  last  of  the 
beards,  and  obtained  an  expiring  glimpse  of  the 
heavy  caouk  and  the  ample  shalwar  ere  they  are 
exchanged  for 'the  hat  and  the  s])rnce  pantaloon 
How  wonderful  is  it — how  full  of  serious  contem- 
plation is  the  fact,  that  the  whole  fabric  of  Moham- 
medanism should  have  been  a.ssailed,  almost  sud- 
denly as  well  as  simultaneously,  by  events  which 
nothing  human  could  have  foreseen.  Barbary, 
Egypt,  Sj'ria,  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates  and 
Tigris,  the  Red  Sea,  Constantinople,  Asia  Minor, 
Persia,  and  Affghanistan,  all  more  or  less  have  felt 
the  influence  of  European  or  anti -Mohammedan 
agencies.  Perhaps  the  present  generation  may 
not  see  a new  structure  erected,  but  true  it  is  they 
have  seen  its  foundations  laid.’ 

In  1838  appeared  The  Banished;  a Swabian  His- 
torical Tale,  edited  by  Mr  Morier.  This  piiblkation 
caused  some  disappointment,  as  the  name  of  the 
author  of  ‘ Hajji  Baba’  excited  expectations  which 
‘The  Banished’  did  not  realise.  The  work  is  a 
translation  from  the  German,  a tale  of  the  Sw'abian 
league  in  the  sixteenth  century. 

605 


FROM  ITflO 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME 


JAMES  BAILIE  FRASER. 

!Mr  James  IUii.ib  Fraser  lias,  like  Mr  Morier, 
described  the  life  and  manners  of  the  Persians  hy 
fictitious  as  well  as  true  narratives.  In  1828  he 
puhlislied  The  Kuzzilhash,  a Tale  of  Khorasan,  three 
volumes,  to  whicli  he  afterwards  added  a eontinua- 
tion  iiiidpr  the  name  of  The  Persian  Adoenlurer,  the 
title  of  his  first  work  not  being  generally  understood: 
it  was  often  taken,  he  says,  for  a cookery  book! 
The  term  Kuzzilbash,  which  is  Turkish,  signifies 
Red-head,  and  was  an  appellation  originally  given 
by  Shah  Ismael  I.  to  seven  tribes  bound  to  defend 
their  king.  These  tribes  wore  a red  cap  as  a dis- 
tingiiisbing  mark,  which  afterwards  became  the 
military  head-dress  of  the  Persian  troops  ; hence 
the  word  Kuzzilbash  is  used  to  e.xpress  a Persian 
soldier ; and  often,  particularly  among  the  Toorko- 
mans  and  Oozbeks,  is  applied  as  a nation.al  designa- 
tion to  the  people  in  geiiend.  Mr  Fraser’s  hero 
relates  his  own  adventures,  which  begin  almost  from 
his  birth  ; for  he  is  carried  off  while  a child  by  a 
band  of  Toorkonian  robbers,  who  plunder  his  father’s 
lands  and  village,  situated  in  Khorasan,  on  the  bor- 
ders of  the  great  desert  which  stretches  from  the 
banks  of  the  Caspian  Sea  to  those  of  the  river  Oxus. 
The  infant  bravery  of  Ismael,  the  Kuzzilbash,  inte- 
rests Omer  Khan,  head  of  a tribe  or  camp  of  the 
plunderers,  and  he  spares  the  child,  and  keeps  him 
to  attend  on  his  own  son  Selim.  In  the  camj)  of  his 
master  is  a beautiful  girl,  daughter  of  a Persian 
captive;  and  with  this  young  beauty,  ‘lovely  as  a 
child  of  the  Peris,’  Ismael  forms  an  attachment  that 
increases  with  their  years.  'I’hese  early  scenes  are 
finely  described;  and  the  misfortunes  of  the  fair 
Shireen  are  related  with  much  pathos.  The  conse- 
quences of  Ismael’s  passion  force  him  to  flee.  He 
assumes  the  dress  of  the  Kuzzilbash,  and  crossing 
the  desert,  joins  the  army  of  the  victorious  Nadir 
Shah,  and  assists  in  recovering  the  holy  city  of 
Mushed,  the  capital  of  Khorasan.  His  bravery  is 
rewarded  with  honours  and  dignities ; and  after 
various  scenes  of  love  and  war,  the  Kuzzilbash  is 
united  to  his  Shireen.  ‘ Scenes  of  active  life  are 
painted  by  the  author  with  the  same  truth,  accu- 
racy, and  picturesque  effect  which  he  displays  in 
landscapes  or  single  figures.  In  war,  especially,  he 
is  at  home ; and  gives  the  attack,  the  retreat,  the 
rally,  the  bloody  and  desperate  close  combat,  the 
fligiit,  pursuit,  and  massacre,  with  all  the  current  of 
a heady  fight,  as  one  who  must  have  witnessed 
such  terrors.’ 

A brief  but  characteristic  scene — a meeting  of  two 
warriors  in  the  desert  — is  strikingly  described, 
though  the  reader  is  probably  haunted  with  an  idea 
that  European  thoughts  and  expressions  mingle  with 
the  author’s  narrative ; — 

By  the  time  I reached  the  b.anks  of  this  stream  the 
sun  had  set,  and  it  was  necessary  to  seek  some  retreat 
where  I might  pass  the  night  and  refresh  myself  and 
my  horse  without  fear  of  di.scovery.  Ascending  the 
river  bed,  therefore,  with  this  intention,  I soon  found 
a recess  where  I could  repose  myself,  surrounded  by 
green  pasture,  in  which  iny  horse  might  feed  ; but  as 
it  would  have  been  dangerous  to  let  him  go  at  large 
all  night,  I employed  myself  for  a while  in  cutting 
the  longest  and  thickest  of  the  grass  which  grew  on 
the  banks  of  the  stream  for  his  night’s  repast,  pr-r- 
mittiiig  him  to  pasture  at  will  until  dark  ; and  .secur- 
ing him  then  close  to  the  spot  1 meant  to  occupy, 
after  a moderate  meal,  I commended  myself  to  Allah, 
and  lay  down  to  rest. 

The  loud  neighing  of  mv  horse  awoke  me  with  a 
start,  as  the  first  light  of  dawn  broke  in  the  East. 


Quickly  springing  on  my  feet,  and  grasping  my  speai 
and  scimitar,  which  lay  under  my  head,  1 looked 
around  for  the  cause  of  alarm.  Nor  did  it  long  re- 
main doubtful ; for,  at  the  distance  of  .scarce  two  hun- 
dred yards,  I saw  a single  horseman  advancing.  To 
tighten  my  girdle  round  my  loins,  to  string  my  bow, 
and  prepare  two  or  three  arrows  for  use,  was  but  the 
work  of  a few  moments ; before  these  jireparations, 
however,  were  completed,  the  stranger  was  close  at 
hand.  Fitting  an  arrow  to  my  bow,  I placed  myself 
upon  guard,  and  examined  him  narrowly  as  he  ap- 
proached. He  was  a man  of  goodly  stature  and  power- 
ful frame ; his  countenance,  hard,  strongly  marked, 
and  furnished  with  a thick  black  beard,  bore  testimony 
of  exposure  to  many  a blast,  but  it  still  pre.served  a 
prepossessing  expression  of  good  humour  and  benevo- 
lence. His  turban,  which  was  formed  of  a c.ashmere 
shawl,  sorely  tached  and  torn,  and  twisted  here  and 
there  with  small  steel  chains,  according  to  the  fashion 
of  the  time,  was  wound  around  a red  cloth  cap  that 
ro.se  in  four  peaks  high  above  the  head.  His  oemah,  or 
riding  coat,  of  crimson  cloth  much  stained  and  faded, 
opening  at  the  bosom,  showed  the  links  of  a coat  of 
mail  which  he  wore  below  ; a yellow  shawl  formed  his 
girdle  ; his  huge  shulwars,  or  riding  trousers,  of  thick 
fawn-coloured  Kerman  woollen  stuff,  fell  in  folds  over 
the  large  red  leather  boots  in  which  his  legs  were  cased  ; 
by  his  side  hung  a crooked  scimitar  in  a black  leather 
scabbard,  and  from  the  holsters  of  his  saddle  peej>ed 
out  the  butt-ends  of  a pair  of  pistols — weapons  of 
which  I then  knew  not  the  use,  any  more  than  of  the 
matchlock  which  was  slung  at  his  back.  He  was 
mounted  on  a powerful  but  jaded  horse,  and  appeared 
to  have  already  travelled  far. 

When  this  striking  figure  had  approached  within 
thirty  yards,  I called  out  in  the  Turkish  language, 
commonly  used  in  the  country,  ‘ Whoever  thou  art, 
come  no  nearer  on  thy  peril,  or  I shall  .salute  thee 
with  this  arrow  from  my  bow!’  ‘ Why,  boy,’  returned 
the  stranger  in  a deep  manly  voice,  and  speaking  in 
the  same  tongue,  ‘ thou  art  a bold  lad,  truly  1 but  set 
thy  heart  at  rest,  I mean  thee  no  harm.’  ‘ Nay,’  re- 
joined I,  ‘ I am  on  foot,  and  alone.  I know  thee  not, 
nor  thy  intentions.  Either  retire  at  once,  or  show  thy 
sincerity  by  setting  thy.self  on  equal  terms  with  me: 
dismount  from  thy  steed,  and  then  I fear  thee  not, 
whatever  be  thy  designs.  Beware !’  And  .so  saying,  I 
drew  my  arrow  to  the  head,  and  pointed  it  towards 
him.  ‘ By  the  head  of  my  father  !’  cried  the  stranger, 
‘thou  art  an  absolute  youth!  but  I like  thee  well ; 
thy  heart  is  stout,  and  thy  demand  is  just  ;■  the  sheep 
trusts  not  the  wolf  when  it  meets  him  in  the  plain, 
nor  do  we  acknowledge  every  stranger  in  the  desert 
for  a friend.  See,’  continued  he,  dismounting  actively, 
yet  with  a weight  that  made  the  turf  ring  again — ‘See, 
I yield  my  advantage ; as  for  thy  arrows,  boy,  I fear 
them  not.’  With  that  he  slung  a small  sliiehl,  which 
he  bore  at  his  hack,  before  him,  as  if  to  cover  his  face, 
in  case  of  treachery  on  my  part,  and  leaving  his  horse 
where  it  stood,  he  advanced  to  me. 

Taught  from  my  youth  to  suspect  and  to  guard 
against  trcacher3q  I .still  kept  a wary  eye  on  the  mo- 
tions of  the  stranger.  But  there  was  something  in  his 
open  though  rugged  countenance  and  maidy  bearing 
that  claimed  and  won  my  confidence.  Slowly  I low- 
ered my  hand,  and  rel.axed  the  still  drawn  string  of 
my  bow,  as  he  strode  up  to  me  with  a firm  composed 
step. 

‘ Youth,’  said  he,  ‘ had  my  intentions  been  hostile, 
it  is  not  thy  arrows  or  thy  bow,  no,  nor  thy  sword  and 
spear,  that  could  have  stood  thee  much  in  stead.  1 
am  too  old  a soldier,  and  too  well  defended  against 
such  weapons,  to  fear  them  from  so  j’oung  an  arm. 
But  I am  neither  enemy  nor  traitor  to  attack  thee 
unawares.  1 have  travelled  far  during  the  past  niglit, 
and  mean  to  refresh  myself  awhile  in  this  spot  before 

(i06 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


TBEODORE  ED^'ARO  HOOK. 


I proceed  on  my  journey  ; thou  meanest  not,’  added 
he  Hilh  a smile,  ‘to  deny  mo  the  boon  which  Allah 
extends  to  all  his  creatures!  What!  still  suspicious? 
Come,  then,  I will  increase  thy  advantage,  and  try  to 
win  thy  confidence.’  With  that  he  unbuckled  his 
sword,  and  threw  it,  with  his  matchlock,  upon  the 
turf  a little  way  from  him.  ‘ See  me  now  unarmed  ; 
wilt  thou  yet  trust  me?’  Who  could  nave  doubted 
longer  ? I threw  down  my  bow  and  arrows  : ‘ Pardon,’ 
cried  I,  ‘ my  tardy  confidence ; but  he  that  has  escaped 
with  difficulty  from  many  perils,  fears  even  their  sha- 
dow : here,’  continued  I,  ‘ are  bread  and  salt,  eat 
thou  of  them  ; thou  art  then  my  guest,  and  that  sacred 
tie  secures  the  faith  of  both.’  The  stranger,  with  an- 
other smile,  took  the  offered  food. 

The  following  passage,  describing  the  Kuzzilbash’s 
return  to  his  native  village,  affects  us  both  by  the 
Tiow  which  it  gives  of  the  desolations  caused  in 
half  barbarous  countries  by  war  and  rapine,  and  the 
leautiful  strain  of  sentiment  which  the  author  puts 
into  the  mouth  of  his  hero  : — 

We  continued  for  some  time  longer,  riding  over  a 
track  once  fertile  and  well-cultivated,  but  now  returned 
to  its  original  desolation.  The  wild  pomegranate,  the 
thorn,  and  the  thi.stle,  grew  high  in  the  fields,  and 
overran  the  walls  that  formerly  enclosed  them.  At 
length  we  reached  an  open  space,  occupied  by  the 
ruins  of  a large  walled  village,  among  which  a square 
building,  with  walls  of  greater  height,  and  towers  at 
each  corner,  rose  particularly  conspicuous. 

As  we  approached  this  place  I felt  my  heart  stirred 
within  me,  and  my  whole  frame  agitated  with  a secret 
and  indescribable  emotion ; visions  of  past  events 
seemed  hovering  dimly  in  niy  memory,  but  my  sensa- 
tions were  too  indistinct  and  too  confused  to  be  intel- 
ligible to  myself.  At  last  a vague  idea  shot  through 
my  brain,  and  thrilled  like  a fiery  arrow  in  my  heart ; 
with  burning  cheeks  and  eager  eyes  I looked  towards 
my  companion,  and  saw  his  own  bent  keenly  upon 
me. 

‘ Knowest  thou  this  spot,  young  man  !’  said  he,  after 
a pause  : ‘ if  thy  memory  does  not  serve  thee,  cannot 
thy  heart  tell  thee  what  walls  are  these!’  I gasped 
for  breath,  but  could  not  speak.  ‘ Yes,  Ismael,’  con- 
tinued he,  ‘ these  are  the  ruined  walls  of  thy  father’s 
house  ; there  passed  the  first  days  of  thy  childhood  ; 
within  that  broken  tower  thy  eyes  first  saw  the  light  ! 
But  its  courts  are  now  strewed  with  the  unburied  dust 
of  thy  kindred,  and  the  foxes  and  wolves  of  the  desert 
rear  their  young  among  its  roofless  chambers.  These 
are  the  acts  of  that  tribe  to  which  thoq  hast  so  long 
been  in  bondage — such  is  the  debt  of  blood  which  cries 
cut  for  thy  vengeance  I’ 

I cdecke-i  ziy  horse  to  gaze  on  the  scene  of  my  in- 
fant years,  and  my  companion  seemed  willing  to  in- 
dulge me.  Is  it  indeed  true,  as  some  sages  have 
taught,  that  man’s  good  angel  hovers  over  the  place 
of  his  birth,  and  dwells  with  peculiar  fondness  on  the 
innocent  days  of  his  childhood?  and  that  in  after 
years  of  sorrow  and  of  crime  she  pours  the  recollec- 
tion of  those  pure  and  peaceful  days  like  balm  over 
the  heart,  to  soften  and  improve  it  by  their  influence! 
How  could  it  be,  without  some  agency  like  this,  that, 
gazing  thus  unexpectedly  on  the  desolate  home  of  my 
fathers,  the  violent  passions,  the  bustle,  and  the  misery 
of  later  years,  vanished  from  my  mind  like  a dream  ; 
and  the  scenes  and  feelings  of  my  childhood  came 
fresh  <as  yesterday  to  my  remembrance  ? 1 heard  the 

joyous  clamour  of  my  little  brothers  and  sisters  ; our 
games,  our  quarreks,  and  our  reconciliations,  were  once 
more  jiresent  to  me ; the  grave  smile  of  my  father,  the 
kind  but  ctern.al  gabble  of  my  good  old  nurse  ; and, 
above  all,  the  mild  sweet  voice  of  my  beloved  mother, 
as  she  adjusted  our  little  disputes,  or  soothed  our 
childish  sorrows — all  rushed  upon  my  mind,  and  for 


a while  quite  overpowered  me  : I covered  my  face 
with  my  hands  and  wept  in  silence. 

Besides  his  Eastern  tales,  Mr  Fraser  has  written 
a story  of  his  native  country.  The  Hiyhlatul  Smugglers, 
in  which  he  displays  the  same  talent  for  description, 
with  much  inferior  powers  in  constructing  a pro- 
bable or  interesting  narrative, 

THEODORE  EDWARD  HOOK. 

Theodore  Edward  Hook,  the  best  of  our  fashion- 
able novelists,  was  born  in  London,  September  22, 
1788.  He  was  the  son  of  a distinguished  musical 


composer ; and  at  the  early  age  of  sixteen  (after  an 
imperfect  course  of  education  at  Harrow  scliool),  he 
became  a sort  of  partner  in  his  father’s  business  ol 
music  and  song.  In  1805  he  composed  a comic 
opera.  The  Soldier’s  Return,  the  overture  and  music, 
as  well  as  the  dialogues  and  songs,  entirely  by  him- 
self. The  opera  was  highly  successful,  and  young 
'Theodore  was  ready  next  year  with  another  after- 
piece,  Catch  Rim  Who  Can,  which  exhibited  the 
talents  of  Liston  and  Mathews  in  a popular  and 
effective  light,  and  had  a great  run  of  success.  Se- 
veral musical  operas  were  then  produced  in  rapid 
succession  by  Hook,  as  The  Invisible  Girl,  Music 
Mad,  Darkness  Visible,  Trial  by  Jury,  The  Fortress, 
I'ekeli,  Exchange  no  Robbery,  and  Killing  no  Murder. 
Some  of  these  still  keep  possessiem  of  the  stage,  and 
evince  wonderful  knowdedgeof  dramatic  art,  musical 
skill,  and  literary  powers  in  so  young  an  author. 
They  were  followed  (1808)  by  a novel  w’hicli  has 
been  described  as  a mere  farce  in  a narrative  shape. 
The  remarkable  conversational  talents  of  Theodore 
Hook,  and  his  popularity  as  a writer  for  the  stage, 
led  him  much  into  society.  Flushed  with  success, 
full  of  the  gaiety  and  impetuosity  of  x'outh,  and  con- 
scious of  his  power  to  please  and  even  fascinate  in 
company,  he  surrendered  himself  up  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  passing  hour,  and  became  noted  for 
his  ‘boisterous  buffooneries,’  his  wild  sallies  of  wit 
and  drollery,  and  his  practical  hoaxes. 

Amongst  his  various  talents  was  one  w’hich,  though 

607 


I'KOM  I7fl0  CY('L()l’^iI)IA  OF  tili.  tiik  rui-SKNT  timl 

Cimiliiir  ill  some  other  eoiiolries,  whose  l:inf;iiope 
aH'orils  it  f'.ii’ilities.  h;i.s  liillierto  lieeii  rare,  if  not 
uoknowM  ill  ours,  namely  the  \)owur  improvisnlinini/, 
or  exLemporaiienns  composition  of  songs  ami  music. 
Hook  would  at  tahle  turn  the  whole  conversation  of 
the  evening  into  a song,  sparkling  with  puns  or 
witty  allusions,  and  jierfect  in  its  rhymes.  ‘ He 
aeeonipanieil  himself  (says  a writer  in  the  Quar- 
terly Review)  on  the  iiianoforte.  and  the  music 
was  frequently,  though  not  always,  as  new  as 
the  verse.  He  usually  stuck  to  the  common  ballad 
measures ; hut  one  favourite  sport  was  a iiiiniic 
opera,  and  then  he  seemed  to  triiitnph  without 
eifort  over  every  variety  of  metre  and  complication 
of  stanza.  About  the  complete  e.\temporaiieousiiess 
of  the  wliole  there  cmdd  rarely  be  the  slightest 
doubt.’  This  [lower  of  extempore  verse  seems  to 
have  heen  the  wonder  of  ad  Hook’s  associates;  it 
astonislicd  iSlu  ridan,  Coleridge,  and  the  most  illus- 
trious of  his  contcni|ioraries.  who  used  to  hang  de- 
lighted over  such  rare  and  imeciiiivocal  manifesta- 
tions of  genius.  Hook  Inul  been  introduced  to  the 
prince  regent,  afterwards  George  IV.,  and  in  18I‘J 
he  received  tlie  aiipointinent  of  accom[)tant-general 
and  treasurer  to  the  colony  of  the  Mauritius,  with  a 
salary  of  about  X'JOOO  [ler  annum.  This  hatidsouie 
[irovisioii  he  enjoyed  for  five  years.  The  duties  of 
the  ollice  were,  however,  neglected,  and  an  exami- 
nation being  made  into  the  books  of  the  accom|)tant. 
various  irregiil.irities,  omissions,  and  discre|)aiicies 
were  detected.  There  was  a deficiency  of  about 
£|-g.0()0.  and  Hook  was  ordered  home  under  the 
charge  of  a detachment  of  military.  Thus  a dark 
cloud  hung  over  him  for  the  remainder  of  his  life; 
but  it  is  believed  that  he  was  in  reality  innocent  of 
all  but  gross  ncgrcgence.  On  reaching  London  in 
181!),  he  was  subjected  to  a scrutiny  by  the  Audit 
Hoard,  which  did  not  terminate  until  after  the  lapse 
of  nearly  five  years.  He  was  tlien  pronounced  to  be 
liable  to  the  crown  for  the  deficit  of  £12.00(1.  In 
the  meantime  he  lahoured  assiduously  at  literature 
as  a [irofcssioii.  He  bec;inie.  in  1820,  editor  of  the 
.John  Hull  ncwspa[ier,  which  he  made  cons|iicuous 
for  its  advocacy  of  high  aristocratic  |)rinci[iles,  some 
virulent  [lersonalities,  and  much  wit  and  humour. 
His  [lolitical  songs  were  generally  admired  for  their 
jioint  and  brilliancy  of  fancy.  In  182.'i,  after  the  award 
had  been  given  finding  him  a debtor  to  the  crown,  in 
the  sum  mentioned.  Hook  was  arrested,  and  continued 
nearly  two  years  in  confinement.  His  literary  labours 
went  on,  however,  without  interriqition,  and  in  1824 
a|i|i  ared  the  fir^t  series  of  his  tales,  entitled  Stiyinyx 
and  Duiiiyx,  which  were  so  well  received  that  the 
auliior  w;is  made  £2000  richer  by  the  [iroduction.  In 
182.')  he  i.ssued  a second  series,  and  shortly  after  that 
[Uihlication  he  w;is  released  from  custody,  with  an 
intimation,  however,  tli.it  the  crown  abandoned  no- 
thing of  its  claim  for  the  Mauritius  debt.  The  po- 
pular novelist  now  pursued  his  literary  career  with 
unaliated  d ligciice  and  s[iirit.  In  1828  he  published 
a third  series  of'  Sayings  and  Doings  ;’  in  1830,  Mux- 
well ; ill  18.32,  The  LiJ'e  of  Sir  Duvid  Baird  in  1833, 
The  Parson'. s Damjhtcr,  and  Love  and  Pride.  In  1836 
he  became  editor  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  and 
contributed  to  its  pages,  in  chafiters,  Gilbert  Gurney, 
and  the  f.ir  inferior  sequel,  Gurney  Married,  each 
afterwards  collected  into  a set  of  three  volumes.  In 
1837  a(ipeared  Jack  Brag;  in  183!),  Births,  Deaths, 
and  Marriages  ; Precepts  and  Practice  ; and  Fathers 
and  Son.s.  His  last  avowed  work.  Peregrine  Bunce. 
supposed  not  to  have  been  wholly  written  by  him. 
a[)peared  some  months  after  his  death.  The  pro- 
duction of  thirty-eight  volumes  within  sixteen 
years— the  autlmr  being  all  the  while  editor,  and 
minost  sole  writer,  of  a newspaper,  aud  for  seve- 

ral  years  the  cflicient  conductor  of  a magazine-  • 
certainly  alfirds,  as  the  Quarterly  Review  re- 
marks, siifliident  jiroof  ihat  he  never  sank  into  idle- 
ness, At  the  same  time  'I’lieodore  Hook  was  the 
idol  of  the  fashionable  circles,  and  ran  a hecdlcs.s 
round  of  <li.ssi|)ation.  Though  in  the  receipt  of  a 
large  income — prolaibly  not  less  than  £.3000  [ler 
annum — by  his  writings,  he  became  involved  in 
pecuniary  embarrassments  ; and  an  unlia|ipy  con- 
nexion wdiich  he  had  firmed,  yet  dared  not  avowq 
entailed  upon  him  the  anxieties  and  resjionsibilities 
of  a fimily.  Farts  of  a diary  wdiich  he  ke]it  have 
been  [lublished,  and  there  are  passages  in  it  disclos- 
ing his  struggles,  his  alternations  of  lio|ie  and  de- 
s[)air,  and  his  evcr-deeiicning  distresses  and  difficul- 
ties, which  are  inexiiressibly  touching  as  well  as 
instructive.  At  length,  overwdiehned  with  diffi- 
culties, his  children  uniirovided  for,  aud  himself  a 
victim  to  disease  and  exliaustion  before  he  had  com- 
[ileted  his  .Odd  year,  he  died  at  Fulham  on  the  24th 
of  August  1842. 

'I'lie  works  of  Theodore  Honk  are  very  uneqtial, 
and  none  of  them  perlnqis  disiilay  the  rich  and  varied 
powers  of  his  conversation.  He  was  thoroughly  ac- 
quainted wdth  English  life  in  the  higher  and  middle 
milks,  and  his  early  familiarity  with  the  stage  had 
taught  him  the  effect  of  dramatic  situations  and 
[lointed  dialogue.  'I'he  theatre,  however,  is  not 
always  a good  school  for  taste  in  coni[iositioii,  and 
Hook’s  witty  and  tragic  scenes  and  cmitrasts  of 
character  are  often  too  violent  in  tone,  and  too  little 
discriminated.  Hence,  though  his  knowledge  of  high 
life  was  undoubted,  and  his  powers  of  observation 
rarely  sur[iassed,  his  [lictiires  of  existing  manners 
seem  to  wear  an  air  of  caricature,  inqiartcd  insen- 
sibly by  the  peculiar  habits  and  exuberant  fancy  of 
the  novelist.  His  [lathos  is  often  overdone,  and  his 
mirth  and  joyousiiess  carried  into  the  regions  of 
f.irce.  He  is  very  felicitous  in  ex)iosing  all  ridicu- 
lous pretences  and  absurd  affectation,  and  in  such 
scenes  his  polished  ridicule  and  the  [iractical  .saga- 
city of  the  man  of  the  world,  conversant  with  its 
different  ranks  and  artificial  distinctions,  are  strik- 
ingly apparent.  We  may  collect  from  his  novels 
(es|iecially  the  ‘Sayings  and  Doings,’  which  were 
carefully  written)  as  correct  a notion  of  English 
society  in  certain  s[iheres  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, as  Fielding’s  works  dis|ilay  of  the  manners  of 
the  eighteenth.  To  regularity  of  fable  he  made 
little  [ireteiision,  and  we  suspect  he  [laid  little  atten- 
tion to  style.  He  aimed  at  delineation  of  character — 
at  striking  scenes  and  situations — at  reflecting  the 
language  and  habits  of  actual  life — and  all  this  he 
acconqilished,  in  some  of  his  works,  with  a success 
that  produced  many  rivals,  but  no  superior. 

THOJIAS  COLLEY  GRATTAN — 5IR  T.  It.  LISTER — 
MARQUIS  OF  NORMANDY. 

Thomas  Colley  Grattan,  an  Irish  writer  of 
fiction,  commenced  his  literary  career  in  181!)  with 
a poetical  romance  entitled  Philibert,  wliicli  was 
smoothly  versified,  but  possessed  no  great  merit.  In 
1823  appeared  his  IByhways  and  Byways,  tales  of 
continental  wandering  and  adventure,  written  in  a 
light,  picturesque,  and  pleasing  manner.  These  were 
so  well  received  that  the  author  wrote  a second 
series,  published  in  1824,  and  a third  in  1827.  In 
1830  he  came  forth  with  a novel  in  four  volumes, 
The  Heiress  of  Bruges;  a Tale  of  the  Year  Sixteen 
Hundred.  The  plot  of  this  work  is  connected  with 
the  attempts  made  by  the  Flemish  to  emaiici[iate 
themselves  from  the  foreign  sway  of  S[iain,  in  wdiich 
they  were  assisted  by  the  Dutch,  under  I’rince 
Maurice.  A power  of  vivid  description  and  obser 

608 

KNGLISU  LITKUATUUR. 


vatiiMi  Ilf  imtiiiv  :\p|K“ar8  to  bo  Mr  Grattan’s  priii- 
I'lpal  luorit.  His  stvlo  is  often  tiitfiise  and  careless; 
and  lie  diK*s  not  seem  to  have  biboureil  successfully 
in  construclinft  bis  stories,  Ilis  pictures  of  ordinary 
life  in  the  Frcncb  provinces,  as  be  wandered  among 
the  liigliw;tys  and  byways  of  that  country  with  a 
cheerful  observant  spirit,  noting  the  peculiarities  of 
the  (leople,  are  his  happiest  and  most  original 
♦•tforts. 

Mk  T.  H.  Lister,  a gentleman  of  rank  and  aris- 
tiKTatic  connexions,  was  author  of  three  novels, 
descriptive  of  the  manners  of  the  higher  classes; 
namely,  Granby,  18'26;  Herbert  Lacy,  1827;  and 
Atiiuyhm,  1832.  These  works  are  pleasingly  written, 
and  may  be  considered  as  affording  correct  pictures 
of  domestic  society,  but  they  possess  no  features  of 
novelty  or  originality  to  preserve  them  for  another 
generation.  A strain  of  graceful  reflection,  in  the 
style  of  the  essays  in  the  Mirror  and  Lounger,  is 
mingled  with  the  tale,  and  shows  the  author  to  have 
been  a man  of  refined  and  cultivated  taste  and 
feeling.  In  1838  Mr  Lister  published  a Memoir  of 
the  Life  and  Administration  of  the  Earl  of  Cla- 
rendon, in  three  volumes,  a work  of  considerable 
talent  and  research,  in  preparing  which  the  author 
had  access  to  documents  and  pajiers  unknown  to  his 
predecessors.  Mr  Lister  died  in  June  1842,  at 
which  time  be  held  the  government  appointment  of 
llegistrar-general  of  births,  marriages,  and  deaths. 
The  following  brief  de.scription  in  ‘Granby’  may  be 
compared  with  Mr  Wordsworth’s  noble  sonnet  com- 
posed upon  Westminster  Bridge. 

\_Lotidon  at  Sannise.] 

Granby  followed  them  with  his  eyes  ; and  now,  too 
full  of  happine.ss  to  be  accessible  to  any  feelings  of 
jealousy  or  repining,  after  a short  reverie  of  the  purest 
satisfaction,  he  left  the  ball,  and  .sallieil  out  into  the 
fresh  cool  air  of  a summer  morning — suddenly  passing 
from  the  red  glare  of  lamplight  to  the  clear  sober  bright- 
ness of  returning  day.  He  walked  cheerfully  onward, 
refreshed  and  exhilarated  by  the  air  of  morning,  and 
interested  with  the  scene  around  him.  It  was  broad 
davlight,  and  he  viewed  the  town  under  an  aspect  in 
which  it  is  alike  presented  to  the  late  retiring  votary 
of  pleasure,  and  to  the  early  rising  sons  of  busine.ss. 
He  stopped  on  the  pavement  of  Oxford  Street  to  con- 
template the  otfect.  The  whole  extent  of  that  long 
vista,  unclouded  by  the  mid  day  smoke,  was  distinctly 
visible  to  his  eye  at  once.  The  houses  shrunk  to  half 
their  span,  while  the  few  visible  spires  of  the  adjacent 
churches  seemed  to  rise  less  distant  than  before,  gaily 
tipped  with  early  sunshine,  and  much  diminished  in 
apparent  size,  but  heightened  in  distinctness  and  in 
beauty.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  cool  gray  tint  which 
slightly  mingled  with  every  object,  the  brightness  was 
almost  that  of  noon.  But  the  life,  the  bustle,  the 
busy  din,  the  flowing  tide  of  human  existence,  were 
all  wanting  to  complete  the  similitude.  All  rvas 
hushed  and  silent ; and  this  mighty  receptacle  of 
human  beings,  which  a few  short  hours  would  wake 
into  active  energy  and  motion,  seemed  like  a city  of 
the  dead. 

There  was  little  to  break  this  solemn  illusion. 
Around  were  the  monuments  of  human  exertion,  but 
the  hands  which  formed  them  were  no  longer  there. 
Few,  if  any,  were  the  symptoms  of  life.  No  sounds 
were  heard  but  the  heavy  creaking  of  a solitary 
wagon,  the  twittering  of  an  occasional  sparrow,  the 
monotonous  tone  of  the  drowsy  watchman,  and  the 
distant  rattle  of  the  retiring  carriage,  fading  on  the 
ear  till  it  melted  into  silence : and  the  eye  that 
searched  for  living  objects  fell  on  nothing  but  the 
grim  great-coated  guardian  of  the  night,  mufiled  up 
into  an  appearance  of  doubtful  character  between 

81 


bear  and  mar;,  and  scarcely  distinguishable,  by  the 
colour  of  his  dress,  from  the  brown  flags  along  which 
he  sauntered. 

Two  noveds  of  the  same  class  with  those  of  Mr 
Lister  were  written  by  tbe  present  Marquis  op 
Normani.v;  namely,  Matilda,  published  in  1825, and 
Yes  and  No,  a Tale  of  the  Day,  1827.  They  were 
wt'll  received  by  the  public,  being  in  taste,  correct- 
ness of  delineation,  and  general  good  sense,  sujierior 
to  the  ordinary  run  of  fashionable  novels. 

LADY  CAROLINE  LAMB — LADY  DACRE COUNTESS  OP 

MORLEY LADY  CHARLOTTE  BURY. 

Lady  Caroline  LAMn(1785-l828)  was  authoress 
of  three  works  of  fiction,  which,  from  extrinsic  cir- 
cumstances, were  highly  popular  in  their  day.  The 
first,  Glenarvon,  \v9.s  ])ublished  in  1816,  and  the  hero 
was  understood  to  ‘body  forth’  the  character  and 
sentiments  of  Lord  Byron  ! It  was  a representation 
of  tbe  dangers  attending  a life  of  fashion.  The 
second,  GraJiani  Hamilton,  depicted  tbe  difficulties 
and  dangers  inseparable,  even  in  the  most  amiable 
mind.s.  from  weakness  and  irresolution  of  character. 
The  third,  Ada  /fcf.v  (1823),  is  a wild  Eastern  tale, 
the  hero  being  introduced  as  tbe  Don  Juan  of  his 
d.ay,  a Georgian  by  birth,  who,  like  Othello,  is  ‘sold 
to  slavery,’  but  rises  to  honours  and  distinctions. 
In  the  end  Ada  is  condemne<l,  for  various  misdeeds, 
to  eternal  punishment!  The  history  of  Lady  Caro- 
line Lamb  is  iiainfully  interesting.  She  was  united, 
before  tbe  age  of  twenty,  to  the  Honourable  William 
Lamb  (now  Lord  Melbourne),  and  was  long  the  de- 
light of  tbe  fashionable  circles,  from  the  singularity 
as  well  as  the  grace  of  her  manners,  her  literary 
accomplishments,  and  personal  attractions.  On 
meeting  with  Lord  Byron,  she  contracted  an  unfor- 
tunate attachment  for  the  noble  jHiet,  which  con- 
tinued three  years,  and  was  the  theme  of  much 
remark.  The  poet  is  said  to  have  trifled  with 
her  feelings,  and  a rupture  took  place.  ‘ For  many 
years  Lady  Caroline  led  a life  of  comparative  se- 
clusion, principally  at  Brocket  Hall.  This  was  in- 
terrupted by  a singular  and  somewhat  roman- 
tic occurrence.  Riding  with  Mr  Lamb,  she  met, 
just  by  the  park-gate.s  the  hearse  which  was  con- 
veying the  remains  of  Lord  Byron  to  Newstead 
Abbey,  ishe  was  taken  home  insensible:  an  illness 
of  length  and  severity  succeeded.  Some  of  her 
medical  attendants  imputed  her  fits,  certainly  of 
great  incoherence  and  long  continuance,  to  partial 
insanity.  At  this  supposition  she  W'as  invariably 
and  bitterly  indignant.  Whatever  be  the  cause,  it 
is  certain  from  that  time  her  conduct  and  habits 
materially  changed;  and  about  three  years  before 
her  death  a separation  t(xjk  place  between  her  and 
Mr  Lamb,  who  continued,  however,  frequently  to 
visit,  and,  to  the  day  of  her  death,  to  correspond 
with  her.  It  is  just  to  both  parties  to  add,  that 
Lady  Caroline  constantly  spoke  of  her  husband  in 
the  highest  and  most  affectionate  terms  of  admi- 
ration and  respect.’  A romantic  susceptibility  of 
temperament  and  character  seems  to  have  been  the 
bane  of  this  unfortunate  lady.  Her  fate  illustrates 
the  wisdom  of  Thomson’s  advice — 

Then  keep  each  passion  down,  however  dear. 

Trust  me,  the  tender  are  the  most  severe. 

The  Recollections  of  a Chaperon,  1833,  by  Lady 
Dacre,  are  a series  df  tales  written  with  taste, 
feeling,  and  passion.  This  lady  is,  we  believe,  also 
authoress  of  Trevelyan,  1833,  a novel  which  was 
considered  at  the  time  of  its  publication  as  the 


* Annual  Obituary  for  1829. 


609 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


PROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


best  feminine  novel,  in  many  respects,  that  had  ap- 
peared since  Miss  Edgeworth’s  Vivian.  Amongother 
works  of  tliis  class  may  be  mentioned  the  tale  of 
Ducre,  1834,  by  the  Countess  of  Moulk.y  ; and 
several  fashionable  novels  {The  Divorced,  Family 
Records,  Love,  The  Courtier's  Dauyhtcr,  &c.)  by 
Lady  CnAiiLOXTE  IIury.  This  lady  is  the  supposed 
authoress  of  a Diary  Illustrative  of  the  Times  of 
George  IV.,  a scandalous  chronicle,  published  in 
1838.  It  appears  that  her  ladyship  (then  Lady 
Charlotte  Campbell)  had  held  an  appointment  in 
the  household  of  the  Princess  of  Wales,  and  during 
this  time  she  kept  a diary,  in  which  she  recorded 
the  foildes  and  failings  of  the  unfortunate  princess 
and  other  members  of  the  court.  The  work  was 
strongly  condemned  by  the  two  leading  critical 
journals — the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Review — 
and  was  received  generally  with  disapprobation. 

R.  PLUMER  WARD. 

Mr  R.  Plumer  Ward  published  in  1825  a sin- 
gular metaphysical  and  religious  romance  entitled 
Tremaine,  or  the  Man  of  Refinement.  The  author’s 
name  was  not  prefixed  to  his  work ; and  as  he 
alluded  to  his  intimacy  with  English  statesmen  and 
political  events,  and  seemed  to  belong  to  the  evan- 
gelical party  in  the  church,  much  speculation  took 
place  as  to  the  paternity  of  the  novel.  Tlie  writer 
was  evidently  well-bred  and  intellectual — prone  to 
philosophical  and  theological  disquisitions,  but  at 
the  same  time  capable  of  forcible  delineation  of  cha- 
racter, and  the  management  of  natural  dialogue 
and  incidents.  The  prolixity  of  some  of  the  disser- 
tations and  dialogues,  where  the  story  stood  still  for 
half  a volume,  that  the  parties  might  converse  and 
dispute,  rendered  ‘Tremaine’  somewhat  heavy  and 
tedious,  in  spite  of  the  vigour  and  originality  of 
talent  it  displayed.  In  a subsequent  work,  De  Vere, 
or  the  Man  of  Independence,  1827,  the  public  dwelt 
with  keen  interest  on  a portraiture  of  Mr  Canning, 
whose  career  was  then  about  to  close  in  his  prema- 
ture death.  The  contention  in  the  mind  of  this 
illustrious  statesman  between  literary  tastes  and  the 
pursuits  of  ambition,  is  beautifully  delineated  in  one 
passage  which  has  been  often  quoted.  It  represents 
a conversation  between  Wentworth  (Canning),  Sir 
George  Deloraine,  a reserved  and  sentimental  man, 
and  Dr  Herbert.  The  occasion  of  the  conversation 
was  Wentw'orth’s  having  observed  Deloraine  coining 
out  of  Westminster  Abbey  by  the  door  at  Poets’ 
Corner.  Meeting  at  dinner.  Sir  George  is  rallied 
by  Wentworth  on  his  taste  for  the  monuments  of 
departed  genius  ; which  he  defends  ; and  he  goes  on 
to  add — 

‘ It  would  do  all  you  men  of  power  good  if  you 
were  to  visit  them  too  ; for  it  would  show  you  how 
little  more  than  upon  a level  is  often  the  reputation 
of  the  greate.st  state.sinan  with  the  fame  of  those  who, 
by  their  genius,  their  philosophy,  or  love  of  letters, 
improve  and  gladden  life  even  after  they  are  gone.’ 
The  whole  company  saw  the  force  of  this  remark,  and 
Wentworth  not  the  least  among  them.  ‘You  have 
touched  a theme,’  said  he,  ‘ which  has  often  engaged 
me,  and  others  befoie  me,  with  the  keenest  interest. 

I know  nothing  so  calculated  as  this  very  reflection 
to  cure  us  poor  political  slaves  (especially  when  we 
feel  the  tugs  we  are  obliged  to  sustain)  of  being 
dazzled  by  meteors.’  ‘ Meteors  do  you  call  them  V 
iaid  Dr  Herbert.  ‘ Men  do  not  run  after  meteors 
with  such  rapid  and  persevering  steps  as  you  great 
people  pursue  ambition.’  ‘ I grant  you,’  returned  his 
friend  ; ‘ and  if  we  did  not  think  them  something 
betti  r,  who  would  give  himself  \_q.  themselves]  up  to 
such  labour,  such  invasions  of  their  privacy  and 


leisure,  as  we  are  forced  to  undergo  ?’  ‘ What  is  it, 
then,  that  so  seduces  you?’  ‘A  little  intoxication,’ 
returned  Mr  Wentworth,  laughing  off  a subject  which 
he  did  not  wish  cairicd  too  far;  ‘for  which  you 
philosophers  say  we  ought  to  be  whipped,  and  for 
which  whipped  we  often  are.  'I'hose,  however,  who 
want  this  whipping  would  do  well  to  take  Sir  George’s 
advice,  and  visit  the  shrines  of  the  mighty  dead. 
They  would  see  how  inferior  most  of  themselves  are 
in  present  estimation  to  beings  who,  when  alive,  could 
not,  in  splendour  at  least,  compare  with  them.  I 
have  too  often  made  the  reflection,  and  was  not  the 
happier  for  it.’  ‘ You  cannut  bo  serious,’  said  the 
divine  ; ‘ since  who  arc  such  real  benefactors  to  man- 
kind as  enlightened  legislators  and  patriot  warriors? 
What  poet,  I had  almost  said  what  philosopher,  can 
stand  in  competition  with  the  founder  or  defender  of 
his  country?’  ‘Ask  your  own  Homer,  your  own 
Shakspeare,’  answered  Wentworth,  forgetting  his  am- 
bition for  a moment  in  his  love  of  letters.  ‘You 
take  me  in  my  weak  part,’  said  Herbert,  ‘and  the 
subject  would  carry  us  too  far.  I would  remark, 
however,  that  but  for  the  Solons,  the  Rorauluses.  the 
Charlemagnes,  and  Alfreds,  we  should  have  no  Homer 
or  Shakspeare  to  charm  us.’  ‘ I know  this  is  your 
favourite  theme,’  said  the  minister,  ‘and  you  know 
how  much  I agree  with  you.  But  this  is  not  pre- 
cisely the  question  raised  by  Sir  George ; which  is, 
the  superiority  in  the  temple  of  fame  enjoyed  by  men 
distinguished  for  their  efforts  in  song  or  history  (but 
who  might  have  been  mere  beggars  when  alive)  over 
those  who  flaunted  it  superciliously  over  them  in  a 
pomp  and  pride  which  are  now  absolutely  forgotten.’ 
‘ I will  have  nothing  to  do  with  supercilious  haunters,’ 
replied  Herbert ; ‘ I speak  of  the  liberal,  the  patriotic^ 
who  seek  power  for  the  true  uses  of  power,  in  order  to 
diffuse  blessing  and  protection  all  around  them. 
These  can  never  fail  to  be  deservedly  applauded  ; and 
1 honour  such  amb  tion  as  of  infinitely  more  real  con- 
sequence to  the  world  than  those  whose  works  (how- 
ever  I may  love  them  in  private)  can,  from  the  mere 
nature  of  things,  be  comparativ'ely  known  only  to  a 
few.’  ‘All  that  is  most  true,’  said  Mr  Wentworth  ; 
‘ and  for  a while  public  men  of  the  description  you 
mention  All  a larger  space  in  the  eye  of  mankind  ; 
that  is,  of  contemjiorary  mankind.  But  extinguish 
their  power,  no  matter  by  what  means,  whether  by 
losing  favour  at  court,  or  being  turned  out  by  the 
country,  to  both  which  they  are  alike  subject  ; let 
death  forcibly  remove  them,  or  a queen  die,  and  their 
light,  like  Bolingbroke’s,  goes  out  of  itself;  their  in- 
fluence is  certainly  gone,  and  where  is  even  their 
reputation?  It  may  glimmer  for  a minute,  like  the 
dying  flame  of  a taper,  after  which  they  soon  cease  to 
be  mentioned,  perhaps  even  remembered.’  ‘Surely,’ 
said  the  doctoi,  ‘this  is  too  much  in  extremes.’  ‘ .\nd 
yet,’  continued  Wentw'orth,  ‘ hav'e  we  not  all  heard  of 
a maxim  appalling  to  all  lovers  of  political  fame, 
“that  nobody  is  missed?”  Alasl  then,  are  we  not 
compelled  to  burst  out  with  the  poet ; — 

“ AMiat  boots  it  with  incessant  care. 

To  tend  tlie  homely  slighted  shepherd's  trade. 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  muse  ? 

Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use. 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera’s  hair  ?”  ’ 

Both  Sir  George  and  De  Vere  kindled  at  this ; and 
the  doctor  himself  smiled,  when  the  minister  pro- 
ceeded. ‘In  short,’  said  he,  ‘when  a statesman,  or 
even  a conqueror  is  departed,  it  depends  upon  the 
happier  poet  or  philosophic  historian  to  make  even 
his  name  known  to  posterity  ; while  the  historian  or 
poet  acquires  immortality  for  himself  in  conferring 
upon  his  heroes  an  inferior  exi.stence.’  ‘ Inferior 
existence!’  exclaimed  Herbert.  ‘Yes;  for  look  at 

610 


«0V  BUSTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


inns  TROLLOPE. 


I Pluturch,  and  lusk  wliicli  are  most  esteemed;  liiraself 
or  those  he  records!  Look  at  the  old  Claudii  and 
Manlii  of  Livy;  or  the  characters  in  Tacitus;  or 
Meeienas,  A^rippa,  or  Augustus  himself— princes, 
eniperm-s,  ministers,  esteemed  by  contemporaries  as 
gods ! Fancy  their  splendour  in  the  eye  of  the  mul- 
titude while  the  multitude  followed  them!  Look  at 
them  now  ! Spite  even  of  their  beautiful  historians, 
we  have  often  difficult)  in  rummaging  out  their  old 
names ; while  those  who  wrote  or  sang  of  them  live 
before  our  eyes.  The  benefits  they  conferred  passed 
in  a minute,  while  the  compositions  that  record  them 
last  for  ever.’  hir  Wei  tworth’s  energy  moved  his 
hearers,  and  even  Herbert,  who  was  too  classical  not 
to  be  shaken  by  these  arguments.  ‘ Still,  however,’ 
said  the  latter,  ‘ we  admire,  and  even  wish  to  emulate 
Camillus,  and  Miltiades,  and  Alexander;  a Sully 
and  a Clarendon.’  ‘ Add  a Lord  Burleigh,’  replied 
the  minister,  ‘ who,  in  reference  to  Spenser,  thought  a 
hundred  pounds  an  immense  sura  for  a song ! \\  hich 
is  now  most  thought  of,  or  most  loved  ? — the  calcu- 
lating minister  or  the  poor  poet  ? the  puissant  trea- 
surer or  ho  who  was  left  “in  suing  long  to  bide?’’’ 
Sir  George  and  De  Vere,  considering  the  quarter 
whence  it  came,  were  delighted  with  this  question. 
The  doctor  was  silent,  and  seemed  to  wish  his  great 
friend  to  go  on.  He  proceeded  thus — ‘ I might  make 
the  same  question  as  to  Horace  and  Mecienas ; and 
yet,  I daresay,  Horace  was  as  proud  of  being  taken 
in  Meexnas’s  coach  to  the  Capitol  as  the  dean  of  St 
Patricks  in  Oxford’s  or  Bolingbroke’s  to  Windsor.  Yet 
Oxford  is  even  now  chiefly  remembered  through  that 
V ery  dean,  and  so  perhaps  would  Bolingbroke,  but  that 
he  is  an  author,  and  a very  considerable  one  himself. 
We  may  recollect,’  continued  he,  ‘ the  manner  in  which 
Whitelocke  mentions  Milton — that  “one  Milton,  a 
blind  man,’’  was  made  secretary  to  Cromwell.  White- 
locke was  then  the  first  subject  in  the  state,  and  lived 
in  all  the  pomp  of  the  seals,  and  all  the  splendour  of 
Bulstrode  ; while  the  blind  man  waked  at  early  morn 
to  li.sten  to  the  lark  bidding  him  good-morrow  at  his 
cottage  window.  Where  is  the  lord-keeper  now? — 
where  the  blind  man  ? What  is  knorni  of  Addison  as 
secretary  of  state?  and  how  can  his  excellency  com- 
pare with  the  man  rvho  charms  us  so  exquisitely  in 
his  writings?  When  I have  visited  his  interesting 
house  at  Bilton,  in  Warwickshire,  sat  in  his  very 
study,  and  read  his  very  books,  no  words  can  describe 
my  emotions.  I breathe  his  official  atmosphere  here, 
but  without  thinking  of  him  at  all.  In  short,  there 
is  this  delightful  superiority  in  literary  over  political 
fame,  that  the  one,  to  say  the  best  of  it,  stalks  in  cold 
grandeur  upon  stilts,  like  a French  tragedy  actor, 
while  the  other  winds  itself  into  our  vvarm  hearts, 
and  is  hugged  there  with  all  the  affection  of  a friend 
and  all  the  admiration  of  a lover.’  ‘ Hear  ! hear !’ 
cried  Sir  George,  which  was  echoed  by  De  Vere  and 
Herbert  himself. 

De  Clifford,  or  the  Constant  Man,  produced  in 
1841,  is  also  a tale  of  actual  life ; and  as  the  hero  is 
at  one  time  secretary  to  a cabinet  minister,  Mr 
Ward  revels  in  official  details,  rivalries,  and  in- 
trigue. In  1844  our  author  produced  Chatsworth,  or 
tile  Romance  of  a Week. 

BENJAMIN  d’iSRAELI. 

Mr  Benjamin  DTsraeli,  M.  P.,  son  of  the  vener- 
able author  of  the  Curiosities  of  Literature,  composed 
a novel  of  the  same  class  as  Mr  Ward’s,  which  also 
puzzled  the  busy  idlers  of  literature  and  fashion. 
Vivian  Grey,  two  volumes,  1826,  and  continued  in 
three  more  volumes  in  the  following  year,  is  a work 
of  irregular  imaginative  talent,  of  little  or  no  plot,  but 
presenting  views  of  society  and  character  without 


any  definite  or  intelligible  purpose.  The  second  part, 
in  which  Vivian  is  taken  to  Germany  and  Austria, 
is  amusing  from  its  travelling  scenes  and  sketches. 
Contarini  Fleming,  a Psychological  Autubiogruphy, 
four  volumes,  1832,  is  still  more  irregular  than  Mr 
U’Israeli’s  first  work,  but  has  some  highly-finished 
scenes  of  passion  and  continental  descriotion. 

MRS  TROLLOPE. 

Another  keen  observer  and  more  caustic  delinea- 
tor of  modern  manners  we  have  in  Mrs  Trollope, 
authoress  of  a long  series  of  fictions.  This  lady  first 
came  before  the  public  in  1832,  when  her  Domestic 


Manners  o f the  Americans  was  published,  and  excited 
much  attention.  She  drew  so  severe  a picture  ol 
American  faults  and  foibles — of  their  want  of  deli- 
cacy, their  affectations,  drinking,  coarse  selfishness, 
and  ridiculous  peculiarities — that  the  whole  nation 
w'as  incensed  at  their  English  satirist.  There  is 
much  exaggeration  in  Mrs  Trollope’s  sketches ; but 
having  truth  for  their  foundation,  her  book  is  sup- 
posed to  have  had  some  effect  in  reforming  the 
‘ minor  morals’  and  social  habits  of  the  Americans. 
The  same  year  our  authoress  continued  her  satiric 
portraits  in  a novel  entitled  The  Refugee  in  America, 
marked  by  the  same  traits  as  her  former  work,  but 
exhibiting  little  art  or  talent  in  the  construction  of  a 
fable.  IMrs  Trollope  now  tried  new  ground.  In  1834 
she  published  Belgium  and  Western  Germany  in  1833, 
countries  where  she  found  much  more  to  gratify  and 
interest  her  than  in  America,  and  wffiere  she  travelled 
in  generally  good  humour.  The  only  serious  evil 
which  Mrs  Trollope  seems  to  have  encountered  in 
Germany  was  the  tobacco-smoke,  which  she  vi- 
tuperates with  unwearied  perseverance.  In  1837 
she  presented  another  novel,  The  Vicar  of  Wrexhill, 
an  able  and  entertaining  work,  full  of  prejudices^ 
but  containing  some  excellent  painting  of  manners 
and  eccentricities.  In  1838  our  authoress  appears 
again  as  a traveller.  Vienna  and  the  Austrians  was 
of  the  same  cast  as  ‘ Belgium  and  Germany,’  but 
more  deformed  by  prejudice.  This  journey  also 
afforded  Mrs  Trollope  materials  for  a novel,  which 
she  entitled  A Romance  of  Vienna.  Three  novels 
were  the  fruit  of  1839;  namely.  The  Widow  Barnahy, 
a highly  amusing  work,  particularly  the  delineation 
of  the  bustling,  scheming,  unprincipled  husband- 

Gll 


PROM  1700 


CYCLOP^IDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME 


liiiiifiiig  widow  ; Michael  Armstrong,  or  the  Factory 
Hoy,  a caricature  of  the  evils  attendant  on  the  manu- 
facturiiif'  system  ; and  One  Fault,  a domestic  story, 
ilhistratin(4  witli  uncommon  vijj;our  and  elfect  the 
dismal  consequences  of  that  species  of  bad  temper 
which  proceeds  from  pride  and  over  sensitiveness. 
In  1840  we  had  The  Widow  Married;  and  in  1841 
The  Hhie  Helles  of  England,  and  Charles  Chesterjielii. 
The  latter  relates  the  history  of  a youth  of  genius, 
and  contains  a satirical  picture  of  the  state  of  lite- 
rature in  Kngland,  branding  author.s,  editors,  and 
publishers  with  unpriuci|>led  profligacy,  selfishness, 
and  corruption.  In  1842  Mrs  Trollope,  besides 
throM’iug  off  another  novel  {The  Ward  of  Thorpe 
Coml/e),  gave  the  public  the  result  of  a second 
visit  to  llelgium,  describing  the  changes  that  had 
been  effected  since  1833,  and  also  A Visit  to  Italy. 
The  smart  caustic  style  of  our  authoress  was  not 
so  well  adapted  to  the  classic  scenes,  manners,  and 
antiquities  of  Italy,  as  to  the  broader  features  of 
American  life  and  character,  and  this  work  was  not 
BO  successful  as  her  previous  publications.  Return- 
ing to  fiction,  we  find  Mrs  Trollope,  as  usiujl,  prolific. 
Three  novels,  of  three  volumes  each,  were  the  pro- 
duce of  1843  — Hargrave,  Jessie  Phillips,  and  The 
Laurringtons.  The  first  is  a sketch  of  a man  of 
fashion;  the  second  an  attack  on  the  new  English 
poor-law  ; and  the  third  a lively  satire  on  ‘ superior 
people,’  the  ‘ hustling  Botherbys’  of  society.  Review- 
ing the  aggregate  labours  of  this  industrious  author- 
ess, we  cannot  say  that  she  has  done  good  propor- 
tioned to  her  talents.  Her  satire  is  directed  against 
the  mere  superficialities  of  life,  and  is  not  calculated 
to  check  vice  or  encourage  virtue.  In  depicting 
high  life,  she  wants  the  genial  spirit  and  humanity 
of  Theodore  Hook,  She  has  scattered  amusement 
among  novel-readers  by  some  of  her  delineations  ; 
but  in  all  her  mirth  there  is  a mocking  and  bitter 
sjtirit,  which  is  often  as  misplaced  as  it  is  unfemi- 
nine. 

JOHN  BANIM. 

The  Tales  of  the  O'Hara  Family,  first  and  second 
series,  182.3  and  182fi,  produced  a strong  and  vivid 
impression  on  all  readers  of  fiction.  The  author 
seemed  to  unite  the  truth  and  circumstantiality  of 
Crahbe  with  the  dark  and  gloomy  power  of  Godwin  ; 
and  in  knowledge  of  Irish  character,  habits,  customs, 
and  feeling,  he  w.as  superior  to  even  Miss  Edge- 
worth  or  Lady  IMorgan.  The  story  of  the  Nowlans, 
and  that  of  Croohore  of  the  Bill-Hook,  can  never  be 
forgotten  by  those  who  have  once  perused  them. 
The  force  of  the  passions,  and  the  effects  of  crime, 
turbulence,  and  misery,  have  rarely  been  painted 
with  such  overmastering  energy,  or  wrought  into 
narratives  of  more  sustained  and  harrowing  interest. 
The  probability  of  his  incidents  was  not  much  at- 
tended to  by  the  author,  and  he  indulged  largely  in 
scenes  of  horror  and  violence — in  murders,  abduc- 
tions, pursuits,  and  escapes — but  the  whole  was  re- 
lated with  such  spirit,  raciuess,  and  truth  of  cos- 
tume and  colouring,  that  the  reader  had  neither  time 
nor  inclination  to  note  defects.  The  very  peculiari- 
ties of  the  Irish  dialect  and  pronunciation  (though 
constituting  at  first  a difficulty  in  perusal,  ami 
always  too  much  persisted  in  by  Mr  Banim) 
heightened  the  wild  native  flavour  of  the  stories, 
and  enriched  them  with  many  new  and  picturesque 
words  and  phrases.  These  original  and  striking 
tales  were  followed  up  in  1828  by  another  Irisli 
story.  The  Croppy,  eonnected  with  the  insurrection 
in  1798,  ‘We  paint,’ said  the  author,  ‘from  the 
people  of  a laud  amongst  whom,  for  the  last  si.x 
hundred  years,  national  provocations  have  never 


ceased  to  keep  alive  the  strongest  and  often  the 
worst  passions  of  our  nature  ; who.se  pauses,  during 
that  long  lapse  of  a country’s  existence,  from  actual 
conflict  in  the  field,  have  been  but  so  many  changes 
into  mental  strife,  and  who  to  this  day  are  held 
prepared,  should  the  war-cry  be  given,  to  rush  at 
eacli  other’s  throats,  and  enact  scenes  that,  in  the 
columns  of  a newspaper,  would  show  more  terribly 
vivid  than  any  selected  by  us  from  former  facts, 
for  the  purposes  of  candid,  though  slight  illustra- 
tion.’ There  was  too  much  of  this  ‘strong  writing’ 
in  'I'he  Croppy,  and  worse  faults  were  found  in  the 
prolixity  of  some  of  the  dialogues  and  descri|itions, 
and  a too  palpable  imitation  of  the  style  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott  in  his  historical  romance.s.  The  scenes 
peculiarly  Irish  are,  however,  written  with  Mr 
Banim’s  characteristic  vigour  : he  describes  the 
burning  of  a cabin  till  we  seem  to  witness  the  spec- 
tacle ; and  the  massacre  at  Vinegar  Hill  is  portrayed 
with  the  distinctness  of  dramatic  action.  Nanny 
the  knitter  is  also  one  of  his  happiest  Irish  like- 
nesses. The  experiment  made  by  the  author  to 
depict,  like  Scott,  the  manners  and  frivolities  if  the 
higher  classes — to  draw  a sprightly  heroine,  a i.saiden 
aunt,  or  the  ordinary  characters  and  traits  of  genreel 
society — was  decidedly  a failure.  His  strength  lay 
in  the  cabin  and  the  wild  heath,  not  in  the  drawing- 
room, In  1830  IMr  Banim  published  The  Denounced, 
in  three  volumes,  a work  consisting  of  two  tales 
— The  Last  Baron  of  Crana,  and  The  Coid’ormists 
The  same  beauties  and  defects  which  characterise 
The  Croppy  are  seen  in  The  Denounced;  but  The 
Conformists  is  a deeply-interesting  story,  and  calls 
forth  Mr  Banim’s  peculiarities  of  description  and 
knowledge  of  character  in  a very  striking  light.  His 
object  is  to  depict  the  evils  of  that  system  of  anti- 
Catholic  tyranny  when  the  penal  laws  were  in  full 
force,  by  which  home  education  was  deified  to  Catho- 
lic families  unless  by  a Protestant  teaclar.  The 
more  rigid  of  the  Catholics  abjured  all  iiistructi.in 
thus  administered;  and  Mr  Banim  descrilxjs  the 
effects  of  ignorance  and  neglect  on  the  second  son  of 
a Catholic  gentleman,  haughty,  sensitive,  and  jiain- 
fully  alive  to  the  disadvantages  and  degradation  of 
his  condition.  The  whole  account  of  this  family, 
the  D’Arcys,  is  written  with  great  skill  and  effect. 
In  1838  Mr  Banim  collected  several  of  his  contribu- 
tions to  periodical  works,  and  published  them  under 
the  title  of  The  Bit  o’  WriUn',  and  other  Tales.  In 
1842  he  came  forw.ard  with  an  original  and  e.xcellcnt 
novel,  in  three  volumes.  Father  Connell,  the  hero 
being  an  aged  and  benevolent  Catliolic  priest,  not 
unworthy  of  association  with  the  I’rotestant  Vicar 
of  Wakefield,  This  primitive  pastor  becomes  the 
patron  of  a poor  vagrant  boy,  Neddy  Fennell,  whose 
adventures  furnish  the  incidents  fur  the  story.  There 
is,  as  usual  with  Jlr  Banim,  a variety  of  iuciiients 
minutely  related — scenes  of  gloom  and  terror — and 
a comifiete  knowledge  of  the  moral  anatomy  of  our 
nature.  This  was  destined  to  be  the  last  work  of 
the  author.  He  died  in  August  1842,  in  the  jiriuie 
of  life,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Kilkenny,  which 
also  w;is  his  birthplace,  ‘ Mr  Banim  began  life  as 
a miniature  painter;  but,  seduced  from  his  profession 
by  promptings  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  and  by  the 
success  of  a tragedy,  Damon  and  Pythias,  he  early 
abandoned  art,  and  adopted  literature  as  a profes- 
sion ; and  he  will  be  long  remembered  as  the  writer 
of  that  powerful  and  painful  series  of  novels,  “The 
O’lLira  Tales,’’  Some  years  jirevious,  the  general 
sympathy  was  attracted  to  Mr  Banim’s  struggle 
against  the  suffering  and  privation  which  came  in  the 
train  of  disease  that  precluded  all  literary  exertion ; 
and  on  that  occasion  Sir  Robert  Peel  came  to  the 
aid  of  the  distressed  author,  whose  latter  years  were 

C12 


NovKi.isTS.  KNGLISII  LlTF.llATUUE.  t.  c.  chokkb. 

rostorL'il  to  his  iiiitive  country,  anil  niaiie  easy  l>y  a 


yearly  ]HMision  of  iilaO  troiii  the  civil  list,  to  which 
an  aihlition  of  £40  a-year  was  afterwards  made  for 
the  education  of  his  daughter,  au  only  child.'*  lie- 
sides  the  works  we  have  nieutioned,  Mr  Banim 
wrote  lioync  Water,  and  other  poetical  pieces;  and 
he  contriiaited  largely  to  the  different  magazines  and 
annuals.  ‘ The  O’Hara  Tales’  had  given  him  a name 
that  carried  general  attraction  to  all  lovers  of  light 
literature;  and  there  are  few  of  these  short  and 
h:isty  tales  that  do  not  contain  some  traces  of  his 
unrivalled  Irish  power  and  fidelity  of  delineation. 
In  some  respects  Mr  Banim  was  a mannerist:  his 
knowledge  e.xtended  over  a wide  surface  of  Irish 
history  and  of  diameter,  under  all  its  modifications  ; 
but  his  style  and  imagination  were  confined  chiefly 
to  the  same  class  of  subjects,  and  to  a peculiar  mode 
of  treating  them.  * Thus  the  consciousness  of  power 
in  the  descriptior  of  unhallowed  and  unregulated 
impulse,  appears  to  draw  him  often  away  from  con- 
templating those  feelings  of  a more  pleasing  kind, 
to  comprehend  and  to  delineate  which  is  so  neces- 
sary a condition  to  the  attainment  of  perfection  in 
his  art.  Thus  the  boldness  and  minuteness  of  detail, 
which  give  reality  to  )iis  frequent  scenes  of  lawless- 
ness and  violence,  are  too  often  forced  close  on  the 
verge  of  vulg:ir  honour  and  melodramatic  artifice. 
To  be  brief,  throughout  the  whole  of  his  writings 
there  is  a sort  of  overstrained  excitement,  a wil- 
ful dwelling  upon  turbulent  and  unchastened  pas- 
sions, which,  as  it  is  a vice  most  often  incident  to 
the  workings  of  real  genius,  more  especially  of  Irish 
genius,  so  perhaps  it  is  one  which  meets  wdth  least 
mercy  from  well-behaved  prosaic  people.’f  This 
defect  he  partially  overcame  in  his  later  writings. 
‘Father  Connell’ is  full  of  gentle  affectionate  feel- 
ings and  delineation,  and  some  of  his  smaller  tales 
are  distinguished  by  great  delicacy  and  tenderness. 

[Desmption  of  the  Burning  of  a Croppy's  House.'] 

The  smith  kept  a brooding  and  gloomy  silence  ; 
his  almost  savage  yet  steadfast  glare  fastened  upon 
the  element  that,  not  more  raging  than  his  own 
bosom,  devoured  his  dwelling.  Fire  had  been  set  to 
the  house  in  many  places  within  and  without;  and 
though  at  first  it  crept  slowly  along  the  surface  of  the 
thatch,  or  only  sent  out  bursting  wreaths  of  vapour 
from  the  interior,  or  through  the  doorway,  few  mi- 
nutes elapsed  until  the  whole  of  the  combustible  roof 
was  one  mass  of  flame,  shooting  up  into  the  serene  air 
in  a spire  of  d.azzling  brilliancy,  mixed  with  vivid 
sparks,  and  relieved  against  a background  of  dark- 
gray  smoke. 

Sky  and  earth  appeared  reddened  into  common  ig- 
nition with  the  blaze.  The  houses  around  gleamed 
hotly ; the  very  stones  and  rocks  on  the  hill-side 
seemed  portions  of  fire;  and  Shawn-a-Gow’s  bare  head 
and  herculean  shoulders  were  covered  with  spreading 
showers  of  the  ashes  of  his  own  roof. 

His  distended  eye  fixed  too  upon  the  figures  of  the 
actors  in  this  scene,  now  rendered  fiercely  distinct, 
and  their  scabbards,  their  buttons,  and  their  polished 
black  helmets,  bickering  redly  in  the  glow,  as,  at  a 
command  from  their  captain,  they  sent  up  the  hill- 
side three  shouts  over  the  demolition  of  the  Croppy’s 
dwelling.  But  still,  though  his  breast  heaved,  and 
though  wreaths  of  foam  edged  his  lips,  Shawn  was 
silent ; and  little  Peter  now  feared  to  address  a word 
to  him.  And  other  sights  and  occurrences  claimed 
whatever  attention  he  was  able  to  afford.  Rising  to  a 
pitch  of  shrillness  that  over  mastered  the  cheers  of 
the  yeomen,  the  cries  of  a man  in  bodily  agony  struck 
on  the  ears  of  the  listeners  on  the  hill,  and  looking 

♦ Atbeuacjn  for  1B42.  f Westminste**  Review,  1828. 


hard  towards  a spot  brilliantly  illuminated,  they  saw 
Saunders  Smyly  vigorously  engaged  in  one  of  his  tasks 
as  disciplinarian  to  the  Bally breehoone  cavalry.  With 
much  ostentation,  his  instrument  of  torture  was 
flourished  round  his  head,  and  though  at  every  lash 
the  shrieks  of  the  sufferer  came  loud,  the  lashes  them- 
selves were  .scarce  less  distinct. 

A second  group  challenged  the  eye.  Shawn-a-Gow’s 
hou.se  stood  alone  in  the  village.  A short  distance 
before  its  door  was  a lime-tree,  with  benches  contrived 
all  round  the  trunk,  upon  which,  in  summer  weather, 
the  go.ssipers  of  the  village  used  to  seat  themselves. 
This  tree,  standing  between  our  spectators  and  the 
blaze,  cut  darkly  against  the  glowing  objects  beyond 
it ; and  three  or  four  yeomen,  their  backs  turned  to 
the  hill,  their  faces  to  the  burning  house,  and  conse- 
quently their  figures  also  appearing  black,  seemed 
busily  occupied  in  some  feat  that  required  the  exer- 
tion of  pulling  with  their  hands  lifted  above  their 
head.s.  Shawn  flashed  an  inquiring  glance  upon  them, 
and  anon  a human  form,  still,  like  their  figures, 
vague  and  undefined  in  blackness,  gradually  became 
elevated  from  the  ground  beneath  the  tree,  until  its 
head  almost  touched  a projecting  branch,  and  then 
it  remained  stationary,  suspended  from  that  branch. 

Shawn’s  rage  increased  to  madness  at  this  sight, 
though  he  did  not  admit  it  to  be  immediately  con- 
nected with  his  more  individual  causes  for  wrath. 
And  now  came  an  event  that  made  a climax,  for  the 
present,  to  his  emotions,  and  at  length  caused  some 
expressions  of  his  pent-up  feelings.  A loud  crackling 
crash  echoed  from  his  house ; a volume  of  flame, 
taller  and  more  dense  than  any  by  which  it  ivas  pre- 
ceded, darted  up  to  the  heavens  ; then  almost  former 
darkness  fell  on  the  hill-side ; a gloomy  red  glow 
alone  remained  on  the  objects  below ; and  nothing 
but  thick  smoke,  dotted  with  sparks,  continued  to 
issue  from  his  dwelling.  After  everything  that  could 
interiorly  supply  food  to  the  flame  had  been  devoured, 
it  was  the  roof  of  his  old  house  that  now  fell  in. 

‘ By  the  ashes  o’  my  cabin,  burnt  down  before  me 
this  night — an’  I stannin’  a houseless  beggar  on  the 
hill-side  lookin’  at  id — while  I can  get  an  Orange- 
man’s house  to  take  the  blaze,  an’  a wisp  to  kindle 
the  blaze  up.  I’ll  burn  ten  houses  for  that  one!’ 

And  so  asseverating,  he  recrossed  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  and,  followed  by  Peter  Rooney,  descended  into 
the  little  valley  of  refuge. 

T.  CROFTON  CnOKER, 

Mr  Croker  has  been  one  of  the  most  industrious 
and  tasteful  collectors  of  the  legendary  lore,  the 
poetical  traditions  and  antiquities  of  Ireland.  In 
1824  appeared  his  Researches  in  the  South  of  Ireland, 
one  volume,  quarto,  containing  a judicious  and  happy 
mixture  of  humour,  sentiment,  and  antiquarianism. 
This  was  followed  by  Fairy  Legends  and  Traditions 
of  the  South  of  Ireland,  1827  ; Legends  of  the  Lakes,  or 
Sayings  and  Doings  at  Killarney,  two  volumes,  1828; 
Daniel  O'Rourke,  or  Rhymes  of  a Pantomime  founded 
on  that  Story,  1828  ; Barney  Mahoney,  1832  ; My  Vil- 
lage versus  Our  Village,  1832  ; Popular  Songs  of  Ire- 
land, 1839,  &c.  The  tales  of  ‘Barney  Mahoney’  and 
‘ My  Village’  are  Mr  Croker’s  only  efforts  at  strictly 
original  composition,  his  other  works  being  compi- 
lations, like  Scott’s  Minstrel.sy,  and  entered  upon 
with  equal  enthusiasm  and  knowledge  of  his  subject. 
Barney  is  a low  Irish  servant,  and  his  adventures 
are  characteristic  and  amusing,  though  without 
much  force  or  interest.  ‘ My  Village  ’ is  an  English 
tale,  and  by  no  means  happy  either  in  conception 
or  e.xecution.  Miss  Mitford  may  have  occasionally 
dressed  or  represented  her  village  en  vaudeville,  like 
the  back-scene  of  a theatre,  but  Mr  Croker  errs  on 
the  opposite  side.  lie  gives  us  a series  of  Dutch 

613 


FROM  1780  CYCLOriKDIA  OF  till  thf.  present  time. 


I)aiiitiiij;s,  too  little  relieved  by  iimiffiiiiitioii  or  pas- 
sion to  exeite  or  gratify  the  curiosity  of  the  reader. 
He  is  happiest  among  the  fanciful  legends  of  his 
native  country,  treasuring  up  their  romantic  fea- 
tures, (pioting  fragments  of  song,  describing  a lake 
or  ruin,  hitting  oil’  a dialogue  or  merry  jest,  and 
chronicling  the  peculiarities  of  his  countrymen  in 
their  humours,  their  superstition,  and  rustic  sim- 
plicity. The  fiillowing  is  the  account  which  he  puts 
into  the  mouth  of  one  of  his  characters,  of  the  last 
of  the  Irish  serpents. 

Sure  everybody  has  heard  tell  of  the  blessed  St 
Patrick,  and  how  he  druve  the  sarpints  and  all  man- 
ner of  venomous  things  out  of  Ireland  ; how  he 
‘bothered  all  the  varmint’  entirely.  Hut  for  all  that, 
there  was  one  ould  sarpint  left,  who  was  too  cunning 
to  he  talked  out  of  the  country,  and  made  to  drown 
himself.  St  Patrick  didn’t  well  know  how  to  manage 
this  fellow,  who  was  doing  great  havoc;  till,  at  long 
last  he  bethought  himself,  and  got  a strong  iron  chest 
made  with  nine  boults  upon  it.  So  one  fine  morning 
he  takes  a walk  to  where  the  sarpint  used  to  keep  ; 
and  the  sarpint,  who  didn’t  like  the  saint  in  the  least, 
and  small  blame  to  him  for  that,  began  to  hiss  and 
show  his  teeth  at  him  like  .anything.  ‘ Oh,’  says  St 
Patrick,  .s.ays  he,  ‘ where’s  the  use  of  making  such  a 
piece  of  work  about  a gentleman  like  myself  coming 
to  see  you.  ’Tis  a nice  house  I have  got  made  for 
vou  agin  the  winter;  for  I'm  going  to  civilise  the 
whole  country,  man  and  beast,’  says  he,  ‘ ,and  you  can 
come  and  look  at  it  whenever  you  please,  and  ’tis  my- 
self will  be  glad  to  see  you.’  The  sarpint  hearing  such 
smooth  words,  thought  that  though  St  Patrick  Inad 
druve  all  the  rest  of  the  sarpints  into  the  se,a,  he  meant 
no  harm  to  himself ; so  the  sarpint  w'alks  fair  .and 
e.asy  up  to  see  him  and  the  house  he  was  speaking 
about.  But  when  the  sarpint  saw  the  nine  boults 
upon  the  chest,  he  thought  he  was  sould  (betrayed), 
and  w,as  for  making  olf  with  himself  as  fast  as  ever  he 
could.  ‘ ’Tis  a nice  warm  house,  you  see,’  says  St 
Patrick,  ‘and  ’tis  a good  fr  end  I am  to  you.’  ‘I 
th.ank  you  kindly,  St  Patrick,  for  your  civility,’  says 

the  sarpint ; ‘ but  I think  it’s  too  small  it  is  for  me’ 

meaning  it  for  an  exeu.se,  and  awtiy  he  was  going. 
‘ 1 00  small  !’  says  St  Patrick,  ‘ stop,  if  you  please,’  says 
he,  ‘y'ou’re  out  in  that,  my  bov,  anyhow — 1 am  sure 
’twill  fit  you  completely  ; and  I'll  tell  you  what,’  says 
he,  ‘ I’ll  bet  you  a gallon  of  porter,’  .says  he,  ‘ that  if 
you’ll  only  try  and  get  in,  there’ll  be  plenty  of  room 
for  you.’  The  .sarpint  was  as  thinsty  as  could  be  with 
his  walk  ; and  ’twas  great  joy  to  him  the  thoughts  of 
doing  St  Patrick  out  of  the  gallon  of  porter;  so,  swell- 
ing himself  up  .as  big  as  he  could,  in  he  got  to  the 
chest,  all  but  a little  bit  of  his  tail.  ‘ There,  now,’ 
says  he,  ‘ I’ve  won  the  gallon,  for  you  see  the  house  is 
too  small  for  me,  for  I can’t  get  in  my  tail.’  When 
what  does  St  Patrick  do,  but  he  comes  behind  the 
great  heavy  lid  of  the  chest,  and,  putting  his  two 
hands  to  it,  down  he  slaps  it  with  a bang  like  thunder. 
When  the  rogue  of  a sarpint  saw  the  lid  coming  down, 
in  went  his  tail  like  a shot,  for  fear  of  being  whipped 
off  him,  and  St  Patrick  began  at  once  to  boult  the  nine 
iron  boults.  ‘ Oh,  murder  I wont  you  let  me  out, 
fat  Patrick  V says  the  sarpint  ; ‘ I’ve  lost  the  bet  fairly, 
and  I’ll  p.ay  you  the  gallon  like  a man.’  ‘ Let  you 
out,  my  darling,’  says  St  Patrick,  ‘ to  be  sure  I will, 
by  all  manner  of  means  ; but  you  .see  I haven’t  time 
jow,  so  you  must  wait  till  to-morrow.’  And  so  he 
uook  the  iron  chest,  with  the  sarpint  in  it,  and  pitches 
it  into  the  lake  here,  where  it  is  to  this  hour  for  cer- 
tain ; .and  ’tis  the  sarpint  struggling  down  at  the  bot- 
tom that  makes  the  waves  upon  it.  Many  is  the  liv- 
ing man  (continued  Picket)  besides  my.self  has  heard 
the  sarpint  crying  out  from  within  the  chest  under  the 
water-—’  Is  it  to-morrow  yet! — is  it  to-morrow  yeti’ 


which,  to  be  sure,  it  never  can  be  : and  that’s  the  way 
St  Patrick  settled  the  last  of  the  sarpint.s,  sir. 

The  national  character  of  Ireland  was  further 
illustrated  by  tvi'o  collections  of  tales  published 
anonymously,  entitled  To-day  in  Ireland,  182.5;  and 
Yesterday  in  Ireland,  1829.  'Though  imperfectly 
acquainted  with  the  art  of  a novelist,  this  writer 
is  often  correct  and  happy  in  his  descriptions  and 
historical  summaries.  Like  Baiiini,  he  has  ventured 
on  the  stormy  period  of  1798,  and  has  been  more 
minute  than  his  great  rival  in  sketching  the  circum- 
stances of  the  rebellion.  Mr  Crowe,  author  of 
The  Tnglish  in  Italy  and  France,  a work  of  superior 
merit,  is  said  to  be  the  author  of  these  tales.  'The 
Uev.  C.ESAR  Otway,  of  Oiiblin,  in  his  Sketches  oj 
Ireland,  and  his  Tour  in  Connaught,  &c.  18.39,  has 
displayed  many  of  the  most  valuable  qualities  of  a 
novelist,  without  attempting  the  construction  of  a 
regular  story.  Ilis  lively  style  and  humorous  illus- 
trations of  the  manners  of  the  people  render  his 
topographical  works  very  jileasant  as  well  as  in- 
structive reading.  Mr  (Jtway  was  a keen  theolo- 
gian, a determined  anti-Catbolic,  but  full  of  Irish 
feeling  and  universal  kindliness.  lie  died  in  March 
1842. 

GERALD  GRIFFIN. 

Gerald  Griffin,  author  of  some  excellent  Irish 
tales,  was  born  at  Limerick  on  the  12th  of  December 
1803.  His  first  schoolmaster  appears  to  have  been 
a true  Milesian  pedant  and  original,  for  one  of  his 
advertisements  begins  — ‘When  ponderous  polly- 
syllables  promulgate  professional  powers  1’ — and  he 
bc«xsted  of  being  one  of  three  persons  in  Ireland  who 
knew  how  to  read  correctly  ; namely,  the  Bishop  of 
Killaloe,  the  Earl  of  Clare,  and  himself,  Mr  Mac- 
Eligot ! Gerald  was  afterwards  placed  under  a pri- 
vate tutor,  whence  he  was  removed  to  attend  a school 
at  Limerick.  While  a mere  youth,  he  became  con- 
nected with  the  Limerick  Advertiser  newspaper ; but 
h.aving  written  a tragedy,  he  migrated  to  London  in 
his  twentieth  year,  with  the  hope  of  distinguishing 
himself  in  literature  and  the  dram.a.  Disajipoint- 
ment  very'  naturally  followed,  and  Gerald  betook 
himself  to  reporting  for  the  daily  press  and  contri- 
buting to  the  magazines.  In  1825  he  succeeded  in 
getting  an  operatic  melodrama  brought  out  at  the 
English  Opera  House ; and  in  1827  appeared  his 
Holland-Tide,  or  Munster  Popular  Tales,  a series  of 
short  stories,  thoroughly'  Irish,  and  evincing  powers 
of  observation  and  description  from  which  much 
might  be  anticipated.  This  fortunate  beginning 
was  followed  up  the  same  year  by  Tales  of  the  Mun- 
ster Festivals,  containing  Card-Drawing,  the  Half-Sir, 
and  Sail  Dhuv  the  Coiner,  three  volumes.  The 
nationality  of  these  tales,  and  the  talent  of  the 
author  in  depicting  the  mingled  levity  and  p.ithos 
of  the  Irish  character,  rendered  them  exceedingly 
popular.  His  reputation  was  still  further  increased 
by  the  publication,  in  1829,  of  The  Collegians;  a 
Second  Scries  of  Tales  of  the  Munster  Festivals,  three 
volumes,  which  proved  to  be  the  most  popular  of  all 
his  w'orks,  and  w.as  thought  by  many  to  place  Griffin 
as  an  Irish  novelist  above  Banim  and  Carleton. 
Some  of  the  scenes  possess  a deep  and  melancholy 
interest;  for,  in  awakening  terror,  and  painting  the 
sterner  passions  and  their  results,  Griffin  displayed 
the  art  and  power  of  a master.  ‘ 'The  Collegians,’ 
says  a writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  ‘is  a very 
interesting  and  well-constructed  tale,  full  of  incident 
and  passion.  It  is  a history  of  the  clandestine  union 
of  a young  man  of  good  birth  and  fortune  with  a 
girl  of  far  inferior  rank,  and  of  the  consequences 

614 


^OVl■;LlSTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILMAM  CARLBTOH. 


which  too  iiatuially  result  Tlie  gradual  decay  of 
an  attachment  which  was  scarcely  based  on  any- 
thing better  than  sensual  love — the  irksomeness  of 
concealment — the  goadings  of  wounded  pride — the 
suggestions  of  self-interest,  which  had  been  hastily 
neglected  for  an  object  which  proves  inadequate 
when  gained — all  these  combining  to  produce,  first, 
neglect,  and  lastly,  aversion,  are  interestingly  and 
vividly  described.  An  attachment  to  another,  su- 
perior both  in  mind  and  station,  springs  up  at  the 
same  time ; and  to  effect  a union  with  her,  the  un- 
happy wife  is  sacrificed.  It  is  a terrible  represen- 
tation of  the  course  of  crime ; and  it  is  not  only 
forcibly,  but  naturally  dispR.yed.  The  characters 
sometimes  express  their  feelings  with  unnecessary 
energy,  strong  emotions  are  too  long  dwelt  upon, 
and  incidents  rather  slowly  developed ; but  there 
is  no  common  skill  and  pow'er  evinced  in  the  con- 
duct of  the  tale.’  In  1830  Mr  Griffin  was  again  in 
the  field  with  his  Irish  sketches.  Two  tales,  I'he 
Rivals,  and  Tracey's  Anibition,  were  well  received, 
though  improbable  in  plot  and  ill-arranged  in  in- 
cident. The  author  continued  his  miscellaneous 
labours  for  the  press,  and  published,  besides  a 
number  of  contributions  to  periodicals,  another 
series  of  stories,  entitled  Tales  of  the  Five  Senses. 
These  are  not  equal  to  his  ‘ Munster  Tales,’  but  are, 
nevertheless,  full  of  fine  Irish  description  and  cha- 
racter, and  of  that  'dark  and  touching  power’  which 
Mr  Carleton  assigns  as  the  distinguishing  excellence 
of  his  brother  novelist.  In  1832  the  townsmen  of 
Mr  Grifidn  devolved  upon  him  a very  pleasing  duty 
— to  wait  upon  Mr  Moore  the  poet,  and  request  that 
he  would  allow  himself  to  be  put  in  nomination  for 
the  representation  of  the  city  of  Limerick  in  parlia- 
ment. Mr  Moore  prudently  declined  this  honour, 

1 but  appears  to  have  given  a characteristically  kind 
; and  warm  reception  to  his  young  enthusiastic  visitor, 
j and  his  brother,  who  accompanied  him. 
j Notwithstanding  the  early  success  and  growing 
j reputation  of  Mr  Grifiin,  he  appears  to  have  soon 
I become  tired  of  the  world,  and  anxious  to  retreat 

!!  from  its  toils  and  its  pleasures.  He  had  been  edu- 
cated in  the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  and  one  of  his 
sisters  had,  about  the  year  1830,  taken  the  veil. 
This  circumstance  awakened  the  poetical  and  de- 
' votional  feelings  and  desires  that  formed  part  of  his 
character,  and  he  grew  daily  more  anxious  to  quit 
the  busy  world  for  a fife  of  religious  duty  and  ser- 
vice. The  following  verses,  written  at  this  time, 

I are  expressive  of  his  new  enthusiasm ; — 

I Seven  dreary  winters  gone  and  spent, 

i Seven  blooming  summers  vanished  too, 

I ' Since  on  an  eager  mission  bent, 

; I left  my  Irish  home  and  you- 

iHow  passed  those  years  I will  not  say ; 

They  cannot  be  by  words  renewed — 

< God  wash  their  sinful  parts  away  ! 

And  blest  be  he  for  all  their  good. 

With  even  mind  and  tranquil  breast 
I left  my  youthful  sister  then. 

And  now  in  sweet  religious  rest 
I see  my  sister  there  again. 

Returning  from  that  stormy  world, 

How  pleasing  is  a sight  like  this! 

To  see  that  bark  with  canvass  furled 
Still  riding  in  that  port  of  peace. 

Oh,  darling  of  a heart  that  still. 

By  earthly  joys  so  deeply  trod. 

At  moments  bids  its  owner  feel 
The  warmth  of  nature  and  of  God  ! 


Still  be  his  care  in  future  years 

To  learn  of  thee  truth’s  simple  way. 

And  free  from  foundless  hopes  or  fears, 

Serenely  live,  securely  pray. 

And  when  our  Christmas  days  are  past. 

And  life’s  vain  shadows  faint  and  dim. 

Oh,  be  my  sister  heard  at  last. 

When  her  pure  hands  are  raised  for  him  1 

Christmas,  1830. 

His  mind,  fixed  on  this  subject,  still  retained  its 
youthful  buoyancy  and  cheerfulness,  and  he  made  a 
tour  in  Scotland,  which  afforded  him  the  highest  sa- 
tisfaction and  enjoyment.  He  retired  from  the  world 
in  the  autumn  of  1838,  and  joined  the  Christian 
Brotherhood  (whose  duty  it  is  to  instruct  the  poor) 
in  the  monastery  at  Cork.  In  the  second  year  of 
his  noviciate  he  was  attacked  with  typhus  fever, 
and  died  on  tlie  12th  of  June  1840. 

WILLIAM  CAELETON. 

William  Carleton,  author  of  Traits  and  Stories 
of  the  Irish  Peasantry,  was  born  at  Prillisk,  in  the 
parish  of  Clogher,  and  county  of  Tyrone,  in  the  year 
1798.  His  father  was  a person  in  lowly  station — a 
peasant — but  highly  and  singularly  gifted.  His  me- 
mory w'as  unusually  retentive,  and  as  a teller  of  old 
tales,  legends,  and  historical  anecdotes,  he  was  un- 
rivalled; and  his  stock  of  them  was  inexhaustible. 
He  spoke  the  Irish  and  English  languages  with  nearly 
equal  fluency.  His  mother  was  skilled  in  the  native 
music  of  the  country,  and  possessed  the  sweetest  and 
most  exquisite  of  human  voices.*  She  was  cele- 
brated for  the  effect  she  gave  to  the  Irish  cry  or 
‘ keene.’  ‘ I have  often  been  present,’  says  her  son, 
‘when  she  has  “raised  the  keene”  over  the  corpse 
of  some  relative  or  neighbour,  and  my  readers  may 
judge  of  the  melancholy  charm  which  accompanied 
this  expression  of  her  sympathy,  when  I assure  them 
that  the  general  clamour  of  violent  grief  was  gradu- 
ally diminished,  from  admiration,  until  it  became 
ultimately  hushed,  and  no  voice  was  heard  but  her 
own — wailing  in  sorrowful  but  solitary  beauty.’  With 
such  parents  Carleton  could  not  fail  to  imbibe  the 
peculiar  feelings  and  superstitions  of  his  country. 
His  humble  home  was  a fitting  nursery  for  Irish 
genius.  His  first  schoolmaster  w’as  a Connaught  man, 
named  Pat  Frayne,  the  prototype  of  Mat  Kavanagh 
in  the  ‘ Hedge  School.’  He  also  received  some  in- 
struction from  a classical  teacher,  a ‘tyrannical 
blockhead’  who  settled  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  it 
was  afterwards  agreed  to  send  him  to  Munster,  as  a 
poor  scholar,  to  complete  his  education.  The  poor 
scholars  of  Munster  are  indebted  for  nothing  but 
their  bed  and  board,  which  they  receive  from  the 
parents  of  the  scholars.  In  some  cases  a collection 
is  made  to  provide  an  outfit  for  the  youth  thus  leav- 
ing home ; but  Carleton’s  own  family  supplied  the 
funds  supposed  to  be  necessary.  The  circumstances 
attending  his  departure  Mr  Carleton  has  related  in 
his  fine  tale,  ‘ The  Poor  Scholar.’  As  he  journeyed 
slowly  along  the  road,  his  superstitious  fears  got  the 
better  of  his  ambition  to  be  a scholar,  and  stopping 
for  the  night  at  a small  inn  by  the  way,  a disagree- 
able dream  determined  the  home- sick  lad  to  return 
to  his  father’s  cottage.  His  affectionate  parents 
were  equally  joyed  to  receive  him  ; and  Carleton 
seems  to  have  done  little  for  some  years  but  join  in 
the  sports  and  pastimes  of  the  people,  and  attend 
every  wake,  dance,  fair,  and  merry-making  in  the 

* These  particulars  concerning  the  personal  history  of  the 
novelist  are  contained  in  hia  introduction  to  the  last  edition 
of  the  ‘ Traits  and  Stories.’ 

f.l5 


CYCLOPiKOIA  OF  tii.l '.hk  present  Ti/iif 


rnoM  1 /no 


iiL>i(jhl)()urli()()(l.  In  liis  suventeenth  year  lie  went  to 
assist  a distant  relative,  a priest,  wlin  had  oiiened  a 
classical  school  near  Olasslongh,  county  of  Monaghan, 
where  he  reniained  two  years.  A |)ilgriniage  to  the 
far-famed  Lough-derg,  or  St  Patrick’s  Purgatory, 
excited  his  imagination,  and  the  de.seription  of  that 
performance,  some  years  afterwards,  ‘ not  only,’  he 
says,  ‘ constituteil  my  del/ut  in  literature,  but  was 
also  the  means  of  j)reventing  me  from  being  a plea- 
sant strong- txxlied  parish  priest  at  this  day  ; indeed 
it  was  the  cause  of  changing  the  whole  destiny  of  my 
subsequent  life.’  Alxnit  this  time  chance  threw  a 
copy  of  (iil  Plas  in  his  way,  and  his  love  of  adven- 
ture was  so  stimulateii  by  its  perusal,  that  he  left 
his  native  jilace,  and  set  olf  on  a visit  to  a Catholic 
clergyman  in  the  county  of  Louth.  Jle  stopixtd 
with  him  a fortnight,  ami  succeeded  in  procuring  a 
tuition  in  the  house  of  a farmer  near  Corcreagh. 
This,  however,  was  a tame  life  and  a hard  one,  and 
he  resolveil  on  precipitating  himself  on  the  Irish  me- 
tropolis, with  no  other  guide  than  a certain  strong 
feelingof  vague  and  shapeless  andtition.  lie  entered 
l)ui)lin  with  oidy  2.s.  9d.  in  his  jxicket.  From  this 
period  we  suppo.se  we  must  date  the  commencement 
of  Mr  Carleton’s  literary  career.  In  1830  appeared 
his  'Traits  and  Stories,’  two  volumes,  ])ul)lished  in 
Dublin,  but  without  the  author’s  name.  Mr  Carleton, 
in  his  i)reface,  ‘ assures  the  ])ul)lic,  that  what  he  offers 
is,  both  in  manufacture  and  material,  genuine  Irish  ; 
yes,  genuine  Irish  as  to  character,  drawn  by  one  lx)rn 
amidst  the  scenes  he  describes — reareal  as  one  of  the 
people  whose  characters  iind  situations  he  sketches 
— and  who  can  cut  and  drt^ss  a shillaly  as  well  as 
any  man  in  his  majesty’s  dominions  ; ay,  and  use  it 
too;  so  let  the  critics  take  care  of  them.selves.’ 
The  critics  were  unanimous  in  favour  of  the  Irish 
sketcher.  Ilis  account  of  the  northern  Irish — the 
Ulster  creachts — was  new  to  the  reailing  pnldic,  and 
the  ‘dark  mountains  and  green  vales’  of  his  native 
'J'yrone,  of  Donegal,  and  Derry,  liad  been  left  un- 
touched by  the  previous  writers  on  Ireland.  A 
second  series  of  these  tales  was  pnidished  by  Mr 
Carleton  in  1832,  and  was  equally  well  received.  In 
1839  hesentfortha  powerful  lri.-.h  story,  Furdorouyha 
the  Miser,  or  the  ('onricts  of  Lisnamomt.  in  which  the 
passion  of  avarice  is  strikingly  deqiicted,  without 
its  victim  being  wholly  dead  to  natural  tenderne.ss 
and  affection.  Scenes  of  broad  humour  ami  comic 
extravagance  are  intersjiersed  throughout  the  work. 
Two  years  afterwards  (1841)  apixaireil  The  Fawn  of 
Spring  Vale,  The  Clarionet,  and  other  Tales,  three 
volumes.  There  is  more  of  pathetic  comixisition  in 
thiscollection  than  in  the  former;  butone genial  light- 
hearted humonms  story,  ‘ The  Misfortunes  of  Barney 
Branagan,’  was  a prodigious  favourite.  The  collection 
was  pronounced  by  a judicious  critic  to  Ixi  calculated 
‘for  those  quiet  country  haunts  where  the  deep  and 
natural  pathos  of  the  lives  of  the  p(x>r  may  be  best 
read  and  taken  to  heart.  Hence  Mr  Carleton  ap- 
propriately <ledieates  his  pages  to  Wordsworth.  But 
they  have  the  fault  common  to  other  modern  Irish 
novels,  of  an  exaggerated  display  of  the  darker  vicis- 
situdes of  life:  none  better  than  the  Kydal  philo- 
Bopher  could  te:u:h  the  tale-writer  that  the  effect  of 
mists,  and  rains,  and  shadows,  is  lost  without  sun- 
breaks  to  relieve  the  ghxnn.’  The  great  merit,  how- 
ever, of  Mr  Carleton,  is  the  truth  of  his  delineations 
and  the  tipparent  artlessness  of  his  stories.  If  he 
has  not  the  passionate  energy — or,  as  he  himself  has 
termed  it,  ‘ the  melancholy  but  indignant  reclama- 
tions ’ of  .lohn  Banim,  he  has  not  his  party  prejudices 
or  bitterness.  He  se-ems  to  have  formed  a fair  and 
just  estimate  of  the  character  of  his  countrymen, 
and  to  have  drawn  it  as  it  actually  apix-ared  to  him 
at  home  and  abroad — in  feud  and  in  festival — in  the 


various  scenes  which  passed  before  him  in  his  native 
district  and  during  his  subsequent  rambles.  In  exa- 
mining into  the  causes  which  have  operated  in 
forming  the  character  of  the  ]x.'asantry,  Mr  Carleton 
alludes  to  the  long  want  of  any  fixed  system  of 
wholesome  education,  'fhe  clergy,  until  lately,  took 
no  interest  in  the  matter,  and  the  irtstruction  of  the 
children  (where  any  instruction  was  obtained)  was 
left  altogether  to  hedge  schoolmasters,  a class  of 
men  who,  with  few  exceptiotis,  bestowed  ‘such  an 
education  upon  the  people  as  is  sufficient  almost,  in 
the  absence  of  all  other  causes,  to  account  for  much 
of  the  agrarian  violence  and  erroneous  principles 
which  regulate  their  movements  and  feelings  on  that 
and  similar  subjects.’  'fhe  lower  Irish,  t(x>,  he  justly 
remarks,  were,  until  a comparatively  recent  period, 
treated  with  apathy  and  gross  neglect  by  the  oidy 
class  to  whom  they  could  or  ought  to  look  up  for 
sympathy  or  protection.  Hence  those  deep-rooted 
prejudices  and  fearful  crimes  which  stain  the  history 
of  a people  remarkable  for  their  social  and  domestic 
virtues.  ‘ In  domestic  life,’  says  Mr  Carleton,  ‘ there 
is  no  man  so  exquisitely  affectionate  and  humanised 
as  the  Irishman.  'I'he  national  imagination  is  active, 
and  the  national  heart  warm,  and  it  follows  very  na- 
turally that  he  should  be,  and  is,  tender  and  strong 
iii  all  his  domestic'  relations.  Unlike  the  people  of 
other  nations,  his  grief  is  loud,  but  lasting;  vehement, 
but  deep  ; and  whilst  its  shadow  has  been  chequered 
by  the  laughter  and  mirth  of  a cheerful  disposition, 
still,  in  the  moments  of  seclusion,  at  his  bed-si<le 
prayer,  nr  over  the  grave  of  those  he  loved,  it  will 
put  itself  forth,  after  half  a life,  with  a vivid  jxvwer 
of  recollection  which  is  sometimes  almost  beyond 
belief.’  A people  thus  cast  in  extremes— melancholy 
and  humorous — ptissionate  in  affection  and  in  hatred 
— cherishing  the  old  language,  traditions,  and  recol- 
lections of  their  couot.y — their  wild  music,  poetry, 
and  customs — ready  either  for  good  or  for  evil — such 
a people  certainly  affords  the  novelist  abundant  mate- 
rials for  his  fictions.  'I’he  field  is  ample,  and  it  has 
been  richly  cultivated. 

[Picture  of  an  Irish  Village  and  School-htmse.'] 

The  village  of  Fitidraniore  was  situated  at  the  foot 
of  a long  green  hill,  the  outline  of  which  formed  a 
low  arch,  as  it  ro.-e  to  the  eye  against  the  horizon. 
This  hill  wivs  studded  with  clumps  of  beeches,  and 
sometimes  enclosed  as  a meadow.  In  the  month  of 
July,  when  the  grass  on  it  was  long,  many  an  hour 
have  I spent  in  solitary  enjoyment,  watching  the 
wavy  motion  produced  upon  its  pliant  surface  by  the 
sunny  winds,  or  the  flight  of  the  cloud  shadows,  like 
gigantic  phantoms,  as  they  swept  rapidly  over  it, 
whilst  the  murmur  of  the  rocking  tree.s,  and  the 
glancing  of  their  bright  leaves  in  the  sun,  produced  a 
heartfelt  pleasure,  the  very  memory  of  which  ri.ses  in 
my  imagination  like  some  fading  recollection  of  a 
brighter  world. 

At  the  foot  of  this  hill  ran  a clear  deep  banketl 
river,  bounded  on  one  side  by  a slip  of  rich  level 
meadow,  and  on  the  other  by  a kind  of  common  for 
the  village  geese,  who.se  white  feathers  during  the 
summer  sea,son  lay  scattered  over  its  green  surface. 
It  was  also  the  play-ground  for  the  boys  of  the  village 
school ; for  there  ran  that  part  of  the  river  which, 
with  very  correct  judgment,  the  urchins  had  selected 
as  their  bathing-place.  A little  slope  or  watciing- 
ground  in  the  biink  brought  them  to  the  eilge  of  the 
stream,  where  the  bottom  fell  away  into  tlie  fearful 
depths  of  the  whirlpool  under  the  hanging  oak  on 
the  other  bank.  Well  do  1 remember  the  first  time 
1 ventured  to  swim  across  it,  and  even  yet  do  1 .see  in 
imagination  the  two  bunches  of  water  flagons  on 

816 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  CAULETO.«l. 


whi'ih  the  inc-xperienccJ  swimmers  trusted  themselves 
ill  the  water. 

Abiut  two  hundred  yards  above  this,  the  boreen’ 
which  led  from  the  village  to  the  main  road  crossed 
the  river  by  one  of  those  old  narrow  bridges  whose 
arches  rise  like  round  ditches  across  the  road — an 
almost  impassable  barrier  to  horse  and  car.  On 
passing  the  bridge  in  a northern  direction,  you  found 
a range  of  low  thatched  houses  on  each  side  of  the 
road  ; and  if  one  o’clock,  the  hour  of  dinner,  drew 
near,  you  might  observe  columns  of  blue  smoke 
curling  up  from  a row  of  chimneys,  some  made  of 
»icker  creels  plastered  over  with  a rich  coat  of  mud, 
some  of  old  narrow  bottomless  tubs,  and  others,  with 
a greater  appearance  of  taste,  ornamented  with  thick 
circular  ropes  of  straw  sewed  together  like  bees’  skeps 
nith  the  peel  of  a brier;  and  many  having  nothing 
but  the  open  vent  above.  But  the  smoke  by  no  means 
escaped  by  its  legitimate  aperture,  for  you  might 
observe  little  clouds  of  it  bursting  out  of  the  doors 
and  windows ; the  panes  of  the  latter  being  mostly 
stopped  at  other  times  with  old  hats  and  rags,  were 
now  left  entirely  open  for  the  purpose  of  giving  it  a 
free  escape. 

Before  the  doors,  on  right  and  left,  was  a series  of 
dunghills,  each  with  its  concomitant  sink  of  green 
rotten  water  ; and  if  it  happened  that  a stout-looking 
woman  with  watery  eyes,  and  a yellow  cap  hung 
loosely  upon  her  matted  locks,  came,  with  a chubby 
urchin  on  one  arm  and  a pot  of  dirty  water  in  her 
hand,  its  unceremonious  ejection  in  the  aforesaid  sink 
would  be  apt  to  send  you  up  the  village  with  your 
finger  and  thumb  (for  what  purpose  you  would  your- 
self perfectly  understand)  closely,  but  not  knowingly, 
applied  to  your  nostrils.  But,  independently  of  this, 
you  would  be  apt  to  have  other  rea.sons  for  giving 
your  horse,  whose  heels  are  by  this  time  surrounded 
by  a dozen  of  barking  curs,  and  the  same  number  of 
shouting  urchins,  a pretty  sharp  touch  of  the  spurs, 
as  well  as  for  complaining  bitterly  of  the  odour  of  the 
atmosphere.  It  is  no  landscape  without  figures;  and 
you  might  notice — if  you  are,  as  1 suppose  you  to  be, 
a man  of  observation — in  every  sink  as  you  pass  along 
a ‘ slip  of  a pig’  stretched  in  the  middle  of  the  mud, 
the  very  ieart  ideal  of  luxury',  giving  occasionally  a 
'ong  luxuriant  grunt,  highly  expressive  of  his  enjoy- 
ment ; or  perhaps  an  old  farrower,  lying  in  indolent 
repo.se,  with  half  a dozen  young  ones  jostling  each 
other  for  their  draught,  and  punching  her  belly  with 
their  little  snouts,  reckless  of  the  fumes  they  are 
nreating;  whilst  the  loud  crow  of  the  cock,  as  he  con- 
fidently flaps  his  wings  on  his  own  dunghill,  gives  the 
warning  note  for  the  hour  of  dinner. 

As  you  advance,  you  will  also  perceive  several  faces 
thrust  out  of  the  doors,  and  rather  than  miss  a sight 
of  you,  a grotesque  visage  peeping  by'  a short  cut 
through  the  paneless  windows,  or  a tattered  female 
flying  to  snatch  up  her  urchin  that  has  been  tumbling 
itself  heels  up  in  the  dust  of  the  road,  lest  ‘the  gintle- 
man’s  horse  might  ride  over  it ;’  and  if  you  happen  to 
look  behind,  you  may  observe  a shaggy-headed  youth 
in  tattered  frize,  with  one  hand  thrust  indolently  in 
his  breast,  standing  at  the  door  in  conx'ersation  with 
the  inmates,  a broad  grin  of  sarcastic  ridicule  on  his 
face,  in  the  act  of  breaking  a joke  or  tw'O  upon  your- 
self or  your  horse  ; or  perhaps  your  jaw  may  be  saluted 
with  a lump  of  clay,  just  hard  enough  not  to  fall 
asunder  as  it  flies,  cast  by  some  ragged  gorsoon  from 
behind  a hedge,  who  squats  himself  in  a ridge  of  corn 
to  avoid  detection. 

Seated  upon  a hob  at  the  door  you  may  observe  a 
toil-worn  man  without  coat  or  waistcoat,  his  red 
muscular  sunburnt  shoulder  peering  through  the 
remnant  of  a shirt,  mending  his  shoes  with  a piece  of 
wistej  flai,  called  a Unyd,  or  perhaps  sewing  two 
*■  A little  road. 


footless  stockings,  or  martyeans,  to  his  coat,  .as  a sub- 
stitute for  sleeves. 

In  the  gardens,  which  are  usu.ally  fringed  with 
nettles,  you  will  see  a solitary  labourer,  working  with 
that  c.arelessness  and  apathy  that  characterise  an 
Iri.shman  when  he  labours  for  himself,  leaning  upon 
his  spade  to  look  after  you,  and  glad  of  any  excuse  to 
be  idle. 

The  houses,  however,  are  not  all  such  as  1 have  de- 
scribed— far  Rom  it.  Y ou  .see  here  and  there,  between 
the  more  humble  ctibins,  a stout  comfortable-looking 
farm-house  with  onian.ental  thatching  and  well- 
glazed  windows  ; adjoining  to  which  is  a h.ay-yard 
with  five  or  six  large  stacks  of  corn,  well-trimmed  and 
roped,  and  a fine  yellow  weather-beaten  old  hay- 
rick, half-cut— not  taking  into  account  twelve  or 
thirteen  circular  strata  of  stones  that  nnark  out  the 
foundations  on  which  others  had  been  raised.  Neither 
is  the  rich  smell  of  oaten  or  wheaten  bread,  which  the 
good-wife  is  baking  on  the  griddle,  unpleasant  to  your 
nostrils;  nor  would  the  bubbling  of  a large  pot,  in 
which  you  might  see,  should  you  chance  to  enter,  a 
prodigious  square  of  fat,  yellow,  and  almost  tran.sparent 
bacon  tumbling  about,  to  be  an  unpleasant  object  ; 
truly,  as  it  hangs  over  a large  fire,  with  well-swept 
hearthstone,  it  is  in  good  keeping  with  the  white  .settle 
and  chairs,  and  the  dresser  with  v.oggins,  wooden 
trenchers,  and  pewter  di.shes,  perfectly  clean,  and  as 
well  polished  as  a Trench  courtier. 

As  you  leave  the  village,  you  have,  to  the  left,  a 
view  of  the  hill  which  I have  already  described,  .and 
to  the  right  a level  expanse  of  fertile  country,  bounded 
by  a good  view  of  respect.able  mountains  peering  de- 
cently into  the  sky;  and  in  a line  that  forms  an  acute 
angle  from  the  point  of  the  road  where  you  ride,  is  a 
delightful  valley,  in  the  bottom  of  which  shines  a 
pretty  lake;  and  a little  beyond,  on  the  slope  of  a 
green  hill,  rises  a splendid  house,  surrounded  by  a 
park  well-wooded  and  stocked  with  deer.  You  have 
now  topped  the  little  hill  above  the  village,  and  a 
straight  line  of  level  road,  a mile  long,  goes  forward 
to  a country  town  which  lies  immediately  behind 
that  white  church  with  its  .spire  cutting  into  the  sky 
before  you.  You  descend  on  the  other  side,  and 
having  advanced  a few  perches,  look  to  the  left, 
where  you  see  a long  thatched  chapel,  onl}’  distin- 
guished from  a dwelling-house  by  its  want  of  chim- 
ney.s,  and  a small  stone  cross  that  stands  on  the  top 
of  the  eastern  gable  ; behind  it  is  a grave-yard,  and 
beside  it  a snug  public-house,  well  white-washed ; 
then,  to  the  right,  you  observe  a door  apparently  in 
the  side  of  a clay  bank,  which  rises  considerably 
above  the  pavement  of  the  road.  What  1 you  ask 
yourself,  can  this  be  a human  h.abitation  1 But  ere 
you  have  time  to  answer  the  question,  a confused 
buzz  of  voices  from  within  reaches  your  c.ar,  and  thf 
appearance  of  a little  gorsoon  with  a red  close- 
cropped  head  and  Milesian  face,  having  in  his  hand 
a short  white  stick,  or  the  thigh-bone  of  a horse, 
which  you  at  once  recognise  as  ‘ the  pass’  of  a village 
school,  gives  you  the  full  information.  He  has  an 
iiik-hom,  covered  with  leather,  diingling  at  the  button- 
hole (for  he  has  long  since  pl.ayed  away  the  buttons) 
of  his  frize  jacket- — his  mouth  is  circumscribed  with  a 
streak  of  ink — his  pen  is  stuck  knowingly  behind  hi? 
ear — his  shins  are  dotted  over  with  fire-blister.s,  black, 
red,  and  blue — on  each  heel  a kibe — his  ‘ Icathej 
crackers’ — videlicet,  breeches — shrunk  up  upon  him, 
and  only  reaching  as  far  down  as  the  caps  of  his 
knees.  Htiving  spied  you,  he  places  his  hand  over  his 
brows,  to  throw  back  the  dazzling  light  of  the  sun, 
.and  peers  at  you  from  under  it,  till  he  breaks  out 
into  a laugh,  exclaiming,  half  to  himself,  half  to 
you — 

‘ You  a gintleman ! — no,  nor  one  of  your  breed 
never  was,  you  procthoriu’  thief  you  1’ 


pnoM  I7f)0 


CYChOPi^iDIA  (JF 


TtLL  THE  PRESENT  TIME 


You  are  now  immediately  opposite  the  door  of  the 
Beminary,  when  half  a do^en  of  thoae  seated  next  it 
nolice  you. 

‘ Oh.  sir,  here’s  a gintleman  on  a horse  ! — masther, 
sir,  here’s  a gintleman  on  a horse,  wid  boots  and  ejiurs 
on  him,  that’s  looking  in  at  us.’ 

‘ Silence  1’  exclaims  the  master;  ‘back  from  the 
door — boys  rehearse — every  one  of  you  rehearse,  I 
say,  you  lloeotians,  till  the  gintleman  goes  past!’ 

‘ 1 want  to  go  out,  if  you  plase,  sir.’ 

‘ No,  you  don’t,  I’helim.’ 

‘ I do,  indeed,  sir.’ 

‘What!  is  it  afthcr  conthradictin’  me  you’d  be? 
Don’t  you  see  the  “porter’s”  out,  and  you  can’t  go.’ 

‘ Well,  ’tis  Mat  Meehan  h.as  it,  sir  ; and  he’s  out 
this  half-hour,  sir ; I can’t  stay  in,  sir !’ 

‘You  want  to  be  idling  your  time  looking  at  the 
gintleman,  Phelim.’ 

‘ No,  indeed,  sir.’ 

‘ Phelim,  1 know  you  of  ould — go  to  your  sate.  I 
tell  you,  Phelim,  you  were  bom  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  the  hemp  manufacture,  and  you’ll  die  pro- 
moting it.’ 

In  the  meantime  the  master  puts  his  head  out  of 
the  door,  his  body  stooped  to  a ‘ half-bend  ’ — a phrase, 
and  the  exact  curve  which  it  forms,  1 leave  for  the 
present  to  your  own  sagacity — and  surveys  you  until 
you  pass.  That  is  an  Irish  hedge-school,  and  the 
personage  who  follows  you  with  his  eye  a hedge- 
schoolmaster. 


MISS  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

Miss  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  the  painter  of 
English  rural  life  in  its  happiest  and  most  genial 
aspects,  was  born  in  1789  at  Alresford,  in  Ilanip- 
shire.  Reminiscences  of  her  early  boarding-school 
d.ays  are  scattered  through  her  works,  and  she 
appears  to  have  been  always  an  enthusiastic  reader. 
When  very  young,  she  published  a volume  of  mis- 
cellaneous poems,  and  a metrical  talc  in  the  style  of 
Scott,  entitled  Christine,  the  Maid  of  the  South  Seas, 
founded  on  the  discovery  of  the  mutineers  of  the 
Bounty.  In  1823  w.as  produced  her  effective  and 
striking  tragedy  of  Julian,  dedicated  to  Mr  Mac- 
ready  the  actor,  ‘ for  the  zeal  with  which  he  be- 
friended the  production  of  a stranger,  for  the  judi- 
cious alterations  which  he  suggested,  and  for  the 
energy,  the  pathos,  and  the  skill  with  which  he  more 
than  embodied  its  principal  character.’  Next  year 
Miss  Mitford  published  the  first  volume  of  Our  Vil- 
lage, Sketches  of  Rural  Character  and  Scenery,  to  which 
four  other  volumes  were  subsequently  added,  the 
fifth  and  last  in  1832.  ‘Everyone,’  says  a lively 
writer,*  ‘ now  know's  Our  Village,  and  every  one 
knows  that  the  nooks  and  corners,  the  haunts  and 
the  copses  so  delightfully  described  in  its  pages,  will 
be  found  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  Read- 
ing, and  more  especially  around  Three-Mile  Cross, 
a cluster  of  cottages  on  the  Basingsto’ae  road,  in  one 
of  which  our  authoress  has  now  resided  for  many 
years.  But  so  little  were  the  peculiar  and  original 
excellence  of  her  descriptions  understood,  in  the  first 
instance,  that,  after  having  gone  the  round  of  rejec- 
tion through  the  more  important  periodicals,  they 
at  last  saw  the  light  in  no  worthier  publication 
than  the  Lady’s  Magazine.  But  the  series  of  rural 
pictures  grew,  and  the  venture  of  collecting  them 
into  a separate  volume  was  tried.  The  public  began 
to  relish  the  style  so  fresh,  yet  so  finished,  to 
enjoy  the  delicate  humour  and  the  simple  pathos  of 
the  tales;  and  the  result  was,  that  the  popularity 
of  these  sketches  outgrew  that  of  the  works  of 

♦ Mr  Chorley — The  Authors  of  England. 


loftier  order  proceeding  from  the  same  pen;  that 
young  writers,  English  and  American,  began  to 
imitate  so  artless  and  charming  a manner  of  narra- 
tion ; and  that  an  obscure  Berkshire  handet,  by  the 
magic  of  talent  and  kindly  feeling,  was  converted 
into  a ])lace  of  resort  and  interest  for  not  a few  of 
the  finest  spirits  of  the  age.’  Extending  her  ob- 
servation from  the  country  village  to  the  market- 
town,  Miss  Mitford  published  another  interesting 
volume  of  descriptions,  entitled  Belford  Regis.  She 
also  gleaned  from  the  new  world  three  volumes  of 
Stories  of  American  Life,  by  American  Writers,  of 
which  she  remarks — ‘ The  scenes  described  and  the 
personages  introduced  are  as  various  as  the  authors, 
extending  in  geographical  space  from  Canada  to 
Mexico,  and  including  almost  every  degree  of  civili- 
sation, from  the  wild  Indian  and  the  almost  equally 
wild  hunter  of  the  forest  and  prairies,  to  the  culti- 
vated inhabitant  of  the  city  and  plain.’  Besides  her 
tragedies  (which  are  little  inferior  to  those  of  Miss 
Baillie  as  intellectual  productions,  while  one  of  them, 
Rienzi,  has  been  highly  successful  on  the  stage). 
Miss  Mitford  has  written  numerous  tales  for  the 
annuals  and  magazines,  showing  that  her  industry 
is  equal  to  her  talents.  It  is  to  her  English  tales, 
however,  that  she  must  ehiefiy  trust  her  fame  with 
posterity;  and  there  is  so  much  unaffected  grace, 
tenderness,  and  beauty  in  these  rural  delineations, 
that  we  cannot  conceive  their  e.\  er  being  considered 
obsolete  or  uninteresting.  In  them  she  has  trea- 
sured not  only  the  results  of  long  and  familiar  ob- 
servation, but  the  feelings  and  conceptions  of  a truly 
poetical  mind.  She  is  a prose  Cowper,  without  his 
gloom  or  bitterness.  In  1838  Miss  Mitford’s  name 
was  added  to  the  pension  list — a well-earned  tribute 
to  one  whose  genius  has  been  devoted  to  the  hoiioui 
and  embellishment  of  her  country. 


countess  of  blesswoton. 

This  lady,  well  known  in  the  worhl  of  fashion  and 
literature,  is  a native  of  Ireland,  daughter  of  Edward 
Power,  Esq.,  late  of  Curagheen,  county  Waterford. 
At  the  age  of  fifteen  she  became  the  wife  of  Captain 
Farmer  of  the  47th  regiment,  after  whose  death,  iii 
1817,  she  was  united  to  Charles  John  Gardiner, 
Earl  of  Blessington.  In  1829  she  was  again  left  a 
widowl  Lady  Blessington  now  fixed  her  residence 
in  London,  and,  by  her  rank  and  personal  tastes, 
succeeded  in  rendering  herself  a centre  of  literary 
society.  Her  first  publication  was  a volume  of 
Trarelling  Sketches  in  Belgium,  very  meagre  and  ill- 
written.  The  next  work  commanded  more  atten- 
tion : it  was  her  Conversations  with  Lord  Byron,  whom 
she  had  met  daily  for  some  time  at  Genoa.  In  1833 
appeared  The  Repealers,  a novel  in  three  volumes,  but 
containing  scarcely  any  plot,  and  few-  delineations  of 
character,  the  greater  part  being  filled  with  dialogues, 
criticism,  and  reflections.  Her  ladyship  is  sometimes 
sarcastic,  sometimes  moral,  and  more  frequently  per- 
sonal. One  female  sketch,  that  of  Grace  Cassidy, 
a young  Irish  wife,  is  the  only  one  of  the  characters 
we  can  remember,  and  it  shows  that  her  ladyship 
is  most  at  home  among  the  scenes  of  her  early  days. 
To  ‘The  Repealers’  succeeded  The  Two  Friends,  The 
Confessions  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman,  The  Confessions 
of  an  Elderly  Lady,  Desultory  Thoughts,  The  Belle  of 
a Season,  The  Governess,  The  Idler  in  Raly  (three 
volumes,  1839-40),  The  Idler  in  France  (two  volumes, 
1841),  The  Victims  of  Society,  and  Meredith.  Her 
recollections  of  Italy  and  France  are  perhaps  the 
best  of  her  works,  for  in  these  her  love  of  anecdote, 
epigram,  and  sentiment,  has  full  scope,  without  any 
of  the  impediments  raised  by  a story. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


NOVEl.ISTS. 


MRS  S.  C.  HALU 


MRS  S.  C.  BALL. 


Mrs  S.  C.  Hall,  authoress  of  Lights  and  Shadows 
of  Irish  Life,  and  various  other  works,  ‘is  a native  of 
W'e.xford,  though  by  her  mother’s  side  slie  is  of  Swiss 


descent.  Her  maiden  name  was  Fielding,  by  w’hich, 
however,  she  was  unknown  in  the  literary  world,  as 
her  first  work  was  not  published  till  after  her  mar- 
riage. She  belongs  to  an  old  and  excellent  family 
in  her  native  county.  She  first  quitted  Ireland  at 
the  early  age  of  fifteen,  to  reside  with  her  mother  in 


England,  and  it  was  some  time  before  she  revisited 
her  native  country  ; but  the  scenes  which  were  fami- 
liar to  her  as  a child  have  made  such  a vivid  and 
lasting  impression  on  her  mind,  and  all  her  sketches 
evince  so  much  freshness  and  vigour,  that  her  read- 
ers might  easily  imagine  she  had  spent  her  life 
among  the  scenes  slie  describes.  To  her  early  ab- 
sence from  her  native  country  is  probably  to  be 
traced  one  strong  characteristic  of  all  her  writings — 
the  total  absence  of  party  feeling  on  subjects  con- 
nected with  politics  or  religion.’*  Mrs  Hall’s  first 
work  appeared  in  1829,  and  was  entitled  Sketches  of 
Irish  Character.  These  bear  a closer  resemblance  to 
the  tales  of  Miss  Mitford  than  to  the  Irish  stories  of 
Banim  or  Griffin,  though  the  latter  may  have  tended 
to  direct  Mrs  Hall  to  the  peculiarities  of  Irish  cha- 
racter. They  contain  some  fine  rural  description, 
and  are  animated  by  a healthy  tone  of  moral  feeling 
and  a vein  of  delicate  humour.  The  coquetry  of  her 
Irish  girls  (very  different  from  that  in  high  life)  is 
admirably  depicted.  Next  year  Mrs  Hall  issued  a 
little  volume  for  children.  Chronicles  of  a School- 
Room,  consisting  also  of  a series  of  tales,  simple, 
natural,  and  touching.  The  home-truths  and  moral 
observations  conveyed  in  these  narratives  reflect 
great  credit  on  the  heart  and  the  judgment  of  the 
writer.  Indeed  good  taste  and  good  feeling  may  be 
said  to  preside  over  all  the  works  of  our  authoress. 
In  1831  she  issued  a second  series  of  ‘Sketches  of 
Irish  Character,’  fully  equal  to  the  first,  and  was 
well  received.  The  Rapparee  is  an  excellent  story, 
and  some  of  the  satirical  delineations  are  hit  off  with 
great  truth  and  liveliness.  In  1832  she  ventured  on 
a larger  and  more  difficult  work — a historical  ro 
mance  in  three  volumes,  entitled  J'he  Buccaneer. 
The  scene  of  this  tale  is  laid  in  England  at  the  time 
of  the  Protectorate,  and  Oliver  himself  is  among  the 
characters.  The  plot  of  ‘The  Buccaneer’  is  well 
managed,  and  some  of  the  characters  (as  that  of 
Barbara  Iverk,  the  Puritan)  are  skilfully  delineated; 
but  the  work  is  too  feminine,  and  has  too  little  of 
energetic  passion  for  the  stormy  times  in  which  it  is 
cast.  In  1834  Mrs  Hall  published  Tales  of  Woman's 
Trials,  short  stories  of  decidedly  moral  tendency, 


Mrs  Tlall’s  residence,  Brompton, 


written  in  the  happiest  style  of  the  authoress.  In 
183.0  appeared  Uncle  Horace,  a novel,  and  in  1838 
•Lights  and  Shadows  of  Irish  Life,’  three  volumes. 
The  latter  had  been  previously  published  in  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine,  and  enjoyed  great  popu- 


larity. The  principal  tale  in  the  collection,  The 
Groves  of  Blarney,  was  dramatised  at  one  of  the 
theatres  with  distinguished  success.  In  1840  Mrs 

* Dublin  University  Magazine  for  1840. 


619 


FROM  17!iO  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  till  the  present  timb. 

Hall  issmii  what  has  h(‘(.•n  st.vh'd  the  best  of  her 
novels  Maridii;  or  a Yoiwy  Maid's  Fortunes,  in 
which  her  knowlediie  of  Irish  eharaeter  is  again  dis- 
jilayed.  Katey  Macane,  an  Irish  cook,  who  adopts 
Marian,  a foundling,  ami  watches  ovi;r  her  with  un- 
tiring alfection,  is  equal  to  any  of  the  Irish  por- 
traitures since  those  of  Miss  Edgeworth.  The  next 
work  of  our  authoress  was  a series  of  Stor'ies  of  the 
Irish  Peasantry,  contributed  to  Chambers’s  Edin- 
burgh .Journal,  and  afterwards  published  in  a col- 
lected form.  In  1840,  Mrs  Hall  aided  her  husband 
in  a work  chiefly  composed  by  him,  and  which  re- 
flects credit  upon  his  talents  and  in  lustry,  Ireland, 
its  Scenery,  Uiaracter,  ^c.  Topogr  tphieal  and  sta-' 
tlstical  information  is  here  hlemled  with  the  poetical 
and  romantic  features  of  the  country — the  legends 
of  the  peasantry — scenes  and  characters  of  humour 
or  pathos — and  all  that  could  he  gathered  in  five 
separate  tours  through  Irelaiui,  added  to  early  ac- 
quaintance and  recollection  of  the  country.  The 
work  was  highly  emhellished  by  British  artists,  and 
extended  to  three  large  volumes.  In  tasteful  de- 
scription of  natural  objects,  and  pictures  of  every- 
day life,  Mrs  Hall  has  few  suiieriors.  Her  humour 
is  not  so  broad  or  racy  as  that  of  Lady  Morgan,  nor 
her  observation  so  pointed  and  select  as  Miss  Edge- 
worth’s : her  writings  are  also  unequal,  but  in  gene- 
ral they  constitute  easy  delightful  reading,  and 
possess  a simple  truth  and  purity  of  sentiment  that 
is  ultimately  more  fascinating  th.an  the  darker 
shades  and  colourings  of  imaginative  composition. 

[Depending  Upon  Others.'] 

[From  ‘ Sketches  of  Irish  Character.*] 

‘Independence!' — it  i.s  the  word,  of  all  others,  that 
Irish — men,  women,  and  children — least  understand  ; 
and  the  cahime.ss,  or  rather  indifference,  with  which 
they  submit  to  dependence,  bitter  and  miserable  as  it 

is,  must  be  a source  of  deep  regret  to  all  who  ‘ love 

the  land,’  or  who  feel  anxious  to  uphold  the  dignity 
of  hum.an  kind.  Let  us  select  a few  cases  from  our 
Irish  village,  such  as  are  abundant  in  every  neigh- 
bourhood. Shane  Thurlough,  ‘ as  dacent  a boy,’  and 
Sh.ane’s  wife,  as  ‘ clane-skinned  a girl,’  as  any  in  the 
world.  There  is  Shane,  an  active  handsome-looking 
fellow,  leaning  over  the  half-door  of  his  cottage,  kick- 
ing a hole  in  the  wall  with  his  brogue,  and  picking  up 
all  the  large  gravel  within  his  reach  to  pelt  the  ducks 
with — those  u.seful  Irish  scavengers.  Let  us  speak  to 
him.  ‘ Good-morrow,  Shane  !’  ‘ Och  ! the  bright 

bames  of  heaven  on  ye  every  day ! and  kindly  wel- 
come, my  lady  ; and  wont  ye  step  in  and  rest — it’s 
powerful  hot,  and  a beautiful  summer,  sure— the 
Lord  be  praised!’  ‘Thank  you,  Shane.  I thought 
you  were  going  to  cut  the  hay-field  to-day ; if  a heavy 
shower  comes,  it  will  be  spoiled ; it  has  been  fit  for 
the  scythe  these  two  days.’  ‘ Sure  it’s  all  owing  to  that 
thief  o’  the  world  Tom  Parrel,  my  lady.  Didn’t  he 
promise  me  the  loan  of  his  scythe ; and,  by  the  same 
token,  I was  to  pay  him  for  it ; and  depinding  on  that, 

I didn’t  buy  one,  which  I have  been  threatening  to  do 
for  the  last  two  years.’  ‘ But  why  don’t  you  go  to 
C'lrrick  and  purchase  one?’  ‘To  Garrick!  Och, ’tis 
a good  step  to  Garrick,  and  my  toes  are  on  the  ground 
•^saving  your  presence),  for  I depinded  on  Tim  Jarvis 
to  tell  Andy  Gappler,  the  brogue-maker,  to  do  my 
shoes  ; .and,  bad  luck  to  him,  the  spalpeen  ! he  forgot 

it. ’  ‘Where’s  your  pretty  wife,  Shane?’  ‘She’s  in 
all  the  wo  o’  the  world,  ma’am  dear.  And  .she  puts 
the  blame  of  it  on  me,  though  I’m  not  in  the  faut 
this  time,  anyhow.  The  child’s  taken  the  small-pox, 
and  she  depinded  on  me  to  tell  the  doctor  to  cut  it  for 
the  cow-pox,  and  I depinded  on  Kitty  Cackle,  the 
limmer,  to  tell  the  doctor’s  own  ni.an  and  thi  uirht 

__ 

she  would  not  forget  it,  becase  the  boy’s  her  bachelor ; 
but  out  o’  sight  out  o’  mind — the  never  a word  she 
tould  him  about  it,  and  the  babhy  has  got  it  nataral, 
and  the  woman’s  in  heart  trouble  (to  s,ay  nothing  o' 
myself)  ; and  it  the  first,  and  all.’  ‘ I am  very  sorry, 
indeed,  for  you  have  got  a much  better  wife  than  most 
men.’  ‘ That’s  a true  word,  iny  lady,  only  she’s 
fidgetty  like  sometimes,  and  says  I don’t  hit  the  nail 
on  the  head  quick  enough  ; and  she  takes  a dale 
more  trouble  than  she  need  about  many  a thing.’  ‘ I 
do  not  think  I ever  saw  Ellen’s  wheel  without  flax 
before,  Shane?’  ‘Bad  cess  to  the  wheel! — I got  it 
this  morning  about  that  too.  1 depinded  on  .John 
Williams  to  bring  the  flax  from  O’Elaharty’s  this  day 
week,  and  he  forgot  it ; and  she  says  I ought  to  have 
brought  it  myself,  and  I close  to  the  spot.  But  where’s 
the  good  ? says  I ; sure  he’ll  bring  it  next  time.’  ‘ I 
suppo.se,  Shane,  you  will  soon  move  into  the  new  cot- 
tage at  Clurn  Hill  ? 1 passed  it  to-day,  and  it  looked 
so  cheerful;  and  when  you  get  there  you  mu.st  take 
Ellen’s  advice,  and  depend  solely  on  yourself.’  ‘Och, 
ma’am  dear,  don't  mintion  it ; sure  it’s  that  makes 
me  so  down  in  the  mouth  this  very  minit.  Sure  1 
saw  that  born  blackguard  Jack  Waddy,  ami  he  comes 
in  here  quite  innocent  like — “Shane,  you’ve  an  eye 
to  squire’s  new  lodge,’’  says  he.  “ Maybe  1 have,’’  says 
I.  “1  am  yer  man,’’  says  he.  “How  so?”  .“ays  I. 
“ Sure  I’m  as  good  as  married  to  my  lady’s  maiil,’’  .said 
he  ; “ and  ITl  spake  to  the  squire  for  you  \v,y  own  self.’’ 
“ The  blessing  be  about  you,”  says  I,  quite  grateful — ■ 
and  we  took  a strong  cuj)  on  the  strength  of  it — and, 
depinding  on  him,  I thought  all  safe ; and  what  d’ye 
think,  my  lady?  Why,  himself  stalks  into  the  place 
• — talked  the  squire  over,  to  be  sure — and  without  so 
much  as  by'  yer  lave,  sates  himself  and  his  new  wife 
on  the  laase  in  the  house;  and  I may  go  whistle.’  ‘ It 
was  a great  pity,  Shane,  that  you  didn’t  go  yourself 
to  Mr  Clurn.’  ‘ That’s  a true  word  for  ye,  ma’am 
dear ; but  it’s  hard  if  a poor  man  can’t  have  a friud 
to  depind  on.’ 

SIR  EDWARD  LY'rTON  BDLWER. 

Sir  Edward  Lytton  Bulwer  is  the  youngest 
son  of  the  late  General  Bulwer  of  Haydon  Hall, 
county  of  Norfolk.  He  is  said  to  have  written 
verses  when  only  five  or  six  years  old,  but  he  has 
certainly  never  attained  to  the  higher  honours  ol 
the  lyre.  His  poetry  is  in  general  stiff  and  artificial. 
At  Cambridge,  Mr  Bulwer  (Ids  liaronetcy  was  con- 
ferred upon  him  by  the  Whig  government,  whose 
policy  he  supported  as  a member  of  the  House  of 
Commons)  was  the  successful  competitor  for  the 
prize  poem,  and  his  first  appearance  as  an  author 
was  made  in  1826,  when  he  puhlishid  a volume  ot 
miscellaneous  pocnis  bearing  the  juvenile  title  of 
HT'crf.v  and  Wild  Flmvers.  In  the  following  year  he 
issued  a poetical  tale.  O'Neill,  or  the  Itehel,  some- 
thing of  the  style  of  Byron’s  Corsair,  and  echoing 
the  tone  of  feeling  and  sentiment  most  characteristic 
of  the  noble  poet.  The  following  lines  will  illustrate 
our  remark: — 

Eternal  air — and  thou,  my  mother  earth. 

Hallowed  by  sluide  and  silence — and  the  birth 
Of  the  young  moon  (now  watching  o’er  the  sleep 
Of  the  dim  mountains  and  the  dre.aming  deej))  ; 

And  by  yon  star,  heaven’s  eldest  born — who.se  light 
Calls  the  first  smile  upon  the  cheek  of  Night ; 

And  beams  and  bode:s,  like  faith  beyond  the  tomb. 
Life  through  the  calm,  and  glory  through  the  gloom ; 
My  mother  earth — ami  ye  her  loftier  race. 

Midst  whom  my  soul  liath  held  its  dw'elling-place ; 
Bivers,  and  rocks,  and  valleys,  and  ye  sliades 
Which  sleep  at  noomhty  o’er  the  haunted  glades 
Made  inusie:il  by  waters  and  tlie  breeze. 

All  idly  dallying  «ilh  the  glowing  trees; 

620 

NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SIR  E.  L.  mn.W'EH. 


Ami  songs  of  binls  whicli,  ever  n-s  they  fly, 
lireatlie  soul  nml  glndnoss  to  the  summer  .sky ; 

Ye  courts  of  Nature,  where  aloof  ami  lone 
She  sits  nml  reigns  with  darkness  for  her  throne  ; 
•Mysterious  tem])les  of  the  hicathing  God, 

If  mid  your  might  my  earliest  steps  have  trod ; 

If  in  mine  inmost  spirit  still  are  stored 

The  wild  deep  memories  childhood  most  adored  ; 

If  still  amid  the  drought  and  waste  of  years, 

Ve  hold  the  source  of  smiles  and  pangle.ss  tears : 

Will  ye  not  yet  inspire  me! — for  my  heart 
Heats  low  and  languid — and  this  idle  art. 

Which  I have  summoned  for  an  idle  end, 

Forsakes  and  flies  me  like  a faithless  friend. 

Are  all  your  voices  silent  ? I have  made 
My  home  as  erst  amid  your  thickest  shade: 

.And  even  now  your  soft  air  from  above 
Ilreathes  on  my  temples  like  a sister’s  love. 

Ah!  could  it  bring  the  freshness  of  the  day 
When  first  my  young  heart  lingered  o’er  its  lay, 

Fain  would  this  wintry  soul  and  frozen  string 
Recall  one  wind — one  whi.sper  from  the  Spring ! 

In  the  same  year  (1827)  Mr  Bulwer  published  his 
first  novel,  Fallclarxl,  a highly-coloured  tale  of  love 
ami  passion,  calculated  to  excite  and  inflame,  and 
evidently  based  on  admiration  of  the  peculiar  genius 
and  seductive  errors  of  Byron.  Taking  up  the  style 
of  the  fashionable  novels  (rendered  popular  by  Theo- 
dore Hook,  but  now  on  the  wane),  Mr  Bulwer  came 
forward  with  Pelham,  or  the  Adventures  of  a Gentleman 
— a novel  full  of  brilliant  and  witty  writing,  sarcastic 
levity,  representations  of  the  manners  of  the  great, 
piquant  remark,  and  scenes  of  deep  and  romantic 
interest.  There  was  a want  of  artistic  skill  in  the 
construction  of  the  story,  for  the  tragic  and  satirical 
parts  were  not  harmoniously  combined  ; but  the 
picture  of  a man  of  fashion,  so  powerfully  drawn, 
was  irresistibly  attractive,  and  a second  edition  of 
‘ Pelham’  was  called  for  in  a few  months.  Towards 
the  close  of  the  year  (1828),  Mr  Bulwer  issued  The 
hisowned,  intended  by  the  author  to  contain  ‘scenes 
of  more  exciting  interest  and  vivid  colouring, 
thoughts  less  superficially  expressed,  passions  more 
energetically  called  forth,  and  a more  sensible  and 
pervading  moral  tendency.’  The  work  was  consi- 
dered to  fulfil  the  promise  of  the  preface,  though  it 
did  not  attain  to  the  popularity  of ‘ Pelham.’  Deue- 
ren.r,  a Novel,  1829,  was  a more  finished  performance. 

‘ The  lighter  portion  does  not  dispute  the  field  with 
the  deeper  and  more  sombre,  but  follows  gracefully 
by  its  side,  relieving  and  heightening  it.  We  move, 
indeed,  among  the  great,  but  it  is  the  great  of  other 
times — names  familiar  in  our  mouths — Bolingbroke, 
Louis,  Orleans;  amidst  manners  perhaps  as  frivolous 
as  those  of  the  day,  but  which  the  gentle  touch  of 
time  has  already^  invested  with  an  antiquarian  dig- 
nity: the  passions  of  men,  the  m.achinery  of  great 
motives  and  universal  feelings,  occupy  the  front ; 
the  humours,  the  affections,  the  petty  badges  of 
sects  and  individuals,  retire  into  the  shadows  of  the 
back-ground  ; no  under-current  of  persiflage  or  epi- 
curean indifference  checks  the  flow  of  that  mournful 
enthusiasm  which  refreshes  its  pictures  of  life  with 
living  waters ; its  eloquent  pages  seem  consecrated 
to  the  memory  of  love,  honour,  religion,  and  unde- 
viating faith.’*  In  1830  Mr  Bulwer  brought  out 
another  work  of  fiction,  Paul  Clifford,  the  hero  being 
a romantic  highwayman,  familiar  with  the  haunts 
of  low  vice  and  dissiiiation,  but  afterwards  trans- 
formed and  elevated  by  the  influence  of  lov'e.  Parts 
are  ably  written;  but  the  general  effect  of  the  novel 
was  undoubtedly  injurious  to  the  public  taste.  Our 
author’s  love  of  satire,  which  had  mingled  largely 

♦ Edinburgh  Review  for  1832. 


in  all  his  novels,  took  a more  definite  shape,  in  1831, 
in  The  Siamese  Twins,  a poem  satirical  of  fashion,  of 
travellers,  of  iioliticians,  London  notoriety,  and 
v;iriou3  other  topics,  discussed  or  glanced  at  in 
sportive  or  bitter  mood,  in  verses  that  flow  easily, 
and  occasionally  express  vigorous  and  lively  thoughts, 
but  are  wholly  destitute  of  the  elixir  vita:  of  poeti- 
cal immortality.  A few  months  afterwards  we 
had  Eugene  Aram,  a Tale,  founded  on  the  history 
of  the  English  murderer  of  that  name.  In  this 
work  Mr  Bulwer  de[)icted  the  manners  of  the 
middle  rank  of  life,  and  was  highly  successful  in 
awakening  curiosity  and  interest,  and  in  painting 
scenes  of  tenderness,  pathos,  and  distress.  The  eha- 
r.acter  of  the  sordid  but  ingenious  Eugene  Aram  is 
idealised  by  the  fancy  of  the  novelist.  He  is  made 
an  enthusiastic  student  and  amiable  visionary.  The 
humbling  part  of  his  crime  was,  he  says,  ‘ its  low 
calculations,  its  poor  defence,  its  paltry  trickery,  its 
mean  hv'pocri.sy  : these  made  his  chiefest  penance.’ 
Unconscious  that  detection  was  close  at  hand,  Aram 
is  preparing  to  wed  an  interesting  and  noble-minded 
woman,  the  generous  Madeline ; and  the  scenes  con- 
nected with  this  ill-fated  jiassion  possess  a strong 
and  tragical  interest.  Throughout  the  work  are 
scattered  some  beautiful  moral  reflections  and  de- 
scriptions, imbued  with  poeticid  feeling  and  expres- 
sion. Mr  Bulwer  now'  undertook  the  management 
of  the  New'  Monthly  Magazine  (which  had  attained 
a high  reputation  under  the  editorship  of  Campbell), 
and  published  in  that  work  several  essays  and  cri- 
ticisms, subsequently  collected  and  issued  under  the 
title  of  The  Stiiilent.  In  1833  ap))eared  his  England 
and  the  English,  a series  of  observations  on  society, 
literature,  the  aristocracy,  travelling,  and  other  cha- 
racteristics and  peculi;irities  of  the  English  people. 
Some  of  these  are  acute  and  clever,  but  many  are 
tinged  with  prejudii  e,  and  a desire  to  appear  origi- 
nal and  sarcastic.  The  Pilgrims  of  the  Ehine — a fiin- 
ciful  and  beautifully  illustrated  work — w'as  ]\Ir  Bul- 
w'er’s  next  offering,  and  it  w'as  almost  immediately 
afterwards  succeeded  by  one  of  his  best  romances.  The 
Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  This  brilliant  and  interesting 
classic  story'  w'as  follow'ed  by  one  still  more  vigorous 
and  masterly,  the  tale  of  Rienzi,  perhaps  the  most 
complete,  high-toned,  and  energetic  of  all  the  author’s 
works.  With  industry  as  remarkable  as  his  genius, 
Mr  Bulwer  w'ent  on  preparing  new'  w'orks  of  fiction. 
Ernest  Maltravers  (1837)  illustrates  ‘what,  though 
rare  in  novels,  is  common  in  human  life — the  afflic- 
tion of  the  good,  the  triumph  of  the  unprinci])led.’ 
The  character  of  Midtravers  is  far  from  pleasing; 
and  Alice  Darvil  is  evidently  a copy  from  Byron’s 
Haidee.  Eerrers,  the  villain  of  the  tale,  is  also  a 
Byronic  creation ; and,  on  the  whole,  the  violent 
contrasts  and  gloomy'  delineations  of  this  novel  render 
it  more  akin  to  the  spurious  offspring  of  sentimental 
romance,  than  to  the  family  of  the  genuine  Englisli 
novel.  A continuation  of  this  w'ork  w'as  given  in 
the  following  y'ear,  under  the  title  .ff  Alice,  or  the 
Mysteries,  with  no  improvement  as  to  literary  pow'er 
or  correct  moral  philosophy,  but  still  containing 
some  fresh  and  exquisite  descriptions,  and  delightful 
portraiture.  His  next  w'ork  w'as  Athens,  partly  his- 
torical and  partly  philosophical — a book  impressed 
with  fine  taste  and  research.  In  the  same  year  (1838) 
we  had  Leila,  or  the  Siege  of  Granada  ; and  Calderon 
the  Courtier — light  and  sketchy  productions.  Pass- 
ing over  the  dramas  of  Bulwer,  we  come  to  Night 
and  Morning.  Day  and  Night,  Lights  and  Shadous, 
Glimmer  and  Gloom,  an  affected  title  to  a picturesque 
and  interesting  story'.  Zanoni  (1842)  is  more  un- 
connected in  plot  and  vicious  in  style  than  t'ne  pre- 
vious fictions  of  Buhver,  and  possesses  no  strong  oi 
permanent  interest.  Eva,  the  Ill-Omened  Marriage 

621 


— — — — ' - ' — ■ 

FROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  present  time 

anil  iillier  Talcs  and  J’ocms  (1842)  is  anotlior  attempt 
of  our  author  to  achieve  poetical  lionours  ; we  can- 
not say  a hiyhiy  successful  attemjit;  for,  in  spite  of 
poetical  feeling  and  fancy,  the  lines  of  Sir  Edward 
Ilnlwcr  are  cold  glittering  conceits  and  personations. 
11  is  acute  mental  analysis  is,  however,  seen  in  verses 
like  the  following: — 

Talent  and  Genius. 

Talent  convinces — genius  but  excites  ; 

This  tasks  the  reason,  that  the  soul  delights. 

Talent  from  sober  judgment  takes  its  birth, 

And  reconciles  the  pinion  to  the  earth  ; 

Genius  un.scttles  with  desires  the  mind. 

Contented  not  till  earth  be  left  behind  ; 

Talent,  the  sunshine  on  a cultured  soil. 

Ripens  the  fruit  by  slow  degrees  for  toil. 

Genius,  the  sudden  Iris  of  the  skies, 

On  cloud  itself  reflects  its  wondrous  dyes  : 

And,  to  the  earth,  in  tears  and  glory  given, 

Clasps  in  its  airy  arch  the  pomp  of  Heaven  ! 

Talent  gives  all  that  vulgar  critics  need — 

From  its  plain  horn-book  le.arn  the  dull  to  read ; 
Genius,  the  Pythian  of  the  beautiful. 

Leaves  its  large  truths  a riddle  to  the  dull — 

From  eyes  profane  a veil  the  Isis  screens. 

And  fools  on  fools  still  ask — ‘ What  Hamlet  means?’ 

Bulwer’s  own  works  realise  this  description  of 
genius:  they  unfold  ‘an  Iris  of  the  skies,’  in  which 
are  displayed  the  rich  colours  and  forms  of  the 
imagination,  mixed  and  interfused  with  dark  spots 
and  unsightly  shadows — with  conceit,  affectation, 
and  egotism.  Like  his  model,  Byron,  he  paints 
vividly  and  beautifully,  hut  often  throws  away  his 
colours  on  unworthy  objects,  and  leaves  many  of  his 
pictures  unfinished.  The  clear  guiding  judgment, 
well-bahinced  mind,  and  natural  feeling  of  Scott,  are 
wanting;  but  Bulwer’s  language  and  imagery  are 
often  exquisite,  and  his  power  of  delineating  cer- 
tain classes  of  character  and  manners  superior  to 
that  of  any  of  his  contemporaries.  Few  authors  have 
displayed  more  versatility.  He  seems  cap.able  of 
achieving  some  great  work  in  history  as  well  as  in 
fiction  ; and  if  he  has  not  succeeded  in  poetry,  he 
has  outstripped  most  of  his  contemporaries  in  popu- 
larity as  a dramatist. 

CAPTAIN  FREDERICK  MARRTAT. 

This  popular  naval  writer — the  best  painter  of 
sea  characters  since  Smollett — commenced  what  has 
proved  to  be  a busy  and  highly  successful  literary 
career  in  1829,  by  the  publication  of  The  Naval 
Officer,  a nautical  tale,  in  three  volumes.  This 
work  partook  too  strongly  of  the  free  spirit  of  the 
sailor,  but,  amidst  its  occasional  violations  of  taste 
and  decorum,  there  was  a rough  racy  humour  and 
dramatic  liveliness  that  atoned  for  many  faults. 
In  the  following  year  the  captain  was  ready  with 
other  three  volumes,  more  carefully  finished,  and 
presenting  a well-compacted  story,  entitled  The 
King’s  Own.  Though  occasionally  a little  awkward 
on  land.  Captain  IMarryat  was  at  home  on  the  sea, 
and  whether  serious  or  comic — whether  delineating 
a captain,  midshipman,  or  common  tar,  or  even  a 
carpenter,  he  evinced  a minute  practical  acqu.aint- 
ance  with  all  on  board  ship,  and  with  every  variety 
of  nautical  character.  His  vivid  and  striking 
powers  of  description  were  also  displayed  to  much 
advantage  in  this  novel.  Newton  Foster,  or  the 
Merchant  Service,  18.82,  was  our  author’s  next  work, 
and  is  a tale  of  various  and  sustained  interest.  It 
was  surpassed,  however,  by  its  immediate  successor, 
Peter  Simple,  the  most  amusing  of  all  the  author’s 

works.  His  nav.al  commander,  Captain  Savage, 
Chucks  the  boatswain,  O’Brien  the  Irish  lieutenant, 
and  Muddle  the  carpenter,  are  excellent  individual 
portraits — as  distinct  and  life-like  as  Tom  Bowling, 
Hatchway,  or  Pipes.  The  scenes  in  the  West 
Indies  disjilay  the  higher  powers  of  the  novelist, 
and  the  escape  from  tlie  French  prison  interests  us 
almost  as  deeply  as  the  similar  efforts  of  Caleb 
Williams.  Continuing  his  nautical  scenes  and  por- 
traits, Captain  Marryat  has  since  written  about 
thirty  volumes — as  Jacob  Faithful  (one  of  his  best 
productions).  The  Phantom  Ship,  Mr  Midshipman 
Easy,  The  Pacha  of  Many  Tales,  .Tuphet  in  Search  of 
a Father,  Poor  Jack,  Frank  Mildmay,  .Joseph  llush- 
hrook  the  Poacher,  Masterman  Heady,  Percival  Keene, 
&c.  In  the  hasty  production  of  so  many  volumes, 
the  quality  could  not  always  be  equal.  The  nautical 
humour  and  racy  dialogue  could  not  always  be  pro- 
duced at  will,  of  a new  and  different  stamp  at  each 
successive  effort.  Such,  however,  is  the  fertile 
fancy  and  active  observation  of  the  author,  and  his 
lively  powers  of  amusing  and  describing,  that  he 
has  fewer  repetitions  and  less  tediousness  than 
almost  any  other  writer  equally  voluminous.  His 
last  work,  ‘Percival  Keene’  (1842),  betr.ays  no 
falling-off,  but,  on  the  contrary,  is  one  of  the  most 
vigorous  and  interesting  of  his  ‘ sea  changes.’  ‘ Cap- 
tain M;irryat,’  says  a writer  in  the  Quarterly  Re- 
view, ‘ stands  second  to  no  living  novelist  but  Miss 
Edgeworth.  His  happy  delineations  and  contrasts 
of  character,  and  easy  play  of  native  fun,  redeem  a 
thousand  faults  cf  verbosity,  clumsiness,  and  coarse- 
ness. His  strong  sense  and  utter  superiority  to 
affectation  of  all  sorts,  command  respect ; and  in  his 
quiet  effectiveness  of  circumstantial  n.arrative,  he 
sometimes  approaches  old  Defoe.  There  is  less  of 
caricature  about  his  pictures  than  those  of  any  con- 
temporary humorist-— unless,  perhaps,  Morier ; and 
he  shows  far  larger  and  maturer  knowledge  of  the 
real  workings  of  human  nature  than  any  of  the 
band,  except  the  exquisite  writer  we  have  just 
named,  and  Mr  Theodore  Hook,  of  whom  praise  is 
equally  superfluous.’  This  was  written  in  1839, 
before  Charles  Dickens  had  ‘ gathered  all  his  fame 
and  with  all  our  admiration  of  Marryat,  we  should 
be  disposed  at  present  to  claim  for  the  younger 
novelist  an  equ:d,  if  not  superior — as  clear,  and  a 
more  genial — knowledge  of  liuman  nature — at  least 
on  land. 

To  vary  or  relieve  his  ineessant  toils  at  original 
composition.  Captain  Marryat  made  a trip  to  Ame- 
rica in  1837,  the  result  of  which  he  gave  to  the 
world  in  1839  in  three  volumes,  entitled  A Diary 
in  America,  with  Remarks  on  its  Institutions.  This 
was  flying  at  higher  game  than  any  he  had  pre- 
viously brought  down  ; but  the  real  v.alue  of  these 
volumes  consists  in  their  resemblance  to  parts  of 
his  novels — in  humorous  caricature  and  anecdote, 
shrewd  observation,  and  lively  or  striking  descrip- 
tion. His  account  of  the  Americ.an  navy  is  valuable; 
and  so  practic:d  and  sagacious  an  observer  could  not 
visit  the  schools,  prisons,  and  other  public  institu- 
tions of  the  New  World,  without  throwing  out 
valuable  reflections,  and  noting  what  is  superior  or 
defective.  He  is  no  admirer  of  the  democratic 
government  of  America:  indeed  his  Diary  is  as 
unfavourable  to  the  national  character  as  the  pre- 
vious sketches  of  Mrs  Trollope  or  C:iptain  HalL 
But  it  is  in  relating  traits  of  manners,  peculiarities 
of  speech,  and  other  singular  or  ludicrous  charac- 
teristics of  the  Americans,  that  Captain  Marryat 
excels.  These  are  as  rich  as  his  fictitious  delinea- 
tions, and,  like  them,  probably  owe  a good  deal  to 
the  suggestive  fancy  and  love  of  drollery  proper  to 
the  novelist.  The  success  of  tliis  Diary  induced  the 

622 

KOVKLISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


author  to  add  three  additional  volumes  to  it  in  the 
following  year,  but  the  continuation  is  greatly  in- 
ferior. 

[A  Pi-udoit  Sea  Captain — Ahuse  of  Ship  Stores.] 
[From  ‘ The  King's  Own."] 

’ Well,  Mr  Cheeks,  what  are  the  carpenters  about  V 
‘ Weston  and  Smallbridge  are  going  on  with  the 
chairs — the  whole  of  them  will  be  finished  to-morrow.’ 
‘ Well !’ 

‘ Smith  is  about  the  chest  of  drawers,  to  match  the 
one  in  my  Lady  Capperbar’s  bed-room.’ 

‘ Very  good.  And  what  is  Hilton  about?’ 

‘ He  has  finished  the  spare-leaf  of  the  dining-table, 
sir ; he  is  now  about  a little  job  for  the  second-lieu- 
tenant.’ 

‘ A job  for  the  second  lieutenant,  sir!  How  often 
have  1 told  you,  Mr  Cheeks,  that  the  carpenters  are 
not  to  be  employed,  except  on  ship’s  duty,  without  my 
special  permission.’ 

‘ His  standing  bed-place  is  broke,  sir;  he  is  only 
getting  out  a chock  or  two.’ 

‘ Mr  Cheeks,  you  hare  disobeyed  my  most  positive 
orders.  By  the  by,  sir,  I understand  you  were  not 
sober  last  night  ?’ 

‘ Please  your  honour,’  replied  the  carpenter,  ‘ I 
wasn’t  drunk — I was  only  a little  fresh.’ 

‘ Take  you  care,  Mr  Cheeks.  Well,  now,  what  are 
the  rest  of  your  crew  about  ?’ 

‘Why,  Thomson  and  Waters  are  cutting  out  the 
pales  for  the  garden  out  of  the  jibboom ; I’ve  saved 
the  heel  to  return.’ 

‘ Very  well ; but  there  wont  be  enough,  will  there  V 
‘No,  sir;  it  will  take  a hand-mast  to  finish  the 
whole.’ 

‘ Then  we  must  expend  one  when  we  go  out  again. 
W e can  carry  away  a top-mast,  and  make  a new  one 
out  of  the  hand-mast  at  sea.  In  the  meantime,  if  the 
sawyers  have  nothing  to  do,  they  may  as  well  cut  the 
palings  at  once.  And  now,  let  me  see — oh,  the  pain- 
ters must  go  on  shore  to  finish  the  attics.’ 

‘ Yes,  sir  ; but  my  Lady  Capperbar  wishes  the  jea- 
lo2vsces  to  be  painted  vermilion ; she  says  it  will  look 
more  rural.’ 

‘ Mrs  Capperbar  ought  to  know  enough  about  ship’s 
stores  by  this  time  to  be  aware  that  we  are  only  allowed 
three  colours.  She  may  choose  or  mix  them  as  she 
pleases  ; but  as  for  going  to  the  expense  of  buying 
paint,  I can’t  afford  it.  What  are  the  rest  of  the  men 
about  V 

‘ Repairing  the  second  cutter,  and  making  a new 
mast  for  the  pinnace.’ 

‘ By  the  by — that  puts  me  in  mind  of  it — have  you 
expended  any  boat’s  masts  V 
‘ Only  the  one  carried  away,  sir.’ 

‘ Then  you  must  expend  two  more.  Mrs  C has 

just  sent  me  off  a list  of  a few  things  that  she  wishes 
made  while  we  are  at  anchor,  and  I see  two  poles  for 
clothes-lines.  Saw  off  the  sheave-holes,  and  put  two 
pegs  through  at  right  angles — you  knowhow  I mean  ?’ 
‘ Y es,  sir.  What  am  I to  do,  sir,  about  the  cucum- 
ber frame  ? My  Lady  Capperbar  says  that  she  must 
have  it,  and  I haven’t  glass  enough.  They  grumbled  at 
the  yard  last  time.’ 

‘ ^Irs  C must  wait  a little.  What  arc  the 

armourers  about !’ 

‘ They  have  been  so  busy  with  your  work,  sir,  that  the 
arms  are  in  a very  bad  condition.  The  first-lieutenant 
said  yesterday  that  they  were  a disgrace  to  the  ship.’ 

‘ Who  dares  say  that  ?’ 

‘ The  first-lieutenant,  sir.’ 

‘ Well,  then,  let  them  rub  up  the  arms,  and  let  me 
know  when  they  are  done,  and  we’ll  get  the  forge  up.’ 
‘ The  armourer  has  made  six  rakes  and  six  hoes. 


and  the  two  little  hoes  for  the  children  ; but  he  says 
that  he  can’t  make  a spade.’ 

‘Then  I’ll  take  his  warrant  away,  by  heavens,  since 
he  does  not  know  his  duty.  That  will  do,  Mr  Cheeks. 
I shall  overlook  your  being  in  liquor  this  time ; but 
take  care.  Send  the  boatswain  to  me.’ 

A few  other  authors  have,  like  Captain  hlarryat, 
presented  us  with  good  pictures  of  maritime  life 
and  adventures.  The  Naval  Sketch-Book,  1828; 
Sailors  and  Saints,  1829  ; Tales  of  a Tar,  1830  ; Land 
Sharks  and  Sea  Gulls,  1838  ; and  other  works,  by 
C.A.PTAIN  Glasscock,  R.N.,  are  all  genuine  tales  of 
the  sea,  and  display  a hearty  comic  humour  and 
rich  phraseology,  with  as  cordial  a contempt  for 
regularity  of  plot ! Rattlin  the  Reefer,  and  Outward 
Bound,  or  a Merchant's  Adventures,  by  Mr  Howard, 
are  better  managed  as  to  fable  (particularly  ‘ Out- 
ward Bound,’  which  is  a well-constructed  tale),  but 
have  not  the  same  breadth  of  humour  as  Captain 
Glasscock’s  novels.  The  Life  of  a Sailor,  and  Ben 
Brace,  by  Captain  Chajiier,  are  excellent  works 
of  the  same  class,  replete  with  nature,  observation, 
and  humour.  2bm  Cringle's  Log,  by  Michael  Scott, 
and  The  Cruise  of  the  Midge  (both  originally  pub- 
lished in  Blackwood’s  Magazine),  are  also  veritable 
productions  of  the  sea — a little  coarse,  but  spirited, 
and  showing  us  ‘ things  as  they  are.’  Mr  Scott,  who 
was  a native  of  Glasgow,  spent  a considerable  part 
of  his  life  in  a mercantile  situation  at  Kingston  in 
Jamaica.  He  died  in  his  native  city,  in  1835,  aged 
about  forty-six. 

MRS  gore. 

This  lady  is  a clever  and  prolific  writer  of  t.ales 
and  fashionable  novels.  Her  first  work  (published 
anonymously)  w'as,  we  believe,  a small  volume  con- 
taining two  tales.  The  Lettre  de  Cachet,  and  The 
Reign  of  Terror,  1827.  One  of  these  relates  to  the 
times  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  the  other  to  the  French 
Revolution.  They  are  both  interesting  graceful 
tales — superior,  we  think,  to  some  of  the  more 
elaborate  and  extensive  fictions  of  the  authoress. 
In  1830  appeared  Women  as  they  Are,  or  the  Man- 
ners of  the  Day,  three  volumes — an  easy  sparkling 
narrative,  with  correct  pictures  of  modern  society — 
much  lady-like  writing  on  dress  and  fashion,  and 
some  rather  misplaced  derision  or  contempt  for 
‘excellent  wives’  and  ‘good  sort  of  men.’  This 
novel  soon  went  through  a second  edition,  and  Mrs 
Gore  continued  the  same  style  of  fashionable  por- 
traiture. In  1831  she  issnod.  Mothers  and  Daughters, 
a Tale  of  the  Year  1830.  Here  the  manners  of  gay 
life — balls,  dinners,  and  fetes — with  clever  sketches 
of  character,  and  amusing  dialogues,  make  up  the 
customary  three  volumes.  The  same  year  we  find 
Mrs  Gore  compiling  a series  of  narratives  for  youth, 
entitled  The  Historical  Traveller.  In  ’832  she  came 
forward  with  The  Fair  of  May  Fai.\  a series  of 
fashionable  tales,  that  were  not  so  well  received. 
The  critics  hinted  that  Mrs  Gore  had  exhausted  her 
stock  of  observation,  and  we  believe  she  went  to 
reside  in  France,  where  she  continued  some  years. 
Her  next  tale  was  entitled  Airs  Armytage.  In  1838 
she  published  The  Book  of  Roses,  or  Rose-Fancier's 
Manual,  a delightful  little  work  on  the  history  of  the 
rose,  its  propagation  and  culture.  France  is  cele- 
brated for  its  rich  varieties  of  the  queen  of  flowers, 
and  Mrs  Gore  availed  herself  of  the  taste  and  expe- 
rience of  the  French  floriculturists.  A few  months 
afterwards  came  out  The  Heir  of  Sehvood,  or  Three 
Epochs  of  a Life,  a novel  in  which  were  exhibited 
sketches  of  Parisian  as  well  as  English  society,  and 
an  interesting  though  somewhat  confused  plot.  The 
year  1839  witnessed  three  more  works  of  fiction 

623 


MRS  OOKE 


FROM  17H0  CYCLOI’/KDIA  OF  till  the  presf.nt  timr. 

from  tills  imlcf iti"iil)le  laily.  The  Cuhinet  ilin^.er, 
tlie  scone  of  which  is  laid  duriiif;  tlie  regency  of 
fxcorge  IV.,  nmi  includes  among  its  characters  the 
great  name  of  Sheridan;  I'referment,  or  My  Uncle 
the  Earl,  eontaining  some  good  sketches  of  drawing- 
room .society,  Imt  no  plot  ; and  The  Court'ur  of  the 
JJcys  of  Vhark'x  II.,  and  othei  Tales.  Next  year  we 
have  The  Dowayer,  or  the  New  School  for  Scandal ; 
and  in  1841  Orevdle,  or  a Season  in  Paris;  J Jarre 
of  the  South,  or  the  Olden  Time  (a  drama) ; and  The 
i.over  and  her  Ilushand,  &c.  the  latter  a tree  transla- 
linii  of  M.  Hertrand’s  Gerfaut.  In  1842  Mrs  Gore 
pnhlished  The  Ilanher's  HV/e,  or  Court  and  City,  in 
whicli  the  efforts  of  a family  in  the  middle  rank  to 
outshine  a nohlcman,  and  the  consequences  result- 
ing from  this  silly  vanity  and  ambi'ion,  are  truly 
and  powerfully  painted.  The  value  of  Mrs  Gore’s 
novels  consists  in  their  lively  caustic  pictures  of 
fashionable  and  high  society.  ‘The  more  respect- 
able of  her  personages  are  affecters  of  an  excessive 
prudery  concerning  the  decencies  of  life — nay,  occa- 
sionally of  an  exalted  and  mystical  religious  feeling. 
The  business  of  tbeir  existence  is  to  avoid  the 
slightest  breach  of  conventional  decorum.  What- 
ever, therefore,  they  do,  is  a fair  and  absolute 
measure  of  the  prevailing  opinions  of  the  class,  and 
may  be  regarded  as  not  derogatory  to  their  position 
in  the  eyes  of  their  equals.  But  the  low  average 
standard  of  moridity  thus  depicted,  with  its  con- 
ventional distinctions,  cannot  be  invented.  It  forms 
the  atmosphere  in  which  the  parties  live  ; and  were 
it  a compound,  fabricated  at  the  author’s  pleasure, 
the  beings  who  breathe  it  could  not  but  be  univer- 
sally acknowledged  as  fantastical  and  as  mere 
monstrosities  ; tlicy  would  indeed  be  incapable  of 
acting  in  harmony  and  consistence  with  the  known 
laws  and  usages  of  civil  life.  Si’ch  as  a series  of 
parliamentary  reports,  county  meetings,  race-horse 
transactions,  &c.  they  will  be  found,  with  a reason- 
able allowiince  of  artistic  colouring,  to  reflect  accu- 
rately enough  the  notions  current  among  the  upper 
classes  respecting  religion,  politics,  domestic  morals, 
the  social  affections,  and  that  coarse  aggregate  of 
dealing  with  our  neighbours  which  is  embraced  by 
the  term  common  honesty.’*  Besides  the  w'orks  we 
have  mentioned,  Mrs  Gore  has  published  The  De- 
senniiyee.  The  Peeress,  The  Woman  of  the  World,  The 
Woman  of  Bu.'iiness,  The  Amhas.sador's  Wife,  and 
other  novels.  She  contributes  tales  to  the  periodi- 
cals, and  is  perhaps  unparalleled  for  fertility.  Her 
works  are  till  of  the  stime  class — all  pictures  of  ex- 
isting life  and  manners;  but  the  want  of  genuine 
feeling,  of  passion,  ami  simplicity,  in  her  living 
models,  and  the  endless  frivolities  of  their  occu- 
pations and  pursuits,  make  us  sometimes  take  leave 
of  Mrs  Gore’s  f.ishionable  triflers  in  the  temper  with 
which  Goldsmith  jiarted  from  Beau  Tibbs — ‘The 
company  of  fools  may  at  first  make  us  smile,  but  at 
last  never  fails  of  rendering  us  melancholy.’ 

[Character  of  a Pnident  Worldly  Lady.~\ 

[From  ‘ Women  as  they  Are.’] 

Lady  Lilfield  was  a thoroughly  worldly  woman — a 
worthy  scion  of  the  Mordaunt  stock.  She  had  pro- 
fessedly accepted  the  hand  of  Sir  Robert  because  a 
connexion  with  him  was  the  best  that  happened  to 
pre.sent  itself  in  the  first  year  of  her  debut — the  ‘ best 
match’  to  be  had  at  a season’s  warning  ! She  knew  that 
she  had  been  brought  out  with  the  view  to  dancing 
at  a certain  number  of  balls,  refusing  a certain  num- 
ber of  good  offers,  and  accepting  a better  one,  some- 
nhere  between  the  months  of  January  and  June; 

* Athenaeum,  1839. 

and  she  regarded  it  as  a propitiou.s  dispensation  of 
I’rovidence  to  her  parents  and  to  herself,  that  the 
comparative  proved  a superlative — even  a high  sheriff 
of  the  county,  a baromU  of  respectable  date,  with  ten 
thousand  a-year ! She  felt  that  her  duty  towards 
herself  nece.ssitated  an  immediate  acceptance  of  the 
dullest  ‘good  sort  of  man’  extant  throughout  the 
three  kingdoms  ; and  the  whole  routine  of  her  after- 
life was  regulated  by  the  same  rigid  code  of  riiora' 
selfishness.  She  was  jienetrated  with  a most  exact 
sense  of  what  was  due  to  her  position  in  the  world, 
but  she  was  equally  precise  in  her  appreciation  of 
all  that,  in  her  turn,  she  owed  to  society ; nor.  from 
her  youth  upwards — 

Content  to  dw-ell  in  decencies  for  ever — 
had  she  been  detected  in  the  slightest  infraction  or 
the.se  minor  social  duties.  She  knew  with  the  utmost 
accuracy  of  domestic  arithmetic — to  the  fraction  of  a 
course  or  an  entree — the  number  of  dinners  which 
Beech  Park  was  indebted  to  its  neighbourhood — the 
complement  of  laundry-maids  imlispensable  to  the 
maintenance  of  its  county  dignity — the  aggregate  of 
pines  by  which  it  must  retain  its  horticultural  pre- 
cedence. She  had  never  retarded  by  a day  or  an 
hour  the  arrival  of  the  family-coach  in  (irosvenor 
Square  at  the  exact  moment  creditable  to  Sir  Robert’s 
senatorial  punctuality  ; nor  procrastinated  by  half  a 
second  the  simultaneous  bobs  of  her  ostentatious 
Sunday  school,  as  she  sailed  majestically  along  the 
aisle  towards  her  tall,  stately,  pharisaical,  squire- 
archical  pew.  True  to  the  execution  of  her  tasks — 
and  her  whole  life  was  but  one  laborious  task — true 
and  exact  as  the  great  Ijell  of  the  Beech  Park  turret- 
clock,  she  was  enchanted  with  the  monotonous  music 
of  her  own  cold  iron  tongue  ; proclaiming  herself  the 
best  of  wives  and  mothers,  because  Sir  Robert’s  rent- 
roll  could  afford  to  command  the  services  of  a first- 
rate  steward,  and  butler,  and  housekeeper,  and  thus 
insure  a well-ordered  household  ; and  becau.se  her 
seven  substantial  children  were  duly  drilled  througl: 
a daily  portion  of  rice-pudding  and  spelling-book,  and 
an  annual  distribution  of  mumps  and  measles!  All 
went  well  at  Beech  Park  ; for  Lady  Lilfield  was  ‘ the 
excellent  wife’  of  ‘ a good  sort  of  man  !’ 

So  bright  an  example  of  domestic  merit — and  what 
country  neighbourhood  cannot  boast  of  its  dujilicate? 
— was  naturally  superior  to  seeking  its  pleasures  in 
the  vapid  and  varying  novelties  of  modern  fashion. 
The  habits  of  Beech  Park  still  affected  the  dignified 
and  primeval  purity  of  the  departed  century.  Lady 
Lilfield  remained  true  to  her  annual  eight  rural 
months  of  the  county  of  Durham  ; against  whose 
claims  Kemp  town  pleaded,  and  Spa  and  Baden 
bubbled  in  vain.  During  her  pastoral  seclusion,  by 
a careful  distribution  of  her  stores  of  gossiping,  she 
contrived  to  prose,  in  undetected  tautology,  to  suc- 
cessive detachments  of  an  extensive  neighbourhood, 
concerning  her  London  importance — her  court  dress 
— her  dinner  parties — and  her  refusal  to  visit  the 

Duchess  of  ; while,  during  the  reign  of  her 

Lomlon  importance,  she  made  it  equally  her  duty  to 
bore  her  select  visiting  list  with  the  history  of  the 
new  Beech  Park  school-house — of  the  Beech  Park 
double  dahlias — and  of  the  Beech  Park  privilege  of 
uniting,  in  an  aristocratic  dinner  party,  the  abhorrent 
heads  of  the  rival  political  factions — the  Bianchi  e 
jVeri — the  houses  of  Montague  and  Capulct  of  the 
county  palatine  of  Durham.  By  such  minute  sections 
of  the  wide  chapter  of  colloquial  boredom.  Lady 
Lilfield  acquired  the  character  of  being  a very  charm- 
ing woman  throughout  her  respectable  clan  of  dinner- 
giving baronets  and  their  wives ; but  the  reputation 
of  a very  miracle  of  prosiness  among  those 

Men  of  the  world,  who  know  the  world  like  men. 

She  was  but  a weed  in  the  nobler  field  of  society. 

624 

KNOUSH  Lm-'-HATUHE. 


MISS  HAnUIE-I  MARTINKAtr. 


Amonn  till'  otIuT  tVmali*  novcli'its  may  1k‘  mcMi- 
tiomal  Miss  I.amkin  (Mrs  Maclean),  Kuthorcss  of 
FraKrisra  ('aii'aia,  nml  ElkrI  Churchill — tile  latter 
H powcrl'ul  mill  varied  Kiiclisli  story;  Miss  Ei.li'.n 
I’tCKKiiiNG,  whose  novels — Who  shall  he  Heir,  The 
t'<crel  Foe,  and  Sir  Michael  1‘aiilet,  1841-42 — evince 
pivat  s|iirit  and  liveliness  in  sketching  scenes  and 
characters. 

In  humorous  delineation  of  town  and  countrv 
manners  and  follies,  the  sketches  entitled  Little 
Vedlinyton  an<l  the  Pcdliiigtotiians,  by  Mr  John 
I’ooLK,  two  volumes,  18.'!9,  are  a fund  of  lively 
satire  and  amusement.  The  Ingoldshy  Legends,  or 
iUrth  and  Marcels,  by  Mr  Thomas  Ingoldsby, 
1840  ; and  My  Cousin  Nicholas,  by  the  same  author, 
1841,  are  marked  by  a similar  comic  bre:idth  of 
humour.  Mr  DotiGi.AS  Jkrroi.d,  author  of  Men 
of  Character,  three  volumes.  1838,  has  written  several 
amusing  pajiers  in  the  same  style  as  the  above,  hut 
h;is  been  irore  successful  in  writing  light  jiieces  for 
the  stage,  Mr  Jerrold  now  edits  a periodical — the 
[llnminated  Magazine.  Mr  W.  M.  Thackeray  has 
published  (under  the  Cockney  name  of  ‘ Michael 
Angelo  Titmarsh')  various  graphic  and  entertaining 
works — The  Paris  Sketek-Dook.  1840;  Comic  Tales  and 
Sketches,  1841  ; and  The  Irish  Sketch-Book,  1842.  The 
latter  is  the  most  valuable ; for  Titmarsh  is  a quick 
observer,  and  original  in  style  and  description. 

MISS  HA  RRIET  MARTINEA0. 

Miss  Harriet  Martineau.  an  extensive  miscel- 
laneous writer,  published  in  1832  and  1833  a series 
of  Illiistratiuns  of  Political  Economy,  in  the  shape  of 
tales  or  novels.  One  story  represents  the  advantages 
of  the  division  and  economy  of  labour,  another  the 
utility  of  capital  and  machinery,  and  others  relate  to 
rent,  population,  &c.  These  tales  contain  many 
clev'er  and  striking  descriptions,  and  evince  much 
knowledge  of  human  character.  In  1837  Miss 
Martineau  published  the  results  of  a visit  to  Ame- 
ricai.  and  a careful  inspection  of  its  institutions 
amt  national  manners,  under  the  title  of  Society  in 
America.  This  she  subsequently  followed  up  by 
a Retrospect  of  Western  Travel.  Her  first  regular 
novel  appeared  in  1839,  and  was  entitled  Deerbrook. 
Though  improbable  in  many  of  its  incidents,  this 
work  abounds  in  eloquent  and  striking  passages. 
The  democratic  opinions  of  the  authoress  (for  in  all 
but  her  anti-Malthusian  doctrines  Miss  Martineau  is 
a sort  of  female  Godwin)  are  strikingly  brought  for- 
ward, and  the  characters  are  well  drawn.  ‘Deer- 
brook’ is  a story  of  English  domestic  life.  The  next 
effort  of  Miss  Martineau  was  in  the  historical  ro- 
mance. The  Hour  and  the  Man,  1840,  is  a novel  or 
romance  founded  on  the  history  of  the  brave  Tous- 
saiut  L'Ouverture,  and  with  this  man  as  hero.  Miss 
Martineau  exhibits  as  the  hour  of  action  the  period 
when  the  slaves  of  St  Domingo  threw  off  the  yoke 
of  slavery.  There  is  much  passionate  as  well  as 
graceful  writing  in  this  tale ; its  greatest  defect  is, 
that  there  is  too  much  disquisition,  and  too  little 
connected  or  regular  fable.  Among  the  other  works 
of  Miss  Martineau  are  several  for  children,  as  The 
Peasant  and  the  Prince,  The  Settlers  at  Home,  How  to 
Observe,  &c.  Her  latest  work.  Life  in  the  Sick-Room, 
or  Essays  by  an  Invalid,  1844,  contains  many  in- 
teresting and  pleasing  sketches,  full  of  acute  and 
delicate  thought  and  elegant  description. 

The  following  notice  of  our  authoress  appears  in  a 
recent  publication,  ‘ A New  Spirit  of  the  Age — 
‘Harriet  Martineau  was  born  in  the  j’ear  1802,  one 
of  the  youngest  among  a family  of  eight  children. 
Her  father  was  a proprietor  of  one  of  the  manufac- 
tories in  Norwich,  in  which  place  his  family,  origi- 

82 


nall_\'  of  Krcnch  origin,  had  resided  since  the  revoca- 
tion of  the  edict  of  Nantes.  She  h.as  her.self  ascribed 
her  taste  for  literary  pursuits  to  the  extreme  ilelicacy 
of  her  health  in  childhood;  to  the  infirmity  (deaf- 
ness) with  which  she  has  lieen  afflicted  ever  since, 
which,  without  being  so  complete  as  to  deprive  her 
absolutely  of  all  intercourse  with  the  world,  yet  ob- 
liged her  to  sc't'k  occu|mtions  and  pleasures  within 
herself;  and  to  the  affection  which  subsisted  between 
her  and  the  brother  nearest  her  own  age,  the  Rev. 
James  Martineau,  whose  fine  mind  and  talents  are 
well  known.  The  occupation  of  writing,  first  begun 
to  gratify  her  own  taste  and  inclination,  became 
afterwards  to  her  a source  of  honourable  indepen- 
dence, when,  by  one  of  the  disasters  so  common  in 
trade,  her  family  became  involved  in  misfortunes. 
She  was  then  enabled  to  reverse  the  common  lot  of 
unmarried  daughters  in  such  circumstances,  and 
cease  to  be  in  any  respect  a burden.  She  realised 
an  income  sufficient  for  her  simple  habits,  but  still 
so  small  as  to  enhance  the  integrity  of  the  sacrifice 
which  she  made  to  principle  in  refusing  the  pension 
offercsl  to  her  by  government  in  1840,  Her  motive 
for  refusing  it  was  that  she  considered  herself  in  the 
light  of  a political  writer,  and  that  the  offer  did  not 
proceed  from  the  people,  but  from  the  government, 
which  did  not  represent  the  people.’ 

[Efects  of  Love  and  Happiness  on  the  Mind.~\ 
[From  ‘ Deerbrook."] 

There  needs  no  other  proof  that  happiness  is  the 
most  wholesome  moral  atmosphere,  and  that  in  which 
the  immortality  of  man  is  destined  ultimately  to 
thrive,  than  the  elevation  of  soul,  the  religious  aspira- 
tion, which  attends  the  first  assur.ance,  the  first  sober 
certainty  of  true  love.  There  is  much  of  this  re- 
ligious aspiration  amidst  all  warmth  of  virtuous  affec- 
tions. There  is  a vivid  love  of  God  in  the  child  that 
lays  its  cheek  against  the  cheek  of  its  mother,  and 
clasps  its  arms  about  her  neck.  Cod  is  thanked  (per- 
haps unconsciously)  for  the  brightness  of  his  earth,  on 
summer  evenings,  when  a brother  and  sister,  who  have 
long  been  parted,  pour  out  their  heart-stores  to  each 
other,  and  feel  their  course  of  thought  brightening  as 
it  runs.  When  the  aged  parent  hears  of  the  honours 
his  children  have  won,  or  looks  round  upon  their  in- 
nocent faces  as  the  glory  of  his  decline,  his  mind 
reverts  to  Him  who  in  them  prescribed  the  purpose 
of  his  life,  and  bestowed  its  grace.  But  religious  as 
is  the  mood  of  every  good  affection,  none  is  so  devo- 
tional as  that  of  love,  especially  so  called.  The  soul 
is  then  the  very  temple  of  adoration,  of  faith,  of  holy 
purity,  of  heroism,  of  charity.  At  such  a moment  the 
human  creature  shoots  up  into  the  angel  ; there  is 
nothing  on  earth  too  defiled  for  its  charity — nothing 
in  hell  too  appalling  for  its  heroism — nothing  in 
heaven  too  glorious  for  its  sympathy.  Strengthened, 
sustained,  vivified  by  that  most  mysterious  power, 
union  with  another  spirit,  it  feels  itself  set  well  forth 
on  the  way  of  victory  over  evil,  sent  out  conquering 
and  to  conquer.  There  is  no  other  such  crisis  in 
human  life.  The  philosopher  may  experience  uncon- 
trollable agitation  in  verifying  his  principle  of  balanc- 
ing systems  of  worlds,  feeling,  perhaps,  as  if  he 
actually  saw  the  creative  hand  in  the  act  of  .sending 
the  planets  forth  on  their  everlasting  way  ; but  this 
philosopher,  solitary  seraph  as  he  may  be  regarded 
amidst  a myriad  of  men,  knows  at  such  a moment  no 
emotions  .so  divine  as  those  of  the  spirit  becoming 
conscious  that  it  is  beloved — be  it  the  peasant  girl  in 
the  meadow,  or  the  daughter  of  the  sage  reposing  in 
her  father’s  confidence,  or  the  artisan  beside  his  loom, 
or  the  man  of  letters  musing  by  his  fireside.  The 
warrior  about  to  strike  the  decisive  blow  for  the 
liberties  of  a nation,  however  impressed  with  the 

625 


FROM  IT'IO 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESF,^T  TIMS. 


golciiiiiity  of  tlie  hour,  is  not  in  a state  of  such  lofty 
resolution  as  those  who,  by  joining  hearts,  are  laying 
their  joint  hands  on  the  whole  wide  realm  of  futurity 
for  their  own.  The  statesman  who,  in  the  moment  of 
success,  feels  that  an  entire  class  of  social  sins  and 
woes  is  annihilated  by  his  hand,  is  not  conscious  of 
so  holy  and  so  intimate  a thankfulness  as  they  who 
are  aware  that  their  redemption  is  come  in  the  j)re- 
scnce  of  a new  and  sovereign  afiection.  And  these 
are  many — they  are  in  all  corners  of  every  land.  The 
state.sinan  is  the  leader  of  a nation,  the  warrior  is  the 
grace  of  an  age,  the  philosopher  is  the  birth  of  a 
thousand  years  ; but  the  lover,  where  is  he  not  1 
Wherever  parents  look  round  upon  their  children, 
there  he  has  been — wherever  children  are  at  play 
together,  there  he  will  soon  be — wherever  there  are 
roofs  under  which  men  dwell,  wherever  there  is  an 
atmosphere  vibrating  with  human  voices,  there  is  the 
lover,  and  there  is  his  lofty  worship  going  on,  un- 
speakable, but  revealed  in  the  brightness  of  the  eye, 
the  majesty  of  the  presence,  and  the  high  temper  of 
the  discourse. 


TnOJlAS  MILLER. 

Thomas  Miller  is  one  of  the  humble,  happy, 
tndustrious  self-taught  sons  of  gtmius.  He  was 
brought  up  to  tlie  trade  of  a basketinaker,  and 
while  thus  obscurely  labouring  ‘ to  consort  with  the 
muse  and  support  a family,’  he  attracted  attention, 
first  by  his  poetical  effusions,  and  subsequently  by  a 
series  of  prose  narratives  ami  fictions  remarkable 
for  the  freshness  of  their  deseri[)tiuns  of  rural  life 
and  English  scenery.  Through  the  kindness  of  Mr 
I Kogers,  our  author  was  placed  in  the  more  congenial 
situation  of  a bookseller,  and  has  had  tlie  gratifica- 
tion of  publishing  and  selling  his  own  works.  Mr 
Miller's  first  prose  composition  was,  we  believe,  A 
Day  in  the  Wuods,  which  was  fidlowed  (1839)  by 
Rural  Sketches,  both  being  soniewliat  in  the  style  of 
Bloomfield’s  poetry — simple,  picturesque,  and  cheer- 
ful in  tone  and  spirit.  His  first  novel  was  Royston 
Gower,  1838,  which  experienced  such  a reception 
as  to  induce  the  author  to  continue  novel-writing. 
His  second  attempt  was  hazardous,  from  the  asso- 
ciations it  aw.akened,  and  the  difficulty  of  painting 
historical  characters  of  a di.stant  age ; it  was  entitled 
Fair  Rosamond,  or  the  Days  of  King  Jleniy  II. 
There  was  an  evident  improvement  in  the  author’s 
style,  but  the  work,  as  a whole,  was  unsatisfactory 
and  tedious.  In  1840  he  plunged  again  into  a remote 
era  of  English  history,  requiring  minute  knowledge 
and  practised  skill  to  delineate  with  effect : his  Lady 
Jane  Grey,  a Historical  Romance,  is  defective  in 
plot,  but  contains  some  interesting  scenes  and  cha- 
racters. ‘There  is,’ says  one  of  Miller’.s  critics,  ‘a 
picturesqueness  in  tlie  arrangement  and  colouring 
of  his  scenes — an  occasional  glimpse,  now  of  pathos, 
now  of  humour,  quaint  and  popular,  but  never  vul- 
gar— an  ease  in  the  use  and  combination  of  such  few 
historical  materials  as  suffice  for  his  purpose,  which 
put  to  shame  the  efforts  of  many  who  have  been 
crammed  in  schools  and  lectured  in  colleges — and  af- 
ford another  evidence  that  creative  power  is  like  the 
air  and  the  sunshine — visitjng  alike  the  cottage  and 
the  mansion,  the  basketmaker’s  shop  and  the  literary 
gentleman’s  sanctum.’  Miller’s  next  appearance,  in 
1841,  evinced  still  more  decided  improvement: 
Gideon  Giles,  the  Roper,  is  a tale  of  English  life, 
generally  of  humble  characters,  but  rendered  inte- 
resting by  truthful  and  vigorous  delineation.  In 
1842  Mr  Miller  came  forward  with  another  novel — 
Godfrey  Malverin,  or  the  Life  of  an  Author,  detailing 
the  adventures  and  vicissitudes  of  a country  youth 
who  repairs  to  London  in  quest  of  literary  fame  and 


fortune.  Some  of  the  incidents  in  this  work  are 
exaggerated,  yet  the  lives  of  Gerald  Griffin,  Dr 
Maginn,  and  other  literary  adventurers,  contained 
almost  as  strange  and  sad  varieties,  and  the  author’s 
own  experience  doubtless  jiromptcd  some  of  his  de- 
lineations. About  the  same  time  Mr  Miller  pub- 
lished ;i  volutne  of  poems — a collection  of  pieces 
contributed  to  different  periodicals,  and,  like  his 
prose  works,  simple  and  natural  in  feeling  and  de- 
scription. One  of  these  really  beautiful  clfusions  we 
subjoin : — 

The  Happy  Valley. 

1 1 was  a valley  filled  with  sweetest  sounds, 

A languid  music  haunted  everywhere. 

Like  those  with  which  a summer  eve  abounds. 

From  rustling  coni  and  .song-birds  calling  clear, 
Down  sloping-uplands,  which  some  wood  surrounds, 
With  tinkling  rills  just  heard,  but  not  too  near; 

Or  lowing  cattle  on  the  distant  plain. 

And  swing  of  far-off  bells,  now  caught,  then  lo.st  again. 

It  seemed  like  Eden’s  angel-peopled  vale. 

So  bright  the  sky,  so  soft  the  stream.-;  did  flow; 
Such  tones  came  riding  on  the  musk-winged  gale, 

The  very  air  seemed  sleepdly  to  blow, 

And  choicest  Howers  enameled  every  dale, 

Flushed  with  the  riche.st  sunlight’s  rosy  glow; 

It  was  a valley  drowsy  with  delight. 

Such  fiagrance  floated  round,  such  beauty  dimmed  tho 
sight. 

The  golden-belted  bees  hummed  in  the  air, 

The  tall  silk  grasses  bent  and  waved  along; 

The  trees  slept  in  the  steeping  sunbeam’s  glare, 

The  dreamy  river  chimed  its  under-song, 

And  took  its  own  free  course  without  a care: 

Amid  the  boughs  did  lute-tongued  songsters  throng, 
Until  the  valley  throbbed  beneath  their  lays, 

And  echo  echo  chased  through  many  a leafy  maze. 

And  shapes  were  there,  like  spirits  of  the  flowers. 

Sent  down  to  see  the  summer-beauties  dress, 

And  feed  their  fragrant  mouths  with  silver  .showers ; 

Their  eyes  peeped  out  from  many  a green  recess, 
And  their  fair  forms  made  light  the  thick -set  bowers, 
The  very  flowers  seemed  eager  to  caress 
Such  living  sisters,  and  the  boughs,  long-leaved, 
Clustered  to  catch  the  sighs  their  pearl-flushed  bosorao 
heaved. 

One  through  her  long  loose  hair  was  backward  peeping. 
Or  throwing,  with  raised  arm,  the  locks  aside ; 
Another  high  a pile  of  flowers  was  heaping. 

Or  looking  love  askance,  and  when  descried. 

Her  coy  glance  on  the  bedded-greensward  kee]>ing ; 

She  pulled  the  flowers  to  pieces  as  .she  sighed. 

Then  blushed  like  timid  daybreak  when  the  dawn 
Looks  crimson  on  the  night,  and  then  agaiii’s  with- 
drawn. 

One,  with  her  warm  and  milk-white  arras  outspread. 
On  tip-toe  tripped  along  a sunlit  glade  ; 

Half  turned  the  matchless  sculpture  of  her  head. 

And  half  shook  down  her  silken  circling  braid  ; 

Her  hack-blown  scarf  an  arched  rainbow  made  ; 

She  seemed  to  float  on  air,  so  light  she  sped ; 
Skimming  the  wavy  flowers,  as  she  passed  by. 

With  fair  and  printless  feet,  like  clouds  along  the  sky 

One  sat  alone  within  a shady  nook. 

With  wild-wood  songs  the  lazy  hours  beguiling; 

Or  looking  at  her  shadow  in  the  brook. 

Trying  to  frown,  then  at  the  effort  smiling. 

Her  laughing  eyes  mocked  every  serious  look ; 

’Twas  as  if  Love  stood  at  himself  reviling  : 

She  threw  in  flowens,  and  watched  them  float  away. 
Then  at  her  beauty  looked,  then  sang  a sweeter  lay- 

626 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


HORACE  SMITH. 


JC0VRUST8. 


Others  on  beds  of  roses  Iny  reclined, 

The  regal  flowers  athwart  their  full  lips  thrown, 

And  in  one  fragrance  both  their  sweets  combined, 

As  if  they  on  the  self-same  stem  had  grown. 

So  close  were  rose  and  lip  together  twined — 

A double  flower  that  from  one  bud  had  blown. 

Till  none  could  tell,  so  closely  were  they  blended. 
Where  swelled  the  curving  lip,  or  where  the  rose-bloom 
ended. 

One,  half  asleep,  crushing  the  twined  flowers, 

Upon  a velvet  slope  like  Dian  lay  ; 

Still  as  a lark  that  mid  the  daisies  cowers : 

Her  looped-up  tunic  tossed  in  disarray. 

Showed  rounded  limbs,  too  fair  for  earthly  bowers  ; 

They  looked  like  roses  on  a cloudy  day ; 

The  warm  white  dulled  amid  the  colder  green  ; 

The  flowers  too  rough  a couch  that  lovely  shape  to 
screen. 

Some  lay  like  Thetis’  nymphs  along  the  shore. 

With  ocean-pearl  combing  their  golden  locks. 

And  singing  to  the  waves  for  evermore  ; 

Sinking  like  flowers  at  eve  beside  the  rocks, 

[f  but  a sound  above  the  muffled  roar 
Of  the  low  waves  was  heard.  In  little  flocks 
Others  went  trooping  through  the  wooded  alleys. 

Their  kirtles  glancing  white,  like  streams  in  sunny 
valleys. 

They  were  such  forms  as,  imaged  in  the  night. 

Sail  in  our  dreams  across  the  heaven’s  steep  blue ; 
When  the  closed  lid  sees  visions  streaming  bright. 

Too  beautiful  to  meet  the  naked  view ; 

Like  faces  formed  in  clouds  of  silver  light. 

Women  they  were  ! such  as  the  angels  knew — 

Such  as  the  mammoth  looked  on,  ere  he  fled. 

Scared  by  the  lovers’  wings,  that  streamed  in  sunset 
red, 

MB  J.  L.  PEACOCK. 

This  gentleman  has  written  some  lively,  natural, 
and  humorous  novels — Headlong  Hall,  1816;  Night- 
mare Abbey,  1818  ; Maid  Marian,  1822  ; and  Crotchet 
Castle,  1831.  These  were  republished  in  1837  in  one 
volume  of  Bentley’s  Standard  Library,  and  no  single 
V'olume  of  fiction  of  modern  production  contains 
more  witty  or  sarcastic  di.alogue,  or  more  admirable 
sketches  of  eccentric  and  ludicrous  ch.aracters.  His 
dramatis  persona  are  finely  arranged  and  diversified, 
and  are  full  of  life,  argument,  and  observation.  From 
the  ‘ higher  mood’  of  the  author  we  e.xtract  one  short 
sketch  — a graphic  account,  in  the  tale  of  ‘Maid 
Marian,’  of  freebooter  life  in  the  forest. 

‘ I am  in  fine  company,’  s.aid  the  baron. 

‘ In  the  very  best  of  company,’  said  the  friar  ; ‘ in 
the  high  court  of  Nature,  and  in  the  midst  of  her  own 
nobility.  Is  it  not  so  ? This  goodly  grove  is  our 
palace  ; the  oak  and  the  beech  are  its  colonnade  and 
its  canopy ; the  sun,  and  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  are 
I its  everlasting  lamps ; the  grass,  and  the  daisy,  and 
the  primrose,  and  the  violet,  are  its  many-coloured 
floor  of  green,  white,  yellow,  and  blue  ; the  hlayflower, 
and  the  woodbine,  and  the  eglantine,  and  the  ivy,  are 
its  decorations,  its  curtains,  and  its  tapestry  ; the  lark, 
and  the  thrush,  and  the  linnet,  and  the  nightingale, 
are  its  unhired  minstrels  and  musicians.  Robin 
Hood  is  king  of  the  forest  both  by  dignity  of  birth  and 
by  virtue  of  his  standing  army,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
free  choice  of  his  people,  which  he  has  indeed  ; but  I 
pass  it  by  as  an  illegitimate  basis  of  power.  He  holds 
his  dominion  over  the  forest,  and  its  horned  multitude 
of  citizen-deer,  and  its  swinish  multitude  or  peasantry 
of  wild  boars,  by  right  of  conquest  and  force  of  arms. 
He  levies  contributions  among  them  by  the  free  con- 
sent of  his  archers,  their  virtual  representatives.  If 


they  should  find  a voice  to  complain  that  we  are 
“ tyrants  and  usurpers,  to  kill  and  cook  them  up  in 
their  assigned  and  native  dwelling-place,”  we  should 
most  convincingly  admonish  them,  with  point  of 
arrow,  that  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  our  laws  but 
to  obey  them.  Is  it  not  written  that  the  fat  ribs  of 
the  herd  shall  be  fed  upon  by  the  mighty  in  the  land  1 
And  have  not  they,  withal,  my  blessing? — my  ortho- 
dox, canonical,  and  archiepiscopal  blessing  ? Uo  I not 
give  thanks  for  them  when  they  are  well  roasted  and 
smoking  under  my  nose?  What  title  had  William 
of  Normandy  to  England  that  Robin  of  Locksley  has 
not  to  merry  Sherwood  ? William  fought  for  his 
claim.  So  does  Robin.  With  whom  both  ? With 
any  that  would  or  will  dispute  it.  William  raised 
contributions.  So  does  Robin.  From  whom  both  1 
From  all  that  they  could  or  can  make  pay  them. 
Why  did  any  pay  them  to  William  ? Why  do  any 
pay  them  to  Robin?  For  the  same  reason  to  both — 
because  they  could  not  or  cannot  help  it.  They  differ, 
indeed,  in  this,  that  William  took  from  the  poor  and 
gave  to  the  rich,  and  Robin  takes  from  the  rich  and 
gives  to  the  poor ; and  therein  is  Robin  illegitimate, 
though  in  all  else  he  is  true  prince.  Scarlet  and 
John,  are  they  not  peers  of  the  forest? — lords  tempo- 
ral of  Sherwood  ? And  am  not  I lord  spiritual?  Am 
I not  archbishop  ? Am  I not  Pope  ? Do  I not  con- 
secrate their  banner  and  absolve  their  sins  ? Are  not 
they  State,  and  am  not  I Church  ? Are  not  they 
State  monarchical,  and  am  not  I Church  militant? 
Do  I not  excommunicate  our  enemies  from  venison 
and  brawn,  and,  by’r  Lady ! when  need  calls,  beat 
them  down  under  my  feet?  The  St.ate  levies  tax, 
and  the  Church  levies  tithe.  Even  so  do  we.  Mass! 
— we  take  all  at  once.  What  then  ? It  is  tax  by 
redemption,  and  tithe  by  commutation.  Your  Wil- 
liam and  Richard  can  cut  and  come  again,  but  our 
Robin  deals  with  slippery  subjects  that  come  not 
twice  to  his  exchequer.  What  need  we,  then,  to  con- 
stitute a court,  e.xcept  a fool  and  a laureate  ? For 
the  fool,  his  only  use  is  to  make  false  knaves  merry 
by  art,  and  we  are  true  men,  and  are  merry  by  nature. 
For  the  laureate,  his  only  office  is  to  find  virtues  in 
those  who  have  none,  and  to  drink  sack  for  his  pains. 
We  have  quite  virtue  enough  to  need  him  not,  and 
can  drink  our  sack  for  ourselves.’ 

HORACE  SSIITH. 

Mr  Horace  Smith,  one  of  the  accomplished  authors 
of  the  Rejected  Addresses,  was  one  of  the  first  imita- 
tors of  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  his  historical  romances. 
His  Brambletye  House,  a tale  of  the  civil  wars,  pub- 
lished in  1826,  was  received  with  distinguished  fa- 
vour by  the  public,  though  some  of  its  descriptions 
of  the  plague  in  London  were  copied  too  literally 
from  Defoe,  and  there  was  a want  of  spirit  and  truth 
in  the  embodiment  of  some  of  the  historical  charac- 
ters. The  success  of  this  etfort  inspired  the  author 
to  venture  into  various  fields  of  fiction.  He  has  sub- 
sequently written  Tor  Hill;  Z ill  ah,  a Tale  of  the  Holy 
City;  The  Midsummer  Medley ; Walter  Colyton;  The 
Involuntary  Prophet ; JaneLomax  ; The  Moneyed  Man; 
Adam  Brown;  The  Merchant,  &c.  ‘The  iloneyed 
Man’  is  the  most  natural  and  able  of  Mr  Smith’s 
novels,  and  contains  some  fine  pictures  of  London 
city  life.  The  author  himself  is  fortunately  a 
moneyed  man.  ‘ Mr  Shelley  said  once,  “ I know 
not  what  Horace  Smith  must  take  me  for  some- 
times: I am  afraid  he  must  think  me  a strange 
fellow ; but  is  it  not  odd,  that  the  only  truly  gene- 
rous person  I ever  knew,  who  had  money  to  bo 
generous  with,  should  be  a stockbroker  1 And  he 
writes  poetry  too,”  continued  Mr  Shelley,  his  voice 
rising  in  a fervour  of  astonishment  — ‘‘  he  writes 
poetry  and  pastoral  dramas,  and  yet  knows  how  to 

627 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPiKDI  A OF  tii.l  TirE  present  Tiiut 


make  money,  ami  does  make  it,  ami  is  still  Reiie- 
roiis.”’*  The  poet  also  publicly  expressed  his  re- 
gard for  Mr  Smith. 

Wit  and  sense. 

Virtue  and  human  knowledge,  all  that  might 
Make  this  dull  world  a business  of  delight, 

Are  all  combined  in  II.  S. 

CKORGE  I>.  R.  JA5IES. 

Mr  George  I’.  R.  J.vmes  is  another  of  Scott’s 
historical  imitators,  and  perhaps  the  best  of  the 
numerous  band.  If  he  had  not  written  so  much — 


George  P.  E.  James. 

if,  instead  of  employing  an  amanuensis,  tn  whom 
he  dictates  his  ‘ tliick-coming  fancies,’  he  had  con- 
centrated his  whole  powers  on  a few  congenial 
subjects  or  periods  of  history,  and  resorted  to  the 
manu.al  labour  of  penmanship  as  a drag-chain  on 
the  machine,  he  might  have  attained  to  the  highest 
honours  of  this  department  of  composition.  As  it 
is,  he  has  furnished  many  light,  agreeable,  and 
picturesque  books — none  of  questionable  tendency 
— and  all  superior  to  the  general  run  of  novels 
of  the  season.  Mr  James's  first  appearance  as 
an  author  was  made,  we  believe,  in  1822,  when 
he  published  a History  of  the  Life  of  Edward  the 
Black  Prince.  In  1829  he  struck  into  that  path  in 
which  he  has  been  so  indefatigable,  and  produced 
his  historical  romance  of  liichdieu,  a very  attrac- 
tive fiction.  In  18.30  he  issued  two  romances, 
Darnley,  or  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,  and  De 
L'Orme.  Next  year  he  produced  Philip  Augustus; 
in  1832  a History  of  Charlemagne,  and  a tale,  Henry 
Masterton ; in  183.3  Mary  of  Burgundy,  or  the 
Revolt  of  Ghent;  in  1834  The  Life  and  Adventures 
of  John  Marston  Hall ; in  1835  One  in  a Thousand, 
or  the  Days  of  Henri  Quatre,  and  The  Gipsy,  a Tale  ; 
in  1837  Attila,  a romance,  and  The  Life  and  Times 
of  Louis  XIV.;  in  1838  The  Huguenot,  a Tale  of  the 
French  Protestants,  and  The  Rubber ; in  1839  Henry 
of  Guise,  and  A Gentleman  of  the  Old  School;  in 
1840  The  King's  Highway,  and  The  Man  at  Arms ; 
in  1841  Corse  de  Leon,  Jacquerie,  or  the  Lady  and 
Page;  The  Ancient  Regime,  nnd  A History  of  the  Life 
of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  ; in  1 842  Morley  Ernstein  ; 

* Lord  BjTon  and  Some  of  his  Contemporaries,  by  Leigh 

Qunt, 


in  1843  Forest  Days,  Eva  St  Clair,  The  Falu  Heir, 
and  Arabella  Stuart.  We  have  in  this  catalogue 
some  seventy  or  eighty  volume.s.  ‘There  seems.’ 
says  a lively  writer,  ‘to  be  no  limit  to  his  ingenuity, 
his  faculty  of  getting  up  scenes  and  incidents,  dilem- 
mas, artifices,  contretemps,  battles,  skirmishes,  dis- 
guises, e.scapes,  trials,  combats,  adventures,  lie 
accumulates  names,  dresses,  implements  of  war  and 
jieace,  official  retinues,  and  the  whole  paraphernalia 
of  customs  and  costumes,  with  astounding  alacrity. 
He  appears  to  have  exhausted  every  imagitjable 
situation,  and  to  have  described  every  available 
article  of  attire  on  record.  What  he  must  have 
passed  through — what  triumphs  he  must  have  en- 
joyed— w hat  exigencies  he  must  have  exi)erience.i— 
what  love  he  must  have  suffered — what  a grand 
wardrobe  his  brain  must  be!  He  has  made  some 
poetical  and  dramatic  efforts,  but  this  irre.sistible 
tendency  to  pile  up  circumstantial  particulars  is 
fatal  to  those  forms  of  art  which  demand  intensity 
of  passion.  In  stately  narratives  of  cliivalry  ami 
feudal  grandeur,  precision  and  reiteration  are  desir- 
able rather  than  injurious — as  we  would  have  tin 
most  jierfect  accuracy  and  finish  in  a jiicture  of 
ceremonials;  and  here  Mr  James  is  supreme.  One 
of  his  court  romances  is  a book  of  brave  sights  and 
heraldic  magnificence — it  is  the  next  tliijig  to  mov- 
ing at  our  leisure  through  some  superb  and  august 
procession.’ 

rev.  g.  r.  gleig. 

The  Rev.  G.  R.  Gleig,  chaplain  of  Chelsea  Hos- 
pital, in  the  early  part  of  his  life  served  in  the  army, 
and  in  1825  he  published  his  military  reminiscences 
in  an  interesting  narrative  entitled  The  Subaltern. 
In  1829  he  issued  a work  also  partly  fictitious.  The 
Chelsea  Pensioners,  which  was  followed  next  year  by 
The  Country  Curate;  in  1837  by  The  llu.ssar,  and 
Traditions  of  Chelsea  Hospital;  and  in  1843  by  The 
Light  Dragoon.  Resides  many  anonymous  a.nd  other 
productions,  Mr  Gleig  is  author  of  Memoirs  of  War- 
ren Hastings,  a work  which  certainly  has  not  added 
to  his  reputation. 

W.  H.  3IAXWELL C.  LEVER — S.  LOVER. 

Various  military  narr.atives,  in  which  imaginary 
scenes  and  characters  are  mixed  up  with  real  events 
and  graphic  descriptions  of  continental  scenery, 
have  been  published  in  consequence  of  the  suc- 
cess of  the  Subaltern.  Amongst  the  writers  of  this 
cla.ss  is  IMr  W.  H.  Maxwell,  author  of  Stories  of 
Waterloo,  1829;  Wild  Sports  of  the  West;  Adven- 
tures t>f  Captain  Blake ; The  Bivouac,  or  Stories  of  the 
Peninsular  War;  The  Fortunes  of  Hector  O'Haltoran, 
&c.  Mr  C.  Lever  is  still  more  popular ; for,  in 
addition  to  his  battle  scenes  and  romantic  exploit.s, 
he  has  a rich  racy  national  humour,  and  a truly 
Irish  love  of  frolic.  His  first  work  was  The  Confes- 
sions of  Harry  Larrequer,  which  was  followed  by 
Charles  O'Malley,  the  Irish  Dragoon;  Jack  Hinton, 
the  Guartlsman;  Tom  Burke  of  ‘ Ours;'  and  Arthur 
O'Leary,  his  Wanderings  and  Panderings  in  many 
Lands.  Jlr  Lever’s  heroes  have  all  a strong  love  of 
adventure,  a national  proneness  to  blundering,  and 
a tendency  to  get  into  scrapes  ind  questionable 
situations.  The  author’s  chief  fault  is  his  often 
mistaking  farce  for  comedy — mere  animal  spirits  for 
wit  or  humour.  Mr  Samuel  Lover,  author  of 
Legends  and  Stories  of  Irela?ui,  Rory  O' Mure,  Handy 
Andy,  L.  S.  D.  &c.  is  also  a genuine  Irish  writer,  a 
strong  lover  of  his  country,  and,  like  Moore,  a i>oet 
and  musician,  as  well  as  novelist.  The  scenes  of 
war,  rebellion,  and  adventure  in  Mr  Lover’s  talei 
are  related  with  much  spirit. 

628 


ENCJI.ISII  LI’J'KUATURE. 


S.  WARnF.N. 


JAMES  FENIMOUE  COOPEn. 


James  I'knimore  Cooper,  the  American  novelist, 
.'las  obtained  great  eelebrity  in  England,  and  over 
all  Rnrope,  for  his  pictures  of  the  sea,  sea- life,  and 
wlI  Indian  scenery  and  manners.  Ills  imagination 


James  Fenimore  Cooper. 

is  essentially  poetical.  lie  invests  the  ship  with  all 
the  interest  of  a living  being,  and  makes  his  readers 
follow  its  progress,  and  trace  the  operations  of  those 
on  board,  with  intense  and  never-flagging  an.viety. 
Of  humour  he  has  scarcely  any  perception  ; and  in 
delineating  character  and  familiar  incidents,  he  often 
betrays  a great  want  of  taste  and  knowledge  of  the 
world.  ‘ When  he  attempts  to  catch  the  ease  of 
fashion,’  it  has  been  truly  said,  ‘he  is  singidarly  un- 
successful.’ He  belongs,  like  Mrs  Radcliffe,  to  the 
romantic  school  of  novelists — especially  to  the  sea, 
the  heath,  and  the  primeval  forest.  Mr  Cooper,  ac- 
cording to  a notice  of  him  some  years  since  in  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine,  was  born  at  Burlington  on 
the  Delaware,  in  1798,  and  was  removed  at  an  early 
age  to  Cooper’s  Town,  a place  of  which  he  has  given 
an  interesting  account  in  The  Pioneers.  At  thirteen 
he  was  admitted  to  Yale  college.  New  Haven,  and 
three  years  afterwards  he  went  to  sea — an  event  that 
gave  a character  and  colour  to  his  after-life,  and  pro- 
duced impressions  of  which  the  world  has  reaped  the 
rich  result.  On  his  marriage  to  a lady  in  the  state 
of  New  York,  he  quitted  the  navy,  and  devoted  him- 
self to  composition.  His  first  work  was  published 
in  1821,  and  since  that  period  he  must  have  written 
above  seventy  volumes.  Among  them  are  The  Pilot ; 
The  Pioneers  ; The  Spy ; The  Prairie;  The  Last  of  the 
Mohicans;  The  lied llover  ; The  Borderers ; The  Bravo; 
The  Deer  Slayer;  Eve  Effingham;  The  Headsman; 
Heidenmauer ; Homeward  Bound;  Jack  o'  Lantern; 
Mercedes  of  Castile;  The  Pathfinder ; The  Two  Admi- 
rals ; The  Water  Witch;  Wyandotte ; Ned  Myers,  or 
Life  before  the  Mast,  &c.  Besides  his  numerous  works 
of  fiction,  Mr  Cooper  has  written  Excursions  in  Italy, 
1838;  a History  of  the  American  Navy,  1839,  &c. 
In  these  he  does  not  appear  to  advantage.  He  seems 
to  cherish  some  of  the  worst  prejudices  of  the  Ame- 
ricans, and,  in  his  zeal  for  republican  institutions,  to 
forget  the  candour  and  temper  becoming  an  enlight- 
eccd  citizen  of  the  world. 


UAI.IDURTON. 

Mr  Halihurton,  a judge  in  Nova  Scotia,  is  the 
reputed  author  of  a scries  of  highly-amusing  works 
illustrative  of  American  and  Canadian  manners, 
abounding  in  shrewd  sarc.astic  remarks  on  political 
questions,  the  colonies,  slavery,  domestic  institutions 
and  customs,  and  almost  every  familiar  topic  of  the 
day.  The  first  of  these  appeared  in  1837,  under  the 
title  of  The  Clockmaker,  or  the  Sayings  and  Doings  of 
Samuel  Slick  of  Slickville.  A second  series  was  pub- 
lished in  the  following  j'ear,  and  a third  in  1840.  ‘Sam 
Slick’  was  a universal  favourite;  and  in  1843  the 
author  conceived  the  idea  of  bringing  him  to  Eng- 
land. The  Attache,  or  Sam  Slick  in  England,  gives 
an  account  of  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  clock- 
maker  when  elevated  to  the  dignity  of  the  ‘ Honour- 
able Mr  Slick,  Attache  of  the  American  Legation 
to  the  court  of  St  James’s.’  There  is  the  same 
quaint  humour,  acute  observation,  and  laughable 
e.xaggeration  in  these  volumes  as  in  the  former,  but, 
on  tlie  whole,  Sam  is  most  amusing  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic. 

W.  HARRISON  AINSWORTH. 

Air  W.  Harrison  Ainsworth  has  written  sever.al 
picturesque  romances,  partly  founded  on  English 
liistory  and  manners.  His  Rookwood,  1834,  is  a very 
animated  narrative,  in  which  the  adventures  of  Tur- 
pin the  highwayman  are  graphically  related,  and 
some  of  the  vulgar  superstitions  of  the  last  century 
coloured  with  the  lights  of  genius.  In  the  interest 
and  rapidity  of  his  scenes  and  adventures,  Mr  Ains- 
worth evinced  a dramatic  power  and  art,  but  no  ori- 
ginality or  felicity  of  humour  or  character.  His 
second  romance,  Crichton,  1836,  is  founded  on  the 
marvellous  history  of  the  Scottish  cavalier,  but  is 
scarcely  equal  to  the  first.  He  has  since  written 
•lack  Sheppard,  a sort  of  Newgate  romance,  T'he 
Tower  of  London,  Guy  Fawkes,  Old  St  Pauls,  and 
Windsor  Castle.  There  are  rich,  copious,  and  bril- 
liant descriptions  in  some  of  these  works,  but  their 
tendency  is  at  least  doubtful.  To  portray  scenes  of 
low  successful  villany,  and  to  paint  ghastly  and 
hideous  details  of  human  suflering,  can  be  no  elevat- 
ing task  for  a man  of  genius,  nor  one  likely  to  pro- 
mote among  novel  readers  a healthy  tone  of  moral 
feeling  or  sentiment. 

SAMUEL  WARREN  — MRS  BRAY  — ALBERT  SMITH 

• HON.  C.  A.  MURRAY. 

In  vivid  painting  of  the  passions,  and  depicting 
scenes  of  modern  life,  the  tales  of  Mr  Samuel  War- 
ren. F.R.S.  have  enjoyed  a high  and  deserved  de- 
gree of  popularity.  His  Passages  from  the  Diary  of 
a Late  Physician,  two  volumes,  1837,  contain  many 
toucliing  and  beautiful  stories ; and  his  Ten  Thou- 
sand a Year,  though  in  some  parts  ridiculously  ex- 
aggerated, and  too  liable  to  the  suspicion  of  being 
a satire  upon  the  middle  classes,  is  also  an  amus- 
ing and  able  novel.  Mrs  Bray,  a Devonshire 
lady,  and  authoress  ot  an  excellent  tour  among  the 
mountains  and  hikes  of  Switzerland,  has  written 
a number  of  historical  and  other  novels — De  Foix, 
or  Sketches  of  Manners  and  Customs  of  the  Four- 
teenth Century,  1826;  Henry  de  Pomercy ; The  Pro- 
testant, a Talc  of  the  Reign  of  Queen  Mary ; Talba, 
or  the  Moor  of  Portugal;  Trelawney  of  Trelawney, 
&c.  An  English  novel,  Caleb  Stukeley,  published 
anonymously  in  1842,  is  a vigorous  and  interest- 
ing work,  though  in  some  parts  coarse  and  vehe- 
ment in  style.  The  Adventures  of  Mr  Ledbury, 
by  Albert  Smith,  and  The  Prairie  Bird,  by  the 
Honourable  C.  A.  Murray,  may  be  mentioned  as 

62;^ 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  puesemt  timil 

ninong  the  superior  class  of  recent  novels.  The 
whole  of  these  it  would  be  impossible  to  enumerate; 
for  not  only  does  ‘ every  year  and  month  send  out  a 
new  one,’  but  every  magazine  contains  tales  and 
j>arts  of  romances  well  written,  and  possessing  many 
of  the  requi.sites  for  successful  works  of  this  descrip- 
tion. The  high  and  crowning  glory  of  originality, 
wit,  or  inventive  genius,  must  always  be  rare  ; but 
in  no  previous  period  of  our  literature  was  there  so 
much  respectable  talent,  knowledge,  and  imagination 
embarked  in  fictitious  composition.  One  great  name, 
h'-v-ever,  yet  remains  to  be  mentioned. 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Few  authors  have  succeeded  in  aidiieving  so  bril- 
liant a rei>utation  as  that  secured  by  Mr  Charles 
Dickens  iu  the  course  of  a few  3’ears.  The  sale  of 
his  works  has  been  unexampled,  and  they  have  been 
translated  into  various  languages,  including  even 
the  Dutch  and  Russian.  Writings  so  universallj' 
popular  must  be  founded  on  truth  and  nature — must 
appeal  to  those  passions  and  tastes  common  to  man- 
kind in  every  countrv' ; and  at  the  same  time  must 
possess  originality  and  force  of  delineation.  The 
first  publication  of  Dickens  was  a series  of  sketches 
and  illustrations,  chiefly  of  ordinary  English  and 
metropolitan  life,  known  as  S/ielches  by  Buz.  The 
earlier  numbers  of  these  were  written  for  a new's- 
paper,  the  Evening  Chronicle,  and  the  remainder  for 
a magazine.  They  were  afterwards  collected  and 
published  in  two  volumes,  bearing  respectively  the 
dates  of  18.36  and  18.37.  The  author  was  then  a 
young  man  of  about  twenty-si.x.  In  18-37  he  began 
another  series  of  a similar  char.acter.  The  Pickwick 
Papers,  of  which  30,000  co])ies  are  said  to  have 
been  sold.  Though  defective  in  plan  and  arrange- 
ment, as  Mr  Dickens  himself  admits,  the  characters 
in  this  new  series  of  sketches,  and  the  spirit  with 
which  the  incidents  are  descriheil,  amply  atone  for 
the  want  of  any  interesting  or  well-constructed  plot. 
Tlie  hero,  Pickwick,  is  almost  as  genial,  un.sophisti- 
cated,  and  original  as  My  Uncle  Toby,  and  his  man, 
Sam  Weller,  is  an  epitome  of  London  low  life  in  its 
most  agreeable  and  entertaining  form.  The  dia- 
higue  overflowed  with  kindlj'  humour,  and  felicities 
of  phrase  and  expression  ; the  description  was  so 
graphic  and  copious,  and  the  comic  scenes  so  finely 
blended  with  tenderness  and  benevolence,  that  the 
effect  of  the  whole  was  irresistible.  The  satire  and 
ridicule  of  the  author  were  always  well  directed, 
and  though  coloured  a litile  too  highly,  bore  the 
clear  impress  of  actual  life  and  observation.  To  aid 
in  these  effects,  Jlr  Dickens  called  in  the  artist  and 
engraver.  What  Boz  conceived  and  described.  Phiz 
represented  with  so  much  truth,  and  spirit,  and  indi- 
viduality— seizing  upon  every  trait  and  feature,  and 
preserving  the  same  distinguishing  characteristics 
throughout — that  the  characters  appeared  to  stand 
bodily  forth  to  the  world  as  veritable  personages  of 
the  day,  destined  to  live  for  all  time  coming.  The 
intimate  acquaintance  evinced  in  ‘Pickwick’  with 
the  middle  and  low  life  of  London,  and  of  the  tricks 
and  knavery  of  legal  and  medical  pretenders,  the 
arts  of  bookmakers,  and  generally  of  particular 
classes  and  usages  common  to  large  cities,  was  a 
novelty  in  our  literature.  It  was  a restoration  of 
the  spirit  of  Hogarth,  with  equal  humour  and  prac- 
tical wit  and  knowledge,  but  informed  with  a better 
tone  of  humanity,  and  a more  select  and  refined 
taste.  ‘ There  is  no  misanthropy  in  his  s.atire,’  said 
one  of  his  critics,  ‘ and  no  coarseness  in  his  descrip- 
tions— a merit  enhanced  by  the  nature  of  his  suh- 
jects.  His  works  are  chiefly  pictures  of  humble  life 
—frequently  of  the  humblest.  The  reader  is  led 

through  scenes  of  poverty  and  crime,  and  all  the 
characters  are  made  to  discourse  in  the  appropriate 
language  of  their  respective  classes;  and  yet  wa 
recollect  no  passage  which  ought  to  cause  iiain  to 
the  most  sensitive  delicacy,  if  read  aloud  in  female 
society.’ 

The  next  w'ork  of  our  author  was  Nicholas  Nicldehj, 
a tale  which  w.as  also  issued  in  monthly  numbers, 
and  soon  attained  to  extensive  popularity.  The 
plan  of  this  work  is  more  regular  and  connected 
than  that  of  ‘ Pickwick,’  the  characters  generally 
not  overdraw'n,  and  the  progressive  interest  of  the 
narrative  well  sustained.  The  character  of  Mrs 
Niekleby  is  a flne  portraiture  of  the  ordinary  Eng- 
lish wife,  scarcely  inferior  in  its  kind  to  Fielding’s 
Amelia;  and  Ralph  Niekleby  is  also  ably  portrayed. 
The  pedagogue  Squeers,  and  his  seminary  of  Do- 
theboys  Hall,  is  one  of  the  most  amusing  and  gra- 
phic of  English  satirical  delineations;  and  the  picture 
it  presents  of  imposture,  ignorance,  and  brutal  cu- 
pidit3',  is  known  to  have  been  little,  if  at  all,  cari- 
catured. 'I’lie  exposure  was  a public  benefit.  The 
ludicrous  account  of  Mr  Crummies  and  his  thea- 
trical company  will  occur  to  the  reader  as  another  of 
Dickens’s  happiest  conceptions,  though  it  is  pushed 
into  the  region  of  farce.  In  several  of  our  author’s 
works  there  appears  a minute  knowledge  of  dra- 
matic rules  and  stage  affairs.  He  has  himself,  it  is 
said,  written  an  opera  and  a farce,  and  evidently 
takes  pleasure  in  the  business  of  the  drama.  May 
not  some  of  his  more  startling  contrasts  in  situa- 
tion and  description  be  traced  to  this  predilection? 
Oliver  Twist,  the  next  work  of  Mr  Dickens,  is  also 
a tale  of  English  low  life,  of  vice,  wretchedness,  and 
misery,  drawn  with  the  truth  and  vigour  of  Crabbe. 
The  hero  is  an  orphan  brought  up  by  the  parish, 
and  thrown  among  various  scenes  and  characters 
of  the  lowest  and  worst  description.  The  plot  of 
this  novel  is  well  managed,  and  wrought  up  with 
consummate  art  .and  power.  The  interest  of  the 
dark  and  tragical  portions  of  the  stor3'  is  over- 
whelming, though  there  is  no  unnatural  exaggera- 
tion to  produce  effect,  and  no  unnecessary  gloom. 
Take,  for  example,  the  following  account  of  a scene 
of  death  witnessed  hy  Oliver  while  acting  in  the 
capacity  of  attendant  to  an  undertaker. 

[Death  and  Funeral  of  a Pauper.'] 

There  was  neither  knocker  nor  bell-handle  at  the 
open  door  where  Oliver  and  his  master  stopped  ; so, 
groping  his  w.ay  cautiously  through  the  dark  passage, 
and  bidding  Oliver  keep  clo.se  to  him,  and  not  be 
afraid,  the  undertaker  mounted  to  the  top  of  the  first 
flight  of  stairs,  and,  stumbling  against  a door  on  the 
landing,  rapped  at  it  with  his  knuckles. 

It  was  opened  by  a young  girl  of  thirteen  or  four- 
teen. The  undertaker  at  once  saw  enough  of  what 
the  room  contained,  to  know  it  was  the  apartment  to 
which  he  had  been  directed.  He  stepped  in,  and 
Oliver  followed  him. 

There  was  no  fire  in  the  room  ; but  a man  was 
crouching  mechanically  over  the  empty  stove.  An 
old  woman,  too,  had  drawn  a low  stool  to  the  cold 
hearth,  and  was  sitting  beside  him.  There  were  some 
ragged  children  in  another  corner;  and  in  a small 
recess,  opposite  the  door,  there  lay  upon  the  ground 
something  covered  with  an  old  blanket.  Oliver  shud- 
dered as  he  cast  his  e3’cs  towards  the  place,  and  crept 
involuntarily  closer  to  his  master;  for,  though  it  was 
covered  up,  the  'bay  felt  that  it  was  a corpse. 

The  man’s  face  was  thin  and  very  pale ; his  hair 
and  beard  were  grizzly,  and  his  eyes  were  bloodshot. 
The  old  woman’s  face  was  wrinkled,  her  two  remain 
ing  teeth  protruded  over  her  under  lip,  and  her  e3’cs 
were  bright  and  piercing.  Oliver  was  afraid  to  look 

630 

irovELlsrs, 


ENGLISH  LITERATURR 


CHARLES  mCKENS 


Rt  either  her  or  the  man  ; they  seemed  so  like  the  rats 
he  had  seen  outside. 

‘ Nobody  shall  go  near  her,’  said  the  man,  starting 
fiercely  up  as  the  undertaker  approached  the  recess. 

‘ Keep  back  ! d — n you,  keep  back,  if  you’ve  a life  to 
lose.’ 

‘ Nonsense,  my  good  man,’  said  the  undertaker, 
who  was  pretty  well  u.sed  to  misery  in  all  its  shapes — 

‘ nonsense !’ 

‘ I tell  YOU,’  said  the  man,  clenching  his  hands  and 
stamping  furiously  on  the  floor — ‘ I tell  you  I wont 
have  her  put  into  the  ground.  She  couldn’t  rest 
there.  The  wrms  would  worry — not  cat  her — she  is 
so  worn  away.’ 

The  undertaker  offered  no  reply  to  this  raving,  but 
producing  a tape  from  his  pocket,  knelt  down  for  a 
moment  by  the  side  of  the  body. 

‘Ah!’  said  the  man,  bursting  into  tears,  and  sink- 
ing on  his  knees  at  the  feet  of  the  dead  woman  ; 

‘ kneel  down,  kneel  down  ; kneel  round  her  every  one 
of  you,  and  mark  my  words.  I say  she  starved  to 
death.  I never  knew  how  bad  she  was  till  the  fever 
came  upon  her,  an’d  then  her  bones  were  starting 
through  the  skin.  There  was  neither  fire  nor  candle  ; 

tshe  died  in  the  dark — in  the  dark.  She  couldn’t  even 
see  her  children’s  faces,  though  we  heard  her  gasping 
out  their  names.  I begged  for  her  in  the  streets,  and 

I they  sent  me  to  prison.  When  I came  back  she  was 
dying ; and  all  the  blood  in  my  heart  has  dried  up, 
for  they  starved  her  to  death.  I swear  it  before  the 
God  that  saw  it — they  starved  her !’  He  twined  his 
hands  in  his  hai*r,  and  with  a loud  scream  rolled 
grovelling  upon  the  floor,  his  >yes  fixed,  and  the  foam 
gushing  from  his  lips. 

The  terrified  children  cried  bitterly ; but  the  old 
woman,  who  had  hitherto  remained  as  quiet  as  if  she 
had  been  wholly  deaf  to  all  that  passed,  menaced 
them  into  silence ; and  having  unloosened  the  man’s 
cravat,  who  still  remained  extended  on  the  ground, 
tottered  towards  the  undertaker. 

‘She  was  my  daughter,’  said  the  old  wom.an,  nodding 
her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  corpse,  and  speaking 
with  an  idiotic  leer  more  ghastly'  than  even  the  pre- 
sence of  death  itself  ‘ Lord,  Lord  1 well,  it  is  strange 
, that  I who  gave  birth  to  her,  and  was  a woman  then, 
should  be  alive  and  merry  now,  and  .she  lying  there 
! 80  cold  and  stiff!  Lord,  Lord  ! — to  think  of  it ; it’s 

Sas  good  as  a play,  as  good  as  a play !’ 

As  the  wretched  creature  mumbled  and  chuckled 
! in  her  hideous  merriment,  the  undertaker  turned  to 
) go  away. 

I ‘ Stop,  stop !’  said  the  old  woman  in  a loud  whi.sper. 

* W'ill  she  be  buried  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  or  to- 
night ? I laid  her  out,  and  1 must  walk,  you  know. 
Send  me  a large  cloak  ; a good  warm  one,  for  it  is 
bitter  cold.  We  should  have  cake  and  wine,  too, 
before  we  go  ! Never  mind  : send  some  bread  ; only 
* a loaf  of  bread  and  a cup  of  water.  Shall  we  have 
I some  bread,  dear!’  she  said  eagerly,  catching  at  the 
i undertaker’s  coat  as  he  once  more  moved  towards  the 
I door. 

i ‘Yes,  yes,’  said  the  undertaker ; ‘of  course;  any- 
I thing,  everything.’  He  disengaged  himself  from  the 
I old  woman’s  grasp,  and,  dragging  Oliver  after  him, 

’ hurried  away. 

j The  next  day  (the  family  having  been  meanwhile 
i relieved  with  a half-quartern  loaf  and  a piece  of 
I cheese,  left  with  them  by  Mr  Bumble  himself)  Oliver 
and  his  master  returned  to  the  miserable  abode,  where 
j Mr  Bumble  had  already  arrived,  accompanied  by  four 
i men  from  the  workhouse,  who  were  to  act  as  bearers. 
I An  old  black  cloak  hiid  been  thrown  over  the  rags  of 
! the  old  woman  and  the  man  ; the  bare  coffin  having 
j been  screwed  down,  was  then  hoisted  on  the  shoul- 
j ders  of  the  bearers,  and  carried  down  stairs  into  the 
j street. 


‘ Now,  you  must  put  your  best  leg  foremost,  old 
lady,’  wbispered  Sowerberry  in  the  old  woman’s  car  ; 

‘ we  are  rather  late,  and  it  wont  do  to  keep  the 
clergyman  waiting.  Move  on,  ray  men — as  quick  as 
you  like.’ 

Thus  directed,  the  bearers  trotted  on  under  theii 
light  burden,  and  the  two  mourners  kept  as  near  them 
as  they  could.  Mr  Bumble  and  Sowerberry  walked 
at  a good  smart  pace  in  front ; and  Oliver,  whose  legs 
were  not  so  long  as  his  master’s,  ran  by  the  side. 

There  was  not  so  great  a necessity  for  hurrying  as 
Mr  Sowerberry  had  anticipated,  however;  for  when 
they  reached  the  obscure  corner  of  the  churchyard,  in 
which  the  nettles  grew,  and  the  parish  graves  weis 
made,  the  clergyman  had  not  arrived,  and  the  clerk, 
who  was  sitting  by  the  vestry-room  fire,  seemed  to 
think  it  by  no  means  improbable  that  it  might  be  an 
hour  or  so  before  he  came.  So  they  set  the  bier  down 
on  the  brink  of  the  grave ; and  the  two  mourners 
waited  patiently  in  the  damp  clay,  with  a cold  rain 
drizzling  down,  while  the  ragged  boys,  whom  the 
spectacle  had  attracted  into  the  churchyard,  played  a 
noisy  game  at  hide-and-seek  among  the  tombstones, 
or  varied  their  amu.sements  by  jumping  backwards 
and  forwards  over  the  coffin.  Mr  Sowerberry  and 
Bumble,  being  personal  friends  of  the  clerk,  sat  by 
the  fire  w'ith  him,  and  read  the  paper. 

At  length,  after  the  lapse  of  something  more  than 
an  hour,  Mr  Bumble,  and  Sowerberry,  and  the  clerk 
were  seen  running  towards  the  grave ; and  imme- 
diately afterwards  the  clergyman  appeared,  putting 
on  his  suiplice  as  he  came  along.  Mr  Bumble  then 
thrashed  a boy  or  two  to  keep  up  appearances ; and 
the  reverend  gentleman,  having  read  as  much  of  the 
burial-service  as  could  be  compressed  into  four  minutes, 
gave  his  surplice  to  the  clerk,  and  ran  away  again. 

‘ Now,  Bill,’  said  Sowerberry  to  the  grave-digger, 
‘ fill  up.’ 

It  was  no  very  difficult  task,  for  the  grave  was  so 
full  that  the  uppermo.st  coffin  was  within  a few  feet 
of  the  surface.  The  grave-digger  shovelled  in  the 
earth,  stamped  it  loosely  down  with  his  feet,  shoul- 
dered his  spade,  and  walked  off,  followed  by  the  boys, 
who  murmured  very  loud  complaints  at  the  fun  being 
over  so  soon. 

‘ Come,  my  good  fellow,’  said  Bumble,  tapping  the 
man  on  the  back,  ‘ they  want  to  shut  up  the  yard.’ 

The  man,  who  h,ad  never  once  moved  since  he  had 
taken  his  station  by  the  grave  side,  started,  raised  his 
head,  stared  at  the  person  who  had  addressed  him, 
walked  forward  for  a few  paces,  and  then  fell  do^vn  in 
a fit.  The  crazy  old  woman  was  too  much  occupied 
in  bewailing  the  lo.ss  of  her  cloak  (which  the  under- 
taker had  taken  off)  to  pay  him  any  attention  ; so 
they  threw  a can  of  cold  water  over  him,  and  when  he 
came  to,  saw  him  safely  out  of  the  churchyard,  locked 
the  gate,  and  departed  on  their  different  ways. 

‘ Well,  Oliver,’  said  Sowerberry,  as  they  walked 
home,  ‘ how  do  you  like  it  ?’ 

‘ Pretty  well,  thank  you,  sir,’  replied  Oliver,  with 
considerable  hesitation.  ‘ Not  very  much,  sir.’ 

‘ Ah,  you’ll  get  used  to  it  in  time,  Oliver,’  said 
Sowerberry.  ‘ Nothing  when  you  are  used  to  it,  my 
boy.’ 

Oliver  wondered  in  his  own  mind  whether  it  had 
taken  a very  long  time  to  get  Mr  Sowerberry  used  to 
it ; but  he  thought  it  better  not  to  ask  the  question, 
and  walked  back  to  the  shop,  thinking  over  all  he 
had  seen  and  heard. 

The  atrocities  of  Sykes  in  the  same  tale,  particu- 
larly his  murder  of  the  girl  Nancy,  are  depicted 
with  extraordinary  power. 

In  1840  Mr  Dickens  commenced  a new  species  of 
fiction,  entitled  Master  Humphrey's  Clock,  designed, 
like  the  Tales  of  My  Landlord,  to  comprise  different 

631 


FROM  IVofl  (jyCl^Ol’yl^Dl A OF  till  tub  puusunt  ti>ie. 

talcs  luiiU'L  one  fjciicral  title,  and  joined  by  one  con- 
necting narrative.  'I'lie  outline  was  by  no  means 
))rei>ossessinK  or  natural,  but  as  soon  as  tbe  reader 
in  J (iiit  tbrou}>b  tliis  exterior  seadiddinj;,  and  entered 
on  tbe  first  .story,  tbe  nenins  of  tlie  antiior  was  found 
to  be  utidnninished  in  vivid  delineation  of  ebaraeter 
and  desin-i|)tion.  The  efreets  of  f'amblinf'  are  de- 
jiieted  w ith  f;reat  force.  There  is  soinetiiinj;  very 
Rtrikioft  in  the  coneeiition  of  the  helpli’ss  old  game- 
ster, tottering  upon  the  verge  of  the  grave,  and  at 
that  [leriod  w hen  most  of  our  other  passions  are  as 
niiieli  worn  out  as  the  frame  which  sustains  them, 
still  maddened  with  that  terrible  infatuation  whicb 
seems  to  shoot  up  stronger  and  stronger  as  every 
other  desire  and  energy  dies  away.  Little  Nell,  the 
grandchild,  is  a beautiful  creation  of  pure-minded- 
ness and  innocence,  yet  with  those  habits  of  ])ensive 
refleetion,  and  that  firmness  and  energy  of  mind 
which  misfortune  will  often  engraft  on  the  other- 
wise huoyant  and  imthinking  spirit  of  childhood; 
and  the  contrast  between  ber  and  her  grandfather, 
now  dwindled  in  every  respect  but  the  one  into  a 
second  childhood,  and  comforted,  directed,  and  sus- 
tained by  her  unshrinking  firmness  and  love,  is  very 
finely  managed.  1 he  death  of  Nell  is  the  most 
pathetic  and  touching  of  the  author’s  serious  pas- 
sages— it  is  also  instructive  in  its  pathos,  for  we 
feel  with  the  author,  that  'when  death  strikes  down 
the  innocent  and  yonng,  for  every  fragile  form  from 
which  he  lets  the  ((anting  s[>irit  free,  a hundred 
virtues  rise,  in  sha[)cs  of  mercy,  charity,  and  love, 
to  walk  the  world  and  bless  it.  Of  every  tear  that 
sorrowing  mortals  shed  on  such  green  graves,  some 
good  is  born,  some  gentler  nature  comes.  In  the 
destroyer’s  ste[>s  there  S])ring  u[)  bright  creations 
that  defy  his  [lower,  and  his  dark  [lath  becomes  a 
way  of  light  to  heaven.’  In  the  course  of  this  tale 
there  are  many  interesting  and  whimsical  incidents 
and  adventures,  with  tine  glim[)ses  of  rural  scenes, 
eld  churches,  and  churchyards.  The  horrors  of  the 
most  ho[Kdess  want  which  too  often  (prevails  in 
e great  manufacturing  towns,  and  the  wild  and 
ckless  des[)air  which  it  engenders,  are  also  de- 
Bcribed  with  e(|ual  mastery  of  colouring  and  effect. 
The  sketch  of  the  wretch  whose  w hole  life  had  been 
spent  in  watching,  day  and  night,  a furnace,  until 
he  im.agined  it  to  be  a living  being,  and  its  roaring 
tbe  voice  of  the  only  friend  he  had  ever  known, 
although  perhaps  grotesque,  has  something  in  it 
very  terrible:  we  may  smile  at  the  wildness,  yet 
shudder  at  the  horror  of  the  fancy.  A second  story, 
Barnuhy  Hiuli/e,  is  included  in  ‘ Master  Humphrey’s 
Clock,’  and  this  also  contains  some  excellent  minute 
painting,  a variety  of  broad  humour  and  laughable 
caricature,  with  some  masterly  scenes  of  passion 
and  descri[)tion.  The  account  of  the  excesses  com- 
mitted during  Lord  George  Gordon’s  riots  in  1780 
may  vie  with  Scott’s  narrative  of  the  I’orteous  mob; 
and  poor  Barnaby  Rudge  with  his  raven  may  be 
considered  as  no  unworthy  companion  to  Davie 
Gellatley.  There  is  also  a (deture  of  an  old  English 
inn,  the  Majqiole,  near  E|)[iing  Forest,  and  an  old 
innkeeper,  John  Willet,  which  is  (lerfect  in  its  kind 
— sui'h,  perha[)S,  as  only  Dickens  could  have  [lainted, 
though  Washington  Irving  might  have  made  the 
first  etching.  After  completing  these  tales  Mr 
Itickens  nuide  a trip  to  America,  of  which  he  pub- 
lished an  account  in  18-12,  under  tbe  somewhat 
quaint  title  of  American  Nates  fur  General  Circu- 
latiun.  This  w'ork  disappointed  the  author’s  ad- 
mirers, which  may  be  considered  as  including  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  reading  (uiblic.  Tbe  field  had 
already  been  well  gleaned,  the  American  character 
and  institutions  fre([uently  de.scribed  and  generally 
understood,  and  Mr  Dickens  could  not  liope  to  add 

to  our  knowledge  on  any  of  the  great  tojdcs  con- 
nected with  the  condition  or  future  destinies  of  the 
new  world.  On  one  national  [)olnt  only  did  the 
novelist  di.ssertate  at  length — the  state  of  the  news- 
[)a[)er  |)ress,  which  he  describes  as  corru[)t  and 
debased  beyond  any  ex|)erienee  or  ('((ueeptiou  i]i  this 
country.  He  also  joins  with  Ga))tain  Basil  ILdl, 
Mrs  Trollo[)e,  and  Ca|)tain  Marryat,  in  re()resenting 
the  social  state  and  morality  ((f  the  [(cople  as  low 
and  dangerous,  destitute  of  high  ((rinciide  or  gene- 
rosity. Bo  acute  and  practised  an  ob.server  as 
Dickens  could  not  travel  without  noting  many  oddi- 
ties of  character,  and  viewing  familiar  objects  in  a 
new  light ; and  we  are  tempted  to  extract  two 
short  [lassag’es  from  his  ‘ American  Notes.’  which 
show  the  nuisterly  hand  of  the  novelist.  The  first 
is  a sketch  of  an  oriyhiul  met  with  by  our  author 
on  board  a Pittsburg  canal  boat ; — 

A thin-faced,  spare-figured  man  of  middle  age  and 
stature,  dressed  in  a dusty  drabbish-coloured  sell, 
such  as  I never  saw  before.  He  was  perfectly  quiet 
during  the  first  [(art  <(f  the  journey  ; indeed  I don’t 
remember  having  so  much  as  seen  him  until  he  was 
brought  out  by  circumstances,  as  great  men  often  are. 
The  canal  extends  to  the  fo((t  of  the  mountain,  and 
there  <(f  course  it  stops,  the  pas.sengers  being  conveyed 
across  it  by  land-carriage,  and  taken  on  afterwards  by 
another  ctinal  boat,  the  counterpart  of  the  first,  which 
awaits  them  on  the  other  side.  I’liere  are  two  canal 
lines  of  [lasssge-boat ; one  is  called  the  Expre.ss,  and 
one  (a  cheaper  <uie)  the  I’ioneer.  The  Pioneer  gets 
first  to  the  mountain,  and  waits  forthe  Express  people 
to  come  U[(,  both  .sets  of  [(assengers  being  conveyed 
across  it  at  the  .same  time.  M'e  were  the  Ex[>ress 
C((mpanv,  but  when  we  had  crossed  the  mountain,  and 
had  come  to  the  second  boat,  the  proprietors  took  it 
into  their  heads  to  draft  all  the  Piot(eer.s  into  it  like- 
wise, .so  that  we  were  five-and -forty  at  least,  and  the 
accession  of  passengei-s  was  not  all  of  that  kind 
which  ini[(roved  the  [(ros[(CCt  of  sleeping  at  night. 
Our  people  grumbled  at  this,  as  pe(([de  do  in  such 
cases,  but  snircred  the  boat  to  be  towed  otF  with  the 
whole  freight  aboard  neverthele.ss ; and  away  we 
went  down  the  canal.  At  home  1 should  have  [(ro- 
tested  lustily,  but,  being  a foreigner  here,  1 held  my 
peace.  Not  so  this  [(assenger.  He  cleft  a path  among 
the  peo[de  on  deck  (we  were  nearly  all  on  deck),  and, 
without  addressing  anybody  whomsoever,  soliloquised 
as  follows  : — ‘ 'I'his  may  .-nit  you,  this  may,  but  it  don’t 
suit  me.  This  may  be  all  very  well  with  down-casters 
and  men  of  Boston  raising,  but  it  wont  suit  my 
figure  nohow;  and  no  two  ways  about  that;  and  so  I 
tell  you.  Now,  I’m  from  the  brown  forests  of  the 
AIississip[(i,  / am,  and  when  the  sun  shines  on  me,  it 
does  shine — a little.  It  don’t  glimmer  where  I live, 
the  sun  don’t.  No.  I’m  a brown  forester,  I am.  I 
an’t  a .Tohnny  Cake.  There  are  no  smooth  skins 
where  I live.  We’re  rough  men  there.  Rather.  If 
down-easters  and  men  of  Boston  raising  like  this,  I 
am  glad  of  it,  but  I’m  none  of  that  raising,  nor  of 
that  breed.  No.  This  company  wants  a little  fixing, 
it  does.  I’m  the  wrong  sort  of  man  for  ’em,  / am. 
They  wont  like  me,  they  wont.  This  is  [(iling  of  it 
u[),  a little  too  mountainous,  this  is.’  At  the  end  of 
every  one  of  these  short  sentences  he  turned  iqmn  his 
heel,  and  walked  the  other  way  ; checking  himself 
abruptlv  when  he  had  finished  another  short  senttUice, 
and  turning  back  again.  It  is  impo.ssible  for  me  to 
say  what  terrific  meaning  was  hidden  in  the  words  of 
this  brown  forester,  but  I know  that  (he  other  [(as- 
sc-.igers  looked  on  in  a sort  of  admiring  horror,  and 
that  presently  the  boat  was  put  back  to  the  wharf, 
and  as  many  of  the  I’ioneers  as  could  be  coaxed  or 
bullied  into  going  away,  were  got  rid  of.  When  we 
started  again,  some  of  the  boldest  sfdrits  on  board 

633 

NOVELISTS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


iimde  bold  to  say  to  tlio  obvious  occasion  of  this  im- 
proTcmcnt  in  our  pios|)Ccts,  ‘ Much  obli^'cd  to  you, 
sir whcrcunto  the  brown  forester  (waving  liis  liand, 
and  still  walking  up  and  down  as  before)  replied,  ‘ No 
you  an’t.  You’re  none  o’  my  raising.  You  may  act 
for  yourselves,  yon  may.  1 have  pinted  out  the  way. 
Down-ea.sters  and  Johnny  Cakes  can  follow  if  they 
]dease.  I an't  a Johnny  Cake,  1 nn’t.  I am  from  the 
brown  forests  of  the  Mississippi,  I am  ;’  and  so  on,  as 
before,  lie  was  unanimously  voted  one  of  the  tables 
for  his  bed  at  night— there  is  a great  contest  for  the 
tables — in  consideration  of  his  public  services,  and  he 
had  the  wannest  corner  by  the  stove  throughout  the 
rest  of  the  journey.  But  I never  could  find  out  that 
he  did  .anything  e.xcs'pt  sit  there  ; nor  did  I hear  him 
speak  again  until,  in  the  midst  of  the  bustle  and  tur- 
moil of  getting  the  luggage  ashore  in  the  dark  at 
Pittsburg,  1 stumbled  over  him  as  he  sat  smoking  a 
cigar  on  the  cabin  steps,  and  heard  him  muttering  to 
himself,  with  a short  laugh  of  defiance,  ‘ I a.n’t  a 
Johnny  Cake,  I an’t.  I’m  from  the  brown  forests  of 
the  Mi.sslssippi.  I am,  damme!’  I am  inclined  to 
argue  from  this  that  he  had  never  left  olf  saying  so. 

The  following  is  completely  in  the  style  of  Dickens 
— a finished  miniature,  yet  full  of  heart : — 

There  was  a little  woman  on  board  with  .a  little 
baby;  and  both  little  woni.an  and  little  child  weie 
cheerful,  good-looking,  bright-eyed,  and  fair  to  see. 
The  little  woman  had  been  passing  a long  time  with 
her  sick  mother  in  New  Y'ork,  and  had  left  her  home 
in  St  Louis,  in  that  condition  in  which  ladies  who 
truly  love  their  lords  desire  to  be.  The  baby  was  born 
in  her  mother’s  house,  and  she  had  not  seen  her  hus- 
band (to  whom  she  was  now  returning)  for  twelve 
months,  having  left  him  a month  or  two  after  their 
marriage.  Well,  to  be  sure,  there  never  was  a little 
woman  so  full  of  hope,  and  tenderness,  and  love,  and 
anxiet3',  as  this  little  woman  was;  and  all  day  long 
she  wondered  whether  ‘ he’  would  be  at  the  wharf ; 
and  whether  ‘ he’  had  got  her  letter ; and  whether,  if 
she  sent  the  baby  ashore  by  somebody  else,  ‘he’  would 
know  it  meeting  it  in  the  street ; which,  seeing  that 
he  had  never  set  eyes  upon  it  in  his  life,  was  not  very 
likely  i)  the  abstract,  but  was  probable  enough  to  the 
young  mother.  She  was  such  an  artless  little  crea- 
ture, and  was  in  such  a sunny,  beaming,  hopeful  state, 
and  let  out  all  this  matter  clinging  close  about  her 
heart  so  freely,  that  all  the  other  lady  passengers  en- 
tered into  the  spirit  of  it  as  much  as  she ; and  the 
captain  (who  heard  all  about  it  from  his  wife)  was 
wondrous  sly,  1 promise  you,  inquiring  every  time  we 
met  at  table,  as  in  forgetfulne.s.s,  whether  she  ex- 
pected anybody  to  meet  her  at  St  Louis,  and  whether 
she  would  want  to  go  ashore  the  night  we  reached  it 
(but  he  suppo.sed  she  wouldn’t),  and  cutting  many 
other  dry  jokes  of  that  nature.  There  was  one  little 
weazen-dried,  apple-faced  old  woman,  who  took  oc- 
c.asion  to  doubt  the  constancy  of  husb.ands  in  such 
circumstances  of  bereavement ; and  there  was  another 
lady  (with  a lap  dog),  old  enough  to  moralise  on  the 
lightness  of  human  affections,  and  yet  not  so  old  that 
she  could  help  nursing  the  b.aby  now  and  then,  or 
laughing  with  the  rest  when  the  little  wom.an  called 
it  'uy  its  father’s  name,  and  asked  it  all  manner  of 
fantastic  questions  concerning  him  in  the  joy  of  her 
heart.  It  was  something  of  a blow  to  the  little  woman, 
that  when  we  were  within  twenty  miles  of  our  desti- 
nation, it  became  clearly  necessary  to  put  this  baby  to 
bed.  But  she  got  over  it  with  the  same  good  humour, 
tied  a h.andkerchief  round  her  head,  and  came  out 
into  the  little  gallery  with  the  rest.  Then,  such  an 
oracle  as  she  became  in  reference  to  the  localities ! 
and  such  facetiousness  as  was  displayed  by  the  mar- 
ried ladies,  and  such  sympathy  as  was  shown  by  the 
singl  e ones,  and  such  peals  of  laughter  as  the  little 


woman  her-self  (who  would  just  as  soon  have  criivl) 
greeted  every  jest  withl  At  last  there  were  thelicht.s 
of  St  Louis,  and  here  w.as  the  wharf,  and  those  were 
the  steps  ; and  the  little  woman,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and  laughing  (or  seeming  to  laugh) 
more  than  ever,  ran  into  her  own  cabin  and  shut  her- 
self up.  I have  no  douht  that  in  the  charming  incon- 
sistency of  such  excitement,  she  stopped  her  ears,  lest 
-he  should  hear  ‘ him’  asking  for  her — but  I did  not 
see  her  do  it.  Then  a great  crowd  of  ]>eople  rushed 
on  board,  though  the  boat  was  not  j'et  made  fast,  but 
was  wandering  about  among  the  other  boats  to  find  a 
landing-place  ; and  everybody  looked  for  the  husband, 
and  nobody  saw  him,  when,  in  the  midst  of  us  all — 
Heaven,  knows  how  she  ever  got  there — there  was  the 
little  woman  clinging  with  both  arms  tight  round  the 
neck  of  aline,  good-looking,  sturdy  young  fellow;  and 
in  a moment  .afterwards  there  she  was  again,  actually 
clapping  her  little  hands  for  joy,  as  she  dragged  him 
through  the  small  door  of  her  small  cabin  to  look  at 
the  baby  as  he  lay  asleep  ! 

In  the  course  of  the  year  184.3  Mr  Dickens  entered 
upon  a new  tale,  Mai  tin  Chnzzlewit.  in  which  many 
of  his  American  reminiscences  are  embodied,  .and 
which  evinces  no  diminution  of  his  powers.  Indeed, 
in  freshness  and  vigour  of  thought  and  stj  le,  a id 
versatility  of  character  and  invention,  this  story  bids 
fair  to  rank  among  the  most  finished  ( f the  author’s 
performaiu’cs.  About  Christmas  of  the  same  year 
the  fertile  author  threw  off  a light  production  in  his 
happiest  manner — a Chrisimas  Carol  in  Prose — w hich 
enjoyed  vast  popuhiritv,  and  was  dramatised  at  the 
London  theatres.  Thus  crowned  with  unrivalled  suc- 
cess, buoyant  in  genius  and  spirit,  and  rejilete  with 
generous  and  manly'  feeling,  we  may  anticipate  for 
jMr  Dickens  a long  and  honourable  career.  ‘ The  diffi- 
culties to  which  he  is  exposed  in  his  present  periodical 
mode  of  Writing  are,  in  some  respects,  greater  than  if 
he  allowed  himself  a wider  field,  and  gave  his  whole 
work  to  the  public  at  once.  But  he  would  be  sub- 
jected to  a severer  criticism  if  his  fiction  could  be 
read  continuedly — if  his  power  of  maintaining  a 
sustained  interest  could  be  tested — if  his  work  could 
be  view'ed  as  a connected  whole,  and  its  object, 
plan,  consistency,  and  arrangement,  brought  to  the 
notice  of  the  reader  at  once.  This  ordeal  cannot  be 
passed  triumphantly  without  the  aid  of  other  quali- 
ties than  necessarily  belong  to  the  most  brilliant 
sketcher  of  detached  scenes.  We  do  not,  however, 
mean  to  express  a doubt  that  Mr  Dickens  can  w’rite 
with  judgment  as  well  as  with  s))irit.  His  powers 
of  observation  and  description  are  qualities  rarer, 
and  less  capable  of  being  acquired,  than  those  which 
w'ould  enable  him  to  combine  the  sc.attered  portions 
of  a tale  into  one  consistent  and  harmonious  whole. 
If  he  will  endeavour  to  supply  whatever  may  be 
effected  by  care  and  study — avoid  imitation  of  other 
writers — keep  nature  steadily  before  his  eyes — aud 
cheek  all  disposition  to  exaggerate — we  know  no 
writer  who  seems  likely'  to  .attain  higher  success  in 
that  rich  and  useful  department  of  fiction  which  is 
founded  on  faithful  representations  of  human  cha- 
racter, as  exemplified  in  the  aspects  of  English  life.’  * 

HISTORIANS. 

In  depth  of  research  and  intrinsic  value,  the  hisli 
rical  works  of  this  period  far  exceed  those  of  any'  of 
our  former  sections.  Access  has  been  more  readily 
obtained  to  all  public  documents,  and  private  collec- 
tions have  been  thrown  open  with  a spirit  of  en- 
lightened liberality.  Cert.ain  departments  of  history 
— as  the  Anglo-Saxon  period,  and  the  progie.s* 

* Edinburgh  Review  for  1838. 

G3.3 


PBOM  1780  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  till  the  paEszNT  timA 


gfiierally  of  tlio  Knglisli  coiistitiition— have  also 
been  cultivated  with  superior  learniiif'  and  dilifienee. 
The  great  works  of  Hume,  Robertson,  and  Gibbon, 
still  maintain  their  pre-eminence  with  the  general 
reader,  but  the  value  of  the  two  first  has  been  mate- 
rially diminished  by  subsequent  investigations  and 
new  information. 

WILLIAM  JIITFORD. 

The  most  elaborate  and  comprehensive  work  we 
have  here  to  notice,  is  The  Histunj  of  Greece  from  the 
Earliest  Period,  by  Wili-IAH  Mitioud,  Ksq.  'J'he 
first  volume  of  Mr  Milford’s  history  came  before 
the  public  in  1784,  a second  was  iniblished  in  1790, 
and  a third  in  1797.  It  was  not,  however,  till  the 
year  1810  that  the  work  was  completed.  Mr 
Mitford,  descended  of  an  ancient  family  in  North- 
umberland, was  born  in  London  on  the  10th  of 
February  1744,  and  was  educated  first  at  Cheam 
school,  Surrey,  and  afterwards  at  Queen’s  college, 
O.xford.  He  studied  the  law,  but  abandoned  it  on 
obtaining  a commission  in  the  South  Hampshire 
Militia,  of  which  regiment  he  was  afterwards  lieu- 
tenant-colonel. In  1761  he  succeeded  to  the  family 
estate  in  Hampshire,  ami  was  thus  enabled  to  pursue 
those  classical  and  historical  studies  to  which  he  was 
ardently  devoted.  His  first  publication  was  an 
Essay  on  the  Harmony  of  Lanyuage,  intended  princi- 
pally to  illustrate  that  of  the  English  Language,  1774, 
which  afterwards  reached  a second  edition.  While 
in  the  militia,  he  published  a Treatise  on  the  MiUtary 
Force,  and  particularly  of  the  Militia  of  the  Kingdom, 
This  subject  seems  to  have  engrossed  much  of  his 
attention,  for  at  a subsequent  period  of  his  life,  when 
a member  of  the  House  of  Commons,  Mr  Mitford 
advocated  the  cause  of  the  militia  with  much  fervour, 
and  recommended  a salutary  jealousy  relative  to  a 
standing  army  in  this  country.  He  was  neverthe- 
less a general  supporter  of  ministers,  and  held  the 
government  appointment  of  Verdurer  of  the  New 
Forest.  Mr  Mitford  was  twice  elected  member  of 
parliament  for  the  borough  of  Beeralston,  in  Devon- 
shire, and  afterwards  for  New  Romney,  in  Kent. 
He  died  in  1827.  The  ‘History  of  Greece’  has 
passed  through  several  editions.  Byron  s,ays  of  Mr 
Mitford  as  a historian—*  His  gre.at  pleasure  consists 
in  praising  tyrants,  abusing  Plutarch,  spelling  oddly, 
and  writing  quaintly ; and  what  is  strange,  after  all, 
his  is  the  best  modern  history  of  Greece  in  any 
language,  and  he  is  perhaps  the  best  of  all  modern 
historians  whatsoever.  Having  named  his  sins 
(adds  the  noble  poet),  it  is  but  fair  to  state  his  vir- 
tues— learning,  labour,  research,  wrath,  and  par- 
tiality. I call  the  latter  virtues  in  a writer,  because 
they  make  him  w'rite  in  earnest.’  The  earnestness 
of  Mr  Mitford  is  too  often  directed  against  what  he 
terms  ‘ the  inherent  weakness  and  the  indelible 
barbarism  of  dernocratical  government.’  He  was  a 
warm  admirer  of  the  English  eonstitution  and  of  the 
monarchical  form  of  government,  and  this  bias  led 
him  to  be  unjust  to  the  Athenian  people,  whom  he 
on  one  occasion  terms  ‘ the  sovereign  beggars  of 
Athens.’  His  fidelity  as  a reporter  of  facts  has  also 
been  questioned.  ‘ He  contracts  the  strongest  indi- 
vidual partialities,  and  according  as  these  lead,  he 
is  eredulous  or  mistrustful — he  exaggerates  or  he 
qualifies — he  expands  or  he  cuts  down  the  docu- 
ments on  which  he  has  to  proceed.  With  regard  to 
the  bright  side  of  almost  every  king  whom  he  has 
to  describe,  Mr  Mitford  is  more  than  credulous  ; for 
a credulous  man  believes  all  that  he  is  told;  Mr 
Mitford  believes  more  than  he  is  told.  With  regard 
to  the  dark  side  of  the  same  individuals,  his  habits 
of  estimating  evidence  are  precisely  in  the  opposite 


extreme.  In  tre.ating  of  the  democracies  or  of  the 
dernocratical  leaders,  his  statements  are  not  less 
partial  and  exaggerated.’*  It  is  undeniable  that  Ml 
Mitford  has  over-coloured  the  evils  of  popular 
government,  but  there  is  so  much  acuteness  and 
spirit  in  his  political  disquisitions,  and  his  narrative 
of  events  is  so  animated,  full,  and  distinct,  that  he 
is  always  read  with  pleasure.  His  qualifications  were 
great,  and  his  very  defects  constitute  a sort  of  in- 
dividuality that  is  not  without  its  attraction  in  so 
long  a history. 

[Condemnation  and  Death  of  Socrates.'] 

We  are  not  informed  when  Socrates  first  became 
distinguished  a.s  a sophist ; fbr  in  that  desor  ption  of 
men  he  was  in  his  own  day  reckoned.  When  the  wit 
of  Aristophanes  was  directed  against  him  in  .he 
theatre,  he  was  already  among  the  most  eminent,  but 
his  eminence  seems  to  have  been  then  recent.  It  was 
about  the  tenth  or  eleventh  year  of  the  Peloponnesian 
war,  when  he  was  six  or  seven  and-forty  years  of  age, 
that,  after  the  manner  of  the  old  comedy,  he  was  offered 
to  public  derision  upon  the  stage  by  his  own  name,  as 
one  of  the  per.sons  of  the  drama,  in  the  comedy  of 
Aristophanes,  called  The  Clouds,  which  is  yet  extant. 
Some  antipathy,  it  appears,  existed  between  the  comic 
poets  collectively  and  the  sophists  or  philosophers. 
The  licentiousness  of  the  former  could  indeed  scarcely 
escape  the  animadversion  of  the  latter,  who,  on  the 
contrary,  favoured  the  tragic  poets,  competitors  with 
the  comedians  for  public  favour.  Euripides  and 
Aristophanes  were  particularly  enemies  ; and  Socrates 
not  only  lived  in  intimacy  with  Euripides,  but  is  said 
to  have  assisted  him  in  some  of  his  tragedies.  We 
are  informed  of  no  other  cause  for  the  injurious  re- 
presentation which  the  comic  poet  has  given  of 
Socrates,  whom  he  exhibits  in  The  Clouds  as  a flagi- 
tious yet  ridiculous  pretender  to  the  occult  sciences, 
conversing  with  the  clouds  as  divinities,  and  teaching 
the  principal  youths  of  Athens  to  despise  the  received 
gods  and  to  cozen  men.  The  audience,  accustomed 
to  look  on  defamation  with  carelessness,  and  to  hold 
as  lawful  and  proper  whatever  might  amuse  the  mul- 
titude, applauded  the  wit,  and  even  gave  general 
approbation  to  the  p.iece ; but  the  high  estimation  of 
the  character  of  Socrates  sufficed  to  prevent  that  com- 
plete success  which  the  poet  had  promised  himself. 
The  crown  which  rewarded  him  whose  drama  most 
earned  the  public  favour,  and  which  Aristophanes 
had  so  often  won,  was  on  this  occasion  refused  him. 

Two  or  three-and-twenty  years  had  elapsed  since 
the  first  representation  of  The  Clouds ; the  storms  of 
conquest  suffered  from  a foreign  enemy,  and  of  four 
revolutions  in  the  civil  government  of  the  country, 
had  passed ; nearly  three  years  had  followed  of  that 
quiet  which  the  revolution  under  I'lirasybulus  ])ro- 
duced,  and  the  act  of  amnesty  should  have  confirmed, 
when  a young  man  named  hlelitus  went  to  the  king- 
archon,  and  in  the  usual  form  delivered  an  informa- 
tion against  Socrates,  and  bound  himself  to  prosecute. 
The  information  ran  thus  ; — ‘ Melitus,  son  of  hlelitu.s, 
of  the  borough  of  Pitthos,  declares  these  upon  oath 
against  Socrates,  son  of  Sophrouiscus,  of  the  borough 
of  Alopece : Socrates  is  guilty  of  reviling  the  gods 
whom  the  city  acknowledges,  and  of  preaching  other 
new  gods : moreover,  he  is  guilty  of  corrupting  the 
youth.  Penalty,  death.’ 

Xenophon  begins  his  memorials  of  his  revered  master, 
with  declaring  his  wonder  how  the  Athenians  could 
have  been  persuaded  to  condemn  to  death  a mar.  of 
such  uncommonly  clear  innocence  and  exalted  worth. 
Aiilian,  though  for  authority  he  can  bear  no  comparison 
with  Xenophon,  has  nevertheless,  1 think,  given  the 

♦ Westminster  Review  for  1826. 

634 


HISTORIANS. 


■WILLIAM  MITFORD. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


solution.  ‘ Socrntc.s,’  he  sayn,  ‘disliked  the  Athenian 
conatitiition  ; for  he  saw  that  democracy  is  tyran- 
nical, and  abounds  with  all  the  evils  of  absolute 
monarchy.’  Hut  though  the  political  circumstances 
of  tlie  times  made  it  necessary  for  cotemporary  writers 
to  speak  with  caution,  yet  both  Xenophon  and  Plato 
have  declared  enough  to  show  that  the  assertion  of 
Aillian  was  well-founded  ; and  farther  proof,  were  it 
wanted,  may  be  derived  from  another  early  writer, 
nearly  cotemporary,  and  deeply  versed  in  the  politics 
of  his  age,  the  orator  j'Eschines.  Indeed,  though  not 
stated  in  the  indictment,  yet  it  was  urged  against 
Socrates  by  his  prosecutors  before  the  court,  that  he 
was  disaffected  to  the  democracy ; and  in  proof,  they 
affirmed  it  to  be  noiorious  that  he  had  ridiculed  what 
the  .Athenian  constitution  prescribed,  the  appoint- 
ment to  magistracy  by  lot.  ‘Thus,’  they  said,  ‘he 
‘aught  his  numerous  followers,  youths  of  the  principal 
families  of  the  city,  to  despise  the  established  govern- 
ment, and  to  be  turbulent  and  seditious ; and  his 
success  had  been  seen  in  the  conduct  of  two  of  the 
most  eminent,  Alcibiades  and  Critias.  Even  the  best 
things  he  converted  to  these  ill  purpeses : from  the 
most  esteemed  poets,  and  jtarticuharly  from  Homer, 
he  y.lected  passages  to  enforce  his  anti-democratical 
principles.’ 

Socrates,  it  appears,  indeed,  was  not  inclined  to 
deny  his  disapprobation  of  the  Athenian  constitution. 
His  defence  itself,  as  it  is  reported  by  Plato,  contains 
matter  on  which  to  found  an  accusation  against  him 
if  disaffection  to  the  sovereignty  of  the  people,  such 
>s,  under  the  jealous  tyranny  of  the  Athenian  demo- 
tracy,  would  sometimes  subject  a man  to  the  penalties 
of  high  treason.  ‘ Y ou  well  know,’  he  says,  ‘ Athenians, 
that  had  I engaged  in  public  business,  I should  long 
ago  have  perished  without  procuring  any  advantage 
either  to  you  or  to  myself.  Let  not  the  truth  offeud 
you : ii  is  no  peculiarity  of  ymur  democracy,  or  of  your 
national  character ; but  wherever  the  people  i.s  sove- 
reign, no  man  who  shall  dare  honestly  to  oppose  in- 
iustice — frequent  and  extravagant  injustice  — can 
avoid  destruction.’ 

Without  this  proof,  indeed,  we  might  reasonably 
believe,  that  though  Socrates  was  a good  and  faithful 
subject  of  the  Athenian  government,  and  would  pro- 
mote no  sedition,  no  political  violence,  yet  he  could 
not  like  the  Athenian  constitution.  He  wished  for 
wholesome  changes  by  gentle  means  ; and  it  seems  even 
to  have  been  a principal  object  of  the  labours  to  which 
he  dedicated  himself,  to  infuse  principles  into  the 
rising  generation  that  might  bring  about  the  desirable 
change  insensibly.  His  scholars  were  chiefly  sons  of 
the  wealthiest  citizen.s,  -whose  easy  circumstances 
afforded  leisure  to  attend  him  ; and  some  of  these 
zealously  adopting  his  tenets,  others  merely  pleased 
with  the  ingenuity  of  his  arguments  and  the  live- 
liness of  his  manner,  and  desirous  to  emulate  his 
triumphs  over  his  opponents,  were  forward,  after  his 
example,  to  engage  in  disputation  upon  all  the  sub- 
jects on  which  he  was  accustomed  to  discourse.  Thus 
employed,  and  thus  followed,  though  himself  avoiding 
office  and  public  business,  those  who  governed  or  de- 
sired to  govern  the  commonwealth  through  their 
influence  among  the  many,  might  perhaps  not  un- 
reasonably consider  him  as  one  who  was  or  might 
become  a formidable  adversary,  nor  might  it  be  diffi- 
cult to  excite  popular  jealousy  against  him. 

Melitus,  who  stood  forward  as  his  principal  accuser, 
was,  as  Plato  informs  us,  no  way  a man  of  any  great 
consideration.  His  legal  description  gives  some  pro- 
bability to  the  conjecture,  that  his  father  was  one  of 
the  commissioners  sent  to  Lacedaemon  from  the  mo- 
derate party,  who  opposed  the  ten  successors  of  the 
thirty  tyrants,  while  Thi-asybulus  held  Piraeus,  and 
Pausanias  was  encamped  before  Athens.  He  was  a 
poet,  and  stood  forward  as  in  a common  cause  of  the 


poets,  who  esteemed  the  doctrine  of  Socrates  injurious 
to  their  interest.  Unsupported,  his  accusation  would 
have  been  little  formidable  ; but  he  seems  to  have 
been  a mere  instrument  in  the  business.  He  was  soon 
joined  by  Lycon,  one  of  the  most  powerful  .speakers  of 
his  time.  Lycon  was  the  avowed  patron  of  the  rheto- 
ricians, who,  as  well  as  the  poets,  thought  their  interest 
injured  by  the  moral  philosopher’s  doctrine.  I know 
not  that  on  any  other  occasion  in  Grecian  history  we 
have  any  account  of  this  kind  of  party-interest  ope- 
rating; but  from  circumstances  nearly  analogous  in 
our  own  country — if  we  substitute  for  poets  the  clergy, 
and  for  rhetoricians  the  lawyers — we  may  gather  what 
might  be  the  party-spirit,  and  what  the  weight  of  in- 
fluence of  the  rhetoricians  and  poets  in  Athens.  With 
Lycon,  Anytus,  a man  scarcely  second  to  any  in  the 
commonwealth  in  rank  and  general  estimation,  who 
had  held  high  command  with  reputation  in  the  Pelo- 
ponnesian war,  and  had  been  the  principal  associate 
of  Thrasybulus  in  the  war  against  the  thirty  and  the 
restoration  of  the  democracy,  declared  himself  a sup- 
porter of  the  prosecution.  Nothing  in  the  accusation 
could,  by  any  knowm  law  of  Athens,  affect  the  life  of 
the  accused.  In  England,  no  man  would  be  put  upon 
trial  on  so  vague  a charge — no  grand  jury  would  listen 
to  it.  But  in  Athens,  if  the  party  was  strong  enough, 
it  signified  little  what  was  the  law.  When  Lycon 
and  Anytus  came  forward,  Socrates  saw  that  his  con- 
demnation was  already  decided. 

By  the  course  of  his  life,  however,  and  by  the  turn 
of  his  thoughts  for  many  years,  he  had  so  prepared 
himself  for  all  events,  that,  far  from  alarmed  at  the 
probability  of  his  condemnation,  he  rather  rejoiced  at 
it,  as  at  his  age  a fortunate  occurrence.  He  was  per- 
suaded of  the  soul’s  Immortality,  and  of  the  superin- 
tending providence  of  an  all-good  Deity,  whose  favour 
he  had  always  been  assiduously  endeavouring  to  de- 
•serve.  Men  fear  death,  he  said,  as  if  unquestionably 
the  greatest  evil,  and  yet  no  man  knows  that  it  may 
not  be  the  greatest  good.  If,  indeed,  great  joys  were 
in  prospect,  he  might,  and  his  friends  for  him,  with 
somewhat  more  reason  regret  the  event ; but  at  his 
years,  and  with  his  scanty  fortune — though  he  was 
happy  enough  at  seventy  still  to  preserve  both  body 
and  mind  in  vigour — yet  even  his  present  gratifica- 
tions must  necessarily  soon  decay.  To  avoid,  therefore, 
the  evils  of  age,  pain,  sickness,  decay  of  sight,  decay 
of  hearing,  perhaps  decay  of  understanding,  by  the 
casie.st  of  deaths  (for  such  the  Athenian  mode  of  exe- 
cution— by  a draught  of  hemlock — was  reputed), 
cheered  with  the  company  of  surrounding  friends, 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  a blessing. 

Xenophon  says  that,  by  condescending  to  a little 
supplication,  Socrates  might  easily  have  obtained  his 
acquittal.  No  admonition  or  intreaty  of  his  friends, 
however,  could  persuade  him  to  such  an  unworthiness. 
On  the  contrary,  when  put  upon  his  defence,  he  told 
the  people  that  he  did  not  plead  for  his  own  sake,  but 
for  theirs,  wishing  them  to  avoid  the  guilt  of  an  un- 
just condemnation.  It  was  usual  for  accused  persons 
to  bewail  their  apprehended  lot,  with  tears  to  suppL 
cate  favour,  and,  by  exhibiting  their  children  upon  the 
bema,  to  endeavour  to  excite  pity.  He  thought  it,  he 
said,  more  respectful  to  the  court,  as  well  as  more 
becoming  himself,  to  omit  all  this ; however  aware 
that  their  sentiments  were  likely  so  far  to  differ  from 
his,  that  judgment  would  be  given  in  anger  for  it. 

Condemnation  pronounced  wrought  no  change  upon 
him.  He  again  addressed  the  court,  declared  his 
innocence  of  the  matters  laid  against  him,  and  ob- 
served that,  even  if  every  charge  had  been  completely 
proved,  still,  all  together  did  not,  according  to  any 
known  law,  amount  to  a capital  crime.  ‘ But,’  in 
conclusion  he  said,  ‘ it  is  time  to  depart — I to  die,  you 
to  live  ; but  which  for  the  greater  good,  God  only 
knows.’ 

635 


FROM  17H0  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  till  the  puf^pnt  time. 


It  was  usual  at  Athens  for  execution  very  soon  to 
follow  conileinnation — coininonly  on  the  morrow;  but 
it  happened  that  the  condemnation  of  Socrates  took 
place  on  the  eve  of  the  day  appointed  for  the  sacred 
ceremony  of  crowning  tlie  galley  which  carried  the 
annual  olferings  to  the  gods  worsliipped  at  Delos,  ami 
immemorial  tradition  forbade  all  executions  till  the 
sacred  vessel’s  return.  Thus,  the  death  of  Socrates  was 
respited  thirty  days,  while  his  friends  had  free  acee.ss 
to  him  in  the  prison.  During  all  that  time  he  admir- 
ably supported  his  constancy.  Means  were  concerted 
for  his  e.scape  ; the  jailer  was  bribed,  a vessel  prejrared, 
and  a secure  retreat  in  Thessaly  jirovided.  No  argu- 
ments, no  prayers,  could  persuade  him  to  u.se  the  op- 
portunity. He  had  always  taught  the  duty  of 
obedience  to  the  laws,  and  he  would  not  furnish  an 
example  of  the  breach  of  it.  To  m)  purpose  it  was 
urged  that  he  had  been  unjustly  condemned — he  had 
always  held  that  wrong  did  not  justify  wrong.  He 
waited  with  perfect  composure  the  return  of  the  sacred 
vessel,  reasoned  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  the 
advantage  of  virtue,  the  hapinness  derived  from  liaving 
made  it  through  life  his  pursuit,  and,  with  his  friends 
about  him,  took  the  fatal  cup  and  died. 

Writers  who,  after  Xenophon  and  Plato,  have  re- 
lated the  death  of  Socrates,  seem  to  have  held  them- 
selves bound  to  vie  with  those  who  preceded  them  in 
giving  pathos  to  the  story.  The  purpose  here  has  been 
rather  to  render  it  intelligible — to  show  its  connexion 
with  the  political  history  of  Athens — to  derive  from  it 
illustration  of  the  political  history.  The  magnanimity 
of  Socrates,  the  principal  efficient  of  the  pathos, 
surely  deserves  admiration ; yet  it  is  not  that  in 
which  he  has  most  outshone  other  men.  The  circum- 
stances of  Lord  Russel’s  fate  were  far  more  trying. 
Socrates,  we  may  reasonably  suppose,  would  have 
borne  Lord  Russel’s  trial ; but  with  Bishop  Burnet  for 
his  eulogist,  instead  of  Pla^o  and  Xenophon,  he  would 
iiot  have  had  his  present  splendid  fame.  The  singular 
merit  of  Socrates  lay  in  the  purity  and  the  usefulness 
of  his  manners  and  conversation  ; the  clearness  with 
ivhich  he  saw,  and  the  steadine.ss  with  which  he  prac- 
tised, in  a blind  and  corrupt  age,  all  mor.al  duties; 
the  disinterestedness  and  the  zeal  with  which  he  de- 
voted himself  to  the  benefit  of  others  ; and  the  en- 
larged and  warm  benevolence,  whence  his  supreme 
and  almost  only  pleasure  seems  to  have  consi.sted  in 
doing  good.  The  purity  of  Christian  morality,  little 
enough,  indeed,  seen  in  practice,  nevertheless  is  become 
so  familiar  in  theory,  that  it  passes  almost  for  obvious, 
and  even  congenial  to  the  human  mind.  Those  only 
will  justly  estimate  the  merit  of  that  near  approach 
to  it  w'hich  Socrates  made,  who  will  take  the  pains  to 
gather — as  they  may  from  the  writings  of  his  contem- 
poraries and  predecessor.s — how  little  conception  was 
entertained  of  it  before  his  time;  how'  dull  to  a just 
moral  sense  the  human  mind  has  really  been  ; how 
slow  the  progress  in  the  investigation  of  moral  duties, 
even  where  not  only  great  pains  have  been  taken,  but 
the  greatest  abilities  zealously  em])loyed  ; and  when 
discovered,  how  difficult  it  has  been  to  establish  them 
by  proofs  beyond  controversy,  or  proofs  even  that 
should  be  generally  admitted  by  the  reason  of  men. 
It  is  through  the  light  which  Socrates  diffused  by  his 
doctrine,  enforced  by  his  practice,  with  the  advantage 
of  having  both  the  doctrine  and  the  practice  exhibited 
to  highest  advantage  in  the  incomparable  writings  of 
disciples  such  as  Xenophon  and  Plato,  that  his  life 
forms  an  era  in  the  history  of  Athens  and  of  man. 

Dll  JOHN  GILLIES — MR  SHARON  TURNER 

WILLIAM  COXE — GEORGE  CHALMERS. 

AVliile  the  first  volume  of  Alitford’s  history  was 
before  the  public,  and  experiencing  that  degree  of 
favour  which  induced  the  author  to  continue  his 


work.  Dr  John  Gillies,  historiographer  to  Ids 
majesty  for  Scotland,  pulilished  The  Jlislory  oj 
Ancient  Oreecc,  its  Cohmiea  and  ('om/ucsls,  two 
volumes,  quarto,  1780.  'I'he  monarchical  spirit  of  the 
new'  historian  was  scarcely  less  decided  than  that  of 
Mr  Mitford,  though  exitressed  with  less  zeal  and 
idiomatic  plainness.  ‘ The  history  of  Greece,’  says 
Dr  Gillies,  ‘exposes  the  dangerous  turbulence  of 
democracy,  and  arraigns  the  (lesjmtism  of  tyrants. 
By  describing  the  incurable  evils  inherent  in  every 
republican  policy,  it  evinces  the  inestimable  benefits 
resulting  to  liberty  itself  from  the  lawful  dominion 
of  hereditary  kings,  and  the  steady  operation  of  well- 
regulated  monarchy.’  The  history  of  Dr  Gillies  was 
executed  with  consi<ierable  ability  and  care;  a sixth 
edition  of  the  work  (London,  1820,  four  volumes.  8vo.) 
has  been  called  for,  and  it  may  still  be  consulted  with 
advantage. 

In  1799  Mr  Sharon  Turner,  a solicitor,  com- 
menced the  publication  of  a series  of  works  on 
English  history,  by  which  he  has  obtained  a highly 
respectable  reputation.  The  first  was  a JJIslon/  of 
the  Anylo-Saxons,  the  second  a History  of  lunjlond 
during  the  Middle  Ayes:  in  subseiiuent  publications 
he  has  continued  the  series  to  the  end  of  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth  ; the  whole  being  eomprised  in  twelve 
volumes,  and  containing  much  new  and  interesting 
information  on  the  government,  laws,  literature,  ami 
manners,  as  well  as  on  the  civil  and  ecclesiastical 
history  of  the  country.  From  an  ambitious  attempt 
to  rival  Gibbon  in  h/ftincss  of  style  and  dietion,  Mr 
Turner  has  disfig  ired  his  history  by  a pomp  of 
expression  and  in’  jived  intricacy  of  style,  that  often 
border  on  the  It’  Jerous,  and  mar  the  effect  of  his 
narrative.  Thi  loffict  is  more  conspicuous  in  his 
latter  volumes  ,'h  “early  jiart  of  his  history,  devoted 
to  the  Anglo-  V'ons,  and  the  labour,  as  he  informs 
us,  of  sixtee'  years,  is  by  far  the  most  valuable.  Air 
Turner  has  also  published  a Sacred  History  of  the 
World,  in  two  volumes:  this  book  is  intendeil  to 
afford  to  young  persons  a selected  and  concentrated 
view  of  the  chief  facts  and  reasonings  on  the  crea- 
tion, intellectual  design,  and  divine  economy  of  the 
world,  conceived  and  ex[iressed  in  such  a manner  as 
to  suit  the  modern  style  of  thought  and  argument  in 
which  philosojihical  subjects  are  presented. 

William  Co.xb  (1748-1828),  arehdeacon  of  AVilts, 
was  the  author  of  various  historical  works  of  a very 
elaborate  character.  His  Memoirs  of  the  Life  and 
Administration  of  Sir  Hubert  Walpole,  published  in 
1798,  in  three  quarto  volumes,  was  the  first  tolerable 
account  of  any  part  of  our  history  subsequent  to  the 
accession  of  the  house  of  Hanover.  It  was  followed 
by  Memoirs  of  Horatio  Lord  Walpole,  in  which  there 
w.as  a view  of  the  times  between  1G78  and  17.'>7. 
These  works  derive  a great  value  from  the  mass  of 
original  papers  published  in  connexion  with  them, 
though  the  author’s  st\  le  is  heavy  and  inelegant. 
His  History  of  the  House  of  Austria,  1807,  and  his 
Memoirs  of  the  Kings  of  Spain  o f the  House  of  Bour- 
bon, 1813,'  were  almost  tlie  first  English  works  in 
which  an  acquaintance  was  displayed  with  the 
materials  of  European  history  extant  in  other  Ian  • 
guages  than  the  French  and  Latin.  Archdeacon 
Co.xe  also  published  the  I.ife  and  Select  of 

Benjamin  Stillingfleet,  and  the  Life  and  Papers  of  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough. 

Kesembling  Turner  and  Coxe  in  the  vastness  of 
his  undertakings,  but  inferior  as  a writer,  was 
George  Chalmers  (1744-182o),  a native  of  Scot- 
land, and  originally  a barrister  in  one  of  the  Arne- 
ric.an  colonies  before  their  di.sj unction  from  Britain. 
His  first  composition,  A History  of  the  United  Colo- 
nies, from  their  Settlement  tilt  the  Peace  of  176.3,  ap- 
peared in  1780,  and  from  time  to  time  he  gave  to  the 

636 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MALCOI.M  I.AIXO. 


world  ninny  works  connected  witli  liistory,  politics.  I 
and  literature.  In  1807  he  coimnenced  the  pub- 
licntion  of  his  Caledonia,  of  which  three  hirj;e 
volumes  hiid  appeared,  when  his  death  precluded 
the  hope  of  its  bcinp;  completed.  It  contains  a 
laborious  antiquarian  detail  of  the  earlier  periods  of 
Scottisli  history,  with  minute  topographical  and 
historical  accounts  of  the  various  provinces  of  the 
country. 


WILLIAM  ROSCOE. 

Wii.LiAM  TvOSCoe  (17.5.S-18.31),  as  the  author  of 
the  Life  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  and  the  Life  and  Pon- 
tificate of  Leo  A’.,  may  be  more  properly  classed 
with  our  liistorians  than  biographers.  The  two  works 
contain  an  account  of  the  revival  of  letters,  and  fill 
up  tlie  blank  between  Gibbon’s  Decline  and  Fall  and 
Kobertson’s  Charles  Y.  j\Ir  Roscoe  was  a native  of 
Liverpool,  the  son  of  humble  parents,  and  while 
engaged  as  clerk  to  an  attorney,  he  devoted  his 
leisure  hours  to  the  cultivation  of  his  taste  for 
poetry  and  elegant  literature.  He  acquired  a com- 
petent knowledge  of  the  Latin,  French,  and  Italian 
languages.  After  the  completion  of  his  clerkship, 
]\Ir  Roscoe  entered  into  business  in  Liverpool,  and 
took  an  active  jiart  in  every  scheme  of  improve- 
ment, local  and  national.  He  wrote  a poem  on  the 
IFro»(/.v  of  Africa,  to  illustrate  the  evils  of  slavery, 
and  also  a pamphlet  on  the  same  subject,  which  was 
translated  into  French  by  JIadame  Meeker.  The 
stirring  times  in  which  he  lived  called  forth  several 
short  political  dissertations  from  his  pen  ; but  about 
the  year  1789,  he  applied  himself  to  the  great  task 
he  had  long  meditated,  a biographical  account  of 
Lorenzo  de  Medici.  He  procured  much  new  and 
valuable  information,  and  in  1796  published  the 
result  of  his  labours  in  two  quarto  volumes,  entitled 
The  Life  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  called  the  Magnificent. 
The  work  was  highly  successful,  and  at  once  ele- 
vated Mr  Roscoe  into  the  proud  situation  of  one  of 
the  most  popular  authors  of  the  day.  A second 
edition  was  soon  called  for,  and  Messrs  C.adell  and 
Davies  purchased  the  copyright  for  L.1200.  About 
the  same  time  he  relinquished  the  practice  of  an 
attorney,  and  studied  fw  the  bar.  but  ultimately 
settled  as  a banker  in  Liverpool.  His  ne.xt  literary 
appearance  was  as  the  translator  of  The  Nurse,  a 
poem,  from  the  Italian  of  Luigi  Tansillo.  In  180.5 
was  published  his  second  great  work,  ‘ The  Life  and 
Pontificate  of  Leo  X.,’  four  volumes  quarto,  which, 
though  carefully  prepared,  and  also  enriched  with 
new  information,  did  not  experience  the  same  success 
as  his  life  of  Lorenzo.  ‘ The  history  of  the  refor- 
mation of  religion,’  it  has  been  justly  remarked, 
‘involved  many  questions  of  subtle  disputation,  as 
well  as  many  topics  of  character  and  conduct ; and, 
for  a writer  of  great  candour  and  discernment,  it  was 
scarcely  possible  to  satisfy  either  the  Papists  or  the 
Protestants.’  The  liber.al  sentiments  and  accom- 
plishments of  Mr  Roscoe  recommended  him  to  his 
townsmen  as  a fit  person  to  represent  them  in  par- 
liament. and  he  was  accordingly  elected  in  1806. 
He  spoke  in  favour  of  the  abolition  of  the  slave  trade, 
and  of  the  civil  disabilities  of  the  Catholics,  which 
excited  against  him  a powerful  and  violent  oppo- 
sition. Inclined  himself  to  quiet  and  retirement, 
and  disgusted  with  the  conduct  of  his  opponents,  he 
withdrew  from  p.arliament  at  the  next  dissolution, 
and  resolutely  declined  offering  himself  as  a can- 
didate. He  still,  however,  took  a warm  interest  in 
passing  events,  and  published  several  pamphlets  on 
the  topics  of  the  day.  He  projected  a history  of  art 
and  literature,  a task  well  suited  to  his  talents  and 


attainments,  but  did  not  proceed  with  the  work. 
I’ecuniarv  embarrassments  also  came  to  cloud  his 
latter  days.  The  banking  establishment  of  which 
he  was  a partner  was  forced  in  1816  to  suspend  pay- 
ment, and  Mr  Roscoe  had  to  .sell  his  library,  pic- 
tures. and  other  works  of  art.  His  love  of  literature 
continued  undiminished.  He  gave  valuable  assist- 
ance in  the  establishment  of  the  Royal  Institution  of 
Idverpool,  and  on  its  opening,  delivered  an  inaugural 
address  on  the  origin  and  vicissitudes  of  literature, 
science,  and  art,  and  their  influence  on  the  present 
state  of  society.  In  1827  he  received  the  great  gold 
medal  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature  for  his 
merits  as  a historian.  He  had  previously  edited  an 
edition  of  Pope,  in  ten  volumes,  which  led  to  some 
controversy  with  Jlr  Bowles,  as  Mr  Roscoe  had 
formed  a more  favourable,  and,  we  tliink,  just  esti' 
mate  of  the  poet  than  his  previous  editors. 


MALCOLM  LAING. 

Malcolm  Laing,  a ze.alous  Scottish  hi.storian,  wag 
born  in  the  year  1762  at  Strynzia,  his  paternal 
estate,  in  Orkney.  He  was  educated  for  the  Scottish 
b.ar,  and  passed  advocate  in  1785.  He  appeared  as 
an  author  in  1793,  having  completed  Dr  Henry’s 
History  of  Great  Britain  after  that  author’s  death. 
The  sturdy  Whig  opinions  of  Laing  formed  a con- 
trast to  the  tame  moderatism  of  Henry  ; but  his 
attainments  and  research  were  far  superior  to  tho.se 
of  his  predecessor.  In  1800  he  published  The  History 
of  Scotland  from  the  Union  of  the  Crowns  on  the  Acces- 
sion of  King  James  VI.  to  the  throne  of  England,  to 
the  Union  of  the  Kingdoms  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Antie;  with  two  dissertations,  historical  and  critical, 
on  the  Cowrie  Conspiracy,  and  on  the  supposed  authen- 
ticity of  O.ssian’s  Poems.  This  is  an  able  work, 
marked  b}'  strong  prejudices  and  predilections,  but 
valuable  to  the  historical  student  for  its  acute  reason- 
ing and  analysis.  Laing  attacked  the  translator  of 
Ossian  with  unmerciful  and  almost  luiiicrous  seve- 
rity, in  revenge  for  which,  the  Highland  admirers  of 
the  Celtic  muse  attributed  his  sentiments  to  the  pre- 
judice natural  to  an  Orkney  man,  caused  b3'  the 
severe  checks  given  b_v  the  ancient  Caledonians  to 
their  predatory  Scandinavian  predecessors  ! Laing 
replied  by  another  publication — The  Poems  of  Ossian, 
§"c.  containing  the  Poetical  llbr^.s  of  .James  Macjiher- 
son.  Esq.  in  Prose  and  Rhyme,  with  Notes  and  Illus- 
trations. In  1804  he  published  another  edition  of  his 
History  of  Scotland,  to  which  he  prefixed  a Pre- 
liminary Dissertation  on  the  Participation  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots  in  the  Murder  of  Darnley.  'J'lie  latter 
is  a verj'  ingenious  historical  .argument,  the  ablest 
of  Mr  Laing’s  productions,  uniting  the  practised  skill 
and  acumen  of  the  Scottish  lawyer  with  the  know- 
ledge of  the  antiquarj'  and  historian.  Tlie  latter 
portion  of  Mr  Laing’s  life  was  spent  on  his  paternal 
estate  in  Orkney,  where  he  entered  upon  a course  of 
local  and  agricultural  improvement  with  the  same 
ardour  that  he  devoted  to  his  literary  pursuits.  He 
died  in  the  year  1818.  ‘Mr  Laing’s  merit,’  says  a 
writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  ‘ as  a critical  in- 
quirer into  history,  an  enlightened  collector  of  mate- 
rials, and  a sagacious  judge  of  evidence,  has  never 
been  surpassed.  In  spite  of  his  ardent  love  of 
liberty,  no  man  has  yet  presumed  to  charge  him 
with  the  slightest  sacrifice  of  historical  integrity  to 
his  zeal.  That  he  never  perfectly  attained  the  art 
of  full,  clear,  and  easy  narrative,  was  owing  to  the 
peculiar  stide  of  those  writers  who  were  popular  in 
his  j'outh,  and  may  be  mentioned  as  a remarkable 
instance  of  the  disproportion  of  particular  talents  to 
a general  vigour  of  mind.’ 

637 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  FRESENT  TIME. 


JOHN  PINKERTON. 

John  Pinkerton  (I7r)8-182.^)  distingiiislied  Iiiin- 
Bi'lf  by  tlie  fierce  controversial  tone  of  his  historical 
writings,  and  by  the  violence  of  his  prejudices,  yet 
was  a learned  and  industrious  collector  of  forgotten 
fragments  of  ancient  history  and  of  national  anti- 
quities. He  was  a native  of  Edinburgh,  and  bred  to 
the  law.  The  latter,  however,  he  soon  forsook  for 
literary  pursuits.  He  commenced  by  writing  im- 
perfect verses,  which,  in  his  peculiar  antique  ortho- 
grapliy,  he  styled  ‘Rimes,’  from  which  he  diverged 
to  collecting  Select  Scotlitih  Ballads,  1783,  and  in- 
diting an  on  J/ct/«/.v,  1784.  Under  the  name 

of  Heron,  he  published  some  Letters  on  Literature,  and 
was  recommended  by  Gibiion  to  the  booksellers  as  a 
fit  person  to  translate  the  Monkish  Historians.  He 
afterwards  (1780)  published  Ancient  Scottish  Poems, 
being  the  writings  of  Sir  Richard  Maitland  and 
others,  extracted  from  a manuscript  in  the  Pepys 
Library  at  Cambridge.  His  first  bistorical  work  W'as 
A Dissertation  on  the  Origin  amt  Progress  of  the  Scy- 
thians, or  Goths,  in  which  he  laid  dowm  that  theory 
wliicli  he  maintained  through  life,  that  the  Celts  of 
Ireland,  Wales,  and  Scotland,  are  savages,  and  have 
been  savages  since  the  world  began ! His  next  im- 
portant work  was  an  Inquiry  into  the  History  of  Scot- 
land Preceding  the  Reign  of  Malcolm  III.,  or  1056,  in 
which  he  debates  at  great  length,  and,  as  Sir  Walter 
Scott  remarks,  with  much  display  of  learning,  on  the 
history  of  the  Goths,  and  the  conquests  which  he 
states  them  to  have  obtained  over  the  Celts  in  tlieir 
progress  through  all  Europe.  In  1796  lie  published 
a History  of  Scotland  During  the  Reign  of  the  Stuarts, 
the  most  laborious  and  valuable  of  his  works.  He 
also  compiled  a Modern  Geography,  edited  a Collection 
of  ^'oyages  and  Travels,  was  some  time  editor  of  the 
Critical  Review,  wrote  a Treatise  on  Rocks,  and  was 
engaged  on  v.arious  otlier  literary  tasks.  Pinkerton 
died  in  want  and  obscurity  in  Paris. 

CHARLES  JAMES  FOX. 

Charles  James  Fox  (1749-1806),  the  celebrated 
statesman  and  orator,  during  his  intervals  of  relaxa- 
tion from  public  life,  among  other  literary  studies 
and  occupations  commenced  a history  of  the  reign 
of  King  James  II.,  intending  to  continue  it  to  the 
settlement  at  the  revolution  of  1688.  An  introduc- 
tory chapter,  giving  a rapid  view  of  our  constitu- 
tional history  from  the  time  of  Henry  VII.,  he 
completed.  He  wrote  also  some  chapters  of  his 
histor}',  but  at  the  time  of  his  death  he  had  made 
but  little  progress  in  his  work.  Public  affairs,  and 
a strong  partiality  and  attachment  to  the  study  of 
the  classics,  and  to  works  of  imagination  and  poetry, 
were  continually  drawing  him  off  from  his  historical 
researclies,  ailded  to  which  he  was  fastidiously  scru- 
pulous as  to  all  the  niceties  of  language,  and  wished 
to  form  his  plan  exclusively  on  the  model  of  ancient 
writers,  without  note,  digression,  or  dissertation. 

‘ He  once  assured  me,’  says  Lord  Holland,  ‘ that  he 
would  admit  no  word  into  his  book  for  which  he 
had  not  the  authority  of  Dryden.’  We  need  not 
wonder,  therefore,  that  Mr  Fox  died  before  complet- 
ing his  historical  work.  Such  minute  attention  to 
style,  joined  to  equal  regard  for  facts  and  circum- 
stances, must  have  weighed  down  any  writer  even 
of  uninterrupted  and  active  application.  In  1808 
the  unfinished  composition  was  given  to  the  world 
by  Lord  Holland,  under  the  title  of  A History  of  the 
Early  Part  of  the  Reign  of  James  the  Second,  with  an 
Introductory  Chapter.  An  appendix  of  original 
papers  was  also  added.  The  history  is  plainly 
written,  without  the  slightest  approach  to  pedantry 


or  pretence ; but  the  style  of  the  great  statesman, 
with  all  the  care  bestowed  upon  it,  is  far  from  being 
perfect.  It  wants  force  and  vivacity,  as  if,  in  the 
proce.ss  of  elaboration,  the  graphic  clearness  of 
narrative  and  distinct  perception  of  events  and 
characters  necessary  to  the  historian  had  evaporated 
'I'he  sentiments  and  principles  of  the  author  are, 
however,  worthy  of  his  liberal  and  capacious  mind. 

SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


As  a philosophical  historian,  critic,  and  politician. 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  deserves  honourable  men- 
tion. He  was  also  one  of  the  last  of  the  Scottish 


metaphysicians,  and  one  of  the  most  brilliant  con- 
versers  of  his  times — qualifications  apparently  very 
dissimilar.  II is  candour,  benevolence,  and  libera- 
lity, gave  a grace  and  dignity  to  his  literary  specu- 
lations and  to  his  daily  life.  Mackintosh  was  a 
native  of  Inverness-shire,  and  was  born  at  Aldourie- 
house,  on  the  banks  of  Loch  Ness,  October  24,  1765. 
His  father  was  a brave  Highland  officer,  who  pos- 
sessed a small  estate,  called  Kylachy,  in  his  native 
county,  which  James  afterwards  sold  for  £9000. 
From  his  earliest  days  .Tames  Mackintosh  had  a 
passion  for  books ; and  though  all  his  relatives  were 
Jacobites,  he  was  a stanch  Whig.  After  studying 
at  Aberdeen  (where  he  had  as  a college  companion 
and  friend  the  pious  and  eloquent  Robert  Hall), 
Jlackintosh  went  to  Edinburgh,  and  studied  medi- 
cine. In  1788  he  repaired  to  London,  wrote  for  the 
press,  and  afterwards  applied  himself  to  the  study 
of  law.  In  1791  he  published  his  Vindicice  Gallicce, 
a defence  of  the  French  Revolution,  in  reply  to 
Burke,  which,  for  cogency  of  argument,  historical 
knowledge,  and  logical  precision,  is  a remarkable 
work  to  be  written  by  a careless  and  irregular  young 
man  of  twenty- si.x.  Though  his  bearing  to  his 
great  antagonist  was  chivalrous  and  polite.  Mackin- 
tosh attacked  his  opinions  with  the  ardour  and 
impetuosity  of  youth,  and  his  work  was  received 
with  great  applause.  Four  years  afterwards  he 
acknowledged  to  Burke  that  he  had  been  the  dupe 
of  his  own  enthusiasm,  and  that  a ‘ melancholy 
experience’  had  undeceived  him.  The  excesses  of 
the  French  Revolution  had  no  doubt  contributed  to 
this  change,  which,  though  it  afterwards  was  made 

638 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


sin  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


the  cause  of  obloquy  and  derision  to  Mackintosh, 
seems  to  have  been  adopted  witli  perfect  sincerity 
and  singleness  of  purpose.  He  afterwards  delivered 
and  published  a series  of  lectures  on  the  law  of 
nature  and  nations,  which  greatly  extended  his 
reputation.  In  1795  he  was  called  to  the  bar,  and 
in  his  capacity  of  barrister,  in  1803,  he  made  a 
brilliant  defence  of  M.  Peltier,  an  emigrant  royalist 
of  Franco,  who  had  been  indicted  for  a libel  on 
Napoleon,  then  first  consul.  The  forensic  display 
of  Mackintosh  is  too  much  like  an  elaborate  essay 
or  dissertation,  but  it  marked  him  out  for  legal  pro- 
motion, and  he  received  the  appointment  (to  which 
his  poverty,  not  his  will,  consented)  of  Recorder  of 
Bombay.  He  was  knighted,  sailed  from  England  in 
the  beginning  of  1801,  and  after  discharging  faith- 
fully his  high  official  duties,  returned  at  the  end  of 
seven  years,  the  earliest  period  that  entitled  him  to 
his  retiring  pension  of  £1200  per  annum.  Mackin- 
tosh now  obtained  a seat  in  parliament,  and  stuck 
faithfully  by  his  old  friends  the  Whigs,  without  one 
glimpse  of  favour,  till  in  1827  his  friend  Mr  Can- 
ning, on  the  formation  of  his  administration,  made 
him  a priv'y  councillor.  On  the  accession  of  the 
Whig  ministry  in  1830,  he  was  appointed  a com- 
missioner fur  the  affiiirs  of  India.  On  questions  of 
criminal  law  and  national  policy  Mackintosh  spoke 
forcibly,  but  he  cannot  be  said  to  have  been  a suc- 
cessful parliamentary  orator.  Amid  the  bustle  of 
public  business  he  did  not  neglect  literature,  though 
he  wanted  resolution  for  continuous  and  severe  study. 
The  charms  of  society,  the  interruptions  of  jiublic 
business,  and  the  debilitating  effects  of  his  residence 
in  India,  also  co-operated  with  his  constitutional 
indolence  in  preventing  the  realisation  of  the  ambi- 
tious dreams  of  his  youth.  He  contributed,  how- 
ever, various  articles  to  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and 
wrote  a masterly  Dissertation  on  the  Progress  of 
Ethical  Philosophy  for  the  Encycloptedia  Britannica. 
He  wrote  three  volumes  of  a compendious  and 
popular  History  of  England  for  Lardner’s  Cabinet 
Cyclopaedia,  which,  though  deficient  in  the  graces 
of  narrative  and  style,  contains  some  admirable 
views  of  constitutional  history  and  antiquarian  re- 
search. His  learning  was  abundant ; he  wanted 
only  method  and  elegance.  He  also  contributed  a 
short  but  valuable  life  of  Sir  Thomas  More  (which 
sprung  out  of  his  researches  into  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII.,  and  was  otherwise  a subject  congenial 
to  his  taste)  to  the  same  miscellany ; and  he  was 
engaged  on  a History  of  the  Revolution  of  1688, 
when  his  life  was  somewhat  suddenly  terminated 
on  the  30th  of  May  1832.  The  portion  of  his  his- 
tory of  the  Revolution  which  he  had  written  and 
corrected  (amounting  to  about  350  pages)  was  pub- 
lished in  1834,  with  a continuation  by  some  writer 
who  was  opposed  to  Sir  James  in  many  essential 
points.  In  the  works  of  Mackintosh  we  have  only 
the  fragments  of  a capacious  mind ; but  in  all  of 
them  his  learning,  his  candour,  his  strong  love  of 
truth,  his  justness  of  thinking  and  clearness  in  per- 
ceiving, and  his  genuine  philanthropy,  are  conspi- 
cuous. It  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  had  no  Boswell 
to  record  his  conversation. 

\_CMvah~y  and  Modem  Manners. 

[From  the  Vindiciar  Gallicae«3 

The  collision  of  armed  multitudes  [in  Paris]  ter- 
minated in  unforeseen  excesses  and  execrable  crimes. 
In  the  eye  of  Mr  Burke,  however,  these  crimes  and 
excesses  assume  an  aspect  far  more  important  than 
can  be  communicated  to  them  by  their  own  insulated 
guilt.  They  form,  in  his  opinion,  the  crisis  of  a 
revolution  far  more  important  than  any  change  of 


government — a revolution  in  which  the  sentiments 
and  opinions  that  have  formed  the  manners  of  the 
Kuropean  nations  are  to  perish.  ‘ The  age  of  chivalry 
is  gone,  and  the  glory  of  Europe  extinguished  for 
ever.’  He  follows  this  exclamation  by  an  eloquent 
eulogiuin  on  chivalry,  and  by  gloomy  predictions  of 
the  future  state  of  Europe,  when  the  nation  that  has 
been  so  long  accustomed  to  give  her  the  tone  in  arts 
and  manners  is  thus  debased  and  corrupted.  A ca- 
viller might  remark,  that  ages  much  more  near  the 
meridian  fervour  of  chivalry  than  ours  have  wit- 
nessed a treatment  of  queens  as  little  gallant  and 
generous  as  that  of  the  Parisian  mob.  He  might  re- 
mind Mr  Burke  that,  in  the  age  and  country  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  a queen  of  France,  whom  no  blindness 
to  accomplishment,  no  malignity  of  detraction,  could 
reduce  to  the  level  of  Maria  Antoinetta,  was,  by  ‘ a 
nation  of  men  of  honour  and  cavaliers,’  permitted  to 
languish  in  captivity,  and  expire  on  a scaffold  ; and 
he  might  add,  that  the  manneis  of  a country  are 
more  surely  indicated  by  the  systematic  cruelty  of 
a sovereign,  than  by  the  licentious  frenzy  of  a mob. 
He  might  remark,  that  the  mild  system  of  modern 
manners  which  survived  the  massacres  with  which 
fanaticism  had  for  a century  desolated  and  almost 
barbarised  Europe,  might  perhaps  resist  the  shock  of 
one  day’s  exces.ses  committed  by  a delirious  popu- 
lace. 

But  the  subject  itself  is,  to  an  enlarged  thinker, 
fertile  in  reflections  of  a differeirt  nature.  That  sys- 
tem of  manners  which  arose  among  the  Gothic  nations 
of  Europe,  of  which  chivalry  was  more  properly  the 
effusion  than  the  source,  is,  without  doubt,  one  of  the 
most  peculiar  and  interesting  appearances  in  human 
affairs.  The  moral  causes  which  formed  its  character 
have  not  perhaps  been  hitherto  investigated  with  tne 
happie.st  success.  But  to  confine  ourselves  to  the  sub- 
ject before  us,  chivalry  was  certainly  one  of  the  most 
prominent  features  and  remarkable  effects  of  this 
system  of  manners.  Candour  must  confess  that  this 
singular  institution  is  not  alone  admirable  as  a cor- 
rector of  the  ferocious  ages  in  which  it  flourished.  It 
contributed  to  polish  and  soften  Europe.  It  paved 
the  way  for  that  diffusion  of  knowledge  and  extension 
of  commerce  which  afterwards  in  some  measure  sup- 
planted ■ it,  and  gave  a nCw  character  to  manners. 
Society  is  inevitably  progressive.  In  government, 
commerce  has  overthrown  that  ‘ feudal  and  chival- 
rous’ sy.stem  under  whose  shade  it  first  grew.  In 
religion,  learning  has  subverted  that  superstition 
whose  opulent  endowments  had  first  fostered  it.  Pecu- 
liar circumstances  softened  the  barbarism  of  the 
middle  ages  to  a degree  which  favoured  the  admission 
of  commerce  and  the  growth  of  knowledge.  These 
circumstances  were  connected  with  the  manners  of 
chivalry ; but  the  sentiments  peculi.  r to  that  insti- 
tution could  only  be  preserved  by  the  situation  which 
gave  them  birth.  They  were  themselves  enfeebled  ia 
the  progress  from  ferocity  and  turbulen  e,  and  almost 
obliterated  by  tranquillity  and  refinement.  But  the 
auxiliaries  which  the  manners  of  chivalry  had  in 
rude  ages  reared,  gathered  strength  from  its  weakness, 
and  flourished  in  its  decay.  Commerce  and  diffused 
knowledge  have,  in  fact,  so  completely  assumed  the 
ascendant  in  polished  nations,  that  it  will  be  difficult 
to  discover  any  relics  of  Gothic  manners  but  in  a fan- 
tastic exterior,  which  has  survived  the  generous  illu- 
sions that  made  these  manners  splendid  and  seduc- 
tive. Their  direct  influence  has  long  ceased  in  Europe  ; 
but  their  indirect  influence,  through  the  medium  oi 
those  causes,  which  would  not  perhaps  have  existed 
but  for  the  mildness  which  chivalry  created  in  the 
midst  of  a barbarous  age,  still  operates  with  increas- 
ing vigour.  The  manners  of  the  middle  age  were,  in 
the  most  singular  sense,  compulsory.  Enterprising 
benevolence  was  produced  by  general  fierceness,  gal- 

fi39 


FROM  17H0 


{,’Y('i/)r7h;r)iA  of 


TILL  THF,  PRESF-NT  TIMd 


laiit  courtesy  by  ferocious  rudeness,  and  artificial 
(rontleness  resisted  the  torrent  of  natural  liarbarisin. 
But  a less  incon,i,'ruous  system  has  succeeded,  in  which 
commerce,  which  unites  nicn’ii  interests,  and  know- 
led;;e,  which  excludes  those  prejudices  that  tend  to 
embroil  them,  present  a broader  basis  lor  the  stability 
of  civilised  and  beneficent  manners. 

Mr  Burke,  indeed,  forebodes  the  most  fatal  conse- 
quences to  literature,  from  events  wbich  he  suji]ioses 
to  have  given  a mortal  blow  to  the  spirit  of  chivalry. 
1 have  ever  been  protected  from  such  apprehensions 
by  my  belief  in  a very  simple  truth — that  dlffiuted 
kn(ndl(hje  imntiirlali«en  iUlf.  A literature  which  is 
confined  to  a few,  may  be  destroyed  by  the  massacre 
of  .scholars  and  the  conflagration  of  libraries,  but  the 
diffu.sed  knowledge  of  the  present  day  could  only  be 
annihilated  by  the  extirpation  of  the  civilised  part 
of  mankind. 

\_Extrart  from  Speech  in  Defence  of  Mr  Peltier,  for  a 
Libel  on  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  February  liiOb.J 

Gentlemen — There  is  one  point  of  view  in  which 
this  case  seems  to  merit  your  most  serious  attention, 
'l  ire  real  prn.secutor  is  the  master  of  the  greatest  em- 
pire the  civilised  world  ever  saw — the  defendant  is  a 
defenceless  proscribed  exile.  I consider  this  case, 
therefore,  as  the  first  of  a long  series  of  conflicts  be- 
tween the  greatest  power  in  the  world,  and  the  only 
FREF.  PRESS  remaining  in  Kurope.  Gentlemen,  this 
distinction  of  the  Knglish  press  is  new— it  is  a proud 
and  a melancholy  distinction.  Before  the  great  earth- 
quake of  the  French  Revolution  had  swallowed  up  all 
the  asylums  of  free  discussion  on  the  continent,  we 
enjoyed  that  privilege,  indeed,  more  fully  than  others, 
blit  we  did  not  enjoy  it  exclusively.  In  Holland,  in 
Switzerland,  in  tiie  imperial  towns  of  Germany,  the 
press  was  either  legally  or  practically  free.  Holland 
and  Switzerland  are  no  more ; and,  since  the  com- 
mencement of  this  prosecution,  fifty  imperi,al  towns 
have  been  erased  from  the  list  of  independent  states 
bv  one  dash  of  the  pen.  Three  or  four  still  preserve  a 
precarious  and  trembling  e.xistence.  1 will  not  say 
bv  wdiat  compliances  they  must  purcha.se  its  continu- 
ance. I wall  not  insult  the  feebleness  of  states  whose 
unmerited  fall  I do  most  bitterly  deplore. 

These  governments  were,  in  many  respects,  one  of 
the  most  interesting  parts  of  the  ancient  system  of 
Europe.  The  perfect  security  of  such  inconsiderable 
and  feeble  states,  their  undisturbed  tranquillity 
amidst  the  wars  and  conquests  that  surrounded  them, 
attested,  beyond  any  other  part  of  the  European  sys- 
tem, the  moderation,  the  justice,  the  civilisation,  to 
Mdiich  Christian  Europe  had  reached  in  modern  times. 
Their  weakness  was  protected  only  by  the  habitual 
reverence  for  justice  which,  during  a long  series  of 
ages,  had  grown  up  in  Christendom.  This  was  the 
only  fortification  which  defended  them  against  those 
mightv  monarchs  to  whom  they  offered  so  easy  a jirey. 
And,  till  the  French  Revolution,  this  was  sufficient. 
Consider,  for  instance,  the  republic  of  Geneva;  think 
of  her  defenceless  position  in  the  very  jaws  of  France  ; 
but  think  also  of  her  undisturbed  security,  of  her  pro- 
found quiet,  of  the  brilliant  success  ivith  which  she 
applied  to  industry  and  literature  while  Louis  XIV. 
was  pouring  his  myriads  into  Italy' before  her  gates; 
call  to  mind,  if  ages  crowded  into  years  have  not 
effaced  them  from  your  memory,  that  happy  jieriod 
when  we  scarcely  dreamed  more  of  the  subjugation  of 
the  fc_l'est  republic  in  Europe  than  of  the  conquest 
of  her  mightie'-'t  empire,  and  tell  me  if  you  can  iiina- 
gine  a spectacle  more  beautiful  to  the  moral  eye,  or 
a more  striking  proof  of  progress  in  the  noblest  prin- 
ciples of  civilisation.  These  feeble  states,  these  mo- 
numents of  the  justice  of  Europe,  the  asylum  of  peace, 
>f  industry,  and  of  literature : the  organs  of  public 


reason,  the  refuge  of  oppressed  innocence  and  perse- 
cuted truth,  have  perished  with  those  ancient  prin- 
ciples which  were  their  sole  guardians  and  protectors. 
They  have  been  swallowed  up  by  that  fearful  convul- 
sion which  has  shaken  the  uttermost  comers  of  the 
earth.  They  are  destroyed,  and  gone  for  ever  ! One 
asylum  of  free  discussion  is  still  inviolate.  There  is 
still  one  spot  in  Europe  where  man  can  freely  exercise 
his  reason  on  the  most  important  concerns  of  society, 
where  he  can  boldly  ymblish  his  judgment  on  the  acts 
of  the  proudest  and  most  poivert'ul  tyrants.  The  press 
of  England  is  still  free.  It  is  guarded  by  the  free 
constitution  of  our  forefathers.  It  is  guarded  by  the 
hearts  and  arms  of  Englishmen,  and  I trust  1 may 
venture  to  .say,  that  if  it  be  to  fall,  it  will  fall  only 
under  the  ruins  of  the  British  empire.  It  is  an  awful 
consideration,  gentlemen.  Every  other  monument  of 
European  liberty  has  perished.  That  ancient  fabric 
.which  has  been  gradually  reared  by  the  wisdom  and 
virtue  of  our  fathers,  still  stands.  It  stands,  thanks 
be  to  God!  solid  and  entire — but  it  stands  alone,  and 
it  stands  in  ruins  ! Believing,  then,  as  I do,  that  we 
are  on  the  eve  of  a great  struggle,  that  this  is  only  the 
first  battle  between  reason  and  power — that  you  have 
now  in  your  hands,  committed  to  your  trust,  the  only 
remains  of  free  discussion  in  Europe,  now  confined  to 
tliis  kingdom  ; addressing  you,  therefore,  as  the  guar- 
dians of  the  most  important  interests  of  mankind  ; 
convinced  that  the  unfettered  exercise  of  reason  de- 
pends more  on  your  present  verdict  than  on  any  other 
that  was  ever  delivered  by  a jury,  I trust  I may  rely 
with  confidence  on  the  issue — I trust  that  you  will 
consider  yourselves  as  the  advanced  guard  of  liberty — 
as  having  this  day  to  fight  the  first  battle  of  free  dis- 
cussion against  the  most  formidable  enemy  that  it 
ever  encountered  1 

DR  JOHN  LING.tRD,  &C. 

Dr  .Toii.v  Lingard,  a Roman  Catholic  priest,  pub- 
lished in  1819  three  volumes  of  a History  of  Enulana 
from  the  Invasion  by  the  Romans.  lie  subsequently 
continued  his  work  in  five  more  vidumes,  bringing 
down  his  narrative  to  the  abdication  of  Janies  II. 
To  talents  of  a high  order,  both  as  respects  acute- 
ness of  analysis  and  powers  of  description  and  nar- 
rative, Dr  Lingard  added  unconquerable  industry 
and  access  to  sources  of  information  new  and  im- 
portant. He  is  generally  more  impartial  than  Hume, 
or  even  Robertson  ; but  it  is  undeniable  that  his  re- 
ligious o]nnions  have  in  some  cases  perverted  the 
fidelity  of  his  history,  leading  him  to  palliate  tlie 
atrocities  of  the  B.irtholomew  massacre,  and  to 
darken  the  shades  in  the  characters  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, Cranmer,  Anne  Boleyn,  and  others  connected 
with  the  reformation  in  the  church.  His  work  was 
subjected  to  a rigid  scrutiny  by  Dr  John  Allen,  in  two 
elaborate  articles  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  by  the 
Rev.  Mr  Todd  (who  ]mblished  a defence  of  the  cha- 
racter of  Cranmer),  anil  by  other  zealous  I’rotestant 
writers.  To  these  antagonists  Dr  Lingard  replied 
in  1826  by  a vindication  of  his  fidelity  as  a histo- 
rian, which  aflbrds  an  excellent  specimen  of  calm 
controversial  writing.  His  work  has  now  taken  its 
jdace  among  the  most  valuable  of  our  national  his- 
tories. It  has  gone  through  three  editions,  and  has 
been  received  with  equal  favour  on  the  continent. 
The  most  able  of  his  critics  (though  condemning  his 
account  of  the  English  Reformation,  and  other  pas- 
sages evincing  a peculiar  bias)  admits  that  Dr  Lin- 
gard possesses,  what  he  claims,  the  rare  merit  of 
having  collected  his  materials  from  original  histo- 
rians and  records,  by'  which  his  narrative  receives  a 
freshness  of  character,  and  a stamp  of  originality, 
not  to  be  found  in  any'  general  history  of  England 

640 


I 

i 

I 


1 msTOKiANS.  KN(;t<lSlI  r.lTKHATUIJE.  dr  joiin  lingari/. 

in  coninioM  um-.  \W-  );ivp  one  upeeinien  of  the  nur- 
1 sntive  stvie  of  llie  author: — 

(/!«  Account  of  CromKctl's  E.rpuUion  of  the  Pariia- 
moit  in  ICott.j 

At  length  Croimvcil  fixed  on  his  pl.an  to  procure 
the  di-isolutioii  of  the « parliament,  and  to  vest  fora 
1 time  the  sovereign  authority  in  a council  of  forty 
j persons  'vith  himself  at  their  head.  It  was  his  wish  to 
' etlect  this  quietly  by  the  votes  of  the  parliament — his 
1 resolution  to  etfeet  it  by  open  force,  if  such  votes  were 
1 refused.  Sever;il  meetings  were  held  by  the  officers 
1 and  members  at  the  lodgings  of  the  lord-general  in 
^\’hitehall.  St  John  and  a few  others  gave  their 
as.ient ; the  rest,  under  the  guiilance  of  Whitelock 
and  W'idrington,  declared  that  the  dissolution  would 
be  dangerous,  and  the  establishment  of  the  proposed 
council  unwarrantable.  In  the  meantime  the  house 
resumed  the  consideration  of  the  new  representative 
body  ; and  several  qualifications  were  voted,  to  all  of 
which  the  officers  i-aised  objections,  but  chiefly  to  the 
‘admission  of  members,’  a project  to  strengthen  the 
government  by  the  introduction  of  the  presbyterian 
interest.  ‘ Never,’  said  Cromwell,  ‘shall  any  of  that 
judgment  who  have  deserted  the  good  cause  be  ad- 
mitted to  power.’  On  the  last  meeting,  held  on  the 
Ihth  of  April,  all  the.se  points  were  long  and  warmly 
debated.  Some  of  the  officers  declared  that  the  par- 
liament must  be  di.s.solvcd  ‘one  way  or  other;’  but 
the  general  checked  their  indiscretion  and  precipi- 
tiincy,  and  the  as.sembly  broke  up  at  midnight,  with 
an  understanding  that  the  leading  men  on  each  side 
should  resume  the  subject  in  the  morning. 

At  an  early  hour  the  conference  was  recommenced, 
and.  after  a short  time,  interrupted,  in  consequence  of 
the  receipt  of  a notice  by  the  geneial,  that  it  was  the 
intention  of  the  house  to  comply  with  the  desires  of 
the  army.  This  was  a mistake  ; the  opposite  party 
has!  indeed  resolved  to  pass  a bill  of  dissolution  ; not, 
however,  the  bill  proposed  by  the  officers,  but  their 
own  bill,  containing  all  the  obnoxious  provisions,  and 
to  pass  it  that  very  morning,  that  it  might  obtain  the 
force  of  law  before  their  adversaries  could  have  time 
to  ajipeal  to  the  power  of  the  sword.  While  H.arrison 
‘ most  strictly  and  humbly’  conjured  them  to  pause 
before  they  took  so  important  a step,  Ingoldsby  has- 
tened to  inform  the  lord-general  at  Whitehall.  His 
resolution  was  immediately  formed,  and  a company 
of  musketeers  received  orders  to  accompany  him  to 
the  house.  At  this  eventful  moment,  big  with  the 
most  important  consequences  both  to  himself  and  his 
country,  whatever  were  the  workings  of  Cromwell’s 
mind,  he  had  the  art  to  conceal  them  from  the  eyes 
of  the  beholders.  Leaving  the  military  in  the  lobby, 
he  entered  the  house  and  compo.sedly  seated  himself 
on  one  of  the  outer  benches.  His  dress  was  a plain 
suit  of  black  cloth,  with  gray  woisited  stockings.  For 
a while  he  seemed  to  listen  with  interest  to  the  debate; 
but  when  the  speaker  was  going  to  put  the  question, 
he  whispered  to  Harrison,  ‘This  is  the  time;  I must 
do  it;’  and  rising,  put  off  his  hat  to  address  the  house. 
-At  first  his  language  was  decorous,  and  even  laudatory. 
Gradually  he  became  more  warm  and  animated;  at 
last  he  assumed  all  the  vehemence  of  passion,  and 
indulged  in  personaf  vitujX'ration.  He  charged  the 
members  with  self-seeking  and  profanene.ss,  with  the 
frequent  denial  of  justice,  and  numerous  acts  of  op- 
pression ; with  idolising  the  lawyers,  the  constant  ad- 
vocates of  tyranny  ; with  neglecting  the  men  who  had 
bled  for  them  in  the  field,  that  they  might  gain  the 
Presbyterians  who  had  apostatised  from  the  cause ; 
and  with  doing  all  this  in  order  to  perpetuate  their 
own  power  and  to  replenish  their  own  purses.  But 
their  time  was  come;  the  Lord  had  disowned  them; 
he  had  chosen  more  worthy  instruments  to  perform 
83 

his  work.  Here  the  orator  was  interrupted  by  Sit 
I’etcr  Wentworth,  who  decla.'ed  that  he  had  nevet 
heard  language  so  unparliamentary — language,  too, 
the  more  offensive,  because  it  was  addressed  to  them 
by  their  own  .servant,  whom  they  had  too  fondly 
cherished,  and  whom,  by  their  unprecedented  bounty, 
they  had  made  what  he  was.  At  these  words  Crom- 
well put  on  his  hat,  and,  springing  from  his  place, 
exclaimed,  ‘ Come,  come,  sir,  1 will  put  an  end  to 
your  prating.’  For  a few  seconds,  apparently  in  the 
most  violent  agitation,  he  paced  forward  and  back- 
ward, and  then,  stamping  on  the  floor,  added,  ‘ You 
are  no  parliament;  I say  you  are  no  parli.ament ; 
bring  them  in,  bring  them  in.’  Instantly  the  door 
opened,  and  Colonel  Worsley  entered,  followed  by 
more  than  twenty  mu.sketeers.  ‘ This,’  cried  Sir 
Henry  Vane,  ‘is  not  honest;  it  is  against  morality 
and  common  honesty.’  ‘ Sir  Henry  Vane,’  replied 
Cromwell  ; ‘ 0,  Sir  Henry  Vane ! The  Lord  deliver 
me  from  Sir  Henry  Vane!  He  might  have  prevented 
thi.s.  But  he  is  a juggler,  and  has  not  common  honesty 
himself!’  From  V'ane  he  directed  his  discourse  to 
Whitelock,  on  whom  he  poured  a torrent  of  abuse; 
then  pointing  to  Chaloner,  ‘There,’  he  cried,  ‘ sits  a 
drunkard;’  next  to  Marten  and  Wentworth,  ‘There 
are  two  whoremasters  ;’  and  afterwards  selecting 
different  members  in  succession,  described  them  as 
dishonest  and  corrupt  livers,  a shame  and  scandal  to 
the  profession  of  the  gospel.  Suddenly,  however, 
checking  him.self,  he  turned  to  the  guard  and  ordered 
them  to  clear  the  house.  At  these  words  Colonel 
Harri.son  took  the  sjieaker  by  the  hand  and  led  him 
from  the  chair  ; Algernon  Sidney  was  next  compelled 
to  quit  his  seat;  and  the  other  membei-s,  eighty  in 
number,  on  the  approach  of  the  military,  rose  aii<l 
moved  towards  the  door.  Cromwell  now  resumed  his 
discourse.  ‘ It  is  you,’  he  exclaimed,  ‘ that  have 
forced  me  to  do  this.  I have  sought  the  Lord  both 
day  and  night  that  he  would  inther  slay  me  than 
put  me  on  tbe  doing  of  this  work.’  Alderman  .-kllan 
took  advantage  of  these  words  to  observe,  that  it  was 
not  yet  too  late  to  undo  what  had  been  done ; but 
Cromwell  instantly  charged  him  with  peculation,  and 
gave  him  into  custody.  When  all  were  gone,  fixing 
his  eye  on  the  mace,  ‘ What,’  said  he,  ‘ shall  we  do 
with  this  fool’s  bauble  ? Here,  carry  it  away.’  Then, 
taking  the  act  of  dissolution  from  the  clerk,  he  or- 
dered the  doors  to  be  locked,  and,  accompanied  by 
the  military,  returned  to  Whitehall. 

That  afternoon  the  members  of  the  council  assem- 
bled in  their  usual  place  of  meeting.  Bradshaw  had 
just  taken  the  chair,  when  the  lord-general  entered, 
and  told  them  that  if  they  were  there  as  private  in- 
dividuals, they  were  welcome  : but  if  as  the  Council 
of  State,  they  must  know  that  the  parlianjcnt  was 
dissolved,  and  with  it  also  the  council.  ‘ Sir,’  replied 
Bradshaw,  with  the  spirit  of  an  ancient  Roman,  ‘ we 
have  heard  what  you  did  at  the  house  this  morning, 
and  before  many  hours  all  England  will  know  it. 
But,  sir,  you  are  mistaken  to  think  that  the  parlia- 
ment is  di.ssolved.  No  power  under  heaven  can  dis- 
solve them  but  themselves  ; therefore,  take  you  notice 
of  that.’  After  this  protest  they  withdrew.  Thus, 
by  the  parricidal  hands  of  its  own  children,  perished 
tbe  Long  Parliament,  which,  under  a variety  of  forms, 
had,  for  more  than  twelve  years,  defended  and  in- 
vaded the  liberties  of  the  nation.  It  fell  without  a 
struggle  or  a groan,  unpitied  and  unregretted.  The 
members  slunk  away  to  their  homes,  where  they  sought 
by  submission  to  purchase  the  forbearance  of  their 
new  master ; and  their  partisans,  if  partisans  they 
had,  reserved  themselves  in  silence  for  a day  of  retri- 
bution, which  came  not  before  Cromwell  slept  in  his 
grave.  The  royalists  congratulated  each  other  on  an 
event  which  they  deemed  a preparatory  step  to  the 
restoration  of  the  king ; the  army  and  navy,  in  nu- 

641 

iKO.M  171)0  C A OJ’'  TILL  Tin;  1 1 .lb 


merous  luldrertsea,  uccliirod  that  they  would  live  and 
die,  stand  and  fall,  with  the  loril-t'oticral  ; and  in 
every  ]>art  of  the  country  the  conj;rc<;ations  of  the 
■saint.s  magnified  the  arm  of  the  Lord,  which  had 
broken  the  mighty,  that  in  lieu  of  the  sway  of  mortal 
men,  the  fifth  monarchy,  th*  reign  of  Christ  might  be 
established  on  earth. 

It  would,  however,  be  unjuj  ;o  the  memory  of  those 
who  exercised  the  supreme  p wer  after  the  death  of 
the  king,  not  to  acknowledge  that  there  existed  among 
them  men  capable  of  wielding  with  energy  the  desti- 
nies of  a great  empire.  They  governed  only  four 
years ; yet,  under  their  auspices,  the  conquests  of 
Ireland  and  Scotlainl  were  achieved,  and  a navy  was 
created,  the  rival  of  that  of  Holland  and  the  terror 
of  the  rest  of  Europe.  But  there  existed  an  essential 
error  in  their  form  of  goveniment.  Deliberative  as- 
semblies are  always  slow  in  their  proceedings  ; yet 
the  pleasure  of  parliament,  as  the  supreme  power,  tvas 
to  be  taken  on  every  subject  connected  with  the  foreign 
relations  or  the  internal  administration  of  the  country; 
and  hence  it  ha]ipeneil,  that  among  the  immense  va- 
riety of  questions  which  came  before  it,  those  com- 
manded immediate  attention  which  were  deemed  of 
immediate  necessity  ; while  the  others,  though  often 
of  the  highest  importance  to  the  national  welfare, 
were  first  postponed,  then  neglected,  and  ultimately 
forgotten.  To  this  habit  of  ju-ocrastination  was  per- 
haps owing  the  extinction  of  its  authority.  It  dis- 
appointed the  hopes  of  the  country,  and  supplied 
Cromwell  with  the  most  plausible  arguments  in  de- 
fence of  his  conduct. 

Besides  his  elaborate  ‘ History  of  England,’  Dr  Lin- 
gard  is  author  of  a work  evincing  great  erudition 
and  research,  on  the  Antiquities  of  the  Anglo-tSaxon 
Church,  published  in  1809. 

The  great  epoch  of  the  English  Commonwealth, 
and  the  struggle  by  which  it  was  preceded,  has  been 
illustrated  by  Ma  OKonoF.  Brodie’s  History  of  the 
British  Empire  from  the  Accession  of  Charles  I.  to  the 
Bestoration,  four  volumes,  1822.  and  by  Mr  Godwin’s 
History  of  the  Commonwealth  of  England,  four  volumes, 
1824-27.  The  former  work  is  chiefly  devoted  to  an 
exposure  of  the  errors  and  misrepresentations  of 
Hume;  while  Mr  Godwin  writes  too  much  in  the 
spirit  of  a partisan,  without  the  calmness  and  dignity 
of  the  historian.  Both  works,  however,  afford  new 
and  important  facts  and  illustrations  of  the  momen- 
tous period  of  which  they  treat. 

The  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  by  Sir  Francis 
Palcrave,  1831.  and  the  same  author’s  elaborate 
account  of  the  Rise  and  Progress  of  the  English  Com- 
monwealth— Anglo-Saxon  Period,  are  curious  and  valu- 
able works.  The  history  and  literature  of  tlie  An- 
glo-Saxons had  long  been  neglected  ; hut  some  ac- 
complished scholars,  following  Mr  Sharon  Turner, 
have  recently  mastered  the  difficulties  attendant  on 
such  a study,  and  introduced  us  more  nearly  to  those 
founders  of  the  English  character  and  language.  Mr 
Conybeare’s  Illustrations  of  Anglo-Saxon  Poetry,  the 
valuable  translation  of  the  Saxon  Chronicle  by  Mr 
Ingram,  the  Rev.  Mr  Bosworth’s  Anglo-Sason 
Grammar,  and  various  works  by  Sir  Francis  Pal- 
grave  and  Mr  Thomas  Wright,  have  materially 
aided  in  this  resuscitation. 

Mr  Sodthey’s  History  of  Brazil,  three  volumes 
quarto,  1810,  and  his  History  of  the  Peninsular  War, 
two  volumes  quarto,  1823-28,  are  proofs  of  the 
laureate’s  untiring  industry,  and  of  the  easy  and 
admirable  English  style  of  which  he  was  so  consum- 
mate a master.  The  first  is  a valuable  work,  though 
too  diffuse  and  minutely  circumstantial.  The  Me- 
moirs of  Spain  daring  the  Reigns  of  Philip  IV.  and 
Chari ss  II.,  by  Mr  John  Dunlop,  1834;  the  History 
of  India,  by  Mr  James  Mill,  six  volumes,  1819  ; and 


histories  of  Chinalry  ■.au\  of  t',)C  Crusades,  by  Charles 
.Mills,  Esq.  (1789-1827),  may  be  nnnibcri-d  among 
the  u.scful  liiatories  of  the  pcrioil.  Mr  James  .Mill’s 
‘ History  of  India’  is,  indceii,  of  a higher  character, 
being  clear,  well-digested,  and  of  a pliiloso]ihical  tone 
and  spirit. 

HENRY  HALLAM. 

The  greatest  historical  name  in  this  pcriofl,  and 
our  greatest  living  historian,  is  Henry  Halla.m 
author  of  several  elaborate  works.  His  fir.st  was  a 
View  of  the  State  of  Europe  during  the  Miitdle  Ages, 
two  volumes  quarto,  1818,  being  an  account  of  tlio 
progress  of  Europe  from  the  middle  of  the  fifth  to 
the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century.  In  1827  he  pub- 
lished The  Constitutional  History  of  England  from  itu. 
Accession  of  Henry  VII.  to  the  Death  of  George  11., 
also  in  two  volumes;  and  in  1837-38  an  Int/oduction 
to  the  Literature  of  Europe  in  the  Fifteenth,  Sixteenth, 
and  Seventeenth  Centuries,  ir  four  volumes.  With 
vast  stores  of  knowledge,  and  indef.itigahle  ajiplica- 
tion,  Mr  Hallam  pus.sesses  a clear  and  independent 
judgment,  and  a style  grave  and  impressive,  yet 
enriched  with  occasional  imagery  and  rhetorical 
graces.  His  introduction  to  the  ‘Literature  of  Eu- 
rope’ is  a great  monument  of  his  erudition.  His 
knowledge  of  the  language  and  literature  of  each 
nation  is  critical  and  profound,  and  liis  opinions  are 
conveyed  in  a style  remarkable  fur  its  succinctness 
and  perspicuous  beauty.  In  his  two  first  works,  Mr 
Hallam’s  views  of  political  questions  are  those  gene- 
rally adojited  by  the  Whig  party,  but  are  stated  with 
calmness  and  moderation.  He  is  peculiarly  a sup- 
porter of  principles,  not  of  men,  and  he  judges  of  cha- 
racters without  party  prejudice  or  passion. 

[Effects  of  the  Feudal  Systeml\ 

[From  the  ‘ View  of  the  Middle  Ages.*) 

It  is  the  previous  state  of  .society,  under  the  grand- 
children of  Charlemagne,  which  we  must  always  keep 
in  mind,  if  we  would  appreciate  the  effects  of  the 
feudal  system  upon  the  welfare  of  mankind.  The 
institutions  of  the  eleventh  century  must  be  compared 
with  those  of  the  ninth,  not  with  the  advanced  civi- 
lisation of  modern  times.  The  state  of  anarchy  which 
we  usually  term  feudal,  was  the  natural  result  of  a 
vast  and  barbarous  empire  feebly  administered,  and 
the  cause,  rather  than  the  elfect,  of  the  general  esta- 
blishment of  feudal  tenures.  Thqse,  by  preserving 
the  mutual  relations  of  the  whole,  kept  alive  the  feel- 
ing of  a common  country  and  common  duties ; and 
settled,  after  the  lapse  of  ages,  into  the  free  constitu- 
tion of  England,  the  firm  monarchy  of  France,  and 
the  federal  union  of  Germany. 

The  utility  of  any  form  of  policy  may  be  estimated 
by  its  effects  upon  national  greatness  and  .security, 
upon  civil  liberty  and  private  rights,  upon  the  tran- 
quillity and  order  of  society,  upon  the  inciease  and 
difi’usion  of  wealth,  or  upon  the  general  tone  of  moral 
.senthnent  and  energy.  The  feudal  constitution  was 
little  adapted  for  the  defence  of  a miglity  kingdom, 
far  less  for  schemes  of  conquest.  But  as  it  prevailed 
alike  in  several  adjacent  countries,  none  had  anytliing 
to  fear  from  the  military  superiority  of  its  neighbours. 
It  was  this  inefficiency  of  the  feudal  militia,  perhaps, 
that  saved  Europe,  during  the  middle  ages,  from  the 
danger  of  universal  monarchy.  In  times  when  princes 
had  little  notions  of  confederacies  for  mutual  protec- 
tion, it  is  hard  to  say  what  might  not  have  been  the 
successes  of  an  Otho,  a Frederic,  or  a Philip  Augustus, 
if  they  could  have  wielded  the  whole  force  of  theii 
subjects  whenever  their  ambition  required.  If  an 
empire  equally  extensive  with  that  of  Charlemagne, 

642 


HISTORIANS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


COI.ONKL  NAPIER. 


I ftiul  supported  by  luilitary  despotism,  had  been  formed 
about  the  twelfth  or  thirteenth  centuries,  the  seeds  of 
I commeret  and  liberty,  just  then  beginning  to  shoot, 

' would  have  perished  ; and  Europe,  reduced  to  a bar- 
I barous  servitude,  might  have  fallen  before  the  free 
barbarians  of  Tartary. 

I If  we  look  at  the  feudal  polity  as  a scheme  of  civil 
I freedom,  it  bears  a noble  countenance.  To  the  feudal 
j law  it  is  owing  that  the  very  names  of  right  and 

, privilege  were  not  swept  away,  as  in  Asia,  by  the 

desolating  hand  of  power.  The  tyranny  which,  on 
every  favourable  moment,  was  breaking  through  all 
barriers,  would  have  rioted  without  control,  if,  when 
the  people  were  poor  and  disunited,  the  nobility  had 
not  been  brave  and  free.  So  far  as  the  sphere  of 
feudality  extended,  it  diffused  the  spirit  of  liberty 
and  the  notions  of  private  right.  Every  one  will 
acknowledge  this  who  considers  the  limitations  of  the 
services  of  vassalage,  so  cautiously  marked  in  those 
law-books  which  are  the  records  of  customs  ; the  reci- 
procity of  obligation  between  the  lord  and  his  tenant ; 
the  consent  required  in  every  measure  of  a legislative 
jr  general  nature  ; the  security',  above  all,  which  every 
vassal  found  in  the  administration  of  justice  by  his 
peers,  and  even  (we  may  in  this  sense  say)  in  the  trial 
by  combat.  The  bulk  of  the  people,  it  is  true,  were 
degraded  by  servitude ; but  this  had  no  connexion 
with  the  feudal  tenures. 

The  ])eace  and  good  order  of  society  were  not  pro- 
moted by  this  system.  Though  private  wars  did  not 
originate  in  the  feudal  customs,  it  is  impossible  to 
doubt  that  they  were  perpetuated  by  so  convenient  an 
institution,  which  indeed  owed  its  universal  establish- 
ment to  no  other  cause.  And  as  predominant  habits 
of  w.arfare  are  totally  irreconcilable  with  those  of 
industry,  not  merely  by  the  immediate  works  of  de- 
struction which  render  its  efforts  unavailing,  but 
through  that  contempt  of  peaceful  occupations  which 
they  produce,  the  feudal  system  must  have  been  in- 
trinsically adverse  to  .the  accumulation  of  wealth, 
and  the  improvement  of  those  arts  which  mitigate  the 
evils  or  abridge  the  labours  of  mankind. 

But,  as  a school  of  moral  discipline,  the  feudal 
institutions  were  perhaps  most  to  be  valued.  Society 
had  sunk,  for  several  centuries  after  the  dissolution 
of  the  Roman  empire,  into  a condition  of  utter  de- 
pravity; where,  if  any  vices  could  be  selected  as  more 
eminently  characteristic  than  others,  they  were  false- 
■ hood,  treachery,  and  ingratitude.  In  slowly  purging 
off  the  lees  of  this  extreme  corruption,  the  feudal 
spirit  exerted  its  ameliorating  influence.  Violation 
of  faith  stood  first  in  the  catalogue  of  crimes,  most 
repugnant  to  the  very  essence  of  a feudal  tenure, 
most  severely  and  promptly  avenged,  most  branded 
by  general  infamy.  The  feudal  law-books  breathe 
throughout  a spirit  of  honourable  obligation.  The 
feudal  course  of  jurisdiction  promoted,  what  trial  by 
peers  is  peculiarly  calculated  to  promote,  a keener 
feeling,  as  well  as  readier  perception,  of  moral  as  well 
as  of  legal  distinctions.  In  the  reciprocal  services  of 
I lord  and  vassal,  there  was  ample  scope  for  every 
I magnanimous  and  disinterested  energy.  The  heart 
of  man,  when  placed  in  circumstances  that  have  a 
tendency  to  excite  them,  will  seldom  be  deficient  in 
such  sentiments.  No  occasions  could  be  more  favour- 
able than  the  protection  of  a faithful  supporter,  or 
; the  defence  of  a beneficent  sovereign,  against  such 
I poweiful  aggression  as  left  little  prospect  except  of 
I sharing  in  his  ruin. 

j P.  F.  TTTI.ER — COLONEL  NAPIER,  &C. 


examine  the  most  authentic  sources  of  information, 
and  to  convey  a true  i)icture  of  the  times,  without 
prepossession  or  partiality.  He  commences  with  tha 
accession  of  Alexander  HI.,  because  it  is  at  that 
period  that  our  national  annals  become  particularly 
interesting  to  the  general  reader.  The  first  volume 
of  Mr  Tytler’s  history  was  published  in  1828,  and  a 
continuation  has  since  appeared  at  intervals,  con- 
ducting the  narrative  to  the  year  1603,  when  James 
VI.  ascended  the  throne  of  England.  The  style  of 
the  history  is  plain  and  perspicuous,  with  sufficient 
animation  to  keep  alive  the  attention  of  the  reader. 
Jlr  Tytler  has  added  considerably  to  the  amount 
and  correctness  of  our  knowledge  of  Scottish  history. 
He  has  taken  up  a few  doubtful  opinions  on  ques- 
tions of  fact;  but  the  industry  and  talent  he  has 
evinced  entitle  him  to  the  lasting  gratitude  of  his 
countrymen.  A second  edition  of  this  work,  up 
to  the  period  already  mentioned,  extends  to  nine 
volumes. 

The  History  of  the  War  in  the  Peninsula,  and  in  the 
South  of  France,  from  the  year  1807  to  the  year 

1814,  in  six  volumes,  1828-40,  by  Colonel  W.  F.  P. 
Napier,  is  acknowledged  to  be  the  most  valuable 
record  of  that  w-ar  which  England  waged  against  the 
power  of  Napoleon.  Mr  Southey  had  previously 
written  a history  of  this  period,  but  it  vvas  heavy  and 
uninteresting,  and  is  now  rarely  met  with.  Colonel 
Napier  was  an  actor  in  the  great  struggle  he  records, 
and  peculiarly  conversant  with  the  art  of  war.  The 
most  ample  testimony  has  been  borne  to  the  accu- 
r;icy  of  the  historian's  statements,  and  to  the  dili- 
gence and  acuteness  with  which  he  has  collected  his 
materials.  Further  light  has  been  thrown  on  the 
Spanish  war,  as  well  as  on  the  whole  of  our  othei 
military  operations  from  1799  to  1818,  hy  the  pub 
lication  of  The  Despatches  of  Field-Marshal  the  Duh, 
of  Wellington,  by  Lieutenant-Colonel  Gurwood 
twelve  volumes,  1836-8.  The  skill,  moderation,  am;, 
energy  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  are  strikingly 
illustrated  by  this  compilation.  ‘No  man  ever  be 
fore,’  s.ays  a critic  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  ‘ hac 
the  gratification  of  himself  witnessing  the  formatinr 
of  such  a monument  to  his  glory.  His  des])atcnt  i 
will  continue  to  furnish,  through  every  age,  lessons 
of  practical  wisdom  which  cannot  be  too  highly 
prized  by  public  men  of  every  station  ; whilst  the^ 
will  supply  to  military  commanders,  in  particular, 
examples  for  their  guidance  which  they  cannot  too 
carefully  study,  nor  too  anxiously  endeavour  to 
emulate.’ 

Ample  materials  for  a comprehensive  and  complete 
history  of  the  revolutionary  war  had  been  furnished, 
or  existed  in  national  repositories,  and  a work  ol 
this  kind  was  undertaken  by  A.  Alison,  Esq.,  a 
gentleman  of  the  Scottish  bar.  Mr  Alison’s  History 
of  Europe  from  the  Commencement  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution in  1789  to  the  Restoration  of  the  Bourbons  in 

1815,  was  completed  in  1842  in  ten  volumes.  Excep- 
tions may  be  taken  to  parts  of  this  work  as  prolix  in 
style  and  partial  in  statement.  His  .account  of  the 
battle,  of  Waterloo,  for  example,  has  been  questioned 
bj'the  highest  living  authority  on  that  subject;  but, 
taken  as  a whole,  INIr  Alison’s  history  is  honourable 
to  his  talents,  no  less  than  his  industry.  His  style 
is  generally  clear  and  animated,  and  his  arrangement 
of  his  vast  materials  orderly,  and  well  adapted  for 
effect. 

The  following  are  also  recent  contributions  to  this 
valuable  department  of  our  literature : — A History  of 
England  from  the  Peace  of  Utrecht  to  the  Peace  of  Aix- 
la-Chapelle,  and  a History  of  the  IFar  of  the  Succes- 
sion in  Spain,  both  hy  Lord  Mahon  ; a History  of 
China,  by  the  Rev.  Charles  Gutzlaff  ; a History 
of  the  Manners  and  Customs  of  Ancient  Greece,  by 

613 


I The  Histoiy  of  Scotland,  by  Patrick  Fraser  Tyt- 
I L£R,  Esq.  is  an  attempt  to  ‘ build  the  history  of  that 
country  upon  unquestionable  muniments.’  The 
author  professes  to  have  anxiously  endeavoured  to 


PROM  17B0  CYCLOPiKDIA  OF  tili  tub  PBt^KNT  i;«i 


Jakikh  St  John;  nj/ixlon/  nf  ('liristiiiriil;/  from  the 
Ihrlh  of  Chrint  to  the  A/iolitio/i  of  J’afjonism  in  the  Hu- 
VKtn  Hmpire,  by  tlie  Rkv.  II.  II.  j\Ill,MAN  ; n History 
of  Iiotiu  (the  llimloo  ;itid  Jlobiinimtdiin  periods),  by 
tlu;  lIuN.  MoL'Nt.stuart  lOi.i’lii.vsTONE ; ii  History 
of  Modern  (ireece,  by  Jamk.s  K.meuson  ; a.  JJistory  <f 
the  Hciyn  of  I'erdinnnd  iiiiil  Isalhlla  of  Spain,  by  W. 
II.  I’i'.ivScoT  (a  very  iiitercstiof;  and  valuable  work), 
and  a History  of  the  (’ontjnest  of  J\I eTico,  by  the  same 
author;  a History  (f  the  Christian  Church,  by  Da  K. 
Hiiuton.  'I’be  various  works  written  to  simplify 
bistory,  ami  adapt  its  details  to  young  and  unin- 
structed  readers,  far  exceed  enumeration. 

B I 0 G R A r II  E H S. 

The  French  have  cultivated  biography  with  more 
diligence  than  the  English;  but  much  has  been  done 
of  late  years  to  remedy  this  defect  in  our  national 
literature.  Individual  specimens  of  great  value  we 
have  long  possessed.  Tlie  lives  of  Donne,  Wotton, 
Hooker,  and  Herbert,  by  Izaak  \V;ilton,  are  entitled 
to  the  highest  praise  for  the  fulness  of  their  domestic 
details,  no  less  than  for  the  fine  simplicity  and  origi- 
nality of  their  style.  The  lives  of  the  poets  by  .lohn- 
son,  and  the  occasional  memoirs  by  Goldsmith, 
Mallet,  and  other  authors,  are  either  too  general  or 
too  critical  to  satisfy  the  reader  as  representations 
of  the  daily  life,  habits,  and  opinions  of  those  whom 
we  venerate  or  admire.  Mason’s  life  of  Gray  was  a 
vast  improvement  on  former  biographies,  as  the  in- 
teresting and  characteristic  correspondence  of  the 
poet  and  his  literary  diary  and  journal.s,  bring  him 
licrsone.lly  before  us  pursuing  the  silent  course  of 
ills  studies,  or  mingling  occasionally  as  a retired 
scholar  in  the  busy  world  around  him.  The  success 
of  Mason’s  bold  and  wise  experiment  prompted  an- 
other and  more  com[dete  work — the  life  of  Dr  .John- 
son b}'  Boswell.  ,Ia5ies  Boswei.i,  (1740-179,5)  was 
by  birth  and  educ;ition  a gentlennui  of  rank  and 
station — the  son  of  a Scottish  judge,  and  heir  to  an 
ancient  family  and  estate.  He  had  studied  for  the 


.James  BoewelL 


b.-T,  bat  being  strongly  impressed  with  admiratitm 
! of  the  writings  and  character  of  Dr  Johnson,  he 
attjH  bed  him.-cif  t.i  the  rugged  mor.alist,  sootbcii 
and  .tUittercd  his  irritability,  submitted  to  his  literary  i 


despotism  and  caprice;  and,  sc  Julously  cultiv:iting 
his  acquaintance  and  society  whenever  his  engage- 
ments permitted,  he  took  faithful  and  copious  mde.s 
of  his  conversation.  In  1773  he  accompanieii  .lohn- 
son  to  the  Hebrides,  .and  after  the  death  of  the  latter, 
he  published,  in  178.'i,  his  journal  of  the  tour,  being 
a record  of  e.ach  day’s  occurrences,  and  of  the  more 
striking  parts  of  .Johnson’s  conversation.  'J'he  work 
was  eminently  successful;  and  in  1791  Boswell  gave 
to  the  world  his  full-length  portrait  of  his  friend. 
The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.,  in  two  volumes 
(piarto.  A second  edition  was  published  in  1794, 
and  the  author  was  engaged  in  pre|iaring  a third 
when  he  died.  A great  number  of  editions  has 
since  been  printed,  the  latest  of  vhich  was  edited 
by  Mr  .1.  W.  Crokcr.  Anecdotes  and  recolludions 
of  .Johnson  were  also  published  by  Mrs  J’iozzi,  .Sir 
John  Hawkins,  Malone,  Miss  Reynolds,  &c.  Bos- 
well had  awakened  public  curiosity,  and  shown  how 
mui'h  wit,  wisdom,  and  sagacity,  joined  to  real  worth 
and  benevolence,  were  concealed  under  the  persomd 
oddities  and  ungainly  exterior  of  .Johnson.  Never 
was  there  so  complete  a portraiture  of  any  single 
individual.  The  whole  time  spent  by  Bo.swill  in 
the  society  of  his  illustrious  friend  did  not  ;imount 
to  more  th:in  nine  months,  yet  so  diligent  was  he  in 
writing  and  inquiring — so  thoroughly  did  he  devote 
himself  to  his  subject,  that,  notwithstanding  his 
limited  opportunities,  and  his  mediocre  abilities,  he 
was  able  to  produce  what  all  mankind  have  agreed 
in  considering  the  best  biography  in  existence. 
Tliough  vain,  shallow,  and  conceited,  B</swell  had 
taste  enough  to  discern  the  racy  vigour  and  richness 
of  Johnson’s  conversation,  and  he  was  observnint 
enough  to  tr.ace  the  peculiarities  of  his  character 
and  temperament.  He  forced  himself  into  society, 
and  neglected  his  family  and  his  profession,  to  meet 
his  friend;  and  he  was  content  to  be  ridiculed  and 
slighted,  so  that  he  could  thereby  add  one  page  to 
his  journal,  or  one  scrap  of  Vriting  to  his  collection. 
He  sometimes  sat  up  three  nights  in  a week  to  fulfil 
his  task,  and  hence  there  is  a freshness  and  truth 
in  his  notes  and  impressions  which  attest  their 
fidelity.  His  work  introduces  us  to  a great  variety 
of  living  diameters,  who  speak,  walk,  and  think,  as 
it  were,  in  our  presence  ; and  besides  furnishing  us 
with  useful,  .aifecting,  and  ennobling  lessons  of 
morality,  live  over  again  the  past  for  the  delight 
and  entertainment  of  countless  generations  of 
readers. 

With  a pardonable  and  engaging  egotism,  which 
forms  an  interesting  feature  in  his  character,  the 
historian  Gibbon  had  made  severnl  sketches  of  his 
own  life  and  studies.  From  these  materials,  and 
embodying  verbatim  the  most  valuable  portions. 
Lord  Sheffieed  compiled  a memoir,  which  was  pub- 
lished, with  the  miscellaneous  works  of  Gibbon,  in 
179.5.  A number  of  the  historian’s  letters  were  al.so 
included  in  this  collection  ; but  the  most  important 
and  interesting  part  of  the  work  is  his  journal  and 
diary,  giving  an  account  of  his  literary  occupations. 
The  calm  unshrinking  perseverance  and  untiring 
energy  of  Gibbon  form  a noble  example  to  all  lite- 
rary students  ; and  where  he  writes  of  his  own 
personal  history  and  opinions,  his  lofty  philo.siqihical 
style  never  forsakes  him.  'J'hus  he  opens  his  slight 
memoir  in  the  following  strain  : — 

‘ A lively  desire  of  knowing  and  of  recording  our 
ancestors  so  generally  prevails,  that  it  must  depend 
on  the  influence  of  some  common  princiide  in  the 
minds  of  men.  We  seem  to  have  lived  in  the  per- 
sons of  our  forefathers ; it  is  the  lalxmr  and  reward 
c.f  vanity  to  extend  the  term  of  this  ideal  longevity. 
Our  imagination  is  always  active  to  enlarge  the 
narrow  circle  in  which  nature  has  confined  us. 

C44 


liioi,  RAPMKRS. 


ENCUtill  LJ'l  KllATUUK. 
1 


HIOGKAIMIKHS. 


Fifty  or  it  liuiulrt'd  yours  iniiy  bo  iillotted  to  uii  in- 
ilividiiul,  but  we  step  forwards  beyond  deatli  with 
sueb  hopes  as  religion  and  pliilosophy  will  suggest ; 
and  we  till  up  the  silent  vaeaney  that  precedes  our 
birth,  by  associating  ourselves  to  the  authors  of  our 
existence.  Our  calmer  judgment  will  rather  tend 
I to  moderate  than  to  suppress  the  pride  of  an  ancient 

I and  worthy  race.  The  satirist  may  laugh,  the  i>hi- 
losopher  may  preach,  but  reason  herself  will  respect 
the  prejudices  and  habits  which  have  been  conse- 
crated by  the  experience  of  mankind.’ 

Gibbon  state.s,  that  before  entering  upon  the 
perusal  of  a book,  he  wrote  down  or  considered  what 
he  knew  of  the  subject,  and  afterwards  examined 
how  much  the  author  had  added  to  his  stock  of 
knowledge.  A severe  test  for  some  authors  I From 
i habits  like  this  sprung  the  Decline  and  Fall. 

I I In  ISOO  Dr  .Iames  Currie  (1756-180.5)  published 
; I his  edition  of  the  works  of  Burns  for  the  benefit  of 
, I the  poet’s  family,  and  enriched  it  with  an  excellent 
j j memoir,  that  has  served  for  the  groundwork  of 
i I many  subsequent  lives  of  Burns.  'The  candour  and 

' ability’  disidayed  by  Currie  have  scarcely  been  suffi- 
j ciently  appreciated.  Such  a task  was  new  to  him, 
and  was  beset  with  difficulties.  He  believed  that 
I Burn.s’s  misfortunes  arose  chiefly  from  his  errors — 

! he  lived  at  a time  when  this  impression  was  strongly 
j prevalent — yet  he  touched  on  the  subject  of  tbe 

poet’s  frailties  with  delicacy  and  tenderness.  He 
i estimated  his  genius  highly  as  a great  poet,  without 
reference  to  his  personal  position,  and  thus  in  some 
! measure  .anticipated  the  more  unequivocal  award  of 
posterity.  His  remarks  on  Scottish  poetry,  and  on 
I the  condition  of  the  Scottish  peasantry,  appear  now 
I somewhat  prolix  and  affected;  but  at  the  time  they 
! were  written,  they  tended  to  interest  and  inform  the 
I English  reader,  and  to  forward  the  author’s  bene- 
volent object  in  extending  the  sale  of  the  poet’s 
I works.  Memoirs  of  Burns  have  since  been  written 
i by  Mr  Lockhart,  Mr  Allan  Cunningham,  and  various 
other  authors,  who  h.ave  added  additional  facts  to 
those  related  by  Currie,  and  new  critical  disquisi- 
I tions  on  the  character  and  genius  of  Burns.  It 
I cannot  be  said,  however,  that  any  of  the  number 
1 have  composed  a more  able,  luminous,  or  eloquent 
; biography’  than  that  of  the  original  editor. 

After  the  death  of  Cowper  in  1800,  every  poetical 
reader  was  anxious  to  learn  the  personal  history 
and  misfortunes  of  a poet  who  h.ad  afforded  such 
exquisite  glimpses  of  his  own  life  and  habits,  and 
the  amiable  traits  of  whose  character  shone  so  con- 
spicuously in  his  verse.  His  letters  and  manuscripts 
were  placed  at  the  disposal  of  Hayley,  whose  talents 
I as  a poet  were  then  greatly  overrated,  but  who  had 
I personally  known  Cowper.  Accordingly,  in  1803, 

I Hay  ley  published  memoirs  of  the  poet  and  his  cor- 
I respondence  in  four  volumes.  The  work  was  a 
1 valuable  contribution  to  English  biography.  The 
inimitable  letters  of  Cowper  were  themselves  a 
treasure  beyond  price ; and  Hayley’s  prose,  though 
often  poor  enough,  was  better  than  his  poetry. 
lYhat  the  ‘ hermit  of  Eartham’  left  undone  has  since 
! been  supplied  by  Southey’,  who  in  1835  gave  the 
j world  an  edition  of  Cowper  in  fifteen  volumes, 

! about  three  of  which  are  filled  with  a life  and  notes, 
j The  lives  of  both  Hayley  and  Southey  are  written 
in  the  style  of  Mason’s  memoir,  letters  being  freely 
] interspersed  throughout  the  narrative.  Of  a similar 

( description,  but  not  to  be  compared  with  these  in 

I point  of  interest  or  e.xecution,  is  the  life  of  Dr 

j Beattie,  by  Sir  William  Forbes,  published  in  1806, 

I in  two  vidumes. 

i I In  the  same  year  Lord  Holland  published  an 
j Acert  nt  i f the  Life  and  Writings  of  Lope  Felix  de 
I fVyn,  the  celebrated  Spanish  dramatist.  De  Vega 


was  one  of  the  most  fertile  writers  upon  record  : his 
miscellaneous  works  fill  twenty-two  quarto  volumes, 
and  his  dramas  twenty-five  volumes.  He  died  in 
1635,  aged  seventy-three.  His  fame  has  been 
eclipsed  by’ abler  Spanish  writers,  but  De  Vega  gave 
a great  impulse  to  the  literature  of  his  nation,  and 
is  considered  the  parent  of  the  continental  drama. 
The  amiable  and  accomplished  nobleman  who  re- 
corded the  life  of  this  Spanish  prodigy  has  himself 
paid  the  debt  of  nature  ; he  died  at  Holland  house, 
October  23,  1840,  aged  sixty’-seven.  Lord  Holland 
was  a generous  jiatron  of  literature  and  art.  Hol- 
land house  was  but  another  name  for  refined  hospi- 
tality’ and  social  freedom,  in  which  men  of  all  shades 
of  opinion  participated.  As  a literary  man,  the 
noble  lord  has  left  few  or  no  memorials  that  will 
survive ; but  he  will  long  be  remembered  as  a gene- 
rous-hearted English  nobleman,  who,  with  princely 
munificence  and  varied  accomplishments,  ever  felt 
a strong  interest  in  the  welfare  of  the  great  mass  of 
the  people;  w’lio  was  an  intrepid  advocate  of  poim- 
lar  riglits  in  the  most  diflicult  and  trying  times; 
and  who,  amidst  all  his  courtesy’  and  hospitality, 
held  fast  his  integrity  and  consistency’  to  the  last. 

The  Life  of  Nelson,  by’  Southey,  published  in  two 
small  volumes  (since  compressed  into  one)  in  1813, 
rose  into  instant  and  universal  favour,  and  may’  be 
considered  as  one  of  our  standard  popular  bio- 
graphies. Its  merit  consists  in  the  clearness  and 
beautiful  simplicity  of  its  sty  le,  and  its  lucid  arrange- 
ment of  facts,  omitting  all  that  is  unimportant  or 
strictly  technical.  Mr  Southey  aftersvards  pub- 
lished a Life  of  Wesley,  the  celebrated  founder  ^ 
the  Methodists,  in  which  he  evinces  a minute  ac- 
quaintance with  the  religious  controversies  and 
publications  of  that  period,  joined  to  the  art  of  the 
biographer,  in  giving  prominence  and  effect  to  his 
delineations.  His  sketches  of  field-preaching  and 
lay  preachers  present  some  curious  and  interesting 
pictures  of  human  nature  under  strong  excitement. 
The  same  author  contributed  a series  of  lives  of 
British  admirals  to  the  Cabinet  Cyclopaidia,  edited 
by  Dr  Lardner. 

The  most  valuable  historical  biography  of  this 
period  is  the  Life  of  John  Knox,  by  Dii  Thomas 
IM’Crie  (1772-1835),  a Scottish  minister.  Dr 
M’Crie  had  a warm  sy’mpathy’  with  the  senti- 
ments and  opinions  of  his  hero ; and  on  every  point 
of  his  history  he  possessed  the  most  complete  in- 
lormation.  He  devoted  himself  to  his  task  as  to 
a great  Christian  duty,  and  not  only  gave  a com- 
plete account  of  the  principal  events  of  Knox's 
life,  ‘ his  sentiments,  writings,  and  exertions  in 
the  cause  of  religion  and  liberty’,’  but  illustrated, 
with  masterly  ability’,  the  whole  contemporaneous 
history  of  Scotland.  Men  may  differ  as  to  the 
views  taken  by  Dr  M'Crie  of  some  of  those  subjects, 
but  there  can  be  no  variety  of  opinion  as  to  the 
talents  and  learning  he  displayed.  Following  up 
his  historical  and  theological  retrospect,  the  same 
author  afterwards  published  a life  of  Andrew  Mel- 
ville, but  the  subject  is  less  interesting  than  that  of 
his  first  biography.  He  wrote  also  memoirs  of 
Veitch  and  Brysson  (Scottish  ministers,  and  sup- 
porters of  the  Covenant),  and  histories  of  the  Ke- 
forniation  in  Italy  and  in  Spain.  Dr  M’Crie  pub- 
lished, in  1817,  a series  of  papers  in  the  Edinburgh 
Christian  Instructor,  containing  a vindication  of  the 
Covenanters  from  the  distorted  view  which  he  be- 
lieved Sir  Walter  Scott  to  have  given  of  them  in  his 
tale  of  Old  Mortality’.  Sir  Walter  replied  anony- 
mously, by  reviewing  his  own  work  in  the  Quar- 
terly Keview ! There  were  faults  and  absurdities 
on  the  side  both  of  the  Covenanters  and  the  royalists, 
but  the  cavalier  predilections  of  the  great  novelist 

645 


FROM  171i0  CVCI^OI’^iDl A OF  till  tiik  i’rkse.nt  timr. 


cortiiiiily  led  him  to  loiik  witli  more  refianl  on  tlie 
hitter — licartless  iind  cruel  us  they  were — tliaii  on 
tlie  poor  iiersccnted  peasants. 

The  (lenend  demand  for  liiocrapliical  composition 
temiited  some  of  onr  most  j)0[iular  orij^inal  writers 
to  emliark  in  this  deli^ditful  department  of  literature. 
Southey,  as  we  have  seen,  was  early  in  the  field  ; 
and  his  more  distinguished  poetical  contemporaries, 
Scott,  Moore,  and  Oampbell,  also  joined.  The  first, 
besides  his  admirable  memoirs  of  Dryden  and  Swift, 
jtrefixed  to  their  works,  contributed  a series  of  lives 
of  the  ICnglish  novelists  to  an  edition  of  their  works 
jmhlished  by  Ballantyne,  which  he  executed  with 
great  taste,  camlour,  and  discrimination.  He  after- 
wards nnilertook  a life  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
which  was  at  first  intended  as  a counterpart  to 
Southey’s  Life  of  Nelson,  but  ultimately  swelled  out 
into  nine  volumes.  The  hurried  composition  of 
this  work,  and  the  habits  of  the  author,  accustomed 
to  the  da/.y.ling  creations  of  fiction,  rather  than  the 
sober  plodding  of  historical  inquiry  and  calm  inves- 
tigation. led  to  many  errors  and  imperfections.  It 
abounds  in  striking  and  eloquent  passages ; the 
battles  of  Napoleon  are  described  with  great  clear- 
ness and  animation  ; and  the  view  taken  of  his 
character  and  talents  is,  on  the  whole,  just  and  im- 
partial, very  dilferent  from  the  manner  in  which 
Scott  had  alluded  to  Napoleon  in  his  ‘ Vision  of 
Don  Hoderick.’  The  great  ditfiuseness  of  the  style, 
however,  and  the  want  of  jihilosophical  analysis, 
render  the  life  of  Napoleon  more  a brilliant  chro- 
nicle of  scenes  and  events  than  a historical  memoir 
worthy  the  genius  of  its  autlior. 

Mr  Moore  has  published  a Life  of  Richard  Briivt- 
let/  Sheridan,  18‘2.t  ; Notices  of  the  Life  of  Lord 
Byron,  1830;  and  Memoirs  of  Lord  Edward  Fitz- 
gerald, 1831.  The  first  of  these  works  is  the  most 
valuable ; the  second  the  most  interesting.  The 
‘Life  of  Byron,’  by  its  intimate  connexion  with 
recent  ev'ents  and  living  persons,  was  a duty  of  v'ery 
delicate  and  diflicult  performance.  'J’his  was  farther 
increased  by  the  freedom  and  licentiousness  of  the 
poet’s  opinions  and  conduct,  and  by  the  versatility 
or  mobility  of  his  mind,  which  changed  with  every 
passing  imimlse  and  impression.  ‘ As  well,’ says  Mr 
Moore,  • from  the  preciiiitance  witli  which  he  gave 
way  to  every  impulse,  as  from  the  passion  he  had  for 
recording  his  own  impressions,  all  those  heteroge- 
neous thoughts,  fantasies,  and  desires  that,  in  other 
men’s  minds,  “ come  like  shadows,  so  depart,”  were 
by  him  fixed  and  embodied  as  they  [iresented  them- 
selves, and  at  once  taking  a shape  cognizable  b}’ 
public  opinion,  either  in  his  actions  or  his  words, 
in  the  hasty'  letter  of  the  moment,  or  the  poem 
for  all  time,  laid  open  such  a range  of  vulnerable 
points  before  his  judges,  as  no  one  individual  ever 
before,  of  himself,  presented.’  Byron  left  ample 
materials  for  his  biographer.  His  absence  from 
England,  and  his  desire  ‘ to  keep  the  minds  of 
the  English  public  for  ever  occupied  about  him 
• — if  not  with  his  merits,  with  his  faults;  if  not  in 
applauding,  in  blaming  him,’  led  him  to  maintain 
a regular  correspondence  with  Mr  Moore  and  his 
publisher  lilr  Murray.  He  also  kept  a journal,  and 
recordeil  memoranda  of  his  opinions,  his  reading, 
&c.  something  in  the  style  of  Burns,  His  letters 
are  rich  and  varied,  but  too  often  display  an  affec- 
tation of  wit  and  smartness,  and  a still  worse  ambi- 
tion of  appearing  more  profligate  than  he  was  in 
reality.  Byron  had  written  memoirs  of  his  own  life, 
which  he  presented  to  Mr  Moore,  and  which  were 
placed  by  the  latter  at  the  disposal  of  Mrs  Leigh, 
the  noble  poet’s  sister  and  executor,  but  which  they, 
from  a sense  of  what  they  thought  due  to  his  me- 
iiory,  consigned  to  the  flames.  The  loss  of  the 


manuscript  is  not  to  be  regretted,  for  much  of  it 
could  never  have  been  published,  and  all  that  was 
valuable  was  repeated  in  the  journals  and  memo- 
randum-books, Mr  Moore’s  ‘ Notices’  are  written 
with  taste  and  modesty,  and  in  very  pure  and  uu- 
affected  English,  As  an  editor  he  preserved  too 
much  of  what  was  worthless  and  unimportant;  as  a 
biographer  he  was  too  indulgent  to  the  faults  of  his 
hero ; yet  who  could  have  wished  a friend  to  dwell 
on  the  errors  of  Byron  ? 

Mr  Campbell,  besides  the  biographies  in  his 
S/tecimens  of  the  Poets,  has  published  a Life  of  Mrs 
Siddons,  the  distinguished  actress,  and  a Life  of 
Petrarch.  The  latter  is  homely  and  earnest,  though 
on  a romantic  and  fanciful  subject.  'I  here  is  a 
reality  about  Campbell’s  biographies  quite  distinct 
from  what  might  be  expected  to  emanate  from  the 
imaginative  poet. 

The  lives  of  Burke  and  Goldsmith,  in  two  volumes 
e.ach,  by  Mr  .Tames  Prior,  are  examples  of  patient 
diligence  and  research,  prompted  by  national  feelings 
and  admiration.  Goldsmith  had  been  dead  half  a 
century  before  the  inquiries  of  his  countryman  and 
biographer  began,  yet  he  has  collected  a vast  num- 
ber of  new  facts,  and  jilaced  the  amiable  and  amus 
ing  poet  in  full  length  and  in  full  dress  (quoting 
even  his  tailors’  bills)  before  the  public. 

Amongst  other  additions  to  our  standard  biogra- 
phy may  be  mentioned  the  Life  of  Lord  Clive,  by  Sir 
.John  Malcolm  ; and  the  Life  of  Lord  Clarendon,  by 
Mr  T.  H.  Lister.  The  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
by  Mr  Patrick  Fraser  Tytler  (published  in  one 
volume  in  the  Edinburgh  Cabinet  Library),  is  also 
valuable  for  its  able  defence  of  that  .adventurous  and 
interesting  personage,  and  for  its  careful  digest  of 
state  papers  and  contemporaneous  events,  i'ree 
access  to  all  public  documents  and  libraries  is  now 
easily  obtained,  and  there  is  no  lack  of  desire  on  the 
part  of  authors  to  prosecute,  or  of  the  public  to  re- 
ward these  researches.  A Life  of  Lord  William  Rus- 
sell, by  Lord  Joh.v  Bussell,  is  enriched  with  infor- 
mation from  the  family  papers  at  Woburn  Abbey  ; 
and  from  a similarly  authentic  private  source.  Lord 
Nugent  has  written  Memoirs  of  Hampden.  The  Life, 
.Journals,  and  Correspondence  of  Samuel  Pepys,  by  the 
Bkv.  ,J.  S.mith,  records  the  successful  career  of  the 
secretary  to  the  Admiralty  in  the  reigns  of  Charles 
II.  and  James  II.,  and  comprises  a Diary'  kept  by 
Pepys  for  about  ten  years,  which  is  one  of  the  most 
curiously  minute  and  gossiping  journals  in  the  Ian 
guage. 

While  the  most  careful  investigation  is  directed 
towards  our  classic  authors — Shakspeare,  Milton, 
.Spenser,  Chaucer,  &c.  forming  each  the  subject  of 
numerous  memoirs — scarcely'  a person  of  the  least 
note  has  been  suffered  to  depart  without  the  honours 
of  biography.  'I'he  present  century  has  amjdy 
atoned  for  any  want  of  curiosity  on  the  part  of 
former  generations,  and  there  is  some  danger  that 
this  taste  or  passion  may  be  carried  too  far.  Memoirs 
of  ‘ persons  of  qmility’- — of  wits,  dramatists,  artists, 
and  actors,  appear  every  season.  Authors  have  be- 
come as  familiar  to  us  as  our  personal  as.sociatcs. 
Shy  retired  men  like  Charles  Lamb,  and  dreamy  re- 
cluses like  Coleridge,  have  been  portrayed  in  all 
their  strength  and  weakness.  We  have  lives  ol 
Shelley,  of  Keats,  Ilazlitt,  Hannah  ilore,  Mrs 
Hemans,  Mrs  Maclean  (L.  E.  L.),  of  James  Smith 
(one  of  the  authors  of  ‘The  Rejected  Addresses’), 
of  Monk  Lewis,  Hayley,  and  many  authors  of  less 
distinction.  In  this  influx  of  biographies  worthless 
materials  are  often  elevated  for  a day,  and  the  gra- 
tification of  a prurient  curiosity  or  idle  love  of  gossip 
is  more  aimed  at  than  literary  excellence  or  si-und 
instruction.  The  error,  however,  isoneon  the  right 

04d 


mOGRAPIlCRS. 


KNGUSll  U 


eide.  ‘ Better,’  says  the  traditional  maxim  of  Eng- 
lish law,  ‘ that  nine  guilty  men  should  escape  than 
that  one  innocent  man  should  suffer’ — and  better, 
say  we,  that  nine  useless  lives  should  be  written 
than  that  one  valuable  one  should  be  neglected. 
'I'he  chaff  is  easily  winnowed  from  the  wheat ; and 
even  in  the  memoirs  of  comparatively  insignificant 
persons,  some  precious  truth,  some  lesson  of  dear- 
bought  exi>erience,  may  be  found  treasured  up  for 
‘a  life  beyond  life.’  In  what  maybe  termed  profes- 
sional biography,  fiicts  and  principles  not  known  to 
the  general  reader  are  often  conveyed.  In  lives  like 
those  of  Sir  Samuel  Komilly,  Jlr  Wilberforce,  Mr 
Francis  Horner,  and  Jeremy  Bentham,  new  light  is 
thrown  on  the  characters  of  public  men,  and  on  the 
motives  and  sources  of  public  events.  Statesmen, 
lawyers,  and  philosophers  both  act  and  are  acted 
upon  by  the  age  in  which  they  live,  and,  to  be 
useful,  their  biography  should  be  copious.  In  the 
life  of  Sir  Humphry  Davy  by  his  brother,  and  of 
James  Watt  by  jl.  Arago,  we  have  many  interest- 
ing facts  connected  with  the  progress  of  scientific 
discovery  and  improvement;  and  in  the  lives  of 
Curran,  Grattan,  and  Sir  James  Mackintosh  (each 
in  two  volumes),  by  their  sons,  the  public  history  of 
the  country  is  illustrated.  Sir  John  Barrow’s  lives 
of  Howe  and  Anson  are  excellent  specimens  of  naval 
biography ; and  we  have  also  lengthy  memoirs 
of  Lord  St  Vincent,  Lord  Collingwood,  Sir  Thomas 
Munro,  Sir  John  Moore,  Sir  David  Baird,  Lord 
Exmouth,  Lord  Keppel,  &c.  On  the  subject  of  bio- 
graphy in  general,  we  quote  with  pleasure  an  obser- 
vation of  Mr  Carlyle : — 

‘ If  an  individual  is  re.ally  of  consequence  enough 
to  have  his  life  and  character  recorded  for  public 
remembrance,  we  have  always  been  of  opinion  that 
the  public  ought  to  be  made  acquainted  with  all  the 
inward  springs  and  relations  of  his  character.  How 
did  the  world  and  man’s  life,  from  his  particular 
position,  represent  themselves  to  his  mind?  How 
did  co-existing  circumstances  modify  him  from  with- 
out— how  did  he  modify  these  from  within?  With 
ivhat  endeavours  and  what  efficacy  rule  over  them  ? 
with  what  resistance  and  what  suffering  sink  under 
them  ? In  one  word,  what  and  how  produced  W'as 
the  effect  of  society  on  him?  what  and  how  produced 
was  his  effect  on  society  ? He  who  should  answer 
these  questions  in  regard  to  any  individual,  would, 
as  we  believe,  furnish  a model  of  perfection  in  bio- 
graphy. Few  individuals,  indeed,  can  deserve  such 
a stud}’ ; and  many  lives  will  be  written,  and,  for 
the  gratification  of  innocent  curiosity,  ought  to  be 
written,  and  read,  and  forgotten,  which  are  not  in 
this  sense  biographies.’ 

Fulfilling  this  high  destiny,  and  answering  its 
severe  conditions,  Boswell’s  life  of  Johnson  is  un- 
doubtedly the  most  valuable  biography  we  possess. 
Moore’s  Byron,  the  life  of  Crabbe  by  his  son,  Lock- 
hart’s  Burns,  and  the  life  of  Bentham  by  Dr  Bowring, 
are  .also  cast  in  the  same  mould;  but  the  work  which 
approaches  nearest  to  it  is  Lockhart’s  Life  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  an  elaborate  biography,  published  in 
1838.  in  seven  large  volumes.  The  near  relationship 
of  the  author  to  his  subject  might  have  blinded  his 
judgment,  yet  the  life  is  written  in  a fair  and  manly 
.spirit,  without  either  suppressions  or  misstatements 
tliat  could  alter  its  essential  features.  Into  the  con- 
troversi.al  points  of  the  memoir  we  shall  not  enter ; 
the  author  has  certainly  paid  too  little  deference  and 
regard  to  the  feelings  of  several  individuals;  and 
in  the  whole  of  his  conclusions  with  regard  to  the 
Messrs ‘Ballantyne,  and  indeed  on  the  whole  ques- 
tion as  to  the  parties  chiefly  blameable  for  Scott’s 
ruin,  we  believe  him  to  have  been  wrong;  yet  far 
more  than  enough  remains  to  enable  us  to  overlook 


'1  EUATUBE.  METAmvhic.vL  wun'Eu.>.. 


these  blemishes.  The  fearless  confidence  with  which 
all  that  he  knew  and  believed  is  laid  before  the 
public,  and  Scott  presented  to  the  world  exactly 
as  he  was  in  life — in  his  schemes  of  worldly  ambition 
as  in  his  vast  literary  undertakings — is  greatly  to  be 
admired,  and  will  in  time  gather  its  meed  of  praise. 
The  book,  in  the  main,  exhibits  a sound  and  healthy 
spirit,  calculated  to  exercise  a great  influence  on  con- 
temporary literature.  As  an  example  and  guide  in 
real  life,  in  doing  and  in  suffering,  it  is  equally  valu- 
able. ‘ The  more  the  details  of  Scott’s  personal  his- 
tory are  revealed  and  studied,  the  more  powerfully 
will  that  be  found  to  inculcate  the  same  great  lessons 
with  his  works.  Where  else  shall  we  be  better  taught 
how  prosperity  may  be  extended  by  beneficence,  and 
adversity  confronted  by  exertion?  Where  can  we 
see  the  “ follies  of  the  wise”  more  strikingly  rebuked, 
and  a character  more  beautifully  purified  and  exalted 
than  in  the  passage  tlirough  affliction  to  death?  His 
character  seems  to  belong  to  some  elder  and  stronger 
period  than  ours ; and,  indeed,  I cannot  help  likening 
it  to  the  architectural  fabrics  of  other  ages  which 
he  most  delighted  in,  where  there  is  such  a congre- 
gation of  imagery  and  tracery,  such  endless  indul- 
gence of  whim  and  fancy,  the  sublime  idending  here 
with  the  beautiful,  and  there  contrasted  with  the 
grotesque — half  perhaps  seen  in  the  clear  daylight, 
and  half  by  rays  tinged  with  the  blazoned  forms  of 
the  past — that  one  may  be  apt  to  get  bewildered 
among  the  variety  of  particular  impressions,  and  not 
feel  either  the  unity  of  the  grand  design,  or  the 
height  and  solidness  of  th.  structure,  until  the  door 
has  been  closed  on  the  labyrinth  of  aisles  and  shrines, 
and  you  survey  it  from  a distance,  but  still  within 
its  shadow.'  * 

We  have  enumerated  the  most  original  biogra- 
phical works  of  this  period,  but  a complete  list  of  all 
the  memoirs,  historical  and  literary,  that  have  ap- 
peared, would  fill  pages.  Two  general  biographical 
dictionaries  have  also  been  published,  one  in  ten 
volumes  quarto,  published  between  tlie  years  1799 
and  1815  by  Dr  Aikin;  and  another  in  thirty-two 
volumes  octavo,  re-edited,  with  great  additions,  be- 
tween 1812  and  1816  by  Mr  Alexander  Chalmers. 
An  excellent  epitome  was  publislied  in  1828,  in  two 
large  volumes,  by  John  Gorton.  In  Lardner’s  Cyclo- 
pasdia,  Murray’s  Family  Library,  and  the  publica- 
tions of  the  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  Useful 
Knowledge,  are  some  valuable  short  biographies  by 
authors  of  established  reputation.  The  Lives  of  the 
Scottish  Poets  have  been  published  by  Mr  David 
Irving,  and  a Biographical  Dictionary  of  Eminent 
Scotsmen  by  Jilr  Itobert  Chambers,  in  four  volumes 
octavo.  A more  extended  and  complete  general 
biographical  dictionary  than  any  wliich  has  yet 
appeared  is  at  present  in  the  course  of  publication, 
under  the  auspices  of  the  Society  for  the  Diffusion 
of  Useful  Knowledge. 

METAPHYSICAL  WRITERS. 

We  have  no  profound  original  metaphysician  in 
this  period,  but  some  rich  and  elegant  commenta- 
tors. Professor  Ducald  Stewart  expounded  and 
illustrated  the  views  of  his  distinguished  teacher 
Dr  Reid ; and  by  his  essays  and  treatises,  no  less 
than  by  his  lectures,  gave  additional  grace  and  po- 
pularity to  the  system.  Mr  Stewart  was  the  son  of 
Dr  Matthew  Stew'art,  professor  of  mathematics  in  the 
university  of  Edinburgh,  and  was  born  in  the  col- 
lege buildings,  November  22,  1753.  At  the  early 
age  of  nineteen  he  undertook  to  teach  his  father’s 
mathematical  classes,  and  in  two  years  was  appointed 
his  assistant  and  successor.  A more  congenial  open- 

♦ Lockhart's  Life,  voL  vli.  p.  417. 

047 


PROM  1780  CY(;i-OI’7iOI)IA  OF  till  tiir  presunt  Tiam 

occurred  for  liim  io  1780,  wlien  Dr  Ailani 
Fergiisson  retired  from  tlie  moral  iiliilosopliy  chair. 
Stewart  was  ajipoiiited  his  successor,  and  continued 
to  discharge  the  duties  of  tlie  ollice  till  1810,  when 
Dr  Thomas  lirown  was  conjoined  with  him  as  col- 
league. 'I’he  latter  years  of  his  life  were  si>ent  in 
literary  retirement  at  Kinneil  lIou.se,  on  the  hanks 
of  the  Firth  of  Forth,  alsmt  twenty  miles  from  Kdin- 
biirgh.  His  political  frietids,  when  in  ollice  in  1806, 
created  for  him  the  sinecure  ollice  of  Gazette  writer 
for  Scotland,  with  a salary  of  X600  jier  annum.  Mr 
Stewart  diecl  in  Kdinlmrgli  on  the  1 itli  of  .June  1828. 
No  lecturer  was  ever  more  popidar  than  Dugald 
gtewart— his  taste,  dignity,  tind  eloquence  rendered 
him  both  fascinating  and  impressive.  His  writings 
are  marked  hy  the  s.une  characteristics,  tind  can  be 
read  witii  pleasure  even  hy  those  i\  ho  have  no  great 
partiality  for  the  metaphysical  studies  in  which  he 
excelled.  They  consist  of  f’hilo.so/thi/  of  the  /Jiiimin 
Mind,  one  volume  of  which  was  published  in  1792, 
a second  in  18 Id,  and  a third  in  1827  ; idso  I’h/toso- 
phicitl  Exsni/s,  1810  ; a Dissertation  on  the  Proyress  of 
Metaphysical  and  Ethical  Phdosaphy.  w ritten  in  181.i 
for  the  Encyclo|)a;ilia  ; and  a View  of  the  Active  and 
Moral  I’owo's  of'  Man,  pulilished  only  a few  weeks 
before  his  death.  Mr  Stew'art  also  published  Out- 
lines of  Moral  Philosophy,  and  wrote  memoirs  of 
Kobertson  the  historian,  and  Dr  Ueid.  ‘All  the 
years  I remained  about  Edinburgh,’  says  Mr  .lames 
Mill,  liimself  an  able  metaphysician.  ‘ I used,  as 
often  as  I could,  to  steal  into  Mr  Stewart’s  cl.iss  to 
hear  a lecture,  which  was  always  a high  treat.  1 
have  heard  Pitt  and  Fox  deliver  some  of  their  most 
admired  speeches,  but  I never  heard  anytliing  nearly 
so  eloquent  as  some  t)f  the  lectures  of  Professor 
Stewart.  'I'he  taste  for  the  studies  which  have 
formed  my  favourite  pursuits,  and  which  will  be  so 
to  the  end  of  mv  life,  I owe  to  him.’ 

Dr  'I'homas'Hrow.v  (1778-1820),  the  successor 
of  Stewart  in  the  moral  philosophy  chair  of  Edin- 
burgh, was  son  of  the  Kev  Samuel  Brown,  minister 
of  Kirkmabreck,  in  Galloway.  His  taste  for  meta- 
physics was  excited  by'  the  perusal  of  Professor 
Stewart’s  first  volume,  a copy  of  which  had  been 
lent  to  him  by  Dr  Currie  of  Liverpool.  He  appeared 
as  an  author  before  his  twentieth  year,  his  first  \york 
being  a Tleview  of  Dr  Darnnids  Aoononiia.  On  the 
establishment  of  the  I'ldinburgh  lleview,  he  Intcame 
one  of  t''e  philosoiihical  contributors;  and  when 
a controve-sy  arose  in  regard  to  Mr  Leslie,  who 
had,  in  his  essay  tin  heat,  stated  his  approbation  of 
Hume’s  theory  of  causation.  Brown  warmly  espoused 
the  cause  of  tlie  jihilosopher.  and  vindicated  his  opi- 
nions in  an  Inyniry  into  the  lielation  of  Cause  and 
Effect.  At  this  time  our  author  practised  as  a physi- 
cian, but  without  any  preddection  for  his  jirofcs- 
sion.  His  apiaiiiitment  to  the  chair  of  moral  iihilo- 
sophy'  seems  to  have  fulfilled  his  destiny,  and  he 
continued  to  discharge  its  duties  amidst  universal 
approbation  and  respect  till  bis  death.  Part  ot  his 
leisure  was  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  a talent,  or 
rather  taste  for  poetry,  wliich  he  early  entertained  : 
and  he  published  The  'Paradise  of  Coipiettcs,  1814;  The 
Wanderer  of  Norway,  1815;  and  I'he  Dower  of  Spriny, 
1816.  Though  correct  and  elegant,  with  occasion- 
ally fine  thoughts  and  images,  the  poetry  of  Dr 
Brown  wants  force  and  passion,  and  is  iio'A'  utterly 
forgotten.  As  a philosopher  he  was  acute  and 
searching,  and  a master  of  tlie  jaiwer  of  analysis. 
His  style  wants  the  rich  redundancy  of  that  of 
Dugald  Stewart,  but  is  also  enlivened  with  many 
eloquent  passages,  in  wdiich  there  is  often  a large 
infusion  of  the  tenderest  feeling.  He  quoted  largily 
from  the  poets,  especially'  Akenside ; and  w'lis  some- 
times too  flowery  in  his  illustrations.  His  Ecctures 

1 

on  the  Philosophy  of  the  Unman  Mind  are  highly 
popular,  and  form  a class-hook  in  the  university. 
In  some  of  his  views  Dr  Brow  n diflered  from  Ueid 
and  Stewart.  His  distinctions  have  been  prononneed 
somewhat  hypercritical  ; but  Mackintosli  considers 
that  he  rendered  a new  and  important  service  to 
mental  science  hy  what  he  calls  ‘.secondary  laws  of 
suggestion  or  association  — circumstances  which 
modify  the  action  of  the  general  law.  and  must  be 
distinctly  considered,  in  order  to  e.xplain  its  con- 
nexion with  the  phenomena.’ 

\_0csirc  of  the  Happiness  of  Others.~^ 

[From  Dr  Brow-n's  Lectures.] 

It  is  tills  desire  of  the  happiness  of  those  whom  we 
love,  which  gives  to  the  emotion  of  love  itself  its 
Iirincipal  delight,  by  afibrding  to  us  constant  means 
of  gratification.  He  w ho  truly  wishes  the  ha|>piness 
of  any  one,  cannot  be  long  without  discovering  some 
mode  of  contributing  to  it.  Heason  itself,  with  all 
its  light,  is  not  so  rapid  in  di.scoveries  of  this  sort  lus 
simple  afl'ection,  which  sees  means  of  happiness,  and 
of  inqiortant  happiness,  where  rea.son  scarcely  could 
think  that  any  happiness  was  to  be  found,  and  has 
already  by  many  kind  offices  producetl  the  happiness 
of  hours  before  reason  could  have  suspected  that 
means  sc  slight  could  have  given  even  a moment’s 
pleasure.  It  is  this,  indeed,  which  contributes  in  no 
inconsiderable  degree  to  the  perpetuity  of  affection. 
Love,  the  mere  feeling  of  tender  admiration,  w'ould 
in  many  cases  have  .soon  lost  its  power  over  the  fickle 
heart,  and  in  many  other  cases  would  have  had  it.s 
power  greatly  lessened,  if  the  desire  of  giving  happi- 
ness, and  the  innumerable  little  courtesies  and  cares  to 
which  this  desiie  gives  birth,  had  not  thus  in  a great 
measure  diffused  over  a single  passion  the  variety  of 
manv  emotions,  'I’he  love  itself  seems  new  at  every 
moment,  because  there  is  every  moment  .some  new 
wish  of  love  that  admits  of  being  gratified  ; or  rather 
it  is  at  once,  by  the  most  delightful  of  all  combina- 
tions, new',  in  the  tender  wishes  and  cares  with  which 
it  occupies  us,  and  familiar  to  us,  and  endeared  the 
more  by'  the  remembrance  of  hours  and  years  of  well- 
known  happiness. 

The  desire  of  the  happiness  of  others,  though  a 
desire  ahvays  atteinlant  on  love,  does  not,  however, 
necessarily  suppose  the  previous  existence  of  some 
one  of  those  emotions  which  may  strictly  be  termed 
love.  This  feeling  is  so  far  from  arising  necessarily 
from  regard  for  the  sufl'erer,  that  it  is  impossible 
for  us  not  to  feel  it  when  the  sufi'ering  is  extreme, 
and  before  our  very  eyes,  though  w'e  may  at  the  Siime 
time  have  the  utmost  abhorrence  of  him  who  is 
agonizing  in  our  sight,  and  whose  very  look,  even 
in  its  agonv.  still  seems  to  sjieak  only  tlnit  atro- 
cious si'irit  which  could  again  gladly  perpetrate  the 
very  horrors  for  which  public  indignation  as  much  as 
public  justice  had  doomed  it  to  its  dreadful  fate.  It 
is  sufficient  that  extreme  anguish  is  before  us;  we 
wish  it  relief  before  we  have  paused  to  love,  or  with- 
out reflecting  on  our  causes  of  hatred  ; the  w ish  is 
the  direct  and  instant  emotion  of  our  soul  in  these 
circumstance.s — an  emotion  which,  in  such  peculiar 
circumstance.s,  it  is  impossible  for  liatrcd  to  suiqiress, 
anil  which  love  may  strengthen  indeed,  but  is  not 
necc.ssary  for  producing.  It  is  the  .same  with  our 
general  desire  of  hapi>ines«  to  others.  We  iDsire,  iu 
a iiarticular  degree,  the  happine.ss  of  tho.se  whom  we 
love,  because  we  canno-t  think  of  them  without  ten- 
der admiration.  But  though  we  had  known  them 
for  the  first  time  sinqily  as  human  beings,  we  should 
still  have  desired  their  hapjiiness  ; that  is  lo.  say,  ii 
no  opposite  interests  had  arisen,  we  shoidd  have 
w ished  them  to  be  happy  rather  than  to  have  any  dis- 
tress ; yet  there  is  nothing  iu  this  case  which  cor- 

648 

MICTAPIIVS1C.VL  WIllTKIlS. 


ENCLISll  LITEUA  TUUE. 


nn  THOMAS  DHOWM. 


rpsjiomls  witli  tlie  toiuler  estcoTu  that  is  felt  in  love. 
There  is  the  mere  wi.-h  of  ha]ipiness  to  tliem — a wish 
whicli  itself,  iinleeii,  is  usually  denominated  love,  and 
\hieh  mav  without  any  inconvenience  be  so  deno- 
jlnated  in  that  general  humanity  which  we  call  a 
love  of  mankind,  but  which  we  must  always  remem- 
ber does  not  afford,  on  analysis,  the  same  results  .»s 
other  affections  of  more  cordial  regard  to  which  we 
give  the  same  name.  To  love  a friend  is  to  wish  his 
happiness  indeed,  but  it  is  to  have  other  emotions  at 
the  same  instant,  emotions  without  which  this  mere 
wish  would  be  poor  to  constant  friendship.  To  love 
the  natives  of  Asia  or  Africa,  of  whose  individual 
virtues  or  vices,  talents  or  imbecility,  wisdom  or  igno- 
rance, we  know  nothing,  is  to  wish  their  happiness ; 
but  this  wish  is  all  which  constitutes  the  faint  and 
feeble  love.  It  is  a wish,  however,  which,  unle.ss 
when  the  heart  is  absolutely  corrupted,  renders  it  im- 
possible for  man  to  be  wholly  indifferent  to  man  ; and 
this  great  object  is  that  which  nature  had  in  view. 
She  has  bv  a provident  arrangement,  which  we  cannot 
but  admire  the  more  the  more  attentively  we  examiiie 
it,  accommodated  our  emotions  to  our  means,  making 
o\ir  love  most  ardent  where  our  wish  of  giving  happi- 
ness might  be  most  effectu.al,  and  less  gradually  and 
less  in  proportion  to  our  diminished  means.  From 
the  affection  of  the  mother  for  her  new-born  infant, 
which  has  been  rendered  the  strongest  of  all  affections, 
because  it  was  to  arise  in  circumstances  where  affec- 
tion would  be  most  needed,  to  that  general  philan- 
thropy which  e.xtends  itself  to  the  remotest  stranger 
on  spots  of  the  earth  which  we  never  are  to  visit,  and 
which  we  as  little  think  of  ever  visiting  as  of  e.xploring 
any  of  the  distant  planets  of  our  system,  there  is  a 
scale  of  benevolent  desire  which  corresponds  with  the 
necessities  to  be  relieved,  and  our  power  of  relieving 
them,  or  with  the  hapiiiness  to  be  afforded,  and  our 
power  of  affording  happiness.  How  many  opportu- 
nities have  we  of  giving  delight  to  those  who  live  in 
our  domestic  circle,  which  would  be  lost  before  we 
could  diffuse  it  to  those  who  are  distant  from  us  ! 
Our  love,  therefore,  our  desire  of  giving  happiness, 
our  pleasure  in  having  given  it,  are  stronger  within 
the  limits  of  this  sphere  of  daily  and  hourly  inter- 
course than  beyond  it.  Of  those  who  are  beyond  this 
sphere,  the  individuals  most  familiar  to  us  are  those 
whose  happiness  we  must  always  know  better  how  to 
promote  than  the  happiness  of  stranger-s,  with  whose 
particular  habits  and  inclinations  we  are  little  if  at 
all  acquainted.  Our  love,  and  the  desire  of  general 
happiness  which  attends  it,  are  therefore,  by  the  con- 
currence of  many  constitutional  tendencies  of  our 
nature  in  fostering  the  generous  wish,  stronger  as  felt 
for  an  intimate  friend  than  for  one  who  is  scarcely 
known  to  us.  If  there  be  an  exception  to  this  gradual 
scale  of  importance  according  to  intimacy,  it  must 
be  in  the  case  of  one  who  is  absolutely  a stranger — a 
foreigner  who  comes  among  a people  with  whose 
general  manners  he  is  perhaps  unacquainted,  and 
who  has  no  friend  to  whose  attention  he  can  lay  claim 
from  any  prior  intimacy.  In  this  case,  indeed,  it  is 
evident  that  our  benevolence  might  be  more  usefully 
directed  to  one  who  is  absolutely  unknown,  than  to 
many  who  are  better  known  by  us,  that  live  in  our 
very  neighbourhood,  in  the  enjoyment  of  domestic 
loves  and  friendships  of  their  own.  Accordingly  we 
find,  that  by  a provision  which  might  be  termed  sin- 
gular, if  w'e  did  not  think  of  the  universal  bounty  and 
wisdom  of  God — a modification  of  our  general  regard 
has  been  prepared  in  the  sympathetic  tendencies  of 
our  nature  for  this  case  ahso.  There  is  a species  of 
alfection  to  which  the  stranger  gives  birth  merely  as 
being  a stranger.  He  is  received  and  sheltered  by 
our  hospitality  almost  with  the  zeal  with  which  our 
friendship  delights  to  receive  one  with  whom  we  have 
live  ’ iu  cordial  union,  whose  virtues  we  know  and 


revere,  and  who.se  kindness  has  been  to  us  no  small 
part  of  the  happiness  of  our  life. 

Is  it  po.ssiblc  to  perceive  this  general  proportion  of 
our  desire  of  giving  happiness,  in  its  various  degrees, 
to  the  means  which  we  po.ssess,  in  various  circum- 
stances of  afforditig  it,  without  admiration  of  an 
arrangement  .so  simple  in  the  principles  from  which 
it  Hows,  and  at  the  same  time  so  cifcctual — an  ar- 
rangement which  exhibits  proofs  of  goodness  in  our 
very  wants,  of  wisdom  in  our  very  weaknesses,  by  the 
adaptation  of  these  to  each  other,  and  by  the  ready 
resources  which  want  and  weakness  find  in  these 
affections  which  everywhere  surround  them,  like  the 
presence  and  protection  of  God  himself! 

‘0  humanity!’  exclaims  Philocles  in  the  Travels 
of  Anacharsis,  ‘generous  and  sublime  inclination, 
announced  in  infancy  by  the  transports  of  a simide 
tenderness,  in  youth  by  the  rashne.ss  of  a blind  but 
happy  confidence,  in  the  whole  progress  of  life  by  the 
facility  with  which  the  heart  is  ever  ready  to  contract 
attachment!  0 cries  of  nature!  which  n sound  from 
one  extremity  of  the  universe  to  the  other,  which 
fill  us  with  remorse  when  we  oppress  a single  human 
being;  with  a pure  delight  when  we  have  been  able 
to  give  one  comfort!  love,  friendship,  heneficence, 
sources  of  a pleasure  that  is  inexhaustible!  j\len 
are  unhappy  only  because  they  refuse  to  listen  to 
your  voice ; and,  ye  divine  authors  of  so  many  bless- 
ings! what  gratitude  do  those  ble.ssings  demand  ! If 
all  which  was  given  to  man  had  been  a mere  instinct, 
that  led  beings,  overwhelmed  with  wants  and  evils, 
to  lend  to  each  other  a reciprocal  support,  this  might 
have  been  sufficient  to  bring  the  miserable  near  to 
the  miserable;  but  it  is  only  a goodness,  infinite  as 
yours,  which  could  have  formed  the  design  of  as- 
.sembling  us  together  by  the  attraction  of  love,  and  of 
diffusing,  through  the  great  associations  which  cover 
the  earth,  that  vital  warmth  which  renders  society 
eternal  by  rendering  it  delightful.’ 

The  Discourse  on  Ethical  Philosophy  (already 
alluded  to),  by’  Sir  Jamks  Mackintosh,  and  his  re- 
view of  hladame  de  StaeTs  Germany'  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review',  unfold  some  interesting  speculations 
on  moral  science.  He  agrees  with  Butler,  Stewart, 
and  the  most  eminent  preceding  moralists,  in  admit- 
ting the  supremacy  of  the  moral  sentiments  ; but  he 
proceeds  a step  further  in  the  analysis  of  them.  He 
attempts  to  explain  the  origin  and  growth  of  the 
moral  faculty',  or  principle,  derived  from  Hartley’s 
Theory, of  Association,  and  insists  repeatedly  on  the 
value  of  utility,  or  beneficial  tendency,  as  the  great 
test  or  criterion  of  moral  action.  Some  of  the  posi- 
tions in  jMackintosh’s  Discourse  were  combated  wiih 
unnecessary  and  unphilosophical  asperity  by  Jajif.s 
Mill,  author  of  an  able  Analysis  of  the  I’henomenu  of 
the  Human  Mmd,  1829,  in  an  anonymous  Frayment 
on  Muchintosh.  Mill  was  a bold  and  original  thinker, 
but  somewhat  coarse  and  dogmatical.  Among  the 
recent  works  on  mental  philosophy  m.ay  he  men- 
tioned AiercroHii/e’s/nqm'n/  into  the  Intellectual  Powers, 
and  his  Philosophy  of  the  Moral  Feelings.  A Treatise 
on  the  Formation  and  Publication  of  Opinions,  by  Mr 
Bayley,  follows  out  some  of  the  views  of  Dr  Brown 
in  elegant  and  striking  language.  The  Es.\ny  on  the 
Nature  and Principlesof  Taste,  by'  the  Rev.  A rchidald 
Alison,  is  an  elegant  metaphysical  trcjitise,  though 
the  doctrine  which  it  aims  at  establishing  ptirtakes 
of  the  character  of  a paradox,  and  has  accordingly 
failed  to  enter  into  the  stock  of  our  estiiblished  ideas. 
The  theory  of  Alison  is,  that  material  objects  appear 
beautiful  or  sublime  in  consequence  of  their  associa- 
tion with  our  moral  feelings — that  it  is  as  they  are 
significant  of  mental  qualities  that  they  become  en- 
titled to  these  appellations.  This  theory  was  ably 
illustrated  by  Mr  Jeffrey  iu  the  Edinburgh  Review, 

til9 


■ 

FROM  17fiO  CYCLOPil-'iDl  A OF  till  the  present  time. 

in  a paper  which  was  afterwards  expanded  into  an 
Essay  on  lieanty  for  tlie  Encydoiiaidia  Britannica. 
Tlie  book  and  tlie  essay  can  now  only  he  considered 
as  reniarkatde  examples  of  that  inisapplication  of 
talent  and  labour  which  is  incidental  to  the  infancy 
of  science — the  time  of  its  dreams. 

The  Scottish  metaphysical  school,  of  which 
Stewart,  Brown,  and  Alison  may  be  said  to  have 
been  the  last  masters,  will  ever  hold  a high  pUce 
in  public  estimation  for  the  qualities  wdiich  have 
been  attributed  to  it ; but  it  must  be  owmed  to  have 
failed  in  producing  any  permanent  impression  on 
mankind : nor  have  we  been  brought  by  all  its 
labours  nearer  to  a just  knowledge  of  mind  as  the 
subject  of  a science.  The  cause  of  this  assuredly  is, 
that  none  of  these  writers  have  investigated  mind  as 
a portion  of  nature,  or  in  connexion  with  organiza- 
tion. Since  the  Scottish  school  began  to  pass  out 
of  immediate  notice,  this  more  philosophical  mode 
of  inquiry  has  been  pursued  by  Dr  Gall  and  his  fol- 
lowers, with  results  which,  though  they  have  ex- 
cited much  prejudice,  are  nevertheless  received  by  a 
considerable  portion  of  the  public.  The  leading 
doctrines  of  Gall  are,  that  the  brain  is  the  organ  of 
the  mind,  that  various  portions  of  the  encephalon 
are  the  org.ans  of  various  faculties  of  the  mind,  and 
that  volume  or  size  of  the  whole  brain  and  its  various 
parts  is,  other  circumstances  being  equal,  the  mea- 
sure of  the  pow'ers  of  the  mind  and  its  various  facul- 
ties in  individuals.  This  system  is  founded  upon 
observation — that  is  to  say,  it  was  found  th,at  large 
brains,  unless  when  of  inferior  quality,  or  in  an  ab- 
normal condition,  were  accompanied  by  superior 
intellect  and  force  of  character;  also  that,  in  a vast 
number  of  instances  which  were  accurately  noticed, 
a large  development  of  a special  part  of  the  brain 
was  accompanied  by  an  unusual  demonstration  of  a 
certain  mental  character,  and  never  by  the  opposite. 
From  these  demonstrations  the  fundamental  cha- 
racter of  the  various  faculties  was  at  length  elimi- 
nated. Thus  it  happens  tluat  phrenology,  as  this 
system  has  been  called,  while  looked  on  by  many  as 
a dream,  is  the  only  liy'pothesis  of  mind  in  which 
scientific  processes  of  investigation  have  been  fol- 
lowed, or  fur  which  a basis  can  be  shown  in  nature. 
Among  the  British  followers  of  Gall,  the  chief  place 
is  due  to  j\Ir  George  Combe  of  Edinburgh,  author  of 
a Si/stem  of  Phrenology,  The  ConstihUion  of  Man  Con- 
sidered in  Relation  to  External  Objects,  &c. 

[ Distinction  between  Power  and,  Activity.'] 

[From  the  ‘ System  of  Phrenology.’] 

There  is  a great  distinction  between  power  and  acti- 
vity of  mind  ; and  it  is  important  to  keep  this  diffe- 
rence in  view.  Power,  strictly  speaking,  is  the  capabi- 
lity of  thinking,  feeling,  or  perceiving,  however  small 
in  amount  that  capability  may  be  ; and  in  this  sense  it 
is  synonymous  with  faculty  : action  is  the  exercise  of 
power;  while  activity  denotes  the  quickness,  great  or 
Biiiall,  with  which  the  action  is  performed,  and  also 
the  degree  of  proneness  to  act.  The  distinction  be- 
tween power,  action,  and  activity  of  the  mental  facul- 
tie.s,  is  widely  recognized  by  describers  of  human  na- 
ture. Thus  Cowper  says  of  the  more  violent  affective 
faculties,  of  man  : — 

‘ His  passions,  like  the  watery  stores  that  sleep 
Beneath  the  smiling  surface  of  the  deep. 

Wait  hut  the  lashes  of  a wintry  storm, 

To  frown,  and  roar,  and  shake  his  feeble  form,* — Hope, 

Again : — 

‘ In  every  heart 

Are  sown  the  sparks  that  kindle  fiery  war  ; 

Oecaion  needs  but  fan  them,  and  they  blaze.’ 

—The  Task,  B.  5. 

Dr  Thomas  Brown,  in  like  manner,  speaks  of  latent 
propensities  ; that  is  to  say,  powers  not  in  action. 

‘ Vice  already  formed,’  says  he,  ‘ is  almost  beyond  our 
power:  it  is  only  in  the  state  of  latent  propensity 
that  we  can  with  much  reason  expect  to  overcome  it 
by  the  moral  motives  which  we  are  capable  of  present- 
ing and  he  alludes  to  the  great  extent  of  knowledge 
of  human  nature  requisite  to  enable  us  ‘ to  distinguish 
this  propensity  before  it  has  expanded  itself,  and  even 
before  it  is  known  to  the  very  mind  in  which  it  exists, 
and  to  tame  those  passions  which  are  never  to  rage.' 
In  Crabbe’s  Tales  of  the  Hall  a character  is  thus  de- 
scribed : — 

‘ He  seemed  without  a passion  to  proceed. 

Or  one  whose  jiassions  no  correction  need  ; 

Yet  some  believed  tliose  passions  only  slept, 

And  were  in  bounds  by  early  habit  kept.’ 

‘ Nature,’  says  Lord  Bacon,  ‘ will  be  buried  a great 
time,  and  yet  revive  upon  the  occasion  or  temptation  ; 
like  as  it  was  with  Atsop’s  damsel,  turned  from  a cat 
to  a woman,  who  .sat  very  demurely  at  the  board’s  end 
till  a mouse  ran  before  her.’  In  short,  it  is  plain  that  we 
may  have  the  capability  of  feeling  an  emotion — as  anger 
fear,  or  pity — and  that  yet  this  power  may  be  inactive, 
insomuch  that,  at  any  particular  time,  these  emotions 
may  be  totally  absent  from  the  mind  ; and  it  is  no 
less  plain,  that  we  may  have  the  capability  of  seeing, 
tasting,  calculating,  reasoning,  and  composing  music, 
without  actually  performing  these  operations. 

It  is  equally  easy  to  distinguish  activity  from  ac-  • 
tion  and  power.  When  power  is  exercised,  the  action 
may  be  performed  with  very  different  degrees  of  rapi- 
dity. Two  individuals  may  each  be  .solving  a pro- 
blem in  arithmetic,  but  one  may  do  so  with  far  greater 
quickness  than  the  other  ; in  other  words,  his  faculty 
of  Number  may  be  more  easily  brought  into  action. 
He  who  solves  abstruse  problems  slowly,  manifests 
much  power  with  little  activity  ; while  he  who  can 
quickly  solve  easy  problems,  and  them  alone,  has 
much  activity  with  little  power.  The  man  who  cal- 
culates difficult  problems  with  great  speed,  manifests 
in  a high  degree  both  power  and  activity  of  the  faculty 
of  Number. 

As  commonly  employed,  the  word  power  is  synony- 
mous with  strength,  or  much  power,  instead  of  denot- 
ing mere  capacity,  whether  much  or  little,  to  act  ; 
while  by  activity  is  usually  understood  much  quick- 
ness of  action,  and  great  proneness  to  act.  As  it  is 
desirable,  however,  to  avoid  every  chance  of  ambi- 
guity, I shall  employ  the  w'ords  power  and  activity  in 
the  sense  first  before  explained  ; and  to  high  degrees 
of  power  I shall  apply  the  terms  energy,  intensity, 
strength,  or  vigour;  while  to  great  activity  1 shall 
apply  the  terms  vivacity,  agility,  rapidity,  or  quick- 
ness. 

In  physics,  strength  is  quite  distinguishable  from 
quickness.  The  balance-wheel  of  a watch  moves  with 
much  rapidity,  but  so  slight  is  its  impetus,  that  a hair 
would  suffice  to  stop  it ; the  beam  of  a steam-engine 
progresses  slowly  and  massively  through  space,  but  its 
energy  is  prodigiously  great. 

In  mu.scular  action  these  qualities  are  recognized 
with  equal  facility  as  different.  The  greyhound  bounds 
over  hill  and  dale  with  animated  agility  ; but  a slight 
obstacle  would  counterbalance  his  momentum,  and 
arrest  his  progress,  'fhe  elephant,  on  the  other  hand, 
rolls  slowly  and  heavily  along;  but  the  impetus  of 
his  motion  would  sweep  aw, ay  an  impediment  suffi- 
cient to  resist  fifty  greyhounds  at  the  summit  of  their 
speed. 

In  ment.al  manifestations  (considered  apart  from 
organization),  the  distinction  between  energy  and  vi- 
vacity is  equally  palpable.  On  the  stage  Mrs  Sid- 
dons  and  Mr  .John  Kemble  were  remarkable  for  the 
solemn  deliberation  of  their  manner,  both  in  declaraa- 

650 

Idlil'ArilVSICtl.  WllITKUS. 


ENCLIHII  UTKllATUHE. 


Dll  PALET. 


tioii  niul  in  .lotinn,  amt  vet  tliev  were  siilemliJly  "ifted 
with  eiiet;;v.  They  eairieU  captive  at  once  the  sym- 
|iiitliies  amt  the  umterstamting  of  ttie  audience,  and 
made  every  man  feet  his  faculties  expanding,  ami  his 
wliole  mind  becoming  greater  under  the  influence  of 
tlieir  power.  Otlier  performers,  again,  are  remarkable 
for  agility  of  action  and  elocution,  who,  nevertheless, 
are  felt  to  be  feeble  and  ineffective  in  rousing  an  audi- 
ence to  emotion.  Vivacity  hs  their  di.stinguishing 
attribute,  with  an  absence  of  vigour.  At  the  bar,  in 
the  pulpit,  and  in  the  senate,  the  same  distinction 
prevails.  Many  members  of  the  learned  professions 
display  great  fluency  of  elocution  and  felicity  of  illus- 
tration, surprising  Ub  with  the  quickness  of  their  parts, 
who,  nevertheless,  are  felt  to  be  neither  impressive 
nor  profound.  They  exhibit  acuteness  without  depth, 
and  ingenuity  without  comprehensiveness  of  under- 
standing. This  also  nrocecds  from  vivacity  with  little 
energy.  There  are  other  public  speakers,  again,  who 
open  heavily  in  debate — their  faculties  acting  slowly 
but  deeply,  like  the  first  heave  of  a mountain-wave. 
Their  words  fall  like  minute-guns  upon  the  ear,  and 
to  the  superficial  they  appear  about  to  terminate  ere 
they  have  begun  their  efl'orts.  But  even  their  first  ac- 
cent is  one  of  power ; it  rouses  and  arrests  attention  ; 
their  very  pauses  are  expressive,  and  indicate  gather- 
ing energy  to  be  embodied  in  the  sentence  that  is  to 
come.  When  fairly  animated,  they  are  impetuous  as 
the  torrent,  brilliant  as  the  lightning’s  beam,  and 
overwhelm  and  take  possession  of  feebler  minds, 
impressing  them  irresistibly  with  a feeling  of  gigan- 
tic power. 

The  distinction  between  vivacity  and  energy  is  well 
illustrated  by  Cowper  in  one  of  his  lettew.  ‘ The 
mind  and  body,’  says  he,  ‘ have  in  this  respect  a 
striking  resemblance  of  e.ach  other.  In  childhood 
they  are  both  nimble,  but  not  strong  ; they  can  skip 
and  frisk  about  with  wonderful  agility,  but  hard  la- 
bour spoils  them  both.  In  maturer  years  they  become 
less  active  but  more  vigorous,  more  capable  of  fixed 
application,  and  can  make  themselves  sport  with  that 
which  a little  earlier  would  have  affected  them  with 
intolerable  fatigue.’  Dr  Charlton  also,  in  his  Brief 
Discourse  Concerning  the  Different  \\  its  of  Men,  has 
admirably  described  two  characters,  in  one  of  which 
etrength  is  displayed  without  vivacity,  and  in  the 
other  vivacity  without  strength  ; the  latter  he  calls 
the  man  of*  nimble  wit,’  the  former  the  man  of  ‘slow 
but  sure  wit.’  In  this  respect  the  French  character 
may  be  contrasted  with  the  Scotch. 

As  a general  rule,  the  largest  organs  in  each  head 
have  naturally  the  greatest,  and  the  smallest  the 
least,  tendency  to  act,  and  to  perform  their  functions 
with  rapidity. 

The  temperaments  also  indicate  the  amount  of  this 
tendency.  The  nervous  is  the  most  vivacious,  next 
the  sanguine,  then  the  bilious,  while  the  lymphatic 
is  characterised  by  proneness  to  inaction. 

In  a lymphatic  brain,  great  size  may  be  present 
and  few  manifestations  occur  through  sluggishness  ; 
but  if  a strong  external  stimulus  be  presented,  energy 
often  appears.  If  the  brain  be  very  small,  no  degree 
of  stimulus,  either  external  or  internal,  will  cause 
great  power  to  be  manifested. 

A certain  combination  of  organs — namely.  Com- 
bativeness, Destructiveness,  Ilojie,  Firmness,  Acquisi- 
tiveness, and  Love  of  Approbation,  all  large  — is 
favourable  to  general  vivacity  of  mind  ; and  another 
combination  — namely,  Combativeness,  Destructive- 
ness, Hope,  Firmness,  and  Acquisitiveness,  small  or 
moderate,  with  Veneration  and  Benevolence  large — 
is  frequently  attended  with  sluggishness  of  the  men- 
tal char.acter ; but  the  activity  of  the  whole  brain 
constitutionally  greater  in  some  individuals  than  in 
others,  as  already  explained.  It  may  even  happen 
that,  in  the  same  individual,  one  organ  is  naturally 


more  active  than  another,  without  reference  to  size, 
just  as  the  optic  nerve  is  sometimes  more  irritable 
than  the  auditory  ; but  this  is  by  no  means  a common 
occurrence.  Exercise  greatly  increases  activity  as 
well  as  power,  and  hence  arise  the  benefits  of  educa- 
tion. Dr  Spurzheim  thinks  that  * long  fibres  produce 
more  activity,  and  thick  fibres  more  intensity.’ 

The  doctrine,  that  size  is  a measure  of  power,  is  not 
to  be  held  as  implying  that  much  power  is  the  only 
or  even  the  most  valuable  quality  which  a mind  in 
all  circumstances  can  possess.  To  drag  artillery  over 
a mountain,  or  a ponderous  wagon  through  the  streets 
of  London,  we  would  prefer  an  elephant  or  a horse  of 
great  size  and  muscular  power ; while,  for  graceful 
motion,  agility,  and  nimbleness,  we  would  select  an 
Arabian  palfrey.  In  like  manner,  to  lead  men  in 
gigantic  and  difficult  enterprises — zj  command  by 
native  greatness,  in  perilous  times,  when  law  is 
trampled  under  foot — to  call  forth  the  energies  of  a 
people,  and  direct  them  against  a tyrant  at  home,  or 
an  alliance  of  tyrants  abroad — to  stamp  the  impress 
of  a single  mind  upon  a nation — to  infuse  strength 
into  thoughts,  and  depth  into  feelings,  which  shall 
command  the  homage  of  enlightened  men  in  every 
.age— in  short,  to  be  a Bruce,  Bonaparte,  Luther, 
Knox,  Demosthenes,  Shakspeare,  Milton,  or  Cromwell 
— a large  brain  is  indispensably  requisite.  But  to 
di.splay  skill,  enterprise,  and  fidelity  in  the  various 
professions  of  civil  life — to  cultivate  with  success  the 
less  arduous  branches  of  philosophy  — to  excel  in 
acuteness,  taste,  and  felicity  of  expression — to  acquire 
extensive  erudition  and  refined  manner.s — a brain  of 
a moderate  size  is  perhaps  more  suitable  than  one 
that  is  very  large ; for  wherever  the  energy  is  intense, 
it  is  rare  that  delicacy,  refinement,  and  taste  are  pre- 
sent in  an  equal  degree.  Individuals  possessing  mo- 
derate-sized brains  easily  find  their  proper  sphere,  and 
enjoy  in  it  scope  for  all  their  energy.  In  ordinary 
circumstances  they  distinguish  themselves,  but  they 
sink  when  difficulties  accumulate  around  them.  Per- 
sons with  large  brains,  on  the  other  hand,  do  not 
readily  attain  their  appropriate  place;  common  oc- 
currences do  not  rouse  or  call  them  forth,  and,  while 
unknown,  they  are  not  trusted  with  great  undertak- 
ings. Often,  therefore,  such  men  pine  and  die  in  ob- 
scurity. When,  however,  they  attain  their  proper 
element,  they  are  conscious  of  greatness,  and  glory  in 
the  expansion  of  their  powers.  Their  mental  energies 
rise  in  proportion  to  the  obstacles  to  be  surmounted, 
and  blaze  forth  in  all  the  magnificence  of  self-sustain- 
ing energetic  geniu.s,  on  occasions  when  feebler  minds 
would  sink  in  despair. 

WRITERS  IN  DIVINITY. 

Critical  and  biblical  literature  have  made  great 
progress  within  the  last  half  century,  but  the  num- 
ber of  illustrious  divines  is  not  great.  The  early 
fathers  of  the  Protestant  church  had  indeed  done  so 
much  in  general  theology  and  practical  divinity, 
that  comparatively  little  was  left  to  their  successors. 

DR  PALET. 

The  greatest  divine  of  the  period  is  Dr  William 
Paley,  a man  of  rem.arkable  vigour  and  clearness  of 
intellect,  and  originality  of  character.  His  acquire- 
ments as  a scholar  and  churchman  were  grafted  on 
a homely,  shrewd,  and  benevolent  mature,  wiiich  no 
circumstances  could  materially  alter.  There  was 
no  doubt  or  obscurity  either  about  the  m.an  or  his 
works : he  stands  out  in  bold  relief  among  his  bro- 
ther divines,  like  a sturdy  oak  on  a lawn  or  parterre 
— a little  hard  and  cross-grained,  but  sound,  fresh, 
and  massive — dwarfing  his  neighbours  with  his 
weight  and  bulk,  and  intrinsic  excellence. 


CYCLOPiliDIA  OF 


TILL  TIIR  I’KKSK.NT  miE, 


FKOH  17110 


He  ulijill  be  like  a tree  that  grows 
Near  planted  by  a river, 

Wbicb  in  his  season  yields  bis  fruit, 

And  bis  leaf  fadetb  never. 

So  says  oiir  old  version  of  the  Psalms  with  respect 
to  the  fate  of  a righteous  man,  ami  I’aley  was  a 
righteous  man  whose  mind  yielded  precious  fruit, 
and  whose  leaves  will  never  fade.  This  excellent 
author  was  born  at  Peterborongdi  in  1743.  His 
father  was  afterwards  curate  of  Uiggleswiek,  York- 
shire, and  teacher  of  the  grammar-school  there.  At 
the  age  of  fifteen  he  was  entered  as  sizar  at  Christ’s 
college,  Cambridge,  and  after  completing  his  aca- 
demical course,  he  became  tutor  in  an  academy  at 
Greenwich.  As  soon  as  he  was  of  sufficient  age,  he 
was  ordained  to  be  assistant  curate  of  Greenwich. 
He  was  afterwards  elected  a fellow  of  his  college, 
and  went  thither  to  reside,  engaging  first  as  tutor. 
He  next  lectured  in  the  university  on  moral  i>hilo- 
snphy  and  the  Greek  Testament.  His  college  friend. 
Dr  Law,  bishop  of  Carlisle,  presented  him  with  the 
rectory  of  Musgrave,  in  Westmoreland,  and  he  re- 
moved to  his  country  charge,  worth  oidy  £80  jier 
annum.  He  was  soon  inducted  into  the  vicarage  of 
Dalston,  in  Cumberland,  to  a prebend’s  stall  in  Car- 
lisle cathedral,  and  also  to  the  archdeaconry  of  Car- 
lisle. In  1785  appeared  his  long-meditated  £/e/nent.s 
of  Moral  aud  Political  Philosophy;  in  1790  his  llorce 
PaoUncP;  tind  in  1794  his  View  of  the  Evidences  of 
Christianity.  Friends  and  preferment  now  crowded 
in  on  him.  The  bishop  of  London  (Porteous)  made 
him  a prebend  of  St  Paul’s;  the  bishoi)  of  Lincoln 
presented  him  with  the  sub-deanery  of  Lincoln  ; and 
the  bishop  of  Durham  gave  him  the  rectory  of 
Bishop- Wearmouth,  worth  about  a thousand  pounds 
]ier  annum — and  all  these  within  six  months,  the 
luckiest  half-year  of  his  life.  The  boldness  and  free- 
dom of  some  of  Paley’s  disquisitions  on  government, 
and  perhaps  a deficiency,  real  or  supposed,  in  per- 
sonal dignity,  ami  some  laxness,  as  well  as  an  inve- 
terate provincial  homeliness,  in  conversation,  pre- 
vented his  rising  to  the  bench  of  bishops.  When  his 

name  was  once  mentioned  to  George  III.,  the  mo- 
narch is  reported  to  have  said  ‘ Paley  1 what,  pioc.m 
Valey?'  — an  allusion  to  a famous  sentence  in  the 
Moral  and  Political  Philo.sophy’ on  property.  A.s 
a specimen  of  his  style  of  reasoning,  and  the  liveli- 
ness of  his  illustrations,  we  subjoin  this  passage, 
which  is  part  of  an  estimate  of  the  relative  duties  of 
men  in  society  : — 

Of  Property. 

If  you  should  see  a flock  of  pigeons  in  a field  of 
corn,  and  if  (instead  of  each  picking  where  and  what 
it  liked,  taking  just  as  much  as  it  wanted,  and  no 
more)  you  should  see  ninety-nine  of  them  gathering 
all  they  got  into  a heap,  reserving  nothing  for  them- 
selves but  the  chaff  and  the  refuse,  keeping  this  he.ap 
for  one,  and  that  the  weakest,  perhaps  worst  pigeon  of 
the  flock  ; sitting  round,  and  looking  on  all  the  winter, 
whilst  this  one  was  devouring,  throwing  about  and 
wasting  it ; and  if  a pigeon,  more  hardy  or  hungry 
than  the  rest,  touched  a grain  of  the  hoard,  all  the 
others  instantly  flying  upon  it  and  tearing  it  to  pieces  ; 
if  you  should  see  thi.s,  you  would  see  nothing  more 
than  what  is  every  day  practised  and  established 
amono'  men.  Among  men  you  see  the  ninety-and- 
nine  toiling  .and  .scraping  together  a heap  of  super- 
fluities for  one  (and  this  one  too,  oftentimes,  the 
feeblest  and  worst  of  the  whole  set — a child,  a woman, 
a madiman,  or  a fool),  getting  nothing  for  themselves 
all  the  while  but  a little  of  the  coarsest  of  the  pro- 
vision which  their  own  industry  produces;  looking 
quietly  on  while  they  see  the  fruits  ot  all  their  labour 


spent  or  spoiled  ; and  if  one  of  the  number  take  oi 
touch  a particle  of  the  hoard,  the  others  joining 
against  him,  and  Inanging  him  for  the  thel’t. 

There  must  be  some  very  imjiortant  advantages  tc 
account  for  an  institution  which,  in  the  view  of  it 
above  given,  is  so  paradoxical  and  unnatural 

The  principal  of  these  advantages  are  the  follow- 
ing 

L It  increases  the  produce  of  the  earth. 

'The  earth,  in  climates  like  our.s,  produces  little 
without  cultivation  ; and  none  v^'ould  he  found  wil- 
ling to  cultivate  the  ground,  if  others  were  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  an  equal  share  of  the  produce.  The  same 
is  true  of  the  care  of  flocks  and  herds  of  tame  animals. 

Crabs  and  acorns,  red  deer,  rabbits,  game,  and  fish, 
are  all  which  we  should  have  to  subsist  upon  in  this 
country,  if  we  trusted  to  the  spontaneous  (iroductions 
of  the  soil ; and  it  fares  not  much  better  with  other 
countries.  A nation  of  North  American  savage.s,  con- 
sisting of  two  or  three  hundred,  will  take  up  and  be 
half-starved  upon  a tract  of  land  which  in  Europe, 
and  with  European  management,  W'ould  he  sufiicient 
for  the  maintenance  of  as  many  thoiusands. 

In  some  fertile  .soihs,  together  with  great  abundance 
of  fish  upon  their  coasts,  and  in  regions  where  clothes 
are  unnecessary,  a considerable  degree  of  population 
may  subsist  without  property  in  land,  which  is  the 
ca.se  in  the  islands  of  Utaheite:  hut  in  le.ss  favoured 
situations,  as  in  the  country  of  New  Zealand,  though 
this  sort  of  property  obtain  in  a small  degree,  the  in- 
habitants, for  want  of  a more  secure  and  reguLar  est;i- 
blishrnent  of  it,  are  driven  oftentimes  by  the  scarcity 
of  provision  to  devour  one  another. 

II.  It  preserves  the  produce  of  the  earth  to  matu- 
rity. 

We  m,ay  judge  what  would  be  the  effects  of  a com- 
munity of  right  to  the  productions  of  the  earth,  from 
the  trifling  specimens  which  we  see  of  it  at  present. 
A cherry-tree  in  a hedgerow,  nuts  in  a wood,  the 
gr.ass  of  an  unstinted  pasture,  are  seldom  of  much 
advantage  to  .anybody,  because  people  do  not  wait  for 
the  proper  season  of  reaping  them.  Corn,  if  any  were 
sown,  would  never  rijien  ; lambs  and  calves  would 
never  grow  up  to  sheei)  and  cows,  because  the  first 
person  that  met  them  would  reflect  that  he  had  better 
take  them  as  they  are  than  leave  them  for  another. 

HI.  It  prevents  contests. 

War  and  waste,  tumult  and  confusion,  must  be 
unavoidable  and  eternal  where  there  is  not  enough 
for  all,  and  where  there  are  no  rules  to  adjust  the 
division. 

IV.  It  improves  the  conveniency  of  living. 

This  it  does  two  ways.  It  enables  mankind  to 
divide  themselves  into  distinct  professions,  which  is 
impossible,  unless  a man  can  exchange  the  produe- 
tions  of  his  own  art  for  what  he  wants  from  others, 
and  exchange  implies  property,  hluch  of  the  advan- 
tiige  of  civili.sed  over  .savag“  life  depends  upon  this. 
When  a m.an  is,  from  necessity,  his  own  tailor,  tent- 
maker,  carpenter,  cook,  huntsman,  .and  fisherman,  it 
is  not  probable  that  he  will  be  expert  at  any  of  his 
callings.  Hence  the  rude  habitation.s,  furniture, 
clothing,  and  implements  of  savages,  and  the  tedious 
length  of  time  which  all  their  operations  require. 

It  likewise  encourages  those  arts  by  which  the  :ic- 
commodations  of  human  life  are  sniiplicd,  by  appro- 
priating to  the  artist  the  benefit  of  his  discoveries  and 
improvements,  without  which  appropriation  ingenuity 
will  never  be  exerted  with  effect. 

Upon  these  several  accounts  we  m.ay  venture,  with 
a few  exceptions,  to  pronounce  that  even  the  poorest 
and  the  worst  provided,  in  countries  where  projierty 
and  the  consequences  of  property  prevail,  are  in  a 
better  situation  with  respect  to  food,  raiment,  h.uises, 
.and  what  are  called  the  necessaries  of  life,  than  any 
are  in  places  where  most  things  remain  in  common. 

Cod 


WRITERS  IN  DIVINITY.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  dr  palbt. 


Tlic  balance,  therefore,  upon  the  whole,  must  pre- 
ponderate in  favour  of  property  with  a inaiiifcst  and 
great  excess. 

Inequality  of  property,  in  the  degree  in  which  it 
exists  in  most  countries  of  I'.urope,  abstractedly  con- 
sidered, is  an  evil  ; but  it  is  an  evil  which  Hows  from 
those  rules  concerning  the  acquisition  and  ilisposal  of 
propertv,  by  which  men  are  incited  to  industry,  .and 
by  which  the  object  of  their  industry  is  rendered 
secure  and  valuable.  If  there  be  any  great  inequality 
unconnected  with  this  origin,  it  ought  to  bo  corrected. 

In  1802  Paley  published  liis  Natural  I’heohyy,  his 
last  work.  lie  enjoyed  himself  in  the  country  witli 
his  duties  and  recreations  : he  was  particularly  fond 
of  angling ; and  he  mixed  familiarly  with  his  neigh- 
bours in  all  their  plans  of  utility,  sociality,  and  even 
convivi.dity.  lie  disposed  of  his  time  with  great 
regularity  : in  his  garden  he  limited  himself  to  one 
hour  at  a time,  twice  a-day  ; in  reading  books  of 
amusement,  one  hour  at  breakfast  and  another  in  the 
evening,  and  one  for  dinner  and  his  newspaper.  By 
thus  dividing  and  husbanding  his  pleasures,  they 
remained  with  him  to  the  last.  He  died  on  the  25th 
of  ^tay  180.5. 

No  works  of  a theological  or  philosophical  nature 
have  been  so  extensively  popular  among  the  edu- 
cated classes  of  England  as  those  of  Paley.  His  per- 
spicacity of  intellect  and  simplicity  of  style  are 
almost  unrivalled.  Though  plain  and  homely,  and 
often  inelegant,  he  has  such  vigour  and  discrimina- 
tion, and  such  a happy  vein  of  illustration,  that  he  is 
always  read  with  pleasure  and  instruction.  No 
reader  is  ever  at  a loss  for  his  meaning,  or  finds  him 
too  difficult  for  comprehension.  He  hail  the  rare 
art  of  po[)ularising  the  most  recondite  knowledge, 
and  blending  the  business  of  life  with  philosopliy. 
Tile  iirineiples  inculcated  in  some  of  his  works  have 
been  di-iputed,  particularly  his  doctrine  of  expediency 
as  a rule  of  morals,  which  has  been  considered  as 
trenching  on  the  authority  of  revealed  religion,  and 
also  lowering  the  standard  of  public  duty.  The 
system  of  Paley  certainly  wamld  not  tend  to  foster 
tile  great  and  heroic  virtues.  In  his  early  life  he  is 
reported  to  have  said,  with  respect  to  his  subscrip- 
tion to  the  thirty-nine  articles  of  the  Church  of 
England,  tiiat  he  was  ‘ton  poor  to  keep  a conscience 
ami  something  of  the  same  laxness  of  moral  feeling 
pervades  his  ethical  system.  His  abhorrence  of  all 
hypocrisy  and  pretence  was  probably  at  the  root  of 
this  error.  Like  Dr  Johnson,  he  was  a practical 
n.oralist,  and  looked  with  distrust  on  any  high- 
strained  virtue  or  enthusiastic  devotion.  He  did 
not  write  for  philosophers  or  metaphysicians,  but 
for  the  great  body  of  the  people  anxious  to  acquire 
knowledge,  and  to  be  able  to  give  ‘a  reason  for  the 
hope  that  is  in  them.’  He  considered  the  art  of  life 
to  consist  in  properly  ^ setting  oar  habits,’  and  for  this 
no  subtle  distinctions  or  jirofound  theories  were 
necessary.  His  ‘ Moral  and  Political  Philosophy’  is 
framed  on  this  basis  of  utility,  directed  by  strong 
sense,  a discerning  judgment,  and  a sincere  regard 
for  the  trne.end  of  all  knowledge — the  well-being  of 
mankind  liere  and  hereafter.  Of  Paley’s  other  works, 
Bir  James  Mackintosh  has  pronounced  the  follow  ing 
npinion ; — ‘ Tiie  most  original  and  ingenious  of  his 
writings  is  tlie  Horas  Paulinas.  The  Evidences  of 
Christianity  are  formed  out  of  an  admirable  trans- 
lation of  Bctler’s  Analogy,  and  a most  skilful  abridg- 
ment of  Lardner’s  Credibility  of  the  Gospel  His- 
tory. He  m.ay  be  said  to  have  thus  given  value 
to  two  works,  of  whicli  the  first  was  scarcely  intel- 
ligible to  most  of  those  who  were  most  desirous  of 
profiting  by  it;  and  the  second  soon  w’earies  out  the 
greater  part  of  readers,  though  the  few  who  are  more 
patient  have  almost  always  been  graduidly  won  over 


to  feel  iileasurc  in  a display  of  knowledge,  probity, 
cliarity,  and  meekness  nnmatclied  by  an  avowed 
advocate  in  a cause  deeply  interesting  his  warmest 
feelings.  His  Natural  Tlieology  is  the  ivonderful 
work  of  a man  wiio,  after  sixty,  had  studied  aiiatomy 
in  order  to  write  it ; and  it  could  oidy  have  been 
surpassed  by  a man  (Sir  Cliarlcs  Bell)  who,  to  great 
originality  of  conception  and  clearness  of  exposition, 
added  tlie  advantage  of  a high  place  in  the  first  class 
of  physiologists.’ 

[27ic  World  was  Made  with  a Benevolent  Designi^ 

[From  ‘ Natural  Theotogj’.’] 

It  is  a happy  world  after  all.  The  air,  the  earth, 
the  water,  teem  with  delighted  existence.  In  a spring 
noon  or  a summer  evening,  on  whichever  side  1 turn 
my  eyes,  myriads  of  happy  beings  crowd  upon  my 
view.  ‘ The  insect  youtli  are  on  the  w ing.’  Swarms 
of  new-born  Hies  are  trying  their  pinions  in  the  air. 
Their  sportive  motions,  their  wanton  mazes,  their 
gratuitous  activity,  their  continual  change  of  place 
without  use  or  purpose,  testify  their  joy  and  the  ex- 
ultation which  they  feel  in  their  lately-discovered 
faculties.  A bee  amongst  the  flowers  in  spring  is 
one  of  the  most  cheerful  objects  that  can  be  looked 
upon.  Its  life  appears  to  be  all  enjoyment  ; so  bu.sy 
and  so  pleased  : yet  it  is  only  a .sjiecimen  of  in.sect 
life,  with  which,  by  reason  of  the  animal  being  half- 
domesticated,  we  happen  to  be  better  acquainted  than 
we  are  with  that  of  otliers.  The  wliole  winged  insect 
tribe,  it  is  probable,  are  equally  intent  upon  their 
proper  employments,  and,  under  every  variety  of  con- 
stitution, gratitied,  and  perhaps  equally  gratified,  by 
the  offices  which  the  .Author  of  their  nature  has  as- 
signed to  them.  But  the  atmosphere  is  not  the  only 
scene  of  enjoyment  for  the  insect  race.  Plants  are 
covered  with  aphides,  greedily  sucking  their  juice.s. 
and  constantly,  as  it  should  seem,  in  -he  act  of  suck- 
ing. It  cannot  be  doubted  but  that  this  is  a state  o:* 
gratification  ; what  else  should  fix  them  so  close  tc 
the  operation,  and  so  long  ? Other  species  are  running 
about  with  an  alacrity  in  their  motions  which  carries 
with  it  every  mark  of  pleasure.  Large  patches  c f 
ground  are  sometimes  half  covered  with  these  briss 
and  sprightly  natures.  If  we  look  to  what  the  waters 
produce,  shoals  of  the  fry  of  fish  frequent  the  margiis 
of  rivers,  of  lakes,  and  of  the  .sea  itself.  These  are  .so 
happy  that  they  know  not  what  to  do  with  them- 
selves. Their  attitudes,  their  vivacity,  their  leaj  s 
out  of  the  water,  their  frolics  in  it  (which  1 hare 
noticed  a thousand  times  with  equal  attention  and 
amusement),  all  conduce  to  show  their  excess  of 
spirits,  and  are  simply  the  effects  of  that  excess. 
Walking  by  the  sea-side  in  a calm  evening  upon  a 
sandy  shore  a.nd  with  an  ebbing  tide,  I have  fre- 
quently remarked  the  appearance  of  a <!ark  cloud, 
or  rather  very  thick  mist,  hanging  over  the  edge  of 
the  water,  to  the  height,  perhaps,  of  half  a yard,  and 
of  the  breadth  of  two  or  three  yards,  stretching  along 
the  coast  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  and  ahvays 
retiring  with  the  water.  When  this  cloud  came  to 
be  examined,  it  proved  to  be  nothing  else  than  so 
much  space  filled  with  young  shrimps  in  the  act  of 
bounding  into  the  air  from  the  shallow  margin  of  the 
water,  or  from  the  wet  sand.  If  any  moticn  of  a. 
mute  animal  could  expre.ss  delight,  it  was  this  ; if 
they  had  meant  to  make  signs  of  their  happiness, 
they  could  not  have  done  it  more  intelligibly.  Sup- 
pose, then,  what  1 have  no  doubt  of,  each  individual 
of  this  number  to  be  in  a state  of  positive  enjoyment ; 
what  a sum,  collectively,  of  gratification  and  jilea- 
sure  have  we  here  before  our  view ! 

The  young  of  all  animals  appear  to  me  to  rebejvo 
pleasure  simply  from  the  exercise  of  their  limbs  and 
bodily  faculties,  without  reference  to  any  end  to  be 

653 


FROM  17B0 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  TRESENT  TIM« 


Bttaiiied,  or  any  use  to  be  answered  by  the  exertion. 
A eliild,  witliout  knowing  anytliing  of  the  use  of  lan- 
guage, is  in  a high  degree  delighted  with  being  able 
to  speak.  Its  inees.sant  repetition  of  a few  articulate 
Bounds,  or  perhaps  of  the  single  word  which  it  has 
learned  to  pronotince,  proves  this  point  clearly.  Nor 
is  it  less  pleased  with  its  first  successful  endeavours 
to  walk,  or  rather  to  run  (which  iirecedes  walking), 
although  entirely  ignorant  of  the  inii)ortance  of  the 
attainment  to  its  future  life,  and  even  without  apply- 
ing it  to  any  iiresent  purpose.  A child  is  delighted 
with  speaking,  without  having  anything  to  say  ; 
and  with  walking,  without  knowing  where  to  go. 
And,  prior  to  both  these,  I am  disposed  to  believe 
that  the  waking  hours  of  infancy  are  agreeably  taken 
uj)  with  the  exercise  of  vision,  or  perhaps,  more 
properly  speaking,  with  learning  to  see. 

liut  it  is  n,  t for  youth  alone  that  the  great  Parent 
of  creation  hath  provided.  Happiness  is  found  with 
the  purring  cat  no  less  than  with  the  playful  kitten  ; 
in  the  arm-chair  of  dozing  age,  as  well  as  in  either 
the  sprightliness  of  the  dance  or  the  animation  of  the 
cha.se.  To  novelty,  to  acuteness  of  sensation,  to  hope, 
to  ardour  of  pursuit,  succeeds  what  is,  in  no  incon- 
siderable degree,  an  equivalent  for  them  all,  ‘ percep- 
tion of  ease.’  Herein  is  the  exact  difference  between 
the  young  and  the  old.  The  young  are  not  happy 
but  when  enjoying  pleasure ; the  old  are  happy  when 
free  from  pain.  And  this  constitution  suits  with  the 
degrees  of  animal  power  which  they  respectively 
possess.  The  vigour  of  youth  was  to  be  stimulated 
to  action  by  impatience  of  rest  ; whilst  to  the  imbe- 
cilitv  of  age,  quietness  and  repose  become  positive 
gratifications.  In  one  important  step  the  advantage 
is  with  the  old.  A state  of  ease  is,  generally  speak- 
ing, more  attainable  than  a state  of  pleasure.  A 
constitution,  therefore,  which  can  enjoy  ease,  is  pre- 
ferable to  that  which  can  taste  only  pleasure.  This 
same  jierception  of  ease  oftentimes  renders  old  age  a 
cor.d.tion  of  great  comfort,  especially  when  riding  at 
its  anchor  after  a busy  or  tempestuous  life.  It  is 
well  described  by  Rousseau  to  be  the  interval  of  re- 
pose and  enjoyment  between  the  hurry  and  the  end 
of  life.  How  far  the  same  cause  extends  to  other 
animal  natures,  cannot  be  judged  of  with  certainty. 
The  appearance  of  satisfaction  with  which  most  ani- 
mals, as  their  activity  subsides,  seek  and  enjoy  rest, 
affords  reason  to  believe  that  this  source  of  gratifica- 
tion is  appointed  to  advanced  life  under  all  or  moat 
of  its  various  forms.  In  the  species  with  which  we 
are  best  acquainted,  namely,  our  own,  I am  far,  even 
as  an  observer  of  human  life,  from  thinking  that 
youth  is  its  happiest  season,  much  less  the  only 
happ3’  one. 

A new  and  illustrated  edition  of  Paley’s  ‘ Natural 
Theology’  was  published  in  183.5,  with  scientific  illus- 
trations bv  Sir  Charles  Bell,  and  a preliminary  dis- 
course by  Henry  Lord  Brougham. 

Da  Richard  Watson,  bishop  of  Llandaff  (1737- 
181G),  <lid  good  service  to  the  cause  of  revealed  reli- 
gion and  social  order  by  his  replies  to  Gibbon  the 
historian,  and  Thomas  Paine.  To  the  former  he 
addresseii  a series  of  letters,  entitled  An  Ajmhgy  for 
C/iristlanity,  in  answer  to  Gibbon’s  celebrated  chap- 
ters on  the  rise  and  progrc.ss  of  Christianity  ; and 
when  Paine  published  his  Age  of  Reason,  the 
bishop  met  it  with  a vigorous  and  conclusive  reply', 
which  he  termed  An  Apology  for  the  Bible.  Watson 
also  published  a few  sermons,  and  a collection  of 
theological  tracts,  selected  from  various  authors,  in 
six  volumes.  Ilis  Whig  principles  stood  in  the  way 
of  his  church  preferment,  and  he  had  not  magna- 
nimity enough  to  conceal  his  disappointment,  which 
is  strongly  expressed  in  an  autobiographical  memoir 
published  after  his  death  by  his  sou.  Dr  Watson, 


however,  was  a man  of  forcible  intellect,  and  ol 
various  knowledge.  His  controversial  works  are 
highly  honourable  to  him,  both  for  the  manly  and 
candid  sjiirit  in  which  they  are  written,  and  the 
logical  clearness  and  strength  of  his  reasoning. 

Dll  liEiLny  PoiiTLous,  bishop  of  London  (1731- 
1808),  was  a popular  dignitary  of  the  church,  authoi 
of  a variety  of  sermons  and  tracts  connected  with 
church  discijiline.  He  distinguished  himself  at  col- 


Tomb  of  Bishop  Porteous  at  Sunbridge,  Kent. 

lege  by  a prize  poem  On  Death,  which  has  been 
often  reprinted : it  is  but  a feeble  transcript  of 
Blair’s  ‘ Grave.’  Dr  Porteous  warmly  befriended 
Beattie  the  poet  (whom  he  wished  to  take  orders 
in  the  church  of  England),  and  he  is  said  to  have 
assisted  Hannah  IMore  in  her  novel  of  Ccelebs. 

Dr  Samuel  Horsley,  bishop  of  St  Asaph  (1733- 
1806),  was  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  churchmen 
of  his  day.  He  belonged  to  the  high  church  party, 
and  strenuously  resisted  all  political  or  ecclesiastical 
change.  He  was  learned  and  eloquent,  but  prone 
to  controversy,  and  deficient  in  charity  and  the 
milder  virtues.  His  character  was  not  unlike  that 
of  one  of  his  patrons.  Chancellor  Thurlow,  stem 
and  unbending,  but  cast  in  a manly  mould.  He 
was  an  indefatigable  student.  His  first  public  ap- 
pearance was  in  the  character  of  a man  of  science. 
He  was  some  time  secretary  of  the  Royal  Society — 
wrote  various  short  treatises  on  scientific  subjects, 
and  published  an  edition  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton’s 
works.  As  a critic  and  scholar  he  had  few-  equals ; 
and  his  disquisitions  on  the  prophets  Isaiah  and 
Hosea,  his  translations  of  the  Psalms,  and  his  Bibli- 
cal Criticisms  (in  four  volumes),  justly  entitled  him 
to  the  honour  of  the  mitre.  His  sermons,  in  three 
volumes,  are  about  the  best  in  the  language:  clear, 
nervous,  and  profound,  he  entered  undauntedly  upon 
the  most  difficult  subjects,  and  dispelled,  by  research 
and  argument,  the  doubt  that  hung  over  .several 
])ass.agcs  of  Scripture.  He  was  for  many  years 
engaged  in  a controversy  with  Dr  Priestley  on  the 
subject  of  the  divinity  of  Christ.  Both  of  the  com- 
batants lost  their  temper;  but  when  Priestley  re- 
sorted to  a charge  of  ‘ incompetency  and  ignorance,’ 
it  was  evident  that  he  felt  himself  sinking  in  the 
struggle.  In  intellect  and  scholarship,  Horsley  was 

C.5^ 


WRtTF.nS  IN  mVINITY. 


KNG  LISl  I Ll'n:U ATUU M 


■WILLIAM  WILDELFORCE. 


vastly  superior  to  bis  autagouist.  The  political 
opiiiioos  ami  intolerance  of  the  bishop  were  more 
Biieeessfully  attacked  by  llohert  Hall,  in  Ins  Apo 
logy  for  the  I'reedom  of  the  Press. 

Gilbert  Wakefield  (1756-1801)  enjoyed  cele- 
brity both  as  a writer  on  controversial  divinity  and 
a classical  critic.  He  left  the  church  in  consequence 
of  his  embracing  Unitarian  ojiiuions,  and  afterwards 
left  also  the  dissenting  establishment  at  Hackney, 
to  which  he  had  attached  himself.  He  published 
translations  of  some  of  the  epistles  in  the  New  Tes- 
tament, and  an  entire  translation  of  the  same  sacred 
volume,  with  notes.  He  was  also  author  of  a work 
on  Christian  Evidence,  in  reply  to  Paine.  The 
bishop  of  Elandaff  having  in  1798  written  an  address 
against  the  principles  of  the  French  Revolution, 
Wakefield  replied  to  it,  and  ivas  subjected  to  a 
crown  prosecution  for  libel ; he  was  found  guilty, 
and  sentenced  to  two  years’  imprisonment.  He 
published  editions  of  Horace,  Virgil,  Lucretius,  &c. 
which  ranked  him  among  the  first  scholars  of  his 
time.  Wakefield  was  an  honest,  precipitate,  and 
simple-minded  man  ; a Pythagorean  in  his  diet,  and 
eccentric  in  many  of  his  habits  and  opinions.  ‘ He 
was,’  says  one  of  his  biographers,  ‘ as  violent  against 
Greek  accents  as  he  was  against  the  Trinity,  and 
anathematised  the  final  n as  strongly  as  episcopacy.’ 

The  infidel  principles  'which  abounded  at  the 
period  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  continued  to 
agitate  both  France  and  England  for  some  years, 
induced  a disregard  of  vital  piety  long  afterwards 
in  the  higher  circles  of  British  society.  To  coun- 
teract this,  jMr  Wilberforce,  then  member  of  par- 
liament for  the  county  of  York,  published  in  1797  A 
Practical  Vieio  of  the  Prevailing  Religious  System  of 
Professed  Christians  in  the  Higher  and  Middle  Classes 
of  this  Country,  Contrasted  with  Real  Christianity. 
Five  editions  of  the  work  were  sold  within  si.x 
mouths,  and  it  still  continues,  in  various  languages, 
to  form  a popular  religious  treatise.  The  author 
attested,  by  his  daily  life,  the  sincerity  of  his  opi- 
nions. William  Wilberforce  was  the  son  of  a wealthy 
merchant,  and  born  at  Hull  in  1759.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Cambridge,  and  on  completing  his  twenty- 
first  year,  was  returned  to  parliament  for  his  native 
town.  He  soon  distinguished  himself  by  his  talents, 
and  became  the  idol  of  the  fashionable  world — danc- 
ing at  Almack’s,  and  singing  before  the  Prince  of 
Wales.  In  1784,  while  pursuing  a continental  tour 
with  some  relations,  in  company  with  Dean  Milner, 
the  latter  so  impressed  him  with  the  truths  of  Chris- 
tianity, that  Wilberforce  entered  upon  a new  life, 
and  abandoned  all  his  former  gaieties.  In  parlia- 
ment he  pursued  a strictly  independent  course.  For 
twenty  years  he  laboured  for  the  abolition  of  the 
slave-trade,  a question  with  which  his  name  is  in- 
separably entwined.  His  time,  his  talents,  influence, 
and  prayers,  were  directed  towards  the  consummation 
of  this  object,  and  at  length,  in  1807,  he  had  the 
high  gratification  of  seeing  it  accomplished.  The 
religion  of  Wilberforce  was  mild  and  cheerful,  un- 
mi.xed  with  austerity  or  gloom.  He  closed  his 
long  and  illustrious  life  on  the  27th  July  1833,  one 
of  those  men  who,  by  their  virtues,  talents,  arrd 
energy,  impress  their  own  character  on  the  age  in 
which  they  live.  His  latter  years  realised  his  own 
beautiful  description — 

[0)1  the  Effects  of  Religion.'] 

When  the  pulse  heats  high,  and  we  are  flushed 
with  youth,  and  health,  and  vigour ; when  all  goes 
on  prosperously,  and  success  seems  almost  to  anti- 
cipate our  wishes,  then  we  feel  not  the  want  of  the 
ponsolations  of  religion  : but  when  fortune  Iroivns,  or 


friends  forsake  us  ; when  sorrow,  or  sickness,  or  old 
age  comes  u]>on  us,  then  it  is  that  the  superiority  of 
the  pleasures  of  religion  is  established  over  those  of 
di.ssipation  and  vanity,  which  are  ever  apt  to  fly  from 
us  when  we  are  most  in  want  of  their  aid.  There 
is  scarcely  a more  melancholy  sight  to  a considerate 
mind,  than  that  of  an  old  man  who  is  a stranger  to 
those  only  true  sources  of  .satisfaction.  How  afl'ecting, 
and  at  the  same  time  how  disgusting,  is  it  to  see  such 
a one  awkwardly  catching  at  the  pleasures  of  his 
younger  years,  which  are  now  beyond  his  reach  ; or 
feebly  attempting  to  retain  them,  while  they  mock 
his  endeavours  and  elude  his  grasp  ! To  such  a one 
gloomily,  indeed,  does  the  evening  of  life  set  in  ! All 
is  sour  and  cheerless.  He  can  neither  look  backward 
with  complacency,  nor  forward  with  hope  ; while  the 
aged  Christian,  relying  on  the  assured  mercy  of  his 
Redeemer,  can  calmly  reflect  that  his  dismission  is 
at  hand  ; that  his  redemption  draweth  nigh.  While 
his  strength  declines,  and  his  faculties  decay,  he  can 
quietly  repose  himself  on  the  fidelity  ol  God  ; and  at 
the  very  entrance  of  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
he  can  lift  up  an  eye  dim  perhaps  and  feeble,  yet 
occasionally  sparkling  with  hope,  and  confidently 
looking  forw'ard  to  the  near  possession  of  his  hea-enly 
inheritance,  ‘ to  those  joys  which  eye  hath  not  seen, 
nor  ear  heard,  neither  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart 
of  man  to  conceive.’  What  striking  lessons  have  we 
had  of  the  precarious  tenure  of  all  sublunary  posses- 
sions ! Wealth,  and  power,  and  prosperity,  how  pecu- 
liarly transitory  and  uncertain  ! But  religion  dis- 
penses her  choicest  cordials  in  the  seasons  of  exigence, 
in  poverty,  in  exile,  in  sickness,  and  in  death.  The 
essential  superiority  of  that  support  which  is  derived 
from  religion  is  less  felt,  at  least  it  is  less  apparent, 
W'hen  the  Christian  is  in  full  possession  of  riches  and 
splendour,  and  rank,  and  all  the  gifts  of  nature  and 
fortune.  But  when  all  these  are  swept  away  by  the 
rude  hand  of  time  or  the  rough  blasts  of  adversity, 
the  true  Christian  stands,  like  the  glory  of  the  forest, 
erect  and  vigorous  ; stripped,  indeed,  of  his  summer 
foliage,  but  more  than  ever  discovering  to  the  observ- 
ing eye  the  solid  strength  of  his  substantial  texture. 

Another  distinguished  volunteer  in  the  cause  ol 
religious  instruction,  and  an  extensive  miscellaneous 
writer,  was  Mrs  Hannah  More,  whose  works  we 
have  previously  enumerated. 

DR  SAMUEL  PARR — DR  EDWARD  3IALTBY 

REV.  SIDNEY  SStlTH. 

Dr  Sajiuel  Parr  (1747-1825)  was  better  known 
as  a classical  scholar  tha  i a theologian.  His  ser- 
mons on  education  are,  however,  marked  with  co- 
gency of  argument  and  liberality  of  feeling.  His 
celebrated  Spital  sermon,  'when  printed,  presented 
the  singular  anomaly  of  fifty-one  pages  of  text  and 
two  hundred  and  twelve  of  notes,  hlr  Godwin  at- 
tacked some  of  the  principles  laid  down  in  this  dis- 
course, as  not  sufficiently  democratic  for  his  taste  ; 
for  though  a stanch  Whig,  Parr  was  no  revolu- 
tionist or  leveller.  His  object  was  to  extend  education 
among  the  poor,  and  to  ameliorate  their  condition 
by  gradual  and  constitutional  means.  Dr  Parr  was 
long  head  master  of  Norwich  school ; and  in  know- 
ledge of  Greek  literature  was  not  surpassed  by  any 
scholar  of  his  day.  His  uncompromising  support  of 
Whig  principles,  his  extensive  learning,  and  a cer- 
tain pedantry  and  oddity  of  character,  rendered  him 
always  conspicuous  among  his  brother  churchmen. 
He  died  at  Hatton,  in  Warwickshire,  the  perpetual 
curacy  of  which  he  had  enjoyed  for  above  forty  years, 
and  where  he  had  faithfully  discharged  his  duties  as 
a parish  pastor. 

Dr  Edward  AIaltby,  the  present  bishop  of  Dur- 

C.5.5 


PHOM  17fiO  CYCI-OI’/KDIA  OI’’  till  the  pniiSENT  timi. 

ham,  was  tlie  favourite  pupil  of  I’arr  at  Norwicli 
scliool.  lie  is  author  of  a work  on  the  Christian 
Kviilences  ; two  volumes  of  sermons,  1819  and  18:12; 
a third  volume  of  sermons  preaehed  before  tlie  so- 
eiety  of  Lincoln’s  Inn,  where  he  succeeded  Dr  lleher; 
and  also  of  a vastly  im]>roved  edition  of  Morell’s 
fiieek  Thesaurus,  which  engaged  his  attention  for 
about  eleven  years. 

'J'he  l!i;v.  Sidnkv  Smith,  well  known  as  a witty 
miscellaneous  writer  and  critic,  is  a canon  residen- 
tiary of  St  raid’s.  Mr  Smith  published  two  volumes 
of  sermons  in  the  year  1809.  They  are  more  re- 
markable for  plain  good  .sense  than  for  originality  or 
eloquence.  A few  sentences  from  a sermon  on  the 
Love  of  our  Cuuntry  will  sliow  tlie  homely  earnest- 
ness of  this  aulhor’s  serious  style: — 

\_l)ifficulty  of  Guvermn/j  a Nation.'] 

It  woulil  seem  that  the  science  of  government  is  an 
unappri'priated  region  in  the  universe  of  knowledge. 
Those  sciences  with  which  the  |iassions  can  never  in- 
terfere, are  considered  to  be  attainable  only  by  study 
and  by  reflection  ; while  there  are  not  many  young 
men  who  doubt  of  their  ability  to  make  a constitution, 
or  to  govern  a kingdom  ; at  tlie  same  time  there  can- 
not, perhaiis,  be  a more  decided  proof  of  a superficial 
understanding  than  the  depreciation  of  those  difficul- 
ties which  are  inseparable  from  the  science  of  govern- 
ment. To  know  well  the  local  and  the  natural  man  ; 
to  track  the  silent  march  of  human  affairs  ; to  seize, 
with  hajipy  intuition,  on  those  great  laws  which  re- 
gulate tlie  prosjierity  of  empires;  to  reconcile  prin- 
ciples to  cii cumstances,  and  be  no  wiser  than  the 
times  will  permit  ; to  antici|>ate  the  effects  of  even' 
speculation  upon  the  entangled  relations  and  awkward 
complexity  of  real  life  ; and  to  follow  out  the  theo- 
rems of  the  senate  to  the  daily  comforts  of  the  cot- 
tage, is  a task  which  they  will  fear  most  who  know  it 
best^ — a task  in  which  the  great  and  the  good  have 
often  failed,  and  which  it  is  not  only  wise,  but  pious 
and  just  in  common  men  to  avoid. 

[iMeans  of  Acquiring  Distinction.] 

It  is  natural  to  every  man  to  wish  for  distinction  ; 
and  the  piaise  of  those  w ho  can  confer  honour  by  their 
praise,  in  spite  of  all  false  philosophy,  is  sweet  to 
every  human  heart  ; but  as  eminence  can  be  but  the 
lot  of  a few,  patience  of  obscurity  is  a duty  which  we 
owe  not  more  to  our  own  happiness  than  to  the  quiet 
of  the  world  at  large.  Give  a loose,  if  you  are  young 
and  ambitious,  to  that  spirit  which  throbs  within  you  ; 
measure  yourself  with  your  equals  ; and  learn,  from 
frequent  competition,  the  place  which  nature  has  al- 
lotted to  you  ; make  of  it  no  mean  battle,  but  strive 
hard  ; strengthen  your  soul  to  the  search  of  truth,  and 
follow  that  spectre  of  excellence  which  beckons  you  on 
beyond  the  walls  of  the  world  to  something  better 
than  man  has  yet  done.  It  may  be  you  shall  burst 
out  into  light  and  glory  at  the  last;  but  if  frequent 
failure  convince  you  of  that  mediocrity  of  nature 
which  is  incompatible  with  great  actions,  submit 
wisely  and  cheerfully  to  your  lot ; let  no  mean  sjiirit 
of  revenge  tempt  you  to  throw  off  your  loyalty  to  your 
country,  and  to  prefer  a vicious  celebrity  to  obscurity 
crow  ned  with  piety  and  virtue.  If  you  can  throw  new 
light  uj'on  moral  truth,  or  by  any  exertions  multiply 
the  comforts  or  confirm  the  happiness  of  mankind, 
this  fame  guides  you  to  the  true  ends  of  your  nature  : 
but,  in  the  name  of  God,  as  you  tremble  at  retributive 
justice,  and,  in  the  name  of  mankind,  if  mankind  be 
dear  to  you,  seek  not  that  easy  and  accursed  fame 
which  is  gathered  in  the  w'ork  of  revolutions  ; and  deem 
it  better  to  be  for  ever  unknown,  than  to  found  a 
.nomentary  name  upon  the  basis  of  anarchy  and 
irreligion. 

\_The  Love  of  our  Country.] 

Whence  does  this  love  of  our  country,  this  universal 
passion,  proceed  I Why  does  the  eye  ever  dwell  with 
fondne.-'S  upon  the  scenes  of  infant  life?  Why  do  we 
breathe  with  greater  joy  the  breath  of  our  youth? 
Why  are  not  other  soils  as  grateful,  and  other  hcaven.s 
,as  gay  ? Why  does  the  soul  of  man  ever  cling  to  that 
earth  where  it  first  knew  pleasure  and  pain,  and,  un- 
der the  rough  discipline  of  the  passions,  was  roused  to 
the  dignity  of  moral  life?  Is  it  only  that  our  country 
contains  our  kindred  and  our  friends  ? .^nd  is  it  no- 
thing but  a name  for  our  social  affections?  It  cannot 
be  this  ; the  most  friendless  of  human  beings  has  a 
country  which  he  admires  and  extols,  and  which  he 
would,  in  the  same  eircumstance.s,  jirefcr  to  all  others 
under  heaven.  Tempt  him  with  the  fairest  face  of 
nature,  place  him  by  liiing  waters  under  shadowy 
trees  of  Lebanon,  open  to  his  view  all  the  gorgeous 
allurements  of  the  climates  of  the  sun,  he  will  love 
the  rocks  and  deserts  of  his  ehildhood  better  than  all 
these,  and  thou  canst  not  bribe  his  soul  to  forget  the 
land  of  his  nativity;  he  will  sit  down  and  weep  by 
the  waters  of  Babylon  when  he  remembers  thee,  oh 
Sion ! 

DR  IIERIJERT  MARSH. 

Dr  Herbert  Marsh,  bishop  of  Peterborougli, 
who  died  in  May  1839  at  an  advanced  age,  obtained 
distinction  as  the  translator  and  commentator  of 
• Michaclis’s  Introduction  to  the  New  Testament,’  ! 
one  of  the  most  valuable  of  modern  works  on  divi- 
nity. In  1807  this  divine  was  appointed  Lady  Mar-  ' 
garet’s  professor  of  divinity  in  the  university  of  , 
Cambriilge.  in  1816  he  was  made  bishop  of  Llandaff, 
and  in  1819  he  succeeded  to  the  see  of  I’eterborough. 
Besiiles  his  edition  of  Michaelis,  Dr  Marsh  imblished 
Lectures  on  Divinity,  and  a Comparative  Vieiv  of  the 
Churches  of  Lin  gland  and  Rome.  He  was  author  also 
of  some  controversial  tracts  on  the  Cafholie  question, 
the  Bible  society,  &c.  in  which  he  evinced  great 
acuteness,  tinctured  with  asperity.  In  early  life, 
during  a re.sideiice  in  Germany,  Dr  Marsh  published, 
in  the  German  language,  various  tracts  in  defence 
of  the  policy  of  his  own  country  in  the  continental 
wars;  and  more  p:irticularly  a very  elaborale //<s- 
tory  of  the  I’olilics  of  Great  Britain  and  I'rance,  from 
the  Time  of  the  Conference  at  Pilnilz  to  the  Declaration 
of  ]Var,  a work  vbich  is  said  to  have  jiroduecd  a 
marked  impression  on  the  state  of  imblie  (qiinion 
in  Germany,  and  for  which  he  received  a very  con- 
siderable pension  on  the  recommendation  of  Mr  Bitt. 

About  the  year  1833  a]ipeared  the  first  of  the 
celebrated  Tracts  for  the  Times,  ly  Members  of 
the  University  of  Oxford,  wiiich  have  originated 
a keen  controversy  among  the  clergy  of  the  church 
of  Lngland,  and  caused  a wide  rent  or  schism 
in  that  ancient  establishment.  The  peculiar  doc- 
trines or  opinions  of  this  sect  are  known  by  the 
term  l^useyi.sm,  so  called  after  one  of  their  first  and 
most  intrepid  supporters.  Dr  Kuward  Bouverie 
PiiSEY,  second  .son  of  the  late  Hon.  Bhili[)  I’usey,  and 
grandson  of  the  Karl  of  Kadnor.  This  gentleman 
was  born  in  1800,  and  educated  at  Christ-church 
college,  Oxford,  where,  in  1828,  he  became  regius 
jirof'essor  of  Hebrew.  In  conjunction  with  several 
other  members  of  the  university  of  Oxford  (Mr 
Newman,  Professor  Sewell.  &c.).  DrPusey  established 
an  association  for  spreading  and  advocating  their 
views  regarding  church  discipline  and  authority,  and 
from  this  association  sprung  the  ‘ Tracts  for  the 
Times.’  ‘ The  tenets  maintained  by  the  tract  writers 
were  chiefly  as  follows  ; — They  asserted  the  three- 
fold order  of  ministry — bishops,  priests,  and  deacons. 
They  claimed  a personal,  not  a merely  official  de- 

656 

WRn'KUS  IN  rilVINITY. 


ENGUSII  LITERATURE. 


nBV.  ROBERT  HALL. 


j "ci'iit  fi'im  till- iiixislles ; that  is,  tlu‘_v  (iccliirid  Itiiit 
I imt  onh'  tlie  cluircli  ever  ni;iint:iine(i  tlic  tliri'u 
nriiors,  Imt  tliat  mi  unbroken  succession  of  imiivi- 
dnols,  cRiioiiieiiiiy  onluiiied,  wits  enjoved  by  tbe 
clnireb,  and  csseidiid  to  lier  existence ; in  short,  tliat 
wiibouf  (bis  tbere  could  lie  no  church  at  all.  Tbey 
held  tbe  doctrine  of  baptismal  rctKineration,  of  sacra- 
meutal  absolution,  and  of  a real,  in  contradistiue- 
tion  to  a fijrurative  or  symbolical  presence  in  tbe 
Eucharist.  Tbey  maintained  the  dntj'  of  fasting,  of 
ritual  obedience,  and  of  communion  with  the  apos- 
tolic church,  declaring  all  dissenters,  and,  as  a ne- 
cessary consequence,  the  members  of  tbe  church  of 
Scotland,  and  all  churches  not  episcopal,  to  be  mem- 
bers of  no  church  at  all.  They’  denied  the  validity 
of  lay-baptism  ; they  threw  out  bints  from  time  to 
time  which  evidenced  an  attachment  to  the  theolo- 
gical system  supported  by  the  nonjnring  divines  in 
the  days  of  James  II. ; and  the  grand  Protestant  prin- 
ciple, as  established  by  Luther — the  right  of  private 
interpretation  of  Holy  Scripture — they  denied.’*  The 
tracts  were  discontinued  by  order  of  the  bishop  of 
Oxford;  but  the  same  principles  have  been  main- 
tained in  various  pulilications,  as  in  Mr  Gladstone’s 
two  woi  ks.  On  the  Ralaiiun  of  the  Church  to  the  State, 
iiid  Church  I'l  iuciples ; Jla  Chuist.m.as’s  Discipline 
the  Anglican  Church,  &c.  In  1843  Ur  Pusey  was 
suspendeii  from  preaching,  and  censured  by  the 
university  for  what  w;is  denounced  as  a heretical 
rermon,  in  which  he  advanced  the  Roman  Catholic 
doctrine  of  transuhstantiation.  Tlie  publications  on 
this  memorable  canitroversy  are  not  remarkable  for 
1 any  literary  merit.  The  tracts  are  dry  polemical 
I treatises,  interesting  to  comparatively  few  but  zea- 
I lous  churchuien. 


!BEV.  ROBERT  HALL. 

The  Rev.  Robert  Hall,  A.M.  is  justly  regarded 
j as  one  of  the  most  distinguished  ornaments  of  the 
body  of  English  dissenters.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
j Baptist  nnnister,  and  born  at  Arnsby,  near  Leicester. 
’ on  the  2il  of  May  1764.  He  studied  divinity  at  an 
! academy  in  Bristol  for  the  education  of  young  men 
j preparing  for  the  ministerial  office  among  the  Bap- 
tists, and  was  admitted  a preacher  in  1780,  but 
j next  year  attended  King's  college,  Aberdeen.  Sir 
Janies  Mackintosh  was  at  the  same  time  a student 
of  the  university,  and  the  congenial  tastes  and  pur- 
suits of  the  young  men  led  to  an  intimate  friendship 
between  them.  Ji'rom  their  p.artiality  to  Greek 
literature,  they  were  named  by  their  class-fellows 
Plato  and  Herodotus.’  Both  were  also  attached  to 
the  study  of  morals  and  metaphysics,  which  they 
cherished  through  life.  Hall  entered  the^church  as 
assistant  to  a Baptist  minister  at  Bristol,  whence  he 
removed  in  1790  to  Cambridge.  He  first  appeared 
as  an  author  by  publishing  a controversial  pamphlet 
entitled  Christianity  Consistent  with  a Love  of  Free- 
dom, which  appeared  in  1791;  in  1793  he  published 
his  eloquent  and  powerful  treatise.  An  Apology  for 
the  Freedom  of  the  Press;  and  in  1799  his  sermon, 
Modern  Infidelity  considered  with  respect  to  its  Influence 
on  Society.  The  latter  was  designed  to  stem  the 
torrent  of  infidelity  which  had  set  in  with  the  French 
Revolution,  and  is  no  less  remarkable  for  profound 
thought  than  for  the  elegance  of  its  style  and  the 
splendour  of  its  imagery.  His  celebrity  as  a writer 
was  further  extended  by  his  Reflections  on  War,  a 
sermon  published  in  1802  ; and  The  Sentiments  proper 
to  the  Present  Crisis,  another  sermon  preached  in 
1803.  The  latter  is  highly  eloquent  and  spirit- 

*  A New  Spirit  of  the  Age.  VoL  i.  p.  307. 

84 


stirring — possessing,  indeed,  the  fire  and  energy  of 
a martial  lyric  or  war-song.  In  November  1804 
the  noble  intellect  of  Mr  Hall  was  deranged,  in  con- 
sequence of  severe  study  ojierating  on  an  ardent  and 
susceptible  temperament.  His  friends  set  on  foot  a 
subscription  for  pecuniary  assistance,  and  a life- 
annuity  of  .£100  was  procured  for  him.  He  shortly 
afterwards  rcsumeil  his  ministerial  functions,  but  in 
about  twelve  months  he  had  another  attack.  This 
also  was  speedily  removed;  but  Jlr  Hall  resigned  his 
church  at  Cambridge.  On  his  complete  recovery, 
he  became  pastor  of  a congregation  at  Leicester, 
where  he  resided  for  about  twenty  years.  During 
this  time  he  published  a few  sermons  and  criticisms 
in  the  Eclectic  Review.  The  labour  of  writing  for 
the  press  was  opposed  to  his  habits  and  feelings. 
He  was  fastidious  as  to  style,  and  he  suffered  under 
a disease  in  the  spine  which  entailed  upon  him  acute 
pain.  A sermon  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Char- 
lotte in  1819  was  justly  considered  one  of  the  most 
impressive,  touching,  and  lofty  of  his  discourses. 

In  1826  he  removed  from  Leicester  to  Bristol,  I 
where  he  officiated  in  charge  of  the  Baptist  con- 
gregation till  within  a fortnight  of  his  death, 
which  took  place  on  the  21st  of  February  1831. 
The  masculine  intellect  and  extensive  acquire- 
ments of  Mr  Hall  have  seldom  been  found  united 
to  so  much  rhetorical  and  even  poetical  brilliancy 
of  imagination.  His  taste  was  more  refined  than 
that  of  Burke,  and  his  style  more  chaste  and  cor- 
rect. His  solid  learning  and  unfeigned  piety  gave 
a weight  and  impressiveness  to  all  he  uttered  and 
wrote,  while  his  classic  taste  enabled  him  to  clothe 
his  thoughts  and  imagery  in  language  the  most 
appropriate,  lieautifnl,  and  commanding.  Those  who 
listened  to  his  pulpit  ministrations  were  entranced 
by  his  fervid  eloquence,  which  truly  disclosed  the 
‘ beauty  of  holiness,’  and  melted  by  the  awe  and 
fervour  with  which  he  dwelt  on  the  mysteries  of 
death  and  eternity.  His  published  writings  give 
but  a brief  and  inadequate  picture  of  his  varied 
talents ; yet  they  are  so  highly  finished,  and  display 
such  a combination  of  different  powers — of  logical 
precision,  metaphysical  acuteness,  practical  sense 
and  sagacity,  with  a rich  and  luxuriant  imagination, 
and  all  the  graces  of  composition — that  they  must 
be  considered  among  the  most  valuable  contributions 
made  to  modern  literature.  A complete  edition  of 
his  works  has  been  published,  with  a life,  by  Dr 
Olinthus  Gregory,  in  six  volumes. 

[On,  Wisdom.^ 

Every  other  quality  besides  is  subordinate  and  in- 
ferior to  wisdom,  in  the  same  sense  as  tbe  ma.son  who 
lays  the  bricks  and  stones  in  a building  is  inferior  to 
the  architect  who  drew  the  plan  and  superintends  the 
w’ork.  The  former  executes  only  what  the  latter  con- 
trives and  directs.  Now,  it  is  the  prerogative  of 
wisdom  to  preside  over  every  inferior  principle,  to 
regulate  the  exercise  of  every  power,  and  limit  the 
indulgence  of  every  appetite,  as  shall  best  conduce  t« 
one  great  end.  It  being  the  province  of  wisdom  to 
preside,  it  sits  as  umpire  on  every  difficulty,  and  so 
gives  the  final  direction  and  control  to  all  the  poweca 
of  our  nature.  Hence  it  is  entitled  to  be  considered 
as  the  top  and  summit  of  perfection.  It  belongs  to 
wisdom  CO  deterinin*  when  to  act,  and  when  to  cease— 
when  to  reveal,  and  when  to  conceal  a matter — when 
to  speak,  and  when  to  keep  silence — when  to  give,  and 
when  to  receive  ; in  short,  to  regulate  the  measure  of 
all  things,  as  well  as  to  determine  the  end,  and  pro- 
vide the  means  of  obtaining  the  end  pursued  in  evc’y 
deliberate  course  of  action.  Every  particular  faculty 
or  skill,  besides,  needs  to  derive  direction  from  this  • 

657 


I' ROM  1700  CYCLOl’VKD)  A OF  till  the  presknt  timic. 


they  are  all  quite  incapable  of  directing  themselves. 
The  art  of  nar'''ation,  for  instance,  will  teach  us  to 
steer  a ship  acioss  the  ocean,  but  it  will  never  teach 
us  on  what  occasions  it  is  proper  to  take  a voyage. 
The  art  of  war  will  instruct  us  how  to  marshal  an 
army,  or  to  fight  a battle  to  the  greatest  advantage, 
but  you  must  learn  from  a higher  school  when  it  is 
fitting,  just,  and  proper  to  wage  war  or  to  make  jicace 
The  art  of  the  husbandman  is  to  sow  and  bring  to 
maturity  the  precious  fruits  of  the  earth  ; it  belongs 
to  another  skill  to  regulate  their  consumption  by  a 
regard  to  our  health,  fortune,  and  other  circumstances. 
In  short,  there  is  no  faculty  we  can  exert,  no  species 
of  skill  we  can  apply,  but  requires  a superintending 
band — but  looks  up,  as  it  were,  to  some  higher  prin- 
ciple, as  a maid  to  her  mistress  for  direction,  and  this 
universal  superintendent  is  wisdom. 


\From.  the  Funeral  Sermon  for  the  Princess  Charlotte 
of  Wales.'] 

Bom  to  inherit  the  most  illustrious  monarchy  in 
the  world,  and  united  at  an  early  period  to  the  object 
of  her  choice,  whose  virtues  amply  justified  her  pre- 
ference, she  enjoyed  (what  is  not  always  the  privilege 
of  that  rank)  the  highest  connubial  felicity,  and  had 
the  prospect  of  combining  all  the  tranquil  enjoyments 
of  private  life  with  the  splendour  of  a royal  station. 
Placed  on  the  summit  of  society,  to  her  every  eye  was 
turned,  in  her  every  hope  was  centred,  and  nothing 
was  wanting  to  complete  her  felicity  except  perpe- 
tuity. To  a grandeur  of  mind  suited  to  her  royal 
birth  and  lofty  destination,  she  joined  an  exquisite 
taste  for  the  beauties  of  nature  and  the  charms  of 
retirement,  where,  far  from  the  gaze  of  the  multitude, 
and  the  frivolous  agitations  of  fashionable  life,  she 
employed  her  hours  in  visiting,  with  her  distinguished 
consort,  the  cottages  of  the  poor,  in  improving  her 
virtues,  in  perfecting  her  reason,  and  acquiring  the 
knowledge  best  adapted  to  qualify  her  for  the  pos- 
session of  power  and  the  cares  of  empire.  One 
thing  only  was  wanting  to  render  our  satisfaction 
complete  in  the  prospect  of  the  accession  of  such  a 
princess  ; it  was,  that  she  might  become  the  living 
mother  of  children. 

The  long-wished-for  moment  at  length  arrived  ; but, 
alas ! the  event  anticipated  with  such  eagerne.ss  will 
form  the  most  melancholy  part  of  our  history. 

It  is  no  reflection  on  this  amiable  princess,  to  sup- 
pose that  in  her  early  dawn,  with  the  dew  of  her 
youth  so  fresh  upon  her,  she  anticipated  a long  series 
of  years,  and  expected  to  be  led  through  successive 
scenes  of  enchantment,  rising  above  each  other  in 
fascination  and  beauty.  It  is  natural  to  suppose  she 
identified  herself  with  this  great  nation  which  she 
was  born  to  govern  ; and  that,  while  she  contemplated 
its  pre-eminent  lustre  in  arts  and  in  arms,  its  commerce 
encircling  the  globe,  its  colonies  diffused  through  both 
hemispheres,  and  the  beneficial  effects  of  its  institu- 
tions extending  to  the  whole  earth,  she  considered 
them  as  so  many  component  parts  of  her  grandeur. 
Her  heart,  we  may  well  conceive,  would  often  be 
ruflBed  with  emotions  of  trembling  ecstacy  when  she 
reflected  that  it  was  her  province  to  live  entirely  for 
others,  to  compass  the  felicity  of  a great  people,  to 
move  in  a sphere  which  would  afford  scope  for  the 
exercise  of  philanthropy  the  most  enlarged,  of  wisdom 
the  most  enlightened ; and  that,  while  others  are 
doomed  to  pass  through  the  wofld  in  o^curity,  .she 
was  to  supply  the  materials  of  history,  mul  to  impart 
that  impulse  to  society  which  was  to  decide  the  des- 
tiny of  future  geuerat'ons.  Fired  with  the  ambition 
of  equalling  or  su'j^asslng  the  most  distinguished  of 
her  predecessors,  she  probably  did  not  despair  of  re- 
ri.ving  the  remembrance  of  the  brightest  parts  of  their 


story,  and  of  once  more  attaching  the  epoch  of  British 
glory  to  the  annals  of  a female  reign.  It  is  needlesa 
to  add  that  the  nation  went  with  lier,  and  probably 
outstripped  her  in  these  delightful  anticipations.  W'e 
fondly  hoped  that  a life  so  inestimable  would  be 
protracted  to  a di.stant  period,  and  that,  after  diffusing 
the  blessings  of  a just  and  enlightened  administra- 
tion, and  being  surrounded  by  a numerous  progeny, 
she  would  gradually,  in  a good  old  age,  sink  under 
the  horizon  amidst  the  embraces  of  her  family  and 
the  benedictions  of  her  country.  But,  alas!  these 
delightful  visions  arc  fled  ; and  what  do  we  behold  in 
their  room  but  the  funeral-pall  and  shroud,  a palace 
in  mourning,  a nation  in  tears,  and  the  shadow  of 
death  settled  over  both  like  a cloud  ! Oh  the  un- 
speakable vanity  of  human  hopes! — the  incurable 
blindness  of  man  to  futurity  ! — ever  doomed  to  grasp 
at  shadows  ; ‘ to  seize’  with  avidity  what  turns  to  dust 
and  ashes  in  his  hands ; to  sow  the  wind,  and  reap  the 
whirlwind. 


REV.  JOHN  FOSTER. 

The  Eev.  .John  Foster  (1770-1 84.3)  was  author  of 
a volume  of  Essays,  in  a Series  of  Letters,  published  in 
180.5,  which  was  justly  ranked  among  the  most  ori- 
ginal and  valuable  works  of  the  day.  The  essays  are 
four  in  number — on  a man’s  writing  memoirs  of  him- 
self ; on  decision  of  character  ; on  the  application  of 
the  epithet  romantic ; and  on  some  of  the  causes  by 
which  evangelical  religion  has  been  rendered  less 
acceptable  to  persons  of  cultivated  taste.  Mr  Foster’s 
essays  are  excellent  models  of  vigorous  thought  and 
expression,  uniting  metaphysical  nicety  and  acute- 
ness with  practical  sagacity  and  common  sense.  He 
.also  wrote  a volume  on  the  Evils  of  Popular  Igno- 
rance, several  sermons,  and  critical  contributions  tc 
the  Eclectic  Review'.  Like  Hall,  Mr  FTister  was 
pastor  of  a Baptist  congregation.  He  died  at  Staple- 
ton,  near  Bristol. 

In  the  essay  On  a Man’s  Writing  Memoirs  oi 
Himself,  Mr  Foster  thus  speculates  on  a changeable 
character,  and  on  the  contempt  which  we  entertain 
at  an  advanced  period  of  life  for  what  we  were  at  an 
earlier  period : — 

Though  in  memoirs  intended  for  publication  a 
large  share  of  incident  and  action  would  generally  be 
necessary,  yet  there  are  some  men  whose  mental  his- 
tory alone  might  be  very  interesting  to  reflective 
readers  ; as,  for  instance,  that  of  a thinking  man  re- 
markable for  a number  of  complete  changes  of  his 
speculative  system.  From  observing  the  usual  tena- 
city of  views  once  deliberately  adopted  in  mature 
life,  we  regard  as  a curious  phenomenon  the  man 
whose  mind  has  been  a kind  of  caravansera  of  opi- 
nions, entertained  a while,  and  then  sent  on  pil- 
grimage ; a man  who  has  admired  and  dismi.ssed  sys- 
tems with  the  same  facility  with  which  John  Bunclo 
found,  adored,  married,  and  interred  his  succe.ssion  of 
wives,  each  one  being,  for  the  time,  not  only  better 
than  all  that  went  before,  but  the  best  in  the  creation. 
You  admire  the  versatile  aptitude  of  a mind  sliding 
into  successive  forms  of  belief  in  this  intellectual 
meter  'psychosis,  by  which  it  animates  so  many  new 
bodies  of  doctrines  in  their  turn.  And  as  none  of 
those  dying  pangs  which  hurt  you  in  a tale  of  India 
attend  the  de.sertion  of  each  of  these  speculative  forms 
which  the  soul  has  a while  inhabited,  you  are  ex- 
tremely amused  by  the  number  of  transitions,  ami 
eagerly  ask  what  is  to  be  the  next,  for  you  never 
deem  the  present  state  of  such  a man’s  views  to  be  for 
permanence,  unless  perhaps  when  he  has  terminated 
his  course  of  believing  everything  in  ultimately  be- 
lieving nothing.  Even  then,  unless  he  is  very  old,  or 
■ 658 


wniTKns  IN  DIVINITY.  KNGI.lSIl  LITERATUKE.  dev.  joiin  foster. 


fcelj  more  iiride  in  being  a scejitic,  the  conqueror  of 
all  systems,  than  he  ever  felt  in  being  the  chaminon 
)f  one,  even  then  it  i.s  very  possible  he  may  spring  up 
again,  like  a vapour  of  (ire  from  a bog,  and  glimmer 
through  new  mazes,  or  retrace  his  course  through  half 
of  those  which  he  troil  before.  Vou  will  observe  that 
no  respect  attaches  to  this  Proteus  of  opinion  after  his 
change.s  hwe  been  multiplied,  ns  no  party  expect  him 
to  remain  with  them,  nor  deem  him  much  of  an  ac- 
quisition if  he  should.  One,  or  perhaps  two,  consider- 
able changes  will  be  regarded  as  signs  of  a liberal 
inquirer,  and  therefore  the  party  to  which  his  first  or 
his  second  intellectual  conversion  may  assign  him 
will  receive  him  gladly.  But  he  will  be  deemed  to 
have  abdicated  the  dignity  of  reason  when  it  is  found 
that  he  can  adopt  no  principles  but  to  betray  them  ; 
and  it  will  be  perhaps  justly  suspected  that  there  is 
something  extremely  infirm  in  the  structure  of  that 
mind,  whatever  vigour  m.ay  mark  some  of  its  opera- 
tions, to  which  a series  of  very  different,  and  some- 
times contrasted  theories,  can  appear  in  succession 
demonstratively  true,  and  which  imitates  sincerely 
the  perverseness  which  Petruchio  only  atfected,  de- 
claring that  which  was  yesterday  to  a certainty  the 
sun.  to  be  to-day  as  certainly  the  moon. 

It  would  be  curious  to  observe  in  a man,  who  should 
make  such  an  exhibition  of  the  course  of  his  mind, 
the  sly  deceit  of  self-love.  While  he  despises  the 
syst  ;ra  which  he  has  rejected,  he  does  not  deem  it  to 
imply  so  great  a want  of  sense  in  him  once  to  have 
embraced  it,  as  in  the  rest  who  were  then  or  are  now 
its  discipks  and  advocates.  No;  in  him  it  was  no 
debility'  of  reason  ; it  was  at  the  utmost  but  a merge 
of  it ; and  probably  he  is  prepared  to  explain  to  you 
that  such  peculiar  circumstances,  as  might  W'aq>  even 
a very'  sti  mg  and  liberal  mind,  attended  his  con- 
sideration of  the  subject,  and  misled  him  to  admit 
the  belief  )f  what  others  prove  themselves  fools  by 
believing. 

Another  thing  apparent  in  a record  of  changed 
opinions  would  be,  ivhat  I have  noticed  before,  that 
there  is  scarcely  any  such  thing  in  the  w'orld  as  simple 
conviction.  It  would  be  amusing  to  observe  how 
reason  had,  in  one  instance,  been  overruled  into 
acquiescence  by  the  admiration  of  a celebrated  name, 
or  in  another  into  opposition  by  the  envy  of  it ; how 
most  opportunely  reason  discovered  the  truth  just  at 
the  time  that  interest  could  be  essentially  served  by 
avowing  it ; how  easily  the  impartial  examiner  could 
be  induced  to  adopt  some  part  of  another  man’s  opi- 
nions, after  that  other  had  zealously  approved  some 
favourite,  especially  if  unpopular  part  of  his,  as  the 
Pharisees  almost  became  partial  even  to  Christ  at  the 
moment  that  he  defended  one  of  their  doctrines  against 
the  Sadducees.  It  would  be  curious  to  see  how  a 
professed  respect  for  a man’s  character  and  talents, 
and  concern  for  his  interests,  might  be  changed,  in 
consequence  of  some  personal  inattention  experienced 
from  him,  into  illiberal  invective  against  him  or  his 
intellectual  performances,  and  y'et  the  railer,  though 
actuated  solely  by  petty  revenge,  account  himself  the 
model  of  equity  and  candour  all  the  while.  It  might 
be  seen  how  the  patronage  of  pow'er  could  elevate 
miserable  prejudices  into  revered  wisdom,  while  poor 
old  Experience  was  mocked  w'ith  thanks  for  her  in- 
struction ; and  how  the  vicinity  or  society  of  the  rich, 
and,  as  they  are  termed,  great,  could  perhaps  melt  a 
soul  that  seemed  to  be  of  the  stern  consistence  of  early 
Rome,  into  the  gentlest  w'ax  on  which  Corruption 
could  wish  to  imprint  the  venerable  creed — ‘ The  right 
divine  of  kings  to  govern  wrong,’  with  the  pious  infe- 
rence that  justice  was  outraged  when  virtuous  Tarquin 
was  expelled.  I am  supposing  the  observer  to  perceive 
all  these  accommodating  dexterities  of  reason  ; for  it 
were  probably  absurd  to  expect  that  any  mind  should 
tself  be  able  in  its  review  to  detect  all  its  own  obli- 


quities, after  having  been  so  long  beguiled,  like  tha 
mariners  in  a story  which  1 remembor  to  have  read, 
who  followed  the  direction  of  their  compas.s,  infallibly 
right  .as  they  thought,  till  they  arrived  at  an  enemy’s 
l)ort,  where  they  were  seized  and  doomed  to  slavery. 
It  happened  that  the  wicked  captain,  in  order  to  be- 
tray the  ship,  had  concealed  a large  loadstone  at  a 
little  distance  on  one  side  of  the  needle. 

On  the  notions  and  expectations  of  one  stage  of  life 
I suppose  all  reflecting  men  look  back  with  a kind  of 
contempt,  though  it  may  be  often  w'ith  the  mingling 
wish  that  some  of  its  enthusiasm  of  feeling  could  be 
recovered — I mean  the  period  between  proper  child- 
hood and  maturity.  They  will  allow  that  their  reason 
was  then  feeble,  and  they  are  prompted  to  exclaim, 
What  fools  we  have  been — while  they  recollect  how 
sincerely  they  entertained  and  advanced  the  most 
ridiculous  speculations  on  the  interests  of  life  and  the 
questions  of  truth  ; how  regretfully  astonished  they 
were  to  find  the  mature  sense  of  some  of  those  around 
them  so  completely  wrong ; yet  in  other  instances,  what 
veneration  they  felt  for  authorities  for  which  they 
have  since  lost  all  their  respect  ; what  a fantastic  im- 
portance they  attached  to  some  most  trivial  things ; 
what  complaints  against  their  fate  ivere  uttered  on 
account  of  disappointments  which  they  have  since  re- 
collected with  gaiety  or  self-congratulation ; what 
happiness  of  Elysium  they  expected  from  sources 
which  would  soon  have  failed  to  impart  even  common 
satisfaction  ; and  how  certain  they  were  that  the  feel- 
ings and  opinions  then  predominant  would  continue 
through  life. 

If  a reflective  aged  man  were  to  find  at  the  bottom 
of  an  old  chest — where  it  had  lain  forgotten  fifty 
years — a record  which  he  had  written  of  himself 
when  he  was  young,  simply  and  vividly  describing  his 
whole  heart  and  pursuits,  and  reciting  verbatim  many 
passages  of  the  language  which  he  sincerely  uttered, 
would  he  not  read  it  with  more  wonder  than  almost 
every  other  writing  could  at  his  age  inspire?  He 
would  half  lose  the  assurance  of  his  identity,  under 
the  impression  of  this  immense  dissimilarity.  It  would 
seem  as  if  it  must  be  the  tale  of  the  juvenile  days  of 
some  ancestor,  with  whom  he  had  no  connexion  but 
that  of  n.ame.  He  would  feel  the  young  man  thus 
introduced  to  him  separated  by  so  wide  a distance  of 
character  as  to  render  all  congenial  sociality  impos- 
sible. At  every  sentence  he  would  be  tempted  to  re- 
peat— Foolish  youth,  1 have  no  sympathy  with  your 
feelings,  I can  hold  no  converse  with  your  understand- 
ing. Thus,  you  see  that  in  the  course  of  a long  life  a 
man  may  be  several  moral  persons,  so  various  from 
one  another,  that  if  you  could  find  a real  individual 
that  should  nearly  exemplify  the  character  in  one  of 
these  stages,  and  another  that  should  exemplify  it  in 
the  next,  and  so  on  to  the  last,  and  then  bring  these 
several  persons  together  into  one  society,  which  would 
thus  be  a representation  of  the  successive  states  of  one 
man,  they  would  feel  themselves  a most  heterogeneous 
party,  would  oppose  and  probably  despise  one  another, 
and  soon  after  separate,  not  caring  if  they  were  never 
to  meet  again.  If  the  dissimilarity  in  mind  were  as 
great  as  in  person,  there  would  in  both  respects  be  a 
most  striking  contrast  betiveen  the  extremes  at  least, 
between  the  youth  of  seventeen  and  the  sage  of  seventy. 
The  one  of  these  contrasts  an  old  man  might  contem- 
plate if  he  had  a true  portrait  for  which  he  sat  in  the 
bloom  of  his  life,  and  should  hold  it  beside  a mirror 
in  which  he  looks  at  his  present  countenance  ; and  the 
other  would  be  pow'erfully  felt  if  he  had  such  a genuin? 
and  detailed  memoir  as  I have  suppo.sed.  Might  it 
not  be  worth  while  for  a self-observant  person,  in  early 
life  to  preserve,  for  the  inspection  of  the  old  man.  if 
he  should  live  so  long,  such  a mental  likeness  of  the 
young  one?  If  it  be  not  drawn  near  the  time,  it  can 
never  be  drawn  with  sufficient  accuracy. 

659 


FROM  17B0  CYCI.Ol’yi 


DR  ADAM  CLARKE. 

Anothor  distinpuislied  dissentnr  was  Dr  Adam 
Clarke  (1760-1832),  a profound  Oriental  scholar, 
autlior  of  a Commentary  on  the  Bible,  and  editor  of  a 
collection  of  state  i>apers  supiilenientary  to  Jtymer’s 
Fociiera.  Dr  Clarke  was  a native  of  Moybep,  a vil- 
lage in  Londonderry,  Ireland,  where  his  father  was  a 
schoedmaster.  He  was  educated  at  Kingswood 
school,  an  establishment  of  Wesley’s  projecting  for 
the  instruction  of  itinerant  preachers.  In  due  time 
lie  himself  became  a preacher;  and  so  indefatigable 
was  he  in  propagating  the  doctrines  of  the  Wesleyan 
persuasion,  that  he  twice  visited  Shetland,  and  es- 
tablished there  a iMethodist  mission.  In  the  midst 
of  his  various  journeys  and  active  duties.  Dr  Clarke 
continued  those  researches  which  do  honour  to  his 
name.  He  fell  a victim  to  the  cholera  when  that 
fatal  pestilence  visited  our  shores. 

REV.  ARCHIBALD  ALISON. 

The  Rev.  Arciiirald  Alison  (1757-1838)  was 
senior  minister  of  St  Paul’s  chapel,  Edinburgh. 
After  a careful  education  at  Glasgow  university 
and  Baliol  college,  Oxford  (where  he  took  his  de- 
gree of  B.C.L.  in  1784),  Mr  Alison  entered  into 
sacred  orders,  and  was  presented  to  different  livings 
by  Sir  William  Pulteney,  Lord  Loughborough,  and 
Dr  Douglas,  bishop  of  Salisbury.  Having,  in  1784, 
married  the  daughter  of  Dr  John  Gregory  of  Edin- 
burgh, Mr  Alison  looked  forward  to  a residence  in 
Scotland,  but  it  was  not  till  the  elose  of  the  last 
century  that  he  was  able  to  realise  his  wishes.  In 
1790  he  published  his  admirable  Essay  on  the  Nature 
and  Principles  of  Taste,  and  in  1814  two  volumes  of 
* sermons,  justly  admired  for  the  elegance  and  beauty 
of  tlieir  language,  and  their  gentle  persuasive  in- 
culcation of  Christian  duty.  On  points  of  doctrine 
and  controversy  the  author  is  wholly  silent:  his 
writings,  as  one  of  his  critics  remarked,  were  de- 
signed for  those  who  ‘ want  to  be  roused  to  a sense 
of  the  beauty  and  the  good  that  exist  in  the  universe 
around  them,  and  who  are  only  indifferent  to  the 
feelings  of  their  fellow-creatures,  and  negligent  of 
the  duties  they  impose,  for  want  of  some  persuasive 
monitor  to  awake  the  dormant  capacities  of  their 
nature,  and  to  make  them  see  and  feel  the  delights 
which  providence  has  attached  to  their  exercise.’  A 
selection  from  the  sermons  of  Mr  Alison,  consisting 
of  those  on  the  four  seasons,  spring,  summer,  autumn, 
and  winter,  was  afterwards  printed  in  a small 
volume. 

[Fi-om  the  Sermon  on  Autumn.'] 

There  is  an  eventide  in  the  day  — an  hour  when 
the  sun  retires  and  the  shadows  fall,  and  ivhen  nature 
assumes  the  appearances  of  soberness  and  silence.  It 
is  an  hour  from  which  everywhere  the  thoughtless  fly, 
as  peopled  only  in  their  imagination  with  images  of 
gloom ; it  is  the  hour,  on  the  other  hand,  which  in 
every  age  the  wise  have  loved,  as  bringing  with  it 
sentiments  and  affections  more  valuable  than  all  the 
splendours  of  the  day. 

Its  first  impression  is  to  still  all  the  turbulence  of 
thought  or  passion  which  the  day  may  have  brought 
forth.  We  follow  with  our  eye  the  descending  sun 
— we  listen  to  the  decaying  sounds  of  labour  and  of 
toil ; and,  when  all  the  fields  are  silent  around  u.s, 
we  feel  a kindred  stillness  to  breathe  upon  our  souks, 
and  to  calm  them  from  the  agitations  of  society. 
From  this  first  impression  there  is  a second  which 
naturally  follows  it : in  the  day  we  are  living  with 
(i.cn,  in  the  eventide  we  begin  to  live  with  nature ; 


liDlA  OF  nUL  the  PRltSP.NT  TIME. 


we  see  the  world  withdrawn  from  us,  the  shades  of 
night  darken  over  the  habitations  of  men,  and  we  feel 
oui selves  alone.  It  is  an  hour  fitted,  as  it  would 
seem,  by  Him  who  made  us  to  still,  but  with  gentle 
hand,  the  throb  of  every  unruly  passion,  and  the 
ardour  of  every  impure  desire  ; and,  while  it  veils  for 
a time  the  world  that  misleads  us,  to  awaken  in  oui 
hearts  those  legitimate  affections  wdiich  the  heat  of 
the  day  may  have  dissolved.  There  is  yet  a farther 
scene  it  presents  to  us.  While  the  world  withdraws 
from  us,  and  while  the  shades  of  the  evening  darken 
upon  our  dwellings,  the  splendours  of  the  firmament 
come  forward  to  our  view.  In  the  moments  when 
earth  is  overshadowed,  heaven  opens  to  our  eyes  ths 
radiance  of  a suhlimer  being  ; our  hearts  follow  the 
successive  splendours  of  the  scene ; and  w hile  we 
forget  for  a time  the  obscurity  of  earthly  concerns, 
we  feel  that  there  are  ‘yet  greater  things  than  these.’ 

There  is,  in  the  second  place,  an  ‘ eventide’  in  the 
year — a season,  as  we  now  witness,  when  the  sun  with- 
draws his  propitious  light,  when  the  winds  ari.se  and 
the  leaves  fall,  and  nature  around  us  seems  to  sink 
into  decay.  It  is  said,  in  general,  to  be  the  season  of 
melancholy  ; and  if  by  this  word  be  meant  that  it  is 
the  time  of  solemn  and  of  serious  thought,  it  is  un- 
doubtedly the  season  of  melancholy  ; yet  it  is  a me- 
lancholy so  soothing,  so  gentle  in  its  a])proach,  and 
so  prophetic  in  its  influence,  that  they  who  have 
known  it  feel,  as  instinctively,  that  it  is  the  doing  of 
God,  and  that  the  heart  of  man  is  not  thus  finely 
touched  but  to  fine  issues. 

When  we  go  out  into  the  fields  in  the  evening  of 
the  year,  a different  voice  approaches  us.  M'e  regard, 
even  in  spite  of  ourselves,  the  still  but  steady  advances 
of  time.  A few  days  ago,  and  the  summer  of  the  year 
was  grateful,  and  every  element  was  filled  with  life, 
and  the  .sun  of  heaven  seemed  to  glory  in  his  ascen- 
dant. He  is  now  enfeebled  in  his  power;  the  dc.sert 
no  more  ‘ blossoms  like  the  rose  ;’  the  song  of  joy  is 
no  more  heard  among  the  brandies  ; and  tlie  earth  is 
strewed  with  that  foliage  wliich  once  bespoke  the 
magnificence  of  summer.  Whatever  may  be  the  pas- 
sions which  society  has  awakened,  we  pau.se  amid  this 
apparent  desolation  of  nature.  We  sit  down  in  the 
lodge  ‘of  the  wayfaring  man  in  the  wilderness,’  and 
we  feel  that  all  we  witness  is  the  emblem  of  our  own 
fate.  Such  also  in  a few  years  will  be  our  own  con- 
dition. The  blossoms  of  ?ur  spring,  the  pride  of  our 
summer,  will  also  fade  into  decay ; and  the  pulse  that 
now  heats  high  with  virtuous  or  with  vicious  desire, 
will  gradually  sink,  and  then  must  stop  for  eier. 
We  ri.se  from  our  meditations  with  hearts  softened 
and  subdued,  and  we  return  into  life  as  into  a shadowy 
scene,  where  we  have  ‘ disquieted  ourselves  in  vain.’ 

Yet  a few  years,  we  think,  and  all  that  now  bless, 
or  all  that  now  convulse  humanity,  will  also  have 
perished.  The  mightiest  pageantry  of  life  will  pass — 
the  loudest  notes  of  triumph  or  of  conquest  will  be 
silent  in  the  grave  ; the  wicked,  wherever  active,  ‘will 
cease  from  troubling,’  and  the  weary,  wherever  suffer- 
ing, ‘ will  be  at  rest.’  Under  an  impression  so  pro- 
found we  feel  our  own  hearts  better.  The  cares, 
the  .animosities,  the  hatreds  which  society  may  have 
engendered,  sink  unperceived  from  our  bosoms.  In 
the  general  de.solation  of  nature  we  feel  the  littleness 
of  our  own  passions— we  look  forward  to  that  kindred 
evening  which  time  must  bring  to  all — we  anticipate 
the  graves  of  those  we  hate  as  of  those  we  love. 
Every  unkind  passion  falls  with  the  leaves  that  fall 
around  us ; and  we  return  slowly  to  our  homes,  and 
to  the  society'  which  surrounds  us,  with  the  wish  only 
to  enlighten  or  to  bless  them. 

If  there  were  no  other  effects,  my  brethren,  of  such 
appearances  of  nature  upon  our  minds,  they  would 
still  be  valuable — they  would  teach  us  humility  and 
with  it  they  would  teach  us  charity. 

6C( 


WRITKfS  IN  DIVINITY.  ENGLISH  LI 


DR  ANDREW  THOMSON. 

Hr  Andrew  Thomson  (1779-1831),  an  active  and 
able  minister  of  the  Scottish  church,  was  author  of 
various  sermons  and  lectures,  and  editor  of  the 
Scottiah  Clirislian  Instructor,  a periodical  which  exer- 
cised no  small  influence  in  Scotland  on  ecclesiastical 
questions.  Dr  Thomson  was  successively  minister 
of  Sprouston,  in  the  presbytery  of  Kelso,  of  the  East 
Church,  Perth,  and  of  St  George’s  Church,  Edin- 
burgh. In  t>,e  annual  meetings  of  the  general 
assembly  he  displayed  great  ardour  and  eloquence  as 
a debater,  and  was  the  recognized  leader  of  one  of 
I the  church  p.arties.  He  waged  a long  and  keen 
warfare  with  the  British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society 
for  circulating  the  books  of  the  Apocrypha  along 
with  the  Bible,  and  his  speeches  on  this  subject, 
though  exagger.ated  in  tone  and  manner,  produced  a 
powerful  effect.  There  was,  in  truth,  always  more 
of  the  debater  th.an  the  divine  in  his  public  addresses; 
and  he  was  an  unmerciful  opponent  in  controversy. 
AVhen  the  question  of  the  abolition  of  colonial  sla- 
very was  agitated  in  Scotland,  he  took  his  stand  on 
the  expediency  of  immediate  abolition,  and  by  his 
public  appearances  on  this  subject,  and  the  energy 
of  his  eloquence,  carried  tlie  feelings  of  his  country- 
men completely  along  with  him.  The  life  of  this 
ardent,  impetuous,  and  independent-minded  man  was 
brought  suddenly  and  awfully  to  a close.  In  the 
prime  of  health  and  vigour  he  fell  down  dead  at  the 
threshold  of  his  own  door.  The  sermons  of  Dr 
Thomson  scarcely  supp  >rt  his  high  reputation  as  a 
church  leader  and  debater.  They  are  weighty  and 
earn  ‘st,  but  without  pathos  or  elegance  of  style. 

DR  THOMAS  CHALMERS. 

The  most  distinguished  and  able  of  living  Scottish 
divines  is  Thomas  Chalmers,  D.  D.  and  LL.  D.,  one 
of  the  first  Presbyterian  ministers  who  obtained  an 
hon  irary  degree  from  the  university  of  Cambridge, 


xnd  one  of  the  few  Scotsmen  who  have  been  elected 
a corresponding  member  of  the  Royal  Institute  of 
France.  The  collected  works  of  Dr  Chalmers  fill 
twenty  five  duodecimo  volumes.  Of  these  the  two 
first  are  devoted  to  Natural  Theology;  three  and  four 


TEUATURE.  dr  tiio.mas  chaimers. 


to  Evidences  of  Christianity  ; five.  Moral  Philosophy  ; 
six.  Commercial  Discourses ; seven.  Astronomical  Dis- 
courses ; eight,  nine,  and  ten.  Congregational  Ser- 
mons; eleven.  Sermons  on  Public  Occasions;  twelve, 
Tracts  and  Essays;  thirteen.  Introductory  Essays, 
originally  prefixed  to  editions  of  Select  Christian 
Authors ; fourteen,  fifteen,  and  sixteen,  Christian 
and  Economic  Polity  of  a Nation,  more  especially 
with  reference  to  its  Large  Towns;  seventeen.  On 
Church  and  College  Endowments ; eighteen.  On 
Church  Extension ; nineteen  and  twenty.  Political 
Economy;  twenty-one.  The  Sufficiency  of  a Parochial 
System  without  a Poor-Rate;  twenty-two,  three, 
four,  and  five.  Lectures  on  the  Romans.  In  all  Dr 
Chalmers’s  works  there  is  great  energy  and  ear- 
nestness, accompanied  with  a vast  variety  of  illus- 
tration. His  knowledge  is  extensive,  including 
science  no  less  than  literature,  the  learning  of  the 
philosopher  with  the  fancy  of  the  poet,  and  a fami- 
liar acquaintance  with  the  habits,  feelings,  and  daily 
life  of  the  Scottish  poor  and  middle  classes.  The 
ardour  with  which  he  pursues  any  fav'ourite  topic, 
presenting  it  to  the  reader  or  hearer  in  every  pos- 
sible point  of  view,  and  investing  it  with  the  charms 
of  a rich  poetical  imagination,  is  a peculiar  feature 
in  his  intellectual  character,  and  one  well  calculated 
to  arrest  attention.*  It  gives  peculiar  effect  to  his 

♦ Robert  Rail  seems  to  have  been  struck  with  this  peculi* 
rity.  In  some  Gleanings  from  ilatl's  Conversational  Remarks, 
appended  to  Dr  Gregory's  Memoir,  we  find  the  following  criti- 
cism, understood  to  refer  to  the  Scottish  divine: — ‘ Mr  Hall 

repeatedly  referred  to  Dr , and  always  in  terms  of  great 

esteem  as  well  as  high  admiration  of  his  general  character, 
exercising,  however,  his  usual  free  and  independent  judgment. 
The  following  are  some  remarks  on  that  extraordinary  indi- 
vidual : — “ Pray,  sir,  did  you  ever  know  any  man  who  had 

that  singular  faculty  of  repetition  possessed  by  Dr ? AVhy, 

sir,  he  often  reiterates  the  same  thing  ten  or  twelve  times  in 
the  course  of  a few  pages.  Even  Burke  himself  had  not  so 
much  of  that  peculiarity.  His  mind  resembles  that  optical 
instrument  lately  invented;  what  do  you  call  it?"  “ You 
mean,  I suppose,  the  kaleidoscope.”  Y’es,  sir,  an  idea  thrown 
into  his  mind  is  just  as  if  thrown  into  a kaleido.scope.  Every 
turn  presents  the  object  in  a new  and  beautiful  form ; 
but  the  object  presented  is  still  the  same.  * * His  mind 

seems  to  move  on  hinges,  not  on  wheels.  There  is  incessant 
motion,  but  no  progress,  VVlien  he  was  at  Leicester,  he 
preached  a most  admirable  sermon  on  the  necessity  of  imme- 
diate repentance  ; but  there  were  only  two  ideas  in  it,  and  on 
these  his  mind  revolved  as  on  a pivot."  * A writer  in  the  Lon- 
don Mag;rzine  gives  a graphic  account  of  Dr  Chalmers’s  ap- 
pearances in  London,  * When  he  visited. London,  the  hold 
that  he  took  on  the  minds  of  men  was  unprecedented.  It  was 
a time  of  strong  political  feeling  ; but  even  that  was  unheeded, 
and  all  parties  thronged  to  hear  the  Scottish  preacher.  The 
very  best  judges  were  not  prepared  for  the  display  that  they 
heard.  Canning  and  Wilberforce  went  together,  and  got  into 
a pew  near  the  door.  The  elder  in  attendance  stood  close  by 
the  pew.  Chalmers  began  in  his  usual  unpromising  way,  by 
stating  a few  nearly  self-evident  propositions  neither  in  the 
choicest  language  nor  in  the  most  impressive  voice.  “ If  this 
be  all,"  said  Canning  to  his  companion,  “ it  will  never  do." 
Chalmers  went  on— the  shuffling  of  the  congregation  gradually 
subsided.  He  got  into  the  mass  of  his  subject ; his  weakness 
became  strength,  his  hesitation  was  turned  into  energy  ; and, 
bringing  the  whole  volume  of  his  mind  to  bear  upon  it,  he 
poured  forth  a torrent  of  the  most  close  and  conclusive  argu- 
ment, brilliant  with  all  the  exuberance  of  an  imagination 
which  ranged  over  all  nature  for  illustrations,  and  yet  managed 
and  applied  each  of  them  with  the  same  unerring  dexterity, 
as  if  that  single  one  had  been  the  studj-  of  a whole  life.  “ The 
tartan  beats  us,"  said  Mr  Canning  ; **  we  have  no  preaching 
like  that  in  England.”’  Chalmers,  like  the  celebrated  French 
divines  (according  to  Goldsmith),  assumed  all  that  dignity  and 
zeal  which  become  men  who  are  ambassadors  from  Christ 
The  English  divines,  like  timorous  envoys,  seem  more  solici- 
tous not  to  offend  the  court  to  which  they  aie  sent,  than  to 
drive  home  the  interests  of  their  employers.  The  style  of  Df 

66 1 


KiioM  1780  CYCLOI’-®DIA  OF  till  the  present  timk 


pulpil  ministrations  ; for  by  concentrating  his  atten- 
tion on  one  or  two  points  at  a time,  and  pressing 
these  liome  witli  almost  unexampled  zeal  and  ani- 
mation, a distinct  and  vivid  impression  is  conveyed 
to  the  mind,  unbroken  by  any  extraneous  or  dis- 
cursive matter.  Ilis  pictures  have  little  or  no  back- 
ground— the  principal  figure  or  conception  fills  the 
canvass.  The  style  of  Dr  Chalmers  is  far  from  being 
correct  or  elegant — it  is  often  turgid,  loose,  and  de- 
clamatory. vehement  beyond  the  bounds  of  good 
taste,  and  disfigured  by  a peculiar  and  by  no  means 
graceful  phraseology.  Tliese  blemishes  are,  however, 
more  than  redeemed  by  his  piety  and  eloquence,  Uie 
originality  of  many  of  Ids  views,  and  the  astonishing 
force  and  ardour  of  his  mind.  His  ‘Astronomical 
Discourses’  contain  passages  of  great  sublimity  and 
beautj%  ami  even  the  most  humble  and  prosaic  sub- 
ject, treated  by  him,  becomes  attractive  and  poetical. 
His  triumphs  are  those  of  genius,  aided  by  the 
deepest  conviction  of  the  importance  of  the  truths 
he  inculcates. 

Dr  Chalmers  is  a native  of  Anstruther,  in  the 
county  of  Fife.  A fugitive  memoir  states  that  he 
was  born  about  the  year  1780,  tliat  he  studied  at  St 
Andrews,  and  was  soon  ‘ a mathematician,  a natural 
philosopher,  and,  though  there  was  no  regular  pro- 
fessor of  that  science  at  St  Andrews,  a chemist.’ 
After  his  admission  to  holy  orders,  he  officiated  for 
sometime  as  assistant  to  the  minister  of  Wilton, 
near  Hawick.  He  afterwards  obtained  the  church 
of  Kilmany,  in  his  native  county,  and  here  the  acti- 
vity of  his  mind  was  strikingly  displayed.  In  addi- 
tion to  his  parochial  labours,  he  ‘ lectured  in  the 
different  towns  on  chemistry  and  other  subjects;  he 
became  an  officer  of  a volunteer  corps  ; and  he  wrote 
a book  on  the  resources  of  the  country,  besides 
pamphlets  on  some  of  the  topics  of  the  day  ; and 
when  the  Edinburgh  Encyclopaidia  was  projected, 
he  wms  invited  to  be  a contributor,  and  engaged  to 
furnish  the  article  “ Christianity,”  which  he  after- 
W'ards  comjileted  with  so  much  ability.’*  At  Kil- 
many Dr  Cludmers  seems  to  have  received  more 
serious  and  solemn  impressions  as  to  his  clerical 
duties,  for  in  an  address  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
parish,  included  in  his  tracts,  there  is  the  following 
remarkable  passage  : — 

[Inefficary  of  mere  Moral  Preaching.'] 

And  here  1 cannot  but  record  the  effect  of  an  actual 
though  undesigned  experiment  which  1 prosecuted  for 
upwards  of  twelve  years  amongst  you.  For  the  greater 
part  of  that  time  I could  expatiate  on  the  meanness 
of  dishonesty,  on  the  villany  of  falsehood,  on  the 
despicable  arts  of  calumny — in  a word,  upon  all  those 
deformities  of  character  which  awaken  the  natural 
indigmation  of  the  human  heart  against  the  pests  and 
the  disturbers  of  human  society.  Now,  could  1,  upon  the 
strength  of  these  warm  expostulution.s,  have  got  the 
thief  to  give  up  his  stealing,  and  the  evil  speaker 
his  censoriousness,  and  the  liar  his  deviations  from 
truth,  I should  have  felt  all  the  repose  of  one  who 
had  gotten  his  ultimate  object.  It  never  occurred  to 
me  that  all  this  might  have  been  done,  and  yet  every 
soul  of  every  hearer  have  remained  in  full  alienation 
from  God ; and  that  even  could  I have  established  in 
the  bosom  of  one  who  stole  such  a principle  of  abhor- 
rence -at  the  meanness  of  dishonesty  that  he  w,as  pre- 
vailed upon  to  steal  no  more,  he  might  still  have 
retained  a heart  as  completely  unturned  to  God,  and 
as  totally  unpossessed  by  a principle  of  love  to  Him, 

Chalmers  became  the  rage  in  Scotland  among  the  young 
lireachers,  but  few  could  do  more  than  copy  his  defects. 

* London  M.sgazine. 


as  before.  In  a word,  though  I might  have  nuadc  him 
a more  upright  and  honourable  man,  1 might  have 
left  him  as  destitute  of  the  essence  of  religious  ])rin- 
ciple  as  ever.  But  the  interesting  fact  is,  that  during 
the  whole  of  that  period  in  which  I made  no  attempt 
against  the  natural  enmity  of  the  iniml  to  God,  while 
I was  inattentive  to  the  way  in  which  this  enmity  is 
di.ssolved,  even  by  the  free  ofi'er  on  the  one  hand,  and 
the  believing  acceptance  on  the  other,  of  the  gospel 
salvation  ; while  Christ,  through  who.se  blood  the 
sinner,  who  by  nature  stands  afar  off,  is  brought  near 
to  the  heavenly  Lawgiver  whom  he  has  offended,  was 
scarcely  ever  spoken  of,  or  spoken  of  in  such  a way 
as  stripped  him  of  all  the  importance  of  his  character 
and  his  offices,  even  at  this  time  I certainly  did  press 
the  reformations  of  honour,  and  truth,  and  integrity 
among  my  people ; but  1 never  once  heard  of  any 
such  reformations  having  been  effected  amongst  them. 
If  there  was  anything  at  all  brought  about  in  this 
way,  it  was  more  than  ever  I got  any  account  of.  I 
am  not  sensible  that  all  the  vehemence  with  which  I 
urged  the  virtues  and  the  proprieties  of  social  life  had 
the  weight  of  a feather  on  the  moral  habits  of  my 
Itarlshioners.  And  it  was  not  till  I got  impressed  by 
the  utter  alienation  of  the  heart  in  all  its  desires  and 
affections  from  God  ; it  was  not  till  reconciliation  to 
him  became  the  distinct  and  the  prominent  object  of 
my  in  in  i.sterial  exertions;  it  wa-s  not  till  I took  the 
Scriptural  way  of  laying  the  method  of  reconciliation 
before  them  ; it  was  not  till  the  free  offer  of  forgive- 
ness through  the  blood  of  Christ  was  urged  upon  their 
.acceptance,  and  the  Holy  Spirit  given  through  the 
channel  of  Christ’s  mediatorship  to  all  who  ask  him, 
was  set  before  them  as  the  unceasing  object  of  their 
dependence  and  their  prayers ; it  was  not,  in  one 
word,  till  the  contemplations  of  my  people  were  turned 
to  these  great  and  essential  elements  in  the  busine.ss 
of  a soul  providing  for  its  interest  with  God  and  the 
concerns  of  its  eternity,  that  I ever  heard  of  any  of 
those  subordinate  reformations  which  I aforetime 
made  the  earnest  and  the  zealous,  but,  I am  afraid, 
at  the  same  time  the  ultimate  object  of  my  e.arlier 
ministrations.  Ye  servants,  who.se  scrupulous  fidelity 
has  now  attracted  the  notice  and  drawn  forth  in  my 
hearing  a delightful  testimony  from  your  masters, 
what  mischief  you  would  have  done  had  your  zeal 
for  doctrines  and  sacraments  been  accompanied  ly 
the  sloth  and  the  remissness,  and  what,  in  the  pre- 
vailing tone  of  moral  relaxation,  is  counted  the  allow- 
able purloining  of  your  earlier  days  ! But  a sense  o.f 
your  heavenly  Master’s  eye  has  brought  another  ic- 
ffuence  to  bear  upon  you  ; and  while  you  are  thus 
striving  to  adorn  the  doctrine  of  God  your  Saviour  in 
all  things,  you  may,  poor  as  you  are,  reclaim  the 
great  ones  of  the  land  to  the  acknowledgment  of  the 
faith.  You  have  at  least  taught  me  that  to  preach 
Christ  is  the  only  eff'ective  way  of  preaching  morality 
in  all  its  branches  ; and  out  of  your  humble  cottages 
have  I gathered  a lesson,  which  I pray  God  I may 
be  enabled  to  carry  with  all  its  simplicity  into  a 
wider  theatre,  and  to  bring  with  all  the  power  of  its 
subduing  efficacy  upon  the  vices  of  a more  crowded 
population. 

From  Kilmany  Dr  Chalmers  removed  to  the  new 
church  of  St  John’s  in  Glasgow,  where  his  labours 
were  unceasing  and  meritorious.  Here  his  principal 
sermons  were  delivered  and  published  ; and  his  fame 
as  a preacher  and  author  was  diffused  not  only 
over  Great  Britain,  but  throughout  all  Europe  and 
America.  In  1823  he  removed  to  St  Andrews,  as 
professor  of  moral  philosophy  in  the  United  college; 
and  in  1828  he  was  appointed  professor  of  divinity 
in  the  university  of  Edinburgh.  This  api>ointment 
he  relinquished  in  1843,  on  his  secession  from  the 
established  church, 

662 


WRITERS  IN  DIVINITY.  KNGLiyil  LITKRATLJ KH  dr  tiiomasciialmuus. 

\Piclnrt  of  dte  Chase — Cruelty  to  Animals.] 

The  Ruffcrings  of  the  lower  animals  may,  when  out 
of  sight,  be  out  of  miiul.  But  more  than  this,  these 
sufferings  may  be  in  sight,  and  yit  out  of  mind.  This 
is  strikingly  e.xemplified  in  the  Sports  of  the  field,  in 
the  midst  of  whose  varied  and  animating  bustle  that 
cruelty  which  all  along  is  present  to  the  senses  may 
not  for  one  moment  have  been  present  to  the  thoughts. 
There  sits  a somewhat  ancestral  dignity  and  glory  on 
this  favourite  pastime  of  joyous  old  England  ; w'hen 
the  gallant  knighthood,  and  the  hearty  yeomen,  and 
the  amateurs  or  virtuosos  of  the  chase,  and  the  full 
assembled  jockeyship  of  half  a province,  muster  to- 
gether in  all  the  pride  and  pageantry  of  their  great 
emprize — and  the  panorama  of  some  noble  landscape, 
lighted  up  with  autumnal  clearness  from  an  unclouded 
heaven,  pours  fresh  exhilaration  into  every  blithe  and 
choice  spirit  of  the  scene — and  every  adventurous 
heart  is  braced  and  impatient  for  the  hazards  of 
the  coming  enterprise — and  even  the  high-breathed 
coursers  catch  the  general  -sympathy,  and  seem  to  fret 
in  all  the  restiveness  of  their  yet  checked  and  irri- 
tated fire,  till  the  echoing  horn  shall  set  them  at 
liberty — even  that  horn  which  is  the  knell  of  death 
to  some  trembling  victim  now  brought  forth  of  its 
lui  king-place  to  the  delighted  gaze,  and  borne  down 
upon  with  the  full  and  open  cry  of  its  ruthless  pur- 
suers. Be  assured  that,  amid  the  whole  glee  and 
fervency  of  this  tumultuous  enjoyment,  there  might 
not,  in  one  single  bosom,  be  aught  so  fiendish  as  a 
principle  of  naked  and  abstract  cruelty.  The  fear 
which  gives  its  lightning-speed  to  the  unhappy  ani- 
mal ; the  thickening  horrors  which,  in  the  progress  of 
exhaustion,  must  gather  upon  its  flight ; its  gradually 
sinking  energies,  and,  at  length,  the  terrible  certainty 
of  that  destruction  which  is  awaiting  it ; that  piteous 
cry  which  the  ear  can  sometimes  distinguish  amid 
the  deafening  clamour  of  the  bloodhounds  as  they 
spring  exultingly  upon  their  prey ; the  dread  massacre 
and  dying  agonies  of  a creature  so  miserably  tom  ; — 
all  this  weight  of  suffering,  we  admit,  is  not  once 
sympathised  with  ; but  it  is  just  becau.se  the  suffering 
itself  is  not  once  thought  of.  It  touches  not  the  sen- 
sibilities of  the  heart ; but  just  because  it  is  never 
present  to  the  notice  of  the  mind.  We  allow  that  the 
hardy  followers  in  the  wild  romance  of  this  occupa- 
tion, we  allow  them  to  be  reckless  of  pain,  but  this  is 
not  rejoicing  in  pain.  Theirs  is  not  the  delight  of  the 
savage,  but  the  apathy  of  unreflecting  creatures. 
They  are  wholly  occupied  with  the  chase  itself  and 
its  spirit-stirring  accompaniments,  nor  bestow  one 
moment’s  thought  on  the  dread  violence  of  that  in- 
fliction upon  sentient  nature  which  marks  its  termi- 
nation. It  is  the  spirit  of  the  competition,  and  it 
alone,  which  goads  onward  this  hurrying  career ; and 
even  he  who  in  at  the  death  is  foremost  in  the  triumph, 
although  to  him  the  death  itself  is  in  sight,  the  agony 
of  its  wretched  sufferer  is  wholly  out  of  mind.  * * 

Man  is  the  direct  agent  of  a wide  and  continual 
distress  to  the  lower  animals,  and  the  question  is,  Can 
any  method  be  devised  for  its  alleviation  ? On  this 
subject  that  Scriptural  image  is  strikingly  realised, 
‘ The  whole  inferior  creation  groaning  and  travailling 
together  in  pain,’  because  of  him.  It  signifies  not  to 
the  substantive  amount  of  the  suffering  whether  this 
be  prompted  by  the  hardness  of  his  he.art,  or  only  per- 
mitted through  the  heedlessness  of  his  mind.  In 
either  way  it  holds  true,  not  only  that  the  arch-de- 
vourer  man  stands  pre-eminent  over  the  fiercest  chil- 
dren of  the  wilderness  as  an  animal  of  prey,  but  that 
for  his  lordly  and  luxurious  appetite,  as  well  as  for 
his  service  or  merest  curiosity  and  amusement.  Nature 
must  be  ran.sackcd  throughout  all  her  elements. 
Rather  than  forego  the  veriest  gratifications  of  vanity, 
he  will  wring  them  from  the  anguish  of  wretched  and 

ill-fivtcd  creatures ; and  whether  for  the  indulgence 
of  his  barbaric  sensuality  or  barbaric  s])londour,  can 
stalk  paramount  over  the  sufferings  of  that  prostrate 
creation  which  has  been  placed  beneath  his  feet.  That 
beauteous  domain  whereof  he  has  been  constituted 
the  terrestrial  sovereign,  gives  out  so  many  blissful 
and  benignant  aspects  ; and  whether  we  look  to  its 
peaceful  lakes,  or  to  its  flowery  landscapes,  or  its 
evening  skies,  or  to  all  that  soft  attire  which  over- 
spreads the  hills  and  the  valleys,  lighted  up  by  smil  e 
of  sweetest  sunshine,  and  where  animals  disport  them- 
selves in  all  the  exuberance  of  gaiety — this  surely 
were  a more  befitting  scene  for  the  rule  of  clemency, 
than  for  the  iron  rod  of  a murderous  and  remorseless 
tyrant.  But  the  present  is  a mysterious  world  wherein 
we  dwell.  It  still  bears  much  upon  its  materialism  of 
the  impress  of  Paradise.  But  a breath  from  the  air  of 
Pandemonium  has  gone  over  its  living  generations; 
and  so  ‘ the  fear  of  man  and  the  dread  of  man  is  now 
upon  every  beast  of  the  earth,  and  upon  every  fowl  of 
the  air,  and  upon  all  that  moveth  upon  the  earth, 
and  upon  all  the  fishes  of  the  sea  ; into  man’s  hands 
are  they  delivered : every  moving  thing  that  liveth  is 
meat  for  him  ; yea,  even  as  the  green  herbs,  there 
have  been  given  to  him  all  things.’  Such  is  the  extent 
of  his  jurisdiction,  and  with  most  full  and  wanton 
license  has  he  revelled  among  its  privileges.  The 
whole  earth  labours  and  is  in  violence  because  of  Ids 
cruelties ; and  from  the  amphitheatre  of  .sentient 
Nature  there  sounds  in  fancy’s  ear  the  bleat  of  one 
wide  and  universal  suffering — a dreadful  homage  to 
the  power  of  Nature’s  constituted  lord. 

These  sufferings  are  really  felt.  The  beasts  of  the 
field  are  not  so  many  automata  without  sensations 
and  just  so  constructed  as  to  give  forth  all  the 
natural  signs  and  expressions  of  it.  Nat  re  hath  not 
practised  this  universal  deception  upon  ur  species. 
These  poor  animals  just  look,  and  tremble,  and  give 
forth  the  very  indications  of  suffering  that  we  do. 
Theirs  is  the  distinct  cry  of  pain.  Theirs  is  the  un- 
equivocal physiognomy  of  pain.  They  put  on  the 
same  aspect  of  terror  on  the  demonstrations  of  a 
menaced  blow.  They  exhibit  the  same  distortions  of 
agony  after  the  infliction  of  it.  The  bruise,  or  the 
burn,  or  the  fracture,  or  the  deep  incision,  or  the 
fierce  encounter  with  one  of  equal  or  .superior  strength, 
just  affects  them  similarly  to  ourselves.  Their  blood 
circulates  as  ours.  They  have  pulsations  in  various 
parts  of  the  body  like  ours.  They  sicken,  and  they 
grow  feeble  with  age,  and,  finally,  they  die  just  as  we 
do.  They  possess  the  same  feelings ; and,  what  ex- 
poses them  to  like  suffering  from  another  quarter, 
they  posse.ss  the  same  instincts  with  our  own  species. 

The  lioness  robbed  of  her  whelps  causes  the  wilderness 
to  wring  aloud  with  the  proclamation  of  her  wrongs ; 
or  the  bird  whose  little  household  has  been  stolen, 
fills  and  saddens  all  the  grove  with  melodies  of  deepest 
pathos.  Ail  this  is  palpable  even  to  the  general  and 
unlearned  eye : and  when  the  physiologist  lays  open 
the  recesses  of  their  system  by  means  of  that  scalpel, 
under  whose  ojieration  they  just  shrink  and  are  con- 
vulsed as  any  living  subject  of  our  own  species- — there 
stands  forth  to  view  the  same  sentient  apparatus,  | 

and  furni.sht’d  with  the  same  conductors  for  the  trans- 
mission of  feeling  to  every  minutest  pore  upon  the  sur- 
face. Theirs  is  unmixed  and  unmitigated  pain— the 
agonies  of  martyrdom  without  the  alleviation  of  the 
hopes  and  the  sentiments  whereof  they  are  incapable. 
When  they  lay  them  down  to  die,  their  only  fellow- 
ship is  with  suffering  ; for  in  the  prison-house  of  their 
beset  and  bounded  faculties  there  can  no  relief  be 
afforded  by  communion  with  other  interests  or  other 
things.  The  attention  does  not  lighten  their  distre.ss 
as  it  does  that  of  man,  by  carrying  off  his  spirit  from 
that  existing  pungency  and  pressure  which  might  else 
be  overwhelming.  There  is  but  room  in  their  myste 

t>6.^ 

FROM  17f!0 


CYCI.OPi*h;i)IA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMR. 


rious  economy  for  one  '111111116,  ami  tliat  is,  the  absorb- 
ing sense  of  their  own  single  ami  concentrated  anguish. 
And  so  in  that  bed  of  torment  whereon  the  wounded 
animal  lingers  and  eE]dres,  there  is  an  unex|dored 
depth  and  intensity  of  .suffering  w hich  the  poor  dumb 
animal  itself  cannot  tell,  and  against  which  it  can 
offer  no  remonstrance  — an  untold  and  unknown 
amount  of  wretchedness  of  which  no  articulate  voice 
gives  utterance.  Hut  there  is  an  eloquence  in  its 
silence  ; ami  the  very  shroud  which  disguises  it  only 
serves  to  aggravate  its  horrors. 

[Insignificance  of  tins  Earth.'] 

Though  the  earth  were  to  be  burned  up,  though  the 
trumpet  of  it.s  dissolution  were  sounded,  though  yon 
sky  were  to  jrass  away  as  a scroll,  and  every  visible 
glory  which  the  finger  of  the  Divinity  has  inscribed 
on  it  were  extinguished  for  ever — an  event  so  awful 
to  us,  and  to  every  world  in  our  vicinity,  by  which  so 
many  sunswould  be  extinguished,  and  so  many  varied 
scenes  of  life  and  population  would  rush  into  forget- 
fulness— what  is  it  in  the  high  scale  of  the  Almighty’s 
workmanship?  a mere  shred,  which,  though  scattered 
into  nothing,  would  leave  the  universe  of  God  one  en- 
tire scene  of  greatness  and  of  majesty.  Though  the 
eartli  and  the  heavens  were  to  disappear,  there  are 
other  worlds  which  roll  afar;  the  light  of  other  suns 
shines  upon  them  ; and  the  sky  which  mantles  them 
vs  garnished  with  other  stars.  Is  it  presumption  to 
say  that  the  moral  world  extends  to  these  distant  and 
unknown  regions  ? that  they  are  occupied  with  people  ? 
that  the  charities  of  home  and  of  neighbourhood  flou- 
rish there?  that  the  praises  of  Ood  are  there  lifted  up, 
and  his  goodness  rejoiced  in  ? that  there  piety  has  its 
temples  and  its  offerings?  and  the  richne.ss  of  the 
divine  attributes  is  there  felt  and  admired  by  intelli- 
gent worshi]ipers  ? 

And  what  is  this  world  in  the  immensity  which 
teems  with  them;  and  what  are  they  who  occupy  it? 
The  universe  at  large  would  suffer  as  little  in  its 
splendour  and  variety  by  the  destruction  of  our  planet, 
as  the  verdure  and  sublime  magnitude  of  ,a  forest 
would  suffer  by  the  fall  of  a single  leaf.  The  leaf 
quivers  on  the  branch  which  supports  it.  It  lies  at 
the  mercy  of  the  slightest  accident.  A breath  of  wind 
tears  it  from  its  stem,  and  it  lights  on  the  stream  of 
water  which  passes  underneath.  In  a moment  of  time 
the  life,  which  we  know  by  the  microscope  it  teems 
with,  is  extinguished  ; and  an  occurrence  so  insigni- 
ficant in  the  eye  of  man,  and  on  the  scale  of  his  ob- 
servation, carries  in  it  to  the  myriads  which  people 
this  little  leaf  an  event  as  terrible  and  as  decisive  as 
the  destruction  of  a world.  Now,  on  the  grand  scale 
of  the  universe,  we,  the  occupiers  of  this  ball,  which 
performs  its  little  round  among  the  suns  and  the  .sys- 
tems that  astronomy  has  unfolded — we  may  feel  the 
same  littleness  and  the  same  insecurity.  We  differ 
from  the  leaf  only  in  this  circumstance,  that  it  would 
require  the  operation  of  greater  elements  to  destroy  us. 
But  these  elements  exist.  The  fire  which  rages  within 
may  lift  its  devouring  energy  to  the  surface  of  our 
planet,  and  transform  it  into  one  wide  and  wasting 
volcano.  The  sudden  formation  of  elastic  matter  in 
the  bowels  of  the  earth — and  it  lies  within  the  agency 
of  known  substances  to  accomplish  this- — may  explode 
it  into  fragments.  The  exhalation  of  noxious  air  from 
below  may  impart  a virulence  to  the  air  that  is  around 
us  ; it  may  affect  the  delicate  proportion  of  its  ingre- 
dients ; and  the  whole  of  animated  nature  may  wither 
and  die  under  the  malignity  of  a tainted  atmosphere. 
A blazing  comet  may  cross  this  fated  planet  in  its 
orbit,  anil  realise  all  the  terrors  which  superstition 
h.as  conceived  of  it.  We  cannot  anticip.ate  with  pre- 
cision the  consequences  of  an  event  which  every  astro- 
lomer  must  know-  to  lie  within  the  limits  of  chance 


and  ])robability.  It  may  hurry  our  globe  towards  the 
sun,  or  drag  it  to  the  outer  regions  of  the  planetary 
system,  or  give  it  a new  axis  of  revolution — and  the 
effect,  which  I shall  simply  announce  without  exnlain- 
ing  it,  would  be  to  change  the  place  of  the  ocean,  ami 
bring  another  mighty  flood  upon  our  islands  and  con- 
tinents. 

These  are  changes  which  may  hapjien  in  a single 
instant  of  time,  and  against  which  nothing  known  in 
the  present  sy.stem  of  things  provides  us  with  any 
security.  They  might  not  annihilate  the  earth,  but 
they  would  unpeople  it,  and  we,  who  tread  its  surface 
with  such  firm  and  assured  footsteps,  are  at  the  mercy 
of  devouring  elements,  which,  if  let  loose  upon  us  by 
the  hand  of  the  Almighty,  would  spread  solitude,  and 
silence,  and  death  over  the  dominions  of  the  world. 

Now,  it  is  this  littleness  and  this  insecurity  which 
make  the  ]>rotection  of  the  Almighty  so  dear  to  us, 
and  bring  with  such  emphasis  to  every  pious  bosom 
the  holy  lessons  of  humility  and  gratitude.  The  God 
who  sitteth  above,  and  presides  in  high  authority  over 
all  worlds,  is  mindful  of  man  ; and  though  at  this 
moment  his  energy  is  felt  in  the  remotest  provinces  of 
creation,  we  may  feel  the  same  security  in  his  provi- 
dence as  if  we  were  the  objects  of  his  undivided  care. 

It  is  not  fi>r  us  to-  bring  our  minds  up  to  this  mys- 
terious agency.  But  such  is  the  incomprehensible 
fact,  that  the  .same  Being,  whose  eye  is  abroad  over 
the  whole  universe,  gives  vegetation  to  every  blade  of 
grass,  and  motion  to  every  particle  of  blood  which  cir- 
culates through  the  veins  of  the  minutest  .animal ; 
that  though  his  mind  takes  into  his  comprehensive 
grasp  immensity  and  all  its  wonders,  I am  as  much 
known  to  him  as  if  1 were  the  single  object  of  his  at- 
tention ; that  he  marks  all  my  thoughts  ; that  he  gives 
birth  to  every  feeling  and  eveiy  movement  within  me; 
and  that,  w ith  an  exerei.se  of  power  which  I can  neither 
describe  nor  comprehend,  the  same  God  who  sits  in  the 
highest  heaven,  and  reigns  over  the  glories  of  the  fir- 
mament, is  at  my  right  hand  to  give  me  every  breath 
which  I draw,  and  every  comfort  which  1 enjoy. 


TRAVELLERS. 

Recent  years  have  witnessed  an  immense  influx 
of  books  of  travels  and  voyages — ^journals  and  nar- 
ratives of  per-onal  adventure — the  resii’t  of  that 
sjiirit  of  scientific  discovery,  religious  zeal,  and  en- 
lightened curiosity,  which  characterise  the  nine- 
teenth century.  In  physical  geograjdiy  large  ad- 
vances have  been  made.  The  extension  of  commerce 
and  improvement  of  navigation  have  greatly  facili- 
tated foreign  travelling ; steamboats  now  traverse 
both  the  Atlantic  and  Mediterranean;  and  the 
overland  route  to  India  has  introduced  us  to  a more 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  countries,  so  fertile 
in  interesting  and  romantic  associations,  which  lie 
between  India  and  Britain.  Indeed,  if  we  except 
some  of  the  populous  regions  in  the  interior  of 
Africa — still  guarded  by  barbarous  jealousy  and 
bigotry — almost  every  corner  of  the  earth  has  been 
Iienetrated  by  British  enterprise;  and  those  coun- 
tries endeared  to  us  from  the  associations  of  Holy 
W rit,  the  gorgeous  and  fascinating  fictions  of  Kastern 
fable,  or  the  wisdom  and  beauty  of  the  classic  phi- 
losophers and  poets,  have  been  rendered  familiar  to 
every  class  of  British  society.  Even  war  has  been 
instrumental  in  adding  to  our  knowledge  of  fondgn 
nations.  The  French  invasion  of  Egypt  led  to  the 
study  of  Egyptian  antiquities — for  Napoleon  carried 
.laoans  in  his  train — and  our  most  valuable  inforni.i- 
tion  regarding  India  has  been  derived  from  officers 
engaged  in  hostile  missions  and  journeys  caused  by 
war.  The  embassies  of  Macartney  ami  Amherst  to 
China  (the  first  of  which  was  highly  satisfactory) 

G(!4 


JAMES  DRUCB. 


rHAVEl.LERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


wiTO  prompted  by  tlie  untViendly  and  narrow-minded 
eonduet  of  tlie  Cliinese  ; and  our  late  collision  with 
the  emperor  has  also  added  to  our  previous  scanty 
knowledge  of  that  vast  unexplored  country,  and 
may  yet  be  productive  of  higher  results. 

JAMES  BRUCE. 

One  of  the  most  romantic  and  persevering  of  our 
travellers  was  James  BaucE  of  Kinnaird,  a Scottish 
gentleman  of  ancient  family  and  property,  who  de- 
voted several  years  to  a journey  into  Abyssinia  to 
discover  the  sources  of  the  river  Nile.  The  foun- 
tains of  celebrated  rivers  have  led  to  some  of  our 
most  interesting  exploratory  expeditions.  Super- 
stition has  hallowed  the  sources  of  the  Nile  and  the 
Ganges,  and  the  mysterious  Niger  long  wooed  our 
adventurous  travellers  into  the  sultry’  plains  of 
Africa.  The  inhabitants  of  mountainous  countries 
still  look  with  veneration  on  their  principal  streams, 
and  as  they  roll  on  before  them,  connect  them  in 
imagination  with  the  ancient  glories  or  traditional 
legends  of  their  native  land.  Bruce  partook  largely 
of  this  feeling,  and  was  a man  of  an  ardent  enthu- 
siastic temperament.  He  was  born  at  Kinnaird 
House,  in  the  county  of  Stirling,  on  the  Uth  of 
December  1730,  and  was  intended  for  the  legal  pro- 
fession. He  was  averse,  however,  to  the  study  of 
the  law,  and  entered  into  business  as  a wine-mer- 
chant in  London.  Being  led  to  visit  Spain  and 
Portugal,  he  was  struck  with  the  architectural 
ruins  and  chivalrous  tales  of  the  ^Moorish  dominion, 
and  applied  himself  diligently  to  the  study  of  East- 
ern antiquities  and  languages.  On  his  return  to 
England  he  became  known  to  the  government,  and 
it  was  proposed  that  he  should  make  a journey  to 
Barbary',  which  had  been  partially  explored  by  Dr 
Shaw.  At  the  same  time  the  consulship  of  Algiers 
became  vacant,  and  Bruce  was  ajipointed  to  the 
office.  He  left  England,  and  arrived  at  Algiers  in 
1762.  Above  six  years  were  spent  by  our  traveller 
at  Algiers  and  in  various  travels  (during  which  he 
lurveyed  and  sketched  the  ruins  of  Palmyra  and 
Baalbec),  and  it  was  not  till  June  1768  that  he 
reached  Alexandria.  From  thence  he  proceeded  to 
Cairo,  and  embarked  on  the  Nile.  He  arrived  at 
Gondar,  the  capital  of  Abyssinia,  and  after  some  stay 
there,  he  set  out  for  the  sources  of  Bahr-el-Azrek, 
under  an  impression  that  this  was  the  principal 
branch  of  the  Nile.  The  spot  was  at  length  pointed 
out  by  his  guide — a hillock  of  green  sod  in  the 
middle  of  a watery  plain.  The  guide  counselled 
him  to  pull  off  his  shoes,  as  the  people  were  all 
pagans,  and  prayed  to  the  river  as  if  it  were  God. 

‘ Half  undressed  as  I was,’  continues  Bruce,  ‘ by 
the  loss  of  iny  sash,  and  throwing  off  my  shoes,  1 
ran  down  the  hill  towards  the  hillock  of  green  sod, 
which  was  about  two  hundred  yards  distant ; the 
whole  side  of  the  hill  was  thick  grown  with  tlowers, 
the  large  bulbous  roots  of  which  appearing  above 
the  surface  of  the  ground,  and  their  skins  coming 
off  on  my  treading  upon  them,  occasioned  me  two 
very  severe  falls  before  I reached  the  brink  of  the 
marsh.  I after  this  came  to  the  altar  of  green  turf, 
which  was  apparently  the  work  of  art,  and  I stood  in 
rapture  above  the  principal  fountain,  which  rises  in 
the  middle  of  it.  It  is  easier  to  guess  than  to  de- 
scribe the  situation  of  my  mind  at  that  moment — 
standing  in  that  spot  which  had  baffled  the  genius, 
industry,  and  inquiry  of  both  ancients  and  moderns 
for  the  course  of  near  three  thousand  years.  Kings 
had  attempted  this  discovery  at  the  head  of  armies, 
and  each  expedition  was  distinguished  from  the  last 
only  by  the  difference  of  numbers  which  had  perished, 
and  agreed  alone  la  the  disappointment  which  had 


uniformly,  and  without  exception,  followed  them  all. 
Fame,  riches,  and  honour,  had  been  held  out  for  a 
scries  of  ages  to  every  individual  of  those  myriads 
these  princes  commanded,  without  having  produced 
one  man  capable  of  gratifying  the  curiosity  of  his 
sovereign,  or  wiping  off  this  stain  upon  the  enterprise 
and  abilities  of  mankind,  or  adding  this  desideratum 
for  the  encouragement  of  geography.  Though  a mere 
private  Briton,  I triumphed  here,  in  my  own  mind, 
over  kings  and  their  armies  1 and  every  comparison 
was  leading  nearer  and  nearer  to  presumption,  when 
the  place  itself  where  I stood,  the  object  of  iny  vain 
glory,  suggested  what  depressed  my  short-lived 
triumph.  I was  but  a few  minutes  arrived  at  the 
sources  of  the  Nile,  through  numberless  dangers  and 
sufferings,  the  least  of  which  would  have  overwhelmed 
me  but  for  the  continual  goodness  and  protection  of 
Providence : I was,  however,  but  then  half  through 
my  journey,  and  all  those  dangers  through  which  I 
had  already  passed  awaited  me  on  my  return  ; I 
found  a despondency  gaining  ground  fast,  and  blast- 
ing the  crown  of  laurels  which  I had  too  rashly  woven 
for  myself.’ 

After  several  adventures  in  Abyssini.a,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  received  high  jtersonal  distinc- 
tions from  the  king,  Bruce  obtained  leave  to  depart. 
He  returned  through  the  great  deserts  of  Nubia 
into  Egypt,  encountering  the  severest  hardships  and 
dangers  from  the  sand-floods  and  simoom  of  thedesert, 
and  his  own  physical  sufferings  and  exhaustion. 

It  was  not  until  seventeen  years  after  his  return 
that  Bruce  published  his  travels.  Barts  had  been 
made  public,  and  were  much  ridiculed.  Even  John- 
son doubted  whether  he  had  ever  been  in  Abyssinia ! 
The  work  appeared  in  1790,  in  five  large  quarto 
volumes,  with  another  volume  of  plates.  The 
strangeness  of  the  author's  adventures  at  the  court 
at  Gondar,  the  somewhat  inflated  style  of  the  nar- 
rative, and  the  undisguised  vanity  of  the  traveller, 
led  to  a disbelief  of  his  statements,  and  numerous 
lampoons  and  satires,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  were 


Staircase  at  Kinnaird  ITmise,  Stirlingshire — Scene  of 
Bruce's  Fatal  Accident. 

directed  against  him.  The  really  honourable  and 
superior  points  of  Bruce’s  character — such  as  his 
energy  and  daring,  his  various  knowledge  and  ac- 
quirements, and  his  disinterested  zeal  in  undertaking 

665 


FROM  I7f!0 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


Fucli  a journey  at  liis  own  expense — were  overlooked 
in  this  petty  war  of  tlie  wits.  15ruce  felt  tlieir  at- 
tacks keenly  ; but  he  was  a proud-spirited  man,  and 
did  not  lieijtu  to  reply  to  pasquinades  impeaching 
his  veracity.  He  survive<i  his  publication  only  four 
years.  'J’he  foot,  which  had  trodden  without  failing 
the  deserts  of  Nubia,  slipped  one  evening  in  his  own 
staircase,  while  handing  a lady  to  her  carriage,  and  he 
died  in  consequence  of.the  injury  then  received,  April 
16,  1794.  A second  edition  of  the  Travels,  edited  by 
Dr  Alexander  Murray  (an  excellent  Oriental  scholar), 
was  published  in  1805,  and  a third  in  1813.  The  style 
of  Bruce  is  i)rolix  and  inelegant,  though  occasion- 
ally energetic.  He  seized  upon  the  most  prominent 
points,  and  coloured  them  highly.  The  general 
accuracy  of  his  work  has  been  confirmed  from  difie- 
rent  quarters.  JIii  He.nry  Salt,  the  next  Euro- 
pean traveller  in  Abyssinia,  twice  penetrated  into 
the  interior  of  the  country — in  1805  and  1810 — but 
without  reaching  so  far  as  Bruce.  Tliis  gentleman 
confirms  the  historical  parts  of  Bruce’s  narrative; 
and  lila  Nathaniel  Pearce  (who  resided  many 
years  in  Abyssinia,  and  was  engaged  by  Salt) 
verifies  one  of  Bruce’s  most  extraordinary  state- 
ments— the  practice  of  the  Abyssinians  of  eating 
raw  meat  cut  out  of  a living  cow ! Tliis  w.as  long 
ridiculed  and  disbelieved,  though  in  reality  it  is  not 
much  more  barbarous  than  tlie  custom  of  the  poor 
Highlanders  in  Scotland  of  bleeding  their  cattle  in 
winter  for  food.  Pearce  witnessed  the  operation  : 
a cow  was  thrown  down,  and  two  pieces  of  flesh, 
weighing  about  a pound,  cut  from  the  buttock,  after 
which  the  wounds  were  sewed  up,  and  plastered 
over  with  cow-dung.  Dr  Clarke  and  other  tra- 
vellers have  borne  testimony  to  the  correctness  of 
Bruce’s  drawings  and  maps.  The  only  disingenu- 
ousness charged  against  our  traveller  is  his  alleged 
concealment  of  the  fact,  that  the  Nile,  whose  sources 
have  been  in  all  ages  an  object  of  curiosity,  was  the 
Bahr-el-Abiad,  or  White  liiver,  flowing  from  the 
west,  and  not  the  Bahr-el-Azrek,  or  Blue  River, 
which  descends  from  Abyssinia,  and  which  he  ex- 
plored. It  seems  also  clear  that  Paez,  the  Portu- 
guese traveller,  had  long  previously  visited  the 
source  of  the  Bahr-el-Azrek. 

MUNGO  park,  &c. 

Next  in  interest  and  novelty  to  the  travels  of  Bruce 
are  those  of  Mungo  Park  in  Central  Africa.  Air 
Park  was  born  at  Fowlshiels,  near  Selkirk,  on  the 
10th  of  September  1771.  He  studied  medicine,  and 
performed  a voyage  to  Bencoolen  in  the  capacity  of 
assistant-surgeon  to  an  East  Indiaman.  The  Afri- 
can Association,  founded  in  1778  for  the  purpose  of 
promoting  discovery  in  the  interior  of  Africa,  had 
sent  out  several  travellers — John  Ledyard,  Lucas, 
and  Major  Houghton — all  of  whom  had  died.  Park, 
however,  undeterred  by  these  examples,  embraced 
the  society’s  oflTer,  and  set  sail  in  Alay  1795.  On 
the  21st  of  June  following  he  arrived  at  Jillifree,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Gambia.  He  pursued  his  journey 
tow'.ards  the  kingdom  of  Bambarra,  and  saw  the 
great  object  of  his  mission,  the  river  Niger  flowing 
towards  the  east.  The  sufferings  of  Park  during 
his  journey,  the  various  incidents  he  encountered, 
his  captivity  among  the  Aloors,  and  his  description 
of  the  inhabitants,  their  manners,  trade,  and  cus- 
toms, constitute  a narrative  of  the  deepest  interest. 
The  traveller  returned  to  England  towards  the 
Latter  end  of  the  year  1797,  when  all  hope  of  him 
had  been  abandoned,  and  in  1799  he  published  his 
travels.  The  style  is  simple  and  manly,  and  replete 
with  a fine  moral  feeling.  One  of  his  adventures 
^wliich  had  the  honour  of  being  turned  into  verse 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


by  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire)  is  thus  related. 
The  traveller  had  reached  the  town  of  Sego,  the 
capital  of  Bambarra,  and  wished  to  cross  the  river 
towards  the  residence  of  the  king: — 

I waited  more  than  two  hours  without  having 
an  opportunity  of  crossing  the  river,  during  which 
time  the  people  who  had  crossed  carried  informa- 
tion to  Alansong,  the  king,  that  a white  man  was 
waiting  for  a passage,  and  was  coming  to  see  him. 
He  immediately  sent  over  one  of  his  chief  men,  who 
informed  me  that  the  king  could  not  possibly  see  me 
until  he  knew  what  had  brought  me  into  his  country  ; 
and  that  I must  not  presume  to  cross  the  river  with- 
out the  king’s  permission.  He  therefore  advised  me 
to  lodge  at  a distant  village,  to  which  he  pointed,  for 
the  night,  and  said  that  in  the  morning  he  would 
give  me  further  instructions  how  to  conduct  myself. 
This  was  very  discouraging.  However,  as  there  was 
no  remedy,  I set  off  for  the  village,  where  I found,  to 
my  great  mortification,  that  no  person  would  admit 
me  into  his  house.  I was  regarded  with  astonish- 
ment and  fear,  and  was  obliged  to  sit  all  day  without 
victuals  in  the  shade  of  a tree  ; and  the  night  threat- 
ened to  be  very  uncomfortable — for  the  wind  rose,  and 
there  was  great  appearance  of  a heavy  rain — and  the 
wild  beasts  are  so  very  numerous  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, that  I should  have  been  under  the  necessity  of 
climbing  up  the  tree  and  resting  amongst  the  branches. 
About  sunset,  however,  as  1 was  preparing  to  pass 
the  night  in  this  manner,  and  had  turned  my  horse 
loose  that  he  might  graze  at  liberty,  a woman,  re- 
turning from  the  labours  of  the  field,  stopped  to  ob- 
serve me,  and  perceiving  that  I was  weary  and 
dejected,  inquired  into  my  situation,  which  I briefly 
ex])lained  to  her ; whereupon,  with  looks  of  great 
compassion,  she  took  up  my  saddle  and  bridle,  and 
told  me  to  follow  her.  Having  conducted  me  into 
her  hut,  she  lighted  up  a lamp,  spread  a mat  on  the 
floor,  and  told  me  I might  remain  there  for  the  night. 
Finding  that  I was  very  huiigry,  she  said  she  would 
procure  me  something  to  eat.  She  accordingly  went 
out,  and  returned  in  a short  time  with  a very  fine 
fish,  which,  having  caused  to  be  half  broiled  upon 
some  embers,  she  gave  me  for  supper.  The  rites  of 
hospitality  being  thus  performed  towards  a stranger 
in  distress,  my  worthy  benefactress  (pointing  to  the 
mat,  and  telling  me  I might  sleep  there  without  ap- 
prehension) called  to  the  female  part  of  her  family, 
who  had  stood  gazing  on  me  all  the  while  in  fixed 
astonishment,  to  resume  their  task  of  spinning  cotton, 
in  which  they  continued  to  employ  themselves  great 
part  of  the  night.  They  lightened  their  labour  by 
songs,  one  of  which  was  composed  extempore,  for  I 
was  myself  the  subject  of  it.  It  was  sung  by  one  of 
the  young  women,  the  rest  joining  in  a sort  of  chorus. 
The  air  was  sweet  and  plaintive,  and  the  words,  lite- 
rally translated,  were  these : — ‘ The  winds  roared, 
and  the  rains  fell.  The  poor  white  man,  faint  and 
weary,  came  and  sat  under  our  tree.  He  has  no 
mother  to  bring  him  milk — no  wife  to  grind  his  corn. 
Chorus. — Let  us  pity  the  white  man — no  mother  has 
he,’  &c.  &c.  Trifling  as  this  recital  may  appear  to 
the  reader,  to  a person  in  my  situation  the  circum- 
stance was  affecting  in  the  highest  degree.  1 was 
oppressed  by  such  unexpected  kindness,  and  sleep 
fled  from  my  eyes.  In  the  morning  I presented  my 
compassionate  landlady  with  two  of  the  four  brass 
buttons  which  remained  on  my  waistcoat— the  only 
recompense  I could  make  her. 

His  fortitude  under  suffering,  and  the  natural  piety 
of  his  mind,  are  beautifully  illustrated  by  an  inci- 
dent related  after  he  had  been  robbed  and  stript  of 
most  of  his  clothes  at  a village  near  Koonia ; — 

After  the  robbers  were  gone,  I sat  for  some  time 
looking  around  me  with  amazement  and  terror. 

666 


TRAVU.l.F.RS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DENHAM  AND  CLAPEERTO.N. 


Whiolievor  «ay  1 tunieil,  nothin"  appeared  but 
danger  and  difficulty.  I saw  myself  in  the  midst  of  a 
vast  wilderness,  in  the  depth  of  the  rainy  season, 
naked  and  alone,  surrounded  by  savage  animals,  and 
men  still  more  savage.  1 was  five  hundred  miles  from 
the  nearest  Kuropcan  settlement.  All  these  circum- 
stances crowded  at  once  on  my  recollection,  and  I con- 
fess that  my  spirits  began  to  fail  me.  I considered  my 
fate  as  certain,  and  that  I had  no  alternative  but  to 
lie  down  and  perish.  The  influence  of  religion,  how- 
ever, aided  and  supported  me.  I reflected  that  no 
human  prudence  or  foresight  could  possibly  have 
averted  iny  present  sufferings.  I was  indeed  a stranger 
in  a strange  land,  yet  I was  still  under  the  protecting 
eve  of  that  Providence  who  has  condescended  to  call 
himself  the  stranger’s  friend.  At  this  moment,  pain- 
ful as  my  reflections  were,  the  extraordinary  beauty 
of  a small  moss  in  fructification  irresistibly  caught 
my  eye.  I mention  this  to  show  from  what  trifling 
circumstances  the  mind  will  sometimes  derive  consola- 
tion ; for  though  the  whole  plant  was  not  larger  than 
the  top  of  one  of  my  fingers,  1 could  not  contemplate 
the  delicate  conformation  of  its  roots,  leaves,  and  cap- 
»ula,  without  admiration.  Can  that  Being,  thought 
I,  who  planted,  watered,  and  brought  to  perfection,  in 
this  obscure  part  of  the  world,  a thing  which  appears 
of  so  small  importance,  look  with  unconcern  upon  the 
situation  and  sufferings  of  creatures  formed  after  his 
own  image?  Surely  not.  Reflections  like  these 
would  not  allow  me  to  despair.  I started  up,  and, 
disregarding  both  hunger  and  fatigue,  travelled  for- 
wards, assured  that  relief  was  at  hand  ; and  I was 
not  disappointed.  In  a short  time  I came  to  a small 
tillage,  at  the  entrance  of  which  I overtook  the  two 
shepherds  who  had  come  with  me  from  Kooma.  They 
were  much  surprised  to  see  me ; for  they  said  they 
never  doubted  that  the  Foulahs,  when  they  had 
robbed,  had  murdered  me.  Departing  from  this 
village,  we  travelled  over  several  rocky  ridges,  and 
at  sunset  arrived  at  Sibidooloo,  the  frontier  town  of 
the  kingdom  of  Handing. 

Park  had  discovered  the  Niger  (or  Joliba,  or 
Quorra)  flowing  to  the  east,  and  thus  set  at  rest 
the  doubts  as  to  its  direction  in  the  interior  of 
Africa.  He  was  not  satisfied,  however,  but  longed 
to  follow  up  his  discovery  by  tracing  it  to  its  termi- 
nation. For  some  y'ears  he  was  constrained  to  re- 
main at  home,  and  he  followed  his  profession  of  a 
surgeon  in  the  town  of  Peebles.  He  embraced  a 
second  offer  from  the  African  Association,  and 
arrived  at  Goree  on  the  28th  of  March  1805.  Before 
he  saw  the  Niger  once  more  ‘rolling  its  immense 
stream  along  the  plain,’  misfortunes  had  thickened 
around  him.  His  expedition  consisted  originally  of 
forty-four  men ; now  only  seven  remained.  He 
built  a boat  at  Sansanding  to  prosecute  his  voyage 
down  the  river,  and  entered  it  on  the  17th  of 
November  1 805,  with  the  fl.xed  resolution  to  discover 
the  termination  of  the  Niger,  or  to  perish  in  the 
attempt.  The  party  had  sailed  several  days,  when, 
on  passing  a rocky  part  of  the  river  named  Boussa, 
the  natives  attacked  them,  and  Park  and  one  of  his 
companions  (Lieutenant  Martyn)  were  drowned 
while  attempting  to  escape  by  swimming.  The 
letters  and  journals  of  the  traveller  had  been  sent 
by  him  to  Gambia  previous  to  his  embarking  on 
the  fatal  voyage,  and  a narrative  o.*"  the  journey 
compiled  from  them  was  published  in  1815. 

Park  had  conjectured  that  the  Niger  and  Congo 
were  one  river;  and  in  1816  a double  expedition 
was  planned,  one  part  of  which  was  destined  to 
ascend  the  Congo,  and  the  other  to  descend  the 
Niger,  hopes  being  entertained  that  a meeting  would 
take  place  at  some  point  of  the  mighty  stream. 
The  command  of  this  expedition  was  given  to  Cap- 


tain Tuckey,  an  experienced  naval  officer,  and  he 
was  accompanied  by  Mr  Smith,  a botanist,  Mr 
Cranch,  a zoologist,  and  by  Mr  Galway,  an  intelli- 
gent friend.  The  expedition  was  unfortunate — all 
died  but  Captain  Tuckey,  and  he  was  compelled  to 
abandon  the  enterprise  from  fever  and  exhaustion 
In  the  narrative  of  this  expedition,  there  is  an  in- 
teresting .account  of  the  country  of  Congo,  which 
appears  to  be  .an  undefined  tract  of  territory, 
hemmed  in  between  Loango  on  the  north  and 
Angola  on  the  south,  and  stretching  far  inland. 
The  military  part  of  this  expedition,  under  Major 
Peddie,  was  equally  unfortunate.  He  did  not  ascend 
the  Gambia,  but  pursued  the  route  by  the  Rio 
Nunez  and  the  country  of  the  Foulahs.  Peddie 
died  at  Kacundy,  at  the  head  of  the  Rio  Nunez, 
and  Captain  Campbell,  on  whom  the  command  then 
devolved,  also  sunk  under  the  pressure  of  disease 
and  distress.  In  1819  two  other  travellers,  Mr 
Ritchie  and  Lieutenant  Lyon,  proceeded  from  Tripoli 
to  Fezzan,  with  the  view  of  penetr.ating  southward 
as  far  as  Soud.an.  The  climate  soon  extinguished 
all  hopes  from  this  expedition ; Mr  Ritchie  sank 
beneatli  it,  and  Lieutenant  Lyon  w'as  so  reduced  as 
to  be  able  to  extend  his  journey  only  to  the  southern 
frontiers  of  Fezzan. 

DENHAM  AND  CLAPPERTON. 

In  1822  another  important  African  expedit.on 
was  planned  by  a different  route,  under  the  care  at 
Major  Denham,  Captain  Clapperton,  and  Dr 
OuDNEY.  They  proceeded  from  Tripoli  across  the 
Great  Desert  to  Bornou,  and  in  February  1823 
arrived  at  Kouka,  the  capital  of  Bornou.  An  im- 
mense lake,  the  Tshad,  W'as  seen  to  form  the  recep- 
tacle of  the  rivers  of  Bornou,  and  the  country  w'as 
highly  populous.  The  travellers  were  hospitably 
entertained  at  Kouka.  Oudney  fell  a victim  to  the 
climate,  but  Clapperton  penetrated  as  far  as  Socka- 
too,  the  residence  of  the  Sultan  Bello,  and  the 
capital  of  the  Fcllatah  empire.  The  sultan  rei  eived 
him  with  much  state,  and  admired  all  the  presents 
that  were  brought  to  him.  ‘ Everything,’  he  said, 
‘ is  wonderful,  but  you  are  the  greatest  curiosity  of 
all’  The  traveller’s  presence  of  mind  is  illustrated 
by  the  following  anecdote  : — 

‘March  19,  I was  sent  for,’  says  Clapperton,  ‘by 
the  sultan,  and  desired  to  bring  with  me  the  “ look- 
ing-glass of  the  sun,”  the  name  they  gave  to  my 
sextant.  I first  exhibited  a plani.sphere  of  the 
heavenly  bodies.  The  sultan  knew  all  the  signs  of 
the  zodiac,  some  of  the  constellations,  and  many  of 
the  stars,  by  their  Arabic  names.  The  looking-glass 
of  the  sun  was  then  brought  forward,  and  occasioned 
much  surprise.  I had  to  explain  all  its  appendages. 
The  inverting  telescope  was  an  object  of  immense 
astonishment ; and  I had  to  stand  at  some  little  dis- 
tance to  let  the  sultan  look  at  me  through  it,  for  hia 
people  were  all  afraid  of  placing  themselves  within 
its  magical  influence.  I had  next  to  show  him  how 
to  take  an  observation  of  the  sun.  The  case  of  the 
artificial  horizon,  of  which  I had  lost  the  key,  was 
sometimes  very  difficult  to  open,  as  happened  on  this 
occasion : I asked  one  of  the  people  near  me  for  a 
knife  to  press  up  the  lid.  He  handed  me  one  quite 
too  small,  and  I quite  inadvertently  asked  for  a 
dagger  for  the  same  purpose.  The  sultan  was  imme- 
diately thrown  into  a fright ; he  seized  his  sword,  and 
half-drawing  it  from  the  scabbard,  placed  it  before 
him,  trembling  all  the  time  like  an  aspen  leaf.  I 
did  not  deem  it  prudent  to  take  the  lea.st  notice  of 
his  alarm,  although  it  was  I who  had  in  reality  most 
cause  of  fear ; and  on  receiving  the  dagger,  I calmly 
opened  the  case,  and  returned  the  weapon  to  its  owner 

ee’ 


PROM  I7(!0 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME 


with  iipjiarent  uiH  oncern.  When  the  artificial  horizon 
was  arran^'cd,  the  sultan  and  all  his  attendants  had 
a i)ec])  at  the  sun,  and  luy  breach  of  ctiiiuette  seciueU 
entirely  forgotten.’ 

Suckatoo  funned  the  utmost  limit  of  the  expedition. 
The  result  was  inihlished  in  182G,  under  the  title  of 
Narrative  vf  Travels  and  Discoreries  in  Northern  and 
Central  jlfriea,  in  the  i/ears  1822,  1823,  and  1824,  hi/ 
Major  Denham,  Captain  Clappcrton,  and  the  late  Dr 
Oudnep.  Clappcrton  resumed  his  travels  in  182.5, 
and  eompleteil  a journey  across  the  continent  of 
Africa  from  Tripoli  to  Henin,  accompanied  by  Cap- 
tain Pearce,  a naval  surgeon,  a draught.sman,  and 
Kichard  Lander,  a young  man  who  volunteered  to 
aceompanv  him  as  a confidential  servant.  They 
Vnded  at  Badiigry,  in  the  Bight  of  Benin  ; but  death 
soon  cut  off  all  but  Clappcrton  ami  Lander.  They 
pursued  their  course,  and  visited  Boiissa,  the  scene 
of  Mungo  Park’s  death.  They  proceeded  to  Socka- 
too  after  an  interesting  journey,  with  the  view  of 
soliciting  permission  from  the  sultan  to  visit  Tim- 
buefoo  ami  Bornou.  In  this  Clapperton  w as  unsuc- 
cessful; ami  being  seized  with  dysentery,  he  died  in 
the  arms  of  his  faithful  servant  on  the  13th  of  April 
1827.  Lander  was  allowed  to  return,  and  in  1830 
he  ])ublislied  an  account  of  Cajitain  Clappertcn’s 
last  expedition.  The  unfortunate  traveller  was  at 
the  time  of  his  death  in  his  39th  year. 

Clapperton  nnide  valuable  additions  to  our  know- 
ledge of  the  interior  of  Africa.  ‘The  limit  of  Lieu- 
tenant Lyon’s  journey  southward  across  the  desert 
was  in  latitude  24  degrees,  while  Major  Denham,  in 
Ins  expedition  to  Mandiira,  reached  latitude  9 de- 
grees 15  minutes,  thus  adding  ItJ  degrees,  or  900 
miles,  to  the  extent  cxjilored  by  Europeans.  Ilorne- 
mann,  it  is  true,  had  previously  crossed  the  desert, 
and  had  proceeded  as  far  soutliwards  as  Nyffe,  in 
latitude  10|  degrees;  but  no  account  was  ever 
received  of  his  journey'.  Park  in  his  first  expedi-: 
tion  reached  Silla,  in  longitude  1 degree  34  minutes 
west,  a distance  of  1100  miles  from  the  mouth  of 
the  Gambia.  Denham  and  Clapperton,  on  the  other 
hand,  from  the  i ast  side  of  Lake  Tshad  in  longitude 
i7  degrees,  to  Sockatoo  in  longitude  5-i  degrees, 
explored  a distance  of  700  miles  from  east  to  west 
in  the  heart  of  Africa;  a line  of  oidy  400  miles  re- 
maining unknown  between  Silla  and  Sockatoo.  But 
the  second  journey  of  Captain  Clafperton  added 
tenfold  value  to  these  discoveries,  lie  had  the  good 
fortune  to  detect  the  shortest  and  most  easy  road  to 
the  populous  countries  of  the  interior;  and  he  could 
boast  of  being  the  first  who  had  completed  an  itine- 
rary across  the  continent  of  Africa  from  Tripoli  to 
Benin.’* 

RICHARD  LANDER. 

The  honour  of  discovering  and  finally  determin- 
ing the  course  of  the  Niger  was  left  to  Kichard 
Lander.  Under  the  auspices  of  government.  Lander 
and  his  brother  left  England  in  January  1830,  and 
arrived  at  Badagry  on  the  19th  of  IMareh.  From 
Boussa  they  sailed  down  the  Niger,  and  ultimately 
entered  the  Atlantic  by  the  river  Nun,  one  of  the 
branches  from  the  Niger.  They  returned  from  their 
triumphant  expedition  in  June  1831,  and  published 
an  account  of  their  travels  in  three  small  volumes, 
for  which  Mr  Murray,  the  eminent  bookseller,  is 
said  to  have  given  a thousand  guineas ! Kichard 
Lander  was  induced  to  embark  in  another  expedi- 
tion to  Africa — a commereial  speculation  fitted  out 
by  some  Liverpool  merchants,  which  proved  an 
itter  failure.  A party  of  natives  attacked  the  ad- 
s' Uistory  of  Maritime  and  Inland  Disuovcry. 


venturers  on  the  river  Niger,  and  Lander  was 
wounded  by  a musket  ball,  lie  arrived  at  Fernando 
Po,  but  died  from  the  effects  of  his  wound  on  the 
1 6th  of  February  18.34,  aged  thirty-one.  A narra- 
tive of  this  unfortunate  expedition  was  published  in 
1837,  in  two  volumts,  by  Mr  Macgregor  Laird  and 
Mr  Oldfield,  surviving  officers  of  the  expedition. 

BOWDICH,  CAMPBELL,  AND  BURCHKLL. 

Of  Western  Afric.a,  interesting  accounts  are  given 
in  the  Mission  to  Ashantee,  1819,  by  Mr  Bowdich; 
and  of  Southern  Africa,  in  the  Travels  of  Mr  Camp- 
bell, a missionary',  1822  ; and  in  Travels  in  trauthern 
Africa,  1822,  by  ilii  Burciiell.  Campbell  was  the 
first  to  penetrate  beyond  Lattakoo,  the  capital  of 
the  Boshuana  tribe  of  the  Matehajiins.  lie  made 
two  missions  to  Africa,  one  in  1813,  and  a second 
in  1820,  both  being  undertaken  under  the  auspices 
of  the  Missionary  Society,  lie  founded  a Christian 
establishment  at  Lattakoo,  but  the  natives  evinced 
little  disposition  to  embrace  the  juire  faith,  so  dif- 
ferent from  their  sensual  and  superstitious  rites. 
Until  Mr  Bowdich’s  mission  to  Ashantee,  that 
powerful  kingdom  and  its  capital,  Coomassie  (a 
city  of  100,000  souls),  although  not  nine  days’ 
journey  from  the  English  settlements  on  the  coast, 
were  known  only  by  name,  and  very  few  jiersons  in 
England  had  ever  formed  the  faintest  idea  of  the 
barbaric  pomp  and  magnificence,  or  of  the  state, 
strength,  and  political  condition  of  the  Ashantee 
nation. 

J.  L.  BlIRCKHARDT — J.  B.  BELZONI. 

Among  the  numerous  victims  of  African  disco- 
very are  two  eminent  travellers — Burckhardt  and 
Belzoni.  John  Ludwig  Burckhardt  (1785-1817) 
was  a native  of  Switzerland,  w ho  visited  England, 
and  was  engaged  by  the  African  Association.  He 
proceeded  to  Aleppo  in  1809,  and  resided  two  years 
in  that  city,  personating  the  character  of  a Mussul- 
man doctor  of  laws,  and  acquiring  a perfect  know- 
ledge of  the  language  and  customs  of  the  East.  He 
visited  Palmy'ra,  Damascus,  and  Lebanon  ; stopped 
some  time  at  Cairo,  and  made  a pilgrimage  to  Mecca, 
crossing  the  Nubian  desert  by  tlie  route  taken  by 
Bruce.  He  returned  to  Cairo,  and  was  preparing  to 
depart  thence  in  a caravan  for  Fezzan,  in  the  north 
of  Africa,  when  he  rvas  cut  off  by  a fever.  His 
journals,  letters,  and  memoranda,  were  all  preserved, 
and  are  very'  valuable.  He  was  an  accurate  ob- 
server of  men  and  manners,  and  his  works  throw 
much  light  on  the  geograiihy  and  moral  condition 
of  the  countries  he  visited.  They  were  published  at 
intervals  from  1819  to  1830.  John  Baptist  Bei.zo.st 
was  a native  of  Fadua,  it.  Jtaly,  who  came  to  Eng- 
land in  1803.  He  was  a man  of  immense  stature 
and  muscular  strength,  capable  of  enduring  the 
greatest  fatigue.  From  1815  to  1819  he  was 
engaged  in  exploring  the  antiquities  of  Egypt. 
Works  on  this  subject  had  previously  apyieared — 
The  Egyptiaca  of  Hamilton,  1809;  Mr  Legh’s  Nar- 
rative of  a Journey  in  Egypt,  1816;  Captain  Light’s 
'I'ravels,  1818;  and  Memoirs  relating  to  European 
and  Asiatic  Turkey,  &e.  by  Mr  K.  Walpole,  1817. 
Mr  Legh’s  account  of  the  antiquities  of  Nubia — the 
region  situated  on  the  upper  jiart  of  the  Nile — had 
attracted  much  attention.  While  the  temples  of 
Egypt  are  edifices  raised  above  ground,  tho.se  of 
Nubia  are  excavated  rocks,  an  i some  almost  of 
mountain  magnitude  have  been  hewn  into  temples 
and  chiseled  into  sculpture.  Mr  Legh  was  the  first 
adventurer  in  this  career.  Belzom  acted  as  as- 
sistant to  Mr  Salt  (the  Biitish  consul  at  Egypt)  in 

668 


TRAVKLLF.RS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


J.  D.  nKLZONl. 


cxplonii}t  till-  Kjryjitimi  pyramids  and  ancient  tombs. 
Some  of  tlicse  remains  of  art  were  eminently  rich 
and  splendid,  and  one  which  he  discovered  near 
Thebes,  containing  a sarcophagus  of  the  finest 
Oriental  alabaster,  minute.' v sculptured  with  hun- 
dreds of  figures,  he  brouglu  with  him  to  Britain, 
and  it  is  now  in  the  British  Museum.  In  1820  he 
published  A Narrative  of  0/)eratlonii  an  I Recent 
Disioveries  within  the  l\i/ramid.t,  Temples,  ^c.  In  Egi/pt 
and  Nubia,  which  shows  how  much  may  be  done 
by  the  labour  and  unremitting  e.xertions  of  one  in- 
dividual. Belzoni’s  success  in  Egyi>t,  his  great  bodily 
strength,  and  his  adventurous  spirit,  inspired  him 
with  the  hope  of  achieving  discoveries  in  Africa, 
lie  sailed  to  the  co.ast  of  Guinea,  with  the  intention 
of  travelling  to  Timbuctoo,  but  died  at  Benin  of 
an  attack  of  dysentery  on  the  3d  of  December  1823. 
'VVe  subjoin  a few  passages  from  Bclzoni’s  nar- 
rative : — 

[77ie  Ruins  at  ThebesA 

On  the  22d,  we  saw  for  the  first  time  the  ruins  of 
gi’e.at  Thebes,  and  landed  at  Luxor.  Here  I beg  the 
reader  to  observe,  that  but  very  imperfect  ideas  can 
be  formed  of  the  extensive  ruins  of  Thebes,  even  from 
the  accounts  of  the  most  skilful  and  accurate  travel- 
lers. It  is  absolutely  impossible  to  imagine  the  scene 
displayed,  without  seeing  it.  The  most  sublime  ideas 
that  can  be  formed  from  the  most  magnificent  speci- 
mens of  our  present  architecture,  would  give  a very 
incorrect  picture  of  these  ruins  ; for  such  is  the  diffe- 
rence not  only  in  magnitude,  but  in  form,  proportion, 
and  construction,  that  even  the  pencil  can  convey  but 
a faint  idea  of  the  whole.  It  appeared  to  me  like 
entering  a city  of  giants,  who,  after  a long  conflict, 
were  all  destroyed,  leaving  the  ruins  of  their  various 
temples  as  the  only  proofs  of  their  former  existence. 
The  temple  of  Luxor  presents  to  the  traveller  at  once 
one  of  the  most  splendid  groups  of  Egyptian  grandeur. 
The  extensive  propylmon,  with  the  two  obelisks,  and 
colos.sal  statues  in  the  front  ; the  thick  groups  of  enor- 
mous columns  ; the  variety  of  apartments,  and  the 
sanctuary  it  contains;  the  beautiful  ornaments  which 
adorn  every  part  of  the  walls  and  columns,  described 
by  Mr  Hamilton  ; cau.se  in  the  astonished  traveller 
an  oblivion  of  all  that  he  has  seen  before.  If  his  at- 
tention be  attracted  to  the  north  side  of  Thebes  by 
the  towering  remains  that  project  a great  height  above 
the  wood  of  palm-trees,  he  will  gradually  enter  that 
forest-like  assemblage  of  ruins  of  temples,  columns, 
obelisk.s,  colossi,  sphinxes,  portals,  and  an  endless 
number  of  other  astonishing  objects,  that  will  convince 
him  .at  once  of  the  impossibility  of  a description.  On 
the  west  side  of  the  Nile,  still  the  tr.aveller  finds  him- 
self among  wonders.  The  temples  of  Goumou,  Mera- 
nonium,  and  Medinet  Aboo,  attest  the  extent  of  the 
great  city  on  this  side.  The  unrivalled  colossal  figures 
in  the  plains  of  Thebes,  the  number  of  tombs  exca- 
vated in  the  rocks,  those  in  the  great  valley  of  the 
kings,  with  their  paintings,  sculptures,  mummies,  sar- 
cophagi, figures,  &c.  are  all  objects  w'orthy  of  the  ad- 
miration of  the  traveller,  who  will  not  fail  to  wonder 
how  a n.ation  which  was  once  so  great  .as  to  erect  these 
stupendous  edifices,  could  so  far  fall  into  oblivion 
that  even  their  language  and  writing  are  totally  un- 
known to  us. 

[Opejiing  a Tomb  at  Thebes.'] 

On  the  16th  of  October  1817,  I set  a number  of 
fellahs,  or  labouring  .\rabs,  to  work,  and  caused  the 
earth  to  be  opened  at  the  foot  of  a steep  hill,  and  un- 
der the  bed  of  a torrent,  which,  when  it  rains,  pours  a 
great  quantity  of  water  over  the  spot  in  which  they 
were  digging.  No  one  could  imagine  that  the  ancient 


Egvptians  would  make  the  entrance  into  such  an  im- 
mense and  superb  excavation  just  under  a torrent  of 
water  ; but  I hail  strong  reasons  to  suppose  that  there 
was  a tomb  in  that  ])lace,  from  indications  1 1 id  jire- 
viously  observed  in  my  search  of  other  sepi  chres. 
The  Arabs,  who  were  accustomed  to  dig,  were  11  of 
opinion  that  nothing  was  to  be  found  there ; but  I 
persisted  in  carrying  on  the  work  ; and  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  following  day  we  perceived  the  part  of  the 
rock  that  had  been  hewn  and  cut  away.  On  the  18th, 
early  in  the  morning,  the  task  was  resumed  ; and 
about  noon,  the  workmen  reached  the  opening,  which 
was  eighteen  feet  below  the  surface  of  the  ground. 
When  there  was  room  enough  for  me  to  creep  through 
a passage  that  the  earth  had  left  under  the  ceiling  of 
the  first  corridor^  I perceived  immediately,  by  the 
painting  on  the  roof,  and  by  the  hieroglyphics  in 
basso-relievo,  that  1 had  at  length  reached  the  entrance 
of  a large  and  magnificent  tomb.  1 hastily  passed 
along  this  corridor,  and  came  to  a staircase  23  feet  long, 
at  the  foot  of  which  I entered  another  gallery  37  feet 
3 inches  long,  where  my  progress  was  suddenly  ir- 
rested  by  a Large  pit  30  feet  deep  and  14  feet  by  12 
feet  3 inches  wide.  On  the  other  side,  and  in  front  ol 
me,  I observed  a small  .aperture  2 feet  wide  and  2 feet 
6 inches  high,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit  a qu.antity 
of  rubbish.  A rope  fastened  to  a piece  of  wood,  that 
was  laid  across  the  passage  against  the  projections 
which  formed  a kind  of  doorway,  appeared  to  have 
been  used  formerly  for  descending  into  the  pit;  and 
from  the  small  aperture  o.  the  op]>osite  side  hung 
another  which  reached  the  b tom,  no  doubt  for  the 
purpose  of  ascending.  The  Wi  d,  and  the  rope  fast- 
ened to  it,  crumbled  to  dust  jt\  being  touched,  j't 
the  bottom  of  the  pit  were  several  pieces  of  wood  placeu 
against  the  side  of  it,  so  as  to  assist  the  person  who 
was  to  ascend  by  means  of  the  rope  into  the  aperture. 
It  was  not  till  the  following  d.ay  that  we  contrived  to 
make  a bridge  of  two  beaims,  and  crossed  the  pit,  when 
we  discovered  the  little  aperture  to  be  an  opening 
forced  through  a wall,  that  had  entirely  closed  what 
we  afterwards  found  to  be  the  entrance  into  magnifi- 
cent halls  .and  corridors  beyond.  The  .ancient  Egyp- 
tians had  clo.«ely  shut  it  up,  plastered  the  wall  over, 
and  painted  it  like  the  rest  of  the  sides  of  the  pit,  so 
that,  but  for  the  aperture,  it  would  have  been  ini|)os- 
sible  to  suppose  that  there  was  any  further  proceeding. 
Any  one  would  have  concluded  that  the  tomb  ended 
with  the  pit.  Besides,  the  pit  served  the  purpose  of 
receiving  the  rain-water  which  might  occasionally  fall 
in  the  mountain,  and  thus  kept  out  the  damp  from 
the  inner  p.art  of  the  tomb.  We  passed  through  the 
small  aperture,  and  then  made  the  full  discovery 
of  the  whole  sepulchre. 

An  inspection  of  the  model  will  exhibit  the  nume- 
rous g.alleries  and  halls  through  which  we  wandered  ; 
and  the  vivid  colours  and  extraordinary  figures  on 
the  walls  and  ceilings,  which  everywhere  met  our  view, 
will  convey  an  idea  of  the  astonishment  we  must  have 
felt  at  every  step.  In  one  apartment  we  found  the 
carcase  of  a bull  embalmed  ; and  also  scattered  in 
various  places  wooden  figures  of  mummies  covered 
with  asphaltum  to  preserve  them.  In  some  of  the 
rooms  were  lying  about  statues  of  fine  earth,  baked, 
coloured  blue,  and  strongly  varni.shed ; in  another 
part  were  four  wooden  figures  standing  erect,  four  feet 
liigh,  with  a circular  hollow  inside,  as  if  intended  to 
cont.ain  a roll  of  papyrus.  The  sarcophagus  of  Oriental 
alabaster  was  found  in  the  centre  of  the  hall,  to  which 
I gave  the  name  of  the  saloon,  without  a cover,  which 
had  been  removed  and  broken  ; and  the  body  that  had 
once  occupied  this  superb  coffin  had  been  carried 
away.  We  were  not,  therefore,  the  first  who  had  pro- 
fanely entered  this  mysterious  mansion  of  the  dead, 
though  there  is  no  doubt  it  had  remained  undisturbed 
since  the  time  of  the  invasion  of  the  Persians. 

669 


FntiM  17G0  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  present  timl 


Tlie  arcliitfctunil  rums  ami  monuments  on  the 
banks  of  tlie  Nile  are  stupendous  relics  of  former 
ages.  They  reach  back  tt  the  period  when  Thebes 
poured  ner  heroes  through  a hundred  gates,  and 
Cireec'  and  Home  were  the  desert  abodes  of  barba- 
rians. ‘ From  the  tops  of  the  Pyramids, ‘ said  Napo- 
leon to  his  soldiers  on  the  eve  of  battle,  ‘ the  shades 
of  forty  centuries  look  down  upon  you.’  Learning 
and  research  have  unveiled  part  of  the  mystery  of 
these  august  memorials.  Men  like  Belzoni  have 
penetrated  into  the  vast  sejiulehres,  and  unearthed 
the  huge  sculpture  ; and  scholars  like  Young  and 
Champollion,  by  discovering  the  hieroglyphic  writ- 
ing of  the  ancient  Kgyi)tians,  have  been  able  to  as- 
certain their  object  and  history.  The  best  English 
books  on  Egypt  are.  The  Muimers  and  Customs  of  the 
Ancient  Kyyjitians,  by  J.  G.  Wilkinson,  1837  ; and 
An  Account  of  the  Manners  and  Customs  of  the  Modern 
Myyptians,  by  Edward  W.  Lane,  1836. 

DR  E.  D.  CLARKE. 

One  of  the  most  original  and  interesting  of  modern 
travellers  was  the  late  Kev.  Dr  Edward  Daniel 
Clarke  (17G9-1822),  afellow  of  Jesus  college,  Cam- 
bridge, and  the  first  professor  of  mineralogy  in  that 
university.  In  1799  Dr  Clarke  set  olf  with  Mr 
Malthus,  and  some  other  college  friends,  on  a journey 
among  the  northern  nations.  He  travelled  for  three 
years  and  a half,  visitini  the  south  of  Kussia,  part 
of  Asia,  Turkey,  Egyp  , and  Palestine.  The  first 
volume  of  his  travels  a peared  in  1810,  and  included 
R’,ssia,  Tartary,  and  Turkey.  The  second,  which 
Ijcamemore  popular,  was  issued  in  1812,  and  in- 
cluded Greece,  Egypt,  and  the  Holy  Land;  and 
three  other  volumes  appeared  at  intervals  before 
1819.  The  si.xth  volume  was  published  after  his 
death,  part  being  contributed  by  Mr  Walpde, 
author  of  travels  in  the  Levant.  Dr  Clarke  received 
from  his  publishers  the  large  sum  of  £7000  for  his 
collection  of  travels.  Their  success  was  immediate 
and  extensive.  As  an  honest  and  accomplished 
writer,  careful  in  his  facts,  clear  and  polished  in  his 
style,  and  comprehensive  in  his  knowledge  and  ob- 
servation, Dr  Clarke  has  not  been  excelled  by  any 
general  European  traveller. 

[Description  of  the  Pyramids  ] 

A\’^e  were  roused  as  soon  as  the  sun  daivned  by  An- 
tony, our  faithful  Greek  servant  and  interpreter,  with 
the  intelligence  that  the  pyramids  were  in  view.  We 
hastened  from  the  cabin  ; and  never  will  the  impression 
made  by  their  appearance  be  obliterated.  By  reflect- 
ing the  sun’s  rays,  they  appear  as  white  as  snow,  and 
of  such  surprising  magnitude,  that  nothing  we  had 
previously  conceived  in  our  imagination  had  prepared 
us  for  the  spectacle  we  beheld.  The  sight  instantly 
convinced  us  that  no  power  of  description,  no  delinea- 
tion, can  convey  ideas  adequate  to  the  eftect  produced 
in  viewing  these  stupendous  monuments.  The  for- 
mality of  their  construction  is  lost  in  their  prodigious 
magnitude ; the  mind,  elevated  by  wonder,  feels  at 
once  the  force  of  an  axiom,  which,  however  disputed, 
experience  confirms — that  in  vastness,  whatsoever  be 
its  nature,  there  dwells  sublimity.  Another  proof  of 
their  indescribable  power  is,  that  no  one  ever  ap- 
proached them  under  other  emotions  than  those  of 
terror,  which  is  another  principal  source  of  the  .sub- 
lime. In  certain  instances  of  irritable  feeling,  this 
impression  of  awe  and  fear  has  been  so  great  as  to 
cause  pain  rather  than  pleasure  ; hence,  perhaps,  have 
originated  descriptions  of  the  pyramids  which  repre- 
sent them  as  deformed  and  gloomy  masses,  without 
ta.ste  or  beauty.  Persons  who  have  derived  no  satis- 
faction from  the  contemplation  of  them,  may  not  have 


been  conscious  that  the  uneasiness  they  experienced 
was  a result  of  their  own  sensibility.  Others  have 
acknowledged  ideas  widely  different,  excited  by  every 
wonderful  circumstance  of  character  and  of  situation 
— ideas  of  duration,  almost  endle.ss;  of  power,  incon- 
ceivable; of  majesty,  supreme  ; of  solitude,most  awful; 
of  grandeur,  of  desolation,  and  of  repose. 

Upon  the  23d  of  August  1802  we  set  out  for  the 
pyramids,  the  inundation  enabling  us  to  approach 
within  less  tlian  a mile  of  the  larger  pyramid  in  our 
djerm.*  Messrs  Hammer  and  Hamilton  accompanied 
us.  We  arrived  at  Djiza  at  daybreak,  and  called 
upon  some  English  officers,  who  wished  to  join  our 
party  upon  this  occasion.  From  Djiza  our  approach 
to  the  pyramids  was  through  a swampy  country,  by 
means  of  a narrow  canal,  which,  however,  was  deep 
enough ; and  we  arrived  without  any  obstacle  at  nine 
o’clock  at  the  bottom  of  a sandy  slope  leading  up  to 
the  principal  pyramid.  Some  Bedouin  Arabs,  who 
had  assembled  to  receive  us  upon  our  landing,  were 
much  amused  by  the  eagerness  excited  in  our  whole 
party  to  prove  who  should  first  set  his  foot  upon  the 
summit  of  this  artificial  mountain.  With  what 
amazement  did  we  survey  the  vast  surface  that  was 
presented  to  us  when  we  arrived  at  this  stupendous 
monument,  which  seem.ed  to  reach  the  clouds.  Here 
and  there  appeared  some  Arab  guides  upon  the  im- 
mense masses  above  us,  like  so  many  i)igmies,  waiting 
to  show  the  w.ay  to  the  summit.  Now  and  then  we 
thought  we  heard  voices,  and  listened  ; but  it  was  the 
wind  in  powerful  gusts  sweeping  the  immense  ranges 
of  stone.  Already  some  of  our  party  had  begun  the 
ascent,  and  were  pausing  at  the  tremendous  depth 
which  they  saw  below.  One  of  our  military  compa- 
nions, after  having  surmounted  the  most  difficult  part 
of  the  undertaking,  became  giddy  in  consequence  of 
looking  down  from  the  elevation  he  had  attained  ; and 
being  compelled  to  abandon  the  project,  he  hired  an 
Arab  to  assist  him  in  etfecting  his  descent.  '1  he  rest 
of  us,  more  accustomed  to  the  business  of  climbing 
heights,  with  many  a halt  for  respiration,  and  many 
an  exclamation  of  wonder,  pursued  our  way  towards 
the  summit.  The  mode  of  ascent  has  been  frequently 
described  ; and  yet,  from  the  questions  which  are  often 
proposed  to  travellers,  it  does  not  appear  to  be  gene- 
rally understood.  The  reader  may  imagine  himself 
to  be  upon  a staircase,  every  step  of  which,  to  a man 
of  middle  stature,  is  nearly  breast  high,  and  the 
breadth  of  each  step  is  equal  to  its  height,  conse- 
quently the  footing  is  secure ; and  althougli  a retro- 
a])ect  in  going  up  be  sometimes  fearful  to  persons 
unaccustomed  to  look  dowm  from  any  considerable 
elevation,  yet  there  is  little  danger  of  falling.  In  some 
places,  indeed,  where  the  stones  are  decayed,  caution 
may  be  required,  and  an  Arab  guide  is  always  neces- 
sary to  avoid  a total  interruption  ; but,  upon  the 
whole,  the  means  of  ascent  are  such  that  almost  evei’y 
one  may  accomplish  it.  Our  progress  was  imjieded  by 
other  causes.  \Ve  carried  with  us  a feiv  instruments, 
such  as  our  boat-compass,  a thermometer,  a telescope, 
Ac.  ; these  could  not  be  trusted  in  the  hands  of  the 
Arabs,  and  they  were  liable  to  be  broken  every  instant. 
At  length  we  reached  the  topmost  tier,  to  the  great 
delight  and  satisfaction  of  all  the  party.  Here  we 
found  a platform  thirty-two  feet  square,  consisting  of 
nine  large  stones,  each  of  which  might  weigh  about 
a ton,  although  they  are  much  inferior  in  size  to 
some  of  the  stones  used  in  the  construction  of  this 
pyramid.  Travellers  of  all  ages,  and  of  various 
nations,  have  here  inscribed  their  names.  Some  are 
written  in  Greek,  many  in  French,  a few  in  Arabic, 
one  or  two  in  English,  and  others  in  Latin.  We  were 
as  desirous  as  our  predecessors  to  leave  a memorial 
of  our  arrival ; it  seemed  to  be  a tribute  of  thankful- 
ness due  for  the  success  of  our  undertaking;  and  pro- 
s' Boat  of  the  Nile. 

C70 


IIlAVKI.LF.RS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATUlttC. 


CLASSIC  TIIAVELLERS. 


Bciitly  every  one  of  our  party  was  seen  busied  in  adding 
the  inscription  of  his  name. 

Upon  this  area,  which  looks  like  a point  when  seen 
from  Cairo  or  from  the  Nile,  it  is  extraordinary  that 
none  of  those  numerous  hermits  fixed  their  abode 
who  retired  to  the  tops  of  columns  and  to  almost  in- 
accessible solitudes  upon  the  pinnacles  of  the  highest 
rocks.  II  offers  a much  more  convenient  and  secure 
retreat  than  was  selected  by  an  ascetic,  who  pitched 
his  residence  upon  the  architrave  of  a temple  in  the 
vicinity  of  Athens.  The  heat,  according  to  Fahrenheit’s 
thermometer  at  the  time  of  our  coming,  did  not  ex- 
ceed 84  degrees;  and  the  same  temperature  continued 
during  the  time  we  remained,  a strong  wind  blowing 
from  the  north-west.  The  view  from  this  eminence 
amply  fulfilled  our  expectations  ; nor  do  the  accounts 
which  have  been  given  of  it,  as  it  appears  at  this  season 
of  the  year,  exaggerate  the  novelty  and  grandeur  of 
the  sight.  All  the  region  towards  Cairo  and  the  Delta 
resembled  a sea  covered  with  innumerable  islands. 
Forests  of  palm-trees  were  seen  standing  in  the  water, 
the  inundation  spreading  over  the  land  where  they 
stood,  so  as  to  give  them  an  appearance  of  growing  in 
the  flood.  To  the  north,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
nothing  could  be  discerned  but  a watery  surface  thus 
diversified  by  plantations  and  by  villages.  To  the 
south  we  saw  the  pyramids  of  Saccara  ; and  upon  the 
east  of  these,  smaller  monuments  of  the  same  kind 
nearer  to  the  Nile.  An  appearance  of  ruins  might 
indeed  be  traced  the  whole  ivay  from  the  pyramids  of 
Djiza  to  those  of  Sacedra,  as  if  they  had  been  once 
connected,  so  as  to  constitute  one  vast  cemetery.  Be- 
yond the  pyramids  of  Sacedra  we  could  perceive  the 
distant  mountains  of  the  Said  ; and  upon  an  eminence 
near  the  Libyan  side  of  the  Nile,  appeared  a monastery 
of  considerable  size.  Towards  the  west  and  south- 
west, the  eye  ranged  over  the  great  Libyan  Desert, 
extending  to  the  utmost  verge  of  the  horizon,  without 
a single  object  to  interrupt  the  dreary  horror  of  the 
landscape,  except  dark  floating  spots  caused  by  the 
shadows  of  passing  clouds  upon  the  sand. 

Upon  the  south-east  side  is  the  gigantic  statue  of 
the  Sphinx,  the  most  colossal  piece  of  sculpture  which 
remains  of  all  the  works  executed  by  the  ancients. 
The  French  have  uncovered  all  the  pedestal  of  this 
statue,  and  all  the  cumbent  or  leonine  parts  of  the 
figure  ; these  were  before  entirely  concealed  by  sand. 
Instead,  however,  of  answering  the  expectations  raised 
concerning  the  work  upon  which  it  was  supposed  to 
rest,  the  pedestal  proves  to  be  a wretched  substructure 
of  orickwork  and  small  pieces  of  stone  put  together, 
like  the  most  insignificant  piece  of  modern  masonry, 
and  wholly  out  of  character  both  with  re.spect  to  the 
prodigious  labour  bestowed  upon  the  statue  itself,  and 
the  gigantic  appearance  of  the  surrounding  objects. 
Beyond  the  Sphinx  we  distinctly  discerned  amidst 
tne  sandy  waste  the  remains  and  vestiges  of  a magni- 
ficent building,  perhaps  the  Serapeum. 

Immediately  beneath  our  view,  upon  the  eastern 
and  western  side,  wn  saw  so  many  tombs  that  we  were 
unable  to  count  them,  some  being  half  buried  in  the 
sand,  others  rising  considerably  above  it.  All  these 
are  of  an  oblong  for'  i,  with  sides  sloping  like  the  roofs 
of  European  housei . A plan  of  their  situation  and 
appearance  is  given  in  Pocock’s  Travels.  The  second 
pyramid,  standing  v i the  south-west,  has  the  remains 
of  a covering  near  i(s  vertex,  as  of  a plating  of  stone 
which  had  once  inveited  all  its  four  sides.  Some  per- 
sons, deceived  by  the  external  hue  of  this  covering, 
have  believed  it  to  be  of  marble  ; but  its  white  appear- 
ance is  owing  to  a partial  decompo.sition  affecting  the 
surface  only.  Not  a single  fragment  of  marble  can 
be  found  anywhere  near  this  pyramid.  It  is  sur- 
rounded by  a paved  court,  having  walls  on  the  out- 
side, and  places  as  for  doors  or  portals  in  the  walls ; 
also  an  advance  work  or  portico.  A third  pyramid, 


of  much  smaller  dimensions  than  the  second,  appears 
beyond  the  Sphinx  to  the  south-west ; and  there  are 
three  others,  one  of  which  is  nearly  buried  in  the  sand, 
between  the  large  pyramid  and  this  statue  to  tho 
south-east. 

CLASSIC  TRAVELLERS — FORSYTH,  EUSTACE,  &C. 

The  classic  countries  of  Greece  and  Italy  have 
been  described  by  various  travellers — scholars,  poets, 
painters,  architects,  and  antiquaries.  The  celebrated 
Travels  of  Anacharsis,  by  Bartheleniy,  were  pub- 
lished in  1788,  and  shortly  afterwards  translated 
into  English.  This  excellent  work  (of  which  the 
liero  is  as  interesting  as  any  character  in  romance) 
excited  a general  enthusiasm  with  respect  to  the 
memorable  soil  and  history  of  Greece,  Dr  Clarke’s 
travels  further  stimulated  inquiry,  and  Byron’s 
Childe  Harold  drew  attention  to  the  natural  beauty 
and  magnificence  of  Grecian  scenery  and  ancient 
art.  Mr  (noiv  Sir)  John  Cam  Hoehouse,  the  fellow- 
traveller  of  Lord  Byron,  published  an  account  of  his 
Journet/  through  Albania;  and  Dr  Holland,  in  D.15, 
gave  to  the  world  his  interesting  Travels  m the 
Ionian  Isles,  Albania,  Thessaly,  and  Macedonia.  A 
voluminous  and  able  work,  in  two  quarto  volumes, 
was  published  in  1819  by  Mr  Edward  Dr  dwell, 
entitled  A Classical  and  Topographical  Tour  through 
Greece.  Sir  William  Gell,  in  1823,  gav.;  an  ac- 
count of  a Journey  to  the  Morea.  An  artist,  Mr  H. 
W.  Williams,  also  published  Travels  in  Greece  and 
Italy,  enriched  with  valuable  remarks  on  the  ancient 
works  of  art.  In  1837  a young  scholar,  Edward 
Giffard,  published  a Visit  to  the  Ionian  Islands, 
Athens,  and  the  Morea.  Dr  Christopher  Words- 
worth (now  head-master  of  Harrow  school)  issued 
in  1839  a work  entitled  Athens  and  Attica,  finely 
illustrated,  and  devoted  chiefly  to  classical  inves- 
tigations. The  latest  work  on  Greece  is  by  a Scottish 
gentleman,  William  Mure,  Esq.  of  Caldwell,  who 
spent  two  months  i i the  spring  of  1838  in  vis.ting 
Greece  and  the  Ionian  Islands.  His  illustrations  of 
Greek  poetry  and  scenery  are  marked  by  good  sense 
and  discrimination. 

Lord  Byron  also  extended  his  kindling  power  and 
energy  to  Italy  ; but  previous  to  this  time  a master 
hand  had  described  its  ruins  and  antiquities.  A 
valuable  work,  which  has  now  become  a standard 
authority,  was  in  1812  published  under  the  modest 
title  of  Remarks  on  Antiquities,  Arts,  and  Letters, 
during  an  Excursion  in  Italy  in  the  years  1802  and 
1803,  by  Joseph  Forsyth,  Esq.  Mr  Forsyth  (U  63- 
1815)  was  a native  of  Elgin,  in  the  county  of  Moray, 
and  conducted  a classical  seminary  at  Newington- 
Butts,  near  London,  for  many  years.  On  his  return 
from  a tour  in  Itai)^  he  was  arrested  at  Turin  in 
1803,  in  consequence  of  Napoleon’s  harsh  and  unjust 
order  to  detain  all  British  subjects  travelling  in  his 
dominions.  After  several  years  of  detention.,  he 
prepared  the  notes  he  had  made  in  Italy,  and  pub- 
lished them  in  England  as  a means  of  enlisting  the 
sympathies  of  Napoleon  and  the  leading  members  of 
the  National  Institute  in  his  behalf.  This  last 
effort  for  freedom  failed,  and  the  author  always  re- 
gretted that  he  had  made  it.  Mr  Forsyth  was  at 
length  released  on  the  doivnfall  of  Napoleon  in 
1814.  The  ‘ Remarks’  thus  hastily  prepared  for  a 
special  purpose,  could  hardly  nave  been  improved 
if  expanded  into  regular  dis.scrtations  and  essays. 
They  are  vigorous  and  acute,  evincing  keen  obser- 
vation and  original  thinking,  as  well  as  the  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  scholar  and  the  critic.  Some  de- 
tached sentences  from  Forsyth  will  show  his  pecu- 
liar and  picturesque  style.  First,  of  the  author’s 
journey  to  Rome : — 

671 


ptiOM  1780 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILI.  TIIK  IMIESKNT  T.ffS 


‘The  viiitii{;e  wiis  in  full  glow.  Men,  women, 
children,  asses,  all  were  variously  engaged  in  the 
work.  I remarked  in  the  scene  a jirodigality  and 
negligence  which  I never  saw  in  France.  'I’he 
grapes  dropped  unheeded  from  the  panniers,  and 
hundreds  were  left  undipped  on  the  vines.  'I'lie 
vintagers  po\ired  on  us  as  we  passed  the  richest 
rihaldrv  of  the  Italian  language,  and  seemed  to 
claim  from  Horace’s  old  vhiilciniutor  a prescriptive 
right  to  abuse  the  traveller.’* 

\_The  Coliiseum,.'] 

A colossal  taste  gave  rise  to  the  Coliseum.  Here,  in- 
deed, gigantic  dimensions  were  necessary  ; for  though 
hundreds  couhl  enter  at  once,  and  fifty  thousand  linn 
seats,  the  space  was  still  insufticient  for  Home,  and 
the  crowd  for  the  morning  games  began  at  midnight 
Vespasian  and  Titus,  as  if  presaging  their  own  deaths, 
hurried  the  buihling,  and  left  several  marks  of  their 
precipitancy  behind.  In  the  ii|iper  walls  they  have 
inserted  .'tones  which  had  evidently  been  dressed  for 
a different  purpose.  Some  of  the  arcades  are  grossly 
unequal  ; no  moulding  preserves  the  same  level  and 
form  -onnil  the  whole  ellipse,  and  every  order  is  full 
of  license.  The  Doric  has  no  nor  meUjpc.'<, 

and  its  arch  is  too  low  for  its  columns  ; the  Ionic  re- 
peats the  entablature  of  the  Doric;  the  third  order  is 
but  a rough  cast  of  the  Corinthian,  and  its  foliage  the 
thickest  water-plants;  the  fourth  .seems  a mere  repe- 
tition of  the  third  in  pilasters;  ami  the  whole  is 
crowned  by  a heavy  Attic,  llajipily  for  the  Coliseum, 
the  shape  necessary  to  an  amphitheatre  has  given  it  a 
stabilitv  of  construction  sufficient  to  resist  fires,  and 
earthquakes,  and  lightnings,  and  sieges.  Its  ellipti- 
cal form  was  the  hoop  which  houml  and  held  it  entire 
till  barbarians  rent  that  consolidating  ring;  popes 
widened  the  breach  ; and  time,  not  unassisted,  con- 
tinues the  work  of  dilapiilation.  At  this  moment  the 
hermitage  is  threatened  with  a dreadful  crash,  and  a 
generation  not  very  remote  must  be  content,  I appre- 
hend, with  the  picture  of  this  stupendous  monument. 
Of  the  interior  elevation,  two  slopes,  by  some  called 
luaiiana,  are  already  demolished  ; the  arena,  the 
piidiuiii,  are  interred.  No  member  runs  entire  round 
the  whole  ellipse  ; but  every  member  made  such  a 
circuit,  and  re-appears  so  often,  that  plans,  sections, 
and  elevations  of  the  original  work  are  drawn  with 
the  |)recision  of  a modern  fabric.  When  the  whole 
aiiipliitheatre  was  entire,  a child  might  comprehend 
its  design  in  a moment,  and  go  direct  to  his  place 
withouT  straying  in  the  porticos,  for  each  arcade  bears 
its  number  engraved,  and  opposite  to  every  fourth 
arcade  was  a staircase.  This  multiplicity  of  wide, 
straight,  and  separate  passages,  proves  the  attention 
wdiich  the  ancients  paid  to  the  .safe  discharge  of  a 
crowd  ; it  finely  illustrates  the  precept  of  Vitruvius, 
and  e.xposes  the  perplexity  of  some  modern  theatres. 
Kvery  nation  h;is  undergone  its  revolution  of  vices  ; 
.and  as  cruelty  is  not  the  present  vice  of  ours,  we  can 
all  humanely  execrate  the  purpose  of  am))hitheatres, 
now  that  they  lie  in  ruins.  Aloralists  may  tell  us 
that  the  truly  brave  are  never  cruel  ; but  this  monu- 
ment .says  ‘ No.’  Here  sat  the  conquerors  of  the 
world,  coolly  to  enjoy  the  tortures  and  death  of  men 
who  had  never  offended  them.  Two  aqueducts  were 
scarcely  sufficient  to  wash  off  the  human  blood  which 

* The  poet  Rogers  has  sketched  the  same  joyous  scene  of 
Italian  life — 

‘ ^lany  a canzonet 

Comes  through  the  Ieave,s,  the  vines  in  light  festoons 
Fnjm  tree  to  tree,  the  trees  in  avenues. 

And  every  avenue  a covered  walk 
Hung  with  black  clusters.  ’Tis  enough  to  make 
The  sad  man  merry,  the  benevolent  one 
Melt  into  tears,  so  general  is  the  joy.’ 


a few  hours’  sport  shed  in  this  imperial  shamb'es.  Twice 
in  one  day  came  the  senators  and  matron.s  of  Rome 
to  the  butchery;  .a  virgin  always  gave  the  signal  for 
slaughter;  and  when  glutted  witli  bloodshed,  those 
Ijtilies  sat  down  in  the  wet  and  streaming  arena  to  a 
luxuriou.s  supper  ! Such  reflections  check  our  regret 
for  its  ruin.  As  it  now  stands,  the  Coliseum  is  a 
striking  image  of  Home  itself — decayed,  vacant,  se- 
rious, yet  grand — half-gray  and  half-green — erect  on 
one  side  and  fallen  on  the  other,  with  consecrated 
ground  in  its  bosom — inhabited  by  a beadsman; 
visited  by  every  caste;  for  moralists,  antiquaries, 
painters,  architects,  devotees,  all  meet  here  to  medi- 
tate, to  examine,  to  draw,  to  measure,  and  to  pray. 
‘ In  contemplating  antiquities,’  says  Divy,  ‘ the  mind 
itself  becomes  antique.’  It  contracts  from  such  ob- 
jects a venerable  rust,  which  1 prefer  to  the  jtoli.sh 
and  the  point  of  those  wits  who  have  lately  profaned 
this  august  ruin  with  ridicule. 

In  the  year  following  the  publication  of  lAtrsyth’s 
original  and  valuable  work,  appeared  A Classical 
Tour  in  Ilali/,  in  two  large  volumes,  by  .loiiN  CiiET- 
woDF.  Eustace,  an  English  Catholic  i>riest,  w ho  had 
travelled  in  Italy  in  the  ea|>aeity  of  tutor.  Though 
[)le.asantly  written,  Eustace’s  work  is  one  of  no 
authority.  Sir.Iohn  Cam  Hobhomse  (wiio  furni.shed 
the  notes  to  the  fourth  canto  of  Lord  liyron’s  Childe 
Harold,  and  afterwards  published  a volume  of  His- 
torical Illustrations  to  the  same  poem)  eharaeterises 
Eustace  as  ‘one  of  the  most  inaccurate  and  unsatis- 
fietorj'  writers  that  have  in  our  times  attained  a 
temporary  reputation.’  Mr  Eustace  died  at  Na|>les 
in  l.Sl.a.  Letters  J)om  the  North  of  J tail/,  addressed 
to  Mr  Ilallam  the  historian,  by  W.  Stewart  Hose, 
Esq.  in  two  volumes.  1819,  are  partly  descriptive 
and  partly  critical;  and  though  somewhat  affected 
in  style,  form  an  .amusing  miscellany.  A Toni  throuijh 
the  Southern  Provinces  of  the  Kinyilom  of  Naples,  by 
the  Hon.  K.  Keppel  C raven  (1821).  is  more  of 
an  itinerary  than  a work  of  refleciioii,  but  is  idainly 
and  pleasingly  written.  The  Diary  of  an  Invaliil, 
by  Henry  Mathews  (1820).  and  Home  in  the  Nine- 
teenth Century  (1820).  by  Miss  Waj.die,  are  both 
interesting  works:  the  first  is  lively  and  ])icturesque 
in  style,  and  was  well  received  by  the  public.  In 
1821  Lady  Morgan  ])ublished  a work  entitled  Italy, 
containing  pictures  of  Italian  society  and  manners, 
drawn  with  more  vivacity  and  point  than  delicacy. 
Observations  on  Italy,  by  Mr  .Joh.n  Hei.i.  ( 182.5).  and 
a Description  of  the  Antiquities  of  Home,  by  Da  Hor- 
ton (1828),  are  works  of  accuracy  and  rc.search. 
Illustrations  of  the  Passes  of  the  Alps,  by  W.  Hrocke- 
DON  (1828-9),  unite  the  effects  of  the  artist’s  pencil 
with  the  information  of  the  observant  topographer. 
Mr  Heckford,  author  of  the  romance  of  ‘ V;ithek,’ 
had  in  early  life  W'ritten  Shetches  of  Italy,  Spain,  and 
Portugal.  After  remaining  unpublished  for  more 
than  forty  years,  two  volumes  of  these  graphic  and 
picturesque  delineations  were  given  to  the  world  in 
1834.  Time  has  altered  some  of  the  objects  described 
by  the  accomidished  traveller,  but  his  work  abounds 
in  pass,ages  of  permanent  interest,  and  of  finished 
and  beautiful  composition.  Every  season  adds  to 
the  number  of  works  on  Italy  and  the  ocher  parts  of 
the  continent. 

[^Funeral  Ceremony  at  Home.] 

[From  Mathews’s  ‘ Diary  of  an  Invalid.'] 

One  d.ay,  in  my  way  home,  I met  a funeral  cere- 
mony. A crucifix  hung  with  black,  followed  by  a 
train  of  priests,  with  lighted  tapers  in  their  hand.s, 
he.aded  the  procession.  Then  came  a troop  of  figures 
dressed  in  white  robes,  with  their  faces  covered  with 
masks  of  the  same  materials.  The  bier  followed,  ou 

672 


CLASmC  rRAVRLLF.RS. 


ENGLISH  LITER ATURR 


'WILLtAM  BECKFOnO. 


whioli  lay  the  corpse  of  a young  womnn  arrayed  in  all 
the  ornanieiits  of  dress,  with  her  face  exposed,  where  the 
bloom  of  life  yet  lingered.  The  members  of  dilferent 
fraternities  followed  the  bier,  dressed  in  the  robes 
of  their  oixlers,  and  all  masked.  They  carried  lighted 
tapers  in  their  hund.s,  and  chanted  out  prayers  in  a 
sort  of  mumbling  recitative.  I followed  the  train  to 
the  church,  for  I had  doubts  whether  the  beautiful 
figure  I had  seen  on  the  bier  was  not  a figure  of  wax  ; 
but  I was  soon  convinced  it  was  indeed  the  corpse  of 
a fellow  creature,  cut  off  in  the  pride  and  bloom  of 
youthful  maiden  beauty.  Such  i.s  the  Italian  mode 
cf  conducting  the  last  scene  of  the  tragi-comedy  of 
1 life.  As  soon  as  a person  dies,  the  relations  leave  the 
[*  bou.se,  and  fly  to  bury  themselves  and  their  griefs  in 
some  other  retirement.  The  care  of  the  funeral  de- 
I volvcs  on  one  of  the  fraternities  who  are  associated 
for  this  purpose  in  every  parish.  These  are  dressed 
in  a sort  of  domino  and  hood,  which,  having  holes  for 
the  eyes,  answers  the  puipose  of  a mask,  and  com- 
pletely conceals  the  face.  The  funeral  of  the  very 
poorest  is  thus  conducted  with  quite  as  much  cere- 
mony as  need  be.  This  is  perhaps  a better  system 
than  our  own,  where  the  relatives  are  exhibited  as  a 
spectacle  to  impertinent  curiosity,  whilst  from  feel- 
ings of  duty  they  follow  to  the  grave  the  remains  of 
those  they  loved,  llut  ours  is  surely  an  iinphiloso- 
phical  view  of  the  subject.  It  looks  as  if  we  were 
materialists,  and  considered  the  cold  clod  as  the  sole 
remains  of  the  object  of  our  affection.  The  Italians 
reason  better,  and  perhaps  feel  as  much  as  ourselves, 
when  they  regard  the  body,  deprived  of  the  soul  that 
animated,  and  the  mind  that  informed  it,  as  no  more 
a part  of  the  depart* d spirit  than  the  clothes  which 
it  has  also  left  behind.  The  ultimate  disposal  of  the 
body  is  perhaps  conducted  here  with  too  much  of  that 
spirit  which  would  disregard  all  claims  that  ‘this 
mortal  coil’ can  have  to  our  attention.  As  soon  as 
the  funeral  service  is  concluded,  the  corpse  is  stripped 
and  consigned  to  those  who  have  the  care  of  the  in- 
terment. There  are  large  vaults  underneath  the 
churches  for  the  reception  of  the  dead.  Those  who 
can  afford  it,  are  put  into  a wooden  shell  before  they 
I are  c;»st  into  one  of  the.se  Golgothas  ; but  the  great 
mass  a,-.-  tossed  in  without  a rag  to  cover  them.  When 
one  o."'  *s-v«.  caverns  is  full,  it  is  bricked  up  ; and  after 
fifty  ypi' s it  is  opened  again,  and  the  bones  are  re- 
moved CO  other  places  prepared  for  their  reception. 
So  much  for  the  last  scene  of  the  drama  of  life.  With 
respect  to  the  first  act,  our  conduct  of  it  is  certainly 
more  natural.  Here  they  swathe  and  swaddle  their 
children  till  the  poor  urchins  look  like  Egyptian 
mummies.  To  this  frightful  custom  one  may  attri- 
bute the  want  of  strength  and  symmetry  of  the  men, 
which  is  sufficiently  remarkable. 

\Statiie  of  the  Medicean  Ventis  at  Florence*'^ 
fFrom  Mathews’s  Diary.] 

The  statue  that  enchants  the  world — the  unimi- 
tated, the  inimitable  Venus.  One  is  generally  disap- 
pointed after  great  expectations  have  been  raised  ; 
but  in  this  instance  I was  delighted  at  first  sight,  and 
OMh  succeeding  visit  has  charmed  me  more.  It  is 
indeed  a wonderful  work  in  conception  and  execution 
— but  I doubt  whether  Venus  be  not  a misnomer. 
Who  can  recognize  in  this  divine  statue  any  traits 
of  the  Queen  of  Love  and  Pleasure  1 It  seems  rather 

* Tliis  celebrated  work  of  art  was  discovered  in  the  villa  of 
Adrian,  in  Tivoli,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  broken  into  thir- 
teen pieces.  The  restorations  are  by  a Florentine  sculptor.  It 
was  brought  to  Florence  in  the  year  1689.  It  measures  in  sta- 
ture only  4 feet  11  inches.  There  is  no  expression  of  passion  or 
sentiment  in  the  statue : it  is  an  image  of  abstract  or  ideal 
beauty. 


intended  as  a personification  of  all  that  is  elegant, 
graceful,  and  beautiful  ; not  only  abstracted  from  all 
human  infirmities,  but  elevated  above  all  human  feel- 
ings and  aifections  ; for,  though  the  form  is  female, 
the  beauty  is  like  the  beauty  of  angels,  who  are  of  no 
sex.  1 was  at  first  reminded  of  Milton’s  Eve  ; but  in 
Eve,  even  in  her  days  of  innocence,  there  was  some 
tincture  of  humanity,  of  which  there  is  none  in  the 
Venus  ; in  whose  eye  there  is  no  heaven,  and  in  whose 
gesture  there  is  no  love. 

[^A  Moniing  in  Venice.^ 

[From  Bcckford's  ‘ Sketches  of  Italy,’  4c.] 

It  was  not  five  o’clock  before  I was  aroused  by 
a loud  din  of  voices  and  splashing  of  water  under  my 
balcony.  Looking  out,  I beheld  the  grand  canal  so 
entirely  covered  with  fruits  and  vegetables  on  rafts 
and  in  barges,  that  I could  scarcely  distinguish  a 
wave.  Loads  of  grapes,  peaches,  and  melons  arrived 
and  disappeared  in  an  instant,  for  every  vessel  was  in 
motion  ; and  the  crowds  of  purchasers,  hurrying  from 
boat  to  boat,  formed  a very  lively  picture.  Amongst 
the  multitudes  1 remarked  a good  many  whose  dress 
and  carriage  announced  something  above  the  common 
rank  ; and,  upon  inquiry’,  I found  they  were  noble 
V'enetians  just  come  from  their  casinos,  and  met  to 
refresh  themselves  with  fruit  before  they  retired  to 
sleep  for  the  day. 

Whilst  I was  observing  them,  the  sun  began  to 
colour  the  balustrades  of  tlv  oalaces,  and  the  pure 
exhilarating  air  of  the  mornirij^  drawing  me  abroad, 
I procured  a gondola,  laid  in  my  provision  of  bread 
and  grapes,  and  was  rowed  under  the  Rialto,  down 
the  grand  canal,  to  the  marble  steps  oi  S.  Maria  della 
Salute,  erected  by  the  senate  in  performance  of  a vow 
to  the  Holy  Virgin,  who  begged  off  a terrible  pesti- 
lence in  1630.  The  great  bronze  portal  opened  whilst 
1 was  standing  on  the  steps  which  lead  to  it,  and  dis- 
covered the  interior  of  the  dome,  where  I expatiated 
in  solitude ; no  mortal  appearing,  except  one  old 
priest,  who  trimmed  the  lamps,  and  muttered  a prayer 
before  the  high  altar,  still  wrapped  in  shadows.  The 
sunbeams  began  to  strike  against  the  windows  of  the 
cupola,  just  as  1 left  the  church,  and  was  wafted  across 
the  waves  to  the  spacious  platform  in  front  of  St  Gior- 
gio Maggiore,  one  of  the  most  celebrated  works  of  Pal 
ladio.  When  my  first  transport  was  a little  subsided, 
and  I had  examined  the  graceful  design  of  each  par- 
ticular ornament,  and  united  the  just  proportion  and 
grand  effect  of  the  whole  in  my  mind,  I planted  my 
umbrella  on  the  margin  of  the  .sea,  and  viewed  at  niy 
leisure  the  vast  range  of  palaces,  of  porticos,  of  towers, 
opening  on  every  side,  and  extending  out  of  sight. 
The  doge’s  palace,  and  the  tall  columns  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  piazza  of  St  Mark,  form,  together  with 
the  arcades  of  the  public  library,  the  lofty  Campanile, 
and  the  cupolas  of  the  ducal  church,  one  of  the  most 
striking  groups  of  buildings  that  art  can  boast  of.  To 
behold  at  one  glance  the.se  stately  fabrics,  so  illus- 
trious in  the  records  of  former  ages,  before  which,  in 
the  flourishing  times  of  the  republic,  so  many  valiant 
chiefs  and  princes  have  landed,  loaded  with  Oriental 
spoils,  was  a spectacle  I had  long  and  ardently  desired 
I thought  of  the  days  of  Frederick  Barbarossa,  when 
looking  up  the  piazza  of  St  Mark,  along  which  he 
marched  in  solemn  procession  to  cast  himself  at  the 
feet  of  Alexander  111.,  and  pay  a tardy  homage  to 
St  Peter’s  successor.  Here  were  no  longer  those 
splendid  fleets  that  attended  his  progress ; one  soli- 
tary galeas  was  all  I beheld,  anchored  opposite  the 
palace  of  the  doge,  and  surrounded  by  crowds  of  gon- 
dolas, whose  sable  hues  contrasted  strongly  with  its 
vermilion  oars  and  shining  ornaments.  A party- 
coloured  multitude  was  continually  shifting  from  one 
side  of  the  piazza  to  the  other ; whilst  senators  and 

673 


85 


Fho'  1780 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF 


TIU,  THE  PEESEM  TIMt, 


iiia"istratei>,  in  long  black  robes,  were  already  arriving 
to  fill  their  icspecti^c  offices. 

1 contemplated  tlic  busy  scene  from  my  peaceful 
platform,  vvlicre  nothing  stirred  but  aged  devotees 
creeping  to  their  devotions;  and  whibst  1 remained 
thus  calm  and  tranquil,  heard  the  distant  buzz  of  the 
town.  Fortunately,  some  length  of  waves  rolled  be- 
tween me  and  its  tumults,  so  that  1 ate  my  grapes 
and  rcivd  Metastasio  undisturbed  by  officiousness  or 
curiosity.  When  the  sun  became  too  jowerful,  1 en- 
tered the  nave. 

After  I had  admired  the  masterly  structure  of  the 
roof  and  the  lightness  of  its  arches,  my  eyes  naturally 
directed  themselves  to  the  pavement  of  white  and 
ruddy  marble,  polished,  and  reflecting  like  a mirror 
the  columns  which  rise  from  it.  Over  this  I walked 
to  a door  that  admitted  me  into  the  principal  quad- 
rangle of  the  convent,  surrounded  by  a cloister  sup- 
ported on  Ionic  pillars  beautifully  proportioned.  A 
flight  of  stairs  ojiens  into  the  court,  adorned  with 
balustrades  and  pedestals  sculptured  with  elegance 
truly  Grecian.  This  brought  mo  to  the  refectory, 
where  the  chef  d'ceurre  of  Paul  Verone.se,  representing 
the  marriage  of  Cana  in  Galilee,  was  the  first  object 
that  presented  itself.  I never  beheld  so  gorgeous  a 
group  of  wedding  garments  before ; there  is  every 
variety  of  fold  and  plait  that  can  possibly  be  ima- 
gined. The  attitudes  and  countenances  are  more 
uniform,  and  the  guests  appear  a very  genteel  decent 
sort  of  people,  well  use<l  to  the  mode  of  their  times, 
and  accustomed  to  miracles. 

Having  e.\amined  this  fictitious  repast,  I cast  a look 
on  a long  range  of  tables  covered  with  very  excellent 
realities,  which  the  monks  were  coming  to  devour 
with  energy,  if  one  might  judge  from  their  appearance. 
These  sons  of  i)enitence  and  mortification  po.ssess  one 
of  the  most  .spacious  islands  of  the  whole  cluster;  a 
princely  habitation,  with  gardens  and  open  porticos 
that  engross  every  breath  of  air  ; and  what  adds  not 
a little  to  the  charms  of  their  abode,  is  the  facility  of 
making  excursions  from  it  whenever  they  have  a mind. 

{^Description  of  Pompeii.'] 

[From  Williams’s  ‘ Travels  in  Italy,  Greece,*  &c.] 

Pompeii  is  getting  daily  disencumbered,  and  a very 
considerable  part  of  this  Grecian  city  is  unveiled.  We 
entered  by  the  Appian  way,  through  a narrow  street 
of  marble  tombs,  beautifully  executed,  with  the  names 
■)f  the  deceased  plain  and  legible.  We  looked  into 
the  columbary  below  that  of  Marius  Arius  Dioniedes, 
and  perceived  jars  containing  the  ashes  of  the  dead, 
with  a small  lamp  at  the  side  of  each.  Arriving  at  the 
gate,  we  perceived  a sentry-box  in  which  the  skeleton 
of  a soldier  was  found  with  a lamp  in  his  hand  : pro- 
ceeding up  the  street  beyond  the  gate,  we  went  into 
several  streets,  and  entered  what  is  called  a coflee- 
house,  the  marks  of  cups  being  visible  on  the  stone ; 
we  came  likewise  to  a tavern,  and  found  the  sign  (not 
a very  decent  one)  near  the  entrance.  The  streets  are 
lined  with  public  buildings  and  private  houses,  most 
of  which  have  their  original  painted  decorations  fresh 
and  entire.  The  pavement  of  the  streets  is  much 
worn  by  carriage  wheels,  and  holes  are  cut  through 
the  side  stones  for  the  purpose  of  fastening  animals  in 
the  market-place  ; and  m certain  situations  are  placed 
stepping-stones,  which  give  us  a rather  unfavourable 
idea  of  the  state  of  the  streets.  We  passed  two  beauti- 
ful little  temples  ; went  into  a surgeon’s  house,  in  the 
operation-room  of  which  chirurgical  imstruraents  were 
found  ; entered  an  ironmonger’s  shop,  where  an  anvil 
and  hammer  were  discovered ; a sculptor’s  and  a 
baker’s  shop,  in  the  latter  of  which  may  be  seen  an 
oven  and  grinding  mills,  like  old  Scotch  querns.  We 
examined  likewise  an  oilman’s  shop,  and  a wine  shop 
lately  opened,  where  money  was  found  in  the  till ; a 


school  in  which  was  a small  imlplt,  with  steps  up  to 
it,  in  the  middle  of  the  apartment ; a great  theatre; 
a temple  of  justice  ; an  amphitheatre  about  ’d’20  feet  in 
length  ; various  temples  ; a barrack  for  soldiers,  the 
columns  of  whicn  are  scribbled  with  their  names  and 
jests;  wells,  cisterns,  .scats,  tricliniums,  beautiful  Mo- 
saic; altar.s,  inserijitions,  fragments  of  statues,  and 
many  other  curious  remains  of  antiquity.  Among  the 
most  remarkable  objects  was  an  ancient  wall,  with 
]iart  of  a still  more  ancient  marble  frieze,  built  in  it  as 
a common  stone  ; and  a stream  which  has  flowed  unaer 
this  once  subterraneous  city  long  before  its  burial  ; 
])ipes  of  Terra  Cotta  to  convey  the  water  to  the  difle- 
rent  streets ; stocks  for  ])risoners,  in  one  of  which  a 
skeleton  was  found.  All  these  things  incline  one 
almost  to  look  for  the  inhabitants,  and  wonder  at  the 
desolate  silence  of  the  ])lace. 

The  houses  in  general  are  very  low,  and  the  rooms 
are  small;  1 should  think  not  above  ten  feet  high. 
Every  hou.se  is  provided  with  a well  and  a cistern. 
Everything  .seems  to  be  in  proportion.  The  principal 
streets  do  not  appear  to  exceed  IG  feet  in  width,  with 
side  pavements  of  about  3 feet ; some  of  the  subordi- 
nate streets  are  from  G to  10  feet  wide,  with  side  pave- 
ments in  proportion  : these  are  occasionally  high, 
and  are  reached  by  steps.  The  columns  of  the  bar- 
racks are  about  l.i  feet  in  height;  they  are  made  of 
tuffa  wdth  stucco ; one-third  of  the  shaft  is  smoothly 
plastered,  the  rest  fluted  to  the  capital.  The  walls 
of  the  houses  are  often  painted  red,  and  some  of  them 
h.ave  borders  and  antique  ornaments,  masks,  and  imi- 
tations of  marble  ; but  in  general  poorly  executed.  I 
have  observed  on  the  walls  of  an  eating-room  various 
kinds  of  food  and  game  tolerably  represented ; one 
W'oman’s  apartment  was  adorned  with  subjects  relating 
to  love,  and  a man’s  with  pictures  of  a martial  cha- 
racter. Considering  that  the  whole  has  been  under 
ground  upwards  of  seventeen  centuries,  it  is  certainly 
surprising  that  they  should  be  as  fresh  as  at  the  period 
of  their  burial.  The  whole  extent  of  the  city,  not  one 
half  of  which  is  excavated,  may  be  about  four  miles. 

ARCTIC  DISCOVERY — ROSS,  PARRY,  FRANKLIN,  &C. 

Contemporaneous  with  the  African  expeditions 
already  descrilied,  a strong  desire  was  felt  in  this 
country  to  prosecute  our  discoveries  in  the  Northern 
seas,  which  for  fifty  years  had  been  neglected.  The 
idea  of  a north-west  passage  to  Asia  still  presented 
attractions,  and  on  the  close  of  the  revolutionary 
war,  an  effort  to  discover  it  was  resolved  upon.  In 
1818  an  expedition  was  fitted  out,  consisting  of  two 
ships,  one  under  the  command  of  Captain  Joh.n 
Koss,  and  another  under  Lieutenant,  now  Sir 
Edward  Parry.  The  most  interesting  feature  in 
this  voyage  is  the  account  of  a tribe  of  Esqui- 
maux hitherto  unknown,  who  inhabited  a tract 
of  country  extending  on  the  shore  for  120  miles, 
and  situated  near  Baffin’s  Bay.  A singular  pheno- 
menon was  also  witnessed — a range  of  cliffs  covered 
with  snow  of  a deep  crimson  colour,  arising  from 
some  vegetable  substance.  AVhen  the  expedition 
came  to  Lancaster  Sound,  a passage  was  confi- 
dently anticipated;  but  after  sailing  up  the  bay. 
Captain  Boss  conceived  that  he  saw  land — -a  high 
ridge  of  mountains,  extending  directly  iveross  the 
bottom  of  the  inlet — and  he  abandoned  the  enter- 
prise. Lieutenant  Parry  and  others  entertained  a 
different  opinion  from  that  of  their  commander  as  to 
tlie  existence  of  land,  and  the  admiralty  fitted  out  a 
new  expedition,  which  sailed  in  1819,  for  the  purpose 
of  again  exploring  Laneaster  Sound.  The  expe- 
dition, including  two  ships,  the  lleela  and  Griper, 
was  intrusted  to  Captain  Parry,  who.  had  the  sati.s- 
faction  of  verifying  the  correctness  of  his  former 
impressions,  by  sailing  through  what  Captain  Boss 

674 


AKCTIC  PISCOVF.UY. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CAPTAIN  PAIIRY. 


supposed  to  be  a inountiiin  barrier  in  Lancaster 
Souiui.  ‘ To  have  sailed  u|)wards  of  thirty  degrees 
of  longitude  beyond  the  point  reached  by  any  former 
navigator — to  have  discovered  many  new'  lands, 
islaiuls,  ami  bays — to  have  established  the  much- 
contested  existence  of  a Polar  sea  north  of  America 
— finally,  after  a wintering  of  eleven  months,  to 
have  brought  back  his  crew  in  a sound  and  vigorous 
state — were  enough  to  raise  his  name  above  that  of 
any  former  Arctic  voyager.’  The  long  winter  so- 
journ in  this  Polar  region  was  relieved  by  various 
devices  and  amusements : a temporary  theatre  was 
fitted  up,  and  the  officers  came  forward  as  amateur 
performers.  A sort  of  newspaper  was  also  esta- 
blished, called  the  North  Georgian  Gazette,  to  which 
all  were  invited  to  contribute ; and  excursions  abroad 
were  kept  up  as  much  as  possible.  The  brilliant 
results  of  Captain  Parry’s  voyage  soon  induced 
another  expedition  to  the  Northern  seas  of  America. 
That  commander  hoisted  his  flag  on  board  the 
‘ Fury,’  and  Captain  Lyon,  distinguished  by  his 
services  in  Africa,  received  the  command  of  the 
‘ Ilecla.’  The  ships  sailed  in  May  1821.  It  was 
more  than  two  years  ere  they  returned  j and  though 
the  expedition,  as  to  its  main  object  of  finding  a pas- 
sage into  the  Polar  sea,  was  a failure,  various  geo- 
graphical discoveries  were  made.  The  tediousness 
of  winter,  when  the  vessels  were  frozen  up,  was 
again  relieved  by  entertainments  similar  to  those 
formerly  adopted ; and  further  gratification  was 
afforded  by  intercourse  with  the  Esquimaux,  who,  in 
their  houses  of  snow'  and  ice,  burrowed  along  the 
shores.  VVe  shall  extract  part  of  Captain  Parry’s 
account  f this  shrew'd  though  savage  race. 

[Dtscription,  of  the  Esquimaux.'] 

The  Esquimaux  exhibit  a strange  mixture  of  intel- 
lect and  dulness,  of  cunning  and  simplicity,  of  in- 
genuity and  stupidity ; few  of  them  could  count 
beyond  five,  and  not  one  of  them  beyond  ten,  nor  could 
any  of  them  speak  a dozen  words  of  English  after  a 
constant  intercourse  of  seventeen  or  eighteen  months  ; 
yet  many  of  them  could  imitate  the  manners  and 
actions  of  the  strangers,  and  were  on  the  whole  excel- 
lent mimics.  One  woman  in  particular,  of  the  name 
of  Iligluik,  very  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  our 
voyagers  by  the  various  traits  of  that  superiority  of 
understanding  for  which,  it  was  found,  she  W'as  re- 
markably distinguished,  and  held  in  esteem  even  by 
her  own  countrymen.  She  had  a great  fondness  for 
singing,  possessed  a soft  voice  and  an  excellent  ear ; 
but,  like  another  great  singer  who  figured  in  a diffe- 
rent society,  ‘ there  was  scarcely  any  stopping  her 
when  she  had  once  begun  ;’  she  would  listen,  however, 
for  hours  together  to  the  tunes  pla}'ed  on  the  organ. 
Her  superior  intelligence  was  perhaps  most  conspicuous 
in  the  readiness  with  which  she  was  made  to  compre- 
hend the  manner  of  laying  down  on  paper  the  geo- 
graphical outline  of  that  part  of  the  coast  of  America 
she  W'as  acquainted  with,  and  the  neighbouring  islands, 
BO  as  to  construct  a chart.  At  first  it  was  found  diffi- 
cult to  make  her  comprehend  what  was  meant ; but 
when  Captain  Parry  had  discovered  that  the  Esqui- 
maux were  already  acquainted  with  the  four  cardinal 
points  of  the  compass,  for  which  they  have  appropriate 
names,  he  drew  them  on  a sheet  of  paper,  together 
with  that  portion  of  the  coast  just  discovered,  which 
was  opposite  to  Winter  Island,  where  then  they  were, 
and  of  course  well  known  to  her. 

We  desired  her  (says  Captain  Parry)  to  complete 
the  rest,  and  to  do  it  rtiikkee  (small),  when,  with  a 
countenance  of  the  most  grave  attention  and  peculiar 
intelligence,  she  drew  the  coast  of  the  continent  be- 
yond her  own  country,  as  lying  nearly  north  from 
Whiter  Island.  The  most  important  part  still  re- 


mained, and  it  would  have  amused  an  unconcerned 
looker-on  to  have  observed  the  anxiety  and  suspense 
depicted  on  the  countenances  of  our  part  of  the  group 
till  this  was  accomplished,  for  never  were  the  tracings 
of  a pencil  watched  with  more  eager  solicitude.  Our 
surprise  and  satisfaction  may  thcrefo.ve  in  some  de- 
gree be  imagined  when,  without  taking  it  from  the 
paper,  Iligluik  brought  the  continental  coast  short 
round  to  the  westward,  and  afterwards  to  the  S S.W., 
so  as  to  come  within  three  or  four  days’  journey  of 
Repulse  Bay. 

I am,  however,  compelled  to  acknowledge,  that  in 
proportion  as  the  superior  understanding  of  this  ex- 
traordinary woman  became  more  and  more  developed, 
her  head  (for  what  female  head  is  indifferent  ta 
praise?)  began  to  be  turned  by  the  general  attention 
and  numberless  presents  she  received.  The  superior 
decency  and  even  modesty  of  her  behaviour  had  com- 
bined, with  her  intellectual  qualities,  to  rai.se  her  in 
our  estimation  far  above  her  companions  ; and  1 often 
heard  others  express  what  I could  not  but  agree  in, 
that  for  Iligluik  alone,  of  all  the  Esquimaux  women, 
that  kind  of  respect  could  be  entertained  which  mo- 
desty in  a female  never  fails  to  command  in  our  sex. 
Thus  regarded,  she  had  alw'ays  been  freely  admitted 
into  the  ships,  the  quarter-masters  at  the  gangway 
never  thinking  of  refusing  entrance  to  ‘ the  wise 
ivoman,’as  they  called  her.  Whenever  any  explanation 
was  necessary  between  the  Esquimaux  and  us,  Iligluik 
was  sent  for  as  an  interpreter  ; information  was  chiefly 
obtained  through  her,  and  she  thus  found  herself 
rising  into  a degree  of  consequence  to  which,  but 
for  us,  she  could  never  have  attained.  Notwithstand- 
ing a more  than  ordinary  share  of  good  sense  on  her 
part,  it  will  not  therefore  be  wondered  at  if  .she  be- 
came giddy  with  her  exaltation- — considered  her  ad- 
mission into  the  ships  and  most  of  the  cabins  no 
longer  an  indulgence,  but  a right — ceased  to  return 
the  slightest  acknowledgment  for  any  kindness  ot 
presents — bec.ame  listless  and  inattentive  in  unravel- 
ling the  meaning  of  our  questions,  and  careless  whether 
her  answers  conveyed  the  information  we  desired.  In 
short,  Iligluik  in  February  and  Iligluik  in  April  were 
confessedly  very  dift'erent  persons,  and  it  was  at  last 
amusing  to  recollect,  though  not  very  easy  to  per- 
suade one’s  self,  that  the  woman  who  now  sat  de- 
murely in  a chair,  so  confidently  expecting  the  notice 
of  those  around  her,  and  she  who  bad  at  first,  with 
eager  and  wild  delight,  assisted  in  cutting  snow  for 
the  building  of  a hut,  and  with  the  hope  of  obtaining 
a single  needle,  were  actually  one  and  the  same  in- 
dividual. 

No  kind  of  distress  can  deprive  the  Esquimaux  of 
their  cheerful  temper  and  good  humour,  which  they 
preserve  even  when  severely  pinched  vith  hunger  and 
cold,  and  wholly  deprived  for  days  together  both  of 
food  and  fuel — a situation  to  which  they  are  very  fre- 
quently reduced.  Yet  no  calamity  of  this  kind  can 
teach  them  to  be  provident,  or  to  take  the  least 
thought  for  the  morrow;  with  them,  indeed,  it  is 
always  either  a feast  or  a famine.  The  enormous 
quantity  of  animal  food  (they  have  no  other)  which 
they  devour  at  a time  is  almost  incredibl.i.  The 
quantity  of  meat  which  they  procured  between  the 
first  of  October  and  the  first  of  April  was  .sufficient  to 
have  furnished  about  double  the  number  of  working 
people,  who  were  moderate  eaters,  and  had  any  idea  of 
providing  for  a future  day ; but  to  individuals  who 
can  demolish  four  or  five  pounds  at  a sitting,  and  at 
least  ten  in  the  course  of  a day,  and  who  ne  er  bestow 
a thought  on  to-morrow,  at  least  with  the  vi,  w to  pro- 
vide for  it  by  economy,  there  is  scarcely  any  supply 
which  could  secure  them  from  occasional  scarcity.  It 
is  highly  probable  that  the  alternate  feasting  and 
fasting  to  which  the  gluttony  and  improvidence  of 
these  people  so  constantly  subject  them,  may  have  oo- 

675 


L 


FROM  17f!0 


CYC'I.OIM^DIA  OF 


TILL  TUP.  PRPSKNr  TIMR 


cahioncd  many  of  the  comiilaint'  hat  proved  fatal 
during  the  winter;  and  on  this  a-count  we  hardly 
knew  whether  to  rejoice  or  not  at  the  general  buccess 
of  their  fishery.  1 

A third  expedition  was  undertaken  by  Captain 
I’arry,  assisted  by  Captain  Iloppner,  in  1824,  but  it 
proved  still  more  unfortunate.  The  broken  ice  in 
Baffin’s  Bay  retarded  bis  jirogress  until  the  season 
was  too  far  advanced  for  navigation  in  that  eliniate. 
After  the  winter  broke  up,  huge  masses  of  iee  drove 
the  ships  on  shore,  and  the  ‘ Fury’  was  so  imudi  in- 
jured, that  it  was  deemed  necessary  to  abandon  her 
with  all  her  stores.  In  April  1827  Captain  Parry  once 
more  sailed  in  the  ‘ Ileela,’  to  realise,  if  possible,  bis 
sanguine  expectations;  but  on  this  occasion  be  pro- 
jected reaching  the  North  Pole  by  employing  light 
boats  and  sledges,  which  might  be  alternately  used, 
as  compact  fields  of  ice,  or  open  sea,  interposed  in 
his  route.  On  reaching  Ilecla  Cove  they  left  the 
ship  to  commence  their  journey  on  the  ice.  Vigo- 
rous efforts  were  made  to  reach  the  Pole,  still  500 
miles  distant;  but  the  various  impediments  they  had 
to  encounter,  and  particularly  the  drifting  of  the 
snow-fields,  frustrated  all  their  endeavours ; and 
after  two  months  spent  on  the  ice,  and  penetrating 
about  a degree  farther  than  any  previous  expe- 
dition, the  design  was  abandoned.  These  four  ex- 
peditions were  described  by  Captain  Parry  in  sepa- 
rate volumes,  which  w'ere  read  with  great  avidity. 
The  whole  have  since  been  published  in  six  small 
volumes,  constituting  one  of  the  most  interesting 
series  of  adventures  and  discoveries  recorded  in  our 
language. 

Following  out  the  plan  of  northern  discovery,  an 
expedition  was,  in  1819,  despatched  overland  to  pro- 
ceed from  the  Hudson’s  Bay  factory,  tracing  the 
coast  of  the  Northern  ocean.  This  expedition  was 
commanded  by  Captain  John  Franklin,  accom- 
panied by  Dr  Kichardson,  a scientific  gentleman  ; 
two  midshipmen — Mr  Hood  and  ^Ir  Back — and  two 
English  seamen.  The  journey  to  the  Coppermine 
Kiver  displayed  the  characteristic  ardour  and  hardi- 
hood of  British  seamen.  Great  suffering  was  expe- 
rienced. Mr  Hood  lost  his  life,  and  Captain  Franklin 
and  Dr  Hichardson  were  on  the  point  of  death,  when 
timelv  succour  was  afforded  by  some  Indians.  ‘The 
results  of  this  journey',  which,  including  the  navi- 
gation along  the  coast,  extended  to  5500  miles,  are 
obviously  of  the  greatest  importance  to  geography. 
As  the  coast  running  northward  was  followed  toCape 
Turnagain,  in  latitude  68i  degrees,  it  is  evident 
that  if  a north-west  passage  exist,  it  must  be 
found  beyond  that  limit.’  The  narratives  of  Cap- 
tain Franklin,  Dr  Kichardson,  and  IMr  Back,  form  a 
fitting  and  not  less  interesting  sequel  to  those  of 
Captain  Parry.  The  same  intrepid  parties  under- 
took, in  182.3,  a second  expedition  to  explore  the 
shores  of  the  Polar  seas.  The  coast  between  the 
Mackenzie  and  Coppermine  rivers,  902  miles,  was 
examined.  Subsequent  expeditions  were  undertaken 
by  Captain  Lyon  and  Captain  Beechey.  The 
former  failed  through  continued  bad  weather ; but 
Captain  Beechey  having  sent  his  master,  Mr  Elson, 
in  a barge  to  prosecute  the  voyage  to  the  east,  that 
individual  penetrated  to  a sandy  point,  on  which  the 
ice  had  grounded,  the  most  northern  part  of  the 
continent  then  known.  Captain  Franklin  had,  only 
four  days  previous,  been  within  160  miles  of  this 
point,  when  he  commenced  his  return  to  the  Mac- 
kenzie River,  and  it  is  conjectured,  with  much  pro- 
bability, that  had  he  been  aware  tha‘  by  persevering 
in  his  exertions  for  a few  days  he  mignt  have  reached 
his  friends,  it  is  possible  that  a knowledge  of  the 
circumstance  might  have  induced  him,  through  all 
oazards,  to  continue  his  journey.  The  intermediate 


I GO  miles  still  remained  unexjilored.  In  1829  Cap- 
tain, now  Sir  John  Boss,  disappointed  at  being 
outstripped  by  Captain  Parry  in  the  discovery  of 
the  strait  leading  into  the  Polar  sea,  equij)|)ed  a 
steam-vessel,  solely  from  private  resources,  and  i>ro- 
ceeded  to  Baffin’s  Bay.  ‘ It  was  ahold  but  incon- 
siderate undertaking,  and  every  soul  who  embarked 
on  it  must  have  perished,  but  for  the  amiile  supplies 
they  received  from  the  Fury,  or  rather  from  the 
provisions  and  stores  which,  by  the  providence  of 
Captain  Parry,  had  been  carefully  stored  uj)  on  the 
beach  ; for  the  ship  herself  had  entirely  disai)peared. 
He  proceeded  down  Regent’s  Inlei  a.s  far  as  lie  could 
in  his  little  ship,  the  Victory  ; placed  her  amongst 
ice  clinging  to  the  shore,  and  after  two  winters,  left 
her  there  ; and  in  returning  to  the  northward,  by 
great  good  luck  fell  in  with  a whaling  shi[),  which 
took  them  all  on  board  and  brought  them  home.’ 
Cajitain  James  Ross,  nephew  of  the  commander, 
collected  some  geographical  information  in  the  course 
of  this  unfortunate  enterprise. 

The  interval  of  IGO  miles  between  Point  Barrow, 
reached  by'  Beechey’s  master,  and  the  farthest  point 
to  which  Captain  Franklin  penetrated,  was  in  1837 
surveyed  by  Mr  Thomas  Simpson  and  the  servants 
of  the  Hudson’s  Bay  Comjiany.  'I'he  latter  had 
with  great  generosity  lent  their  valuable  assistance 
to  complete  the  geograjihy  of  that  region,  and  Mr 
Simpson  was  enthusiastically  devoted  to  the  same 
object.  In  the  summer  of  1837  he,  with  his  senior 
officer,  Mr  Dense,  started  from  the  Great  Slave  Lake, 
following  the  steps  ofi’ranklin  as  far  as  the  point  called 
Franklin’s  I'arthest,  whence  they  traced  the  remain- 
der of  the  coast  to  the  westw'ard  to  Point  Barrow,  by 
which  they  completed  our  knowledge  of  this  coast 
the  whole  way  west  of  the  Coiipermine  River,  as  far 
as  Behring’s  Straits.  'Wintering  at  the  north-east 
angle  of  the  Great  Bear  Lake,  the  party  de.scended 
the  Coppermine  River,  and  follow-ed  the  coast  east- 
w-ards  as  far  as  the  mouth  of  the  Great  F'ish  River, 
discovered  by  Back  in  1834.  'I'he  expedition  com- 
prised ‘ the  navigation  of  a tempestuous  ocean  beset 
with  ice,  for  a distance  exceeding  1400  geographical 
or  1600  statute  miles,  in  open  boats,  together  with 
all  the  fatigues  of  long  land  journeys  and  the  perils 
of  the  climate.’  In  1839  the  Geographical  Society 
of  London  rewarded  Mr  Simpson  with  a medal  for 
‘advancing  almost  to  completion  the  solution  of  the 
great  problem  of  the  configuration  of  the  northern 
shore  of  the  North  American  continent.’  While 
returning  to  Europe  in  June  1840,  Mr  Simpson  died, 
it  is  supposed,  by  his  own  hand  in  a paroxysm  of 
insanity,  after  shooting  two  of  the  four  )nen  who 
accompanied  him  from  the  Red  River  colony'.  Mr 
Simpson  was  a native  of  Dingwall,  in  Ross-.shire,  and 
at  the  time  of  his  melancholy  death,  was  only  in  his 
thirty-second  year.  His  Narrative  of  the  Discoveries 
on  the  North  Coast  of  America,  Effected  by  the  Officers 
of  the  Hudson’s  Bay  Company  during  the  years  1836-39, 
w'as  published  in  1843. 

Valuable  information  connected  w'ith  the  Arctic 
regions  was  afforded  by  Mr  William  Scoresiiy,  a 
gentleman  who,  while  practising  the  whale  fishing, 
had  become  the  most  learned  observer  and  describer 
of  the  regions  of  ice.  His  account  of  the  Northert 
Whale  Fishery,  1822,  is  a standard  work  of  great 
value,  and  he  is  author  also  of  an  Account  of  the 
Arctic  Regions. 

eastern  travellers. 

The  scenes  and  countries  mentioned  in  Scripture 
have  been  frequently  described  since  the  publica- 
tions of  Dr  Clarke.  Burckhardt  traversed  Petrsa 
(the  Edom  of  the  prophecies) ; Mr  ^\TLL1AM  Rab 

676 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CASTF.RN  TnAVKLI.ERS. 


SIR  R.  K.  PORTER. 


Wit.sov,  in  ISa.'J,  published  Travels  in  Errypt  amt 
the  Holy  Land;  Mr  Claudius  James  Rich  (the 
Bccoiiiplished  Hritisli  resident  at  Bagdad,  who  died 
in  18:11,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-five)  wrote  an 
excellent  memoir  of  the  remains  of  Babylon  ; the 
Hon.  George  Keppel  performed  the  overland 
journey  to  India  in  1824,  and  gave  a narrative  of 
his  observations  in  Bassorah,  Bagdad,  the  ruins  of 
Babylon.  &c.  Mr  J.  S.  Buckingham  also  travelled 
by  the  overland  route  (taking,  however,  the  way 
of  the  Mediterranean  and  the  Turkish  provinces 
in  Asia  Minor),  and  the  result  of  his  journey  was 
given  to  the  world  in  three  separate  works  (the 
latest  published  in  1827),  entitled  Travels  in  Pales- 
tine ; Travels  among  the  Arab  Tribes;  and  Tra- 
vels in  Mesopotamia.  Dr  U.  K.  M.adden,  a medical 
gentleman,  who  resided  several  years  in  India,  in 
1829  published  Travels  in  Egypt,  Turkey,  Nubia,  and 
Palestine.  Letters  from  the  East,  and  Recollections  of 
Travel  in  the  East  (1830),  by  John  Cakne,  Esq.  of 
Queen’s  college,  Cambridge,  extend,  the  first  over 
Syria  and  Egypt,  aud  the  second  over  Palestine  and 
Cairo.  Mr  Came  is  a judicious  observer  and  pic- 
ture.sque  describer,  yet  he  sometimes  ventures  on 
doubtful  biblical  criticism.  The  miracle  of  the  pas- 
sage of  the  Red  Sea,  for  example,  he  thinks  should 
be  limited  to  a specific  change  in  the  direction  of  the 
winds.  The  idea  of  representing  the  waves  stand- 
ing like  a wall  on  each  side  must  consequently  be 
abandoned.  ‘ This,’  he  says,  ‘ is  giving  a literal  in- 
terpretation to  the  evidently  figurative  language  of 
Scripture,  where  it  is  Said  that  “ God  caused  the 
sea  to  go  back  all  night  by  :i  strong  east  wind 
and  when  the  morning  dawned,  there  was  probably 
a wide  and  waste  expanse,  from  which  the  waters 
bad  retired  to  some  distance  ; and  that  the  “ sea 
returning  in  his  strength  in  the  morning.”  was  the 
rushing  back  of  an  impetuous  and  resistless  tide, 
inevitable,  but  not  instantaneous,  for  it  is  evident 
the  Egyptians  turned  and  fled  at  its  approach.’  In 
either  case  a miracle  must  have  been  performed, 
and  it  seems  unnecessary  and  hypercritical  to  at- 
tempt reducing  it  to  the  lowest  point.  Mr  Milman, 
in  his  history  of  the  Jews,  has  fallen  into  this  error, 
and  explained  away  the  miracles  of  the  Old  Testa- 
rnent  till  all  that  is  supernatural,  grand,  and  impres- 
sive disappears. 

Travels  along  the  Mediterranean  and  Parts  Ad- 
iacent  (1822),  by  Dr  Robert  Richardson,  is  an 
interesting  work,  particularly  as  relates  to  anti- 
quities. The  doctor  travelled  by  way  of  Alexan- 
dria, Ciiiro,  &c.  to  the  second  cataract  of  the  Nile, 
returning  by  Jerusalem,  Damascus.  Balbec,  and 
Tripoli.  He  surveyed  the  temple  of  Solomon,  and 
was  the  first  acknowledged  Christian  received  within 
its  holy  walls  since  it  has  been  appropriated  to  the 
religion  ot  Mohammed.  The  Journal  to  Some  Parts  of 
Ethiopia  (1822),  by  Messrs  Waddington  and  Han- 
BURY,  gives  an  account  of  the  antiquities  of  Ethio- 
pia and  the  extirpation  of  the  Mamelukes. 

Sir  John  Malcolm  was  author  of  a History  of 
Persia,  and  Sketches  of  Persia.  JIr  Morier’s  Jour- 
neys through  Persia.  Armenia,  and  Asia  Minor,  abound 
in  interesting  descriptions  of  the  country,  people, 
and  government.  Sir  William  Ousely  (who  had 
been  private  secretary  to  the  British  embassy  in 
Persia)  has  published  three  large  volumes  of  travels 
in  various  countries  of  the  East,  particularly  Persia, 
in  1810,  1811,  and  1812.  This  work  illustrates  sub- 
jects of  antiquarian  research,  history,  geography, 
philology,  Ac.  and  is  valuable  to  the  scholar  for  its 
citations  from  rare  Oriental  manuscripts.  Another 
valuable  work  on  this  country  is  Sir  Robert  Ker 
i Porter’s  Travels  in  Georgia,  Persia,  Babylonia,  ^c. 
Dubhshed  in  1822. 


[ View  of  Society  in  Bagdad."] 

[From  Sir  II.  K.  Porter's  ‘ Travels.'] 

The  wives  of  the  higher  cl.asscs  in  B.agdad  are 
usually  selected  from  the  most  beautiful  girls  that  can 
be  obtained  from  Georgia  and  Circassia  ; and,  to  their 
natural  charms,  in  like  manner  with  their  captive 
sisters  all  over  the  East,  they  add  the  fancied  embel- 
lishments of  painted  complexions,  hands  and  feet  dyed 
with  henna,  and  their  hair  and  eyebrows  stained  with 
the  rang,  or  prepared  indigo  leaf.  Chains  of  gold 
and  collars  of  pearls,  with  various  ornaments  of  precious 
stones,  decorate  the  upper  part  of  their  jrersons,  while 
solid  bracelets  of  gold,  in  shapes  resembling  serpents, 
clasp  their  wrists  and  ankles.  Silver  and  golden 
tissued  muslins  not  only  form  their  turbans,  but  fre- 
quently their  under  garments.  In  summer  the  ample 
pelisse  is  made  of  the  most  costly  shawl,  and  in  cold 
we.ather,  lined  and  bordered  with  the  choicest  furs. 
The  dress  is  altogether  very  becoming;  by  its  easy 
folds  and  glittering  transparency,  showing  a fine  shape 
to  adv.antage,  without  the  immodest  exposure  of  the 
open  vest  of  the  Persian  ladies.  The  humbler  females 
generally  move  abroad  with  faces  totally  unveiled, 
having  a handkerchief  rolled  round  their  heads,  from 
beneath  which  their  hair  hangs  down  over  their  shoul- 
ders, while  another  piece  of  linen  passes  uiider  their 
chin,  in  the  fashion  of  the  Georgians.  Their  garment 
is  a gown  of  a shift  form,  reaching  to  their  ankles, 
open  before,  and  of  a gray  colour.  Their  feet  are  com- 
[jletely  naked.  Many  of  the  very  inferior  classes  stain 
their  bosoms  with  the  figures  of  circles,  half-moons, 
stars,  &c.  in  a bluish  stamp.  In  this  barbaric  embel- 
lishment the  poor  damsel  of  Irak  Arabi  has  one  point 
of  vanity  rc.sembling  that  of  the  ladies  of  li'ak  Ajem. 
The  former  frequently  adds  this  frightful  cadaverous 
hue  to  her  lips  ; and,  to  complete  her  savage  appear- 
ance, thrusts  a ring  through  the  right  nostril,  pendent 
with  a flat  button-like  ornament  .set  round  with  blue 
or  red  stones. 

But  to  return  to  the  ladies  of  the  higher  circles, 
whom  we  left  in  some  gay  saloon  of  Bagdad.  When 
all  are  assembled,  the  evening  meal  or  dinner  is  .soon 
served.  The  party,  seated  in  rows,  then  prepare  them- 
selves for  the  entrance  of  the  show',  which,  consisting 
of  music  and  dancing,  continues  in  noisy  exhibition 
through  the  whole  night.  At  twelve  o’clock  supper  is 
produced,  when  pilaus,  kabobs,  preserves,  fruits,  dried 
sweetmeats,  and  sherbets  of  every  fabric  and  flavour, 
engage  the  fair  convives  for  some  time.  Between  this 
second  banquet  and  the  preceding,  the  perfumed  nar- 
quilly  is  never  absent  from  their  rosy  lips,  excepting 
when  they  sip  coffee,  or  indulge  in  a general  shout  of 
approbation,  or  a hearty  peal  of  laughter  at  the  freaks 
of  the  dancers  or  the  subject  of  the  singers’  madrigaks. 
But  no  respite  is  given  to  the  entertainers  ; and,  dur- 
ing so  long  a stretch  of  merriment,  should  any  of  the 
happy  guests  feel  a sudden  desire  for  temporary  re- 
pose, without  the  least  apology  she  lies  down  to  sleep 
on  the  luxurious  carpet  that  is  her  seat ; and  thus  she 
remains,  sunk  in  as  deep  an  oblivion  as  if  the  nura- 
raud  were  spread  in  her  own  chamber.  Others  speedily 
follow  her  example,  sleeping  as  sound  ; notwithstand- 
ing that  the  bawling  of  the  singers,  the  horrid  jangling 
of  the  guitars,  the  thumping  on  the  jar-like  double- 
drum,  the  ringing  and  loud  clangour  of  the  metal  bells 
and  castanets  of  the  dancers,  with  an  eternal  talking 
in  all  keys,  abrupt  laughter,  and  vociferous  expressions 
of  gratification,  making  in  all  a full  concert  of  dis- 
tracting sounds,  sufficient,  one  might  suppo.se,  to 
awaken  the  dead.  But  the  merry  tumult  and  joyful 
strains  of  this  conviviality  gradually  become  fainter 
and  fainter;  first  one  and  then  another  of  the  visitors 
(while  even  the  performers  are  not  .spared  by  the  sopo- 
rific god)  sink  down  under  the  drowsy  influence,  till 
at  length  the  whole  carpet  Is  covered  with  the  sleeping 

QTi 


»rtOM  17S0  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  till  the  present  tims. 


beauties,  mixed  indiscriminately  with  handmaids, 
dancers,  and  musicians,  as  fast  asleep  as  themselves. 
The  business,  liowever,  is  not  thus  quietly  ended. 
‘ As  soon  as  the  sun  begins  to  call  forth  the  blushes  of 
the  morn,  by  lifting  the  veil  that  shades  her  slumber- 
ing eyelids,’  the  faithful  slaves  rub  their  own  clear  of 
any  lurking  drowsiness,  and  then  tug  their  respective 
mistresses  by  the  toe  or  the  shoulder,  to  rouse  them 
up  to  perform  the  devotional  ablutions  usual  at  the 
dawn  of  day.  All  start  mechanically,  as  if  touched 
by  a spell  ; and  then  commences  the  splashing  of 
water  and  the  muttering  of  prayers,  presenting  a sin- 
gular contrast  to  the  vivacious  scene  of  a few  hours 
before.  This  duty  over,  the  fair  devotees  shake  their 
feathers  like  birds  from  a refreshing  shower,  and  trip- 
ping lightly  forward  with  garments,  and  perhaps  looks, 
a little  the  worse  for  the  wear  of  the  preceding  even- 
ing, plunge  at  once  again  into  all  the  depths  of  its 
amusements.  Coffee,  sweetmeats,  kaliouns,  as  before, 
accompany  every  obstreperous  rejietition  of  the  mid- 
night song  and  dance ; and  all  being  followed  up  by 
a plentiful  breakfast  of  rice,  meats,  fruits,  &c.  towards 
noon  the  party  separate,  after  having  spent  between 
fifteen  and  sixteen  hours  in  this  riotous  festivity. 

T.-aivls  in  the  East,  by  the  Rev.  Horatio  South- 
gate  (1840).  describe  the  traveller’s  route  through 
Greece,  Turkey,  Armenia,  Koordistan,  Persia,  and 
Mesopotamia,  and  give  a good  account  of  the  Mo- 
hammedan religion,  and  its  rites  and  ceremonies. 
The  following  is  a correction  of  a vulgar  error  : — 

^Religious  Status  of  Wrnnen  in  the  Mohammedan  System.'\ 

The  place  which  the  Mohammedan  sy.stem  assigns 
to  woman  in  the  other  world  has  often  been  wrongfully 
represented.  It  is  not  true,  as  has  sometimes  been 
reported,  that  Mohammedan  teachers  deny  her  admis- 
sion to  the  felicities  of  Paradise.  The  doctrine  of  the 
Koran  is,  most  plainly,  that  her  destiny  is  to  be  de- 
termined in  like  manner  with  that  of  every  account- 
able being;  and  according  to  the  judgment  passed  upon 
her  is  her  reward,  although  nothing  definite  is  said  of 
the  place  which  she  is  to  occupy  in  Paradise.  Mo- 
hammed speaks  repeatedly  of  ‘ believing  women,’ 
commends  them,  .and  promises  them  the  recompense 
which  their  good  deeds  deserve. 

The  regulations  of  the  Sunneh  are  in  accord.ance 
with  the  precepts  of  the  Koran.  So  far  is  woman  from 
being  regarded  in  these  institutions  as  a cre.iture 
without  a soul,  that  special  allusion  is  frequently 
made  to  her,  and  particular  directions  given  for  her 
religious  conduct.  Respecting  her  observance  of  Ra- 
mazan, her  ablutions,  and  many  other  matters,  her 
duty  is  taught  with  a minuteness  that  borders 
on  indecorous  precision.  She  repeats  the  creed  in 
dying,  and,  like  other  Mussulmans,  says,  ‘ In  this 
faith  I have  lived,  in  this  faith  1 die,  and  in  this  faith 
I hope  to  rise  agiun.’  She  is  required  to  do  every- 
thing of  religious  obligation  equally  with  men.  The 
command  to  perform  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  extends 
to  her.  In  my  journeys,  1 often  met  with  women  on 
their  way  to  the  Holy  City.  They  may  even  under- 
take this  journey  without  the  consent  of  their  hus- 
bands, whose  authority  in  religious  matters  extends 
only  to  those  acts  of  devotion  which  are  not  obligatory. 

VVomen  arc  not,  indeed,  allowed  to  be  present  in 
the  mosques  at  the  time  of  public  prayers  ; but  the 
reason  is  not  that  they  are  regarded,  like  pagan 
females,  as  unsusceptible  of  religious  sentiments,  hut 
because  the  meeting  of  the  two  sexes  in  a sacred  place 
is  supposed  to  be  unfavourable  to  devotion.  This, 
however,  is  an  Oriental,  not  a Mohammedan  prejudice. 
The  custom  is  nearly  the  same  among  the  Christians 
as  among  the  Mussulmans.  In  the  Gree's  churches 
the  f^n  -ales  are  separated  from  the  males,  and  concealed 


behind  a lattice ; and  something  of  the  same  kind  I 
have  observed  among  the  Christians  of  Mesopotamia. 

Letters  from  the  South,  two  volumes,  1837,  by  Mr 
Thomas  Campbell,  the  poet,  give  an  account  of  a 
voyage  made  by  that  gentleman  to  Algiers.  The 
letters  are  descriptive,  without  any  political  or  colo- 
nial views,  but  full  of  entertaining  gossip  and  poeti- 
cal sketches  of  striking  and  picturesque  objects. 
The  grandeur  of  the  surrounding  mountain  scenery 
seems  to  have  astonished  Mr  Campbell.  ‘The 
African  highlands,’  he  says,  ‘ spring  up  to  the  sight 
not  only  with  a sterner  boldness  than  our  own,  but 
they  borrow  colours  from  the  sun  unknown  to  our 
climate,  and  they  are  marked  in  clouds  of  richer 
dye.  The  farthest-off  summits  appeared  in  their 
snow  like  the  turbans  of  gigantic  Moors,  whilst  the 
nearer  masses  glared  in  crimson  and  gold  under  the 
light  of  morning.’ 

Six  Years'  Residence  in  Algiers,  by  Mrs  Brough- 
ton, published  in  1839,  is  an  interesting  dopiestic 
chronicle.  The  authoress  was  daughter  to  Mr 
Blanckley,  the  British  consul-general  at  Algiers  ; 
and  the  work  is  composed  of  a jourjial  kept  by  IMrs 
Blanckley,  with  reminiscences  by  her  daughter,  Mrs 
Broughton.  The  vivacity,  minute  description,  and 
kindly  feeling  everywhere  apparent  in  this  book, 
render  it  highly  attractive. 

Discoveries  in  the  Interior  of  Africa,  by  Sir  .Tames 
Alexander,  two  volumes,  1838,  describe  a journey 
from  Cape-Town,  of  about  four  thousand  miles,  and 
occupying  above  a year,  towards  the  tracts  of 
country  inhabited  by  the  Damaras,  a nation  of 
which  very  little  was  known,  and  generally  the 
country  to  the  north  of  the  Orange  River,  on  the 
west  coast.  The  author’s  personal  adventures  are 
interesting,  and  it  appears  that  the  aborigines  are  a 
kind  and  friendly  tribe  of  people,  with  whom  Sir 
James  Alexander  thinks  that  an  extended  inter- 
course may  be  maintained  for  the  mutual  benefit  of 
the  colonists  and  the  natives. 

A Journal  Written  During  an  Excursion  in  Asia- 
Minor  in  1838,  by  Charles  Fellows,  is  valuable 
from  the  author’s  discoveries  in  I’amphylia.  Mr 
Fellows  has  also  written  a second  work.  Ancient 
Lycia  ; an  Account  of  Discoveries  made  during  a Se- 
cond Excursion  to  Asia-Minor  in  1840.  Two  re- 
cent travellers,  Lieut.  .T.  R.  Wellsted,  author  of 
Travels  in  Arabia,  the  Peninsula  of  Sinai,  and  along 
the  Shores  of  the  Red  Sea  (1838),  and  Lord  Lindsay, 
in  his  Letters  on  Egypt,  Edom,  and  the  Holy  Land 
(1838),  supply  some  additional  details.  The  scene 
of  the  encampment  of  the  Israelites,  after  crossing 
the  Red  Sea,  is  thus  described  by  Lord  Lindsay  : — 

The  bright  sea  suddenly  burst  on  us,  a sail  in  the 
distance,  and  the  blue  mountains  of  Africa  beyond  it 
— a lovely  vista.  But  when  we  had  fairly  issued  into 
the  plain  on  the  sea-shore,  beautiful  indeed,  most 
beautiful  was  the  view — the  whole  African  coast, 
from  Gebel  Ataka  to  Gebel  Krarreb  lay  before  us, 
washed  by  the  Red  Sea — a vast  amphitheatre  of 
mountains,  except  the  space  where  the  waters  were 
lost  in  distance  between  the  Asiatic  and  Libyan 
promontories.  It  was  the  stillest  hour  of  day  ; the 
sun  shone  brightly,  descending  to  ‘ his  palace  in 
the  Occident ;’  the  tide  was  coming  in  with  its 
peaceful  pensive  murmurs,  wave  after  wave.  It 
was  in  this  plain,  broad  and  perfectly  smooth  from 
the  mountains  to  the  sea,  that  the  children  of  Israel 
encamped  after  leaving  Elim.  What  a glorious  scene 
it  must  then  have  presented!  and  how  nobly  those 
rocks,  now  so  silent,  must  have  re-echoed  the  song  of 
Moses  and  its  ever-returning  chorus — ‘ Sing  ye  to  the 
Lord,  for  he  hath  triumphed  gloriously  ; the  horse 
and  his  rider  hath  he  thrown  into  the  seal’ 

678 


EASTERN  TIUVELLERS. 


ENGLISH  LITEKATUUE. 


MRS  POST  A NS. 


The  French  authors  Chateaubriand,  Laborde,  and 
Lamartine,  have  minutely  described  the  Holy  Land  ; 
and  in  the  Inciiients  of  Travel  in  Egypt,  Arabia,  and 
the  Holy  Land,  by  J.  L.  Stephens,  the  latest  infor- 
mation respecting  these  interesting  countries  will 
be  found. 

Various  works  on  India  have  appeared,  including 
a general  political  history  of  the  empire,  by  Sir 
John  Malcolm  (1826),  and  a Memoir  of  Central 
India  (1823),  by  the  same  author.  Travels  in  the 
Ilimmalayan  Provinces  of  Hindostan  and  the  Punjaub, 
in  Ladakh  and  Cashmere,  in  Peshawar,  Cabul,  ^c. 
from  1819  to  1825,  by  W.  Moorcroft  and  George 
Trebeck,  relate  many  new  and  important  particu- 
lars. Mr  Moorcroft  crossed  the  great  chain  of  the 
Himmala  mountains  near  its  highest  part,  and  first 
drev>  attention  to  those  stupendous  heights,  rising 
m some  parts  to  above  27,000  feet.  A Tour  through 
the  Snowy  Range  of  the  Himmala  Mountains  was  made 
by  Mr  James  Baillie  Fraser  (1820),  who  gives 
an  interesting  account  of  his  perilous  journey.  He 
visited  Gangootrie,  an  almost  inaccessible  haunt  of 
superstition,  the  Mecca  of  Hindoo  pilgrims,  and 
also  the  spot  at  which  the  Ganges  issues  from  its 
covering  of  perpetual  snow.  In  1825  Mr  Fraser 
published  a Narrative  of  a Journey  into  Khorasan,  in 
the  years  \^'2\  and  1822,  including  an  Account  of  the 
Countries  to  the  north-east  of  Persia.  The  following 
is  a brief  sketch  of  a Persian  town  : — 

Viewed  from  a commanding  situation,  the  appear- 
ance of  a Persian  town  is  mo.st  uninteresting  ; the 
hou.ses,  all  of  mud,  differ  in  no  respect  from  the  earth 
in  colour,  and,  from  the  irregularity  of  their  construc- 
tion, resemble  inequalities  on  its  surface  rather  than 
human  dwellings.  The  houses,  even  of  the  great, 
seldom  exceed  one  storey  ; and  the  lofty  walls  which 
shroud  them  from  view,  without  a window  to  enliven 
them,  have  a most  monotonous  effect.  There  are  few 
domes  or  minarets,  and  still  fewer  of  those  that  exist 
are  either  splendid  or  elegant.  There  are  no  public 
buildings  but  the  mosques  and  medres.sas  ; and  these 
are  often  a.s  mean  as  the  rest,  or  perfectly  excluded 
from  view  by  ruins.  The  general  coup-d'ceil  presents 
a succession  of  flat  roofs,  and  long  w'alls  of  mud, 
thickly  interspersed  with  ruins ; and  the  only  relief 
to  its  monotony  is  found  in  the  gardens,  adorned  with 
chiniir,  poplars,  and  cypress,  with  which  the  towns 
and  villages  are  often  surrounded  and  intermingled. 
The  same  author  has  published  Travels  and  Adven- 
tures in  the  Persian  Provinces,  1826;  A Winter  Jour- 
ney from  Constantinople  to  Tehran,  with  Travels  through 
Various  Parts  of  Persia,  1838,  &c.  Mr  Fraser  has 
now  settled  down  on  his  patrimonial  estate  of  Reelig, 
Inverness-shire,  a quiet  Highland  glen.  Among 
other  Indian  works  may  be  mentioned  The  Annals 
and  Antiquities  of  Rajasthan,  by  Lieutenant-Colo- 
nel James  Tod,  1830;  and  Travels  into  Bokhara,  by 
Lieutenant,  afterwards  Sir  Alexander  Burnes. 
The  latter  is  a narrative  of  a journey  from  India  to 
Cabul,  Tartary,  and  Persia,  and  is  a valuable  work. 
The  accomplished  author  was  cut  off  in  his  career 
of  usefulness  and  honour  in  1841,  being  treacher- 
ously murdered  at  CabuL  Lieutenant  Arthur 
CoNoi.LY  made  a journey  to  the  north  of  India,  over- 
land from  England,  through  Russia,  Persia,  and 
Atfglianistan,  of  which  he  published  an  account  in 
1834.  Miss  Emma  Roberts,  in  the  following  year, 
gave  a lively  and  entertaining  series  of  Scenes  and 
Characteristics  of  Hindostan,  with  Sketches  of  Anglo- 
Iniiian  Society.  This  lady  went  out  again  to  India 
in  1839,  and  was  engaged  to  conduct  a Bombay 
newspaper;  but  she  died  in  1840.  Her  Notes  of  an 
Overland  Journey  through  France  and  Egypt  to  Bom- 
bay were  ;)ublislied  after  her  death.  Another  lady. 
Mrs  Postans.  has  ptiblished  (1839)  Culch,  or  Ran- 


dom Sketches  taken  during  a Residence  in  one  of  the 
Northern  Provinces  of  Western  India.  The  authoress 
resided  some  years  in  the  province  of  Cutch,  and 
gives  a minute  account  of  the  feudal  government 
and  customs,  the  religious  sects  and  superstitions  of 
the  people.  The  aristocratic  distinctions  of  caste 
are  rigidly  preserved,  and  the  chiefs  are  haughty, 
debauched,  and  crueL 

\_Sacrifice  of  a Hindoo  Widow.'] 

[From  Mrs  Postans’s  ‘ Cutch,  or  Random  Sketches,'  dec.] 
News  of  the  widow’s  intentions  having  spread,  a 
great  concourse  of  people  of  both  sexes,  the  women 
clad  in  their  gala  costumes,  assembled  round  the 
pyre.  In  a short  time  after  their  arrival  the  fated 
victim  appeared,  accompanied  by  the  Brahmins,  her 
relatives,  and  the  body  of  the  deceased.  The  specta- 
tors showered  chaplets  of  mogree  on  her  head,  and 
greeted  her  appearance  with  laudatory  exclamations 
at  her  constancy  and  virtue.  The  women  especially 
pressed  forward  to  touch  her  garments — an  act  which 
is  considered  meritorious,  and  highly  desirable  for 
absolution  and  protection  from  the  ‘evil  eye.’ 

The  widow  was  a remarkably  handsome  woman,  ap- 
parently about  thirty,  and  most  superbly  attired.  Her 
manner  was  marked  by  great  apathy  to  all  around 
her,  and  by  a complete  indifference  to  the  prepara- 
tions which  for  the  first  time  met  her  eye.  From  this 
circumstance  an  impression  was  given  that  she  might 
be  under  the  influence  of  opium  ; and  in  conformity 
with  the  declared  intention  of  the  European  officers 
present  to  interfere  should  any  coercive  measures  be 
adopted  by  the  Brahmins  or  relatives,  two  medical 
officers  were  requested  to  give  their  opinion  on  the 
subject.  They  both  agreed  that  she  was  quite  free 
from  any  influence  calculated  to  induce  torpor  or  in- 
toxication. 

Captain  Burnes  then  addres,sed  the  woman,  desiring 
to  know  whether  the  act  she  was  about  to  perform 
W'ere  voluntary  or  enforced,  and  assuring  her  that, 
should  she  entertain  the  slightest  reluctance  to  the 
fulfilment  of  her  vow,  he,  on  the  part  of  the  British 
government,  would  guarantee  the  protection  of  her 
life  and  property.  Her  answer  was  calm,  heroic,  and 
constant  to  her  purpose : ‘ 1 die  of  my  own  free  will  ; 
give  me  back  my  husband,  and  I will  consent  to  live  ; 
if  I die  not  with  him,  the  souls  of  seven  husbands 
will  condemn  me !’  * * 

Ere  the  renewal  of  the  horrid  ceremonies  of  death 
were  permitted,  again  the  voice  of  mercy,  of  expostu- 
lation, and  even  of  intreaty  was  heard  ; but  the  trial 
was  vain,  and  the  cool  and  collected  manner  with 
which  the  woman  still  declared  her  determination 
unalterable,  chilled  and  startled  the  most  courageous. 
Physical  pangs  evidently  excited  no  fears  in  her ; hei 
singular  creed,  the  customs  of  her  country,  and  her 
sense  of  conjugal  duty,  excluded  from  her  mind  the 
natural  emotions  of  personal  dread  ; and  never  did 
martyr  to  a true  cau.se  go  to  the  stake  with  more  con- 
stancy and  firmness,  than  did  this  delicate  and  gentle 
woman  prepare  to  become  the  victim  of  a deliberate 
sacrifice  to  the  demoniacal  tenets  of  her  heathen  creed. 
Accompanied  by  the  officiating  Brahmin,  the  widow 
walked  seven  times  round  the  pyre,  repeating  the 
usual  mantras,  or  prayers,  strewing  rice  and  coories 
on  the  ground,  and  sprinkling  water  from  her  hand 
over  the  bystanders,  who  believe  this  to  be  effica- 
cious in  preventing  disease  and  in  expiating  com- 
mitted sins.  She  then  removed  her  jewels,  and  pre- 
sented them  to  her  relations,  saying  a few  word.s  to 
each  with  a calm  .soft  smile  of  encouragement  and 
hope.  The  Brahmins  then  presented  her  with  a lighted 
torch,  bearing  which, 

' Fresh  as  a flower  just  blown. 

And  warm  with  life  her  youthful  pulses  playing,* 

679 


FROM  17B0  CYCl-Ol’i'KDl A 01>’  till  the  present  tim». 

she  ftcpped  tlirougli  tlie  fatiil  door,  and  within 

the  pile.  'I'he  hody  of  her  husband,  wrapped  in  rich 
kinkaub,  was  then  carried  seven  times  round  the  ]dle, 
and  finally  laid  acro.ss  her  knees.  Thorns  and  eiass 
were  piled  over  the  door;  and  aeain  it  was  insisted 
that  free  spare  should  be  left,  as  it  was  hoped  the 
poor  victim  mieht  yet  relent,  and  rnsh  from  her  fiery 
prison  to  the  protection  so  freely  offered.  The  com- 
mand was  readily  obeyed  ; the  stren;rth  of  a child 
would  have  sufficed  to  burst  the  frail  barrier  which 
confined  her,  and  a breathless  pause  suececiled  ; but 
the  woman’s  constancy  was  faitliful  to  the  last.  Not 
a sigh  broke  the  death-like  silence  of  the  crowd,  until 
a slight  smoke,  curling  from  the  summit  of  the  pyre, 
and  then  a tongue  of  flame  darting  with  bright  and 
lightning-like  rapidity  into  the  clear  blue  sky,  told  us 
that  the  sacrifice  was  comjileted.  Fearlessly  had  this 
courageous  woman  fired  the  pile,  and  not  a groan  had 
betrayed  to  us  the  moment  when  her  spirit  Hed.  At 
sight  of  the  dame  a fiendish  shout  of  e.\ultation  rent 
the  air;  the  tom-toms  .sounded,  the  people  clapiied 
their  hands  with  delight  as  ihe  eviilence  of  their 
murderous  work  burst  on  their  view,  whilst  the  Fng- 
lish  spectators  of  this  sad  scene  withdrew,  bearing 
deep  compassion  in  their  hearts,  to  philosophise  as 
best  they  might  on  a custom  so  fraught  with  horror, 
80  incompatible  with  reason,  and  so  revolting  to 
human  sympathy.  The  jiile  continued  to  burn  for 
three  hours;  but,  from  its  form,  it  is  supposed  that 
almost  immediate  suffocation  must  have  terminated 
the  sufferings  of  the  unhajipy  victim. 

First  Impressions  and  Studies  from  Nature  in  Ilin- 
dostan.  by  Lieutenant  Thomas  Bacon,  two  volumes, 
18.37,  is  a more  lively  but  carelessly-written  work, 
with  good  sketches  of  .scenery,  buildings,  pageants, 
&c.  The  Hon.  Mountstuart  Ki.piiinstone,  in 
1842,  gave  an  account  of  the  kingdom  of  Cabul, 
Riid  its  dependencies  in  Persia,  Tartary,  and  In- 
dia : and  A Narrative  of  Various  Journeys  in  Belixi- 
ehistan,  AJfyhanistan,  and  the  1‘nnjaut},  by  Charles 
iVlASSO.v,  ICsq.  descrilxis  with  considerable  anima- 
tion the  author’s  residence  in  those  countries,  the 
native  chiefs,  and  personal  adventures  with  the  va- 
rious tribes  from  1826  to  1838.  Mr  C.  11.  Bavnes, 
a gentleman  in  the  Madras  civil  service,  imblisheif 
in  1843  Notes  and  Reflections  during  a Ramble  in  the 
East,  an  Overland  Journey  to  India,  &c.  His  re- 
marks are  just  and  spirited,  and  his  anecdotes  and 
descriptions  lively  and  entertaining. 

[^Rcmarh  by  an  Arab  Chief.~\ 

An  Arab  chieftain,  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  the 
princes  of  the  desert,  had  come  to  behold  for  the  first 
time  a steam-ship.  Much  attention  was  paid  to  him, 
and  every  facility  afforded  for  his  inspection  of  every 
part  of  the  vessel.  What  iinprission  the  sight  made 
on  him  it  was  impossible  to  judge.  No  indications 
of  surjirise  escaped  him  ; every  muscle  preserved  its 
wonted  calmness  of  expression  ; and  on  quitting,  he 
merely  observed,  ‘ It  is  well ; but  you  have  not  brought 
a man  to  life  yet.’ 

\_Legcnd  of  the  Mosque  of  the  Bloody  Baptism  at  Cairo.'] 

Sultan  Hassan,  wi.shing  to  see  the  world,  and  lay 
aside  for  a time  the  anxieties  and  cares  of  royalty, 
committed  the  charge  of  his  kingdom  to  his  favourite 
minister,  and  taking  with  him  a large  amount  of 
treasure  in  money  and  jewels,  visited  several  foreign 
countries  in  the  character  of  a wealthy  merchant. 
Pleased  with  his  tour,  and  becoming  interested  in  the 
occupation  he  had  assumed  as  a disguise,  he  was  ab 
sent  much  longer  than  he  originally  intended,  and  in 
the  course  of  a few  years  greatly  increaseil  his  alrei  dy 
large  stock  of  wealth.  His  protracted  absence,  hew- 

[L ^ 

ever,  proved  a temptation  too  strong  for  the  virtue  of 
the  viceroy,  who,  gradually  forming  for  himself  a jiarty 
among  the  leading  men  of  the  country,  at  length  com- 
municated to  the  common  |>eo{>le  the  intelligence  that 
Bultan  Hassan  was  no  more,  and  quietly  seated  him- 
self on  the  vacant  throne.  Sultan  Hassan  return- 
ing shortly  afterwards  from  his  ])ilgrimage,  and,  fortu- 
nately for  himself,  still  in  disguise,  learned,  as  he  ap- 
proached his  capital,  the  news  of  his  own  deatli  and 
the  usurpation  of  his  minister;  finding,  on  further 
inquiry,  the  party  of  the  usuiqier  to  be  too  strong  to 
render  an  immediate  disclosure  prudent,  he  preserved 
his  incognito,  and  soon  became  known  in  Cairo  as  the 
Wealthiest  of  her  merchants;  nor  did  it  excite  any 
surprise  when  he  announced  his  pious  intention  of 
devoting  a portion  of  his  gains  to  the  erection  of  a 
spacious  mo.sque.  The  work  proceeded  rapidly  under 
the  spur  of  the  great  merchant’s  gold,  and,  on  its  com- 
jiletion,  he  solicited  the  honour  of  the  sultan’s  ]>re- 
.sence  at  the  ceremony  of  naming  it.  Anticipating 
the  gratification  of  hearing  his  own  name  bestowed 
upon  it,  the  usurjier  accepted  the  invitation,  and  at 
the  appointed  hour  the  building  was  filled  by  him  and 
his  most  attached  adherents.  The  ceremonies  had 
duly  ]>roceeded  to  the  time  when  it  became  neccs.sary 
to  ”ive  the  name.  The  chief  Aloolah,  turning  to  the 
supimsed  merchant,  inquired  what  should  be  its  name? 
‘ Call  it,’  he  replied,  ‘ the  mosque  of  Sultan  Ha.ssan.’ 
.All  started  at  the  mention  of  this  name  ; and  the 
questioner,  as  though  not  believing  he  could  have 
heard  aright,  or  to  afford  an  opportunity  of  correcting 
what  might  be  a mistake,  repeated  his  (leinand.  ‘ Call 
it,’  again  cried  he,  ‘ the  mo.sque  of  me,  Sultan  Ha.ss'an  ;’ 
and  throwing  off  his  disguise,  the  legitimate  sultan 
stood  revealed  before  his  traitorous  .servant.  He  hivd 
no  time  for  reflection  : simultaneously  with  the  dis 
covery,  numerous  trap-doors,  leading  to  extensive 
vaults,  which  had  been  prepared  for  the  purpo.se,  were 
flung  open,  and  a multitude  of  armed  men  i.ssuing 
from  them,  terminated  at  once  the  reign  and  life  of 
the  usurper.  His  followers  were  mingled  in  the 
slaughter,  and  Sultan  Has.san  was  once  more  in  pos- 
session of  the  throne  of  his  fathers. 

The  recent  war  in  Affghanistan,  and  the  occupa 
tion  of  the  Sinde  territory  by  the  British,  have  given 
occasion  to  various  publications,  among  which  are, 
a History  of  the  War  in  Ajlghanistan.  by  Mr  ('.  Nash  ; 
Five  Years  in  India,  by  11.  G.  F'a.ne,  Ksq.  late  aitl- 
de-eamp  to  the  eominander-in-cliief ; Narrative  of  the 
Campaign  of  the  Army  of  the  Indus  in  Sinde  and  Cabul, 
by  >Ir  K.  11.  Kennedy  ; Scenes  and  Adventures  in  Aff- 
ghanistan,  by  Mr  W.  Taylor;  Letters,  by  Colonel 
Dennie  ; Personal  Observations  on  Sinde,  by  Cai'TAIN 
T.  I’osTANS;  Military  Operations  at  Cabul,  with  a 
,Journal  of  Imprisonment  in  Affghanistan,  by  Lieu- 
tenant Vincent  Eyre;  A ,/ournal  of  the  Disasters 
in  Affghanistan,  by  Lady  Sale,  &c.  These  works 
were  all  published  in  1842  or  1843,  and  illustrate  a 
calamitous  portion  of  British  history. 

Of  China  we  have  the  history  of  the  two  em- 
bassies— the  first  in  1 792-94,  under  Lord  Macartney, 
of  which  a copious  account  was  given  by  Sir  George 
Staunton,  one  of  the  commissioners.  Further  in- 
formation was  afforded  by  Sir  .John  Barrow’s 
Travels  in  China,  published  in  1806,  and  long  our 
most  valuable  work  on  that  country.  The  second 
embassy,  headed  by  Lord  Amherst,  in  1816,  was  re- 
corded by  Henry  Ellis,  Esq.  tliird  commissioner, 
in  a work  in  two  volumes  (1818),  and  by  I)ii  Abei, 
a gentleman  attached  to  the  embassy.  One  circum- 
stance connected  with  this  embas.sy  occasioned  some 
speculation  and  anuLsement.  The  ambassador  was 
required  to  perform  the  ko-ton,  or  act  of  prostration, 
nine  times  repeated,  with  the  head  knocked  against 
the  gixiund.  Lord  Amherst  and  Mr  Ellis  were  in- 

680 

1:aSTERN  TRAVEI.LKRS.  -'NCII.ISII  LI 


clineii  to  Imve  yifUleil  this  point  of  ceremony ; hut 
Sir  Georfie  Staunton  and  the  other  members  of  tiie 
Canton  mission  took  the  most  decided  part  on  tlie 
otlier  side.  The  result  of  tlieir  deliberations  was  a 
determination  against  the  performance  of  the  ko-tou, 
and  the  emiwror  at  lust  consented  to  admit  them 
upon  their  own  terms,  which  consisted  in  kneeling 
upon  a single  knee.  The  embassy  went  to  I’ekin, 
and  were  ushered  into  an  ante-chamber  of  the  im- 
. peri;d  palace. 

[5cfJi«  at  Pekin,  Described  by  Mr  Ellis.'] 

JIandarins  of  all  buttons*  were  in  waiting;  several 
princes  of  the  blood,  distinguished  by  clear  ruby 
buttons  and  round  tiowered  badges,  were  among  them  : 
tlie  silence,  and  a certain  air  of  regularity,  marked 
the  immediate  pre.sence  of  the  sovereign.  The  small 
apartment,  much  out  of  repair,  into  which  we  were 
huddled,  now  witnessed  a .scene  1 believe  unparalleled 
in  the  history  of  even  Oriental  diplomacy.  Lord  .\m- 
herst  had  scarcely  taken  his  seat,  when  Chang  de- 
livered a message  from  Ho  (Koong-yay),  stating  that 
the  emperor  wished  to  see  the  ambassador,  his  son, 
and  the  commissioners  immediately.  Much  surpri.se 
was  naturally  e.vpressed  ; the  previous  arrangement 
for  the  eighth  of  the  phine.se  month,  a period  certainly 
much  too  early  for  comfort,  was  adverted  to,  and  the 
utter  impossibility  of  his  excellency  appearing  in  his 
present  state  of  fatigue,  inanition,  and  deficiency  of 
every  necc.ssary  equipment,  was  strongly  urged.  Chang 
wa-s  very  unwilling  to  be  the  bearer  of  this  answer, 
but  was  finally  obliged  to  consent.  During  this  time 
the  room  had  filled  with  spectators  of  all  ages  and 
ranks,  who  rudely  pressed  upon  us  to  gratify  their 
brutal  curiosity,  for  such  it  may  be  called,  as  they 
seemed  to  regard  us  rather  as  wild  beasts  than  mere 
strangers  of  the  same  species  with  themselves.  Some 
other  messages  were  interchanged  between  the  Koong- 
yay  and  Lord  .-Amherst,  who,  in  addition  to  the  rea- 
sons already  given,  stated  the  indecorum  and  irre- 
gularity of  his  appearing  without  his  credentials.  In 
his  reply  to  this  it  was  said,  that  in  the  proposed 
audience  the  emperor  merely  wished  to  see  the  am- 
bas.sador,  and  had  no  intention  of  entering  upon  busi- 
ness. Lord  Amherst  having  persisted  in  expressing 
the  inadmi.ssibility  of  the  proposition,  and  in  trans- 
mitting through  the  Koong-yay  a humble  request 
to  his  imperial  majesty  that  he  would  be  graciously 
pleased  to  wait  till  to-morrow,  Chang  and  another 
Inandarin  finally  proposed  that  his  excellency  should 
go  over  to  the  Koong-yay’s  apartments,  from  whence 
a reference  might  be  made  to  the  emperor.  Lord 
Amherst  having  alleged  bodily  illness  as  one  of  the 
reasons  for  declining  the  audience,  readily  saw  that 
if  he  went  to  the  Koong-yay,  this  plea,  which  to 
the  Chinese  (though  now  scarcely  admitted)  was  in 
general  the  most  forcible,  would  cease  to  avail  him, 
positively  declined  compliance.  This  produced  a 
visit  from  the  Koong-yay,  who,  too  much  interested 
and  agitated  to  heed  ceremony,  stood  by  Lord  Am- 
herst, and  u.sed  every  argument  to  induce  him  to 
obey  the  emperor’s  commands.  Among  other  topics 
he  used  that  of  being  received  with  our  own  ceremony, 
using  the  Chinese  words,  ‘ ne  mun  tih  lee’ — your  own 
ceremony.  All  proving  ineffectual,  with  some  rough- 
ness, but  under  pretext  of  friendly  violence,  he  laid 
hands  upon  Lord  Amherst,  to  take  him  from  the 
room  ; another  mandarin  followed  his  example.  His 
lordship,  with  great  firmness  and  dignity  of  manner, 
iihook  them  off,  declaring  that  nothing  but  the  ex- 
tremest  violence  should  induce  him  to  quit  that  room 
for  any  other  place  but  the  residence  assigned  to  him  ; 

* The  buttons,  in  the  order  of  their  rank,  are  as  follows : — 
ruby  red,  worked  conil,  smooth  coral,  pale  blue,  dark  blue, 
crystal,  ivory,  and  gold. 


I’KUATUHK.  MR  Ei.Lis. 


adding  that  he  was  .so  overcome  by  fatigue  and  bodily 
illness  as  absolutely  to  require  repose.  Lord  Am- 
herst further  pointed  out  the  gross  insult  he  had 
already  received,  in  having  been  exposed  to  the  in- 
trusion and  indecent  curiosity  of  crowds,  who  appeared 
to  view  him  rather  as  a wild  beast  than  the  represen- 
tative of  a powerful  sovereign.  At  all  events,  he 
intreated  the  Koong-yay  to  submit  his  request  to  his 
imperial  majesty,  who,  he  felt  confident,  would,  in 
consideration  of  his  illness  and  fatigue,  dispense  with 
his  immediate  appearance.  The  Koong-yay  then 
pressed  Lord  Amherst  to  come  to  his  apartments, 
alleging  that  they  were  cooler,  more  convenient,  and 
more  private.  This  Lord  Amherst  declined,  saying 
that  he  was  totally  unfit  for  any  place  but  his  own 
residence.  The  Koong-yay  having  failed  in  his  at- 
tempt to  persuade  him,  left  the  room  for  the  purpose 
of  taking  the  emperor’s  pleasure  upon  the  subject. 

During  his  ab.sence  an  elderly  man,  who.se  dress 
and  ornaments  bespoke  him  a prince,*  was  particu- 
larly inquisitive  in  his  inspection  of  our  persons  and 
inquiries.  His  chief  object  seemed  to  be  to  commu- 
nicate with  Sir  George  Staunton,  as  the  person  who 
had  been  with  the  former  embassy  ; but  Sir  George 
very  prudently  avoided  any  intercourse  with  him. 
It  is  not  ea-sy  to  describe  the  feelings  of  annoyance 
produced  by  the  conduct  of  the  Chinese,  both  public 
and  individual : of  the  former  I shall  speak  here- 
after ; of  the  latter  I can  only  say  that  nothing  could 
be  more  disagreeable  and  indecorous. 

A message  arrived  soon  after  the  Koong-yay’s  quit- 
ting the  room,  to  say  that  the  emperor  dls])cnsed  with 
the  ambassador’s  attendance  ; that  he  had  further 
been  pleased  to  direct  his  physician  to  aflbrd  to  his 
excellency  every  medical  assistance  that  his  illne.ss 
might  require.  The  Koong-yay  himself  .soon  followed, 
and  his  excellency  proceeded  to  the  carriage.  The 
Koong-yay  not  disdaining  to  clear  aw.ay  the  crowd, 
the  whip  was  used  by  him  to  all  persons  indiscrimi- 
nately ; buttons  were  no  protection  ; and  however 
indecorous,  according  to  our  notion.s,  the  em]iloyment 
might  be  for  a man  of  his  rank,  it  could  not  have 
been  in  better  hands. 

Lord  Amherst  was  generally  condemned  for  re- 
fusing the  proffered  audience.  'The  emperor,  in  dis- 
gust, ordered  them  instantly'  to  set  out  for  Canton, 
which  was  accordingly  done.  'This  embassy  made 
scarcely  any  addition  to  our  knowledge  of  China.  Mb 
.John  Krancis  Davis,  late  chief  superintendent  in 
China,  has  published  two  interesting  works,  which 
give  a full  account  of  this  singular  people,  so  far  as 
known  to  European  visitors.  'These  are,  Ekctc/ies  uj 
China,  partly  during  an  Inland  Journey  of  Four 
Months  between  Pekin,  Nankin,  and  Canton ; and 
The  Chinese : a General  Description  of  the  Empire 
of  China  and  its  Inhabitants.  'The  latter  work  was 
published  in  1836,  but  has  since  been  enl.irged,  and 
the  history  of  British  intercourse  brought  up  to  the 
present  time.  Mr  Davis  resided  tw'enty  years  at 
Canton,  is  perfect  in  the  peculiar  language  of  China, 
and  has  certainly  seen  more  of  its  inhabitants  than 
any  other  English  author.  The  .Tournal  of  Three  V oy 
ages  along  the  Coast  of  China,  in  1831,  1832,  and  1833, 
by  Mr  Gutzlaff,  a German,  is  also  a valuable  work. 
'The  contraband  trade  in  opium  formed  a memorable 
era  in  the  history  of  Chinese  commerce.  It  was 
carried  on  to  a great  extent  with  the  Hong  mer- 
chants ; but  in  1834,  after  the  monopidy  of  the  East 
India  Company  had  been  abolished,  our  government 
appointed  Lord  Napier  to  proceed  to  Canton,  iis 
special  superintendent,  to  adjust  all  dispelled  ques- 
tions among  the  merchants,  and  to  form  regulations 
with  the  provincial  authorities.  The  Chinese,  always 
jealous  of  foreigners,  and  looking  upon  mercantile 

* They  are  distinguished  by  round  badges. 

681 


FROM  17flO  CYCLOP7KDIA  OP  till  the  i resent  tihb. 


einiiloynieiits  as  (icKrailiiiff,  insultwl  our  superiii- 
fendeiit;  hostilities  took  place,  and  trade  was  sus- 
pended. Lord  Napier  took  his  departure  amidst 
cireumstances  of  insult  and  confusion,  and  died  on 
the  nth  of  October  1834.  The  functions  of  super- 
intcmlent  devolved  on  Mr  Davis.  ‘The  Chinese, 
emboldened  by  the  jiacific  temperament  of  our 
government,  proceeded  at  length  to  the  utmost 
e.xtent  ; and  not  satisfied  with  imprisoning  and 
threatening  the  lives  of  the  whole  foreign  commu- 
nity, l.iid  also  violent  hands  on  the  Ilritish  repre- 
sentative himself,  claiming,  as  the  purchase  of  his 
freedom,  the  delivery  of  the  whole  of  the  opium 
then  ill  the  Chinese  waters — property  to  the  amount 
of  upwards  of  two  millions  sterling.  After  a close 
imprisonment  of  two  months’  duration,  during  which 
period  our  eountrymen  were  deprived  of  many  of 
the  necessaries  of  life,  and  exposed  repeatedly,  as 
in  a pillory,  to  the  gaze  and  abuse  of  the  mob,  no 
resource  was  left  but  to  yield  to  the  bold  demands 
of  the  Chinese,  relying  with  confidence  on  their 
nation  for  support  and  redress : nor  did  they  rely 
in  vain  ; for  immediately  the  accounts  of  the  aggres- 
sion reached  London,  preparations  commenced  fur 
the  Chinese  expedition.’*  After  two  years  of  irre- 
gular warfare,  a treaty  of  peace  and  friendship 
between  the  two  empires  was  signed  on  board  her 
majesty’s  ship  Cornwallis,  on  the  29th  of  August 
1842.  This  expedition  gave  rise  to  various  publi- 
cations. Lord  Jocelyn  wrote  a lively  and  inte- 
resting narrative,  entitled  Six  Months  with  the 
Chinese  Expedition  ; and  Commander  J.  Elliot 
Bingh.ym,  K.  N.  a Narrative  of  the  Expedition  to 
China.  Two  Years  in  China,  by  D.  Macpherson, 
M.  1).  relates  the  events  of  the  campaign  from  its 
formation  in  April  1840  to  the  treaty  of  peace  in 
1842.  Doings  in  China,  by  Lieutenant  Alexander 
Murray,  illustrates  the  social  habits  of  the  Chinese. 
The  Last  Year  in  China,  to  the  Peace  of  Nankin,  by 
a P'ield  Officer,  consists  of  extracts  from  letters 
written  to  the  author's  private  friends.  The  Closing 
Events  of  the  Campaign  in  China,  by  Captain  G.  G. 
Loch,  K.  N.  is  one  of  the  best  books  which  the  ex- 
pedition called  forth. 

[Chinese  Ladies'  Fcet.'\ 

[From  Captain  Bingham’s  Narrative.] 

During  our  sUy  we  made  constant  trips  to  the  sur- 
rounding islands  ; in  one  of  which — at  Tea  Island — 
we  had  a good  opportunity  of  minutely  examining  the 
far-famed  little  female  feet.  I had  been  purchasing 
a pretty  little  pair  of  satin  shoes  for  about  half  a dol- 
lar, at  one  of  the  Chinese  farmers’  houses,  where  we 
were  surrounded  by  several  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren. By  signs  we  expressed  a wish  to  see  the  pied 
mignon  of  a really  good-looking  woman  of  the  party. 
Our  signs  were  quickly  understood,  but,  probably  from 
her  being  a matron,  it  was  not  considered  quite  conune 
ilfiut  for  her  to  comply  with  our  desire,  as  she  would 
not  consent  to  show  us  her  foot ; but  a very  pretty  in- 
teresting girl  of  about  sixteen  was  placed  on  a stool 
for  the  purpose  of  gratifying  our  curiosity.  At  first 
she  was  very  bashful,  and  appeared  not  to  like  expos- 
ing her  Cinderella-like  slipper,  but  the  shine  of  a new 
and  very  bright  ‘ loopee’  soon  overcame  her  delicacy, 
when  she  commenced  unwinding  the  upper  bandage 
which  passes  round  the  leg,  and  over  a tongue  that 
comes  up  from  the  heel.  The  shoe  was  then  removed, 
and  the  second  blindage  taken  off,  which  did  duty  for 
a stocking;  the  turns  round  the  toes  and  ankles  being 
very  tight,  and  keeping  all  in  place.  On  the  naked 
foot  being  exposed  to  view,  we  were  agreeably  sur- 
prised by  finding  it  delicately  white  and  clean;  for  we 
lully  expected  to  have  found  it  otherwise,  from  the 
* Maepherson’s  ‘ Two  Years  in  China.’ 


known  habits  of  most  of  the  Chine.se.  The  leg  from 
the  knee  downwards  w.as  much  wasted  ; the  foot  ap- 
peared as  if  broken  up  at  the  instep,  while  the  four 
small  toes  were  bent  flat  and  pre.ssed  down  under  the 
foot,  the  great  toe  only  being  allowed  to  retain  its  na- 
tural position.  By  the  breaking  of  the  instep  a high 
arch  is  formed  between  the  heel  and  the  toe,  enabling 
the  individual  to  step  with  them  on  an  even  surface; 
in  this  respect  materially  diflering  from  the  Canton 
and  Macao  ladies;  for  with  them  the  instep  is  not 
interfered  with,  but  a vei’y  high  heel  is  substituted, 
thus  bringing  the  point  of  the  great  toe  to  the  ground. 
When  our  Canton  compradoie  was  shown  a Chusan 
shoe,  the  exclamation  was,  ‘He  yaw  1 how  can  walkee 
so  fashion  ?’  nor  would  he  be  convinced  that  such  was 
the  case.  The  toes,  doubled  under  the  foot  1 have 
been  describing,  could  only  be  moved  by  the  hand 
sufficiently  to  show  that  they  were  not  actually  grown 
into  tin.  foot.  1 have  often  been  astoni.shed  at  seeing 
how  well  the  women  contrived  to  walk  on  their  tiny 
pedestals.  Their  gait  is  not  unlike  the  little  mincing 
walk  of  the  French  ladies  ; they  were  constantly  to  be 
seen  going  about  without  the  aid  of  any  stick,  and  I 
have  often  seen  them  at  Macao  contending  against  a 
fresh  breeze  with  a tolerably  good-sized  umbrella 
spread.  The  little  children,  as  they  scrambled  away 
before  us,  balanced  themselves  with  their  arms  ex- 
tended, and  reminded  one  much  of  an  old  hen  between 
walking  and  flying.  All  the  women  1 saw  about  Chu- 
san had  small  feet.  It  is  a general  characteristic  of 
true  Chinese  descent  ; and  there  cannot  be  a greater 
mistake  than  to  suppose  that  it  is  confined  to  the 
higher  orders,  though  it  may  be  true  that  they  take 
more  pains  to  compre.ss  the  foot  to  the  smallest  possible 
dimensions  than  the  lower  classes  do.  High  and  low, 
rich  and  poor,  all  more  or  less  follow  the  custom  ; and 
when  you  see  a large  or  natural-sized  foot,  you  may 
depend  upon  it  the  possessor  is  not  of  true  Chinese 
blood,  but  is  either  of  Tartar  extraction,  or  belongs  to 
the  tribes  that  live  and  have  thtir  being  on  the 
waters.  The  Tartar  ladies,  however,  are  falling  into 
this  Chinese  habit  of  distortion,  as  the  accompanying 
edict  of  the  emperor  proves.  ‘ For  know,  good  people, 
you  must  not  dress  as  you  like  in  China.  You  mu.st 
follow'  the  customs  and  habits  of  your  ancestors,  and 
wear  your  winter  and  summer  clothing  as  the  empe- 
ror or  one  of  the  six  boards  shall  direct.’  If  this  were 
the  custom  in  Fingland,  how  beneficial  it  would  be  to 
our  pockets,  and  detrimental  to  the  tailors  and  milli- 
ners. Let  us  now  .see  what  the  emperor  says  about  little 
feet,  on  finding  that  they  were  coming  into  vogue 
among  the  undeformed  daughters  of  the  Mantchows. 
Not  only  does  he  attack  the  little  feet,  but  the  large 
Chinese  sleeves  which  were  creeping  into  fashion  at 
court.  Therefore,  to  check  these  misdemeanours,  the 
usual  Chinese  remedy  was  resorted  to,  and  a flaming 
edict  launched,  denouncing  them ; threatening  th» 
‘heads  of  the  families  with  degradation  and  punish^ 
merit  if  they  did  not  put  a stop  to  such  gross  ille- 
galities;’ and  his  celestial  majesty  further  goes  on 
and  tells  the  fair  ones,  ‘ that  by  persisting  in  their  vul- 
gar habits,  they  will  debar  themselves  from  the  possi- 
bility of  being  selected  as  Ladies  of  honour  for  the  in- 
ner palace  at  the  approaching  presentation  1’  How 
far  this  had  the  desired  eft'ect  I cannot  say.  When 
the  children  begin  to  grow,  they  suffer  excruciating 
pain,  but  as  they  advance  in  years,  their  vanity  is 
played  upon  by  being  assured  that  they  would  be  ex- 
ceedingly ugly  with  large  feet.  Thus  they  are  per- 
suaded to  put  up  with  what  they  consider  a necessary 
evil;  but  the  children  are  remarkably  patient  under 
pain.  A poor  little  child  about  five  years  old  w.as 
brought  to  our  surgeon,  having  been  most  dreadfully 
scalded,  part  of  its  dress  adhering  to  the  skin.  Dur- 
ing the  painful  operation  of  removing  the  linen,  it 
only  now  and  l.heu  said  ‘ he-yaw,  he-yaw.’ 

632 


TRAVKI.I.KllS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


•IK  FRANCIS  HEAD. 


CAPTAIN  RASII.  HAIX. 

Tl'.o  cmhass"  of  Lord  Amherst  to  China  was,  as 
we  liave  related,  eoniparatively  a failure;  but  the 
return  voyaije  was  rkh  both  in  discovery  and  in  ro- 
mantic interest.  The  voya.TC  was  made,  not  along 
the  coast  of  China,  but  by  Corea  and  the  Loo-Choo 
islands,  and  accounts  of  it  were  published  in  1818 
by  M R M ACi.EOi),  surgeon  of  the  Alceste,  and  by  Cap- 
tain Hash,  IIau,  of  the  Lyra.  The  work  of  the 
latter  was  entitled  An  Account  of  a Voyage  of  Disco- 
very to  the  H’est  Coast  of  Corea,  atiti  the  Great  Loo- 
Choo  Island.  In  the  course  of  this  voyage  it  was 
founo  that  a great  part  of  what  had  been  laid  down 
in  the  maps  as  part  of  Corea  consisted  of  an  im- 
mense archipelago  of  small  islands.  The  number  of 
these  was  beyond  calculation ; and  during  a sail  of 
upwards  of  one  hundred  miles,  the  sea  continued 
closely  studded  with  them.  From  one  lofty  point  a 
hundred  and  twenty  appeared  in  sight,  some  with 
waving  woods  and  green  verdant  valleys.  Loo-Choo, 
however,  was  the  most  important,  and  by  far  the 
most  interesting  of  the  parts  touched  upon  by  the 
expedition.  There  the  strange  spectacle  was  pre- 
sented of  a I'eople  ignorant  equally  of  the  use  of  fire- 
arms and  the  use  of  money,  living  in  a state  of  pri- 
mitive seclusion  and  happiness  such  as  resembles 
the  dreams  of  poetry  rather  than  the  realities  of  mo- 
lern  life. 

Captain  Basil  Hall  has  since  distinguished  him- 
self by  the  composition  of  other  books  of  travels, 
written  with  delightful  ease,  spirit,  and  picturesque- 
ness. The  first  of  these  consists  of  Extracts  from  a 
Journal  Written  on  the  Coastsof  Chili,  Peru,  and  Mexico, 
being  the  result  of  his  observations  in  those  countries 
in  1821  and  1822.  South  America  had,  previous  to 
this,  been  seldom  visited,  and  its  countries  were  also 
greater  objects  of  curiosity  and  interest  from  their 
political  condition,  on  the  point  of  emancipation  from 
Spain.  The  next  work  of  Captain  Hall  was  Travels 
in  A vih  America,  in  1827  and  1828,  written  in  a 
more  ambitious  strain  than  his  former  publications, 
and  containing  some  excellent  descriptions  and  re- 
marks, mixed  up  with  political  disquisitions.  This 
was  followed  by  Fragments  of  Voyages  and  Tra- 
vels, addressed  chiefly  to  young  persons,  in  three 
small  volumes ; which  were  so  favourably  received 
that  a second,  and  afterwards  a third  series,  each  in 
three  volumes,  were  given  to  the  public.  A further 
collection  of  these  observations  on  foreign  society, 
scenery,  .and  m.anners,  was  published  by  Captain 
H.all  in  1842,  also  in  three  volumes,  under  the  title 
of  Patchwork. 


MR  H.  D.  INGLIS. 

One  of  the  most  cheerful  .and  unaffected  of  tourists 
and  travellers,  with  a strong  love  of  nature  and  a 
poetical  ini.agin,ation,  was  Mr  Henry  David  Inglis, 
who  died  in  JIareh  1835,  at  the  early  age  of  forty. 
Mr  Inglis  was  the  son  of  a Scottish  advocate.  ' He 
w'as  brought  up  to  commercial  pursuits,  but  his  pas- 
sion for  literature,  and  for  surveying  the  grand  and 
beautiful  in  art  and  nature,  overpowered  his  busi- 
ness habits,  and  led  him  at  once  to  travel  and  to 
write.  Diffident  of  success,  he  assumed  the  nom  de 
guerre  of  Derwent  Conway,  and  under  this  disguise 
he  published  The  Tales  of  Ardennes;  Solitary  Walks 
through  Many  Lands  ; Travels  in  Norway,  Sweden,  and 
Denmark,  1 829  ; and  Switzerland,  the  South  of  France, 
and  the  Pyrenees  in  1830,  1831.  The  two  latter  works 
were  included  in  Constable’s  Miscellany,  and  were 
deservedly  popular.  Mr  Inglis  was  then  engaged  as 
editor  of  a newspaper  at  Chesterfield ; but  tiring  of 


this,  he  again  repaired  to  the  continent,  and  visited 
the  Tyrol  and  Spain.  His  travels  in  both  countries 
were  imblished;  and  one  of  the  volumes — Syain  in 
1830 — is  the  best  of  all  his  works.  He  next  jiroduced 
a novel  descriptive  of  Spanish  life,  entitled  The  New 
Gil  Bias,  but  it  was  unsuccessful — probably  owing  to 
the  very  title  of  the  work,  which  raised  expectations, 
or  suggested  comparisons,  unfavourable  to  the  new 
aspirant.  After  conducting  a newspaper  for  some 
time  in  Jersey,  Mr  Inglis  published  an  account  of  the 
Channel  Islands,  marked  by  the  easy  grace  tind  jiic- 
turesque  charm  that  pervade  all  his  writings.  Ho 
next  made  a tour  through  Ireland,  and  wrote  his 
valuable  work  (remarkable  for  impartiality  no  less 
th.an  talent)  entitled  Ireland  in  1834.  His  last  work 
was  Travels  in  the  Footsteps  of  Don  Quixote,  published 
in  parts  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine. 


SIR  FRANCIS  HEAD. 

Sir  Francis  Head  has  written  two  very  lively 
and  interesting  books  of  travels — Rough  Notes  taken 
during  some  Rapid  .Journeys  across  the  Pampas,  1826  ; 
and  Bubbles  from  the  Brunnens  of  Nassau,  1833.  The 
Pampas  described  is  an  immense  plain,  stretching 
w-esterly  from  Buenos  Ayres  to  the  feet  of  the  Andes. 
The  following  extract  illustrates  the  graphic  style  of 
Sir  Francis  : — 

[Description  of  the  Pampas.^ 

The  great  plain,  or  Pampas,  on  the  east  of  the  Cor- 
dillera, is  about  nine  hundred  miles  in  breadth,  and 
the  part  which  I have  visited,  though  under  the  same 
latitude,  is  divided  into  regions  of  difi'erent  climate 
and  produce.  On  leaving  Buenos  Ayres,  the  first  of 
these  regions  is  covered  for  one  hundred  and  eighty 
miles  with  clover  and  thistles;  the  second  region, 
which  extends  for  four  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  pro- 
duces long  grass  ; and  the  third  region,  which  reaches 
the  base  of  the  Cordillera,  is  a grove  of  low  trees  and 
shrubs.  The  second  and  third  of  these  regions  have 
nearly  the  same  appearance  throughout  the  year,  for 
the  trees  and  shrubs  are  evergreens,  and  the  immense 
plain  of  grass  only  changes  its  colour  from  green  to 
brown  ; but  the  first  region  varies  with  the  four  sea- 
sons of  the  year  in  a most  extraordinary  manner.  In 
winter  the  leaves  of  the  thistles  are  large  and  luxu- 
riant, and  the  whole  surface  of  the  country  has  the 
rough  appearance  of  a turnip  field.  The  clover  in  this 
season  is  extremely  rich  and  strong ; and  the  sight  of 
the  wild  cattle  grazing  in  full  liberty  on  such  pasture 
is  very  beautiful.  In  spring  the  clover  has  vanished, 
the  leaves  of  the  thistles  have  extended  along  the 
ground,  and  the  country  still  looks  like  a rough  crop 
of  turnips.  In  less  than  a month  the  change  is  most 
extraordinary  : the  whole  region  becomes  a luxuriant 
wood  of  enormous  thistles,  which  have  suddenly  shot  up 
to  a height  of  ten  or  eleven  feet,  and  are  all  in  full 
bloom.  The  road  or  path  is  hemmed  in  on  both  sides  ; 
the  view  is  completely  obstructed ; not  an  animal  is 
to  be  seen  ; and  the  stems  of  the  thistles  are  .so  close 
to  each  other,  and  so  strong,  that,  independent  of  the 
prickles  with  which  they  are  armed,  they  form  an  im- 
penetrable barrier.  The  sudden  growth  of  these  plants 
is  quite  astonishing;  and  though  it  would  be  an  un- 
usual misfortune  in  military  history,  yet  it  is  really 
possible  that  an  invading  army,  unacquainted  with 
this  country,  might  be  imprisoned  by  these  thistles 
before  it  had  time  to  escape  from  them.  The  summer 
is  not  over  before  the  scene  undergoes  another  rapid 
change;  the  thistles  suddenly  lose  their  sap  and  ver- 
dure, their  heads  droop,  the  leaves  shrink  and  fade, 
the  stems  become  black  and  dead,  and  they  remain 
rattling  with  the  breeze  one  against  another,  until  the 

683 


PROM  1780 


CYCLOP^:UIA  OF 


violence  of  the  i)ami)cro  or  hurricane  levels  them 
with  tlie  gionnd,  where  they  rapidly  decompose  and 
disap[)car—  the  clover  rushes  uj),  and  the  scene  is 
again  vet  dan  t. 

H.  SIMOND. 

>r.  SiMOND,  a French  author,  who,  by  familiarity 
with  our  language  and  country,  wrote  in  English  as 
well  as  in  his  native  tongue,  published  in  1822  a 
work  in  two  volumes  — Stvilzerlund ; or  a Journal  of 
a Tour  and  Residmee  in  that  Country  in  the  Years 
1817,  1818,  and  1819.  SI.  Siniond  had  previously 
written  a similar  work  on  Great  llritain,  and  both 
are  far  superior  to  the  style  of  ordinary  tourists. 
AVe  subjoin  his  account  of  a 

[5«;iss  Mountain  and  Avalanche.'] 

After  nearly  five  hour.s’  toil,  we  reached  a chalet  on 
the  top  of  the  mountain  (the  Wingernalp).  This 
summer  habitation  of  the  shepherds  was  still  unoc- 
cupied ; for  the  snow  having  been  unusually  deep  last 
winter,  and  the  grass,  till  lately  covered,  being  still 
very  short,  the  cows  have  not  ventured  so  high.  Here 
we  resolved  upon  a halt,  and  having  implements  for 
striking  fire,  a few  dry  sticks  gave  us  a cheerful  blaze 
in  the  open  air.  A pail  of  cream,  or  at  least  of  very 
rich  milk,  was  brought  up  by  the  shepherds,  with  a 
kettle  to  make  coif'ee  and  afterwards  boil  the  milk  ; 
very  large  wooden  spoons  or  ladles  answered  the  pur- 
pose of  cups.  'I'he  stock  of  provisions  we  had  brought 
was  spread  upon  the  very  low  roof  of  the  chalet,  being 
the  best  station  for  our  repas  chanipctre,  as  it  ailbrded 
dry  seats  sloping  convenieiitly  towards  the  prospect. 
We  had  then  before  us  the  Jungfrau,  the  two  Eigers, 
and  some  of  the  highe.st  summits  in  the  Alps,  shooting 
up  from  an  uninterrupted  level  of  glaciers  of  more 
than  two  hundred  square  miles;  and  although  placed 
ourselves  four  thou.sand  five  hundred  feet  above  the 
lake  of  Thun,  and  that  lake  one  thousand  seven  hun- 
dred and  eighty  feet  above  the  sea,  the  mighty  ram- 
part rose  still  six  thousand  feet  above  our  head.  Be- 
tween us  and  the  Jungfrau  the  de.sert  valley  of  Trum- 
latenthal  formed  a deep  trench,  into  which  avalanches 
fell,  with  scarcely  a quarter  of  an  hour’s  interval  be- 
tween them,  followed  by  a thundering  noise  continued 
along  the  whole  range  ; not,  however,  a reverberation 
of  sound,  for  echo  is  mute  under  the  universal  wind- 
ing-sheet of  snow,  but  a prolongation  of  .souml,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  successive  rents  or  fissures  forming 
themselves  when  some  large  section  of  the  glacier 
slides  down  one  step. 

We  sometimes  saw  a blue  line  suddenly  drawn 
across  a field  of  pure  white;  then  another  above  it, 
and  another  all  parallel,  and  attended  each  time  with 
a loud  crash  like  cannon,  producing  together  the  effect 
^f  long-protracted  peals  of  thunder.  At  other  times 
>ome  portion  of  the  vast  field  of  snow,  or  rather  snowy 
ice,  gliding  gently  away,  exposed  to  view  a new  .sur- 
face of  purer  white  than  the  first,  and  the  cast-off 
drapery  gathering  in  long  folds,  either  fell  at  once 
down  the  precipice,  or  disappeared  behind  some  inter- 
vening ridge,  which  the  sameness  of  colour  rendered 
invisible,  and  was  again  seen  soon  after  in  another 
dirc'-tion,  shooting  out  of  some  narrow  channel  a cata- 
ract of  white  du.st,  which,  observed  through  a tele- 
scope, wa.s,  however,  found  to  be  composed  of  broken 
fragments  of  ice  or  compact  .snow,  many  of  them  suffi- 
cient to  overwhelm  a village,  if  there  had  been  any  in 
the  valley  where  they  fell.  Seated  on  the  chalet’s 
roof,  the  ladies  forgot  they  were  cold,  wet,  bruised, 
and  hungry,  and  the  cup  of  smoking  cafe  au  lait  stood 
still  in  their  hand  while  waiting  in  breathless  sus- 
pense for  the  next  avalancne,  wondering  equally  at 
the  death-like  sTence  intervening  between  each,  and 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


the  thundering  crash  which  followed.  I must  own, 
that  while  we  shut  our  ears,  the  mere  sight  might 
dwindle  down  to  the  effect  of  a fall  of  snow'  from  the 
roof  of  a hou.se  ; but  when  the  potent  sound  was  heard 
along  the  whole  range  of  many  miles,  when  the  time 
of  awful  suspense  between  the  fall  and  the  crash  wa# 
measured,  the  imagination,  taking  flight,  outstrijipcd 
all  bounds  at  once,  and  went  beyond  the  mighty  reality 
itself.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say  where  the  creative 
powers  of  imagination  stop,  even  the  coldest ; for  our 
common  feelings — our  gro.ssest  sensations— are  infi- 
nitely indebted  to  them  ; and  man,  without  his  fancy, 
would  not  have  the  energy  of  the  dulle.st  animal.  Yet 
we  feel  more  pleasure  and  more  pride  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  another  treasure  of  the  breast,  which  tames  the 
flight  of  this  same  imagination,  and  brings  it  back  to 
sober  reality  and  plain  truth. 

When  we  first  ai>proach  the  Alps,  their  bulk, 
their  stability,  and  duration,  compared  to  our  own  in- 
considerable size,  fragility,  and  shortness  of  davs, 
strikes  our  imagination  with  terror;  while  reason, 
unappallcd,  measuring  these  masses,  calculating  their 
elevation,  analysing  their  substance,  finds  in  them 
only  a little  inert  matter,  scarcely  forming  a wrinkle 
on  the  face  of  our  earth,  that  earth  an  iiderior  planet 
in  the  solar  system,  and  that  system  one  only  among 
myriads,  placed  at  distances  whose  very  incommen- 
surability is  in  a manner  measured.  What,  again, 
are  those  giants  of  the  Alps,  and  their  duration — those 
revolvingworld.s — that  space — the  universe — com]>arcd 
to  the  intellectual  faculty  capable  of  bringing  the 
whole  fabric  into  the  compass  of  a single  thought, 
where  it  is  all  curiously  and  accurately  delineated ! 
How  superior,  again,  the  exercise  of  that  faculty,  when, 
rising  from  effects  to  causes,  and  judging  by  analogy 
of  things  as  yet  unknown  by  those  we  know,  we  are 
taught  to  look  into  futurity  for  a better  state  of  exis- 
tence, and  in  the  hope  itself  find  new  reason  to  hope! 

We  were  shown  an  inaccessible  shelf  of  rock  cn  the 
west  side  of  the  Jungfrau,  upon  which  a laiumergeyer 
(the  vulture  of  lambs)  once  alighted  with  an  infant  it 
had  carried  away  from  the  village  of  IMurren,  situated 
above  the  Staubbach ; .some  red  scraps,  remnants  of 
the  child’s  clothes,  were  for  years  observed,  says  the 
tradition,  on  the  fatal  spot. 


MARQUIS  OF  LONDONDERRY — MR  JOHN  BARROW 

REV.  MR  VENABLES. 

Since  the  publication  of  Dr  Clarke’s  first  volume, 
in  which  he  gave  a view  of  Ivussia,  that  vast  and  in 
many  respects  interesting  country  has  been  visited 
by  various  Englishmen,  who  have  given  their  obser- 
vations upon  it  to  the  world.  Amongst  the  books 
thus  produced,  one  of  the  most  amusing  is  llecollec- 
tions  of  a Tour  in  the  North  of  Europe,  1838,  l>y  the 
Marquis  of  Londonderuv.  whose  rank  and  poli- 
tical character  were  the  means  of  introducing  him 
to  many  circles  closed  to  other  tourists.  IMii  John 
Barrow,  junior,  son  of  the  gentleman  already  men- 
tioned as  author  of  a work  on  China,  and  who  has, 
during  the  last  few  years,  devoted  some  portffin  of 
his  time  to  travelling,  is  the  author,  besides  works 
on  Ireland  and  on  Iceland,  of  Excursions  in  the  North 
of  Europe,  throuyh  parts  of  Russia,  Einland,  ^c. 
1834.  He  is  invariably  found  to  be  a cheerful  and 
intelligent  companion,  without  attempting  to  be 
very  profound  or  elaborate  on  any  subject.  Domestic 
Scenes  in  Ru.ssia,  by  the  Kev.  JIr  Venabi.es,  1839, 
is  an  unpretending  but  highly  interesting  view  of 
the  interior  life  of  the  country.  Mr  Venables  was 
married  to  a Hussian  lady,  and  he  went  to  pass  a 
winter  with  her  relations,  when  he  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  the  daily  life  and  social  liabits  of 
the  people.  We  give  a few  descriptive  sentences  : — 

684 


TRAVELLF.BS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL  LAi:»0. 


{^liwssian  Peasants'  Houses.] 

These  houses  are  in  general  extremely  warm  and 
substantial  ; they  are  built,  for  the  most  part,  of  un- 
squared logs  of  deal  laid  one  upon  another,  and 
firmly  secured  at  the  corners  where  the  ends  of  the 
timbers  cross,  and  are  hollowed  out  so  as  to  receive 
and  hold  one  another  ; they  are  also  fastened  together 
by  wooden  pins  and  uprights  in  the  interior.  The 
four  corners  are  supported  upon  large  stones  or  roots 
of  trees,  so  that  there  is  a current  of  air  under  the 
floor  to  preserve  the  timber  from  damp  ; in  the  win- 
ter, earth  is  piled  up  all  round  to  exclude  the  cold; 
the  interstices  between  the  logs  are  stuffed  with  moss 
and  clay,  so  that  no  air  can  enter.  The  windows  are 
very  small,  and  are  frequently  cut  out  of  the  wooden 
wall  after  it  is  finished.  In  the  centre  of  the  house 
is  a stove  called  a peech  [pechka],  which  heats  the 
cottage  to  an  almost  unbearable  degree  ; the  warmth, 
however,  which  a Russian  peasant  loves  to  enjoy 
within  doors,  is  proportioned  to  the  cold  which  he  is 
required  to  .support  without ; his  bed  is  the  top  of 
his  pccch  ; and  when  he  enters  his  house  in  the  winter 
pierced  with  cold,  he  throws  off  his  sheepskin  coat, 
stretches  himself  on  his  stove,  and  is  thoroughly 
warmed  in  a few  minutes. 

[^Employments  of  the  People.] 

The  riches  of  the  Russian  gentleman  lie  in  the 
labour  of  his  serfs,  which  it  is  his  study  to  turn  to 
good  account ; and  he  is  the  more  urged  to  this,  since 
the  law  which  compels  the  peasant  to  work  for  him, 
requires  him  to  maintain  the  peasant;  if  the  latter 
is  found  begging,  the  former  is  liable  to  a fine.  He 
is  therefore  a master  who  must  always  keep  a certain 
number  of  workmen,  w'hether  they  are  useful  to  him 
or  not;  and  as  every  kind  of  agricultural  and  out- 
door employment  is  at  a stand  still  during  the  win- 
ter, he  naturally  turns  to  the  establishment  of  a 
manufactory  as  a means  of  employing  his  peasants, 
and  ius  a source  of  profit  to  himself.  In  some  cases 
the  m.anufictory  is  at  work  only  during  the  winter, 
and  the  people  are  employed  in  the  summer  in  agri- 
culture ; though,  beyond  what  is  necessary  for  home 
consumption,  tliis  is  but  an  unprofitable  trade  in  most 
parts  of  this  empire,  from  the  badness  of  roads,  the 
paucity  and  distance  of  markets,  and  the  consequent 
difficulty  in  selling  produce. 

The  alternate  employment  of  the  same  man  in  the 
field  and  in  the  factory,  which  would  be  attempted 
■n  most  countries  with  little  success,  is  here  rendered 
practicable  and  easy  by  the  versatile  genius  of  the 
Rus.sian  peasant,  one  of  whose  leading  national 
characteristics  is  a general  capability  of  turning  his 
hand  to  any  kind  of  work  which  he  may  be  required 
to  undertake.  He  will  plough  to-day,  weave  to-mor- 
row, help  to  build  a house  the  third  day,  and  the 
fourth,  if  his  master  needs  an  extra  coachman,  he 
will  mount  the  box  and  drive  four  horses  abreast  as 
though  it  were  his  daily  occupation.  It  is  probable 
that  none  of  these  operations,  except,  perhaps,  the  last, 
will  be  as  well  performed  as  in  a country  where  the 
division  of  labour  is  more  thoroughly  understood. 
They  will  all,  however,  be  sufficiently  well  done  to 
serve  the  turn — a favourite  phrase  in  Russia.  These 
people  are  a very  ingenious  race,  but  perseverance  is 
wanting ; and  though  they  will  carry  many  arts  to  a 
high  degree  of  excellence,  they  will  generally  stop 
short  of  the  point  of  perfection,  and  it  will  be  long 
before  their  manufactures  can  rival  the  finish  and 
durability  of  English  goods. 

Etcuts'w/is  in  the  Interior  of  Russia,  b}'  Robert 
Bre.mner,  Esq.  two  volumes,  1839,  is  a very  spirited 
and  graphic  narrative  of  a short  visit  to  Russia 
during  the  autumn  of  1836.  The  author’s  sketches 


of  the  interior  are  valuable,  for,  as  he  remarks, 
‘even  in  the  present  day,  when  the  passion  for 
travel  has  become  so  universal,  and  thousands  of 
miles  arc  thought  as  little  of  as  hundreds  were  some 
years  ago,  the  number  of  Englishmen  who  venture 
to  the  south  of  Moscow  seldom  exceeds  one  or  two 
every  year.’  Mr  Breniner  is  a lively  scene-painter, 
and  there  is  great  freshness  and  vigour  about  all 
his  descriptions.  The  same  author  has  published 
Excursions  in  Denmark,  Norway,  and  Ewedeyi,  two 
volumes,  1840.  Before  parting  from  Russia,  it  may 
be  observed  that  no  English  book  upon  that  country 
exceeds  in  interest  A Residence  on  the  Shores  of  the 
Baltic,  Described  in  a Series  of  Letters  (1841),  being 
more  particularly  an  account  of  the  Estonians,  whose 
simple  character  and  habits  afford  a charming  pic- 
ture. This  delightful  book  is  understood  to  be  from 
the  pen  of  a young  lady’  named  Rigby. 

The  most  ob^ervant  and  reflecting  of  all  the  writ- 
ing travellers  of  our  !ige  is  undoubtedly  Mr  Sam  cel 
Laing,  a younger  brother  of  the  author  of  the  His- 
tory of  Scotland  during  the  seventeenth  century. 
This  gentleman  did  not  begin  to  i>ublish  till  a mature 
period  of  life,  his  first  work  being  a Residence  in 
Norway,  and  the  second  a Tour  in  Sweden,  both  of 
which  abound  in  valuable  statistical  facts  and  well- 
digested  information.  Mr  Laing  resided  two  years 
in  different  parts  of  Norwtiy,  and  concluded  that 
the  Norwegians  were  the  happiest  people  in  Europe. 
Their  lamied  property  is  so  extensively  diffused  in 
small  estates,  that  out  of  a ])opulation  of  a million 
there  are  about  41,656  ])roprietors.  There  is  no 
law  of  primogeniture,  yet  the  estates  are  not  sub- 
divided into  minute  possessions,  but  average  from 
forty  to  sixty  acres  of  arable  land,  with  adjoining 
natural  wood  and  pasturage. 

‘ The  Bonder,  or  agricultural  peasantry,’  says  Ml 
Laing,  ‘ each  the  proju  ietor  of  hi.s  own  farm,  occupy 
the  country  from  the  shore  side  to  the  hill  foot,  and 
up  every  valley  or  glen  as  far  as  corn  can  grow.  This 
cla.ss  is  the  kernel  of  the  nation.  They  are  in  general 
fine  athletic  men,  as  their  properties  are  not  so  large 
as  to  exempt  them  from  work,  but  large  enough  to 
afford  them  and  their  household  abundance,  and  even 
superfluity,  of  the  best  food.  They  farm  not  to  raise 
produce  for  sale,  .so  much  as  to  grow  everything  they 
eat,  drink,  and  wear  in  their  families.  They  build 
their  own  houses,  make  their  own  chairs,  tables, 
ploughs,  carts,  harness,  iron-work,  basket-work,  and 
wood-work  ; in  short,  except  window-gla.ss,  cast-iron 
w'are  and  pottery,  everything  about  their  hou.ses  and 
furniture  is  of  their  own  fabrication.  There  is  not 
probably  in  Europe  so  great  a population  in  sj  happy 
a condition  as  these  Norwegian  yeomanry.  A body 
of  small  proprietors,  each  with  his  thirty  or  forty 
acres,  scarcely  exists  el.sewhere  in  Europe  ; or,  if  it 
can  be  found,  it  is  under  the  shadow  of  some  nore 
imposing  body  of  wealthy  proprietors  or  commercial 
men.  Here  they  are  the  highest  men  in  the  nation. 
* * The  settlers  in  the  newer  states  of  America, 

and  in  our  colonies,  possess  i)roperties  of  probably 
about  the  same  extent ; but  they  have  roads  to  make, 
lands  to  clear,  hou.ses  to  build,  and  the  work  that 
has  been  doing  here  for  a thousand  years  to  do,  before 
they  can  be  in  the  same  condition.  These  Norwegian 
proprietors  are  in  a happier  condition  than  those  in 
the  older  states  of  America,  because  they  are  not  so 
much  influenced  by  the  spirit  of  gain.  They  farm 
their  little  estates,  and  consume  the  produce,  without 
seeking  to  barter  or  sell,  except  what  is  necessary 
for  paying  their  taxes  and  the  few  articles  of  luxury 
they  consume.  There  is  no  money-getting  spirit 
among  them,  and  none  of  extravagance.  They  enjoy 
the  comforts  of  excellent  houses,  as  good  and  large  as 
those  of  the  wealthiest  individuals ; good  furniture, 

685 


rnoM  1780  CYCLOP-fliDIA  OF  till  the  pr'jsent  iime. 


bedding,  linen,  clothing,  fuel,  victuals,  and  drink, 
all  in  abundance,  and  of  their  own  providing;  good 
horses,  and  a houseful  of  peo])le  who  have  more  food 
than  work.  Food,  furniture,  and  clothing  being  all 
home-made,  the  dilFerence  in  the.se  matters  between 
the  family  and  tin;  servants  is  very  small ; but  there 
is  a perfect  distinction  kept  up.  The  servants  in- 
variably eat,  sleep,  and  sit  apart  from  the  family, 
and  have  generally  a distinct  building  adjoining  to 
the  family  house.’ 

The  neighbouring  country  of  Sweden  appears  to 
be  in  a much  worse  condition,  and  the  people  are 
described  as  highly  immoral  and  depraved.  By  the 
returns  from  1830  to  1834,  one  person  in  every 
forty-nine  of  the  inhabitants  of  tlie  towns,  and  one 
in  every  one  hundred  and  seventy-six  of  the  rural 
population,  had  been  punished  each  year  for  crimi- 
nal otfences.  The  state  of  female  morals,  particu- 
larly in  the  capital  of  Stockholm,  is  worse  than  in 
any  other  European  state.  Yet  in  Sweden  education 
is  widely  diffused,  and  literature  is  not  neglected. 
The  nobility  are  described  by  Mr  Laing  as  sunk  in 
debt  and  poverty;  yet  the  people  are  vain  of  idle 
distinctions,  and  the  order  of  burgher  nobility  is 
as  numerous  as  in  some  of  the  German  states. 

‘ Every  man,’  he  s.ays,  ‘ belongs  to  a privileged  or 
licemsed  class  or  corporation,  of  which  every  member 
is  by  law  entitled  to  be  secured  and  protected  within 
his  own  locality  from  such  competition  or  interference 
of  others  in  the  same  calling  as  would  injure  his 
means  of  living.  It  is,  consequently,  not  as  with  us, 
upon  his  industry,  ability,  character,  and  moral 
worth  that  the  employment  and  daily  bread  of  the 
tradesman,  and  the  .social  influence  and  consideration 
of  the  individual,  in  every  rank,  even  the  highest, 
almost  entirely  depends  ; it  is  here,  in  the  middle 
and  low'er  classes,  upon  corporate  rights  and  privi- 
leges, or  upon  license  obtained  from  government ; and 
in  the  higher,  upon  birth  and  court  or  govenunent 
favour.  Public  estimation,  gained  by  character  and 
conduct  in  the  several  relations  of  life,  is  not  a neces- 
sary element  in  the  social  condition  even  of  the 
working  tradesman.  Like  soldiers  in  a regiment,  a 
great  proportion  of  the  people  under  this  social  system 
derive  their  estimation  among  others,  and  conse- 
quently their  owm  self-esteem,  not  from  their  moral 
worth,  but  from  their  professional  standing  and  im- 
portance. This  evil  is  inherent  in  all  privileged 
classes,  but  is  concealed  or  compensated  in  the  higher, 
the  nobility,  military,  and  clergy,  by  the  sense  of 
honour,  of  religion,  and  by  education.  In  the  middle 
and  lower  walks  of  life  those  influences  are  weaker, 
while  the  temptations  to  immorality  are  stronger  ; and 
the  placing  a man’s  livelihood,  prosperity,  and  social 
consideration  in  his  station  upon  other  grounds  than 
on  his  own  industry  and  moral  worth,  is  a demo- 
ralising evil  in  the  very  structure  of  Swedish  society.’ 

Mr  Laing  has  mere  recently  presented  a volume 
entitled  Notes  of  a Traveller,  full  of  valuable  obser- 
vation and  thought. 

Travels  in  Circassia  and  Kritn  Tartary,  by  Mr 
Spencer,  author  of  a w-ork  on  ‘ Germany  and  the 
Germans,’  two  volumes,  1837,  was  hailed  with 
peculiar  satisfaction,  as  affording  information  re- 
specting a brave  mountainous  tribe  who  have  long 
warred  with  Russia  to  preserve  their  national  inde- 
pendence. They  appear  to  be  a simple  people,  with 
feudal  laws  and  customs,  never  intermarrying  with 
any  race  except  their  own.  Farther  information 
was  afforded  of  the  habits  of  the  Circassians  by  the 
Journal  of  a Residence  in  Circassia  during  the  years 
1837,  1838,  and  1839,  by  Mr  J.  S.  Bell.  This  gentle- 
man resided  in  Circassia  in  the  character  of  agent 
W envoy  from  England,  which,  however,  was  partly 


assumed.  lie  acted  also  as  pliysician,  and  seems 
generally  to  have  been  received  with  kindness  and 
confidence.  The  popul.ition,  according  to  Mr  Bell, 
is  divided  into  fraternities,  like  the  tithings  or 
hundreds  in  England  during  the  time  of  the  Saxons. 
Criminal  offences  are  punished  by  fines  levied  on  the 
fraternity,  that  for  homicide  being  200  oxen.  The 
guerilla  warfare  which  the  Circas.sians  have  carried 
on  against  Russia,  marks  tl«iir  indomitable  spirit  and 
love  of  country,  but  it  must,  of  course,  retard  civili- 
sation. 

A Winter  in  the  Azores,  and  a Summer  at  the  Baths 
of  the  Furnas,  by  Joseph  Bullar,  M.D.  and  JohS 
Bui.lar  of  Lincoln’s  Inn,  two  volumes,  1841,  fur- 
nish some  light  agreeable  notices  of  the  islands  of 
the  Azores,  under  the  dominion  of  Portugal,  from 
which  they  are  distant  about  800  miles.  This 
archipelago  contains  about  2.50,000  inhabitants.  St 
Michael’s  is  the  largest  town,  and  there  is  a con- 
siderable trade  in  oranges  betwixt  it  and  England. 
About  120,000  large  and  small  chests  of  oranges 
were  shipped  for  England  in  1839,  and  315  boxes  of 
lemons.  These  particulars  will  serve  to  introduce 
a passage  respecting 

[The  Cultivation  of  the  Orange,  and  Gathering 
the  Frui'L] 

March  26. — Accomp.anied  Senhor  B to  several 

of  his  orange  gardens  in  the  town.  Many  of  the  trees 
in  one  garden  were  a hundred  years  old,  still  bearing 
plentifully  a highly-prized  thin-skinned  orange,  full 
of  juice  and  free  from  pips,  'fhe  thinness  of  the  rind 
of  a St  Michael’s  orange,  and  its  freedom  from  pips, 
depend  on  the  age  of  the  tree.  The  }’oung  trees,  when 
in  full  vigour,  bear  fruit  with  a thick  pulpy  rind  and 
an  abundance  of  seeds  ; but  as  the  vigour  of  the  plant 
declines,  the  peel  becomes  thinner,  and  the  seeds  gra- 
dually diminish  in  number,  until  they  disappear 
altogether.  Thus,  the  oranges  that  we  esteem  the 
most  are  the  produce  of  barren  trees,  and  those  which 
we  consider  the  least  palatable  come  from  plants  in 
full  vigour. 

Our  friend  was  Increasing  the  number  of  his  trees 
by  layers.  These  usually  take  root  at  the  end  of  two 
years.  They  are  then  cut  off  from  the  parent  stem, 
and  are  vigorous  young  trees  four  feet  high.  Tho 
process  of  raising  from  .seed  is  seldom  if  ever  adopted 
in  the  Azores,  on  account  of  the  very  slow  growth  of 
the  trees  so  raised.  Such  plants,  however,  are  far 
less  liable  to  the  inroads  of  a worm  which  attacks  the 
roots  of  the  trees  raised  from  layers,  and  frequently 
proves  very  destructive  to  them.  The  seed  or  ‘ pip’  of 
the  acid  orange,  which  we  call  Seville,  with  the 
sweeter  kind  grafted  upon  it,  is  said  to  produce  fruit 
of  the  finest  flavour.  In  one  small  garden  eight  trees 
were  pointed  out  which  had  borne  for  two  successive 
years  a crop  of  oranges  which  was  sold  for  thirty 
pounds.  * * 

The  treatment  of  orange-trees  in  Fayal  differs  from 
that  in  St  Michael’s,  where,  after  they  are  planted 
out,  they  are  allowed  to  grow  as  they  please.  In  this 
orange-garden  the  branches,  by  means  of  strings  and 
pegs  fixed  in  the  ground,  were  .strained  away  from  the 
centre  into  the  shape  of  a cup,  or  of  the  ribs  of  an  open 
umbrella  turned  upside  down.  This  allows  the  sun 
to  penetrate,  exposes  the  branches  to  a free  circula- 
tion of  air,  and  is  said  to  be  of  use  in  ripening  the 
fruit.  Certain  it  is  that  oranges  are  exported  from 
Fayal  several  weeks  earlier  than  they  are  from  St 
Michael’s  ; and  as  this  cannot  be  attributed  togreatei 
warmth  of  climate,  it  may  possibly  be  owing  to  the 
plan  of  spreading  the  trees  to  the  sun.  The  .same 
precautions  are  taken  here  as  in  St  Michael’s  t"" 
shield  them  from  the  winds ; high  walls  are  builj 
round  all  the  gardens,  and  the  trees  themselves  ar« 

6.Sf> 


tRAVF.LLEnS. 


ENGLISH  LITKllATURE.  ceorge  coMBi 


plniited  among  rows  of  fayas,  fus,  anJ  camphor-ti't'es. 
If  it  were  not  for  these  precautions,  tlie  oranges 
would  be  blown  down  in  such  numbers  ns  to  interfere 
with  or  swallow  up  the  profits  of  the  gardens  ; none  of 
the  windfalls  or  ‘ground-fruit,’  as  the  merchants 
here  call  them,  being  exported  to  England.  * * 

Suddenly  we  came  upon  merry  groups  of  men  and 
boys,  all  busily  engaged  in  packing  oranges,  in  a 
square  and  open  plot  of  ground.  They  were  gathered 
round  a goodly  pile  of  the  fresh  fruit,  sitting  on  heaps 
of  the  dry  calyx-leaves  of  the  Indian  corn,  in  which 
each  orange  is  wrapped  before  it  is  placed  in  the 
boxes.  Near  the.se  circles  of  laughing  Azoreans,  who 
sat  at  their  work  and  kept  up  a continual  cross-fire  of 
rapid  repartee  as  they  quickly  filled  the  orange-cases, 
were  a party  of  children,  whose  business  it  was  to  pre- 
pare the  husks  for  the  men,  who  used  them  in  pack- 
ing. These  youngsters,  who  were  playing  at  their 
work  like  the  children  of  a larger  growth  that  sat  by 
their  side,  were  ivith  much  difficulty  kept  in  order  by 
an  elderly  man,  who  shook  his  head  and  a long  stick 
whenever  they  flagged  or  idled.  * * 

A quantity  of  the  leaves  being  heaped  together 
near  the  packers,  the  operation  began.  A child 
handed  to  a workman  who  squatted  by  the  heap  of 
fruit  a prepared  husk ; this  was  rapidly  snatched 
from  the  child,  wrapped  round  the  orange  by  an  in- 
termediate workman,  passed  by  the  feeder  to  the  next, 
ivho  (sitting  with  the  chest  between  his  legs)  placed 
it  in  the  orange-box  with  amazing  rapidity,  took  a 
second,  and  a third,  and  a fourth  as  fast  as  his  hands 
could  move  and  the  feeders  could  supply  him,  until 
at  length  the  chest  was  filled  to  overflowing,  and  was 
ready  to  be  nailed  up.  Two  men  then  handed  it  to  the 
carpenter,  who  bent  over  the  orange-chest  several  thin 
boards,  secured  them  with  the  willow  band,  pressed 
it  with  his  naked  foot  as  he  sawed  off  the  ragged  ends 
of  the  boards,  and  finally  despatched  it  to  the  ass 
which  stood  ready  for  lading.  Two  chests  were  slung 
across  his  back  by  means  of  cords  crossed  in  a figure  of 
eight ; both  were  well  secured  by  straps  under  his 
belly,  the  driver  took  his  goad,  pricked  his  beast,  and 
uttering  the  never-ending  cry  ‘ Sackaaio,’  trudged  off 
to  the  town. 

The  orange-trees  in  this  garden  cover  the  sides  of  a 
glen  or  ravine,  like  that  of  the  Dargle,  but  somewhat 
less  steep ; they  are  of  some  age,  and  have  lost  the 
stiff  clumpy  form  of  the  younger  trees.  Some  idea  of 
the  rich  beauty  of  the  scene  may  be  formed  by  ima- 
gining the  trees  of  the  Dargle  to  be  magnificent  shrubs 
loaded  with  orange  fruit,  and  mixed  with  lofty  arbu- 
tuses— 

Groves  whose  rich  fruit,  humished  with  golden  rind, 

Uung  amiable,  and  of  delicious  taste. 

In  one  part  scores  of  children  were  scattered  among 
the  branches,  gathering  fruit  into  small  baskets, 
hallooing,  laughing,  practically  joking,  and  finally 
emptying  their  gatherings  into  the  larger  baskets 
underneath  the  trees,  which,  when  filled,  were  slowly- 
borne  away  to  the  packing-place,  and  bowled  out  upon 
the  great  heap.  Many  large  orange-trees  on  the  steep 
sides  of  the  glen  lay  on  the  ground  uprooted,  either 
from  their  load  of  fruit,  the  high  wind.s,  or  the  weight 
of  the  boys,  four,  five,  and  even  six  of  whom  will 
climb  the  branches  at  the  same  time ; and  as  the  soil 
is  very  light,  and  the  roots  are  superficial  (and  the 
fall  of  a tree  perhaps  not  unamusing),  down  the  trees 
come.  They  are  allowed  to  lie  where  they  fall ; and 
those  which  had  evidently  fallen  many  years  ago  were 
still  alive,  and  bearing  good  crops.  The  oranges  are 
not  ripe  until  ^larch  or  April,  nor  are  they  eaten  ge- 
nerally by  the  people  here  until  that  time — the  boys, 
however,  that  pick  them  are  marked  exceptions.  The 
young  children  of  Villa  Franca  are  now  almost  uni- 
versally of  a yellow  tint,  as  if  saturated  with  orange 
intetj- 


T ravels  in  New  Zealand,  by  Ernest  Dikffknbacti, 
M.l).  late  naturalist  to  the  New  Zealand  Company 
(1843),  is  a valuable  history  of  an  interesting 
country,  destined  apparently  to  transmit  the  Eng- 
lish language,  arts,  and  civilisation.  Mr  Dicflen- 
bach  gives  a minute  account  of  the  language  of  New 
Zealand,  of  which  he  compiled  a grammar  and  dic- 
tionary. He  conceives  the  native  population  of  New 
Zealand  to  be  fit  to  receive  the  benefits  of  civilisa- 
tion, and  to  amalgamate  with  the  British  colonists. 
At  the  same  time  he  believes  in  the  practice  of  can- 
nibalism often  imputed  to  the  New  Zealanders. 

Life  in  Mexico,  during  a Residence  of  Two  Years 
in  that  Country,  by  Madame  Calderon  de  la 
Barca,  an  English  lady-,  is  full  of  sketches  of  do- 
mestic life,  related  with  spirit  and  acuteness.  In 
no  other  work  are  we  presented  with  such  agreeable 
glimpses  of  Me.xican  life  and  manners.  Letters  on 
Paraguay,  and  Letters  on  South  America,  by  J.  P.  and 
W.  P.  Kobertson,  are  the  works  of  two  brothers 
who  resided  twenty-five  y-ears  in  South  America. 

The  Narrative  of  the  Voyages  of  H.M.S.  Adven- 
ture and  Beagle  (1839),  by  Captains  Kino  and 
F’itzrov.  and  C.  Darwin,  Esq.  naturalist  of  the 
Beagle,  detail  the  various  incidents  which  occurred 
during  their  examination  of  the  southern  shores  of 
South  America,  and  during  the  Beagle’s  circumna- 
vigation of  the  globe.  The  account  of  the  Pata- 
gonians in  this  work,  and  that  of  the  r.atives  of 
Tierra  del  Euego,  are  both  novel  and  interesting, 
while  the  geological  details  supplied  by  Mr  Darwin 
possess  a permanent  value. 

Notes  on  the  United  States  during  a Phrenological 
Visit  in  1839-40  have  been  published  by  Mb 
G-eorge  Combe,  in  three  volumes.  Though  attach- 
ing what  is  apt  to  appear  an  undue  importance  to 
his  views  of  phrenology,  Mr  Combe  was  a sensible 
traveller.  He  paid  particular  attention  to  schools 
and  all  benevolent  institutions,  which  he  has  de- 
scribed with  care  and  minuteness.  Among  the 
matter-of-fact  details  and  sober  disquisitions  in  this 
work,  we  meet  with  the  following  romantic  story. 
The  author  had  visited  the  lunatic  asylum  at  Bloom- 
ingdale,  w-here  he  learned  this  realisation  of  Cymon 
and  Iphigeuia — finer  even  than  the  version  of  Dry- 
den  1 

In  the  course  of  conversation,  a case  was  mentioned 
to  me  as  having  occurred  in  the  experience  of  a highly 
respectable  physician,  and  which  was  so  fully  authen- 
ticated, that  1 entertain  no  doubt  of  its  truth.  The 
physician  alluded  to  had  a patient,  a young  man,  who 
was  almost  idiotic  from  the  suppression  of  all  his  facul- 
ties. He  never  spoke,  and  never  moved  voluntarily,  but 
sat  habitually  with  his  hand  shading  his  eyes.  The 
physician  sent  him  to  walk  as  a remedial  measure.  In 
the  neighbourhood,  a beautiful  young  girl  of  sixteen 
lived  with  her  parents,  and  used  to  see  the  young 
man  in  his  walks,  and  speak  kindly  to  him.  For  some 
time  he  took  no  notice  of  her ; but  after  .ueeting  her 
for  several  months,  he  began  to  look  for  her,  and  to 
feel  disappointed  if  she  did  not  appear.  He  beti  me 
so  much  interested,  that  he  directed  his  steps  volun- 
tarily to  her  father’s  cottage,  and  gave  her  bouquets  of 
flowers.  By  degrees  he  conversed  with  her  through 
the  window.  His  mental  faculties  were  roused  ; the 
dawn  of  convalescence  appeared.  The  girl  was  vir- 
tuous, intelligent,  and  lovely,  and  encouraged  his 
visits  when  she  was  told  that  she  was  benefiting  his 
mental  health.  She  asked  him  if  he  coul,d  read  an.  I 
write?  He  answered.  No.  She  wrote  some  lines  M 
him  to  induce  him  to  learn.  This  had  the  desired 
effect.  He  applied  himself  to  study,  and  soon  UTotc 
good  and  sensible  letters  to  her.  He  recovered  his 
reason.  She  was  married  to  a young  man  from  the 
neighbouring  city.  Great  fears  were  entertained  that 

687 


KHOM  17)!0 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIMS. 


tills  event  would  undo  the  good  which  she  had  ac- 
coinplished.  The  young  patient  sustained  a severe 
shock,  hut  his  mind  did  not  sink  under  it.  lie  ac- 
(juiesced  in  the  propriety  of  her  choice,  continued  to 
improve,  and  at  last  was  restored  to  his  family  cured. 
She  had  a child,  and  was  soon  after  brought  to  the 
aai.ie  hos[iilal  perfectly  insane.  The  young  man 
heard  of  this  event,  and  was  exceedingly  anxious  to 
see  her;  hut  an  interview  was  denied  to  him,  both  on 
lier  account  and  his  own.  She  died.  He  continued 
well,  and  heeaine  an  active  niemher  of  society.  What 
a beautiful  romance  might  be  founded  on  this  nar- 
rative ! 

Jiiifncit.  Ififtoriciil,  SlatUtical,  anri  Dcfcriptire,  by 
J.  S.  liU'.  KiNciiAM,  i.s  a vast  collection  of  facts  and 
details,  few  of  them  novel  or  striking,  but  apparently- 
written  with  truth  and  candour.  The  work  fatigues 
from  the  multiplicity  of  its  sinall  statements,  and 
the  want  of  general  views  or  animated  description. 
In  1842  the  tuitlmr  ])ublished  two  additional  volumes, 
describing  his  tour  in  the  slave  states.  These  are 
more  interesting,  because  the  ground  is  less  hack- 
neyed, and  Mr  Huckingham  feels  strongly,  as  a 
benevolent  and  humane  man,  on  the  subject  of 
slavery,  that  curse  of  the  American  soil. 

Two  remarktible  works  on  Spain  have  been  pub- 
lished by  Gkoeok  Hoiiiiow,  late  agent  of  the  British 
.and  Foreign  Bible  Society  in  Spain.  The  first  of 
these,  in  two  volumes  12mo.  1841,  is  entitled  The 
yAnraVi,  or  tin  Accutnd  of  the  Gipnies  of  ttpain.  Mr 
B irrow  c:dcul.ites  that  there  are  about  forty  thou- 
sand gipsies  in  Spain,  of  which  tibout  one-third  are 
to  be  found  in  Andalusia.  The  caste,  he  says,  has 
diminished  of  late  years.  The  author’s  adven- 
tures with  this  singular  peo;de  are  curiously  com- 
pounded of  the  ludicrous  and  romantic,  and  are 
jiresented  in  the  most  vivid  and  dramatic  f)rm.  Mr 
Burrow’s  second  work  is  termed  The  Bihle  in  Spain, 
or  the  Journeys,  Adventures,  and  Imiirisonments  of 
an  Knglishman,  in  an  attempt  to  circulate  the 
Scriptures  in  the  I’eninsula.  There  are  many  things 
in  the  book  which,  as  the  author  acknowledges,  have 
little  connexion  with  religion  or  religious  enterpri.se. 
It  is,  indeed,  a series  of  personal  adventures,  varied 
and  interesting,  with  sketches  of  character  and 
romantic  incidents  drawn  with  more  power  and 
vivacity  than  those  of  most  professed  novelists. 

An  account  of  The  Uiyhlamls  of  Ethiopia,  by 
Major  W.  Cornwallis  Harrls,  II.  K.  1.  C.  Fai- 
gineers,  three  volumes.  1844,  also  abounds  with 
novel  and  interesting  information.  The  author  was 
employed  to  conduct  a mission  which  the  British 
government  sent  to  Sahela  Selasse,  the  king  of  Bhoa, 
in  southern  Abyssinia,  whose  capital,  Ankober,  was 
supposed  to  be  about  four  hundred  miles  inland 
from  the  ])ort  of  Tajura,  on  the  African  coast.  The 
king  consented  to  firm  a commercial  treaty,  and 
Major  Harris  conceives  that  a profitable  intercourse 
might  be  maintained  by-  Great  Britain  with  this 
productive  part  of  the  world. 

MISCELLANEOUS  WRITERS. 

One  of  the  most  Laborious  and  successful  of  modern 
miscellaneous  writers,  and  who  has  tended  in  a 
material  degree  to  spread  a taste  for  literary  history 
and  anecdote,  is  Isaac  D’Israeli,  author  of  the 
Cnrioxitiesof  Literature,  and  other  works.  The  first 
volume  of"  the  Curiosities  was  published  in  1791;  a 
second  appeared  a few  years  afterwards,  .and  a third 
in  1817.  A second  series  has  since  been  published 
in  three  volumes.  The  other  works  of  Mr  D’Israeli 
are  entitled  Literary  M iscellanies ; Quarrels  of  A uthors; 
'’Calamities  of  Authors;  Character  of  James  I.;  and 


The  Literary  Character.  'The  whole  of  these  are  now- 
printed  in  one  large  volume.  In  1841  this  author, 
though  labouring  under  partial  blindness,  followed 
up  th(»  favourite  studies  of  his  youth  by  another 
work  in  three  volume.s,  entitled  The  Amenities  of 
Literature,  consisting,  like  the  C-ariosities  anil  Mis- 
cellanies, rif  detached  papers  and  dissertations  on 
literary  and  historical  subjects,  written  in  a plea- 
sant iihilosophical  style,  which  [iresents  the  fruits 
of  antiquarian  research  and  careful  study-,  without 
their  dryness  and  general  w-ant  of  connexion. 

In  the  same  style  of  literary  illustration,  w-ith 
more  imagination  and  poetical  susceiitibiliiy,  may 
be  mentioned  Sir  Ecer-ion  Brydces,  who  ]iublished 
the  Censura  Literaria,  180.5-9,  in  ten  volumes;  the 
British  Bihlioyrapher,  in  three  volumes;  an  enlarged 
edition  of  Collins’s  British  Tee  rage  ; Letters  on  the 
Genius  of  Lord  Byron,  &c.  As  jirincijial  editor  of 
the  Ketrospective  Keview-.  Sir  Kgerton  Brydges 
drew  jiublic  attention  to  the  beauties  of  many  old 
w riters,  and  extended  the  feeling  of  admiration  w hieh 
Charles  Lamb,  Ilaxlitt,  and  others,  had  awakened 
for  the  early  masters  of  the  English  ly  re.  In  1835 
this  veteran  author  edited  an  edition  of  Milton’s 
poetical  w-orks  in  six  volumes.  A tone  of  querulous 
egotism  and  complaint  pervades  most  of  the  original 
w-orks  of  this  author,  but  his  taste  and  exertions 
in  English  literature  entitle  him  to  high  respect. 

JoSKl’H  Kitson  (1752-1803),  another  zealous  lite- 
rary antiquary  and  critic,  was  indefatigable  in  his 
labours  to  illustrate  English  literature,  particularly 
the  neglected  ballad  strains  of  the  nation.  He  pub- 
lished in  1 783  a valuable  collection  of  English  songs; 
in  1 790,  Ancient  Sungs,  from  the  Time  of  Henry  III. 
to  the  Revolution  : in  1792,  Pieces  of  Ancient  Popular 
Poetry-,  ,'m  1794,  A Collection  of  Scottish  Songs;  in 
1795,  A Collection  of  all  the  Ancient  Poems,  &c.  Re- 
lating to  Robin  Hood,  &c.  llitson  was  a liiithful 
and  acute  editor,  profoundly-  versed  in  literary  anti- 
quities, hut  of  a jealous  irritable  temper,  which 
kept  him  in  a state  of  constant  w-arfare  with  his 
brother  collectors.  He  was  in  diet  a strict  I’ytha- 
gorean,  and  w-rote  a treatise  against  the  use  of  ani- 
mal tiiod.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  writing  to  his  friend 
Mr  Ellis  in  1803,  remarks  — ‘ Toor  Kitson  is  no 
more.  All  his  vegetable  soups  and  puddings  have 
not  been  able  to  avert  the  evil  day,  w hich,  I under- 
stand, w-as  preceded  by-  madness.’  Scott  has  borne 
ample  testimony  to  the  merits  of  this  unhappy 
gleaner  in  the  by-paths  of  literature. 

The  IHu.strations  of  Shakspeare,  tmblished  in  1807 
by  Mr  Francis  Douce,  and  the  British  Monachism, 
1802,  and  Encyclopoedia  of  Autiipiities,  1824,  by 
the  Kev.  T.  D.  F'osiirooke,  are  works  of  great  re- 
search and  value  as  rejiositories  of  curious  infor- 
mation. IVorks  of  this  kind  illustrate  the  pages  of 
our  poets  and  historians,  besides  conveying  pictures 
of  national  manners  now-  faded  into  oblivion. 

A taste  for  natural  history-  gained  ground  about 
the  same  time  with  this  study-  of  antiquities.  Tiio.mas 
Tennant  (172G-1798),  by  the  publication  of  his 
w-orks  on  zoology,  and  his  Tours  in  Scul'and,  excited 
public  curiosity;  and  in  1789  the  Kev.  Gilbert 
White  (1720-1793)  published  a series  of  letters 
addressed  by-  him  to  i’ennant  and  Dailies  Barring- 
ton, descriptive  of  the  natural  objects  and  appear- 
ances of  the  parish  of  Selborne  ill  Hampshire.  White 
w-as  rector  of  this  parish,  and  had  spent  in  it  the 
greater  part  of  his  life,  engaged  in  literary  occu- 
pations and  the  study-  of  nature.  Ilis  minute  and 
interesting  facts,  the  entire  devotion  of  the  amiable 
author  to  his  subject,  and  the  easy  elegance  and 
simplicity  of  his  style,  render  White’s  history  a 
universal  favourite — something  like  Izaak  Walton’s 
book  on  angling,  whieh  all  admire,  and  hundreds 

688 


MISCEI.LANEOUS  WRITERS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  rev.  william  GILPIN. 


have  endeavoured  to  copy.  The  retired  naturalist 
was  too  full  of  facts  and  observations  to  have  room 
for  sentimental  writing,  yet  in  sentences  like  the 
following  (however  humble  be  the  theme),  we  may 
trace  no  common  power  of  picturesque  painting : — 

The  evening  proceedings  and  manoeuvres  of  the 
rooks  are  curious  and  amusing  in  the  autumn.  Just 
before  dusk  they  return  in  long  strings  from  the 
foraging  of  the  day,  and  rendezvous  by  thousands 
over  Selborne-down,  where  they  wheel  round  in  the 
air,  and  sport  and  dive  in  a playful  manner,  all  the 
while  exerting  their  voices,  and  making  a loud  caw- 
ing, which,  being  blended  and  softened  by  the  dis- 
tance that  we  at  the  village  are  below  them,  becomes 
a confused  noise  or  chiding  ; or  rather  a pleasing 
murmur,  very  engaging  to  the  imagination,  and  not 
unlike  the  cry  of  a pack  of  hounds  in  hollow  echoing 
woods,  or  the  rushing  of  the  wind  in  tall  trees,  or  the 
tumbling  of  the  tide  upon  a pebbly  shore.  When 
this  ceremony  is  over,  with  the  last  gleam  of  day 
they  retire  for  the  night  to  the  deep  becchen  woods 
of  Listed  and  Kopley.  We  remember  a little  girl, 
who,  as  she  was  going  to  bed,  used  to  remark  on  such 
an  occurrence,  in  the  true  spirit  of  physico-theology, 
that  the  rooks  were  saying  their  prayers  ; and  yet 
this  child  was  much  too  young  to  be  aware  that  the 
Scriptures  have  said  of  the  Deity — that  ‘ he  feedeth 
the  ravens  who  call  upon  him.’ 

The  migration  of  the  swallows,  the  instincts  of  ani- 
mals, the  blossoming  of  flowers  and  plants,  and  the 
humblest  phenomena  of  ever-changing  nature,  are 
recorded  by  Gilbert  White  in  the  same  earnest  and 
unassuming  manner. 

REV.  WILLIAM  GILPIN SIR  UVEDALE  PRICE. 

Among  works  on  the  subject  of  taste  and  beauty, 
in  which  philosophical  analysis  and  metaphysics 
are  happily  blended  with  the  graces  of  refined 
thought  and  composition,  a high  place  must  be 
assigned  to  the  writings  of  the  Rev.  William  Gil- 
pin (1724-1804)  and  Sir  Uvedale  Price.  The 
former  was  author  of  Remarks  on  Forest  Scenery, 
and  Observations  on  Picturesque  Beauty,  as  connected 
with  the  English  lakes  and  the  Scottish  Highlands. 
As  vicar  of  Boldre,  in  the  New  I’orest,  Hampshire, 
Mr  Gilpin  was  familiar  with  the  characteristics  of 
forest  scenery,  and  his  work  on  this  subject  (1791) 
is  equally  pleasing  and  profound — a storehouse  of 
images  and  illustrations  of  extern.al  nature,  remark- 
able for  their  fidelity  and  beauty,  and  an  analysis 
‘patient  and  comprehensive,  with  no  feature  of  the 
chilling  metaphysics  of  the  schools.’  His  ‘ Remarks 
on  Forest  Scenery’  consist  of  a description  of  the 
various  kinds  of  trees.  ‘ It  is  no  e.xaggerated  praise,’ 
he  says,  ‘to  call  a tree  the  grandest  and  most  beau- 
tiful of  all  the  productions  of  the  earth.  In  the  for- 
mer of  these  epithets  nothing  contends  with  it,  for 
we  consider  rocks  and  mountains  as  part  of  the 
*arth  itself.  And  though  among  inferior  plants, 
shrubs,  and  flowers,  there  is  great  beauty,  j'et  when 
we  consider  that  these  minuter  productions  are 
chiefly  beautiful  as  individuals,  and  are  not  adapted 
to  form  the  arrangement  of  composition  in  land- 
scape, nor  to  receive  the  effect  of  light  and  shade, 
they  must  give  place  in  point  of  beauty — of  pic- 
turesque beauty  at  least — to  the  form,  and  foliage, 
and  ramification  of  the  tree.  Thus  the  splendid 
tints  of  the  insect,  however  beautiful,  must  yield  to 
the  elegance  and  proportion  of  animals  which  range 
in  a higher  class.’  Having  described  trees  as  indi- 
viduals, he  considers  them  under  their  various  com- 
binations, as  clumps,  park  scenery,  the  copse,  glen, 
grove,  the  forest,  &c.  Their  permanent  and  inci- 
dental beauties  in  storm  and  sunshine,  and  through 

8 ft 


all  the  seasons,  are  afterwards  delineated  in  the 
choicest  language,  and  with  frequent  illustration 
from  the  kindred  pijges  of  the  poets ; and  the  work 
concludes  with  an  account  of  the  English  forests 
and  their  accompaniments — lawns,  heaths,  forest 
distances,  and  sea-coast  views ; with  their  proper 
appendages,  as  wild  horses,  deer,  eagles,  and  other 
picturesque  inhabitants.  As  a specimen  of  Gilpin’s 
manner  (though  a very  inadequate  one),  we  subjoin 
his  account  of  the  effects  of  the  sun,  ‘an  illustrious 
family  of  tints,’  as  fertile  sources  of  incidental 
beauty  among  the  woods  of  the  forest : — 

[Sunrise  and  Sunset  in  the  TFoods.] 

The  first  dawn  of  day  exhibits  a beautiful  obscu- 
rity. When  the  east  begins  just  to  brighten  with  the 
reflections  only  of  effulgence,  a pleasing  progressive 
light,  dubious  and  amusing,  is  thrown  over  the  face 
of  things^  A single  ray  is  able  to  assist  the  pic- 
turesque eye,  which  by  such  slender  aid  creates  a 
thousand  imaginary  forms,  if  the  scene  be  unknown, 
and  as  the  light  steals  gradually  on,  is  amused  by 
correcting  its  vague  ideas  by  the  real  objects.  What 
in  the  confusion  of  twilight  perhaps  seemed  a stretch 
of  rising  ground,  broken  into  various  parts,  becomes 
now  vast  masses  of  wood  and  an  extent  of  forest. 

As  the  sun  begins  to  appear  above  the  horizon,  an- 
other change  takes  place.  ^V’hat  was  before  only 
form,  being  now  enlightened,  begins  to  receive  effect. 
This  effect  depends  on  two  circumstances — the  catch- 
ing lights  which  touch  the  summits  of  every  object, 
and  the  mistiness  in  which  the  rising  orb  is  commonly 
enveloped. 

The  effect  is  often  pleasing  when  the  sun  rises  in 
unsullied  brightness,  diffusing  its  ruddy  light  over 
the  upper  parts  of  object, s,  which  is  contrasted  by  the 
deeper  shadows  below ; yet  the  effect  is  then  only 
transcendent  when  he  rises  accompanied  by  a train  of 
vapours  in  a misty  atmosphere.  Among  lakes  and 
mountains  this  happy  accompaniment  often  forms 
the  most  astonishing  visions,  and  yet  in  the  forest  it  is 
nearly  as  great.  W'ith  what  delightful  effect  do  we 
sometimes  see  the  sun’s  disk  just  appear  above  a 
woody  hill,  or,  in  Shakspeare’s  language. 

Stand  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain’s  top, 
and  dart  his  diverging  rays  through  the  risingvapour. 
The  radiance,  catching  the  tops  of  the  trees  as  they 
hang  midway  upon  the  shaggy  steep,  and  touching 
here  and  there  a few  other  prominent  objects,  imper- 
ceptibly mixes  its  ruddy  tint  with  the  surrounding 
mists,  setting  on  fire,  as  it  were,  their  upper  ) arts, 
while  their  lower  skirts  are  lost  in  a dark  mass  of 
varied  confusion,  in  which  trees,  and  ground,  and 
radiance,  and  obscurity  are  all  blended  together. 
When  the  eye  is  fortunate  enough  to  catch  the  glow- 
ing instant  (for  it  is  always  a vanishing  scene),  it 
furnishes  an  idea  worth  treasuring  among  the  choicest 
appearances  of  nature.  Mistiness  alone,  we  have  ob- 
served, occasions  a confusion  in  objects  which  is  often 
picturesque ; but  the  glory  of  the  vision  depends  an 
the  glowing  lights  which  are  mingled  with  it. 

Landscape  painters,  in  general,  pay  too  little  atten- 
tion to  the  discriminations  of  morning  and  evening. 
We  are  often  at  a loss  to  distinguish  in  pictures  the 
rising  from  the  setting  sun,  though  their  characters 
are  very  different  both  in  the  lights  and  shadows.  The 
ruddy  lights,  indeed,  of  the  evening  are  more  easily 
distinguished,  but  it  is  not  perhaps  always  sufficiently 
observed  that  the  shadows  of  the  evening'  are  much 
less  opaque  than  those  of  the  morning.  They  may  be 
brightened  jierhaps  by  the  numberless  rays  floating  in 
the  atmosphere,  which  are  incessantly  reverberated  in 
every  direction,  and  may  continue  in  action  after  the 
sun  is  set ; whereas  in  the  morning  the  rays  of  the 
, 689 


FJ>M  17(iO  CYCl>01’/libI A OF  till  the  hresent  timb. 


preceding  (lay  liaving  auVsided,  no  object  receives  any 
but  from  the  im  nediate  lustre  of  the  aun. 
\Vhatever  becomes  of  the  theory,  the  fact  1 believe  is 
well  ascertained. 

The  incidental  beauties  which  the  meridian  aun 
exhibits  are  much  fewer  than  tlio.se  of  the  rising  sun. 
In  aummer,  when  he  rides  high  at  noon,  and  sheds  his 
perpendicular  ray,  all  is  illumination  ; there  is  no 
shadow  to  balance  such  a glare  of  light,  no  contrast 
to  ojipose  it.  The  judicious  artist,  therefore,  rarely 
represents  his  objects  under  a vertical  sun.  And 
yet  no  species  of  landscape  bears  it  so  well  as  the 
Beetles  of  the  forest.  The  tuftinga  of  the  trees,  the 
recesses  among  them,  and  the  lighter  foliage  hanging 
over  the  darker,  may  all  have  an  effect  under  a 
meridian  sun.  I speak  chiefly,  however,  of  the  in- 
ternal scenes  of  the  forest,  which  bear  .such  total 
brightness  better  than  any  other,  as  in  them  there  is 
generally  a natural  gloom  to  balance  it.  The  light 
obstructed  by  close  intervening  trees  will  rarely  pre- 
dominate ; hence  the  effect  is  often  fine.  A strong 
sunshine  striking  a wood  through  some  fortunate 
chasm,  and  reposing  on  the  tuftings  of  a clunij),  just 
removed  from  the  eye,  and  strengthened  by  the  deep 
shadows  of  the  trees  behind,  appears  to  great  advan- 
tage ; especially  if  some  noble  tree,  standing  on  the 
foreground  in  deep  shadow,  flings  athwart  the  sky  its 
dark  branches,  here  and  there  illumined  with  a 
splendid  touch  of  light. 

In  an  open  country,  the  most  fortunate  circumstance 
that  attends  a meridian  sun  is  cloudy  weather,  which 
occasions  partial  lights.  Then  it  is  that  the  distant 
forest  scene  is  spre.ad  with  lengthened  gleams,  while 
the  other  parts  of  the  land.scape  are  in  shadow  ; the 
tuftings  of  trees  are  particularly  adapted  to  catch  this 
effect  with  advantage  ; there  is  a richness  in  them 
from  the  strong  opposition  of  light  and  shade,  which 
is  wonderfully  fine.  A distant  forest  thus  illumined 
wants  only  a foreground  to  make  it  highly  picturesque. 

As  the  sun  descends,  the  effect  of  its  illumination 
becomes  stronger.  It  is  a doubt  whether  the  rising 
or  the  setting  sun  is  more  picturesque,  'fhe  great 
beauty  of  both  depends  on  the  contrast  between  splen- 
dour and  obscurity.  But  this  contrast  is  produced  by 
these  different  incidents  in  different  ways.  The 
grandest  effects  of  the  rising  sun  are  produced  by  the 
vapours  which  envelope  it — the  setting  .sun  rests  its 
glory  on  the  gloom  which  often  accompanies  its  part- 
ing ravs.  A depth  of  shadow  hanging  over  the  eastern 
hemisphere  gives  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun  such 
powerful  effect,  that  although  in  fact  they  are  by  no 
means  equal  to  the  splendour  of  a meridian  sun,  yet 
through  force  of  contrast  they  appear  superior.  A 
distant  forest  scene  under  this  brightened  gloom  is 
particularly  rich,  and  glows  with  double  splendour. 
The  verdure  of  the  summer  leaf,  and  the  varied  tints 
of  the  autumnal  one,  are  all  lighted  up  with  the  most 
resplendent  colours. 

The  internal  parts  of  the  forest  are  not  so  happily 
disposed  to  catch  the  effects  of  a setting  sun.  The 
meridian  ray,  we  have  seen,  may  dart  through  the 
openings  at  the  top,  and  produce  a picture,  but  the 
flanks  of  the  forest  are  generally  too  well  guarded 
against  its  horizontal  beams,  ^metimes  a recess 
fronting  the  west  may  receive  a beautiful  light, 
spreading  in  a lengthened  gleam  amidst  the  gloom  of 
the  woods  which  surround  it ; but  this  can  only  be 
had  in  the  outskirts  of  the  forest.  Sometimes  ahso  we 
find  it  its  internal  parts,  though  hardly  in  its  deep 
recesse  , splendid  lights  here  and  there  catching  the 
foliage,  which  though  in  nature  generally  too  scattered 
to  produce  an  effect,  yet,  if  judiciously  collected,  may 
be  beautiful  on  canvass. 

We  sometimes  also  see  in  a woody  scene  corusca- 
tions like  a bright  star,  occasioned  by  a sunbeam 
farting  through  an  eyelet  hole  among  the  leave.s. 


Many  painter.s,  and  especially  Rubens,  have  been  fond 
of  introducing  this  radiant  spot  in  their  landscapes. 
But  in  painting,  it  is  one  of  those  trifles  which  juo- 
duccs  no  effect,  nor  can  this  radiance  be  given.  In 
poetry,  indeed,  it  may  produce  a pleasing  image. 
Sliakspeare  hath  introduced  it  beautifully,  where, 
speaking  of  the  force  of  truth  entering  a guilty  con 
science,  he  compares  it  to  the  sun,  which 

Fires  tlie  proud  tops  of  the  eastern  pines, 

And  darts  his  light  through  every  guilty  hole. 

It  is  one  of  those  circum.stances  which  poetry  may 
offer  to  the  imagination,  but  the  pencil  cannot  well 
produce  to  the  eye. 

The  Essays  on  the  Picturesque,  by  Sir  Uvedale 
Price,  were  designed  by  their  accomidished  author 
to  explain  and  enforce  the  reasons  for  studying  the 
works  of  eminent  landscape  painters,  and  the  prin- 
ciples of  their  art,  with  a view  to  the  improvement 
of  real  scenery,  and  to  promote  the  cultivation  of 
what  has  been  termed  landscape  gardening.  He 
examined  the  leading  features  of  modern  gardening, 
in  its  more  extended  sense,  on  the  general  principles 
of  painting,  and  showed  how  much  the  character  of 
the  picturesque  has  been  neglected,  or  sacrificed  to 
a false  idea  of  beauty.  The  best  edition  of  these 
essays,  improved  by  the  author,  is  that  of  1810; 
but  .Sir  Thomas  Dick  Lauder  has  published  editions 
of  both  Gilpin  and  Price — fhe  latter  a very  hand- 
some volume,  1842 — with  a great  deal  of  additional 
matter.  Besides  his  ‘ Essays  on  the  Picturesque,’ 
Sir  Uvedale  has  written  essays  on  artificial  water, 
on  house  decorations,  architecture,  and  buildings — 
all  branches  of  his  original  subject,  and  treated  with 
the  same  taste  and  elegance.  The  theory  of  the 
author  is,  that  the  picturesque  in  nature  has  a cha- 
racter separate  from  the  sublime  and  the  beautiful; 
and  in  enforcing  and  maintaining  this,  he  attacked 
the  style  of  ornamental  gardening  which  Mason  the 
poet  had  recommended,  and  Kent  and  Brown,  the 
great  landscape  improvers,  had  reduced  to  practice. 
Some  of  Price’s  positions  have  been  overturned  by 
Dugald  Stewart  in  his  Philosophical  Essays;  but 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  his  descriptions  must  ever 
render  his  work  interesting,  independently  alto- 
gether of  its  metaphysical  or  philosophical  distinc- 
tions. His  criticism  of  painters  and  paintings  is 
equally  able  and  discriminating;  and  by  his  works 
we  consider  Sir  Uvedale  Price  has  been  highly  in- 
strumental in  diffusing  those  just  sentiments  on 
matters  of  taste,  and  that  improved  style  of  land- 
scape gardening,  which  so  eminently  distinguish  the 
English  aristocracy  of  the  present  times. 

WILLIAM  COBBETT. 

William  Cobbett  (1762-183.5),  by  his  Buret! 
Bides,  his  Cottage  Economy,  his  works  on  America, 
and  various  parts  of  his  Political  Begifler,  is  justly 
entitled  to  he  remembered  among  the  miscellaneous 
writers  of  England.  He  was  a native  of  F'arnham 
in  Surrey,  and  brought  up  as  an  agricultural  la- 
bourer. He  afterwards  served  as  a soldier  in  Bri- 
tish America,  and  rose  to  he  sergeant-major.  He 
first  attracted  notice  as  a political  writer  by  publish- 
ing a series  of  pamphlets  under  the  name  of  Petei 
Porcupine.  He  was  then  a decided  loyalist  and 
high  churchman  ; but  having,  as  is  supposed,  re- 
ceived some  slight  from  Mr  Pitt,  he  attacked  his 
ministry  with  great  bitterness  in  his  Register. 
After  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill,  he  was  returned 
to  parliament  for  the  borough  of  Oldham,  but  he 
was  not  successful  as  a public  speaker.  He  was 
apparently  destitute  of  the  faculty  of  generalising 
his  information  and  details,  and  evolving  from  them 

690 


mS'JKLl.ANF.OUS  WRITER'. 


EN(JMS11  LITKUATUUE. 


WILLIAM  CODDLTT. 


I a lucid  wliule.  Ills  tinflxcdncss  of  principle  also 
operated  strongly  against  liiin  j for  no  man  who  is 
not  considered  honest  and  sincere,  or  can  be  relied 
upon,  will  ever  make  a lasting  impression  on  a 
popular  assembly.  Cobbett’s  inconsistency  as  a 
political  writer  was  so  broad  and  undisguised,  as  to 
have  IxH'ome  proverbial.  He  had  made  the  whole 
round  of  politics,  from  ultra-toryism  to  ultra-radi- 
calism, and  had  praised  and  abused  nearly  every 
public  man  and  measure  for  thirty  years.  Jeremy 
llentham  said  of  him,  ‘ lie  is  a man  filled  with  odium 
I numaiti  generis.  Ilis  malevolence  and  lying  are  be- 
I yond  anything.’  The  retired  philosopher  did  not 
; ni.ake  sufficient  allowance  for  Cobbett : the  latter 
acted  on  tlie  momentary  feeling  or  impulse,  and 
never  calculated  the  consequence  to  liimself  or 
others.  We  admit  lie  was  eager  to  escape  when  a 
difficulty  arose,  and  did  not  scruple  as  to  the  means ; 
but  we  are  considering  him  only  as  a public  writer. 
No  individual  in  Britain  was  better  known  tlian 
Cobliett,  down  to  the  minutest  circumstance  in  his 
character,  habits,  and  opinions.  He  wrote  freely  of 
himself,  as  he  did  of  other  men ; and  in  all  his  writ- 
ings there  was  much  natural  freshness,  liveliness, 
and  vigour.  He  had  the  power  of  making  every 
one  wlio  read  him  feel  and  understand  completely 
I what  he  himself  felt  and  described.  The  idiomatic 
I strength,  copiousness,  and  purity  of  his  style  have 
I been  universally  acknowledged  ; and  when  engaged 
in  describing  rural  subjects,  or  depicting  local  man- 
ners, he  is  v'ery  happy.  On  questions  of  politics  or 
criticism  he  fails,  because  he  seems  resolved  to  at- 
tack alt  great  names  aiil  established  opinions.  He 
remarks  on  one  occasion  that  anybody  could,  at  the 
time  he  wrote,  be  made  a baronet,  since  Walter 
Scott  ard  Dudley  Cuutts  Trotter  (what  a classifica- 
tion !)  h id  been  so  elevated.  ‘ It  has  beeome,’  he 
says,  ■ of  late  ye.ars  the  fashion  to  e.xtol  the  virtues 
of  potatoes,  as  it  has  been  to  admire  the  writings  of 
Milton  and  Shakspeare and  he  concludes  a ludi- 
crous criticism  on  Paradise  Lost  by  wondering  how 
it  could  have  been  tolerated  by  a people  amongst 
whom  astronomy,  navigation,  and  chemistry  are 
understood!  Yet  Cobbett  had  a taste  for  what  may 
be  termeil  the  poetry  of  nature.  He  is  loud  in  his 
praises  of  the  singing-birds  of  England  (which  he 
missed  so  much  in  America),  and  he  loved  to  write 
on  green  lanes  and  meadows.  The  following  de- 
scription of  his  boyish  scenes  and  recollections  is 
like  the  simjile  and  touching  passages  in  Richard- 
son’s Pamela: — 

After  living  within  a few  hundreds  of  yards  of  West- 
minster Hall,  and  the  Abbey  Church,  and  the  Bridge, 
and  looking  from  my  own  windows  into  St  James’s 
Park,  all  other  buildings  and  spots  appe,ar  mean  and 
insignificant.  1 went  to-day  to  see  the  house  I for- 
merly occupied.  How  small  I It  is  alw.ays  thus: 
the  words  large  and  small  are  carried  about  with  us 
in  our  minds,  .and  we  forget  real  dimensions.  The 
idea,  such  as  it  was  received,  remains  during  our 
absence  from  the  object.  When  I returned  to  Eng- 
land in  1800,  after  an  absence  from  the  country  parts 
of  it  of  si.xteen  years,  the  trees,  the  hedges,  even  the 
parks  and  woods,  seemed  so  small ! It  made  me 
laugh  to  hear  little  gutters,  that  I could  jump  over, 
called  rivers!  The  Thames  was  but  a ‘creek!’  But 
when,  in  about  a month  after  my  arrival  in  London, 
j I went  to  Earnham,  the  place  of  ray  birth,  what  waa 
1 my  surprise!  Everything  was  become  so  pitifully 

I small ! 1 h.ad  to  cross,  in  my  postchaise,  the  long 

and  dreary  heath  of  Bagshot.  Then,  at  the  end  of 
I it,  to  mount  a hill  called  Hungry  Hill;  and  from 
that  hill  I knew  that  I should  look  down  into  the 
beautiful  and  fertile  vale  of  Farnham.  My  heart 
fluttered  with  impatience,  mixed  with  a sort  of  fear. 


to  see  all  the  scenes  of  my  childhood ; for  1 had 
learned  before  the  death  of  my  father  and  mother. 
There  is  a hill  not  far  from  the  tewn  c.alled  Crooks- 
bury  Hill,  which  rises  up  out  of  a flat  in  the  form  of 
a cone,  and  is  planted  with  Scotch  fir-trees.  Here  I 
used  to  take  the  eggs  and  young  ones  of  crows  and 
magpies.  This  hill  was  a famous  object  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. It  served  as  the  superlative  degree  of 
height.  ‘As  high  as  Crooksbury  Hill,’  meant,  with 
us,  the  utmost  degree  of  height.  Therefore  the  first 
object  that  my  eyes  sought  was  this  hill.  1 could 
not  believe  my  eyes ! Literally  speaking,  I for  a 
moment  thought  the  famous  hill  removed,  and  a 
little  heap  put  in  its  stead  ; for  1 had  seen  in  New 
Brunswick  a single  rock,  or  hill  of  solid  rock,  ten 
times  as  big,  and  four  or  five  times  as  high ! 'The 
post-bo}',  going  down  hill,  and  not  a bad  road, 
whisked  me  in  a few  minutes  to  the  Bush  Inn, 
from  the  garden  of  which  I could  .see  the  prodi- 
gious sand-hill  where  I had  begun  luy  gardening 
works.  What  a nothing!  'But  now  came  rushing 
into  my  mind  all  at  once  my  pretty  little  garden, 
my  little  blue  smock-frock,  my  little  nailed  shoes, 
ray  pretty  pigeons  that  1 used  to  feed  out  of  my 
hands,  the  last  kind  words  and  tears  of  my  gentle 
and  tender-hearted  and  affectionate  mother ! I has- 
tened back  into  the  room.  If  1 had  looked  a moment 
longer  I should  have  dropped.  When  I came  to  re- 
flect, what  a change!  1 looked  down  at  my  dress. 
What  a change!  What  scenes  I had  gone  through  ! 
How  altered  my  state!  I had  dined  the  day  befoiD 
at  a secretary  of  state’s  in  company  with  Mr  Pitt, 
and  had  been  waited  upon  by  men  in  gaudy  liveries ! 
I had  had  nobody  to  assist  me  in  the  world.  No 
teachers  of  any  sort.  Nobody  to  shelter  me  from  the 
consequence  of  bad,  and  no  one  to  counsel  me  to  good 
behaviour.  I felt  proud.  The  distinctions  of  rank, 
birth,  and  wealth,  all  bec.ame  nothing  in  my  eyes  ; 
and  from  that  moment  (less  than  a month  after  my 
arrival  in  England)  I resolved  never  to  bend  before 
them. 

There  is  good  sense  and  right  feeling  in  the  fol- 
lowing paragraph  on  field  sports  : — 

Taking  it  for  granted,  then,  that  sportsmen  are  as 
good  as  other  folks  on  the  score  of  humanity,  the 
sports  of  the  firfd,  like  everything  else  done  in  the 
fields,  tend  to  produce  or  preserve  health.  I prefer 
them  to  all  other  pastime,  because  they  produce 
early  rising ; because  they  hav'e  no  tendency  to  lead 
young  men  into  vicious  habits.  It  is  where  men 
congregate  that  the  vices  haunt.  A hunter  or  a 
shooter  m.ay  also  be  a gambler  and  a drinker ; but 
he  is  less  likely  to  be  fond  of  the  two  latter  if  he  be 
fond  of  tl  e former.  Boys  will  t.ake  to  something  in 
the  way  of  pastime ; and  it  is  better  that  they  take 
to  that  which  is  innocent,  healthy,  and  manly,  than 
that  which  is  vicious,  unhealthy,  and  effeminate. 
Besides,  the  scenes  of  rural  sport  are  necessarily  at 
a distance  from  cities  and  towns.  This  is  another 
great  consideratiou  ; for  though  great  talents  are 
wanted  to  be  employed  in  the  hives  of  men,  they 
are  very  rarely  acquired  in  these  hives ; the  sur- 
rounding objects  are  too  numerous,  too  near  the  eye, 
too  frequently  under  it,  and  too  artificial. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

The  miscellaneous  writings  of  Mr  Southey  are 
numerous,  and  all  are  marked  by  an  easy  flowing 
style,  by  extensive  reading,  a strain  of  thought  and 
reflection  simple  and  antiquated,  occasional  dia- 
logues full  of  quaint  speculation  and  curious  erudi- 
tion, and  a vein  of  poetical  feeling  that  runs  through 
the  whole,  whether  critical,  historical,  or  politic.U, 
In  1807  Mr  Southey  published  a series  of  observa- 
tions on  our  national  manners  and  prospects,  cu 

691 


FROM  1780  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  tfll  the  pRF.tf.NT  time. 


titled  Letters  from  Knyland,  hy  Don  Manuel  Alvarez 
Espriella,  three  volumes.  The  foreign  disguise  was 
too  thinly  and  lightly  worn  to  insure  eoneealinent, 
but  it  imjjarted  freedom  and  piquaney  to  the  author's 
observations.  On  the  subjeet  of  the  ehureh,  on 
politieal  eeonomy,  and  on  inanufaetures,  Mr  Southey 
seems  to  have  thought  then  in  mueh  the  same  spirit 
displayed  in  his  late  works,  llis  faney,  however, 
was  more  sportive,  and  his  Spanish  eharaeter,  as 
well  as  the  nature  of  the  work,  led  to  frequent  and 
copious  description,  in  which  he  excelled. 

In  1829  Mr  Southey  published  Colloquies  on  the 
Progress  and  Prospects  of  ISociety.  two  volumes,  in 
which  the  author,  or  ‘ Montesinos,’  holds  conversa- 
tions with  the  ghost  of  Sir  Thomas  More  ! The 
dec.ay  of  national  piety,  the  evil  effects  of  extended 
commerce,  and  the  alleged  progress  of  national  in- 
security and  disorganization,  are  the  chief  tojFics  in 
these  colloquies,  which,  though  occasionally  relieved 
by  passages  of  beautiful  composition,  are  diffuse  and 
tedious,  and  greatly  overstrained  in  sentiment.  The 
other  prose  works  of  Mr  Southey  (exclusive  of  a 
vast  number  of  essays  in  the  Quarterly  Review, 
and  omitting  his  historical  and  biographical  works 
already  noticed)  consist  of  his  early  Letters  from 
Spain;  A Short  Ilesidence  in  Portugal;  Omniana,  a 
collection  of  critical  remarks  and  curious  quota- 
tions ; and  The  Doctor,  five  volumes,  a work  j)artly 
fictitious,  but  abounding  in  admirable  description 
and  quaint  fanciful  delineation  of  character. 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

The  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater,  a 
small  volume  published  in  1822  (originally  con- 
tained in  the  London  Magazine),  is  a singular  and 
striking  work,  detailing  the  personal  experience  of 
an  individual  who  had,  like  Coleridge,  become  a 
slave  to  the  use  of  opium.  To  such  an  extent  had 
the  author  carried  this  habit,  that  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  take  three  hundred  and  twenty  grains 
a-day.  He  finally  emancipated  himself,  but  not 
without  a severe  struggle  and  the  deepest  suffer- 
ing. The  ‘ Confessions’  are  written  by  Thomas  de 
Quincev,  a gentleman  of  extensive  acquirements, 
literary  and  scholastic,  son  of  an  English  merchant, 
and  educated  at  Eton  and  Oxford.  He  has  contri- 
buted largely  to  the  periodical  literature  of  the  day, 
and  is  author  of  the  admirable  memoirs  of  8hak- 
speare  and  Pope  in  the  Encyclopaidia  Britannica. 
The  following  extracts  would  do  credit  to  the 
highest  names  in  our  original  imaginative  litera- 
ture : — 

[^Dreams  of  the  Opium  Bate;-.'] 

May,  1818. 

I have  been  every  night  of  late  tran.sported  into 
Asiatic  scenes.  1 know  not  whether  others  share  in 
my  feelings  on  this  point,  but  I have  often  thought 
that  if  I were  compelled  to  forego  England,  and  to 
live  in  China,  and  among  Chinese  manners  and  modes 
of  life  and  scenery,  1 should  go  mad.  The  causes  of 
my  horror  lie  deep,  and  some  of  them  must  be  com- 
mon to  others.  Southern  Asia  in  general  is  the  seat 
of  awful  images  and  associations.  As  the  cradle  of 
the  human  race,  it  would  have  a dim  and  reverential 
feeling  connected  with  it.  But  there  are  other  reasons. 
No  man  can  pretend  that  the  wild,  barbarous,  and 
capricious  superstitions  of  .‘Africa,  or  of  savage  tribes 
elsewhere,  affect  in  the  way  that  he  is  affected  by  the 
ancient,  monumental,  cruel,  and  elaborate  religions 
of  liidostan,  &c.  'I'he  mere  antiquity  of  Asiatic 
things,  of  their  institutions,  history,  modes  of  faith, 
kc.  is  so  iiiqiressive,  that  to  me  the  vast  age  of  the 
race  and  name  overpowers  the  sense  of  youth  in  the 


individual.  A young  Chinese  seems  to  me  an  ante- 
diluvian man  renewed.  Even  Englishmen,  though 
not  bred  in  any  knowledge  of  such  instituliens,  can- 
not but  shudder  at  the  mystic  sublimity  of  castes  that 
have  flowed  apart,  and  refu.sed  to  mix,  through  such 
immemorial  tracts  of  time ; nor  can  any  man  fail  to 
be  awed  by  the  names  of  the  Ganges  or  the  Euphrates. 
It  contributes  much  to  these  feelings,  that  Southern 
Asia  is,  and  has  been  for  thousands  of  years,  the  part 
of  the  earth  most  swarming  with  human  life ; the 
great  ojjieina  gentium.  Man  is  a weed  in  those  regions. 
The  vast  empires,  also,  into  which  the  enormous  popu- 
lation of  Asia  li.as  always  been  cast,  give  a further 
sublimity  to  the  feelings  associated  with  all  Oriental 
names  or  images.  In  China,  over  and  above  what  it 
has  in  common  with  the  rest  of  Southern  Asia,  I am 
terrified  by  the  modes  of  life,  by  the  manners,  and 
the  barrier  of  utter  abhorrence  and  want  of  sympathy 
placed  between  us  by  feelings  deeper  than  1 can 
analyse.  I could  sooner  live  with  lunatics  or  brute 
animals.  All  this,  and  much  more  than  I can  say, 
nr  have  time  to  say,  the  reader  mu.st  enter  into  before 
he  can  comprehend  the  unimaginable  horror  which 
these  dreams  of  Oriental  imagery  and  mythological 
tortures  impressed  upon  me.  Uuder  the  connecting 
feeling  of  tropical  heat  and  vertical  sunlights  I 
brought  together  all  creatures,  birds,  beasts,  repi.les, 
all  trees  and  plants,  usages  and  appearances,  that  are 
to  be  found  in  all  tropical  regions,  and  assembled 
them  together  in  China  or  Indostan.  From  kindred 
feelings  1 soon  brought  Egypt  and  all  her  gods  under 
the  same  law.  1 was  stared  at,  hooted  at,  grinned  at, 
chattered  at,  by  monkeys,  by  paroquets,  by  cockatoos. 
I ran  into  pagodas ; and  was  fixed  for  centuries  at 
the  summit,  or  in  secret  rooms ; 1 was  the  idol ; I 
was  the  priest;  I was  worshipped;  I was  sacrificed 
I fled  from  the  WTath  of  Brahma  through  all  the  forests 
of  Asia;  Vishnu  hated  me;  Seeva  laid  wait  for  me, 
I came  suddenly  upon  Isis  and  Osiris;  1 had  doim 
a deed,  they  said,  which  the  ibis  and  the  crocodile 
trembled  at.  I was  buried  for  a thousand  years,  in 
stone  coffins,  with  mummies  and  .sphinxes,  in  narrow 
chambers  at  the  heart  of  eternal  pyramids.  * * 

As  a final  specimen,  I cite  one  of  a different  cha- 
racter, from  1820. 

The  dream  commenced  with  a music  which  now  1 
often  hear  in  dreams— a music  of  preparation  and  of 
awakening  suspense ; a music  like  the  opening  of  the 
Coronation  Anthem,  and  which,  like  that,  gave  the 
feeling  of  a vast  march — of  infinite  cavalcades  filing 
off — and  the  tread  of  innumerable  armies.  The 
morning  was  come  of  a mighty  day — a day  of  crisis 
and  of  final  hope  for  human  nature,  then  sufl'ering 
some  mysterious  eclipse,  and  labouiing  in  some  dread 
extremity.  Somewhere,  I knew  not  where — somehow, 
I knew  not  how — by  some  beings,  I knew  not  whom — 
a battle,  a strife,  an  agony  was  conducting — was 
evolving  like  a great  drama  or  piece  of  music ; with 
which  my  sympathy  was  the  more  insupportable  from 
my  confusion  as  to  its  place,  its  cause,  its  nature,  and 
its  possible  issue.  I,  as  is  usual  in  dreams  (where,  of 
necessity,  we  make  ourselves  central  to  e>“rv  move- 
ment), had  the  power,  and  yet  had  not  the  power  to 
decide  it.  I had  the  power,  if  I could  raise  myself, 
to  will  it ; and  yet  again  had  not  the  power,  for  the 
weight  of  twenty  Atlantes  was  upon  me,  or  the  op- 
pre.ssion  of  inexpiable  guilt.  ‘ Deepcf  than  ever  plum- 
met sounded,’  I lay  inactive.  Then,  like  a chorus, 
the  passion  deepened.  Some  greater  interest  was  at 
stake ; some  mightier  cause  than  ever  yet  the  sword 
had  pleaded  or  trumpet  had  proclaimed.  Then  came 
sudden  alarms,  hurrying  to  and  fro  ; trepidations  of 
innumerable  fugitives,  1 knew  not  whether  from  the 
good  cause  or  the  bad  ; darkness  and  lights  ; tempest 
and  human  faces;  and  at  last,  with  the  sense  that  all 
was  lost,  female  forms,  and  the  features  that  were 

692 


miscellankovs  writers. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM  IIAZLITT. 


worth  all  the  world  to  me,  and  but  a moment  allowed 

I — and  cliuipcd  hands,  ami  heart  breaking  partings, 

1 and  then— cverlivsting  farewells ! and  with  a sigh, 

' such  as  the  caves  of  hell  sighed  when  the  incestuous 
mother  uttered  the  abhorred  name  of  death,  the  sound 
was  reverberated — everlasting  farewells  ! and  again, 
and  yet  again  reverberated — everlasting  farewells  ! 

And  1 awoke  in  struggles,  and  cried  aloud — ‘ I will 
sleep  no  more !’ 

j WILLIAM  IIAZLITT. 

I One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  the  miscellaneous 
writers  of  this  period  was  William  IIazlitt,  whose 
bold  and  vigorous  tone  of  thinking,  and  acute  criti- 
cism on  p(x;try,  the  drama,  and  fine  arts,  found  many 
admirers,  especially  among  young  minds.  lie  was 

■ a man  of  decided  genius,  but  prone  to  paradox,  and 
swayed  by  prejudice.  He  was  well  read  in  the  old 
English  authors,  and  had  in  general  a just  and  deli- 
cate perception  of  their  beauties.  His  style  was 
strongly  tinged  by  the  peculiarities  of  his  taste  and 
reading;  it  was  often  sparkling,  pungent,  and  pic- 
turesque in  expression.  IIazlitt  was  a native  of 
Shropshire,  the  son  of  a Unitarian  minister.  He 
began  life  as  a painter,  but  failed  in  attaining  excel- 
lence in  the  profession,  though  he  retained  through 
life  the  most  vivid  and  intense  appreciation  of  its 
charms.  His  principal  support  was  derived  from 
the  literary  and  political  journals,  to  which  he  con- 
tributed essays,  reviews,  and  criticisms.  He  wrote 
a metaphysical  treatise  on  the  Principles  of  Human 
Action;  Characters  of  Shahspeare's  Plays;  A View 
of  the  English  Stage;  two  volumes  of  Table  Talk; 
The  Spirit  of  the  Age  (containing  criticisms  on  emi- 
nent public  characters);  Lectures  on  the  English 
Poets,  delivered  at  the  Surrey  Institution  ; Lectures 
on  the  Literature  o f the  Elizabethan  Age  ; and  various 
sketches  of  the  galleries  of  art  in  England.  He  was 
suthor  also  of  Notes  of  a Journey  through  France  and 
Italy,  originally  contributed  to  one  of  the  daily  jour- 
nals ; an  Essay  on  the  Fine  Arts  for  the  Encyclopaedia 
Brit.annica ; and  some  articles  on  the  English  no- 
velists and  other  standard  authors,  first  published  in 
the  Edinburgh  Review.  His  most  elaborate  work 
was  a Life  of  Napoleon,  in  four  volumes,  which 
evinces  all  the  peculiarities  of  his  mind  and  opinions, 
but  is  very  ably'  and  powerfully  written.  [Shortly 
before  his  death  (which  took  place  in  London  on  the 
18th  of  Seiitember  1830)  he  had  committed  to  the 
press  the  Conversations  of  James  Northcote,  Esq. 
containing  remarks  on  arts  and  artists.  The  toils, 
uncertainties,  .and  disappointments  of  a literary  life, 
and  the  contests  of  bitter  political  warfare,  soured 
and  warped  the  mind  of  IIazlitt,  and  distorted  his 
opinions  of  men  and  things ; but  those  who  trace  the 
passionate  flights  of  his  imagination,  his  aspirations 
after  ideal  excellence  and  beauty,  the  brilliancy  of 
his  language  while  dwelling  on  some  old  poem,  or 
picture,  or  dream  of  early  days,  and  the  undisguised 
freedom  with  which  he  pours  out  his  whole  soul  to 
the  reader,  will  readily  assign  to  him  both  strength 
and  versatility  of  genius.  He  had  felt  more  than  he 
had  reflected  or  studied ; and  though  proud  of  his 
acquirements  as  a metaphysician,  he  certainly  could 
paint  emotions  better  than  he  could  unfold  prin- 
ciples. The  only  son  of  Mr  Hazlitt  has,  with  pious 
diligence  and  with  talent,  collected  and  edited  his 
father’s  works  in  a series  of  handsome  portable 
volumes. 

\Tlee  Character  of  Fahtaff.^ 

t 

FalstafTs  wit  is  an  emanation  of  a fine  constitution ; 
an  exuberat'on  of  good-humour  and  good-nature  ; an 
overflowing  of  his  love  of  laughter  and  good-fellow- 


ship; a giving  vent  to  his  heart’s  ea.se  and  over-con- 
tentment with  himself  and  others.  He  would  not  be 
in  character  if  he  were  not  .so  fat  as  he  is ; for  there  is 
the  greatest  keeping  in  the  boundless  luxury  of  bis 
imagination,  and  the  p<ampercd  self-indulgence  of  his 
physical  appetites.  He  manures  and  nourishes  his 
miml  with  jests,  as  he  does  his  body  with  sack  and 
sugar.  He  carves  out  his  jokes  as  he  would  a capon 
or  a haunch  of  venison,  where  there  is  cut  and  come 
again  ; and  pours  out  upon  them  the  oil  of  gladness. 
His  tongue  drops  fatness,  and  in  the  chambers  of  his 
brain  ‘ it  snows  of  meat  and  drink.’  He  keeps  up 
perpetual  holiday  and  open  house,  and  we  live  with 
him  in  a round  of  invitations  to  a rump  and  dozen. 
Yet  we  are  not  to  suppose  that  he  was  a mere  sen- 
sualist. All  this  is  as  much  in  imagination  as  in 
reality.  His  sensuality  does  not  engross  and  stupify 
his  other  faculties,  but  ‘ ascends  me  into  the  brain, 
clears  arv.ay  all  the  dull  crude  vapours  that  environ 
it,  and  makes  it  full  of  nimble,  fiery,  and  delectabh 
shapes.’  His  imagination  keeps  up  the  ball  after  his 
-sen.ses  have  done  with  it.  He  seems  to  have  even  a 
greater  enjoyment  of  the  freedom  from  restraint,  of 
good  cheer,  of  his  ease,  of  his  vanity,  in  the  ideal  ex- 
aggerated description  which  he  gives  of  them,  than  in 
fact.  He  never  fails  to  enrich  his  discourse  with  al- 
lusions to  eating  and  drinking ; but  we  never  see  him 
at  table.  He  carries  his  own  larder  about  with  him, 
.and  he  is  himself  ‘a  tun  of  man.’  His  pulling  out 
the  bottle  in  the  field  of  battle  is  a joke  to  show  his 
contempt  for  glory  accompsinied  with  danger,  his  sys- 
tematic adherence  to  his  Epicurean  philosophy  in  the 
most  trying  circumst.ances.  Again,  such  is  his  deli- 
berate exaggeration  of  his  own  vices,  that  it  does  not 
seem  quite  certain  whether  the  account  of  his  hostess’s 
bill,  found  in  his  pocket,  with  such  an  out-of-the-way 
charge  for  capons  and  sack,  with  only  one  halfpenny- 
worth of  bread,  was  not  put  there  by  himself  as  a trick 
to  humour  the  jest  upon  his  favourite  propensities,  and 
as  a conscious  caricature  of  himself,  lie  is  repre.sented 
as  a liar,  a braggart,  a cow.ard,  a glutton  &c.  ana  yet  we 
are  not  offended,  but  delighted  with  him  ; for  he  is  all 
these  as  much  to  amuse  others  as  to  gratify  himself. 
He  openly  assumes  all  these  characters  to  show  the 
humorous  part  of  them.  The  unrestrained  indulgence 
of  his  owm  ease,  appetites,  and  convenience,  has  neither 
malice  nor  hypocri.sy  in  it.  In  a word,  he  is  an  actor 
in  himself  almost  as  much  as  upon  the  stage,  and  we 
no  more  object  to  the  character  of  Falstaff  in  a moral 
point  of  view,  than  we  should  think  of  bringing  an 
excellent  comedian,  who  should  repre.sent  him  to  the 
life,  before  one  of  the  police  offices. 

{The  Character  of  Hamlet.'] 

It  is  the  one  of  Shakspeare’s  plays  that  we  think  of 
the  oftenest,  because  it  abounds  most  in  striking  re- 
flections on  human  life,  and  because  the  distresses  of 
Hamlet  are  transferred,  by  the  turn  of  his  mind,  to 
the  general  account  of  humanity.  Wh.atever  hapiiens 
to  him,  we  apply  to  ourselves,  because  he  applies  it  to 
himself  as  a means  of  general  reasoning.  He  is  agreat 
moraliser  ; and  what  makes  him  worth  attending  to 
is,  that  he  moralises  on  his  own  feelings  and  experi- 
ence. He  is  not  a commonplace  pedant.  If  Lear  is 
distinguished  by  the  greatest  depth  of  passion,  Hamlet 
is  the  most  remarkable  for  the  ingenuity,  originality, 
and  unstudied  development  of  character.  Shakspoaro 
had  more  magnanimity  th.an  any  other  poet,  and  he 
has  shown  more  of  it  in  this  play  than  in  any  other. 
There  is  no  attempt  to  force  an  interest:  everything 
is  left  for  time  and  circumstances  to  unfold.  The 
attention  is  excited  without  effort ; the  incidents  suc- 
ceed each  other  as  matters  of  course ; the  characters 
think,  and  speak,  and  act  just  as  they  might  do  if  left 
entirely  to  themselves.  There  is  no  set  purpose,  no 

693 


FROM  17I!0  CYCLOPiJiDIA  OF  till  the  present  tim& 


“trainiii"  at  a point.  The  observations  are  suggested 
by  the  passing  scene — the  gusts  of  passion  come  and 
go  like  sounds  of  music  borne  on  the  wind.  The  whole 
play  is  an  exact  transcript  of  what  might  be  supposed 
to  have  taken  place  at  the  court  of  Denmark  at  the 
remote  period  of  time  fixed  upon,  before  the  modern 
rclinements  in  morals  and  manners  were  heard  of.  It 
would  have  been  interesting  enough  to  have  been  ad- 
mitted as  a bystander  in  such  a scene,  at  such  a time, 
to  have  heard  and  witnessed  something  of  what  was 
going  on.  Hut  here  we  are  more  than  siiectators.  We 
have  not  only  ‘ the  outward  pageants  and  the  signs  of 
grief,’  but  ‘ we  have  that  within  which  passes  show.’ 
We  read  the  thoughts  of  the  heart,  we  catch  the  pas- 
sions living  as  they  rise.  Other  dramatic  writers  give 
us  very  fine  versions  and  paraphrases  of  nature ; but 
Shakspeare,  together  with  his  own  comments,  gives  us 
the  original  text,  that  we  may  judge  for  ourselves. 
This  is  a very  great  advantage. 

The  character  of  Hamlet  stands  quite  by  itself.  It 
is  not  a character  marked  by  strength  of  will  or  even 
of  passion,  but  by  refinement  of  thought  and  senti- 
ment. Hamlet  is  as  little  of  the  hero  as  a man  can 
well  be;  but  he  is  a young  and  princely  novice,  full 
of  high  enthusiasm  and  quick  sensibility — the  sport 
of  circumstances,  questioning  with  fortune,  and  refin- 
ing on  his  own  feelings,  and  forced  from  the  natural 
bias  of  his  disposition  by  the  strangeness  of  his  situa- 
tion. He  seems  incapable  of  deliberate  action,  and 
is  only  hurried  into  extremities  on  the  spur  of  the  oc- 
c.asion,  when  he  has  no  time  to  reflect — as  in  the  scene 
where  he  kills  Polonius  ; and,  again,  where  he  alters 
the  letters  which  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  are 
taking  with  them  to  England,  purporting  his  death. 
At  other  times,  when  he  is  most  bound  to  act,  he  re- 
mains puzzled,  undecided,  and  sceptical ; dallies  with 
his  purposes  till  the  occasion  is  lost,  and  finds  out 
some  pretence  to  relapse  into  indolence  and  thought- 
fulness again.  For  this  reason  he  refuses  to  kill  the 
king  when  he  is  at  his  prayers  ; and,  by  a refinement 
in  malice,  which  is  in  truth  only  an  excuse  for  his  own 
want  of  resolution,  defers  his  revenge  to  a more  fatal 
opportunity. 

* ♦ ♦ 

The  moral  perfection  of  this  character  has  been 
called  in  question,  we  think,  by  those  who  did  not  un- 
derstand it.  It  is  more  interesting  than  according  to 
rules  ; amiable,  though  not  faultless.  The  ethical 
delineations  of  ‘ that  noble  and  liberal  casuist’ (as 
Shakspeare  has  been  well  called)  do  not  exhibit  the 
drab-coloured  quakerism  of  morality.  His  plays  are 
not  copied  either  from  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man,  or 
from  The  Academy  of  Compliments!  We  confess 
we  are  a little  shocked  at  the  want  of  refinement  in 
those  who  are  shocked  at  the  want  of  refinement  in 
Hamlet.  The  neglect  of  punctilious  exactness  in  his 
behaviour  either  partakes  of  the  ‘ license  of  the  time,’ 
or  else  belongs  to  the  very  excess  of  intellectual  re- 
finement in  the  character,  which  makes  the  common 
rules  of  life,  as  well  as  his  own  purposes,  sit  loose  upon 
him.  He  may  be  .said  to  be  amenable  only  to  the 
tribunal  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  is  too  much  taken 
up  with  the  airy  world  of  contemplation,  to  lay  as 
much  stress  as  he  ought  on  the  practical  consequences 
of  things.  His  habitual  principles  of  action  are  un- 
hinged and  out  of  joint  with  the  time.  His  conduct 
to  Ophelia  is  quite  natural  in  his  circumstances.  It 
is  that  of  assumed  severity  only.  It  is  the  efi’ect  of 
disappointed  hope,  of  bitter  regrets,  of  affection  sus- 
pended, not  obliterated,  by  the  distractions  of  the 
scene  around  him  ! Amidst  the  natural  and  preter- 
natural horrors  of  his  situation,  he  might  be  excused 
in  delicacy  from  carrying  on  a regular  courtship. 
When  ‘ his  father’s  spirit  was  in  arms,’  it  was  not  a 
time  for  the  son  to  make  love  in.  He  could  neither 
marry  O jhelia,  nor  wound  her  mind  by  explaining  the 


cau.se  of  his  alienation,  which  he  durst  hartlly  trusi 
himself  to  think  of.  It  would  have  taken  him  years 
to  have  come  to  a direct  explanation  on  the  point.  In 
the  harassed  state  of  his  mind,  he  could  not  have  done 
much  otherwise  than  he  did.  His  conduct  docs  not 
contradict  what  he  says  when  he  secs  her  funeral: — 

‘ I loved  Ophelia  ; flirty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  ef  love, 

Make  up  my  sum.' 

TIlOiMAS  CARLYLE. 

The  Germ.m  studies  and  metaphysics  of  Coleridge 
seem  to  have  inspired  one  powerful  writer  of  the 
day,  Thomas  Carlyle,  author  of  various  works  and 
translations  — a Life  of  Schiller;  Sartor  liemrtun, 
18.36  ; The  Fremh  /{evolution,  a I/ixlory,  in  three 
volumes,  1837  ; Chartism,  1839;  Critical  and  Miscella- 
neous Essays,  coWactoA  and  republished  from  reviews 
and  magazines,  in  five  vols.,  1839  ; a series  of  lectures 
on  Hero  Worship,  1841  ; and  The  I’ast  and  /^resent, 
1843.  Familiar  with  German  literature,  and  admir- 
ing its  authors,  Mr  Carlyle  has  had  great  influence  in 
rendering  the  works  of  Goethe,  Richter,  &c.  known  in 
this  country.  He  has  added  to  our  stock  of  original 
ideas,  and  helped  to  foster  a more  liberal  and  pene- 
trative style  of  criticism  amongst  us.  His  jihiloso- 
phical  theory  has  been  condemned  for  its  resemblance 
to  the  I’antheistic  system,  or  idol-worship,  Goethe 
being  the  special  object  of  his  veneration.  It  is  too 
fanciful  and  unreal  to  be  of  general  practical  utility, 
or  to  serve  as  a refuge  from  the  actual  cares  and 
storms  of  life.  It  is  an  intellectual  theory,  and  to 
intellectual  men  may  be  valuable — for  the  opinions 
and  writings  of  Carlyle  tend  to  enlarge  our  sympa- 
thies and  feelings — to  stir  the  heart  with  benevolence 
and  affection — to  unite  man  to  man — and  to  build 
upon  this  love  of  our  fellow-beings  a syst.m  of  mental 
energy  and  purity  far  removed  from  the  operations 
of  sense,  and  pregnant  with  high  hopes  and  aspira- 
tions. He  is  an  original  and  subtle  thinker,  and 
combines  with  his  powers  of  analysis  and  reasoning 
a vivid  and  brilliant  imagination.  His  work  on  the 
French  Revolution  is  a series  of  paintings — grand, 
terrific,  and  ghastly.  The  peculiar  style  and  diction 
of  Mr  Carlyle  have  with  some  retarded,  and  with 
others  advanced  his  popularity.  It  is  more  German 
than  English,  full  of  conceits  and  personifications, 
of  high  and  low  things,  familiar  and  recondite,  mixed 
up  together  without  any  regard  to  order  or  natural 
connexion.  He  has  no  chaste  simidicity,  no  ‘ linked 
sweetness,’  or  polished  uniformity ; all  is  angular, 
objective,  and  uniilioinatic  ; at  times,  however,  highly 
graphic,  and  swelling  out  into  periods  of  fine  imagery 
and  eloquence.  Even  common  thoughts,  dressed  up 
in  Mr  Carlyle’s  peculiar  costume  of  words,  possess 
an  air  of  originality.  The  style  is,  on  the  vi  hole,  a 
vicious  and  affected  one  (though  it  may  now  have 
become  natural  to  its  possessor),  but  is  made  strik- 
ing by  the  force  and  genius  of  which  it  is  the  repre- 
sentative. 

[The  Succession  of  Faces  of  Men.'] 

Generation  after  generation  takes  to  itself  the  form 
of  a body,  and  forth  issuing  from  Cimmerian  night  on 
heaven’s  missions  appears.  What  force  and  fire  is  in 
each  he  expends;  one  grinding  in  the  mill  of  indus- 
try; one,  hunter-like,  climbing  the  giddy  Alpine 
heights  of  science ; one  madly  dashed  in  pieces  on 
the  rocks  of  strife,  in  war  with  his  fellow  ; and  then 
the  heaven-sent  is  recalled  ; his  earth)- vesture  falls 
away,  and  soon  even  to  sense  becomes  a vanished 
shadow.  Thus,  like  some  wild-flaming,  wild-thunder- 
ing train  of  heaven’s  artillery,  does  this  mysterious 
mankind  thunder  and  flame,  in  long-drawn,  quick- 

694 


SIDNEY  SMITH. 


WISCKLI.ANE0II8  WRITERS.  KXOT.ISII  I. 


«u«weiliiig  jiramleur,  through  the  unknown  deep. 
Thus,  like  a (ioil-crcated,  firc-breiithing  spirit-host, 
we  emerge  from  the  inane;  haste  stormfully  across 
the  .•vstonisheU  earth,  then  plunge  again  into  the 
inane  Karth’s  mountains  arc  levelled  and  her  sens 
filled  up  in  our  passage.  Can  the  earth,  which  is  but 
dead  and  a vision,  resist  spirits  which  have  reality 
and  are  alive  ! On  the  hardest  adamant  some  foot- 
print of  us  is  stamped  in  ; the  last  rear  of  the  host 
will  read  traces  of  the  earliest  van.  But  whence? 
()h  heaven!  whither?  Sense  knows  not;  faith  knows 
not ; only  that  it  is  through  mystery  to  mystery,  from 
tiud  and  to  God. 

[d«(icjt  upon  the  Bastille.'] 

[From  the  «orV  on  the  French  Revolution  ] 

All  morning,  since  nine,  there  has  been  a cry 
everywhere,  ‘ To  the  Bastille!’  Repeated  ‘ deputa- 
tions of  citizens’  have  been  here,  passionate  for  arms  ; 
whom  De  L.aunay  has  got  dismissed  by  soft  speeches 
through  port-holes.  Towards  noon  Elector  Thuriot 
de  la  Rosiere  gains  admittance ; finds  De  Launay 
indisposed  for  surrender ; nay,  disposed  for  blowing 
up  the  place  rather.  Thuriot  mounts  with  him  to 
the  battlements : heaps  of  paving-stones,  old  iron, 
and  missiles  lie  piled:  cannon  all  duly  levelled  ; in 
every  embrasure  a cannon — only  drawn  back  a little! 
But  outwards,  behold,  0 Thuriot,  how  the  multitude 
flows  on,  welling  through  every  street ; tocsin  furiously 
pealing,  all  drums  beating  the  yenerale : the  suburb 
Sainte-Antoine  rolling  hitherward  wholly  as  one  man  ! 
Such  vision  (spectral,  yet  real)  thou,  0 Thuriot ! as 
from  thy  Mount  of  Vision,  beholdest  in  this  moment : 
prophetic  of  other  phantasmagories,  and  loud-gibber- 
ing spectral  realities  which  thou  yet  beholdest  not, 
but  shall.  ‘ Que  voulez-vous  ?’  said  De  Launay, 
turning  pale  at  the  sight,  with  an  air  of  reproach, 
almost  of  menace.  ‘Monsieur,’  said  Thuriot,  rising 
into  the  moral  sublime,  ‘ what  me.an  you  ? Consider 
if  1 could  not  precipitate  both  of  us  from  this  height’ 
— s.ay  only  a hundred  feet,  exclusive  of  the  walled 
ditch  ! Whereupon  De  L.aunay  fell  silent. 

Wo  CO  thee,  De  Launay,  in  such  an  hour,  if  thou 
cunst  not,  taking  some  one  firm  decision,  rule  cir- 
cumstances ! Soft  speeches  will  not  serve ; hard 
grape-shot  is  questionable;  but  hovering  between  the 
two  is  . '■■questionable.  Ever  wilder  swells  the  tide 
of  men  ; their  infinite  hum  waxing  ever  louder  into 
imprecations,  perhaps  into  crackle  of  stray  musketry, 
which  latter,  on  walls  nine  feet  thick,  cannot  do 
execution.  The  outer  drawbridge  has  been  lowered 
for  Thuriot ; new  deputation  of  citizens  (it  is  the 
third  and  noisiest  of  all)  penetrates  that  way  into 
the  outer  court : soft  speeches  producing  no  clearance 
of  the.se,  De  Launay  gives  fire ; pulls  up  his  draw- 
bridge. A slight  sputter ; which  has  kindled  the  too 
combustible  chaos;  made  it  a roaring  fire-chaos! 
Bursts  forth  insurrection,  at  sight  of  its  own  blood 
(for  there  were  deaths  by  that  sputter  of  fire),  into 
endless  rolling  exidosion  of  mu.sketry,  distraction, 
execration  ; and  overhead,  from  the  fortress,  let  one 
great  gun,  with  its  grape-shot,  go  booming,  to  show 
what  we  could  do.  The  Bastille  is  besieged! 

On,  then,  all  Frenchmen  that  have  hearts  in  their 
bodies!  Roar  with  all  your  throats  of  cartilage  and 
metal,  ye  sons  of  liberty  ; stir  spasmodically  what- 
soever of  utmost  faculty  is  in  you,  soul,  body,  or 
spirit;  for  it  is  the  hour!  Smite,  thou  Louis  Tour- 
nay,  Cartwright  of  the  Marais,  old  soldier  of  the 
Regiment  Dauphine' ; smite  at  that  outer  drawbridge 
chain,  though  the  fiery  hail  whistles  round  thee! 
Nev'r,  over  nave  or  felloe  did  thy  axe  strike  such  a 
stroke.  Down  with  it,  man  ; down  with  it  to  Orcus  : 
let  the  whole  accursed  edifice  sink  thither,  and 
tyranny  be  swallowed  up  for  ever!  Mounted,  some 


.ITERATURE. 


say,  on  the  roof  of  the  guard-room,  some  ‘ on  bayonets 
stuck  into  joints  of  the  wall,’  Louis  Tournay  smites, 
brave  Aubin  Bonnemere  (also  an  old  soldier)  second- 
ing him : the  chain  yields,  breaks ; the  huge  draw- 
bridge slams  down,  thundering  (avec  fracas).  Glo- 
rious; and  yet,  alas!  it  is  still  but  the  outworks. 
The  eight  grim  towers  with  their  Invalides’ musketry, 
their  paving-stones  and  c.annon-mouths  still  soar  aloft 
intact  ; ditch  yawning  impassable,  stone-faced  ; the 
inner  drawbridge  with  its  back  towards  us : the  Bas- 
tille is  still  to  take ! 

Mr  Carlyle  is  a native  of  the  village  of  Eccle- 
fechan,  in  Dumfriesshire,  the  child  of  parents  whose 
personal  character  seems  to  have  been  considerably 
more  exalted  than  their  circumstances.  He  was 
reared  for  the  Scottish  church,  but  stopped  short  at 
the  threshold,  and,  after  some  years  spent  in  the 
laborious  business  of  teaching,  devoted  himself  to  a 
literary  life. 

REV.  SIDNEY  SMITH — LORD  JEFFREY 

HR  T.  B.  MACAULAY. 

These  three  eminent  men  have  lately,  by  the  col- 
lection and  republication  of  their  contributions  to 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  taken  their  place  avowedly 
among  the  miscellaneous  writers  of  the  present  cen- 
tur}'.  Mr  Smith  had,  about  thirty  years  previous, 
issued  a higlily  amusing  and  powerful  political  tract, 
entitled  Letters  on  the  Snhject  of  the  Catholics,  to  my 
Brother  Abraham,  who  lives  in  the  Country,  by  Peter 
Plymley.  These  letters,  after  going  through  twentj'- 
one  editions,  are  now  included  in  the  author’s  works. 
He  has  also  included  a tract  on  the  Ballot  (first  pub- 
lished in  18.39),  some  speeches  on  theCatliolie  Claims 
and  Reform  Bill,  laitters  on  certain  proposed  Reforms 
in  the  Church  of  E’ngland,  and  a few  Sermons. 
Sidney  Smith  is  one  of  the  wittiest  and  ablest  men 
of  his  age.  His  powers  have  always  been  exercised 
on  practical  subjects,  to  correct  what  he  deemed 
errors  or  abuses,  to  enforce  religious  toleration,  ex- 
pose cant  and  hypocrisy’,  and  to  inculcate  timely 
reformation.  No  politician  was  ever  more  fearless 
or  effective.  He  has  the  wit  and  energy  of  Swift, 
without  his  coarseness  or  cynicism,  and  a peculiar 
breadth  of  humour  and  drollery  of  illustration,  that 
are  potent  auxiliaries  to  his  clear  and  logical  argu- 
ment. Thus,  in  ridiculing  the  idea  prevalent  among 
many  timid  though  excellent  persons  at  the  time  of 
tile  publication  of  Plyniley’s  Letters,  that  a con- 
spiracy liad  been  formed  against  the  Protestant  re- 
ligion, headed  by  the  pope,  Jlr  Smith  places  the 
subject  in  a light  highly  ludicrous  and  amusing: — 

‘The  pope  has  not  landed  — »or  are  tliere  any 
curates  sent  out  after  him — nor  has  he  been  hid  at 
St  Albans  by  the  Dowager  Lady  Spencer — nor  dined 
privately  at  Elolland  House — nor  been  seen  near 
Dropmore.  If  these  fears  exist  (which  I do  not  be- 
lieve), they  exist  only  in  the  mind  of  the  chancellor 
of  the  exchequer  [the  late  Mr  Spencer  Perceval]; 
they’  emanate  from  his  zeal  for  the  Protestant  in- 
terest; and  though  they  reflect  the  highest  honour 
upon  the  delicate  irritability  of  his  faith,  must  cei- 
taiiily  be  considered  as  more  ambiguous  proofs  of  the 
sanity  and  vigour  of  his  understanding.  By  this 
time,  however,  the  best-informed  clergy  in  the  neigii- 
bourhood  of  the  metropolis  are  convinced  that  the 
rumour  is  without  foundation  : and  though  the  pope 
is  probably  hovering  about  our  coast  in  a fishing- 
smack,  it  is  most  likely  he  will  fall  a prey  to  the 
vigilance  of  the  cruisers  : and  it  is  certain  he  has 
not  yet  polluted  the  Protestantism  of  our  soil.  Ex- 
actly in  the  same  manner  the  story  of  the  wooden 
gods  seized  at  Charing  Cross,  by  an  order  from  the 
Foreign  Office,  turns  out  to  be  without  the  shadow 


FROM  17(i0 


CYCLOPiKDIA  OF 


of  ii  foiiiulatioii : instead  of  the  angels  and  arch- 
angels mentioned  hy  the  informer,  nothing  was  dis- 
covered blit  a wooden  image  of  I^ird  Mulurave  going 
down  to  Cliatliam  as  a head-piece  for  the  Spanker 
gun-vessel : it  was  an  exact  resemblance  of  his  lord- 
ship  in  his  military  umforin  ; and  therefore  as  little 
like  a god  as  can  well  be  imagined.’ 

The  effects  of  the  threatened  French  invasion  are 
painted  in  similar  colours.  Mr  Smith  is  arguing 
that,  notwithstanding  the  fears  entertained  in  Eng- 
land on  this  subject,  the  British  rulers  neglected  the 
obvious  means  of  self-defence  : — 

‘As  for  the  spirit  of  the  peasantry  in  making  a 
gallant  defence  behind  hedgerows,  and  through 
plate-racks  and  hencoops,  highly  as  I think  of  their 
bravery,  I do  not  know  any  nation  in  Europe  so 
likely  to  be  struck  with  panic  as  the  English ; and 
this  from  their  total  unacquaintance  with  sciences 
of  war.  Old  wheat  and  beans  blazing  for  twenty 
miles  round  ; cart  mares  shot ; sows  of  Lord  Somer- 
ville’s breed  running  wild  over  the  country  ; the 
minister  of  the  parish  wounded  sorely  in  his  hinder 
parts  ; Mrs  Plymley  in  fits ; all  these  scenes  of  war 
an  Austrian  or  a Ilussian  has  seen  three  or  four 
times  over;  but  it  is  now  three  centuries  since  an 
English  pig  has  fallen  in  a fair  battle  upon  English 
ground,  or  a farm-house  been  rifled,  or  a clergyman’s 
wife  been  subjected  to  any  other  proposals  of  love 
than  the  connubial  endearments  of  her  sleek  and 
orthodox  mate.  The  old  edition  of  Plutarch’s  Lives, 
which  lies  in  the  corner  of  your  parlour  window,  has 
contributed  to  work  you  up  to  the  most  romantic 
expectations  of  our  Homan  behaviour.  You  are  per- 
suaded that  Lord  Amherst  will  defend  Kew  Bridge 
like  Codes  ; that  some  maid  of  honour  will  break 
away  from  her  captivity  and  swim  over  the  'I'hames  ; 
that  the  Duke  of  York  will  burn  his  capitulating 
hand  ; and  little  Mr  Sturges  Bourne  give  forty  years’ 
purchase  for  Moulsham  Hall  while  the  French  are 
encamped  upon  it.  I hope  we  shall  witness  all  this, 
if  the  French  do  come  ; but  in  the  meantime  I am 
so  enchanted  with  the  ordinary  English  behaviour 
of  these  invaluable  persons,  that  I earnestly  pray  no 
opportunity  may  he  given  them  for  Roman  valour, 
and  for  those  very  un-Roman  pensions  which  they 
would  all,  of  course,  take  especial  care  to  claim  in 
consequence.’ 

One  of  the  happiest  and  most  forcible  of  Mr  Smith’s 
humorous  comparisons  is  that  in  which  he  says,  of 
a late  English  minister,  on  whom  he  had  bestowed 
frequent  and  elaborate  censure — ‘ I do  not  attack 
him  from  the  love  of  glory,  but  from  the  love  of  utility, 
as  a burgomaster  hunts  a rat  in  a Dutch  dyke,  for 
fear  it  should  flood  a province.’  Another  occurs  in 
a speech  delivered  at  Taunton  in  1831  : — ‘ I do  not 
mean,’  he  says,  ‘ to  be  disrespectful,  but  the  attempt 
of  the  lords  to  stop  the  progress  of  reform  reminds 
me  very  forcibly  of  the  great  storm  of  Sid  mouth,  and 
of  the  conduct  of  the  excellent  Mrs  Partington  on 
that  occasion.  In  the  winter  of  1824  there  set  in  a 
great  flood  upon  that  town — the  tide  rose  to  an  in- 
credible height — the  waves  rushed  in  upon  the  houses 
— and  everything  was  threatened  with  destruction. 
In  the  midst  of  this  sublime  storm.  Dame  Parting- 
ton, who  lived  upon  the  beach,  was  seen  at  the  door 
of  her  house  with  mop  and  pattenj,  trundling  her 
mop,  and  squeezing  out  the  sea-water,  and  vigorously 
pushing  away  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  The  Atlantic 
was  roused.  Mrs  Partington’s  spirit  was  up ; but  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  the  contest  was  unequal.  The 
Atlantic  Ocean  beat  Mrs  Partington.  She  was  ex- 
cellent at  a slop  or  a puddle,  but  she  should  not  have 
meddled  with  a tempest.’  Illustrations  of  this  kind 
are  highly  characteristic  of  their  author.  They  dis- 
play the  fertility  of  his  fancy  and  the  richness  of 


TILL  TUB  PRESKNT  TIME. 


his  humour,  at  the  same  time  that  they  drive  home 
his  argument  with  irresistible  effect.  Sidney  Smith, 
like  Swift,  seems  never  to  have  taken  up  his  pen 
from  the  mere  love  of  composition,  hut  to  enforce 
practical  views  and  opinions  on  which  he  felt  strongly, 
llis  wit  and  banter  are  equally  direct  and  cogent, 
'fhough  a professed  joker  and  convivial  wit — ‘a 
diner  out  of  the  first  lustre,’  as  he  has  himself  cha- 
racterised Mr  Canning  — there  is  not  one  of  his 
humorous  or  witty  sallies  that  does  not  seem  to  flow 
naturally,  and  without  effort,  as  if  struck  out  or 
remembered  at  the  moment  it  is  used.  Mr  Smith 
gives  the  following  account  of  his  connexion  with 
the  Edinburgh  Review 

‘ When  first  I went  into  the  church  I had  a 
curacy  in  the  middle  of  Salisbury  Plain.  The  squire 
of  the  parish  took  a fancy  to  me,  and  requested  me 
to  go  with  his  son  to  reside  at  the  university  of 
Weimar;  before  we  could  get  there,  Germany  be- 
came the  seat  of  war,  and  in  stress  of  politics  we 
put  in  to  Edinburgh,  where  I remained  five  years. 
The  princiiiles  of  the  French  Revolution  were  then 
fully  afloat,  and  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  a more 
violent  and  agitated  state  of  society.  Among  the 
first  persons  with  whom  I became  acquainted  were 
Lord  Jeffrey,  Lord  Murray  (late  Lord  Advocate  for 
Scotland),  and  Lord  Brougham  ; all  of  them  main- 
taining opinions  upon  political  subjects  a little  too 
liberal  for  the  dynasty  of  Dundas,  then  exercising 
supreme  power  over  the  northern  division  of  the 
island.  One  day  we  happened  to  meet  in  the  eighth 
or  ninth  storey  or  flat  in  Buccleuch  Place,  the  ele- 
vated residence  of  the  then  Mr  Jeffrey.  I proposed 
that  we  should  set  up  a Review  ; this  was  acceded 
to  with  acclamation.  I was  appointed  editor,  and 
remained  long  enough  in  Edinburgh  to  edit  the  first 
number  of  tlie  Edinburgh  Review.  The  motto  I 
proposed  fur  the  Review  was — 

‘ Tcmii  Tniisam  meditamur  avena’ — 

■\Ve  cultivate  literature  upon  a little  oatmeal. 

But  this  was  too  near  the  truth  to  be  admitted,  and 
so  we  took  our  present  grave  motto  from  Publius 
Syrus,  of  whom  none  of  us  had.  I am  sure,  ever  read 
a single  line  ; and  so  began  what  has  sin  ;e  turned 
out  to  be  a very  important  and  able  journal.  Wheo 
I left  Edinburgh  it  fell  into  the  stronger  hands  of 
Lord  Jeffrey  and  Lord  Brougham,  and  reav  hed  the 
highest  point  of  popularity  and  success.’ 

Mr  Smith  is  now,  we  believe,  above  seveniy  years 
of  age,  but  his  vigorous  understanding,  his  wit  and 
humour,  are  still  undiminished. 

The  chief  merit  and  labour  attaching  to  the  con- 
tinuance and  the  success  of  the  Fidinburgh  Review 
fell  on  its  accomplished  editor,  Francis  Jeffrky, 
now  one  of  the  judges  of  the  Court  of  Session  in 
Scotland.  From  1803  to  1829  Mr  Jeffrey  had  the 
sole  management  of  the  Review  ; and  when  we  con- 
sider the  distinguished  ability  which  it  has  uni- 
formly displayed,  and  the  high  moral  character  it 
has  upheld,  together  with  the  independence  and 
fearlessness  with  wdiich  from  the  first  it  has  pro- 
mulgated its  c.anons  of  criticism  on  literature, 
science,  and  government,  we  must  admit  that  few 
men  have  exercised  such  influence  as  FYancis  JeflVey 
on  the  whole  current  of  contemporary  literature 
and  public  opinion.  Besides  his  general  superin- 
tendence, Mr  Jeffrey  was  a large  contributor  to 
the  Review.  'I’he  departments  of  poetry  and  ele- 
gant literature  seem  to  have  been  his  chosen  field  ; 
and  he  constantly  endeavoured,  as  he  says,  ‘ to  com- 
bine ethical  precepts  with  literary  criticism,  and 
earnestly  sought  to  impress  his  readers  with  a 
sense  both  of  the  close  connexion  between  sound  in- 
tellectual attainments  and  the  higher  elements  of 

696 


HISCF.I.LANEOUS  WRITERS. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


I-RANCIS  .lEFPRET. 


duty  iiiul  enjoyment,  and  of  the  just  and  nltinmte 
sulKwdination  of  the  former  to  tlie  hitter.’  This  was 
a vocation  of  hi<;li  mi>rk  and  responsibility,  and  on 
the  wliole  the  critic  discharged  his  duty  with  lionour 
and  success.  As  a moral  writer  he  was  uiiimpeach- 
ahle.  The  principles  of  his  criticism  are  generally 
sound  and  elevated.  In  some  instances  he  was  harsh 
and  unjust.  Ilis  reviews  of  Southey,  Wordsworth, 
Lamb,  and  Montgomery,  are  indefensible,  inasmuch 
as  the  writer  seems  intent  on  finding  fault  rather 
than  in  discovering  beauties,  and  to  be  more  piqued 
with  occasional  deviation  from  established  and  con- 
ventional rules,  than  gratified  with  originality  of 
thought  and  indications  of  true  genius.  No  excuse 
can  be  offered  for  the  pertness  and  flippancy  of  ex- 
pression in  which  many  of  these  critiques  abound, 
and  their  author  has  himself  expressed  his  regret 
for  the  undue  severity  into  which  he  was  betrayed. 
There  is  some  ground,  therefore,  for  charging  upon 
the  Edinburgh  Review',  in  its  earlier  career,  an  ab- 
sence of  proper  respect  and  enthusiasm  for  the  works 
of  living  genius.  Wliere  no  prejudice  or  prepos- 
session of  the  kind  intervened,  Jeffrey  was  an  ad- 
mirable critic.  Ilis  dissertations  on  the  works  of 
Cowper,  Crabbe,  Byron,  Scott,  and  Campbell,  and 
on  the  earlier  and  greater  lights  of  our  poetry,  as 
well  as  those  on  moral  science,  national  manners, 
and  views  of  actual  life,  are  expressed  with  great 
eloquence  and  originality,  and  in  a fine  spirit  of 
humanity.  Ilis  powers  of  perception  and  analysis 
are  quick,  subtle,  and  penetrating,  and  withal  com- 
prehensive; while  his  brilliant  imagination  invested 
subjects  that  in  ordinary  hands  would  have  been 
dry  and  uninviting,  with  strong  interest  and  attrac- 
tion. lie  seldom  gave  full  scope  to  his  feelings  and 
sympathies,  but  they  occasionally  broke  forth  with 
inimitable  effect,  and  kindled  up  the  pages  of  his 
criticism.  At  times,  indeed,  his  language  is  poeti- 
cal in  a high  degree.  The  following  glow'ing  tribute 
to  the  universal  genius  of  Bhakspeare  is  worthy  of 
the  subject : 

Many  persons  are  very  sensible  of  the  effect  of  fine 
poetry  upon  their  feelings,  who  do  not  well  know  how 
to  refer  these  feelings  to  their  causes;  and  it  is  always 
a delightful  thing  to  be  made  to  see  clearly  the  sources 
from  which  our  delight  has  proceeded,  and  to  trace 
the  mingled  stream  that  has  flowed  upon  our  hearts 
to  the  remoter  fountains  from  which  it  has  been  g.a- 
thered  ; and  when  this  is  done  with  warmth  as  well 
as  precision,  and  embodied  in  an  eloquent  description 
of  the  beauty  which  is  explained,  it  forms  one  of  the 
most  attractive,  and  not  the  least  instructive,  of  lite- 
rary exerci.ses.  In  all  works  of  meiit,  however,  and 
especially  in  all  works  of  original  genius,  there  are  a 
thousand  retiring  and  less  obtrusive  graces,  which 
escape  hasty  and  superficial  observers,  and  only  give 
out  their  beauties  to  fond  and  patient  contemplation  ; 
a thousand  slight  and  harmonising  touches,  the  merit 
and  the  effect  of  which  are  equally  imperceptible  to 
vulgar  eyes  ; and  a thousand  indications  of  the  con- 
tinual presence  of  that  poetical  spirit  which  can  only 
be  recognised  by  those  who  are  in  some  measure  under 
its  influence,  and  have  prepared  themselves  to  receive 
it,  by  worshipping  meekly  at  the  shrines  which  it  in- 
habits. 

In  the  exposition  of  these  there  is  room  enough  for 
originality,  .and  more  room  than  Mr  Hazlitt  has  yet 
filled.  In  many  points,  however,  he  has  acquitted 
himself  excellently  ; particularly  in  the  development 
of  the  principal  characters  with  which  Shakspeare  has 
peopled  the  fancies  of  all  English  readers — but  princi- 
pally, we  think,  in  the  delicate  sensibility  with  which 
he  has  traced,  and  the  natural  eloquence  with  which 
he  has  pointed  out,  that  familiarity  with  beautiful 
forms  and  images — that  eternal  recurrence  to  what  is 


sweet  or  nmjestic  in  the  simple  aspect  of  nature — that 
indestructible  love  of  flowers  and  odours,  and  dews 
and  clear  waters — and  soft  airs  and  sounds,  and  bright 
skies,  and  woodland  solitudes,  and  moonlight  bowers, 
which  are  the  material  elements  of  poetry — and  that 
fine  sense  of  their  undefinable  relation  to  mental  emo- 
tion, which  is  its  essence  and  vivifying  soul — and 
which,  in  the  midst  of  Shakspeare’s  most  busy  and 
atrocious  scene.s,  falls  like  gleams  of  sunshine  on  locks 
and  ruins— contrasting  with  all  that  is  rugged  and  re- 
pulsive, and  reminding  us  of  the  existence  of  purer 
and  brighter  elements — which  he  alone  has  poured  out 
from  the  richness  of  his  own  mind  without  effort  or 
restraint,  and  contrived  to  intermingle  with  the  play 
of  all  the  passions,  and  the  vulgar  course  of  this 
world’s  affairs,  without  deserting  for  an  instant  tlie 
proper  business  of  the  scene,  or  appearing  to  pause  or 
digress  from  love  of  ornament  or  need  of  repose  ; he 
alone,  who,  when  the  subject  requires  it,  is  alw.ays 
keen,  and  worldly,  and  practical,  and  who  yet,  with- 
out changing  his  hand,  or  stopping  his  course,  scatters 
around  him  as  he  goes  all  sounds  and  shapes  of 
sweetness,  and  conjures  up  landscapes  of  immortal 
fr.agrance  and  freshness,  and  peoples  them  with  spirits 
of  glorious  aspect  and  attractive  gr.ace,  and  is  a thou- 
sand times  more  full  of  imagery  and  splendour  th.an 
those  who,  for  the  sake  of  such  qualities,  have  shrunk 
back  from  the  delineation  of  character  or  passion,  and 
declined  the  discussion  of  human  duties  and  cares. 
More  full  of  wisdom,  and  ridicule,  and  .s.agacity,  than 
all  the  moralists  and  satirists  in  existence,  he  is  more 
wild,  airy,  and  inventive,  and  more  pathetic  and  fan- 
tastic, than  all  the  poets  of  all  regions  and  ages  of  the 
world  ; and  has  all  those  elements  so  happily  mixed 
up  in  him,  and  bears  his  high  faculties  so  temperately, 
that  the  most  severe  reader  cannot  complain  of  him 
for  want  of  strength  or  of  reason,  nor  the  most  sensi- 
tive for  defect  of  ornament  or  ingenuity.  Everything 
in  him  is  in  unmeasured  abundance  and  unequalled 
perfection  ; but  ev'erything  so  balanced  and  kept  in 
subordination  as  not  to  jostle  or  disturb  or  take  the 
place  of  another.  The  most  exquisite  poetic.al  con- 
ceptions, images,  and  descriptions,  are  given  with  such 
brevity,  and  introduced  with  such  skill,  as  merely  to 
adorn  without  loading  the  .sense  they  accompany. 
Although  his  .sails  are  purple,  and  perfumed,  and  his 
prow  of  beaten  gold,  they  waft  him  on  his  voy.age,  not 
less,  but  more  r.apidly  and  directly,  than  if  they  had 
been  composed  of  baser  materials.  All  his  excellen- 
ces, like  those  of  Nature  herself,  are  thrown  out  to- 
gether ; and  instead  of  interfering  with,  support  and 
recommend  each  other.  Ilis  flowers  are  not  tied  up 
in  garlands,  nor  his  fruits  crushed  into  baskets,  but 
spring  living  from  the  soil,  in  all  the  dew  and  fresh- 
ness of  youth  ; while  the  graceful  foliage  in  which 
they  lurk,  and  the  ample  branches,  the  rough  and  vi- 
gorous stem,  and  the  wide-spreading  roots  on  which 
they  depend,  are  present  along  with  them,  and  share, 
in  their  places,  the  equal  care  of  their  Creator. 

Of  the  invention  of  the  steam-engine  he  rem.arks 
with  a rich  felicity  of  illustration — ‘ It  has  become  a 
thing  stupendous  alike  for  its  force  and  its  flexibi- 
lity— for  the  prodigious  power  which  it  can  exert, 
and  the  ease,  and  precision,  and  ductility  with  which 
it  can  be  varied,  distributed,  and  applied.  The 
trunk  of  an  elephant,  that  c.an  pick  up  a pin  or 
rend  an  oak,  is  as  nothing  to  it.  It  can  engrave  a 
se.al,  and  crush  masses  of  obdurate  metal  before  it — 
draw  out,  without  breaking,  a thread  as  fine  as  gos- 
samer, and  lift  up  a ship  of  war  like  a bauble  in  the 
air.  It  can  embroider  muslin  and  forge  anchors, 
cut  steel  into  ribbons,  and  impel  loaded  vessels 
against  the  fury  of  the  winds  and  waves.’ 

How  just,  also,  and  how  finely  expressed,  is  the 
following  refutation  of  a vulgar  error  that  even 

697 


FROM  1780 


CYCLOPifiDIA  OF 


HyroM  coiidesc'fiKk'd  fo  panction,  iiatnily,  tliiit  f;ciiiiis 
is  a source  of  peculiar  uiiliappiness  to  its  i)oascssors  : 
— ‘ Men  of  truly  (>reat  [xiwers  of  mind  liave  frene- 
rally  been  ebeerful,  social,  and  iniiol(>ent;  while  a 
tendency  to  sentimental  wbinintf  or  fierce  intole- 
rance may  be  ranked  amoiifr  tlie  surest  symptoms  of 
little  souls  and  inferior  intellects.  In  the  whole  list 
of  our  Kutzlisb  poets  we  rtin  only  remember  Sben- 
stone  and  Savage — two  certainly  of  the  lowest — who 
were  querulous  and  discontented.  Cowley,  inileed, 
useil  to  call  himself  melanclujly  t but  he  was  not  in 
earnest,  and  tit  any  rate  was  full  of  conceits  and 
allectafions,  and  has  nothing  to  make  us  proud  of 
him.  Shaks]  eare,  the  greatest  of  them  all,  was 
evidently  of  ;i  free  and  joyous  temperament;  and  so 
was  Chaucer,  their  common  master.  The  same  dis- 
l)osition  appears  to  have  predominated  in  Fletcher, 
Jonson.  ami  their  great  contemi)oraries.  The  genius 
of  Milton  partook  something  of  the  austerity  of  the 
party  to  which  he  belonged,  and  of  the  controversies 
in  wiiich  he  was  involved;  but  even  when  fallen  on 
evil  days  and  evil  tongues,  his  spirit  seems  to  have 
retained  its  serenity  as  well  as  its  dignity;  and  in 
his  private  life,  as  well  as  in  his  poetry,  the  majesty 
of  a liigh  character  is  tempered  with  great  sweet 
ness,  aenial  indulgences,  and  ])ractical  wisdom.  In 
the  succeeding  age  our  poets  were  but  too  gay ; and 
though  we  h.rbear  to  s[)eak  of  living  authors,  we 
know  enough  of  them  to  say  with  confidence,  that 
to  he  miserable  or  to  be  hated  is  not  now,  any  more 
than  heretofore,  the  common  lot  of  those  who  excel.’ 

Innumerable  observations  of  this  kind,  remark- 
able for  ease  and  grace,  and  for  original  reflection, 
may  be  found  scattered  through  Lorii  Jeffrey’s  cri- 
tiques. Ilis  political  remarks  and  views  of  public 
events  are  iqually  di.scriminating,  but  of  course  will 
be  judged  of  acconling  to  the  opinions  of  the  reader. 
Kone  will  be  fumd  at  variance  with  national  honour 
or  morality,  which  are  paramount  to  all  mere  party 
questions.  As  a literary  critic,  we  may  advert  to 
the  singular  taste  and  judgment  which  Ford  Jeffrey 
exercised  in  making  selections  from  the  works  he 
reviewed,  ;u;d  interweaving  them,  as  it  were,  with 
the  text  of  his  criticism.  Whatever  was  picturesqtie, 
solemn,  pathetic,  or  sublime,  caught  his  eye,  and  was 
thus  introduced  to  a new  and  vastly-extended  circle 
of  readers,  besides  furnishing  matter  for  various 
Collections  of  extracts  and  innumerable  school  exer- 
cises. 

Francis  Jeffrey  is  a native  of  Edinburgh,  the  son 
of  a respectable  writer  or  attorney.  After  conqileting 
his  education  at  Oxford,  and  passing  tbrough  the 
necessary  legal  studies,  he  was  tidnntted  a member  of 
the  Scottish  bar  in  the  year  1794.  His  eloquence  and 
iTitrepidity  as  an  advocate  were  not  less  conspicuous 
tlian  his  literary  talents,  and  in  1899  he  was,  by  the 
unanimous  suffrages  of  his  legal  brethren,  elected 
Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates.  On  the  forma- 
tion of  Earl  Grey’s  nnnistry  in  1830,  Mr  Jeffrey  was 
nominated  to  the  first  office  under  the  crown  in 
Scotland  (Lord  Advocate),  and  sat  for  some  time  in 
parliament.  In  1834  he  was  elevated  to  the  dignity 
of  the  bench,  the  duties  of  which  he  has  discharged 
with  such  undeviating  attention,  uprightness,  and 
ability,  that  no  Scottish  judge  was  ever  perhaps 
more  popular,  more  trusted,  or  more  beloved.  ‘ It 
has  been  his  enviable  lot,  if  not  to  attain  all  the 
prizes  of  ambition  for  which  men  strive,  at  least  to 
unite  in  himself  those  qualities  which,  in  many, 
would  have  secured  them  all.  A place  in  the  front 
rank  of  literature  in  the  most  literary  age — the 
highest  honour  of  his  profession  spontaneously  con- 
ferred by  the  members  of  a bar  strong  in  talent  and 
learning — eloquence  among  the  first  of  our  orators, 
raid  wisdom  among  the  wisest,  and  universal  reve- 


TIM.  TIIF.  PRBSKNT  TIME 


rence  on  that  judicial  seat  which  has  derived  in- 
creased celebrity  from  his  demeanour — a youth  of 
enterprise — a manhood  of  brjlliaiit  suicess— and 
“ henour,  love,  ohedience,  troops  of  friends,”  en- 
circling his  later  years—inark  him  out  for  venera- 
tion to  every  son  of  that  country  whose  name  he 
has  exalted  throughout  Europe.  We  need  nots[)eak 
here  of  those  graces  of  mind  and  of  character  that 
have  thrown  fascination  over  his  society,  and  m:ide 
his  friendship  a privilege.’’'’ 

'I'he  Critical  and  Historical  Kssat/s  contributed  to 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  by  T.  15.  Macaui.ay,  three 
volumes.  18-43.  have  enjoyed  great  poimlarity.  and 
materially  aided  the  Review,  both  as  to  immediate 
success  and  permanent  value.  The  reading  and 
erudition  of  tlie  author  are  imrnen.se.  In  questions 
of  classical  learning  and  criticism— in  Englisli  iioetry, 
philosophy,  and  history — in  all  the  minutia;  of  bio- 
graphy and  literary  anecdote — in  the  principles  and 
details  of  government — in  the  revolutions  of  parties 
and  opinions — in  the  iirogress  of  science  and  philo- 
sophy— in  all  these  he  seems  equally  ver.sant  and 
equally  felicitous  as  a critic.  I’eihaps  he  is  most 
striking  and  original  in  his  historical  articles,  which 
present  complete  ])ictures  of  the  times  of  which  he 
treats,  adortied  with  portraits  of  the  principal  actors, 
and  copious  illustrations  of  contemporary  events 
and  characters  in  other  countries.  His  reviews  of 
Hallam’s  Constitutional  History,  and  the  memoirs  of 
Lord  Clive,  Warren  Hastings,  Sir  Robert  Walpole, 
Sir  William  Temple,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  &c.  contain 
a series  of  brilliant  and  ('opiotis  historical  retrospects 
unequalled  in  our  hteniture.  His  eloquent  pajjers 
on  Lord  Bacon,  Sir  Thomas  Browtie,  Horace  Wal- 
pole’s Letters,  Boswell’s  Johnson,  Addi.sou’s  Me- 
moirs, and  other  philosophical  and  literary  subjects, 
are  also  of  first-rate  excellence.  Whatever  to])ic  he 
takes  up  he  fairly  exhausts — nothing  is  left  to  the 
imagination,  and  the  most  ample  curiosity  is  grati- 
fied. Mr  Itlacaulay  is  a party  politician — a strong 
admirer  of  the  old  Whigs,  and  well-disposed  towards 
the  Roundheads  and  Covenanters  At  rimes  he  ap- 
pears to  identify  himself  too  closely  w ith  those  laili- 
ticians  of  a former  age,  and  to  write  as  with  a strong 
personal  antipathy  against  their  opponents.  His 
judgments  are  occasionally  harsh,  and  uncharitable, 
even  when  founded  on  undoubted  facts.  In  arrang- 
ing his  materials  for  affect,  he  is  a jonsummate 
master.  Some  of  his  scenes  and  jiarallels  are 
managed  with  the  highest  artistical  art,  and  his 
language,  like  his  conceiitions,  is  picturesque.  In 
style  Mr  Macaulay  is  stately  and  rhetorical — per- 
haps too  florid  and  gorgeous,  at  least  in  bis  earlier 
essays — but  it  is  sustained  with  wonderful  laiwer 
and  energy.  In  this  particular,  as  well  as  in  other 
mental  characteristics,  the  reviewer  bears  some  re- 
semblance to  Gibbon.  His  knowledge  is  as  universal, 
his  imagination  as  rich  and  creative,  and  his  i)ower 
of  condensation  as  remarkable.  Both  have  made 
sacrifices  in  taste,  candour,  and  generosity,  for  ]>ur- 
poses  of  immediate  effect ; but  the  living  author  is 
unquestionably  far  superior  to  his  great  prototype  in 
the  soundness  of  his  philo.sophy  and  the  purity  of 
his  aspirations  and  principles. 

■WILLIAM  HOWITT,  &C. 

William  Ho'witt.  a popular  miscell.ancous  writer, 
has  written  some  delightful  works  illustrative  of  the 
‘calendar  of  nature.’  His  Booh  of  the  Seasons,  1832, 
presents  us  with  the  picturesque  and  poetic  features 
of  the  months,  and  all  the  objects  and  appearances 
which  each  presents  in  the  garden,  the  field,  and  the 

♦ North  British  Review  ,'or  844. 

698 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MISCKLI.ANKOL'S  WRITER.S. 


JOHN  ci-Aumus  lorot  n. 


waters.  An  enthusiastie  lover  of  his  siibject,  Mr 
Ilowitt  is  remarkable  for  tlie  fulness  and  variety  of 
his  pietorial  sketcdies.  the  rieliness  and  purity  of  his 
faney,  and  the  oeeasional  force  and  elixiuenee  of  his 
style.  ‘ If  1 could  but  arouse  in  other  minds,’  he 
says,  ‘ tliat  ardent  and  ever-p'owinff  love  of  tlie 
iKaiutifnl  svorks  of  God  in  the  creation,  wliieh  I feel 
in  myself — if  I could  but  make  it  in  others  what  it 
has  been  to  mt — 

The  nurse, 

The  Kuide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 

Of  all  my  moral  being — 

if  I could  open  to  any  the  mental  eye  which  can 
never  be  again  closed,  but  which  finds  more  and 
more  clearly  revealed  before  it  beauty,  wisdom,  and 
peace  in  the  splendours  of  the  heavens,  in  the 
majesty  of  seas  and  mountains,  in  the  freshness  of 
winds,  tlie  ever-changing  lights  and  shadows  of  fair 
landscapes,  the  solitude  of  heaths,  the  radiant  face 
of  bright  lakes,  and  the  solemn  depths  of  woods, 
then  iinh’cd  should  I rejoice.  Oh  that  I could  but 
"ouch  a thousand  bosoms  with  that  melancholy 
which  often  visits  mine,  vvlien  I behold  little  children 
endeavouring  to  extract  amusement  from  the  very 
dust,  and  straws,  and  pebbles  of  sipialid  alleys,  shut 
out  from  the  free  and  glorious  countenance  of  na- 
ture. and  think  how  differeiitlv  the  children  of  the 
peasantry  are  passing  the  golden  hours  of  child- 
hood ; wandering  witli  bare  heads  and  unshod  feet, 
perhaps,  but  singing  a " childish  wordless  melody” 
through  vernal  lanes,  or  prying  into  a thousand 
sylvan  leafy  nooks,  by  the  liquid  music  of  running 
waters,  amidst  the  fragrant  heath,  or  on  the  fiowery 
lap  of  the  meadow,  occupied  with  winged  wonders 
without  end.  Oh  that  I could  but  baptize  every 
heart  with  the  sympathetic  feeling  of  what  the  city- 
pent  child  is  condemned  to  lose  ; how  blank,  and 
poor,  and  joyless  must  be  the  images  which  fill 
its  infant  bosom  to  that  of  the  country  one,  whose 
mind 

Will  be  a rnansinn  fo»  all  iorely  forms. 

Ills  memory  be  a dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ! 

I feel,  however,  an  animatiiig  assurance  that  nature 
will  exert  a perpetually-ittcreasing  influence,  not 
only  as  a most  fertile  source  of  pure  and  substantial 
pleasures — -ttleasures  which,  unlike  many  others, 
produce,  instead  of  satiety,  desire — but  also  as  a 
great  moral  agent : and  what  effects  I anticipate 
from  this  growing  taste  may  he  readily  inferred, 
when  I avow  it  as  one  of  the  most  fearless  articles 
of  my  creed,  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  for  a man  in 
whom  its  power  is  once  firmly  established  to  become 
utterly  debased  in  sentiment  or  abandoned  in  prin- 
ciple. His  soul  may  be  said  to  be  brought  into 
habitual  union  with  tlie  Author  of  Nature — 

Haunted  for  ever  by  the  Eternal  Mind. 

Mr  Howitt  belongs  to  the  Society  of  Friends, 
though  he  lias  ceased  to  wear  their  peculiar  costume. 
He  is  a native  of  Derbyshire,  and  was  for  several 
years  in  business  at  Nottingham.  A work,  the  na- 
ture of  wliicli  is  indicated  by  its  name,  the  Histoty 
of  Priestcraft  (18.34),  so  recommended  him  to  the 
Dissenters  and  reformers  of  that  town,  that  he  was 
made  one  of  their  aldermen.  Disliking  the  bustle 
of  public  life,  Mr  Ilowitt  retired  from  Nottingham, 
ami  resided  for  three  years  at  Esher,  in  Surrey. 
Tliere  be  composed  his  Rural  Life  in  England,  a 
popular  and  deliglitful  work.  In  1838  appeared  his 
Colonisation  and  Christianity,  which  led  to  the  forma- 
tion of  the  British  India  Society,  and  to  improve- 


ment in  the  management  of  our  colonies.  Mr 
Ilowitt  afterwards  piililislied  The  Roys'  Country 
Rook,  and  Fi.vit,s’  to  Reniar/iahte  J’laees,  the  latter 
(to  which  a second  series  lias  been  added)  descrip- 
tive of  old  halls,  battle-fields,  and  the  scenes  of 
striking  passages  in  English  liistory  and  poetry. 
Mr  and  Mrs  Ilowitt  now  removed  to  Germany,  and 
after  three  years’  residence  in  that  country,  the 
former  published  a work  on  the  Social  and  Rural 
Life  of  Germany,  wliicli  tlie  natives  admitted  to  be 
the  best  account  of  tliat  country  ever  written  by  a 
foreigner.  Our  industrious  author  has  also  tran- 
slated a work  written  expressly  for  liim.  The  Student- 
Life  of  Germany.  The  attention  of  Mr  and  Mrs 
Howitt  having  ticen  drawn  to  the  Swedish  language 
and  literature,  tliey  studied  it  with  avidity  ; and  Mrs 
Howitt  lias  translated  a series  of  tales  liy  Frederika 
Bremer,  which  are  characteri.sed  by  great  truth  of 
feeling  and  description,  and  liy  a complete  know- 
ledge of  human  nature.  These  Swedisli  tales  have 
been  exceedingly  popular,  and  now  circulate  exten- 
sively both  ill  England  and  America. 


JOHN  CLAUDIUS  LOUDON,  &C. 

John  Claudius  Loudon  (1783-1843)  stands  at 
the  head  of  all  the  writers  of  liis  day  upon  subjects 
connected  with  borticiilture,  and  of  the  vvliule  class 
of  industriotis  compilers.  He  was  a native  of  Cam- 
buslang,  in  Lanarksliire,  and  pursuing  in  youth  the 
bent  of  his  natural  faculties,  entered  life  as  a land- 
scape-gardener, to  wliicli  profession  be  subsequently 
added  the  duties  of  a farmer.  Finally,  be  settled  in 
London  as  a writer  on  liis  favourite  sutijects.  His 
works  were  numerous  and  useful,  and  tliey  form  in 
tlieir  entire  mass  a wonderful  monument  of  human 
industry,  lliscliicf  productions  are  an  Emyclo/xedia 
of  Gardening,  1822;  The  Greenhouse  Companion  ; an 
Encyrloptedia  of  Agriculture,  182.5;  an  Eiiri/clopirdia 
of  Plants,  1629  : an  Enryclopo'dia  of  Cottage,  I'il/a, 
and  Farm  Archiketure.  1832;  and  Arbcrctum  Rritan- 
niciim,  8 volumes,  18.38.  The  four  eiicyclo|ia;dias  are 
large  volumes,  each  exliausling  its  particular  sub- 
ject, and  containing  numerous  pictorial  illustrations 
in  wood.  The  ‘Arboretum’  is  even  a more  remark- 
able production  than  aiu'  of  these,  consisting  of  four 
volumes  of  close  letter-press,  and  four  of  pictorial 
illustrations,  and  presenliiig  such  ,a  mass  of  infor- 
mation, as  niiglit  apparently  have  been  the  work  of 
lialf  a lifetime  to  any  ordinary  man  These  vast 
tasks  Mr  London  was  enabled  to  undertake  and 
carry  to  comiiletion  by  virtue  of  tlie  miusnal  energy 
of  ids  nature,  notwithstanding  considerable  draw- 
backs from  disca.se,  and  tlie  failure,  latterly,  of  some 
of  his  physical  powers.  In  1830  lie  married  a lady 
of  amiable  character  and  literary  talent,  whr,  entered 
with  great  spirit  into  his  favourite  pursuits.  The 
separate  publications  of  Mrs  I.oudon  on  siiniects 
connected  with  botany,  and  for  the  general  instruc- 
tion of  the  young,  are  deservedly  liigli  in  public 
estimation.  It  is  painful  to  consider  that  the  just 
reward  of  a life  of  extraordinary  application  and 
public  usefulness,  was  reft  from  Mr  London  by  the 
consequences  of  the  comparative  non-success  of  the 
‘ Arboretum,’  which  phiced  him  considerably  in  debt. 
This  misfortune  preyed  upon  liis  mind,  and  induced 
the  fatal  pulmonary  disease  of  wliicli  he  died. 

Essays  on  A'atural  History,  by  Charles  Water- 
ton,  Esq.  of  Walton  Hall,  is  an  excellent  contribu- 
tion made  to  natural  history  by  a disinterested  lovei 
of  the  country  ; and  Gleanings  in  Natural  History, 
by  Edward  Jesse,  Esq.  surveyor  of  her  majesty's 
parks  and  palaces,  two  volumes,  1838,  is  a collection 
of  well-authenticated  facts,  related  with  the  view  of 

C99 


FROM  1700 


CYCLOPAEDIA  OF 


TILL  THE  PRF.SEM  TIMK 


portraying  tlie  cliaracttr  of  animals,  and  endeavour- 
iiif?  to  excite  more  kindly  feelings  towards  them. 
Some  Scottish  works  of  this  kind  are  also  deserving 
of  commendation — as  Hhind’s  Studies  in  Natural 
J/istur;/;  M'Diarmid’s  S/ietclics  from  Nature;  Mil- 
ler’s Scenes  and  Leijends,  or  Traditions  of  Cromarty  ; 
Du.ncan's  Sacred  Thilosopliy  of  the  Seasons,  &c.  A 
love  of  nature  and  observation  of  her  various  works 
are  displayed  in  these  local  sketches,  which  all  help 
to  augment  the  general  stock  of  our  knowledge  as 
well  as  our  enjoyment. 

The  Thames  and  its  Tributaries,  two  volumes,  1840, 
by  CnAiti.ES  Mackay,  is  a pleasing  description  of 
tile  scenes  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  which  are 
hallowed  by  the  recollections  of  history,  romance, 
and  poetry.  The  same  author  has  published  (1841) 
Memoirs  of  Extraordinary  Popular  Delusions. 

Kouert  Mudie  (1777-1842),  an  indefatigable 
writer,  self-educated,  was  a native  of  Forfarshire, 
and  for  some  time  connected  with  the  London  jiress. 
He  wrote  and  compiled  altogether  about  ninety 
volumes,  including  Babylon  the  Great,  a Picture  of 
Men  and  Things  in  London  ; Modern  Athens,  a sketch 
of  Ivlinburgh  society;  The  British  Naturalist;  The 
Feathered  Tribes  of  Great  Britain  ; A Popular  Guide 
to  the  Observation  of  Nature;  two  series  of  four 
volumes  each,  entitled  The  Heavens,  the  Earth,  the 
Sea,  and  the  Air  ; and  Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  and 
Winter;  and  next,  Man:  Physical,  Murat,  Social,  and 
Intellectual ; TIte  World  Described,  &c.  lie  furnished 
the  letter-press  to  Gilbert’s  Modern  Atlas,  the 
‘Natural  History’  to  the  British  Cyclopatdia,  and 
numerous  other  contributions  to  periodical  works. 
Mudie  was  a nervous  and  able  writer,  deficient  in 
taste  in  wmrks  of  light  literature  and  satire,  but  an 
acute  and  ])hilosophical  observer  of  nature,  and 
peculiarly  happy  in  his  geographical  dissertations 
and  works  on  natural  history.  His  imagination 
could  lighten  up  the  driest  details;  but  it  was  often 
too  excursive  and  unbridled.  His  works  were  also 
hastily  produced,  ‘ to  provide  for  the  day  that  was 
passing  over  him  ;’  but  considering  these  disadvan- 
tages, his  intellectual  energy  and  acquirements  were 
wonderful. 

A record  of  English  customs  is  preserved  in 
Brand’s  Popular  Antiquities,  publisheci,  with  addi- 
tions, by  Sir  Henry  Ellis,  in  two  volumes  quarto, 
in  1808  ";  and  in  18-12  in  two  cheap  portable  volumes. 
Tlie  work  relates  to  the  customs  at  country  wakes, 
sheep-shearings,  and  other  rural  practices,  and  is 
an  admirable  delineation  of  olden  life  and  manners. 
The  Every-day  Booh,  Table  Book,  and  Year  Book, 
by  William  Hone,  published  in  183.3,  in  four  large 
volumes,  with  above  five  hundred  woodcut  illus- 
trations, form  another  calendar  of  popular  English 
amusements,  sports,  p.astimes,  ceremonies,  manners, 
customs,  and  events  incident  to  every  day  in  the 
year.  Mr  Southey  has  said  of  these  works — ‘ I may 
take  the  opportunity  of  recommending  the  Every- 
day Book  and  Table  Book  to  those  who  are  in- 
terested in  the  preservation  of  our  national  and  local 
customs  : by  these  very  curious  publications  their 
compiler  has  rendered  good  service  in  an  important 
depiirtment  of  literature.’ 

JEREMY  BENTIIAM. 

A singular  but  eminent  writer  on  jurisprudence 
and  morals,  Mr  Jeremy  Bentham,  was  an  author 
throughout  the  whole  of  this  period,  down  to  the 
year  1834.  He  lived  in  intercourse  with  the  leading 
nien  of  several  generations  and  of  various  countries, 
and  w'as  unceasingly  active  in  the  propagation  of  his 
opinions.  Those  opinions  were  as  much  canvassed 
as  the  doctrines  of  the  political  economists.  Mr 


Bentham  was  a native  of  London,  sen  of  a wealthy 
solicitor,  and  was  born  on  the  6th  of  February  1749. 
He  was  entered  of  Queen’s  college,  Oxford,  when 
only  twelve  years  and  a quarter  old,  and  was  even 
then  known  by  the  name  of  ‘the  philosopher.’  He 
took  his  Master’s  degree  in  1706,  and  afterwards 
studying  the  law  in  I.incoln’s  Inn,  was  called  to  the 
bar  in  1772.  He  had  a strong  dislike  to  the  legal 
profession,  and  never  pleaded  in  public.  His  first 
literary  performance  was  an  examination  of  a pas- 
sage in  Blackstone’s  Commentaries,  and  was  en- 
titled ^ /•’moment  on  Government,  1776.  The  work 
was  prompted,  as  he  afterwards  stated,  by  ‘ a passion 
for  improvement  in  those  shapes  in  which  the  lot 
of  mankind  is  melionited  by  it.’  His  zeal  was  in- 
creased by  a pamphlet  which  had  been  issued  by 
Priestley.  ‘ In  the  phrase  “ the  greatest  haiipiness 
of  the  greatest  number,”  1 then  saw  delineated,’  says 
Bentham,  ‘for  the  first  time,  a yilain  as  well  as  a 
true  standard  for  whatever  is  riglit  or  wrong,  use- 
ful, useless,  or  mischievous  in  human  conduct, 
whether  in  the  field  of  morals  or  of  politics.’  The 
[ihrase  is  a good  one,  whether  invented  by  Priestley 
or  Bentham  ; but  it  still  leaves  the  means  by  which 
hayipiness  is  to  be  extended  as  undecided  as  ever, 
to  be  determined  by  the  judgment  and  opinions  of 
men.  To  insure  it,  Bentham  considered  it  neces- 
sary to  reconstruct  the  laws  and  government — to 
have  annual  parliaments  and  universal  suffrage, 
secret  voting,  and  a return  to  the  ancient  practice 
of  paying  wages  to  parliamentary  representatives. 
In  all  his  political  writings  this  doctrine  of  utility, 
so  understood,  is  the  leading  and  pervading  prin- 
cijile.  In  1778  he  published  a pamphlet  on  The 
Hard  Labour  Bill,  recommending  an  improvement 
in  the  mode  of  criminal  punishment ; Letters  on 
Usury,  1787  ; Introduction  to  the  Principles  of  Morals 
and  Politics,  1789  ; Di.scouises  on  Civil  and  Penal 
Legislation,  1802;  A Theory  of  Puni.shments  and  Re- 
wards, 1811;  A Treatise  on  Judicial  Evidence,  1813; 
Paper  Relative  to  Codif  cation  and  Public  Instruction, 
1817  ; The  Book  of  Fallacies,  1824,  &e.  By  the 
death  of  his  father  in  1792,  Beiitliam  succeeded  to 
Iiroyierty  in  London,  and  to  farms  in  Essex,  yielding 
from  X.300  to  £600  a-year.  He  lived  frugally,  but 
with  elegance,  in  one  of  his  London  houses — kept 
young  men  as  secretaries — corresponded  and  wrote 
daily — and  b_v  a life  of  temperance  and  industry, 
with  great  self-complacency,  and  the  society  of  a 
few  devoted  friends,  the  eccentric  yihilosoiiher  at- 
tained to  the  age  of  eighty-four.  His  various  pro- 
ductions have  been  collected  and  edited  by  Dr  John 
Bowring  and  Mr  John  Hill  Burton,  advocate,  and 
published  in  11  volumes.  In  his  latter  works  Ben- 
tham adopted  a peculiar  uncouth  style  or  nomen- 
clature, which  deters  ordinary  readers,  and  indeed 
has  rendered  his  works  almost  a de;id  letter.  For- 
tunately, however,  yiart  of  tnem  were  arranged  and 
translated  into  French  by  M.  Dumont.  Another 
disciple,  Mr  Mill,  made  known  his  princiyiles  at 
home;  Sir  Samuel  Ilomilly  criticised  them  in  the 
Edinburgh  Eeview,  and  Sir  James  Mackintosh  in 
the  ethical  dissertation  which  he  wrote  for  the  En- 
cyclnpaidia  Britannica.  In  the  science  of  legislation 
Bentham  evinced  a profound  capacity  and  extensive 
knowledge:  the  error  imputed  to  his  syieculations  is 
tliat  of  not  sufficiently  ‘weighing  the  various  cir- 
cumstances which  require  his  rules  to  be  modified 
in  dilferent  countries  and  times,  in  order  to  render 
them  either  more  useful,  more  easily  introduced, 
more  generally  respected,  or  more  certainly'  exe- 
cuted.’ As  an  ethical  philosopher,  he  carried  his 
doctrine  of  utility  to  an  extent  which  would  be 
practically  dangerous,  if  it  were  possible  to  make 
the  bulk  of  mankind  act  upon  a speculative  theory. 

700 


t 


roLincAL  ECONOMISTS.  ENGLISH  LITERATURE.  political  fxonomists. 


ISAAC  TAYLOR. 


A series  of  works,  showing  remarkable  powers  of 
thought,  united  to  great  earnestness  in  the  cause  of 
evangelical  religion,  has  proceeded  from  the  pen 
of  Isaac  Taylor,  who  is,  we  believe,  a gentleman 
of  fortune  living  in  retirement.  The  first  and  most 
popular  is  the  Niitural  History  of  Enihiisiasm,  1829, 
in  which  the  author  endeavours  to  show  that  the 
subject  of  Ids  essay  is  a new  development  of  the 
powers  of  Christianity,  and  oidy  bad  when  allied  to 
malign  passions.  It  lias  been  followed  by  Siiturdaij 
Ecenhiy,  the  Pliysiciil  Theory  of  Another  Life,  See. 
The  reasoning  powers  of  this  author  are  consider- 
able, but  the  ordinary  reader  feels  that  he  too  often 
inisexpends  them  on  subjects  which  do  not  admit  of 
icfliiite  conclusions. 

POLITICAL  ECONOMISTS. 

There  have  been  in  this  period  several  w'riters  on 
the  subject  of  political  economy,  a science  which 
‘treats  of  the  formation,  tlie  distribution,  and  the 
consumption  of  wealth  ; which  teaches  us  the  causes 
which  promote  or  prevent  its  increase,  and  their 
influence  on  the  happiness  or  misery  of  society.’ 
Adam  Smith  laid  tlie  foundations  of  this  science  ; 
and  as  our  commerce  and  population  went  on  in- 
creasing. thereby  augmenting  the  power  of  the  de- 
mocratical  part  of  our  constitution,  and  the  number 
of  those  who  take  an  interest  in  the  affairs  of  govern- 
ment, political  economy  became  a more  important 
and  popular  study.  One  of  its  greatest  names  is 
that  of  the  Kf.v.  T.  R.  Malthus,  an  Englisli  clergy- 
man. and  Fellow  of  Jesus  college,  Cambridge.  Mr 
Maltlms  was  born  of  a good  family  in  1766,  at  his 
lather’s  estate  in  Surrey.  In  1798  appeared  his 
celebrated  work,  an  Essay  on  the  Principle  of  Popu- 
lation as  it  A ffects  the  Future  Improvement  of  Society. 
The  principle  here  laid  down  is,  that  jiopulation 
has  a tendency  to  increase  faster  than  the  means  of 
subsistence.  ‘ Population  not  only  rises  to  the  level 
of  the  present  suiiply  of  food,  but  if  you  go  on  every 
year  increasing  the  quantiti'  of  food,  population  goes 
on  increasing  at  the  same  time,  and  so  fast,  that 
the  food  is  commotdy  still  too  small  for  the  people.’ 
After  the  publication  of  this  work,  Mr  Malthus  went 
abroad  with  Ur  Clarke  and  some  other  friends  ; and 
in  the  course  of  a tour  through  Sweden,  Norway, 
Finhuid,  and  part  of  Russia,  he  collected  facts  in 
illustration  of  his  theory.  These  he  embodied  in  a 
second  and  greatly  improved  edition  of  his  work, 
which  was  published  in  1803.  The  most  important 
of  his  other  works  are.  An  Inquiry  into  the  Nature 
and  Progress  of  Rent.  1815;  and  Principles  of  Poli- 
tical Economy,  1820.  Several  pamphlets  on  the 
corn  laws,  the  currency,  and  the  poor  law's,  pro- 
ceeded from  his  pen.  Mr  Malthus  was  in  1805 
appointed  professor  of  modern  history  and  political 
economy  in  Hailey  bury  college,  and  he  held  the 
situation  till  his  death  in  1836. 

Mr  David  Ricardo  (1772-1823)  w,as  author  of 
several  original  and  powerful  treatises  connected 
with  political  economy.  His  first  was  on  the  High 
Price  of  Bullion,  1809  ; and  he  published  succes- 
sively Proposals  for  an  Economical  and  Secure  Cur- 
rency, 1816;  and  Principles  of  Political  Economy  and 
Taxation,  1817.  The  latter  work  is  considered 
the  most  important  treatise  on  that  science,  with 
the  single  exception  of  Smith’s  Wealth  of  Nations. 
Mr  Ricardo  afterwards  wrote  pamphlets  on  the 
Funding  System,  and  on  Protection  to  Agriculture. 
He  had  amassed  great  wealth  as  a stockbroker, 
and  retiring  from  business,  he  entered  into  parlia- 
ment as  representative  for  the  small  borough  of 
Portarlington.  He  seldom  spoke  in  the  house,  and 


only  on  subjects  connected  with  his  favourite  studies, 
lie  died,  much  regretted  by  his  friends,  at  his  seat, 
Oatcomb  Park,  in  Gloucestershire,  on  the  11th  of 
September  1823. 

The  Elements  of  Political  Economy,  by  Mr  James 
Mill,  the  historian  of  India,  1821,  were  designed 
by  the  author  as  a sehool-book  of  the  science.  Da 
Whately  (afterwards  Archbishop  of  Dublin)  pub- 
lished tw'o  introductory  lectures,  which,  as  i)rofessor 
of  political  economy,  he  had  delivered  to  the  uni- 
versity of  Oxford  in  1831.  This  eminent  person 
is  also  author  of  a'  highly  valued  work.  Elements  of 
Logic,  which  has  attained  an  extensive  utility  among 
young  students  ; Thoughts  on  Secondary  Punishments, 
and  other  works,  all  displaying  marks  of  a power- 
ful intellect.  A good  elementary  work.  Conversa- 
tions on  Political  Economy,  by  Mrs  Marcet,  was 
published  in  1827.  The  Rev.  Du  Chalmers  has 
on  various  occasions  supported  the  views  of  Mal- 
thus, particularly  in  his  work  On  Political  Economy 
in  Connexion  with  the  Moral  Prospects  of  Society, 
1832.  He  maintains  that  no  human  skill  or  labour 
could  make  the  produce  of  the  soil  increase  at  the 
rate  at  which  population  would  increase,  and 
therefore  he  urges  the  expediency  of  a restraint 
upon  marriage,  successfully  inculcated  upon  the 
people  as  the  very  essence  of  morality  and  religion 
by  every  pastor  and  instructor  in  the  kingdom. 
Few  clergymen  would  venture  on  such  a task  1 
Another  zealous  commentator  is  Mr  J.  Ramsay 
M’CuLLocn,  author  of  Elements  of  Political  Economy, 
ami  of  various  contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view, which  have  spread  more  widely  a knowledge 
of  the  subject.  Mr  M'Culloch  has  also  edited  an 
edition  of  Adam  Smith,  and  compiled  several  useful 
and  able  statistical  works. 

The  opponents  of  Malthus  and  the  economists, 
though  not  numerous,  have  been  determined  and 
active.  Cobbett  never  ceased  for  years  to  inveigh 
against  them.  Mr  Godwin  came  forward  in  1821 
witli  an  Inquiry  Concerning  the  Power  of  Increase  in 
the  Numbers  of  Mankind,  a treatise  very  unworthy 
the  .author  of  ‘ Caleb  Williams.’  In  1830  Michael 
Thomas  Sadler  published  The  Law  of  Popula- 
tion : a Treatise  in  Disproof  of  the  Superfecundity  of 
Human  Beings,  and  Developing  the  Real  Principle  of 
their  Increase.  A third  volume  to  this  work  was  in 
preparation  by  the  author  when  he  died.  Mr 
Sadler  (1780-1835)  was  a mercantile  man,  partner 
in  an  establishment  at  Leeds.  In  1829  he  became 
representative  in  parliament  for  the  borough  of 
Newark,  and  distinguished  himself  by  his  speeches 
against  the  removal  of  the  Catholic  disabilities  and 
the  Reform  Bill.  He  also  wrote  a work  on  the 
condition  of  Ireland.  Mr  Sadler  was  an  ardent 
benevolent  man,  an  impracticable  politician,  and  a 
florid  speaker.  His  literary  pursuits  and  oratorical 
talents  were  honourable  and  graceful  additions  to 
his  character  as  a man  of  business,  but  in  know- 
ledge and  argument  he  w.as  greatly  inferior  to  Mal- 
thus and  Ricardo.  An  Essay  on  the  Distribution  of 
Wealth,  and  the  Sources  of  Taxation,  1831,  by  the 
Rev.  Richard  .Tones,  is  chiefly  confined  to  the 
consideration  of  rent,  as  to  which  the  author  difl'ers 
from  Ricardo.  Mr  Nassau  William  Senior,  pro- 
fessor of  political  economy  in  the  university  of 
Oxford  in  1831,  published  Two  Lectures  on  Pujiula- 
tion,  and  has  .also  written  pamphlets  on  the  poor  laws, 
the  commutation  of  tithes,  &c.  He  is  the  ablest  of 
all  the  opponents  of  Malthus. 

REVIEWS  AND  MAGAZINEa 

In  no  dep.artment,  more  than  in  this,  has  the 
character  of  our  literature  made  a greater  advance 
during  the  last  age.  The  reviews  enumerated  in 

701 


FROM  17fi0 


CYCLOPiPJDIA  OF 


the  Sixtli  IVriod  contirim'd  to  occupy  i)iil)lic  favour, 
tliou^li  with  siiuill  (Icserviiifrs,  down  to  the  hcgiuiiiiig 
of  tliis  century,  wlieu  ti  sudden  iind  irrecoverahle 
eclipse  cume  over  them.  The  Eiliiihuryli  Review, 
started  in  October  1802  uniler  circumstances  else- 
where detailed,  was  a work  entirely  new  in  our 
literature,  not,  oidy  its  it  hroup:ht  tidcnt  of  the  first 
order  to  hear  upon  jicriodical  crititd.sni,  but  as  it 
presented  tnany  original  tiud  brilliant  disquisitions 
on  subjects  of  public  concernmeut  apart  from  all 
consideration  of  tbe  literary  iiroductions  of  the  day. 
It  met  with  instiinl  success  of  the  most  decided 
kind,  and  it  still  occupies  an  important  i)osition  in 
the  English  world  of  letters.  As  it  was  devoted  to 
the  support  of  Whig  politics,  the  Tory  or  minis- 
terial party  of  the  day  soon  felt  a need  for  a simi- 
lar organ  of  opinion  on  their  side,  and  this  led  to 
the  establishment  of  the  Quarterly  Review  in  1809. 
The  Quarterly  hits  ever  since  kept  abreast  with  its 
northerr  rival  in  point  of  ability.  The  Westminster 
Review  was  established  in  1824,  by  Mr  Bentham  and 
his  friends,  as  a medium  for  the  representation  of 
Kadical  opinions.  In  jioint  of  talent  this  work  has 
been  comparatively  uncquitl. 

The  Siime  improvement  which  the  Edinburgh 
Review  origimited  in  the  critical  class  of  periodicals 
was  effected  in  the  department  of  the  magazines, 
or  literary  miscellanie.s,  by  the  establishment,  in 
1817,  of  J3larkwuv<rs  Edinburgh  Magazine,  which 
has  been  tbe  e.xemplar  of  many  other  similar  pub- 
lications— Fraser’s,  Tait’s,  the  New  Monthly,  Me- 
tropolitan, &c. — presenting  each  month  a melange 
of  original  articles  in  light  literature,  mingled  with 
papers  of  )iolitical  disquisition.  In  all  of  these 
works  there  is  now  literary  matter  of  merit  equal 
to  what  obtained  great  reputations  fifty  years  ago ; 
yet  in  general  presented  anonymously,  and  only 
designed  to  serve  the  immediate  purpose  of  amusing 
the  idle  hours  of  the  public. 

POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 

The  plan  of  monthly  publication  for  works  of 
merit,  and  combining  cheapness  with  elegance,  was 
commenced  by  Mr  Constable  in  1827.  It  had  been 
planned  by  him  two  years  before,  when  his  active 
mind  was  full  of  s()lendid  .schemes;  and  he  was  con- 
fident that  if  he  lived  for  half-a-dozen  years,  he 
would  ‘ make  it  as  impossible  that  there  should  not 
be  a good  library  in  every  decent  bouse  in  Britain,  as 
that  the  sheplierd’s  ingle-nook  should  want  the  salt 
poke.'  ‘Constable’s  Miscellany’ was  not  begun  till 
after  the  failure  of  the  great  jmblisher’s  house,  but 
it  presented  some  attraction,  and  enjoyed  for  sever.d 
years  considerable  though  unequal  success.  The 
wmrks  were  issued  in  monthly  numbers  at  a shilling 
each,  and  volumes  of  three  shillings  and  si.xpence. 
Basil  Hall's  Travels,  and  Lockhart’s  Life  of  Burns, 
were  i.  eluded  in  the  Miscellany,  and  had  a great 
sale.  The  example  of  this  Edinburgh  scheme  stirred 
Up  a London  publisher,  Mr  Murray,  to  attempt  a 
similar  series  in  the  English  metropolis.  Hence 
began  the  ‘ Family  Library,’  which  was  continued 
for  about  twelve  years,  and  ended  in  1841  with  the 
eightietli  volume.  Mr  Murray  made  his  volumes 
five  shillings  each,  adding  occasionally  engravings 
and  woodcuts,  and  publishing  several  works  of 
standard  merit — including  Washington  Irving’s 
Sketeh-Boo’K,  Southey’s  Life  of  Nelson,  &c.  Mr 
Irving  also  abridged  fur  this  library  his  Life  of 
Columbus;  Mr  Lockhart  abridged  Scott’s  Life  of 
Napoleon  ; Scott  bimself  contributed  a History  of 
Demonology  ; Sir  David  Brewster  a Life  of  Newton, 
and  other  popular  authors  joined  as  fellow-labourers. 
{h  nother  series  of  monthly  volumes  was  begun  in 


TTI.L  THE  PRESENT  TI.MB 


18.3.3,  under  the  title  of  ‘Sacred  Classic.s,’  being  re- 
prints of  celebrated  authors  who.ue  labt)urs  have 
l)een  devoted  to  the  eluc;idation  of  the  principles  ol 
revetded  religion.  'I’wo  clergymen  (Mr  Cattermole 
and  Mr  Stebbing)  edited  tliis  library,  and  it  was  no 
bad  index  to  tlieir  fitness  for  the  office,  that  they 
opened  it  with  .Jeremy  Taylor’s  ‘ Liberty  of  I’ro- 
phesying,’  one  of  the  most  aide,  high-spirited,  and 
eloquent  of  theological  or  ethical  treatises.  ‘ The 
Edinburgh  Cabinet  Library,’  commenced  in  1830, 
and  still  in  progress  (tbough  not  in  regular  inter- 
vals of  a month  between  each  volume),  is  chiefly 
devoted  to  geographical  and  historical  subjects. 
Among  its  contributors  have  been  Sir  John  Leslie, 
I’rofessors  .Jame.son  and  Wallace,  Mr  'I'ytler,  Mr 
James  Baillie  Fraser,  Professor  Spalding,  j\Ir  Hugh 
Murray,  Dr  Crichton,  Dr  Bussell,  &c.  The  con- 
venience of  the  monthly  mode  of  ])ublication  has 
recommended  it  to  both  j)ublishers  and  readers: 
editions  of  the  works  of  Scott,  Miss  Edgeworth, 
Byron,  Crabbe,  Moore,  Southey,  the  fashionable 
novels,  &c.  have  been  thus  issued  and  circulated  in 
thousands.  Old  standard  authors  and  grave  his- 
torians, decked  out  in  this  gay  monthly  attire,  have 
also  enjoyed  a new  lease  of  ])opularity  : Boswell’s 
.Johnson,  Sluikspeare  and  the  elder  dramatists, 
Hume,  Smollett,  and  Lingard,  Tytler’s  Scotland, 
Cowper,  Kobert  Hall,  and  almost  innumerable  other 
British  worthies,  have  been  so  publi.shed.  Those 
libraries,  however  (notwithstanding  the  intentions 
and  sanguine  predictions  of  Constable),  were  chiefly 
supported  by  the  more  opulent  and  respectable 
classes.  To  bring  science  and  literature  within  the 
grasp  of  all,  a society  was  formed  in  182.5  for  the 
Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge,  at  the  head  of  which 
were  several  statesmen  and  leading  members  of  the 
Whig  aristocracy — Lords  Auckland,  Althorp  (now 
Earl  Spencer),  John  Bussell,  Nugent,  Suffield,  Ml 
Henry  Brougliam  (afterwards  Lord  Brougliam),  Sit 
James  Mackintosh,  Dr  IMaltby  (Bishop  of  Durham), 


Henry  Lord  Brougham. 

Mr  Ilallam,  Captain  Basil  Hall,  &c.  Their  object  w.as 
to  circulate  a series  of  treatises  on  tbe  exact  sciences, 
and  on  various  branches  of  u.seful  knowledge,  in 
numbers  at  sixpence  each.  ’I'he  first  was  pul)lished 
in  March  1827,  being  ‘ A Discourse  of  the  Objects, 
Advantages,  and  Pleasures  of  Science,’  by  Mr 
Brougham.  Many  of  the  works  issued  by  tins 

702 


WRITERS  ON  SCIENCE 


KN GUSH  I ,n  Kl?  ATU It E. 


WRITERS  ON  SCIENCE. 


society  nre  cxcelltMit  conipciuiiunis  of  knowledge ; 
blit  the  frencrul  thult  of  tlicir  scientific  treatises  has 
lieen.  that  tliey  arc  too  technical  and  abstruse  for 
the  workinjc-classes.  and  are.  in  point  of  fact,  pur- 
chased and  read  chiefly  by  tliose  in  better  siatiuns 
of  life.  Another  series  of  works  of  a higher  cast, 
entitled  ‘ The  Library  of  Entertaining  Knowledge,’ 
:n  four-shilling  volumes,  has  also  emanated  from 
this  society,  as  well  as  a very  valuable  and  exten- 
‘ve  series  of  maps  and  charts,  forming  a complete 
itlas.  A collection  of  portraits,  with  biogra])liical 
memoirs,  and  an  improved  description  of  almanac, 
published  yearly,  have  formed  part  of  the  society’s 
oiKTations.  'I'lieir  labours  have  on  the  whole  been 
beneficial ; and  though  the  demand  for  cheap  litera- 
ture was  rapidly  extending,  the  steady  impulse  and 
encouragement  given  to  it  by  a society  possessing 
ample  funds  and  large  influence,  must  have  tended 
materially  to  accelerate  its  progress.  It  was  obvious, 
however,  that  the  field  was  not  wholly  occupied,  but 
that  large  masses,  both  in  the  rural  and  manufac- 
turing districts,  were  unable  either  to  purchase  or 
understand  many  of  the  treatises  of  the  Society  for 
the  Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge.  Under  this 
impression,  the  publishers  of  the  present  work 
commenced,  in  February  1832,  their  weekly  perio- 
dical, Chambers's  Eiliiihitryh  Journal,  consisting  of 
original  papers  on  subjects  of  ordinary  life,  science, 
and  literature,  and  containing  in  each  number  a 
quantity  of  matter  equal  to  that  in  a number  of 
the  society’s  works,  and  sold  at  one-fourth  of  the 
price.  The  result  of  this  extraordinary  cheapness 
was  a circulation  soon  exceeding  fifty  thousand 
weekly,  and  which  has  now  risen  to  about  ninety 
thousand.  The  Penny  Mayazine.  a respectable  perio- 
dical, and  the  Penny  Cyclopo'dia,  were  afterwards 
commenced  by  the  Society  for  the  Difl’usion  of  Useful 
Knowledge,  and  attained  each  a very  great  circula- 
tion. There  are  numerous  other  labourers  in  the 
same  field  of  humble  usefulness ; and  it  is  scarcely 
possible  to  enter  a cottage  or  workshop  without 
meeting  with  some  of  these  publications — cheering 
the  leisure  moments  of  the  peasant  or  mechanic,  and, 
by  withdrawing  him  from  tlie  operation  of  the  grosser 
senses,  elevating  him  in  the  sc^e  of  rational  beings. 

WRITERS  OX  SCIEXCE. 

The  age  has  been  highly  distinguished  by  a series 
of  scientific  writers  whose  works,  being  of  a popu- 
lar description,  may  be  said  to  enter  into  the  circle 
of  general  literature.  At  the  head  of  this  class  may 
be  placed  Sir  Joh.n  IIerschel,  whose  Discourse  on 
A'atural  Philosophy  is  perhaps  the  most  perfect  work 
of  its  kind  ever  imblished.  Sir  D.wid  Brewster 
also  presents  a remarkable  union  of  scientific  ac- 
coinpi.sliments  with  the  grace  and  spirit  of  a first- 
rate  litterateur.  His  Letters  on  Natural  Mayic,  Li/e 
qf  Newton,  History  of  Optics,  and  various  contri- 
butions to  the  K linbiirgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews, 
are  equally  noted  for  literary  elegance  as  for  pro- 
found knowledge.  A high  jilace  in  this  walk  is 
due  to  Mr  Charles  Babbage,  author  of  the  Eco- 
nomy of  Machinery  and  Manufactures;  a Ninth  Bridye- 
water  Treatise,  &c.  The  latter  work  is  a most  inge- 
nious attempt  to  bring  mathematics  into  the  range 
if  sciences  which  afford  proof  of  divine  design  in 
the  constitution  of  the  world,  and  contains,  besides, 
many  original  and  striking  thoughts.  The  works  on 
geology,  by  Dr  Buckland,  Mr  JIurchison,  ]\Ir 
Charles  Lvell,  Sir  Henry  Delabeche,  and  Dr 
Mantell,  are  all  valuable  contributions  to  the 
library  of  modern  science. 

Perhaps  no  writer  of  the  present  day  has  shown 
in  his  works  a more  extensive  range  of  knowledge. 


united  with  great  po\7cis  of  expression,  than  the 
Ukv.  William  Whewell.  master  of  Trinity  col- 
lege, Cambridge.  The  History  </  the  Inductive 
iiviences,  three  volumes,  1837,  and  riie  Philosophy  oj 
the  Inductive  Sciences,  founded  upon  their  History,  1 wo 
volumes,  1840,  are  amongst  the  few  books  of  the 
age  which  realise  to  our  minds  the  self-devoliiig 
zeal  and  life-long  application  of  the  world’s  earlier 
students.  Mr  Whewell  was  also  the  author  of  that 
member  of  the  series  of  Bridgewater  Treatises 
in  which  astronomy  and  general  physics  were 
brought  to  the  illustration  of  natural  theology 
Another  modern  writer  of  unusually  varied  attain- 
ments was  the  late  Dr  John  Maccullocii,  author 
of  a work  on  the  Western  Islands  of  Scotland;  a 
valuable  geological  one.  presenting  a classification 
of  rocks;  and  a posthumous  treatise,  in  three 
volumes,  on  the  Attributes  of  the  Deity. 

The  almost  infant  science  of  Ethnography  has 
received  a powerful  illustration  from  the  industrious 
labours  of  Dr  Pritchaiid,  whose  Impiiries  into  the 
Physical  History  of  Man  is  a book  standing  almost 
alone  in  our  literature.  It  tends  to  show  the  acci- 
dental nature  of  the  distinctions  of  colour  and  figure 
amongst  races  of  men,  and  to  establish  the  unity  of 
the  human  species.  Dr  Pritchard's  work  on  the  Celts 
is  also  one  of  considerable  value,  particularly  for  the 
light  it  throws  on  the  history  of  language. 

Tlie  Architecture  of  the  Heavens,  by  Professor 
Nichol  of  Glasgow,  has  deservedly  attained  great 
popularity  as  a beautiful  exposition  of  the  sublime 
observations  of  Sir  William  IIerschel  and  others 
respecting  the  objects  beyond  the  range  of  the  solar 
system,  and  of  the  hypothesis  of  the  nebular  cos- 
mogony. It  has  been  followed  by  a volume  of 
equally  eloquent  disquisition,  under  the  title  of 
Contemplations  on  the  Solar  System.  Tlie  principles  of 
Natural  Philosophy  have  been  illustrated  with  great 
success  in  the  language  of  common  life,  in  the  Ele- 
ments of  Physics  by  Dr  Neil  Ahnott. 

The  various  departments  of  knowledge  connected 
with  medicine  have  been  illustrated  by  severid 
writers  of  the  highest  talent,  from  whom  it  is  almost 
invidious  to  single  out  the  few  names  which  we  have 
room  to  notice.  In  physiology,  the  works  of  Bostock, 
Lawrence,  Mayo,  Elliotson,  Rocet,  Fletcher, 
and  Carpenter,  stand  deservedly  high,  while  the 
popular  treatises  of  Dii  Combe  are  remarkable  for 
their  extensive  usefulness,  due  to  their  singularly 
lucid  and  practical  cltnracter.  The  Curiosities  of  Me- 
dical Experience  by  Dr  Millinge.n,  the  treatises  of 
Sir  .James  Clark  on  Climate  and  Consumiition,  the 
various  tracts  of  Sir  He.nry  Halford.  Dr  South- 
wood  Smith’s  Philosophy  of  Health,  and  Du  Cope- 
land’s Dictionary  of  Practical  Medicine,  are  but  a 
meagre  selection  from  a great  range  of  medical 
works  of  talent  calculated  for  general  reading. 

ENCYCLOPAtDIAS. 

The  progress  of  Encyclopajdias,  or  alphabetical 
digests  of  knowledge,  is  a remarkable  feature  in  the 
literature  of  modern  times.  The  first  was  the  Cyclo- 
ptedia  of  Ephraim  Chambers,  published  in  1728,  in 
two  large  folio  volumes,  of  which  five  editions  were 
published  within  eighteen  years.  As  the  work  of 
one  individual,  the  Cyclopaidia  of  Chambers  is 
highly  honourable  to  his  taste,  industry,  and  know- 
ledge. The  proprietors  of  this  work  in  1776  en- 
gaged Dr  Abraham  Rees,  a dissenting  clergyman 
(1743-1825),  to  superintend  a new  and  enlarged 
edition  of  it,  which  appeared  in  1785,  and  was  well 
received.  They  then  agreed  with  the  same  gentle- 
man to  undertake  a new  and  magnificent  work  of  a 
similar  nature;  and  in  1802  the  first  volume  of 
Rees’s  Cyclopaedia  was  issued,  with  illustrations  in 

70.3 


FIIOM  I7H0  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE,  till  the  present  timb 


a style  of  engraving  never  surpassed  in  tliis  ecuntry. 
Phis  splendid  work  extended  to  forty-five  volumes. 
In  17.')l-.54  appeared  Harrow’s  Nciu  and  Universal 
JJictionari/  of  Arts  and  Sciences,  and  in  1706  an- 
other Dictionary  of  Art.s  and  Sciences,  compiled  by 
the  Rev.  11.  Croker,  Dr  Thomas  Williams,  and  Mr 
Samuel  Clerk.  The  celebrated  French  Encyclo- 
pedie  was  published  between  tlie  years  1751  and 
1765.  Amon{'  the  various  schemes  of  Goldsmith, 
was  A Universal  Dictionary  of  Arts  and  Sciences,  for 
which  he  wrote  a prospectus  (unfortunately  lost),  and 
to  whicli  the  most  eminent  Hritish  writers  were  to  be 
contributors.  The  premature  death  of  Goldsmith 
frustrated  this  plan.  In  1771  the  Encyclopaidia 
Rritannica,  edited  by  Mr  William  Smellie,  was  jmb- 
lished  ill  four  volumes  quarto,  presenting  a novel 
and  important  improvement  upon  its  predecessors: 

‘ it  treated  each  science  completely  in  a systematic 
form,  under  its  proper  denomination;  the  technical 
terms  and  subordinate  heads  being  also  explained 
alpliabetically,  when  anything  more  than  a refer- 
ence to  the  general  treatise  was  required.’  The  se- 
cond edition  of  this  work,  commenced  in  1776,  was 
enlarged  to  ten  volumes,  and  embraced  biography 
und  history.  The  third  edition,  completed  in  1797, 
amounted  to  eighteen  volumes,  and  was  enriched 
with  valuable  treatises  on  grammar  and  metaphysics, 
by  the  Rev.  Dr  Gleig;  with  profound  articles  on 
mythology,  mysteries,  and  philology,  by  Dr  Doig; 
Riid  with  an  elaborate  view  of  the  philosophy  of  in- 
iluetion  and  contributions  in  physical  science,  by 
I’rofessor  Robison.  Two  supplementary  volumes 
were  afterwards  added  to  this  work.  A fourth  edi- 
tion was  issued  under  the  superintendence  of  Dr 
James  Miller,  and  completed  in  1810;  it  was  en- 
riched with  some  admirable  scientific  treatises  from 
the  pen  of  I’rofessor  Wallace.  Two  other  editions, 
merely  nominal,  of  this  Encyclopaedia  were  published ; 
and  a supplement  to  the  work  was  projected  by  the 
late  Mr  Constable,  and  was  placed  under  the  charge 
of  I’rofessor  Maevey  Napier.  To  this  supplement  Con - 
Stable  attracted  the  greatest  names  both  in  Britain 
and  France:  it  contained  contributions  from  Dugald 
Stewart,  I’hiyfair,  Jameson,  Leslie,  Mackintosh,  Dr 
Tliomas  Thomson,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Jefl'rey,  Ricar- 
do, Malthus,  Mill,  Professor  Wallace,  Dr  Thomas 
Young,  M.  Biot,  M.  Arago,  &c.  The  supplement 
was  completed  in  1824,  in  six  volumes.  Six  years 
afterwards,  when  the  property  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  Messrs  Ad;im  and  Charles  Black,  a new 
edition  of  the  whole  was  commenced,  incorporating 
all  the  articles  in  the  supplement,  with  such  modifi- 
cations and  additions  as  were  necessary  to  adjust 
them  to  the  later  views  and  information  applicable 
to  their  subjects.  Mr  Napier  was  chosen  editor,  and 
an  assistant  iu  the  work  of  revision  and  addition 


was  found  in  the  late  Dr  James  Browne,  a man  o( 
varied  and  extensive  learning.  New  and  valuable 
articles  were  contributed  by  Sir  David  Brewster,  by 
Mr  Galloway,  Dr  Traill,  Dr  Roget,  Dr  John  Thom- 
son, Mr  Tytler,  I’rofessor  Spalding,  Mr  Moir,  &c- 
This  great  national  work — for  such  it  may  justly 
be  entitled — was  completed  in  1842,  in  twenty-one 
volumes. 

In  the  interval  between  the  different  editions  of 
the  Encyclopajdia  Britannica,  two  other  important 
works  of  tlie  same  kind  were  in  progress.  The 
Edinburgh  Encyclopaidia,  under  the  superinten- 
dence of  Sir  David  Brewster,  was  commenced  in 
1808,  and  completed  in  1830,  in  eighteen  quarto 
volumes.  The  scientific  department  of  the  work, 
under  such  an  editor,  could  not  fail  to  be  rich  ami 
valuable,  and  it  is  still  highly  prized.  The  Encyclo- 
paidia  Metropolitana  was  begun  in  1815,  and  pre- 
sented this  difference  from  its  rivids,  tliat  it  de- 
parted from  the  alphabetical  arrangement  (certainly 
the  most  convenient),  and  arranged  its  articles  in 
what  the  conductors  considered  their  natural  order. 
Coleridge  was  one  of  the  w-riters  in  this  work  ; some 
of  its  philological  articles  are  ingenious.  The  Lon- 
don Encyclopaidia,  in  twenty  volumes  royal  8vo.,  is 
a useful  compendium,  and  includes  the  whole  ol 
Johnson’s  Dictionary',  with  its  citations.  Latdner’s 
Cyclopasdia  is  a collection  of  dilferent  works  on 
natural  jihilosophy,  arts,  and  manufactures,  history 
biography,  &c.  published  in  131  small  8vo.  volumes, 
issued  monthly.  The  series  embraces  some  valuable 
works:  Sir  James  Mackintosh  contributed  part  of  a 
popuhir  history  of  England,  Sir  Walter  Scott  and 
Mr  Moore  histories  of  Scotland  and  Ireland,  and  M 
Sismondi  one  of  the  Italian  republics.  Sir  John 
Herschel  wrote  for  it  the  Discourse  on  Natural 
Philosophy,  alre:idy  alluded  to,  and  a treatise  on 
Astronomy ; and  Sir  David  Brewster  contributed 
the  history  of  Optics.  In  natural  history  and  other 
departments  tliis  Cyclopsedia  is  also  valuable,  but 
as  a Avhole  it  is  very  defective.  Popular  Cyclo- 
psedias,  in  one  large  volume  each,  have  been  pub- 
lished, condensing  a large  amount  of  information. 
Of  these  Mr  ^I'Culloch  is  author  of  one  on  com- 
merce, and  another  on  geography  ; Dr  Ure  on  arts 
and  manufactures;  Mr  Brande  on  science,  literature, 
and  art;  Mr  Blaine  on  rural  sports.  There  is  also 
a series  of  Cyclopaedias  on  a larger  scale,  devoted  to 
the  various  departments  of  medical  science ; namely, 
the  Cyclopaedia  of  Practical  Medicine,  edited  by 
Drs  Forbes,  Tweedie,  and  Cotiolly;  the  Cyclopaedia 
of  Anatomy  and  Physiology,  edited  by  Dr  A.  T. 
Thomson;  and  the  Cyclopaidia  of  Surgery',  edited  by 
Dr  Costello;  each  being  in  four  massive  volumes, 
:ind  composed  of  papers  by  the  first  men  of  the  pro- 
fession in  tlie  country. 


INDEX. 

Pa^re  1 Pape 

Pw 

» w:  1 , Dn,  n. 

660 

Amelia  Wentworth,  ii.  . 442-445 

Aspirations  of  Youth,  fl. 

419 

&bra  s Love  for  Solcmon,  {.  . • 

537 

America,  from  Burke’s  Speech  on 

Atherstone,  Edwin,  ii.  . , 

352 

Absence— [Pastoral  Ballad],  ii. 

38 

Conciliation  with,  ii.  . 

229 

Atterbury,  Dr  Francis,  L . 

661 

Activity,  God’s  Exhortation  to,  i. 

525 

America,  Dii^covery  of,  ii.  . 

188 

Atterbury,  Pope  to,  i.  • • 

640 

Adam  after  the  Fall,  L 

381 

America,  Verses  on  the  Prospect  of 

A U B R K V , J O H N , i.  . , 

527 

Adoisox,  Joseph,  L , 540-545 

6U2 

Planting  Arts  and  lA^arning  in,  i. 

657 

Auburn,  Description  of,  &e.  ii  . 

61 

Addison,  Tickell’s  Elegy  on  the 

American  Freedom,  Dependence  of 

Auld  Robin  Gray,  ii.  . . 

127 

Death  of,  i.  . 

566 

English  on,  ii.  . 

231 

Aurora  on  Melissa’s  Birthday,  Ode 

Address  to  Bishop  Valentine,  i. 

110 

American  Scenery,  South,  ii. 

346 

to,  ii.  . . . . 

103 

Ad  Iress  to  Miss  Agnes  Baifiie  on 

Amherst,  Lord,  ii.  . • 

681 

Austen,  Miss,  ii. 

571 

her  Birthday,  ii. 

452 

Amicos,  ad,  ii.  . ♦ . 

132 

Autlior,  an,  must  Feel  what  he 

Address  to  the  Mummy  in  BeLzoni’s 

Am>"nta,  ii.  . • . 

129 

Writes,  i.  . . » 

355 

E\‘nbition,  ii.  , . . 

4;w 

Anacreon,  Note  on,  i.  • 

320 

Author,  a Sensitive,  iL  . 

144 

Addn^  to  the  Ocean,  ii,  , 

441 

Anacreontics,  i.  . 

315 

Autumn,  to,  ii.  . • , 

406 

Address  to  a Wild  Deer,  ii.  • 

435 

Anastasias — Recovery  of  his  Lost 

Autumn  Evening  Scene,  ii.  . 

16 

Admiral  Hosier’s  Ghost,  iL 

114 

Son  in  Egypt,  &c.  ii.  . 

593 

Autumn  Leaf,  the,  ii. 

474 

Adonis,  Death  of,  Venus’s  Prophecy 

Ancient  Countries,  Modem  Stateof,  i. 

254 

Autumn  Scenery-^Pope  to  Mr  Dig- 

after  the,  i.  ... 

106 

Ancient  English  Mansion,  Descrip- 

by],  i.  . 

639 

Adonis,  the  Horse  of,  i.  . . 

lUli 

tion  of,  ii.  .... 

599 

Autumn,  Sketches  of,  ii. 

315 

Adventures  of  GulUverin  Brobding- 

Ancient  Greece,  ii. 

390 

Avalanche,  Swiss  Mountain  and,  ii. 

684 

nag,  i.  . . . . 

629 

Ancient  Poets,  Translations  of  the,  i. 

494 

Avarice,  i.  . . 532 

640 

Adversity,  i.  • • • 

295 

Ancrum,  Earl  ok,  i. 

157 

Ayton,  Sir  Robert,  L • 

161 

Adversity,  IIjTnn  to,  ii.  . • 

Advei*sity  and  Prosperity,  i.  , 

53 

Anecdote  of  the  Discovery  of  the 

Babbage,  Charles,  ii. 

703 

241 

Newtonian  Philosophy,  i. 

GG8 

Baby’s  Debut,  the — By  W.  W. — [Re- 

Advertisement,  Literary,  ii.  , 

3C4 

Anecdote  of  the  Sultan  Bello — [Den- 

jected  Addresses],  ii,  . . 

431 

Advertisements,  Quack,  i. 

6«7 

ham  and  Clapperton],  ii. 

667 

Babylon,  Summons  of  the  Destroy- 

Advice  to  Landscape  Painters,  ii.  • 

298 

Angels,  Assembly  of  the  Fallen,  L 

3,38 

ing  Angel  to  the  City  of,  iL 

446 

Advice  to  a Lady,  ii.  . . 

48 

Angler’s  Wish,  the,  i. 

417 

Back,  Mr,  ii.  . 

6/6 

Advice  to  the  Married,  ii.  , 

73 

Angling,  Recommendation  of,  ii.  . 

69 

Bacon,  Lieutenant  Thomas,  ii.  . 

680 

Advicft  to  a Reckless  Youth,  i. 

197 

Anglo-Saxon  and  English,  Speci- 

Bacon,  Lord,  i.  . . 238-241 

Advice  to  a Youth  of  Rambling  Pis- 

mens  of.  Previous  to  1300.  L • 

5 

Bacon,  Lord,  Lines  on,  i.  . 

Bagdad,  the  City  of— Magnificence 

317 

position,  i.  . . . 

623 

Anglo-Saxon  Writers,  i.  . 

1-36 

iEsop’s  Invention  to  bring  his  Mis- 

Animals,  Cruelty  to— Picture  of  the 

of  the  Caliphs,  ii.  . 

196 

tress  back,  d;c.  i.  . • . 

424 

ChavSe,  ii.  . . . 

663 

Bagdad,  View  of  Society  in,  ii  677.678 

Afar  in  the  Desert,  ii.  . . 

4.54 

Animals,  Proportionate  Lengths  of 

Bage,  Robert,  ii. 

.546 

Aftlicded,  Comforting  the,  C.  • 

294 

the  Necks  and  Legs  of,  L 

525 

Baillie,  Joanna,  ii.  451-453,  511-514 

Affliction,  Consoling  in  — [Lady 

Anna,  the  Grave  of,  ii.  • • 

2,94 

Baillie,  Miss  Agnes,  Address  to,  on 

Mar)’  W.  Alontagu  to  the  Coun- 

Anningait  and  AJut,  IL  . • 

153 

her  Birthday,  ii.  . • 

452 

tes3  of  Bute],  i.  , . • 

653 

Anniversary,  the,  ii. 

279 

Baker,  Sir  Richard,  i.  . . 

265 

Africa,  Influence  of  a Small  Moss 

Anstcr  Fair,  Passages  from,  ii,  502,  503 

BalcUitha,  Desolation  of,  iL  • 

79 

in  Fructification  amidst  the  De- 

Anstey,  Christopher,  ii. 

123 

Bale,  Bishop,  L . . • 

73 

serfs  of— [Mungo  Park],  ii.  . 066,667 

Antioch,  the  Siege  of,  i.  , 

7 

Ball,  Scene  from  the,  i.  . 

224 

African  Hospitality — [Mungo  Park], 

Antiquary,  an,  i.  . 

409 

Ballad — ('Twas  when  the  seas  were 

ii.  . 

666 

Antoinette,  Marie,  Queen  of  France, 

roaring),  i.  ... 

Ballad-Singer,  the  Country,  i.  . 

575 

Age,  from  Anacreon,  i.  . . 

Age,  Gradual  Approaches  of,  ii. 

315 

il.  . 

231 

672 

315 

Apelles  and  Protogenes,  i. 

539 

Bahvhidder,  Mr,  Placing of,as Minis- 

.\iKt.v,  Dr,  ii.  . , , 

647 

Aphorisms,  Miscellaneous,  i. 

41.5 

ter  of  Dalmailing,  ii.  . 

591 

Ainsworth.  W.  H.  ii.  • • 

C29 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean,  ii. 

391 

Banim,  John,  ii. 

612 

Air,  the  Dancing  of  the,  i.  • 

108 

Apple-Dumplings  and  a ICing,  iL  . 

298 

Bannockburn,  the  Battle  of,  L . 

26 

Aird,  Thomas,  ii.  . • . 

473 

Approbation,  Desire  of,  i. 

455 

Barbauld,  Mrs,  ii. 

276 

Akensidb,  Mark,  ii.  . • 

43 

Arab  Chief,  Remark  by  an,  iL  . 

680 

Barbour,  John,  i.  . » 

25 

Alas!  Poor  Scholar,  &o.  i.  • , 

395 

Aram,  Eugene,  Dream  of,  ii.  • 

465 

Barclay,  Robert,  L • 

461 

Alchemist,  the,  i.  • . 

197 

Arbuthnot,  Dr  John,  i.  . 

642 

Bard,  the;  a Pindaric  Ode,  ii.  • 

54 

Ale.xander’s  Feast,  i.  • • 

366 

Arcadia,  Description  of,  i.  • 

233 

Barnard,  Lady  Anne,  ii.  • 

126  1 

Alexander,  Sir  James,  iL 

678 

Arcite,  the  Death  of,  i. 

18 

Barnfield,  Richard,  i.  , . 

84 

Alkred,  i.  . • • « 

3 

Arctic  Discovery,  ii.  , . 674-676 

Barrett,  Elizabeth  B.  iL  . 

461 

Alfric,  i.  • • • 

3 

Arden  of  Feversham,  Scene  from,  i. 

175 

Barrow,  Dr  Isaac,  i.  . • 

428 

Alison,  A.  ii.  • . . 

643 

Argentile  and  Curan,  Tale  of,  i.  226 

227 

Barrow,  Sir  John,  iL  • 

65W 

Alison,  Rev.  Archibald,  ii.  649 

660 

Armida  and  her  Enchanted  Girdle,  i 

103 

Barrow,  John,  ii.  . • 

684 

Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  Fair 

Armstrong,  Joh.v,  ii.  . 

68 

Barton,  Bernard,  ii,  , 

439 

Imogine,  ii.  ... 

377 

Arnott,  Dr  Neil,  ii. 

703 

Bastard,  the,  ii.  . . . 

2 

Alps,  Scenery  of  the,  ii.  • 

223 

Arthur’s  Coronation,  Proceedings 

Bastille,  Attack  upon  the,  iL 

695 

AlClica,  to,  from  Prison,  L . 

145 

at,  i. 

5 

Battle-field,  Solitude  on  the,  ii. 

140 

Amantium  Irce  amoris  redint^- 

Ascham,  Roger,  i. 

76 

Battle  of  Flodden,  ii. 

3H9 

ratio  est.  L ... 

51 

Asliford,  Isaac,  a Noble  Peasant,  ii. 

312 

Baucis  and  Philemon,  i. 

548 

Ambition,  i.  . • • 

615 

Ashmole,  Elias,  i.  . 

527 

Bawdin,  Sir  Charles,  Death  of,  ii. 

84 

Ambition,  Pursuits  of,  and  Lite- 

Aspatia,  Grief  of,  for  the  Marriage 

Bawn,  Hamilton’s  — [The  Grand 

rary  Tastes,  ii. 

610 

of  Amintor  and  Evadne,  i. 

205 

Question  Debated],  L 

552 

Ambition,  Results  of  Misdirected 

Aspirations  After  the  Infinite — 

Baxter,  Richard,  i.  . 

454 

and  Guilty,  iL 

207 

[Pleasures  of  the  Imagination],  IL 

44 

Baxter’s  Judgment  of  his  Writings^  i. 

7(»5 

454 

87 

cycloi>a:i;ja  or  knolisii  literaturr 


Hr  X ter,  ThanRC  in  !»!«  KM  (mate  of 
liih  OUT!  anti  other  Men*b  Know- 

1.  . . . 4r>.'> 

ihiAter'b  Youth,  Observance  of  the 
Sabbath  in,  i.  . . . 

Ha  Yi.v,  Tm>MAM  IIaynbs,  iL  .471 
Hay!y  to  his  Wife,  ii.  • • 4/1 

Hwneh,  C.  H.  il.  . . . WM 

lieaton,  Cardinal,  Assassination  of,  i.  30.‘1 
HKArTiE,  Ok  Ja.mkh,  ii.  . in;},  2H» 

Hkai'mont,  Kkancis,  1.  . IIK,  2n.’} 

Hkai'movt  and  Fi.KTrmn,  i.  2n.'i-2in 
Heauniont  and  Fletcher,  Character 
of,  i.  ....  4JW 

Hkai'.mont,  StK  John,  i.  . ))7 

Heaiity,  i.  . . . .171 

Iteanty  and  Love,  Platonic  Repre- 
sentation  of  the  Scale  of,  i.  . 
Bkckkord,  W i.i.iAM,iL  539,  640,  f>72 
Dkddoks,  T.  L.  ii.  . • . 521 

Hkuk,  i.  . . • • 3 

Hec.  Hhk  of  the,  i.  . • . 142 

HkK4  HKV,  CAPTAtN,  ii.  • 67b 

Beggar,  the,  ii.  . . . 125 

Hkh.v,  Mhs  Akkra,  i.  . . 392 

Belgian  Lovers  and  the  Plague,  ii.  272 
Belinda  and  the  Sylphs,  i.  . . 5r)H 

Bku.,  JoH N,  ii.  . • • 672 

Bki.i.,  J.  S.  ii.  . • . 68t> 

Bki.i.knokn,  John,  i.  . , 71 

Belphcebe,  Description  of,  i.  . 93 

Bki.zoni,  J.  H.  ti.  . . . Gt>K 

Bengal,  an  FIvening  Walk  in,  ii.  41n 
Bkntham,  .J KKK.M V,  ii.  . 7‘>n 

Bkntlkv,  Hichami),  i.  . • Win 

Bkkk  Ki.KV,  ItisHoe,  i.  . . 636 

Berkeley’s  Siris,  the  Concluding  Sen- 
tence Imitated,  ii.  . . 117 

Benniidas,  the  Kmigrants  in,  i.  343 
Hkhnkhs,  Lord,  i.  . • 71 

Hertram,  Scene  from,  ii.  . , 516 

Beth  (ielert,  or  the  Crave  of  a Grey- 
hound, ii.  . . . 421 

Bethlehem,  the  Shepherds  of,  i.  . Wi 
Bethlehem,  the  Star  of,  il.  . .3lt2 

Biancha.  DiMnterestesiness  of,  L . 2<7 

liible.  Translation  of  the,  i.  . 27n 

Bible,  Tyndale’s  Version,  iic.  i.  • 74 

Bk'k KftsTAF K,  Isaac,  ii.  . ).*>] 

Bigotry,  i.  . . . , 531 

Binuham,  Captain  J.  E.  ii.  . 692 

Biography  and  History,  i.  . , A*.M 

Birch,  Dr  Thomas,  ii.  . . 192 

Bird  and  Musician,  Contention  of,  i.  22n 
Birds,  an  Invocation  to,  ii.  . . 442 

Birks  of  Invermay,  ii.  . . 43 

Bimn,  Return  of,  i.  . . . 588 

Biriha,  Description  of  the  Virgin,  i.  147 
Bishop,  Sa.mitki.,  ii.  . . 113 

Bishop,  to  Mrs,  ii.  . • . 11.3 

Black I.04-K,  Thomas,  ii.  • 102 

Blacklock's  Portrait,  ii.  . . 1U3 

Black.mokk,  Sir  Richard,  i.  . .368 

Bi.ai  kst«in8,  Sir  William,  ii.  74,  24,3 
Blackwood’s  Edmbtu'gh  Magazine, 

5ic.  ii.  . . . , 7*^ 

Bi.ai R,  Dr  Hitch,  ii.  . . 217 

Blair,  UoRKRT,  ii.  . . 3 

Blamirk,  Miss,  ii.  . . 27.3 

Blenheim,  the  Battle  of,  i.  . . 544 

BlE'Sincton.  Countkss  of,  il  618 
Blind  IIakrv,  i.  . . 29 

Blind  Youth,  Description  of  a,  ii.  . 286 
Bliss,  the  Bower  of,  i.  . . 9o 

Bi.oomkikld,  R*  bkrt,  ii.  . , 283 

Bloomfield’s  Descriptions  of  Rural 
Life,  ii.  ...  284 

Bloomfield  to  his  Children,  ii.  . 286 

Blotimfield  to  his  Wife,  ii.  • 288 

Blos>oms,  to.  i.  . . . 140 

Bobadil  and  Matthew — [A  Simpleton 
and  a Braggadocio],  i.  . 19G 

Bobadil’s  Plan  for  Saving  the  Ex- 
pense of  an  Army,  i.  . . 197 

Bohemia,  Queen  of,  to  the,  i.  . 104 

Boleyn,  Queen  Anne,  thcl^athof,  i.  68 
Bolincmkokk,  Lord,  i.  • . 646 

Bonny  Kilineny,  ii.  • • 497 

B(M>ks,  i.  . . « • 413  ; 

Books  and  Ships  Compared,  L • 243  j 

Borrow,  G RORCB,  ii.  . . 688  I 

Bostock,  Dh,  ii.  • • 703  I 


Page 

Boswkll,  Jamks,  ii.  , . W4 

Boswki.l,  Sir  Alkxandkr,  ii.  4tM 
Boswohth,  Bkv.  Mr,  ii.  , 642 

Botany,  Invocation  to  the  Godde&a 
of,  ii.  . . . . 271 

Botkvillk,  Francis,  i.  . 2.30 

Bowdich,  Mr,  ii.  . . • 668 

Bowkr,  Akchikai.d,  ii.  • 191 

Bi)wcr  of  Neluishta,  the,  it  • 33.3 

Bowi.ks,  IIkv.  W.  L.  ti.  . 34.3 

Bovlk,  thk  lh»N.  Bobkrt,  L • 516 
Braes  of  Halqnhither,  ii.  • 491 

Braes  o’ (llenitter,  ii.  • • 491 

Bnu»H  of  Yarrow,  the,  IL  • 24 

Braid  Claith,  ii.  . • . ]30 

Bramble  Flower,  to  lho»  IL  « 457 

Bkav.Mks,  ii.  , • .629 

Breakfast,  the  Public,  iL  • 123 

Brkmnkr,  Bubkkt,  ii.  • • 68.3 

Brkton,  Nic  h»)LA8,  i.  . . 83 

Brkwstkr,  Sir  David,  ii.  , 763 

Bride’sTrage«ly,  Passages frrr.n  the,  ii.  521 
Bri.stow  Tragedy,  or  the  Death  of  Sir 
Charles  Buwdin,  ii.  . *84 

Britain,  tlie  Languages  of,  1.  , 2.3«) 

British  Monarchy,  the,  ii.  . • 23J 

British  Navy,  the,  i.  . , 327 

Bhodik,  Gkorck,  ii.  • . 642 

Brok KDON,  W.  ii.  , , 672 

Brome,  Richard,  i.  . , 216 

Brook p.,  Mk.s,  ii.  , . 473 

Broomstick,  a Meditation  upon,  ac- 
eoriling  to  the  St^le  and  Manner 
(»f  the  Hon.  Robert  Boyle's  Medi- 
tations, i.  . . . . 628 

Broccham,  Lord,  ii.  , , 7^2 

Brocchton,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 678 

Brown,  Dr  Thomas,  ii,  • <>48 

Brown  Jng,  the,  ii.  . , . 118 

Bsownk,  Sir  Thomas,  i.  • 2fl8 

Browne,  William,  i.  . . 128 

Bn»wnie  of  Blednoch,  the,  iL  • 567 

Brovvnino,  J.  ii.  , , . 524 

Brcce,  Jamk.s,  ii.  • . 6(>5 

Brcck,  Mm  H A KL,  ii.  , , 

Brcnton,  Mr.s,  ii.  . , 572 

Brutus  and  'ritiis.  Scene  between,  i.  391 
Brvdcks,  Sir  Kckrton,  ii.  . 688 

Buchanan,  Gkorok,  i.  . 161,3117 

Buchanan's  Latin  Version  of  the 
1.37th  Psalm,  i.  . . . 162 

Buckingham,  Duke,  Character  of,  i.  362 
Buckingham,  Henry,  Dukeof,  in  the 
Infernal  Regions,  i.  . . 82 

Bi  CKINUHAM,  J.  S.  ii.  . C77»  688 

BcCKINl.HAMSHiRB,  DUKE  OF,  L .378 
Buck  LAND,  Dr,  ii,  . . . 79.3 

Bud,  the,  i.  . . • 328 

Bcdokll,  EtrsTACE,  i.  . . 614 

Bull,  John,  History  of,  i.  . 642 

Bcli.ar,  Dr  Joseph,  ii.  • . 686 

Bullar,  John,  ii.  • . 686 

Bulwkr,  Sir  E.  L.  ii,  . 521,  {120-622 

Bunyan,  John,  i.  . , . 466 

Bunyaii’s  Autobiography,  i.  . 467-471 
Burch RLL,  Mr,  ii.  . , , 6<>8 

Bcri  KiiARDT,  J.  L.  ii.  . WI8,  676 

Burial  Ground  in  the  Highlands, 
Lines  uritten  in  a,  ii.  . 435 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  ii.  . 410 
Burke,  Edmund,  ii.  . • 227 

Burke  and  the  Dukeof  Bedford,  Dif- 
ference between,  ii.  . . 2.3.3 

Burke’s  Account  of  liis  Son,  ii.  2.}0 

Burleiuh,  Lord,  i.  . . 2.34 

Burnk.s,  Sir  Alexander,  ii.  679 

Burnet,  Dr  Thomas,  i.  . . 4.'i0 

Burnet,  Ciii. BERT,  i.  . , 486 

Burnet,  James — [Lord  Monboddo], 
ii.  . . . . . 249 

Burney,  Frances— [Madame  D’Ar- 
blay],  ii.  ...  535 

Burney,  Miss,  Explains  to  King 
George  HI.  the  Circumstances  At- 
tending the  Composition  of  Eve- 
lina, ii.  . . . . 5.38 

Burney.  Sarah  Harriet,  ii.  W9 

Burns,  Robert,  ii.  . . 479-486 

Burns  to  Mrs  Dunkip,  ii.  . . 483 

Burn.s — from  his  Epistles,  Ate.  ii.  484-486 
Burton,  Dr,  ii.  . , 644,  672 

Burton,  Koaert,  i • . 2j2 


Pasr 

Bury,  Lady  Charlotti,  ii.  , wni 
Bush  aboon  Traquair,  ii.  . . 128 

Busy-Body,  the,  i,  . , 277 

Butler,  Samuel,  i ,34.V.^33,  408,  409 
Butler’s  Bemains,  Miscvlluneous 
Thoughts  from,  i.  , , .3.32 

Butterfly,  to  the,  ii.  . . .320 

Byron,  Lord,  ii.  . . 380-.395 

Cade’s  insurrection,  i.  • .56 

C.KDMON,  i.  . • * 1 

Ca'sar,  Generosity  of,  1.  . . 2o4 

Cairo,  Lcrend  of  the  Mosque  of  the 
Bloody  Baptism  at,  iL  . 6»l 

Cai.amy,  Edmund,  i.  * . 458 

Calderon  dk  la  Barca,  Ma- 
dame, ii.  . . • 687 

Caldkrwood,  Da  viD,  i.  . 304 

Caldon-Low,  the  Fairies  of  the,  il.  463 
Caleb  Williams,  Concluding  Sceneof, 
ii.  . . . . 563-565 

Calista’s  Passion  for  Lothario,  i.  591 
Camden,  William,  i.  . . 261-2W1 

Cameronian’s  Dream,  the,  ii.  . .308 

Campbell,  Dr  G.  ii.  . . 22o 

Campbell,  Dr  John,  ii.  , 291,  255 

Campbell,  John,  ii.  . . 

Campbell,  Major  Calter,  ii.  . 473 

Campbell,  Thomas,  ii.  .369-374,  C4C,  678 
Ciindle,  to  my,  ii.  , , . 30l 

Canning,  Gkohgk,  ii.  . . 295,  296 

Canning,  G.  Portraiture  of— [From 
De  Vere^  or  the  Man  of  Indtiien^ 
dem-ii'\  ii.  ...  610 

Canning’s  Lines  on  the  Death  of  his 
Eldest  Son,  ii.  . . 2.60 

Canterbury  Pilgrimage,  Select  Cha- 
racters from  the,  i.  . l5-2d 

Canterbury  Tales,  Introduction  to 
the,  ii.  . . . 547-540 

Cape,  Spirit  of  the,  ii.  . . 72 

Captivity— the  Stari  ng,  ii.  . . 174 

Caraetaeu.s,  pjussage  from,  ii.  • 58 

Careless  Content,  ii.  . , 1.34 

Cakkw,  Lady  Elizabeth,  i.  . 1.34 

Carkw,  Tho.mas,  i.  . . 120 

Carleton,  Wi i.i.i am,  ii.  6)5,616 

Carlyle,  Tho.mas,  ii.  . 694,69.5 

Carnatic,  Destruction  of  the,  ii.  2;i2 

Carnk,  John,  ii.  . . 677 

Carpe.nter,  Dr,  ii.  • . 7o.l 

Ca rrington,  N.  T.  ii.  . « 47-3 

Carte,  Tho.mas,  ii.  . . 181 

Carthagena,  Pestilence  at,  ii.  . 19 

Cartwright,  William,  i.  . l.’iS 

Ca.sa  Waj'py,  ii.  . . 475,  476 

Castava.  l)e.-.uription  of,  i.  . 134 

Castle  of  Indolence,  from  the,  ii.  , 19 

Cataract  and  the  streamlet,  ii  440 

Catiline,  the  Fall  of,  i.  . , 193 

Cato,  from  the 'ITagedy  of,  i,  . 544 

Cauler  Water,  ii.  . • 131 

Cause  and  Effect,  i.  . . .65 

Cave,  the  [Written  in  the  High- 
lands], ii.  . . • 81 

Cavendish,  George,  i.  , . 70 

Caxton,  William,  i.  . . 54 

Celia,  to,  i.  . . • .113 

Censorious  People,  i.  • • <W0 

Chalkhill,  John,  i.  . . 13’* 

Ch  ALMERS,  Alexander,  iL  . 647 

Chal.mers,  Dr  Thomas,  ii.  661,  701 
Chalmers,  Dr  T —his  appearances 
in  London  [Note],  ii.  . . 661 

Chalmers,  Gkorok,  ii.  . . W16 

Chamarleon,  the — [George  Buchanan], 

.3J)8 
323 


ChAMBKRLAYNR,  WlLLlA.M,  i. 

Cha.mrkrs,  Ephraim,  ii.  . 

Chamrkrs,  Bobekt,  ii. 

Chambers’s  Edinburgh  Journal,  ii. 

Chameleon,  the— [Prior],  i. 

Chameleon,  the— [Meir  ek],  ii. 

Chamouni,  Hymn  before  Sunrise  in 
the  Vale  of,  ii.  . . 

Change,  ii.  . . . 

Chapman,  George,  i.  . . 

Character,  Anatomy  of,  performed 
by  Uneharitableness— [From  Tht 
School  for  Scandal],  ii. 

Character,  an  Original  — [From 
Vicfu'Hs's  Atwrican  Notcj],  iL  . 

Charcoal  Fire,  Kindling  of,  i.  • 
706 


W7 

7l'3 

5.38 

121' 

.343 

449 

218 


6.32 

J??:* 


INDEX. 

PaiTo 

Ch«rity — fT>r  Isaac  Harrow],  1.  432 

I'harity— [Sir  T.  Hrowne],  i.  • 3(>2 

Charles  1.  Character  of,  i.  . • 479 

Charles  ll.  Character  of,  I.  . 4tJ9 

Charles  1 1.  KNcajie  of,  after  the  Dattle 
of  Worce.ster,  I.  . • 4WM85 

Charlktos.  Walter,  L • 409 

ChanU'Song,  the,  L • • • 214 

Chase,  the,  L . • • 5H1 

Chase,  Ihcture  of  the,  U.  • • 60:1 

Chastity,  to,  L . • • 131 

Chastity,  Praise  of,  i.  • . 3.34 

Chatham,  Karl  ok,  iu  . 252 

Chatham,  Speech  of,  on  bclngTauntcd 
on  Account  of  his  Youth,  ii.  . 253 

Chatham,  Speech  of,  against  the 
EmploiTnent  of  Indians  in  the  Wax 
with  America,  ii.  . . 253 

Chatham — his  hist  public  appear- 
ance, ii.  . . « • 254 

Cliatham — his  character,  ii.  • 254 

Chattkrton,  Thomas,  ii.  • . 81 

Chaucer,  G ROKKKKY,  i.  • 12,34 

Chaucer,  Immediate  Predecessors 

of,  i 11 

Chaucer,  Inscription  for  a Statue  of, 
at  WiKMi.stock,  ii.  . • 47 

Chauer  r,  Ljust  Verses  of,  i.  • . 23 

Chekk,  Sir  JoH.v,  i.  . • 74 

Cherry  Ripe,  i.  . . . 143 

Chkstkrki  RLO,  Earl  OP,  ii.  • 248 

ChETTLB,  11  KNRY,  1.  • • 1?4 

Child  that  Died,  upon  a,  i.  • 142 

Child,  Epitaph  upon  a,  i.  • « 142 

Children,  Education  of,  i.  • 235 

Children  Read;  to  Believe,  i.  • 288 

CHII.LtNiaVOKTH,  WiLLIAM,  U 285 

Chinese  Expedition,  Narratives  of 
the,  i..  . . . . 682 

Cliinese  Ladies’  Feet,  iu  • 682 

Chivalry,  ii.  . . • . 190 

Chivalry  and  Modern  Manners,  ii.  639 

Cbloe,  to,  i.  . . • 139 

Choice,  Passage  from  the,  i.  . 377 

Christ  Cruciti^  afresh  by  Sinners,  i.  276 
Christ,  Kingdom  of,  not  of  this 
World,  i.  . • • • 665 

Christiad,  the,  ii.  • . 303 

Christian,  the  Dying,  to  his  Soul,  i.  565 

Christian  in  the  Hands  of  Giant  De- 
spair, i.  . . . 47I-473 

Christian  Religion,  the  Excellency 
of  the,  i.  . . . 429 

Chrit.tian  Vices,  a Mohammedan’s 
Lecture  on,  i.  . . .32 

Christianity,  Arguments  for  the 

Abolition  of,  treated,  i.  ♦ 627 

Christianity,  Inconveniences  from  a 
Proposed  Abolition  of,  i.  . • 627 

Christmas,  i.  . . • 127 

Christmas  Eve,  Picture  of,  iL  . 328 

Christmas,  Mr,  ii.  . . 657 

Chronicle,  the,  i.  . • . 316 

Chroniclers,  the  RhjTning,  i.  , 6 

Church  Music,  Influence  of,  i.  . 238 

Church  Music,  Usefulness  of,  i.  661 

Churchill,  Charles,  ii.  , 92-94 

Cid,  Romance  of  the,  ii.  . . iiOS 

City  Shower,  a Description  of  a,  i.  .548 

Civil  War,  Various  Events  of  the,  i.  290 
Clark,  .John,  ii.  . . 425 

Clarendo.v,  Lord,  i.  • . 475 

Clark,  Sir  Jambs,  ii.  • • 703 

Clarke,  Dr  Adam,  iu  • • 660 

Clarke,  Dr  E.  D.  ii.  • • 670 

Clarke,  Dr  Samuel,  i.  . . 662 

Claudian's  Old  Man  of  Verona,  i.  318 

Clergy,  the  Glory  of  the,  u • 444 

Cleveland,  John,  i.  • . 147 

Cliffe,  Letter  to  Lord,  i.  • 258-260 

ClitumnuH,  Temple  of,  iu  . . 391 

Clotlies,  against  Fine,  u • 273 

Cloud,  t)ie,  ii.  • • • 3.03 

Clown,  the,  i.  . • • 279 

Cobbktt,  William,  ii.  • 690,  691 

Cobham,  Lord,  Death  of,  i.  . 73 

Cock  and  the  Fox,  u • 370-.373 

CocKBURN,  Mrs,  iu  • • 127 

Coffey,  C.  ii.  . • • 151 

Coleridge,  Hartley,  iu  • 471 

CoLERtuGK,  S.  T.  ii.  333-345,  514-516 

Cui.ERiPuE,  Mrs  Henry,  iu  . 473 

Pag* 

Colin  and  Lucy,  L • • 566 

Coliseum,  the,  ii.  • • • 672 

Coliseum,  the  — Midnight  Scene  in 
Home,  ii.  . . . 392 

Collins,  William,  ii.  • . 30 

CoLMAN,  George,  ii.  . . 141 

CoLMAN,  George,  Younger,  ii.  524-531 
Columbus,  the  Voyage  of,  ii.  • 319 

Com  BE,  G KORGK,  ii.  . • 687 

Comet  of  1812,  to  the,  ii.  . . 498 

Comical  Revenge,  Scene  from,  i.  393 

Commendation  before  Trial,  Injudi- 
cious, i.  . . • • 266 

Common  Lot,  the,  ii.  . . 420 

Companions,  Agreeable,  and  Flat- 
terers, i.  . . . . 606 

Complaint  of  Nature,  ii.  • 98 

Compliment,  the,  i.  • • 120 

Com  us.  Scene  from,  i.  . . 333 

Conuis,  the  Spirit's  Epilogue  in,  i.  3.34 

Concord  and  l)iscord,  i.  . • 4.32 

Congreve,  William,  i.  . 59.3 

CoNOLLY,  Lieutenant  Arthur,  ii.  679 
Conscience,  Terrors  of  a Guilty  — 

[Fuller],  i 414 

Conscience,  Terrors  of  a Guilty— 
[Hlacklock],  ii.  • . 103 

Constable,  Henry,  i.  • . 8.3 

Constable’s  Miscellany,  ii.  • 702 

Constancy,  i.  ...  136 

Constantinople,  the  Taking  of,  by 
the  Turks,  i.  . . . 264 

Content,  Careless,  ii.  , . 1.34 

Content,  Hymn  to,  ii.  • • 277 

Content,  a Pastoral,  ii.  • » 122 

Content,  a Sonnet,  i.  • • 169 

Contentment,  a Wish,  i.  • 579 

Conversation,  on,  i.  . 414,  507 ; ii*  244 

Conversation,  Passage  from,  ii.  . 26U 

Conversation  between  Chesterfield 
and  Chatham — [From  Iwtujinary 
Conversations  of  Literary  Men  and 
Statesmcn'\^  ii.  . , , 3.51 

Convict  Ship,  the,  ii.  • • 478 

Con  ybeare,  Mr,  iu  • • 642 

Cook,  Eliza,  ii.  . • . 473 

Cooke,  George,  i.  • • 216 

Cooker, James  Fenimore,  ii.  . 629 

Copeland,  Dr,  ii.  . • 7o3 

Corbet,  Richard,  i.  . . 116 

Corbet,  Vincent,  to,  i.  , • 116 

Corina,  to  go  a-Maying,  i.  . . 143 

CoriolanU',  Prologue  to,  iu  • 49 

Coronach,  ii.  ...  385 

Cotton,  Charles,  i.  . . 353,419 

Cotton,  Nathaniel,  ii.  . . 122 

Cotton,  Sir  Robert,  i.  . 263 

Country  Ballad  Singer,  the,  i.  . 572 

Country  Churchyard,  Elegy  Written 
in  a,  ii.  ...  55 

Country  Life,  Praise  of  a,  i.  . 531 

Country,  Love  of,  ii.  . . 382 

Court  Masques  of  the  Seventeenth 
Century,  i.  ...  198 

Courtier,  the  Old  and  Young,  i.  229 

Courtship,  Rustic,  i.  . . 586 

Coverdalk,  Miles,  i.  . . 74 

Cowley,  Abraham,  i.  312-318,  401-41)4 
Cowley,  Abraham,  Lines  on,  i.  32.3 

Cowley’s  Love  of  Retirement,  i.  . 449 
CoivpKR,  William,  ii.  . . 257-269 

Cowper,  on  the  Receipt  of  his  Mo- 
ther’s Picture,  ii,  . . . 261 

Cowper,  Inscription  on  the  Tomb 
of,  ii.  . • . . 269 

Cowper's  Grave,  ii.  • . 461 

Coxe,  WiLLiA.M,  ii.  , . 6.36 

Craore,  George,  ii.  . , 309-315 

Crashaw,  Richard,  i.  . . 149 

Crashaw,  on  the  Death  of,  i.  • 314 

Craven,  THE  Hon.  R.  K.  iu  • 672 

Crawford,  Robert,  ii.  . 128 

Creation — [Ca'dmon],  i.  • .2 

Creation — [Dr  R.  Cud  worth],  i.  • 427 
Creation— [Sir  R.  Blackinore],  i.  568 

Creation,  Diversified  Character  of,  ii.  2(>0 
Creation,  Eve’s  Account  of  her,  i.  ai9 

Creation,  the  Works  of,  i.  . 612 

Crescentius,  ii.  . . • 450 

Cressey,  Battle  o?^,  i,  , . 71 

Critics,  Hostile,  i.  . • . 

Crokkr,  T.  Crofton,  ii  • 613 

Pftg* 

Crolt,  Rev.  George,  li.  • . 448 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  Character  of,  !.  485 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  Interview  with,  u 459 
Cromwell,  Vision  of  Oliver,  i.  . 403 

Cromwell's  Expulsion  of  the  Parlia- 
ment in  1653,  ii.  . . • 641 

Croppy's  House,  Description  of  the 
Burning  of  u,  ii.  . • . 613 

Crowne,  John,  I.  . . 392 

Crusade,  Muster  for  the  First,  i . 6 

Crusades,  Against  the,  iu  • 39 

Cuckoo,  to  the,  ii.  . • -97 

Cudworth,  Da  Ralph,  1.  . 425 

Cumberland,  Dr  Richard,  i . 427 
Cumberland,  Richard,  ii.  141,  545 

Cumnor  Hall,  ii.  . • 71 

Cunningham,  Allan,  ii.  • . 499 

Cunningham,  John,  iu  • 121 

Cupid,  to,  i.  . . • * 139 

Cupid  and  Campaspe,  u . 166 

Cupid  and  Psyche,  ii.  • . 281 

Curiosity,  Fatal,  i.  • • 592 

Currie,  Dr  James,  ii.  • . 645 

Custance,  Departure  of,  i.  • 19 

Cymbeline,  Dirge  in,  ii.  . . 34 

Czar  Peter  in  England  in  1698,  i.  490 

Dacre,  Lady,  ii.  . . . 609 

Daffodils,  to,  i.  . • . 141 

Dance,  the,  i.  . • .42 

Daniel.  Sa.muel,  i.  . . 97,263 

Daniel’s  Sonnets,  Selections  from,  i.  98 
Darwin,  C.  ii.  . . . GH7 

Darwin,  Dr  Erasmus,  ii.  . 270-273 

Davenant,  Si R William,!.  13,  146 

David  and  Goliah,  i.  . . 102 

David  II.  Return  of,  from  Captivity,  i.  28 
David,  Song  to,  ii.  . . 109-112 

Davies,  Sir  John,  u • . 108 

Davis,  John,  i.  . • 252 

Davis,  John  Francis,  iu  • • 681 

Dawson,  Phoebe,  ii.  • • 312 

Day,  John,!.  . • . 216 

Day  of  Judgment,  ii.  • • 447 

DeLolme,U.  . . . 241 

De  Montfort,  Scene  from,  ii.  511,  512 

De  .Montfort,  Jane,  Description  of,  ii.  513 
Dead,  the,  ii.  . , . .74 

Death — its  Desirableness,  i.  . 301 

Death — [Supposed  Last  Verses  of  the 
Poet  Nicoll],  ii,  . . 506 

Death — the  Changes  it  Effects,  i.  . 296 
Death,  Against  Repining  at,  i.  . 308 

Death,  the  Court  of,  i.  . . 574 

Death,  Fear  of,  i.  . . 187,381 

Death  and  Funeral  of  a Pauper,  ii.  630 
Death,  the  Image  of,  i.  • . 96 

Death,  Old  Age  and,  i.  • • 328 

Death  of  Marmion,  ii.  • . 383 

Death,  Night  Piece  on,  i.  • 676 

Death,  the  Pomp  of,  i.  . 293 

Death  of  Sir  IL  De  Bohun,  i.  . 26 

Death  Song,  Written  for,  and  Adapt*  d 
to,  an  Original  Indian  Air,  ii.  . 280 
Death,  Time  of — Advantages  of  our 
Ignorance  of  it,  i.  . . . WO 

Death  of  Two  Lovers  by  Lightning 
—[Pope  to  Lady  Mary  W.  Mon- 
tagu], i.  . . . . 6.17 

Death  of  the  Warrior  King,  ii.  . 4/7 

Death’s  Final  Conquest,  i.  . . 148 

Deathbed,  the  Pauper’s,  ii.  . 461 

Deceit  of  Ornament  or  Api>earance9, 
i.  ....  187 

Deception,  a — [From  She  Stoops  to 
Conqiter^^^  ii.  . . .141 

Definition  of  Good  Breeding,  U.  248 

Defob,  Daniel,  i.  . . . 617 

Dekker,  Thomas,  i.  . • 211,274 

Delabeche,  Sir  Henry,  ii.  . 703 

Delta— See  Moir,  D.M. 

Denham  and  Clappkrton,  ii.  667,  668 
Denham,  Sir  John,  i.  . , 321 

Dennie,  Colonel,  ii.  . . 680 

Depending  upon  Others,  ii.  . 620 

De  Quincev,  Thomas,  ii.  • 692,  693 

Descriptive  Sketch,  i.  ■ . . 128 

Desert,  Afar  in  the,  ii.  . . 454 

Desert,  Meeting  of  Two  Warriors 
in  the,  ii.  . . . . 606 

Desolation  of  the  Cities  who»<  War- 
riors have  marched  against  Rome,  1 

iL  • . . . 468-470 

707 

CYCLOPEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Pa>?e 

Detraction,  AgainHi,  i.  • . 2iiii 

Detniction  Kxucratc.d,  i.  . . 13(i 

Dcvil’b  Head  in  llio  Viillcy  Peril- 
ouH,  i.  . . . . 3.3 

Devil.**  in  tlio  Head,  i.  . . 284 

])iana,  Hymn  to,  i.  . . H3 

Diana,  the  Priestess  of,  i.  • ♦ 138 

Diana,  the  Votaress  of,  i.  • I'W 

DiFiDiN,  Charles,  ii.  • • 1!>2 

Dickens,  Chaiilks,  ii.  . • 6.30 

Dikkkk.nbach,  Dr  K.  ii.  / . 687 

l>inner  (Jiven  by  the  Town  Mouse 
to  the  Country  Mouse,  i.  . .38 

l>irf(e — (Wliat  is  the  existence  of 
man’s  life),  i.  . . .118 

Dirge— lUlessed  is  the  turf,  serenely 
blessed),  ii.  ...  434 

Dirge  in  Cymbcline,  ii.  . . 34 

Dirge  of  Haehel,  ii.  . . • 404 

Disappointment  — [Pastoral  Bal* 

lad],  ii 39 

Discretion  in  Cfiving,  i.  . • 4.3 

Discretion  in  Taking,  i . • 43 

Disdain  Ueturned,  i.  . . 121 

Disorder,  Delight  in,  i.  . • 143 

Dispensary  the— [Sir  S.  Garth],  i.  .'H)7 

Disputation,  i.  . . . 516,  640 

D’Isra KLi,  Benjamin,  ii.  • . 611 

D isRAKLi,  Isaac,  ii.  . . 688 

Di.stinetion,  Means  of  Acquiring,  ii.  656 

Divine  Government,  View  of  the. 
Afforded  by  Experimental  Philo- 
sophy, i.  . . ■ . 448 

Doctrines,  Opposition  to  New,  i.  516 

Doddridge,  Dr  Philip,  i . 668 

Dodtlridge  on  the  Dangerous  Illness 
of  a Daughter,  i.  . . . 670 

Doddridge,  Happy  Devotional  Feel- 
ings of,  i,  . . • 671 

Dodsley,  Robert,  ii.  • 114,2.35 

Dodwell,  Edward,  ii.  • 671 

Donne,  John,  i.  . . . 109 

Donne’s  Satire.s,  a Character  from,  i.  Ill 
Du*ax  and  Sebastian,  Scene  between, 

i.  . . . . 384-.386 

Dorset,  Earl  of,  i.  . . 377 

Dorset,  iCarl  of,  lipistle  to  the,  i.  5(i9 

Douce,  Francis,  ii.  . . 688 

Douglas,  Gavin,  i.  . . 44 

Drama,  the— its  Rise  in  England,  i.  163 
Dramatic  Literature  — its  Decline, 

ii.  . . . . . 509 

Drayton,  Michael,  i.  . 08 

Dream,  the,  i.  . . . 139 

Dream-ChUdren— a Reverie,  ii.  3.37 

Dreams  and  Pro|ihecies.  i.  . 284 

Drelincourt  on  Deaih — Recommend- 
ed by  the  Apparition  of  Mrs  Veal 

— [Daniel  Defoe],  i.  . . 618-621 

Dress,  Directions  Respecting — [John 
Tobin],  ii.  , . . . 532 

Dress,  Fashions  in,  i.  . • 423 

Drinking,!.  ....  31.5 

Drum,  Ode  on  Hearing  the,  ii.  • 121 

Drummond,  William,  i.  . 158,  308 

Drummond  to  his  Lute,  i.  . 160 

Drury  Lane,  a Tale  of — By  W.  S. 

[Rejected  Addresses],  ii.  . . 4.32 

Druses,  Sketch  of,  ii.  . . 407 

Dryden,  John,  i.  . 3.39-362  , 379,492 

Dryden  to  his  Honoured  Kinsman 
John  Dryden,  Esq.  i.  . 365,  ,366 

Dryden’s  Translation  of  Virgil,  i.  . 497 
Duelling,  au'ainst,  i.  . , 286 

Dugdale,  Sir  William,  i.  . 527 

Dugdale’s  Monasticon,  Lines  Written 
in  a Blank  Leaf  of,  ii.  . 100 

Dunbar,  William,  I.  . . 40 

Duncan,  King,  Murder  of,  i.  • 181 

Duncan,  Rev.  Dr,  ii.  . , 700 

Dungeon,  Picture  of  a,  ii.  • 344 

Duni.op,  John,  ii.  . • . 642 

Durandarte  and  Belerma,  ii,  . 376 

D'Urkey  AND  Brown,  i.  , . .527 

Dwarfs,  on  the  Marriage  of  the,  i.  326 

Dyer,  John,  ii.  . . 22 

Dying  Bequest,  i.  , • • 220 

Earle,  John,  i.  . . 278 

F'arly  History  of  Nations,  i.  . 263 

Early  His  ng  and  Prayer,  i.  . 318 

Earth.  Insignihcance  of  this,  ii.  . 664 

Earthly  Glories,  End  of  all,  i.  . 186 

Page 

Kastorn  Manners  and  Language — 
[Lady  Mary  W.  Montagu  to  Mr 
Pope],  i.  . . • . 651 

Kahtcrri  Travellers,  ii.  . • C76-<>82 

Eblis,  the  Hall  of,  ii.  . . 542 

Echard,  Lawrp.ncb,  L • 6.59 

Echo  and  Narcissus,  i.  . . 148 

Eclogue — Hassan,  or  the  Camel 
Driver,  ii.  • . , 31 

Economy,  Domestic,  i,  • 234  , 414 

Eden,  the  Garden  of,  i.  . 3.39 

Kogkvv'orth,  Miss,  ii.  , 5C8-.571 

Edinburgh,  the  High  Street  of,  il.  495 

Edinburgh  and  Leith,  Burning  of, 
by  the  English,  in  1544,  i.  . 305 

Edinburgh  Review,  Commence- 
ment of  the,  ii.  . . 696,  702 

Edinburgh,  a Sunday  in,  ii.  . 1.32 

Education,  a Complete,  i.  . 398 

Education,  Gentleness  in,  i.  . 437 

PMucation,  the  Alliance  between 
Government  and,  ii.  . . .56 

Education  Confined  too  much  to 
Language,  i.  . . 413 

Education,  on  Female — [Lady  Mary 
W.  Montagu  to  the  Countess  of 
Bute],  i.  . . . 6.53 

Education,  Importance  of  Moral,  i.  515 
Education,  Love,  Hope,  and  Pa- 
tience in,  ii.  . . . 34.5 

Education- ^\^lat  it  Embraces,  i.  265 

Edward  VI.  Death  and  Character 
of,  i.  . . . , 487 

Edwards,  Richard,  i.  . 164 

Edwin  and  Angelina,  ii.  • • 63 

Edwin,  Description  of,  ii.  • 106 

Edsvin  and  Emma,  ii.  . . 42 

Elegy,  il.  . . . 133 

Elegy  on  an  Unfortunate  Lady,  i.  560 

Elegy,  written  in  a Country  Cliurch- 
yard,  il.  ...  5.5 

Elegy,  written  in  Spring,  ii.  . 9f» 

Elephant  in  the  Moon,  i.  . 349-352 

Eliza,  Death  of,  at  the  Battle  of 
Minden,ii.  . . . 272 

Elizabeth,  L.  IT.  Epitaph  on,  i.  .114 

Elizabeth,  Queen — her  Death  and 
Character,  ii.  . . . 184 

Elizabeth’s  Reign,  Sports  upon  the 
Ice  in,  i.  . . . 2.50 

Elliott,  Ebenrzbr,  ii.  . , 457 

Kll'ot,  Miss  Jank,  ii.  , 127 

Elliot,  Sir  Gilbert,  ii.  . , 129 

Elliot&on.  Dr,  ii.  . , 703 

Ellis,  H knry,  ii.  . • . 680 

Ellis.  Sir  Hknry,  ii.  • « 700 

Ellwood,  Thomas,  i.  . . 46.5 

Elhvood’s  Intercourse  with  Milton,  i.  465 
Eloisa  to  Abelard,  from  the  Epistle 
of,  i.  . . . . 559 

Elphinstone,  the  Hon.  Mount- 
stuart,  ii.  . . . 644,680 

Elvot,  Sir  Thomas,  i.  • . 64 

Emerson,  .James,  ii.  • . 644 

Emulation  and  Envy,  i.  , . 268 

Encyclopiedias,  &c.  ii.  . • 255,  703 

Endymion,  the  Story  of,  i.  . 319 

I'ngiand,  the  Homes  of,  ii.  . . 438 

England,  What  Harm  would  come 
to,  if  the  Commons  thereof  were 
Poor,  i.  ...  54 

English,  Commencement  of  the  Pre- 
sent Form  of,  i.  . . ,4 

EncMsh  Country  Seat,  Ancient—' 
[Pope  to  Lady  Mary  W.  Mon- 
tagu], i.  ...  638 

English  Courage,  i.  . , .54 

English  Liberty,  ii.  , . 265 

English  Mansion,  Ancient,  Descrip- 
tion of,  ii  . . . . 599 

English  Scenery,  Recollections  of,  ii,  275 
Englisli  Squire,  Banquet  of  an,  ii.  287 

Enirlish  Travellers  Visit  a Neapolitan 
Church,  ii.  . . . 555 

Englishman,  Characteristic  of  an,  i.  51 
Enjoyment  of  the  Present  Hour  re- 
commended, I.  , . . 375 

Envious  Man  and  the  Miser,  i.  . 25 

Envy,  against,  i.  . . . 531 

Envy  and  Emulation,  i.  . . 268 

Epic  Poem,  Receipt  to  Make  an,  1.  64! 

Epicure,  the,  i.  . . . 315 

Page 

Epistle  to  the  Coiintefisof  Cumber- 
land, Extract  from,  1.  . . 97 

Epibtle  to  a Friend,  L . . 133 

Epitaph,  an,  i.  . . . 119 

Epitaph— Jack  and  Joan,  i.  . 536 

Epitaph  on  the  Living  Author,  i,  318 

Epitaph  upon  the  Year  1806,  ii.  422 

Epithalamion,  Passage  fiom  the,  i.  95 

Error,  Acknowledgment  of,  i.  , 640 

Esquimaux,  Description  of  the,  ii.  675 
Esteem,  True  Path  to,  i.  . . 5.33 

Eternal  Providenee,  ii  . . 74 

Eternity,  Miisings  on,  ii.  . . 450 

Ethbrkob,  Sir  Gkorgk,  i.  , 392 

Eton  College,  Ode  on  a distant  Pro- 
spect of,  ii.  ...  5.* 

Eustack,  J.  C.  il.  . . 67s 

Evklyn,  John,  i.  . . . 41S 

Evelyn’s  Account  of  his  Daughter 
Mary,  i.  ...  422 

Evening,  i.  . . . , 128 

Evening  Primrose,  to  the,  ii.  . 440 

Evening  Scene  by  Lake  Leman,  ii.  390 
Excursion,  the,  ii.  . , , 457 

Exequies,  the,  i.  . . 320 

Exercise,  Different  Kinds  of,  i.  • 64 

Exhortatory  Letter  to  an  old  Lady 
tliat  Smoked  Tobacco,  i.  . 529 

Exile’s  Song,  the,  ii.  . . 5<i6 

Eye  and  Ear,  Pleasures  of  the,  ii.  209 

Kyrk,  Likut.  Vincent,  ii.  . 680 

Fabian,  Robert,  i.  , . 55 

Fable,  i.  . . . .596 

Fair  Recluse,  the,  ii.  . . 447 

Fairfax,  Edward,  i.  . . 103 

Fairies  of  the  Caldon-Low — a Mid- 
summer Legend,  ii.  . . 463 

Fairies,  Farewell  to  the,  i.  . *117 

Fairy  Queen,  the,  i.  . . .395 

Falconer,  Willia.m,!!,  , 87-91 

Falkland,  Lord,  Character  of,  i.  4/8 

Falstaff  Arrested  by  his*  Hostess, 
Dame  Quickly,  i.  . . 190 

Falstaff,  Character  of,  ii.  . . 693 

Fal.staff’s  Cowardice  and  Boasting,  i.  189 
Fame,  i.  . . . . 53’ 

Familiar  Faces,  the  Old,  ii.  . .356 

Family  Library,  ii.  . . . 7^2 

Fanaticism,  Ludicrous  Image  of,  i.  628 
Fancy,  to,  ii.  ...  101 

Fane,  H.  G.  ii.  . . . 680 

Fanshawk,  Sir  Richard,  i.  . 153 

Farewell  to  Ayrshire,  ii.  . 492 

Farewell  Hymn  to  the  Valley  of  Ir- 
wan,  ii.  . . . *74 

Farewell,  Sweet  AVilliam’s,  to  Black- 
Eyed  Susan,  i.  . . . 575 

Farewell  to  Tobacco,  ii.  . 356,  3.57 

Farmer,  Hugh,  ii.  . . 217 

Farquhar,  George,  i.  . . 598 

Fashion,  Picture  of  the  Life  of  a 
Woman  of,  i.  . . . 590 

Fatal  Curiosity,  i.  . . . 

Father’s  Grief  for  the  Death  of  his 
Daughter— [Note],  i.  . . 309 

Fawkes,  Francis,  ii.  . . 118 

Feast  in  the  Manner  of  the  Ancients, 

ii 168 

Feelings,  Lost,  ii.  . . . 4.')6 

Felon,  Dream  of  the  Condemned,  ii.  313 
Fellows,  Charles,  ii.  . 6/8 

Felltham,  Owen,  i.  . . 279 

Female  Beauty,  a Description  of,  ii.  79 
Fen,  an  English,  ii.  . . 314 

F'krguson  Dr  Adam,  ii.  . . 249 

Fkrgusson,  Robert,  ii.  129-132 

Ferrex  and  Porrex,  i.  . . 164 

Ferrier,  Miss,  ii.  . . . 6U2 

Feudal  System,  Effects  of  the,  ii.  642 

Field,  Nathaniel,  i.  . . 216 

Field  Sports — [Cobbett],  ii.  • 691 

Field  of  the  World,  the,  ii.  . . 419 

Fielding,  Hknry,  ii.  . • 161 

Filial  Vow,  the,  ii.  . . . 490 

Fingal's  Airy  Hall,  ii.  . . 76 

Fireside,  tiie,  ii.  . . . 122 

First  Love’s  Hecollections,  ii.  . 427 

Fischer,  John,  i.  . . .62 

Fitzroy,  Captain,  ii.  . . 687 

Flatterers  and  Agreeablo  Compa- 
nions, i.  . . . . 

Flattery  of  the  Great,  L . . 624 

703 

INDEX. 

Pape 

Pafte 

PaRo 

Flavkl,  .Tony,  i. 

468 

Girron,  Edward,  ii.  . , 192 

644 

Gurwood,  Likut.-Colonel,  ii. 

643 

Fi.ktchkk,  Andrkw,  op  Saltoun, 

Gibbon,  his  Mode  of  Life  at  Lau- 

Guthrie,  William,  ii. 

. 192 

i 

625 

sanne,  ii.  . . • . 

200 

Gutzlakk,  Rkv.'C.  ii.  . • 

643,  681 

Flbtciikr,  Dr,  ii. 

7(i;i 

Giffard,  Edward,  il.  . • 

671 

HaBINGTON,  \v  ILLIAM,  i.  . 

. 1,'J3 

Flkt(M!kk,  John,  i.  , . 

203 

Gi  FORD,  William,  ii,  • • 

292 

Habit  and  Practice,  i.  . . 

512 

Fi.kt<  hkr,  Phinkas  and  Gidbs,  i. 

122 

Gi  .ftllan,  Robert,  iL 

506 

Hafiz,  Persian  Song  (*f,  ii.  . 

. 117 

Flo<Ulcn,  Hattlo  of,  ii.  • • 

382 

Gi  ^LiKs,  1)R  John,  ii.  • • 

6:i6 

Haidee,  Description  of,  ii.  • 

393 

Flora's  Horologe,  ii.  . • . 

274 

Gilpin,  Rev.  William,  if.  • 

689 

Hailes,  Lord,  ii.  . . 

. 192 

Flower  o'  Dumblane,  il. 

491 

Gilpin,  John,  the  Diverting  Uiatorv 

Hakluyt,  Richard,  i.  . 

251 

Flowers  of  the  Forest  — [Miss  J. 

of,  ii.  . • • 

267 

Hale,  Sir  Matthew,  i. 

. 507 

Klliot],  ii.  . 

127 

Ginevra,  ii.  . . • • 

320 

Hale,  Sir  Matthew,  Character  of,  i.  456 

Flowers  of  the  Forest— [Mrs  Cock- 

Gipsies — an  English  Fen,  iu  • 

314 

Hales,  John,  i. 

. 287 

burn],  ii.  . . . 

127 

Girdle,  to  a,  i.  . • • 

326 

Halford,  Sir  Henry,  ii.  • 

703 

Fool,  a Rich,  i.  . • • 

15.3 

Glad  ator,  the,  ii.  . • 

391 

Haliburton,  ii. 

. 629 

Footk,  Sa.mokl,  ii. 

150 

Gladstone,  Mr,  ii.  • . 

657 

Hall  of  Eblis,  the,  ii.  • . 

642-545 

Forres,  Sir  William,  ii.  • 

645 

Glapthorne,  Henry,  L • 

216 

Hall,  Capt.  Basil,  ii.  . 

. 683 

Ford,  Johs,  i.  • . . 

219 

Gletg,  R ev.  G.  R.  ii.  . 

628 

Hall,  Edward,  i.  • . 

55 

Forest  Scenery,  ii.  • 

4(K) 

Gi-«..burn!e,  Picture  of,  &e.  ii.  575-578 

Hall,  Joseph,  i.  . 

112,  275 

Forgiveness,  ii.  • • . 

140 

Globe,  the  Final  Conflagration  of,  i. 

451 

Hall,  Mrs  S.  C.  ii.  . 

619 

Forsyth,  Joseph,  ii,  . • 

671 

Gloomy  Winter’s  now  Awa,  ii.  , 

492 

Hall,  Rev.  Robert,  ii. 

• 657 

FoRTKsriTg,  Sir  JoHy,  i,  . 

54 

Glory,  On  a Sermon  acrainst,  ii. 

47 

Hall’s  Satires,  Selections  from,  i. 

112 

Forth,  the  River  of,  Feasting,  i. 

159 

Gloucester,  Protector,  Scene  in  the 

IIallam,  Henry,  ii. 

642 

Fortitude,  ii.  • . . 

140 

Council-Room  of  the,  i. 

58 

Hallo  my  Fancy,  Arc.  i. 

393-395 

Fortune,  of,  i.  . . . 

104 

Glover,  Richard,  ii.  • . 

112 

Hame,  llame,  Hame,  ii,  . 

500 

Fosbrooke,  Rrv.  T.  D.  ii.  • 

688 

God,  the  First  Cause,  i.  • 

267 

Hamilton,  Mrs,  ii.  . 

. 573 

Foster,  Drt  Jambs,  ii.  • . 

217 

God,  Delight  in.  Only,  I.  . 

13U 

Hamilton,  William,  ii. 

24 

Foster,  Rev.  .John,  ii.  • 

658 

God,  Devout  Contemplation  of  the 

Hamilton,  Thomas,  ii. 

. 601 

Fox,  Charles  James,  ii.  . . 

638 

^Vorks  of,  i.  . . . 

453 

Hamlet,  Ghost  Scene  in,  i.  • 

184 

Fox,  Groroe,  i. 

458 

God,  to  Find,  i.  . , . 

143 

Hamlet,  the — an  Ode,  ii.  . 

. 101 

Fox,  John,  i.  . . . 

67 

God,  the  Goodness  of,  i.  • 

432 

Hamlet,  the  Character  of,  ii. 

693,  694 

Fox,  Sir  Stephen — [A  Fortunate  Cour 

- 

God,  Honour  to,  i.  . , . 

432 

Hampden,  Character  of,  i.  , 

477 

tier  n*>t  Knvied],  i. 

421 

God,  though  Incomprehensible,  not 

Happiness,  ii. 

. 414 

Fox’s  Ill-treatment  at  Ulverstone,  i. 

459 

Inconceivable,  i. 

426 

Happiness  Depends  not  on  Goods, 

Fragment— (Gane  were  but  the  Win- 

God,  Light  the  Shadow  of,  i. 

301 

but  on  Virtue,  i. 

. 561 

ter*Cauld),  ii.  . 

500 

God,  Nature  of  the  Evidence  of  the 

Happiness  of  Married  Life,  i. 

214 

France  contrasted  with  Holland,  ii. 

61 

Existence  of,  i. 

453 

Happinessof  Others,  Desire  of  the,  ii.  648 

France  in  171H — [Lady  Mary  W.  Mon- 

God,  Omnipresence  of— [The  Works 

Happiness,  Real  and  Apparent,  i 

. 295 

tagu  to  Lady  Itich],  i. 

653 

of  Creation],  i.  . 

613 

Happy  Life,  the  Character  of  a,  i 

. . 105 

*'rance,  Journev  to,  i. 

116 

God  and  Mammon,  i. 

458 

Happy  Life,  the  Means  to  Attain 

, i.  47 

Francis  I.  and  the  Emperor  Charles 

God's  Exhortation  to  Activity,  i.  . 

.525 

Happy  Valley,  the,  ii. 

. 626 

V.  Characters  of,  ii. 

191 

Godwin,  W.  ii,  514,  560-562,  642 

701 

Hardwick,  in  Derbyshire,  ii. 

557 

Frankenstein— his  Creation  of  the 

Gold,  i 

315 

lliire  and  Many  Friends,  i.  , 

. 574 

Monster,  &c.  ii.  • . 681-5fi3 

Golden  Age  Restored,  i.  • 

201 

Harley  sets  out  on  his  Journey,  itc. — 

Franklin,  a,  i.  . . • 

278 

Golden  City,  the,  i.  . . 473-475 

[From  The  Man  o/ Feeling'],  ii. 

178,  179 

Franklin,  Da  BRyjAMiy,  ii.  • 

243 

Golden  Fishes,  to  Certain,  ii. 

472 

Harri.vgton,  James,  i.  . 

404 

Franklin,  Captain  John,  ii. 

676 

Goldsmith,  0.  ii.  58-64,  141,  177, 

223 

Harrington,  John,  i.  . 

. 82 

Fraser,  Jamrs  Bam.lir,  ii.  606,  679 

Good  Breeding,  Definition  of,  ii. 

248 

Harrington,  Sir  John,  i.  • 

104 

Freebooter  Life  in  The  Forest — [J, 

Good  Life,  Long  Life,  i.  . 

114 

Harris,  James,  ii.  . 

. 243 

L.  Peacock],  ii.  . . , 

627 

Gore,  Mr.s,  ii.  « . . 

623 

Harris,  Major  W.  C.  il. 

688 

Freedom,  Ap(»strophe  to,  i.  • 

26 

Gorto.n,  John,  ii.  . . 

647 

Harris,  William,  ii.  , 

. 243 

Freedom,  Progress  of,  ii.  • • 

184 

Governing  a Nation,  Difficulty  of,  ii. 

656 

Harrison,  William,  i. 

250 

Freedom,  Savage,  i.  • • 

381 

Government,  i.  . . . 

241 

Harry,  Blind,  i. 

. 29 

French,  the,  i.  . • • 

281 

Government  and  Liberty,  i.  • 

406 

Harvey,  William,  on  the  Death  of,  i.  317 

French  Army  in  Russia,  ii.  • 

448 

Gower,  John,  i.  . . . 

23 

Hassan,  or  the  Camel  Driver,  ii. 

. 31 

French  Love  of  Dancing,  i.  . • 

281 

Grafton,  Richard,  i. 

249 

Hawkbsworth,  John,  ii. 

155 

French  Peasant’s  Supper,  ii.  • 

175 

Grahame,  James,  ii.  . • 

303 

Haylev,  William,  ii. 

269,  645 

Frerk,  .John  IIookham,  iL  • 

3iHi 

Grahanie  to  his  Son,  ii. 

308 

Ilavlev’s  Lines  on  the  Death  of  his 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  ii. 

76 

Grahame’s  Sabbath,  Passages  from. 

Mother,  ii.  . . . 

269 

Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife- 

ii.  . . . . 305-307 

Haynes,  James,  ii.  . • 

. 517 

Grinder,  ii.  ... 

295 

Grainger,  Dr  James,  ii.  . 

119 

Hayward,  Sir  John,  i-  • 

Friendship,  i.  . , . 241 

-243 

Grand  Question  Debated,  u . 

552 

IIazlitt,  William,  ii.  • 

. 693 

Friendship,  ii.  . . 413,  414 

Grant,  Mrs,  ii.  . • 

278 

Head,  Sir  Francis,  it  . 

683 

F'illkr,  Thomas,  i.  , . 

411 

Grasp  of  the  Dead,  the,  iu  • • 

450 

Health,  Duty  of  Preserving,  i. 

. 516 

Funeral  Ceremony  at  Rome,  iu 

672 

Grasshopper,  the,  i.  . • 

315 

Heart,  to  his — [Scot],  i.  • • 

155 

Futurity,  Apostrophe  to,  ii.  • 

459 

Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket,  to  the, 

Heaven  and  Hell,  i.  . • 

• 314 

Gaffer  Gray,  ii.  . • • 

546 

ii.  . * . . • • 

424 

Heaven,  Thoughts  of,  iu  • 

505 

Gall,  Dr,  ii.  , . • 

650 

Grattan,  T.  C.  ii.  • • 

608 

Heaven,  What  is  in,  i.  • 

. 11 

Gall,  Richard,  ii. 

492 

Grave,  the,  ii.  . , 3, 

418 

Heavens,  the  Starry,  ii.  . . 

455 

Gallowa’,  the  Hills  o’,  ii.  • 

506 

Grave  of  Anna,  the,  ii.  . . 

294 

Huber,  Dr  Reginald,  ii.  , 

407-410 

Galt,  John,  ii.  . . 689-591 

Graves  of  a Household,  the,  ii.  . 

439 

Heber’s  Journal,  Verses  from,  ii. 

409 

Gamester,  the — his  Last  Stake,  ii.  136-138 

Gray,  Auld  Robin,  ii.  . • 

127 

Ilebi'ew  Bard,  the,  ii. 

6 

Garden,  Thoughts  in  a,  i.  . • 

344 

Gray,  Thomas,  ii.  • 

49 

Hebrew  Maid,  Hymn  of  the,  ii. 

385 

Garland,  the,  i.  . . • 

536 

Great  Fire  in  London,  i. 

420 

Heir  at  I^aw,  Scene  from  the,  ii 

525-527 

^ Garrick,  David,  ii.  . 

148 

Grecian  Mythology  — the  Various 

Helen  of  Kirkconnel,  ii.  . 

. 493 

Garrick,  Death  of,  ii. 

679 

Lights  in  which  it  was  regarded,  ii. 

215 

Helmsman,  the,  ii.  « • 

378 

Garrick,  Proloirue  Spoken  bv,  at  the 

Greece,  Ancient,  ii. 

391) 

Hemans,  Mrs,  ii. 

437,  4;i8 

Opening  of  the  Theatre  in  Drury 

Greece,  Picture  of  Modem,  ii.  • 

389 

Henderson,  on  Captain  Matthew 

ii.  485 

Lane,  in  1747»  ii.  . . • 

30 

Greece,  Satan’s  Survey  of,  i. 

342 

Henry,  Dr  Robert,  ii. 

192 

Garth,  S'R  Samuel,  i,  . 

567 

Green,  ^Iatthew,  i.  , , 

578 

Henry  III.  Extract  from  a Charter 

Gauden,  John,  i.  . , 

289 

Greene,  Robert,  i. 

m 

of,  i.  . . . 

6 

Gay,  John,  i.  . . . 

670 

Greenland,  ii.  . • . 

416 

Henry  VIL’s  time,  a Yeoman  of, 

i.  65 

Gay  Young  Men  upon  To^vn,  L 

594 

Greenland  Missionaries,  the,  ii. 

259 

Henry,  Matthew,  i. 

. 458 

Gbll,  Sir  William,  ii.  , , 

671 

Greenwich  Hill,  ii.  . • 

294 

Henry,  Prince,  Epitaph  on,  i.  • 

160 

Genius,  Dawnings  of,  ii.  • 

428 

Greenwich  Pensioners,  the,  iu  • 

346 

Henryson,  Robert,  i. 

. 38 

Genius,  English,  i.  . . . 

327 

Gregory,  Lord,  Ballad  of,  ii,  • 

300 

Herbert,  George,  i.  . , 

136 

Genius  not  a Source  of  Unhappiness 

Grief,  against  Excessive,  i.  . 

502 

Herbert,  Lop.d,  i.  . 

. 269 

to  its  Possessor,  ii.  . , 

698 

Grief  controlled  by  Wisdom,  i.  • 

431 

Herbert,  Sir  Thomas,  i.  . 

261 

Genius,  Pictures  of  Native,  ii.  , 

458 

Grief,  Moderation  in,  i.  , . 

279 

Herbert,  William,  ii.  . 

. 456 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  i.  , 

5 

Griffin,  Gerald,  ii.  . , 614,  615 

Heresy,  i.  . . . 

284  . 

Geraldine,  Description  and  Praise 

Grongar  Hill,  ii.  . . 22. 23 

Heresy  and  Orthodoxy,  i. 

. 515 

of  his  Love,  i.  • • • 

47 

Gulliver  in  Brobdingnag,  i.  • 

629 

Hermit,  the — (I’\ir  in  a wild,  un« 

Ghosts,  i.  • . 

302 

Gunpowder,  Invention  and  Use  of,  il 

200 

known  to  public  view),  i. 

576-578 

709 

CYCLOPiEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Page 

Hermit,  the— (At  the  close  of  the 
(lay,  when  the  hamlet  is  stilll, 

ii 108 

IlKRRtcK,  HonRar,  i.  . • 139 

ileniek’b  Thanksgiving  for  his 
House,  i.  . . • 142 

Hkkscmki.,  8m  John,  ii.  • . 703 

II KUVKY,  T.  K.  ii.  . • 473 

Hester,  to,  Ii.  . • • 3.VJ 

Hkymw,  Pktkr,  i.  • • 281 

He'^wood,  Jonv,  i.  , • PI.3 

H KvwooD,  Thomas,  i.  . . 221 

High  Life  ileluw  Stairs,  Scene  from, 

ii 148 

High  Life,  Scandal  and  Literature 
in,  i.  ....  595 

Highland  Girl,  to  a,  ii.  . • 331 

Highland  Poor,  the,  ii.  . . 281 

Highway  Robbery,  a Game  of,  ii.  530-538 
Highways  in  England,  Fabulous  Ac- 
tvent  of  the  First,  i.  . . 8 

Hills  o’  Gallowa’,  the,  ii.  • 500 

Hind  and  Panther,  the,  i.  * . 304 

Hindoo  Widow,  Sacriticeof  a,  ii.  679,  080 
Historian,  Qualifications  of,  i.  . 79 

History — I low  to  Read  it,  i.  • 515 

History  and  Biography,  i.  . . 498 

History,  on  the  Credit  due  to,  i.  . 450 

History  of  John  Bull,  i.  . 042-645 

HoADtv,  Dr  Bknjamin,  i.  . 6<i5 

Horrks,  Thomas,  i.  . . 206,  207 

Horhousk,  J.  C.  ii.  • • . 671 

Hoou,  Jamrs,  it.  • . 496-199 

Hohenl  nden,  ii.  . • . 373 

Holcrokt,  Thomas,  ii. . . 531,  546 

Holiness  and  S.n,  i.  . • . 436 

IloLtNsHED,  Raphael,  i.  • 250 

Holland,  Dr,  ii.  . • . 671 

Holland,  Lord,  ii.  . . 645 

Holland,  a ^^■himsicaI  Satire  on,  i.  .345 

Holland  and  its  Inhabitants,  i.  . 282 

Holy  Ser  piiires,  Some  Considera- 
tions 'rouching  the  Style  of  the,  i.  519 
Home,  ii  . . . . 420 

Home  among  the  Mountains,  ii.  434 

Home,  John,  ii.  . . . 138,  139 

IIOfliR,  IIknhy— [Lord  Karnes],  ii.  208 

Homes  of  Fngland,  the,  ii.  . 438 

Homicide,  against,  ii.  . . . 14o 

Honk,  WiLLf am,  ii.  . • 700 

Honour,  against  Titles  of,  i.  . 41)2 

Honour,  Apostrophe  to,  L . 44 

Hood,  Thomas,  ii.  . . 464  , 465 

Hood’s  Parental  Ode  to  his  Son,  ii.  465 
Hook,  Dr  Jam RS,  ii.  . . 601 

Hook,  Th  KODORE  E.  ii.  . , 607 

Hookkr,  John,  i.  , . 2.50 

Hook KR,  It iCH ARD,  i.  . . 235 

Hop-Garden,  Directions  for  Cultivat- 
ing a,  i.  . • . 48 

Hope,  Tho  .tas,  ii.  . . . 592 

Ho|)e— [Pastoral  Ballad],  ii.  . 38 

Horace,  Ode  from,  i.  • • 584 

Hornk,  Dr  G.  ii.  . . 216 

ILjrslkv,  Dr  Samuel,  ii.  . . 6.54 

Hosier’s  GhO't,  ii,  , • 114 

Hospitality,  Vulgar,  i.  . . 6.34 

Honrs,  the,  ii.  . • . 378 

How  no  Age  is  Content  with  his  owm 
E-.<tato,  &c.  i.  . . *47 

Howard,  Karl  op  Surrey,  i.  46 

Howard  the  Philanthropist,  Charac- 
ter of,  il.  . . . 2.34 

Howard,  Lines  on,  ii.  . . 273 

Howell,  Jambs,  i.  . . 255 

Howell,  to  Capt.  Thomas  B.  i,  257,  258 
IIowrjT,  Mary,  ii.  . . . 462 

IIowfTT,  William,  ii.  . . 698 

Hudibras,  Accomplishments  of,  i.  347 

Hudibras,  Personal  Appearance  of,  i.  ,348 

Hudibras,  Religion  of,  i.  . 348 

Huohks,  John,  i.  . . . 615 

Human  Character,  Fruits  of  Expe- 
rience of,  i.  . . . 454 

Human  Greatness,  Decay  of,  i.  • 123 

Human  Life,  ii.  . . • 318 

Hume,  Alexander,  i.  . . 156 

Hume,  David,  ii.  . 182-185,  202 

Humility,  i.  . . . . 283 

Humorous  Scene  at  an  Inn,  i.  . .599 

Hunt,  Lrioh,  ii.  • 422-425,  524 

Hunter,  Mas,  ii.  • • 278 


Page 

Hunter,  William,  Notable  History 
of,  i,  , « • . 68 

IluRD,  Dr  R.  il.  . . . 216 

iluBsey,  to  Mistress  Margaret,  i.  • 45 

Hymn  to  Adversity,  ii.  . . 53 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of 
Chamouni,  ii.  . . . 343 

Hymn  of  the  Captive  Jews,  ii.  , 446 

Hjmin  for  Family  Worsliip,  il.  . 3U3 
Hymn— Fifteenth  Sunday  after  Tri- 
nity, ii.  ...  409 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid,  iL  • 385 
Hymn,  Missionary,  ii.  . . 409 

Hymn  to  the  Name  of  Jesus,  L . 1.52 
Hymn  to  Pan,  ii.  . . 405 

Hypocrite,  the,  i.  . . • 277 

Hypocritical  Sanctimony,  i.  . 444 

I do  Confess  thou'rt  Smooth  and 

Fair,  i.  . . , .161 

Ice,  Sports  upon,  in  Elizabeth's 
Reign,  i.  . . . 2.50 

Ideas,  Fading  of,  from  the  Mind,  i.  515 
Ignorance  in  Power,  L . . 444 

II  Penseroso,  i.  , . . 3.36 

Ill-Natured  and  Good-Natured  Men, 

i.  . . . . . 443 

Imagination,  Fears  of,  ii.  • 513 

Immoderate  Self-Love,  i.  . . 4.‘18 

Immortality,  Longing  after,  i.  . 439 

Immortality  of  the  Soul,  Opinion  of 

the  Ancient  Philo.sopherson  the,  it  195 
Iinprovisatrice,  from  the,  ii.  . 4.50 

Inchbald,  Mrs  E.  ii.  . 531,  553 

Independence,  Ode  to,  ii.  , C() 

Indian  Gold  Coin,  Ode  to  an,  ii.  , 289 
Indian’s  Account  of  a London  Gam- 
ing-house, i.  . • . 529 

Industry,  i.  . . • 433,  6.58 

Inglis,  H.  D.  ii.  . , 68.3 

IvGOLDSBY,  Thomas,  ii.  • • 625 

Ingram,  Mr,  ii.  . . . 642 

Ingratitude,  i.  . . . 425 

Ingratitude  an  Incurable  Vice,  i.  445 

Inn,  Arrival  at  the  Supposed,  ii.  . 142 
Inn,  Humorous  Scene  at  an,  i.  . 599 

Inn,  Lines  in  Praise  of  an,  ii.  . 40 

Inoculation  for  the  Small-po.x— [Lady 
Mary  W.  Montagu  to  Rlrs  S.  C.],  i.  6.52 
Inquiry,  Free,  i.  . . 284 

Intellectual  Beauty — [Pleasures  of 
the  Imagmation],  ii.  . . 4.5 

Tnvermay,  the  Birks  of,  ii.  . . 43 

Ion,  Passages  from,  ii.  . 522-524 

Iona,  Reflections  on  Landing  nt,  ii.  222 
Irish  Serpents,  the  Last  of  tlie,  ii.  614 
Irish  Village  and  School-house,  Pic- 
ture of  an,  ii.  . ‘ . 616-618 

Irving,  David,  ii.  . , 647 

Irving,  Washington,  ii.  . . 594 

Irwan,  Farewell  Hymn  to  the  Valley 
of,  ii.  . . . . 74 

Israelites,  Scene  of  the  Encampment 
of  the,  after  Crossing  the  Red  Sea, 

ii.  . ....  678 

Italian,  the— Opening  of  the  Story,  ii.  555 
Italian  Evening  on  the  Banks  of  4he 

Brenta,  ii.  . . . 392 

Italian  Landsca])c,  an,  il.  . • 5.58 

Italian  Song,  an,  ii.  . . 320 

Italians  and  Swiss  contrasted,  ii.  . 60 

Italy,  Letter  from,  i.  . 543 

Jack  Cade’s  Insurrection,  i.  . 56 

J.AMRS,  G.  P.  R.  ii.  . . . 628 

James  I.  of  England,  i.  . 271 

Jamks  I.  of  Scotland,  i.  . . 36 

James  I.  a Prisoner  in  Windsor,  i.  37 
James  V.  Character  of,  i.  . . 305 

James  VI.  i.  . . . 157 

James  VI.  and  a Refractory  Preacher, 
i.  . . . . .307 

Jane  Shore,  Penitence  and  Death  of, 
i.  . . . . .590 

Jeanie  Morrison,  ii.  • • 503 

Jekfrey,  Lord,  ii.  . . 695 

Jenny  Dang  the  Weaver,  ii.  , 494 

Jenny’s  Bawbee,  ii.  . . . 495 

Jenyns,  Soame,  ii.  . . 249 

Jephson,  Robert,  ii.  . . 510 

Jerroi.d,  Douglas,  ii.  ♦ 625 

Jerusalem  before  the  Siege,  ii.  • 446 

Jerusalem,  Conquest  of,  by  the  Cru- 
saders, ii  . . . • 197 


Page 

Jrrse,  Edward,  H.  . . 699 

Jesus,  Hymn  to  the  Name  of,  i.  . 15S 
Jew  of  Malta,  Passages  from  the,  L 173 
Jews,  Hymn  of  the  Captive,  iL  , 446 
Joan  of  Arc,  ii.  , . . 47.3 

JocRLYN,  Lord,  II.  . . 682 

Johnson,  Dr  Samuel,  ii.  26-.30,  17.5,  221 
Jolinson  and  Hannah  More,  ii.  ,578,  579 
Johnson’s  Dictionary,  Extract  from 
the  Preface,  ii.  . . 221 

Johnson’s  Letter  to  Lord  Chester- 
field, ii.  , , -27 

JoH.NsTON,  I)r  Arthur,  i.  . 161 

Johnstonb,  Charles,  ii.  . . 176 

JoHN.-ToNK,  Mrs,  ii.  . , 601 

JoNKS,  Rkv.  Richard,  it  . . 701 

JoNKs,  Sir  William,  ii.  , 115 

JoNSON,  Bbn,  i.  . 112-11.5,  191-193 

Jonson,  Ben,  Character  of,  i.  . 493 

Jonson,  Ben,  Letter  to,  i.  . .119 

Jortin,  Dr  John,  ii.  . . 216 

Judgment,  the  Day  of  — [Jeremy 
Taylor],  i.  . . . .297 

Judgment,  the  Day  of— [Ver.sion  of 
the  * Dies  Ir®’],  i.  . . 356 

Judgment,  the  Day  of — [II.  IL  Mil- 
man],  ii.  . . . . 447 

Judgment,  Hasty,  i.  . . 65 

Julia,  i.  . • • . 142 

Jul'a’s  Recovery,  i.  • , 142 

Junius,  il.  . . . 2.34-238 

Junius’s  Celebrated  Letter  to  the 
King,  ii.  . . 23fl-241 

Kamks,  Lord — [Henry  Home],  ii.  208 
Kkats,  John,  ii.  . . 402-407 

Kklly,  Hugh,  ii.  . . 141 

Kemble,  John,  Portraiture  of,  ii.  525 
Kkndal,  Timothy,  i.  , . 83 

Kknnkdv,  R.  II.  ii.  . . 6fM) 

Kennedy,  Will  A.''i,  ii.  . 473 

Kk.vnett  and  I’otter,  i.  . . CfiO 

Keppel,  Hon.  George,  ii.  , 677 

Khubla  Khan,  Passage  from,  ii.  337 

Killiyrew,  Mrs  Anne,  Ode  to  the  Me- 
mory of,  i.  ...  365 

Killing  a Boar,  i.  . . aOO 

Kilmeny,  from  the  Queen’s  Wake,  ii.  A[YJ 
King— What  he  is  Made  for,  i.  . 284 
King,  Captain,  ii.  . . 687 

Ki NG,  Dr  II knry,  L . . II7 

Ki Ni:,  Edward,  ii.  . , 243 

King  of  Tars,  i.  , . 9,10 

Kingdom  of  Christ  not  of  this  World, 

)•  . . . « . 665 

Kings,  the  Strength  of,  i,  . 24/ 

Kis-i,  the — a Dialogue,  i.  . . 141 

Kiss,  Stolen — Sonnet  upon  a,  i.  126 

Kitten,  the,  ii.  . . . 451 

Knife-Grinder  and  Friend  of  Huma- 
nity, ii.  ...  295 

Knou.ks,  Richard,  i.  . . 264 

Knowledge,  Limitation  of  Human,  i.  279 
Knowledge,  Love  of,  i.  . . 268 

Knowledge,  Uses  of,  i.  . , 243 

Knowles,  Herbert,  ii.  . 411 

Knowles,  J.  S.  ii.  . . . 518 

Kvox,JoHN,i.  . . 303,  ,304 

Knox.  William,  ii.  , . 453 

Kuzzilbash's  Return  to  his  Native  Vil- 
lage, ii.  . . . 6O7 

Kvd,  Thomas,  i.  . . , 167 

Labour  overcomes  apparent  Impos- 
sibilities, i.  . . . 445 

Laconics,  or  New  Maxims  of  State 
Conversation,  i.  . . , 529 

Ladies,  Good,  the  Garment  of,  i.  39 
Lady,  to  a,  Admiring  Herself  in  a 
Looking-glass,  i.  . . 145 

Lady,  Poet’s  Praise  of  his,  i.  . 51 

Lady  Veiled,  to  a,  i.  . . 138 

Lady’s  Chamber  in  the  Thirteenth 
Century,  ii.  ...  585 

Laing,  Malcolm,  ii.  . . 63? 

Laing,  Samuel,  ii.  • 685,  686 

L’Allegro,  i.  . . . 3.'lo 

Lamb,  Charles,  ii.  . 354-360 

Lamb,  Lady  Caroline,  ii.  . 609 

Lampoon,  i.  ...  497 

Lanark,  Scene  at — [From  Ilumphrt/ 
Clinker'\,  ii.  . . . 167 

Lander,  Richard,  ii.  • . 668 

Landon,  L.  E.  ii.  • 44.9-451,  625 

710 


INDEX. 


Paffe 

r.an«lou,  Xt.  R.  Lnst  Verse*  of,  it.  . 4r>! 

I.WD  JH,  WAt.TKR  Sava(;k,  ii.  . 

1 ;;’ulxeji|»e  Painters,  Advice  to,  ii.  Wll 

I.  \ vniioR  VK,  I)i<  Jo II  S',  ii.  • 7- 

l.ANOLAN’D,  ItonKUT,  i.  . . 11 

l,un^s.\ne,  ii.  . . . 47J 

ldimr.\vnc,  in  the  Days  o’,  ii.  . 5<KJ 
l.a'Mlani'a,  ii.  . . . 3>*U 

l.AimvKR,  Nathavikl,  ii.  . 217 

I.u  Koche,  8lory  of,  ii.  . , I5<> 

l ast  Man,  from  the,  ii.  . • 37** 

La  (mkr,  llroH,  i.  • • 64 

1.  DKR,  Sm  T.  1>  ii.  • , Old 

Laufthter,  i.  . • • 2t»H 

Liiv'itiia.  Kpisode  of,  ii.  • .16 

I.Avv,  Kkv.  NV.  ii.  . . 216 

Lawrkvck.  Mr,  ii.  . . 7^3 

'.Hwsiiit,  A Carman’s  Aecmint  of  a,  L 50 
Lawyer’s  Farewell  to  his  Muse,  ii.  74 

Livamox,  i.  . . .5 

Lavs  of  Ancient  Rome,  from  the, 
ii.  . . . . 468-470 

I.e  Fevre,  the  Story  of,  ii.  . . 171 

Learninsr,  Absurdity  of  Useless,  i.  6-1H 
Learnim?  and  Wisdom,  L . 2K4 

Lkk,  Nathanikl,  i.  . . .TtO 

Lkh,  Soi'HiA  AXD  Harriet,  ii.  547 

l.i'ffend  of  St  Francis,  i.  . .55 

Leiphton,  11  shop.  Death  and  Cha- 
racter of,  i.  • • . 488 

Lbi.axo,  Dr,  ii.  , . 182 

Lkla VD,  JoHX,  i.  . • .69 

Lbi.axd,  JoHX,  iu  . • 217 

Leonidas,  Address  of,  ii.  • .113 

Lkslkv,  John,  i.  . • 3t>4 

LKSI.IK,  Charlks,  i.  . . 667 

L’Kstranok,  Sir  UooER,  i.  . 423 

Leveller'^.  Remonstrance  with,  i.  , 7*'> 

la'ven  Water,  Ode  to,  ii.  . 67 

Lkvkr,  C.  ii.  . . . 62K 

Levett,  Dr  Robert,  on  the  Death  of, 

17H2.  ii.  . . . . ,V) 

Lewis,  M.  Cf.  ii.  . 374-378,  511,  5.58 

Lkvdkx,  John,  it  . . 288-282 

Libels,  i 284 

Liberty,  i.  . . . . 516 

Lil>erty,  Rnplish,  ii.  . . 2f>5 

Liberty  and  (rovernment,  L . 406 

Liberty,  Oile  to,  ii.  , • 3.3 

Liberty  of  the  Press,  i.  . . 3i>8 

Libraries,  i.  . . . 241 

Library,  upon  the  Sight  of  a Great,  i.  276 
Life,  the  Country,  i.  . 141,3.59 

Life,  the  Courtier’s,  i.  . . 48 

Life,  Death,  and  Immortality,  on,  ii.  8 
Life  and  iHjath  Weighed,  i.  . 187 

Life,  Decay  of,  i.  . . • 130 

Life,  Human,  ii.  . . 8 

Life  and  Immortality,  ii.  . . 107 

Life,  on  the  Increased  Loveof,  with 
Aee,  ii.  . . . . 22.5 

Life,  Marr-ed,  Happiness  of,  i.  . 214 

Life,  the  Middle  Station  of,  ii.  . 205 

Life,  Miseries  of  Man’s,  i.  . 285 

Life  not  too  Short,  i.  . . 439 

Life  ia  Rome,  Inconveniences  of, 
i.  . . . .373, 374 

Life,  Shortness  of,  and  Uncertainty 
of  Riches,  i,  . . . 316 

Life,  the  Shortness  of,  i.  . . 129 

Life  — Unreasonableness  of  Com- 
phi'nts  of  its  Shortness,  i,  , . 648 

Life,  Vicis:^itudes  of,  i.  , , 189 

Life* — What  is  it  ? ii.  • , 427 

Life’s  Progress,  i.  . . 580 

Lim.o,  Wn,MA.H,  i.  . . 681 

Lily,  the,  ii.  . ♦ . 28.3 

Lindsa V,  Lord,  ii.  . . . 678 

Lines  Composed  a Few  Miles  above 
T ntern  Abbey,  on  Revisiting  the 
H.mks  of  the  Wye,  ii.  . . . 327 

Lines— (My  heart  leaps  up,  &c.)  ii.  326 
Lines — (There  is  a charm  in  footing 
slow),  ii.  ...  406 

Lines  Written  in  the  Churchyard  of 
Itichmond,  Yorkshire,  ii.  . . 411 

Lines  Written  in  a Lonely  Burial 
Ground  in  the  Highlands,  ii.  . 435 

Lingard,  Dr  John,  ii.  . . 640 

Lion,  the  Tiger,  and  the  Traveller,  i.  .574 
LrsTER.  T.  il.  ii.  . . 608,646 

LiUirary  Advertisement,.iL  • 364 


Page 

LtTHGOW,  WtLMAM,  f.  . . 254 

Liturgy  at  Kdinburgh,  Reception  of 
the,  in  16.37,  i.  . . . 477 

Lloyd,  R(»rkrt,  il.  , . 91 

Loch,  Capt.  G.  G.  ii.  . . 682 

Lochnber  no  More,  i.  . • 58.5 

Lochinvar,  Young,  ii.  . . 384 

Lockk,  John,  i.  . , . 508-516 

Lockhart,  J.  G.  ii.  587-600,  647 

Loddon,  on  Revisiting  the  River,  ii.  I«Kl 
Lodge,  Tho.mas,  i.  . . . 170 

Lodgings  for  Sin^e  Gentlemen,  ii,  5^<0 
Logon  Braes,  ii.  . . . 483 

Logan,  John,  ii.  . , 97-98 

London  Karthquakes  and  London 
Go&sip,  ii.  . . . . 251 

London  Gaming-house,  an  Indian’s 
Ac*count  of  a,  i.  . . . 528 

Lond.m,  the  Great  Fire  in,  L . 420 

London,  the  Great  Plague  in,  i.  . 621 
London,  the  November  Fog  of,  ii.  478 
London  at  Sunrise,  ii.  . . 6(»8 

T.ondon,  Walking  the  Streets  of,  i.  573 
Londonderry,  Marquis  OK,  ii.  . 684 
Long-Ago,  the,  ii.  • • 473 

Loss,  the,  i.  . • • . 320 

Lost  Feelings,  ii.  , . • 4,56 

Lot,  the  Common,  ii.  • • 42o 

Lot  of  Thousands,  the,  ii.  . 28(( 

Lothario,  Calista’s  Pas.sion  for,  i.  . ,581 
Loudon,  John  Claudius,  ii.  . 689 

Louis  XIV,  Letter  from  Scarron  in 
the  Next  World  to,  i.  . . 528 

Love— (Turn  I my  looks  unto  the 
skies),  i.  . . . *171 

Love — [From  the  AVic  fn«],  i.  . 195 

Love — (Anger  in  hasty  words  or 
blows),  i.  . . . . ,326 

Love — (Why  should  we  kill  the  best 
of  passions,  Love?)  ii.  , 140 

Love — (All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all 
delights),  ii.  ...  344 

Love — (Hail  love,  first  love,  5cc.), 

ii 413 

Love — Its  Glorifying  Influence,  ii.  5H4 
Love  Anticipated  after  Death,  i.  . 381 
Love  and  Beauty,  L . . 381 

Love  of  Country,  ii.  • 382,  656 

Love,  Early,  i.  . • . 98 

Love  of  Fame,  ii.  . . .11 

Love  and  Happiness,  Effects  of,  on 
the  Mind,  ii.  . . . 625 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience  in  Educa- 
tion, ii.  . . . . 345 

Love  Inconccalable,  i.  . . 1.38 

Love  for  Love,  Scenes  from,  i.  . 588 
Love,  Pa*itoral,  i.  . . 208 

Love,  Persuasions  to,  i.  . . 121 

Love,  Picture  of  Domestic,  ii.  • 371 

Love,  the  Power  of,  i.  . . 208 

Love,  Rondel  of,  i.  . . 154 

Love  Scene  by  Night  in  a Garden, 
i.  . . . . 182,  183 

Love,  Unequal,  i.  • . . 218 

Love,  Unhappy,  i.  • , 324,  327 

Love  in  Women,  i.  . • , 3.82 

Love’s  Servile  Lot,  i.  . • 96 

Lovelace,  Richard,  t . .144 

Lover,  Samuel,  ii.  . • 628 

Lover,  the  Careless,  i.  . . 136 

Lover,  the  Re-cured,  Exulteth  in  his 
Freedom,  i.  . . . 48 

Lover’s  Lute  cannot  be  Blamed, 

&c.  i.  . . . . 47 

Lovers,  the  Parting  of,  ii.  . . 474 

Lowe,  John,  ii.  . . 126 

Lowth,  Dr  Robert,  ii.  . . 216 

Lowth,  Dr  William,  i.  • 665 

Loyalty  Confined,  i.  . . . 2.31 

Lucasta,  to,  on  Going  to  the  Wars,  i.  145 
Lucy,  ii.  . . . , 326 

Lucy’s  Flittin’,  ii.  . , , 607 

Lute,  Drummond  to  his,  i.  . 160 

Luther,  Martin,  Character  of,  ii.  . 187 

Luxury,  h'stimateof  the  Effectsof,  ii.  203 
Lycidas,  Passage  from,  i.  . , 337 

Lyckpenny,  the  London,  i.  . 38 

Lvdgate,  John,  i.  . . .37 

Lyell,  Charles,  it  . . 703 

Lying,  L . . . .640 

Lyly,  John,  L , . , 166 

Lyndsay,  8i&  David,  L . • 49 


Pnge 

Lj’ndsays,  th^—Th;Ir  Removal  from 
Hraehe«d,  ii.  . . . 600 

Lyon,  Captain,  ii.  . . 676 

Lyttelton,  Lord,  ii.  . . 47 

Mab,  Queen,  Optmiiig  of,  ii.  . 398 

Macaitlay, Thomas  B.  ii.  468-471,695 
Macbeth,  Part  of  the  Stpry  of,  i.  71 
M.acculloch,  Ur  J.  ii.  • • 703 

Mac-Flecknoe,  i.  • • 3(JJ 

Macka  V,  Charles,  ii.  . 472,  7t*0 

Mackenzie,  Henry,  ii.  156,  177-180 
Mackenzie,  S'R  George,  i.  . 5.30 

Mackintosh,  Sir  James,  ii.  6.38,  649 
Mackintosh  in  Defence  of  Mr  Pel- 
tier,  fora  Libel  on  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte, ii.  . • . 640 

Macklin,  Mr,  ii  . • . 148 

Macnkill,  Hector,  ii.  . 488-480 

Macpherson,  Dr  I),  ii.  • . 682 

Macphkrson,  James,  ii.  77-61,192 

M‘Cri  E,  Dr  Thomas,  ii.  . . 645 

M‘Culloch,  j.  R.  ii.  • • 701 

M’Diarmid,  Mr,  ii.  • . 7fH) 

Madden,  Dr  R.  R.  ii.  . . 677 

Madeline  at  her  Devotions,  ii.  , 405 

Madrigal — ( Amaryllis  I did  woo),  L 127 
Madrigal,  Rosalind’s,  i.  . . 171 

Magnificat,  the,  i.  . . .36 

Mahomet,  Appearance  and  Charac- 
ter of,  ii.  . . . 187 

Mahon,  Lord,  ii.  . « . 643 

Maid’s  Lament,  the,  ii.  . . 351 

Maitland,  Sir  Richard,  i.  . 1.55 

Mai.coi  M,  John.  ii.  . . 473 

Mali  OLAi,  S r John,  ii.  646,  677,  679 
Malty,  Duchess  of.  Scenes  from  the,  i.  2J2 
Mai. LET,  David,  ii.  . .40 

Maltrv,  Dr  Edward,  ii.  . 655 

Malthus,  R Ev.  T,  R.  ii.  . , 7ol 

Mammon,  cannot  Serve  God  and,  i.  4,58 
Man.  all  Things  not  Made  for,  i.  . .526 
Man,  the  Dignity  of,  i.  . . 109 

Man  of  Ross,  the,  i.  . . 564 

Man  whose  Thoughts  are  not  of  this 
World,  ii.  . . . 10 

Mavuevillb,  Bernard,  i.  . 624 

Mandkville,  Sir  John,  i.  . 32 

Maniac,  Description  of  a,  ii  . 455 

Mankind — (Men  are  but  children  of 
a larger  growth),  i.  . . 381 

Manners  in  New  York  in  the  Dutch 
Times,  ii,  . . . 595,  596 

Manning,  Robert,  i.  . . 7 

Mansell,  Letter  to  Dr  Francis,  i.  . 2.55 
Ma.ntkll,  Dr,  ii.  « . 703 

Marcelia,  ii.  . . . . 441 

Marckt,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 70l 

Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France,  ii.  2.31 
Mariner.  Rime  of  the  Anciont,  ii.  . 337 
Mariner's  Hymn,  ii.  . 401 

Mariner’s  Wife,  the,  *».  . 72 

Mariners  of  England,  ye,  ii.  37^ 

Mark  Antony  over  Caesar’s  Dead 
Body,  i.  . . . . 185 

Mark  Antony  and  Ventidius,  his 
General,  Scene  Between,  i.  . .382-384 
Markham,  Isabella,  Sonnet  on,  i.  . 82 

Marlow,  Chiustophbr,  i.  . 84,  171 

Marlow’s  Faustus,  Scenes  from,  i.  172 
Marlow’s  Edward  II.  Scene  from,  i,  174 
Marmion,  Death  of,  ii.  . . 383 

Marriage — Its  Importance,  i.  . 293 

Marriage  not  Free  from  all  Incon- 
veniences, i.  . . , 414 

Marriage,  Dialogue  on,  i.  . 586 

Marriage  a Lottery,  i.  . . 619 

Marriage,  in  Prospect  of  — [Lady 
Mary  to  E.  W.  Montagu,  Esq.]  i.  651 
Marri^,  Advice  to  the,  ii.  . 73 

Marryat,  Captain  F.  ii.  . . 622 

Marsh,  Dr  Herbert,  ii.  • 656 

Marston,  John,  i.  . , 215 

Martineau,  Miss  H.  iu  • 625 

Marvell,  Andrew,  i.  . . 342 

Mary  of  Castle  Cary,  ii.  . • 490 

Mary,  to — [Mrs  Unwin],  ii.  . 262 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Character  of,  il  187 
Mary’s  Dream,  ii.  . , 126 

M;ison.  Mrs,  Epitaph  on,  iL  . 58 

Mason,  William,  ii.  , . 57 

Masques,  Court,  of  the  Seventeenth 
Century,  L • . . 198-203 

7U 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITEKATURR 


Pa^e 

MABSTNOKn,  Philip,  I.  • . 216 

Masbov,  Charlkh,  ii.  . . G8D 

Mathematical  Learning,  Usefulness 
of,  i.  . . . . 646 

Mathbws,  IlKNitv,  H.  , • 672 

Mathiah,  Thomas  J.  ii.  . 20il 

Matin  Hymn,  i.  . . . 132 

Matrimonial  Happiness— Mary 
to  E.  W.  Montagu,  Esq.]  i.  . 6.*>1 

Mathrin,  Kkv.  C.  K.  ii.  • 616,  634 

Maxwkll,  W.  H.  ii.  . . 628 

Maxwell,  the  Young,  ii.  • . 600 

May  Day,  ii.  . . . .300 

May,  the  First  of,  L • . 162 

May  Morning,  on,  i.  . • 333 

May  Morning  at  Ravenna,  iL  • 42.3 
May,  Song  to,  ii.  . . . 362 

May,  Thomas,  I.  • . . 264 

Ma v.vK,  JoHM,  ii.  • • 402 

Ma  VO,  Mr,  ii.  . • • 763 

Mean  and  Sure  Estate,  of  the,  i.  4H 

Mecca,  the  Caravan  (»f,  ii.  . . 10 

Medlcean  Venus  at  Florence,  Sta- 
tue of  tht,  if.  . . . 673 

Meditation — {Thou,  Ood,  that  ruTst 
and  reign'st  in  light),  i.  . 226 

Meditation — Its  Design,  i.  . . 23(> 

Meditation  when  we  go  to  Bed,  i.  226 
Medway  and  the  Thames,  Wedding 
of  the,  i.  . . . .92 

Melancholy,  i.  . . • 209 

Melancholy,  Abstract  of,  i.  , . 272 

Melancholy,  Cures  for,  i.  . , 57H 

Melancholy  and  Contemplation,  i.  272 
Mblmoth,  William,  ii.  . 243 

Melrose  Abbey,  Description  of,  iL  . 3H2 
M KLviL,  Sir  Jamks,  i.  . 3(*4 

Memory,  Pleasures  of,  ii.  , , 316 

Memory.  Rules  for  Improving  the,  L 41.3 
Men  of  Old,  the,  ii.  . . 473 

Men,  the  Succession  of  Races  of,  ii.  694 
Men’s  Understandings,  Causes  of 
Weakness  in,  i.  . . .*  512 

Mental  Vigour,  Prerequisites  of— 
[Note],  i.  . . . 30.0 

Mercy,  L . . . . 188 

Merle  and  Nightingale,  L . 41 

Mermaid,  the,  ii.  . • . 200 

Mkrrick,  James,  ii.  • . 120 

Messiah,  the,  i.  . . . 557 

Metrical  Romances,  English,  i.  8 

Mickle,  William  Julm'S,  ii.  . 7o 
Middle  Ages — Progress  of  Freedom,  ii.  184 
Middle  Station  of  Life,  the,  ii.  . 20.3 

MfDDLRTOv,  Dr  Comykrs,  ii.  181,  216 
Middleton,  Thomas,  L • 21.3 

^l idnight  Repose,  i.  . • ■ 381 

Midnight  Scene,  i.  • • 217 

Midnight  Wind,  the,  ii.  . • 504 

Milkmaid,  the  Fair  and  Happy, 

i.  ....  278 

Mill,  James,  ii.  . . 642,701 

Miller,  Mr,  ii.  , . 700 

Miller,  Thomas,  ii.  • . 626 

Millingen,  Dr,  ii.  • • 703 

Mills,  Charles,  ii.  . . 642 

ISIiL.MAN,  Henry  Hart,  ii.  446,  644 
Milnes,  W.  Monckton,  iL  472 

Milton,  John,  L . 328-331,306 

Milton,  on.  i.  . . . 365 

Milton  and  Spenser,  i.  . . 406 

Milton’s  Literary  Musings,  L . 39/ 

Mind,  Operations  of  the,  in  the  Pro- 
duction of  Works  of  Imagination, 

ii.  . . . . . 4.5 

Mind,  Richard’s  Theory  of,  i.  . 539 

Mind,  my,  to  Me  a Kingdom  is,  i.  225 
Minden,  Death  of  Eliza  at  the  Battle 

of,  ii.  . . . .272 

Minister  Acquiring  and  Losing  Office, 
i.  ....  641 

Ministers,  Wise,  distinguished  from 
Cunning,  i.  ...  6.50 

Minstrel,  Opening  of  the,  ii.  . 105 

Minstrel’s  Song  in  Ella,  ii.  . .87 

Miracle  Plays,  i.  . . 163 

M’rrourfor  Magistrates,  Allegorical 
Characters  from  the,  i.  . . 80 

Mirza,  the  Vision  of,  i.  . . 610 

Miscellaneous  Thoughts  from  Butler’s 
Remains,  i.  . . . 3.52 

l£iser,  Picture  of  a,  iL  . . 415 


Page 

Misfortune,  Compassion  for,  i.  . 218 
Missionaries,  the  Greenland,  il.  2.59 
Missionary  Hymn,  ii.  . . 409 

Mitkord,  Mary  1{ii.sskll,  iL  521,618 
Mitkord,  William,  ii.  . 6.34 

Modena,  the  Sleeping  Figure  of,  iL  442 
MiKlern  Greece,  Picture  of,  ii.  . 389 

Modern  Manners  and  Innovations, 
Contempt  for — [From  ii.  603 

Mo<lern  State  of  Ancient  Countries,  i.  2.54 
Mode*.ty,  as  opposed  to  Ambition,  i.  410 
Mohammedan’s  Lecture  on  Christian 
Vices,  i.  . .32 

Midiammedan  System,  Religious  Sta- 
tus of  Women  in  the,  ii.  . . 678 

Mom,  I).  .M.  ii.  . . . 47.3,  601 

Monboddo,  Lord — [James  Burnet], 
ii.  . . . . 249 

Monk,  tlie— Scene  of  Conjuration  by 
the  Wandering  Jew,  ii.  . 558-560 

Monkey,  the,  ii.  . . . 463 

Montagu,  Lady  Mary  Wortley, 

i.  . ...  659-6.54 

Montgomery,  Alexander,  L L56 
Montgomery,  James,  ii.  . 415-420 

Montgomery,  Robert,  ii.  . 4.55 

Moon,  Address  to  the,  ii.  . , 78 

Moon,  l'lei>hant  in  the,  i.  . 349-.3.52 

Moon,  How  a man  may  Fly  to  the,  i.  447 
Moonlight  Night,  with  fine  Music,  L 184 
Moonlight  at  Sea — Memory  of  Absent 

Friends,  ii.  . . . 3f>4 

Moorcrokt,  W.  iL  • . 679 

Moore,  Dr  John,  ii  . .549,  5.50 

Mtiore,  Sir  John,  the  Burial  of,  Ii.  410 
Moore,  Thomas,  ii.  . 363-366,  646 

Moorish  H(*st,  Attack  of,  ii.  . 3fiH 

Moral  Feelings  Instinctive,  i.  . 436 

Moral  Influence  of  Evening — [From 
Alison’s  Srnnon  on  Autumn'],  ii.  . 660 
More,  Dr  Henry,  L • . 4.52 

More,  Hannah,  ii.  , . 5784580 

More,  Sir  Thomas,  L . . 59 

More,  Lady,  Letter  to,  i.  . .60 

More’s  [Sir  T.]  Resignation  of  the 
Great  Seal,  i.  . . . 270 

Morgan,  Lady— [Sidney Owenson], 

ii.  . . . . 580,  672 

Morier,  .Jambs,  ii.  . . 604,  677 

Morlky,  Countess  OE,  ii.  . . G09 

Morning,  ii.  . . , 41.3 

Morning,  Description  of,  i,  390,  548 
Morning  Landscape,  ii.  • . 107 

Morning  in  May,  i.  . ,44 

Morning  in  Warwickshire,  L • 99 

Morpheus,  Song  to,  i.  • , 323 

Mors  Tua,  i.  . . , . 1.30 

Mortification,  L . • , 133 

Morton,  Tho.mas,  iL  • . 532 

Moschus,  Note  to,  i.  . . 320 

Moses  Concealed  on  the  Nile — [Dar- 
win], ii.  . . . . 270 

Mosque  of  the  Bloody  Baptism  at 
Cairo,  Legend  of  the,  ii.  • 680 

Moss,  Thomas,  ii.  . , . 125 

Mother’s  Grave,  my,  ii.  , 477 

Mother’s  Heart,  the,  ii.  . . 460 

Motherwell,  William,  ii.  . 503-505 
Mountain  Children,  ii.  . , 462 

Mountain  Daisy,  to  a,  ii.  . 484 

Mouse,  the  Town  and  Country,  L • 38 

Mi  die,  Rorkrt,  ii.  . . 700 

Multitude,  Inconstancy  of  the,  L 392 

Mummy,  Address  to,  ii.  . . 433 

Munday,  Anthony,  L • 174 

Murchison,  Mr,  ii.  • • 703 

Mure,  Wi  LLiAM,  ii.  . • 671 

Murehy,  Arthur,  ii.  . . 141 

Murray,  Hon.  C.  A.  ii.  . 629 

Murray,  Lieut.  Alexander,  ii.  682 
Muse,  Companionship  of  the,  i.  125 
Muse,  the  Modest,  i.  . • 355 

Music,  Church,  i.  • . • 2.‘J8 

Music  by  Night,  L , , 275 

Music,  on  Scottish,  ii.  . • 211 

Music,  Scottish  Scenery  and,  ii.  1.31 
Music’s  Duel,  L , . . 1.50 

Musings  on  Eternity,  ii.  . 456 

Myself,  of — [Sir  T.  Browne],  L • 302 

Myself,  of — [A.  Cowley],  L • 401 

N.ihoh,  the.  ii.  • • • 275 

Nabbes,  Thomas,  i.  • • 216 


Pagt 

Napier,  Colonel  W.  F.  P.  iL  . 64A 
Napier,  Lord,  ii.  , . 681,682 

Nash,  C.  ii.  . . .680 

Nash,  Thomas,  i.  . . . 168 

National  I'artiality  and  Prejudice,  i.  647 
Nations,  Uncertainty  of  tlie  Early 
History  of,  i.  . . . 263 

Nativity,  Hymn  on  the,  i.  . .3.31-333 

Natural  Philosophy,  the  Study  of, 
Favourable  to  Jlcligion,  i.  . 617 

Nature,  Complaint,  of,  ii.  . . 98 

Nature,  on  the  Love  of,  ii.  210,  265 

Nature,  Study  of.  Recommended,  L 524 
Navy,  the  British,  L . . 32? 

Ncaera,  on,  L ...  162 

Neglect,  of,  L . . . 280 

Nehushta,  the  Bower  of,  it.  . 3.53 

Newcastle  Ajmthecary,  ii.  . 5.30 

Newcastle,  Duchess  OK,  L . 3.58 
Newspapers,  i.  . . 310,  5.33 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  L . . 52t»-524 

Newtonian  Philosophy,  Anecdote  of 
the  Discovery  of  the,  L , . 668 

New- Year,  the,  L . . 3.53 

New  York,  Manners  in,  During  the 
Dutch  Times,  ii.  . , 59.5,  .596 

Nichol,  Prokessor,  ii.  . 703 

N’coll,  Robert,  ii.  . 505,  506 

Nicolson,  Dr  William,  i.  . 672 

Night,  i.  . . . 11.3,  129 

Night,  il.  . . 417,  442 

Night  in  a Camp,  1.  . . 188 

Night-Piece,  a City,  ii.  . . 226 

Night,  to  the  — Shipwrecked  Soli- 
tary's Song,  ii.  . . . 303 

Nightingale,  Sonnet  to  a,  L . 160 

Nightingale,  Address  to  the,  L . 85 

Nightingale,  Ode  to  a,  ii.  . 405 

Nile,  Bruce  at  the  Sources  of  the,  ii.  665 

Nith,  to  the  River,  ii.  . . 4.93 

No  Man  enn  be  Good  to  All,  L . 280 

Nobility,  the  Order  of,  iL  . , 231 

Nocturnal  Reverie,  i.  , . 580 

Norman  French.  Introduction  of,  i.  3 

Norman  Poets  of  England,  the,  i.  . 4 

Normanry,  Marquis  of,  ii.  . 608 

North-West  Pa.ssage,  Davis’s  Voyage 
in  Search  of,  i.  , . . 2.53 

Norton,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 4.59,  4fJ0 

Norwegian  Yeomanry,  il.  . 685,  f>86 

Novelists,  Modern,  ii.  , . 533-633 

Nugent,  Lord,  ii.  . . . 646 

Nut-Brown  Maid,  the,  L . 52,  53 

N\Tnph  Complaining  fox  the  Death 
of  her  Fawn,  i.  . . .34' 

Nymph’s  Reply  to  the  Passionate 
Shepherd,  i.  . . . 84 

Oak  and  the  Briar,  Fable  of  the,  i.  94 

Oblivion,  i.  . . . . 300 

Obscurity,  of,  i.  . • • 4(K3 

Obscurity,  Wishes  for,  i.  . , 392 

Occupations,  Choice  of,  L . 77 

Ocean,  Address  to  the— [Procter],  ii.  443 
Ocean,  Apostrophe  to  the— [Byron], 
ii.  . . . ,391 

Ocean,  the  Dry  Bed  of  the,  i.  . 4.52 

Ode  to  Aurora  on  Melissa’s  Birth- 
day, ii.  ...  103 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Mr  Thomson,  ii.  34 
Ode  to  the  Departing  Year — [1795],  ii.  .342 
Ode  on  a Distant  Prospect  of  Eton 
College,  ii.  . . . . .53 

Ode  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 

1814,  ii.  . . . .479 

Ode  to  Evening,  ii.  • . .32 

Ode  on  Hearing  the  Drum,  ii.  • 121 

Ode  from  Horace,  i.  . . . 584 

Ode  — (How  are  thy  servants  blest, 

O Lord ! ) i.  . . . 54.3 

Ode,  in  Imitation  of  AIc.tus,  ii.  . I17 
Ode  to  Independence,  ii.  . 66 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin,  ii.  , 289 
Ode  to  Ivcven  Water,  ii.  . 67 

Ode  to  Liberty,  ii.  . . . 33 

Ode  to  a Nightingale,  ii.  . 405 

Ode  on  the  Pa.ssions,  ii.  . . 32 

Ode  to  Solitude,  ii.  . . 119 

Ode  to  my  Son,  aged  Three  Years 
and  Five  Months^IIood],  ii.  . 465 
Ode  to  Spring,  ii.  . . 2/7 

Ode — (The  spacious  firmament  on 
high),  L • • • • 543 

712 


INDEX. 

Pace 

Page 

Page 

Dilo  tn  a Tobacco-plpo,  ii. 

135 

Pedantry  in  England,  Decline  of,  i. 

5(7 

PooLR,  John,  it.  . • 

625 

l)(k‘  Written  in  the  Year  17*W3,  ii.  • 

32 

Pedlar’s  Story,  ii. 

488 

Poor  Country  Widow,  Description 

18 

()iletis,  the  Fountain  at  the  Dwelling 

Pkkle,  Gkokgk,  i.  • . 

166 

of  a,  i.  . . 

113 

Pekin,  Scene  at,  ii.  • • 

681 

Poor  Gentleman,  Paasagea  from  tlic, 

O'KKKKRa  John,  ii.  . • • 

532 

Pelican  Island,  the,  ii.  . . 

418 

ii 527-530 

328 

Pembroke,  Countess,  Epitaph  on,  i. 

114 

Poor  Relations,  ii. 

358 

OW  Aac,  Cirowing  Virtuous  in,  1.  . 

640 

Penn,  William,  i.  . 

463 

Poor,  Rural,  Appeal  to  Country  Jus- 

73 

01(1  Familiar  Faces,  the,  ii. 

356 

Penn’s  Advice  to  his  Children,  i. 

464 

ticcs  in  behalf  of  the,  ii. 

Old  Men.  Miscalculations  of,  ii.  • 

140 

Pennant,  Thoma.s,  ii.  • • 

688 

Pope,  Alexander,  i.  • 553-557,635 

Old  and  Young  Courtier,  i. 

229 

Penny  ISlngaEine,  <kc.  ii.  • 

703 

Pope  in  Oxford,  i.  . . . 

636 

Oldvs,  William,  ii.  . 

121 

Penshurst,  to,  i.  . • . 

114 

Pope  to  Lady  Mary  W.  Montagu,  i. 

6,37 

On  my  First  Daughter,  i. 

114 

Penshurst,  at,  i.  , • • 

327 

Pope  to  Gay  on  his  Recovery,  i. 

639 

Ophelia’s  Drowning,  i. 

187 

Percy,  Dr  Thomas,  ii.  • • 

75 

Pope  to  lii&hop  Atterbury  in  the 

640 

Oi>iK,  Mrs,  ii.  . . *278, 

560 

Pericles  and  Aspasia,  ii.  • • 

448 

Tower,  i.  . . . 

Opinion,  Frevalence  of  an,  no  Argu- 

Perseverance,  i.  . » • 

187 

Pope  and  Dryden,  Parallel  between. 

222 

ment  for  its  Truth,  i.  . 

289 

Persian  Song  of  Hafiz,  ii.  . 

117 

ii.  . . . . 

Oninions.  Change  of,  ii.  . . 658,  659 

Persian  Town,  Sketch  of  a,  ii.  • 

679 

Popish  Plot,  the,  i.  . • 

424 

Opinions  and  Prejudit^es,  i.  . 

658 

Pestilence  of  the  Fifteenth  Century, 

Porteous,  Dr  Bbilby,  ii. 

654 

Opinions,  Keverence  for  Ancient, 

ii.  . . . . 

69 

Porter,  Anna  Maria,  ii.  • 

568 

283 

Petrarch,  the  Celebrated  Canzone  of 

Porter,  Sir  R K.  ii.  . . 

677 

Opinions-  Toleration  of  other  Men’s, 

— Chiare,  fresche,  e dolce  acque,  ii. 

425 

Portrait,  the — [Hlacklock’s],  ii. 

103 

516 

Philanthropy — Mr  Iloward,  ii. 

273 

Portrait  — (She  was  a phantom  of 

Opium  Eater,  Dreams  of  the,  ii. 

692 

Philips,  Ambrose,  i.  . • 

569 

delight),  ii.  ... 

326 

Oracles,  i.  ... 

284 

Philips,  .John,  i.  . . 

375 

PosTANs,  Captain,  ii.  • 

680 

Orange.  Cultivation  of  the,  and  Ga- 

Philips,  Katherine,!. 

359 

PosTANS,  Mrs,  ii  . , . 

679 

thering  of  the  Fruit,  ii.  . 686,  G87 

Phillis,  on,  Walking  before  Sunrise, 

Potter  and  Kknnett,  i. 

660 

Oroonoko,  Scene  from,  i.  ♦ 

588 

i.  . . . . • 

148 

Power  and  Activity,  Distinction  be- 

Orphan  Hoy's  Tale,  ii.  . 

280 

Philosophers  and  Projectors,  Satire 

tween,  ii.  . 

650 

Orthodoxy  and  lleresv,  i.  . 

515 

on  Pretended— [SwiftJ,  i. 

631 

Power  and  Gentleness,  or  the  Cata- 

Ossian’s  Address  to  the  Sun,  ii. 

78 

Physic,  1 lousewifery,  i.  • • 

49 

ract  and  the  Streamlet,  ii. 

440 

Othello’^  Delation  of  his  Courtship 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu,  ii.  • 

385 

Power,  Ignorance  in,  i.  • • 

444 

to  the  Senate,  i. 

186 

PiCKEN,  Andrew,  ii.  . • 

601 

Practice  and  Habit,  i,  • 

M2 

Otway,  Thomas,  i.  . . 

386 

PicKKRi.NG,  Miss  Ellen,  ii.  • 

625 

Prater,  a,  i.  . . . 

409 

OusKLY,  Sir  William,  ii.  • 

677 

Picture,  to  My — [Randolph],  i.  • 

145 

Prayer,  on.  i. 

295 

Overbury,  Sir  Thomas,  i. 

277 

Picture  of  Christmas  Eve,  ii.  • 

328 

Praver— (Prayer  is  the  soul’s  sincere 

Overruled,  of  Being,  i.  . . 

280 

Picture  of  a Country  Life,  H.  • 

513 

desire),  ii.  . • 

420 

Owen,  JoHV,  i.  . • • 

457 

Picture  of  Domestic  Love,  ii.  • 

371 

Praver — (Like  the  low  murmur  of 

Owl  in  the  Twilight,  i.  • • 

275 

Picture  of  a Dungeon,  ii.  . . 

344 

the  secret  stream),  ii. 

478 

Pafstum,  ii.  . 

321 

Picture  of  an  Irish  Village  and  School 

Prayer  and  Early  Rising,  i.  • 

318 

Pagan  Rites,  Scene  of,  ii. 

140 

house,  ii.  ...  616-618 

Praver,  a Poet’s,  ii.  • • • 

43 

Painted  Window  at  Oxford,  Lines 

Picture  of  a Poetical  Enthusiast,  ii. 

417 

Preacher,  the  Village,  ii. 

61 

on,  ii.  . . * • 

100 

Picture  of  Twilight,  ii. 

.460 

Preaching,  Inefticacy  of  mere  Moral, 

Palumon  and  Arcite,  i.  • 

206 

Picture  of  War,  ii.  • • 

4.^6 

ii.  . . • • 

662 

Palky.  Dr  William,  ii.  . 651-654 

Pictures  of  Native  Genius,  ii. 

458 

Prejudices,  f.  ... 

513 

Palgravk,  Sir  Francis,  ii.  . 

642 

Piedmont,  Idassacre  of  the  Protes- 

Prejudices  and  Opinions,  i. 

6:8 

Palestine,  Picture  of,  ii.  , 

407 

ttints  in,  i.  . • 

333 

Prescot,  W.  II.  ii.  • 

644 

Pampas,  Description  of  the,  ii.  • 

683 

Pierce  Plowman,  Passages  from,  i.  11,  12 

Press,  the  Liberty  of  the,  i.  • 

399 

Pan,  11  vmn  to,  ii.  . • 

405 

Pilgrims  and  the  Peas,  ii.  « 

298 

Prick,  Dr  Richard,  ii. 

213 

Pan,  Song  to,  i.  . . • 

210 

Pindar,  Peter,  ii.  . • . 

297 

Prick,  Sir  Uvedale,  ii. 

689 

Paradise,  Evening  in,  i.  . • 

340 

Pinkerton,  John,  ii.  . 

638 

Pride,  False,  Caution  against,  i. 

35.5 

Paradise,  Morning  in,  i. 

340 

Pitt,  William— [Earl  of  Chatham] 

Pride,  Human,  Rebuke  of,  i.  , 
Pride  of  Noble  Birth,  against  the,  i. 

451 

Paradise,  Expulsion  from,  i. 

341 

ii.  . . . . 252-254 

463 

Paradise,  Marks  of,  not  utterly  De- 

Pity  and  Indignation,  i.  . 

2f>7 

Pride  of  Sir  Giles  Overreach  in  his 

faced  bv  the  Flood,  i.  . . 

246 

Pixies  of  Devon,  the,  ii.  • . 

474 

Daughter,  i,  . . . 

217 

Parallel  between  Pope  and  Dryden, 

Plague  in  London,  i. 

621 

Pride,  Spintual,  i.  . • 

4.37 

ii.  . . . . 

222 

Platonic  Representation  of  the  Scale 

Prideaux,  Da  Humphrey,  i.  , 

672 

Pardoner’s  Tale,  the,  i.  . • 

19 

of  Beauty  and  Love,  i.  . 

655 

Priestley,  Dr  Joseph,  ii.  • 

213 

Parish  Workhouse  and  Apothecary, 

Pleasure,  against,  i.  , 

359 

PrimroiiC,  to  an  Earlv,  ii.  . . 

302 

ii.  . . . • 

311 

Pleasure  is  Mixed  with  every  Pain,  i 

48 

Primro'je,  to  the  Evening,  ii. 

440 

Park,  Mungo,  ii.  . . • 

666 

Pleasure  and  Pain,  i.  . . 

514 

Primroses  Filled  with  Morning  Dew,  i 

143 

Parnell,  Thomas,  i.  • • 

576 

Pleasure,  Sinful,  i.  . . , 

294 

Princess  Charlotte  of  Wales,  from 

Parr,  Dr  Samuel,  ii.  • 

655 

Pleasure,  Utopian  Idea  of,  i.  . 

60 

the  Funeral  Sermon  for  the,  ii. 

6.58 

Parry,  Si R Edward,  ii.  . 674-676 

Pleasures  of  Amusement  and  Indus- 

Princess  Royal,  on  the  Birth  of  the,  ii 

.423 

Parson,  the  Good,  i.  . . 

22 

try  Compared,  i.  . 

444 

Pringle,  Thomas,  ii. 

Printing,  the  Invention  of,  i.  • 

454 

Parthenia,  or  Chastity,  Description 

Pleasures  of  the  Eye  and  Ear,  ii. 

209 

67 

of,  i.  . 

123 

Pleasures  of  Memory,  from,  ii.  . 

316 

Prior,  James,  ii.  , 

646 

Parting,  i.  . 

390 

Pleasures  of  a Patriot,  i.  . . 

649 

Prior,  Matth  EW,  i.  . . 535-540 

Parting  of  Lovers,  the,  ii. 

474 

Pleasures,  Wise  Selection  of,  i. 

431 

Prior’s  Lines — ‘ For  my  own  Moiiu- 

Partridge  at  the  Playhouse,  iu  • 

164 

Poet  and  the  Rose,  i.  . . 

573 

ment,’  i.  . . . 

536 

Party  Zeal.  i.  . 

640 

Poet,  a Small,  i.  . 

408 

Pritchard,  Dr,  ii. 

703 

Passage  of  the  Red  Sea,  ii.  • , 

408 

Poetical  Enthusiast,  ii.  . , 

417 

Private  Judgment  in  Religion,  i.  . 

287 

Passions,  i.  . . . 

392 

Poetical  Genius,  i.  . . , 

504 

Procrastination— [Cowley],  i.  . 

403 

Passions,  Ode  on  the,  ii.  • 

32 

Poetry,  Essay  on.  Passages  from,  i. 

378 

Procrastination— [Young],  ii. 

n 

Pastoral,  a,  ii.  . . . 122 

Pastoral  Ballad,  1743,  ii.  . • 

, 134 

Poetry,  Moral  Aim  of,  L 

75 

Procter,  n.  W.  ii.  . 441-446,  .517 

38 

Poetry  and  Poets,  i.  , , , 

402 

Prodigal  Lady,  the,  i. 

223 

Pastoral  Dialogue,  i. 

121 

Poetry,  l*raise  of.  i. 

234 

Prologue  to  Coriolanus,  il.  . 

49 

Pastoral  Emplo>'ments,  i.  . . 

129 

Poets,  Ancient,  Translations  of  the, 

Prologue  to  King  David  and  Fair 

Pastoral,  the  First,  i.  . . 

569 

i.  . . • . • 

494 

Bethsahe,  i.  . . . 

167  , 

Pastoral  Love,  i.  . • • 

208 

Poet’s  Bridal-dav  Song,  the,  ii.  . 

501 

Property,  of— [Paley],  ii. 

652 

Patriot,  Pleasures  of  a,  i.  . 

649 

Poet’s  Life,  the  Miseries  of  a,  ii.  • 
Poet’s  Prayer,  ii. 

92 

Property,  on  the  llight  of— [Black- 

Patriotism — Intellectual  Beauty,  ii. 

45 

459 

stone],  ii.  . . . 

246 

Paul’s  Walks,  How  a Gallant  should 

Politeness,  Overstrained,  i.  . 

634 

Prophecy  of  Famine — [Churchill],  ii 

93 

Behave  Himself  in,  i.  . . . 

274 

Political  Redemption — [Chatterton] 

Prophetic  Language,  the,  i. 

521 

Pauper,  Death  and  Funeral  of  a,  ii. 

630 

ii.  . . . • 

83 

Prosperity  and  Adversity,  i. 

241 

Pauper’s  Deathbed,  ii.  , . 

461 

Political  Upholsterer,  the,  i. 

609 

Protector,  Lord,  a Paneg^Tic  to  the. 

Payne,  J.  II.  ii.  , , 

517 

Politics  and  Evening  Parties,  ii. 

250 

32tt 

Peacock,  J.  L.  ii.  . , 

627 

PoLLOK,  Robert,  ii.  . 412-415 

Protestant  Infallibility,  Ironical  View 

Pearce,  Nathaniel,  ii.  , 

666 

Polyolbion,  Part  of  the  Twenty-eighth 

of,  i.  . . . . 

666 

Pearson,  Dr  John,  i.  , , 

447 

Song  of  the,  i.  . • , 

100 

Protogenes  and  Apelles,  i.  • 

539 

Peasant,  a Noble,  ii.  . . 

Peasanl-Foet,  Scenes  and  Musings 

312 

PoMKRKT,  John,  i,  , , , 

376 

Providence,  Eternal,  ii.  . 

74 

Pomp  and  Superfluity,  i.  , 

625 

Prudent  Sea-Captain — Abu.se  of  Ship 

of, ii  . . . . 

428 

Pompeii,  Description  of,  ii.  , 354 

,674 

Stores,  ii.  . • 

£23 

713 

CYCLOPEDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Qiicen,  to  the,  i.  . • 

Queen  M.ib,  i. 

Queen  Mab,  Opening  of,  ii. 
Itac'bel,  Dirge  of,  ii.  , 

Uadi  LiKKK,  Ann,  ii. 

U Hinb«»\v,  the,  i. 

liainy  Sunday  in  an  Tnn,  ii. 

Uai.kiuh,  Sir  Walteh,  i. 


Page 

Prudent  Worldly  Lady,  Character 
cf  a,  it.  . . . , 624 

PsALMA.NA7,AR,  OkORUB,  il.  . 1M2 

Pu  blic  DreukfaNt,  the,  ii.  . . 123 

PUHC-MA*^,  S\.\I1M<*L,  i.  . . 2.'»2 

I*yr.uui(ls,  Dencription  of  the,  ii.  670,  671 

Pyrrha,  to,  i.  ...  .314 

QuacU  AdvertisementB,  i.  • Wi7 

Ql’ARf.KS,  pKAVCIS,  i.  . . 129 

Quarterly  Ueviow,  Eotublibhment  of 

. 702 

. 146 

. 1H6 

. 398 

. 4'i4 

. 5.>4 

123,  319 

f)96, 

83,  24;1-249 
Uamsav,  Allan,  i.  . .^HI-587 

Randolph,  Lady,  Discovery  of  her 
Sou,  ii.  . . . . 138 

Ra  VDOLF'H,  Thomas,  i.  . 145,  216 

Rav,  .loHN,i.  . • . 524 

Readiness  to  take  Offence,  against,  i.  279 
Reading,  Remarks  on,  ii,  . . 20l 

Reason,  Defence  of,  i.  . . 2.37 

RLNwm  and  Di.serction,  the  Age  of,  i.  292 
Urbukeof  llmaan  Pride,  i.  . 451 

Recluse,  till',  ii.  . . • 418 

Recluse,  the  Pair,  ii.  . . 447 

Recre.itinn,  i.  . . . 413 

Recreation.s,  the  Country’s,  i.  . 83 

Recruiting  Oliicer,  Scenes  from 
the.  i.  . . . (i(K)-<;02 

Redbreast  Coming  into  his  Cham- 
ber. Upon  Occasion  of  a — [Rishop 
Hall],  i.  ...  275 

Rcni  Sea.  Passage  of  the,  ii.  . 4(i8 

Rkks,  Dr  a.  ii.  . . 2.55 

Rkevk,  .Vltss  Clara,  ii.  . . 180 

Reflection  ii])on  a Lanthorn  and 
Candle,  earned  by  on  a Windy 
Niglit,  i.  . . . 518 

Reformation,  the,  i.  . . 400 

Reformation  in  England,  State  of 

i’arties  at  tlie,  ii.  . . 183 

Refonuation,  the — Monks  and  Puri- 
tans, i.  . • . 322 

R Ki  o.  Dr,  ii.  . , , 2n8 

Rejected  Addresses,  ii.  , 431,4.32 

Relations,  Poor,  ii.  • • 3.58 

Religion,  i.  . , . . 132 

Religion,  Against  the  EmplojTnent 
of  Force  in,-i.  . , . 286 

Religion,  on  the  Effects  of,  ii.  . 6.55 

Religion  n<»t  Hostile  to  Plea-sure,  i.  445 
Religion,  Private  .Judgment  in,  i.  287 

Religion,  Ri^htof  Private  Judgment 
in,  i.  . . . 

Religion.  Zeal  and  Fear  in,  i. 

Religious  Discussions,  Iteason  must 
be  Appeal  d to  in.  i. 

Religious  lCdiHce.s,  Destruction  of,  in 
1.5.59,  i.  . 

Religious  Matters,  Authority  of  Rea- 
son in,  i.  . 

Religious  Opinions,  Vindication  of,  i.  67I 
Religious  Toleration,  i.  . . 298 

Remorse,  Scene  from,  ii.  . 514-516 

Resignation,  ji.  ...  87 

Restoration.  Improved  Style  of  Dra- 
matic Dialogue  after  the,  i. 


.504 

237 


286 


30G 


660 


Resurrection,  the. 

Retaliation,  Passages  from,  ii. 
Retiivment,  1758,  ii.  . • 

Retirement,  the,  i.  . . 

Retirement,  Cowley’s  Love  of,  i. 
Retirement,  on  hi&— [Pope  to  Swift 
i.  . 

Revenge  of  Tnjiirie.s,  i.  . 

Reverie,  a Nocturnal,  i. 

RK'tNOI  D',  FaEDKHrcK 

Reynolds'  Painted  Window  at  Ox 
ford,  l.,ines  on,  ii.  . 

Rhind,  M K,  ii. . 

Rhyming  Chroniclers,  the,  i. 
Ricardo,  David,  ii. 

Rich,  the  Art  of  Growing,  i. 

Rich,  Claud  ids  James,  ii. 

Uichard  U.  the  Morning  before  his 
P/lurder  in  Pomfret  Castie,  i.  • 


494 
315,  447 


Page 

Richard  TIT.  Character  cf.  !.  , 60 

Richard’s  Theory  of  the  Mind,  I.  . 539 
Kfcii akohon,  Da,  ii.  . 676,677 

UlCHAKDHON,  SAMUKL,  ii.  . . J60 

Itiches,  on,  i.  . . .34 

Riches,  the  Emptiness  of,  ii.  . 11 

Richmond,  Countess  of,  Character 
and  Habits  of  the,  i.  . , 62 

Right  of  Property,  ii.  . 246,  247 

Right  and  Wrong,  Natural  and  Es- 
sential Difference  of,  i.  . , 664 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  ii.  3.37 
Rimini — Fuiierai  of  the  Lovers  in, 
ii.  . . . . 424 

Rinaldo  at  Mount  Olivet  and  the 
linchanted  Wood,  i.  , , 10.3 

Ritson,  Jo-KPH,  ii.  , , 688 

Roberts,  Mi.'-s  Emma,  ii.  , 679 

Robertson,  Du  Wi LLiAM,  ii.  . 185 
Robertson,  J.  P.  and  W.  l\  ii.  687 

Robin  Goodfellow,  i.  . , 229 

Rochester,  Earl  OP,  i.  , 3.56 

Rochester,  Letters  of,  i.  . . 3.>7 

Rogers,  Samuel,  ii.  . . 31G-322 

Roget,  Da,  ii.  . . . 7u3 

Roman  Power  in  Britain,  Expiration 
of  the,  i.  . . . . 401 

Romances,  English  Metrical,  i.  , 8 

Rome,  Funeral  Ceremony  at,  ii.  672 
Rome,  Midnight  Scene  in,  ii.  . 392 

Rooks,  livening  Sports  of  the,  ii.  689 

RoSCOE,  Wl  LLIAM,  ii.  , . 637 

Roscommon,  Earl  OP,  L • . .3.55 

Ro-e,  the,  L , . 144 ; ii.  6 

Rose,  a,  i.  . , . , 15.3 

Rose,  W.  S.  ii.  . . . 672 

Roses  and  Tulips,  upon  the  Sight  of. 
Growing  near  one  another,  i.  . 518 
Rosiphele,  Episode  of,  i.  . 24 

Ross,  Albxa.ndkr,  ii.  • . 125 

Ross,  Sir  John,  ii.  . , 674 

Ross,  the  Man  of,  i.  , . . 564 

Rosy  Tlannuh,  ii.  , , 286 

Rowe,  Nic  holas,  i.  . . 590 

Rowley,  William,  i.  . . 215 

Royalists,  Attack  of,  on  the  City,  i.  3^1.3 
Rule  Britannia,  it  • . 22 

Rural  Picture,  ii.  . . ,95 

Rural  Sounds,  ii.  . , 26(1 

liussELL,  Dr  William,  ii.  , 192 

Russell,  I.ADv  Rachel,  i.  . 406 

Russell,  Lady  R.  to  Dr  Fitzwilliam, 


Russell,  Lady  R.  to  the  Earl  of  Gal- 
way, i.  . 

Russell,  Lady  R.  to  Lord  Cavendish, 

i.  .... 

Russell,  Lord  John,  ii.  . , 

R ussia — Employments  of  the  People, 

ii.  . ... 

Russia,  the  French  Army  in,  ii. 
Russian  Peasants’  Houses,  ii.  . 
liuth,  ii.  . . . , 

Rymer,  Thomas,  i. 

Sabbath  Morn,  ii.  . • 

Sabbath  Walk,  an  Autumn,  ii.  • 
Sabbath  Walk,  a Spring,  ii.  , 
Sabbath  M’alk,  a Summer,  ii.  • 
Sabbath  Walk,  a Winter,  ii. 
Sackvillk,  3’homas,  i. 

Sadler,  M.  T.  ii. 

Sailor  Boy.  the  Impressed,  ii. 
Salamis,  the  Armies  at,  ii.  , 
Sale,  George,  ii,  . • 

Sale,  Lady,  ii.  . 

Salt,  Henry,  ii.  , . 

Sanctimony,  Hypocritical,  i.  . 
Sandys,  George,  i.  • 

Sardanapalus’s  State,  ii.  . 

Satan’s  Address  to  the  Sun,  i. 

Satan’s  Speech — [Cicdmon],  i.  , 
Satan’s  Survey  of  Gi'eece,  i. 

Satires,  Pope’s,  from  the  Prologue  to 
the,  i.  . . . 

Saturn  and  Thca,  ii. 

Saul  and  his  Guards,  Approach  of, 
against  the  Philistines,  ii. 

Saul — Songof  the  Virgins  Celebrating 
the  Victory,  ii.  . . 

Savage,  Richard,  ii. 

Saviour,  in  Praise  of  the — [Chatter- 
ton],  iL  • • • 


407 

407 

408 
646 

685 

448 

685 

329 

527 

289 

307 

306 

306 

307 
80 

701 

308 
113 
192 
681) 
666 
444 
2.54 
353 
338 

2 

342 

563 

403 


Pagv 

Saxon  Chronicle,  1154,  Passage  from, 
i-  . . . . .6 

Scandal  and  Literature  in  High  Ltfc, 

i.  ....  594 

Scholar,  Every  Nature  not  Suitable 

fur  a,  i.  ...  265 

SchoolmaKtcr,  Detached  Observations 
from  the,  i.  , . . 78 

Schoolmaster,  the  Good,  L • . 412 

Schiiolniihtrehs,  the,  ii.  . , 57 

School- Ublier,  Wretchedness  of  a,  ii.  92 
SroKKsuv,  William,  IL  . 076 

Scorn  not  the  i.east,  i.  , .97 

Scot,  Alexander,  i.  , , .54 

Scot  to  bis  Heart,  i.  . . , 155 

Scotland,  the  Complaynt  of,  i.  , 73 

Scotland,  Lines  Written  in  the  Iligh- 
landi  of,  ii.  . , , .320 

Scotland,  'fears  of,  li.  . . 67 

Scotland’s  Skaith,  or  the  History  of 
Will  and  Jean,  ii.  . . 488,  489 

SroTT,  John.  ii.  , . .121 

Scott,  Sir  W.  ii.  .378-386,  585-589,  646 
Scuttis,  tlie  New  Maneris  and  the 
AuUlof,  i . , , 72 

Scottir.!)  Country  Wedding,  iL  . 3n7 
Scottinb  Music,  on,  ii.  . 211 

Scottivb  Rebv  llion,  tlie,  ii.  . , 251 

Scottish  Semery  and  Music,  ii.  . 131 

Scripture  and  the  Law  of  Nature,  1.  2.’f6 

Sea,  the,  i.  . . . . 252 

Sea-Captain,  a Prudent,  ii.  . 623 

Sea-Coasts,  Scenery  of  the,  iL  . 225 
Sea,  Stanzas  on  the,  ii.  . • 440 

Seasons,  Hymn  to  tlie,  ii.  • *18 

Sectarian  Differences,  i.  • 640 

Sellkv,  Sim  Charles,  L . . 358 

Skldkv,  JoH V,  L . , 282 

Self-Control— Final  Escape  of  Laura, 

ii.  . . . . 572-575 

Self-Love,  Immoderate,  i.  . 4.38 

Self-Murder,  i.  . , .392 

Selma,  the  Songs  of,  ii.  . • 79 

Sbn'ior,  N.  W.  ii,  , . . 701 

Sennacherib’s  Army,  Destruction  of, 

ii.  . . . . . 272 

Sensitive  IMant,  from  the,  ii.  . 400 

.Sephestia’s  Song  to  her  Child,  i.  . 169 
Sermons,  L . . . 284 

Ser])ents,  Irish,  the  La  t of  the,  ii.  614 
Session,  Tidings  fra  the,  L . . 43 

Seward,  Miss,  ii.  , . 278 

Shadwell,  Thoma.s,  1.  . . .392 

Sha KTKSBi’RV,  Karl  OE,  i,  , 6.54 

Shaftesbury,  Character  of,  i.  . .362 

Shaftesbury’s  Address  to  Monmouth, 

i.  ....  36.3 

Shaksprare — his  Poetry,  L • IO.VI08 
Shakspkark— his  Plays,  L . 176-191 
Shaks{)eare,  Character  of,  L . 493 

Shuksiieare,  Inscription  for  a Monu- 
ment to,  iL  . . . 47 

Shakspeare,  to  the  Memory  of,  i.  . 114 
Shakspeare,  on  the  Portrait  of,  i.  114 
Shakspeare,  Universality  of  the 
Genius  of — [Lord  Jeffrey],  iL  . 697 

Shkkkikld,  John  [Duke  of  Buck- 
inghamshire], i.  . . . 378 

Shkkkikld,  1>ukd,  ii.  • • 644 

Shkil,  R.  L.iL  . . . 517 

Shf.llkV,  Percy  Bysshe,  iL  395-402 
Shkllkv,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 580 

Shelley’s  Lines  to  an  Indian  Air,  ii.  402 
Shknstonk,  Willia.m,  ii.  . J.'MO 
Shepherd,  Passionate,  to  his  Love,  i.  84 
Sliepherd,  the  Steadfast,  i.  . 126 

Shepherd  and  his  Wife,  i.  , . 169 

Shepherd’s  Ufe,  the  Blessings  of  a,  i.  188 
Shepherd's  Life,  Happiness  of  the,  L 122 
Sheplu*rd’s  Song,  i.  , . 222 

Shkrjdan,  Richard  Brinsley, 

ii.  . . . 143-147 

Sherlock,  Dr  William,  i.  . 4.38 
She's  Gane  to  Dwall  in  Heaven,  il  500 
Shilling,  the  Splendid,  i.  . 375 

Ships  and  Books  Compared,  i.  . 243 
Shipwreck,  the — [Falconer],  ii.  88-91 
Shipwreck,  the — [Byron],  ii.  . ,392 

Shipwreck,  the — [Prof.  Wilson].  11.  4.36 

Shipwreck  by  Dr.nk,  L . . 222 

Sh  p\N  recked  Solitary’s  Song — To  the 

Night,  ii.  • . . 3U3 

714 


INDEX. 

Pape 

Shirley,  James,  . • 14tt,  ^22 

Shirley — U|K>n  liis  Mistress  Sad,  i.  14H 

Siberian  Exile,  the,  ii.  • • 

Sic  Vita,  i.  . . . . U8 

Sickness  and  Death— [Pope  to  Steele], 

....  635 

Siddon<4,  Mrs,  Picture  of— [Descrip- 
tion of  Jane  de  Montfort],  ii.  . 513 

Side  Tails,  Supplication  in  Contemp- 
tion  uf,  i.  . • • 50 

SiPNKv,  Algernon,  i.  . . 405 

SiDNKV,  Sir  Philip,  i.  . 82,2:12-234 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  Sonnets  of,  i.  H2,  83 
Silius,  Accusation  and  Death  of,  in 
the  Senate  House,  i.  . . 194 

Siller  Ciun,  iSlustcring  of  the  Trades 
to  Shoot  for  the,  ii.  . . 493 

SiMOND,  M.  ii.  . « • 684 

Simpleton  and  Rrageadocio,  i.  • l.‘K> 

Simplicity  and  Hetinemcnt,  ii.  • 203 

Simpson,  Thomas,  ii.  • • 676 

Sin  and  Holiness,  i.  • « 4;16 

Sin,  the  Proiiress  of,  i.  . . 293 

Singularity,  i.  . . . 4:«J 

Sinners,  the  Kesurrection  of,  i.  . 294 

Sixteen,  ii.  . • • 351 

Skelton,  John,  i.  . • .45 

Skinner,  JuH.s’,  ii.  • 128 

Skylark,  to  a,  ii,  . • . 399 

Skylark,  the,  ii.  • 499 

Sleep,  to,  i.  . . . • 210 

Sleep,  Epigram  on,  ii.  • • 30l 

Sleep,  the  House  of,  i.  . . 93 

Sleeping  Child— [S.  T.  Coleridge], 
ii.  . . . . . 344 

Sleeping  Child— [Professor  Wilson], 
ii.  . . . .435 

Sleeping  Figure  of  Modena,  ii.  . 442 

Smart,  Christopher,  ii.  . 108-H2 

Smith,  Alhert,  ii.  . . . 629 

Smith,  Da  Adam,  ii.  . . 207,242 

Smith,  James  and  Horace,  ii.  42lM:tJ 
Smith,  Horace,  ii.  . . . 627 

Smith,  Mr.s  Charlotte,  iL  273-275,  554 
Smith,  Kkv.  J.  ii.  . * 64(j 

Smith,  Uev.  Sidney,  ii.  • 655,  695 

Smith,  Dr  Sjuthwood,  ii.  . 7o3 

Smith,  William,  ii.  . . 524 

Smollett,  X.  G.  ii.  . 64-68,  165-170 

Snails,  upon  the  Sight  of  two,  i.  . 275 

Society  compared  to  a Bowl  of  Punch, 
i,  ....  624 

Socrates,  Condemnation  and  Death 
of,  ii.  ...  634-6.36 

Soldier,  a Drowned,  i.  • . 216 

Soldier’s  Home,  the,  ii.  . 287 

Solicitude — [Pastoral  Ballad],  ii,  • 39 

Solitary  Tomb,  the,  ii.  . • 440 

Solitude  on  a Battle-held,  ii.  • 140 

Solitude,  Ode  to,  ii.  . . 119 

Solitude  preferred  to  a Court  Life, 
&c.i.  . . . . 188 

Solomon,  Abra’s  Love  for,  i.  . &J7 

Somehv'ille,  William,!.  • 580 

Song — A Wet  Sheet  and  a Flowing 
Sea.  ii.  ....  501 

Song — Ae  Fond  Kiss,  ii.  . . 486 

Song — (Ah,  Chloris ! could  I now  but 
8it),i.  ....  358 

Song — ( Ah,  the  poor  shepherd’s  mourn- 
ful fate),  ii.  . . . .25 

Pong — (Amarantha,  sweet  and  fair), 
i.  ....  144 

Song — {Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove 
bestows),  i.  . . . 120 

Song — (At  setting  day  and  rising 
morn),  i.  . . . 585 

Song — (Auld  Robin  Forbes),  ii.  . 276 

Song — (A way  I let  nought  to  love 
displeasing),  ii.  « 135 

Song — Bruce's  Address,  ii.  . . 486 

Song — iBusy,  curious,  thirsty  fly),  ii.  121 

Bong — Constancy,  i.  . . 357 

Song,  Convivial,  i.  . . * . 225 

Song  of  the  Crazed  Maiden,  iL  . 315 

Song  ^0  David,  ii.  . . 109-112 

Bcng--(Doriuda’s  sparkling  wit  and 
eycs),i.  . . . 377 

Bong— (Dry  those  fair,  those  crystal 
eyes),  i.  . . . . 118 

Song  to  Eclio,  ii.  , . 273 

*kmg— Piir.Hv- 1*  tn  Avrshire,  ii.  . 492 

Page 

Song— (Give  me  more  love,  or  more 
disdain),  i.  . . 121 

Song — Gloomy  Winter's  now  Awa,* 

ii 492 

Song — (Go,  lovely  rose),  i.  . . 328 

Song- (Go,  youth  beloved,  in  distant 
glades),  ii.  . . . 281 

Song— (Good  night  and  joy  be  wi’  ye 
a'),  ii.  . . . . 495 

Song — (Hast  thou  seen  the  down  in 
the  air),  i.  . . . 136 

Song — (I  prithee  send  me  back  my 
heart),  i.  . . . . 136 

Song — (If  I had  thought  thou  couldst 
have  died),  ii.  . . . 411 

Song — Jemmy  Dawson,  ii.  . .39 

Song — Jenny  Dang  the  Weaver,  il.  494 
Song — (Look  out,  bright  eyes,  and 
bless  the  air),  i.  . . . 2C9 

Song— (Love  still  has  something  of 
the  sea),  i.  . . . 358 

Song — (Love  wakes  and  weeps),  iL  386 
Song — Maepherson’s  Farewell,  ii.  . 485 
Song — Mary  Moribon,  ii.  . . 486 

Song  to  May,  ii.  . . 273,  362 

Song— May-Eve,  or  Kate  of  Aber- 
deen, ii.  . . • . 121 

Song — Menie,  ii.  . . 486 

Song — My  Bonny  Mary',  ii.  . . 486 

Song — (My  dear  mistress  has  a heart), 
i.  ....  357 

Song — My  Nanie  0,  ii.  . . 5oj 

Song — My  only  Jo  and  Dearie  0,  ii.  492 
Song— (0,  Nanny,  wilt  thou  gang  wi’ 
me),  ii.  ...  76 

Song — (0  tuneful  voice ! I still  de- 
plore), ii.  . . . . 280 

Song — (Oh  do  not  wanton  with  those 
eyes),  i.  ...  113 

Song — (Oh  say  rlbt  that  my  heart  is 
cold),  ii.  . . . . 411 

Song — (Pack  clouds  away,  and  wel- 
come day),  i.  . . .221 

Song— (Phillis,  men  say  that  all  my 
vows),  i.  . . . . 358 

Song  by  Rogero  in  T7i£  Rovers — (MTien- 
e’er  with  haggard  eyes  I view),  ii.  296 
Song — (Say  lovely  dream),  i,  . 328 

Song — (Sweet  woman  is  like  the  fair 
flower  in  its  lustre),  i.  . . 573 

Song — The  Braes  o’  Balquhithcr,  il  491 
Song — The  Braes  o’  Glenifter,  ii.  491 

Song — The  Flower  o’  Dumblane,  ii.  491 
Song — ( The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery 
nest),i.  , . . 147 

Song — The  Last  Time  I came  o’er  the 
Moor,  i.  , . • . 585 

Song — The  Parting  Kiss,  ii.  . 115 

Song — The  Poet’s  Bridal  Day,  ii.  . 5ul 
Song — The  Royalist,  i,  . , 154 

Song — The  Saint’s  Encouragement,  i.  153 
Song — (The  season  comes  when  first 
wemet),ii.  . . . 280 

Song— There  is  a Garden  in  her  Face, 
i.  . . . . .228 

Song — (Think  not  of  the  future),  ii.  471 
Song — (’Tis  now,  since  I sat  down 
before),  i.  . . . 135 

Song — (Toall  youladies  now  at  land), 

i  377 

Song — ( Too  late,  alas ! I must  confess), 

i.  ....  357 

Song— (^Vhat  ails  this  heart  o’  mine  ?) 

ii  276 

Song — (^Vllat  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does 

wail),i.  . . . 166 

Song — (Wliat  pleasure  have  great 
princes),  L . . . 225 

Song — When  the  Kye  comes  Hame, 

ii.  . . . . 498 

Song — (While  on  those  lovely  looks 

1 gaze),  i.  . . . 356 

Song — (AVTiy  should  you  swear  I am 
forsworn),  i.  . . . 144 

Song — (Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond 
lover?)  i.  . . . I3t5 

Song — (Wi’  drums  and  pipes  the 
clachan  rang),  ii.  . . .508 

Song — (Woo’d,  and  married,  and  a’), 
ii,  ■ . . . . 126 

Song— (Would  you  know  what’s  soft), 
i.  . . . . .120 

Page 

Song — (Ye  shepherds  of  this  plcasart 
vale),  ii.  ...  25 

Songs  of  Isravl,  Opening  of  the,  ii.  . 4.53 
Songs  of  Israel,  Conclusion  of  the,  ii.  454 
Sonnet — Composed  upon  Westmin- 
ster Bridge,  Septembers,  1W)3,  ii.  325 
Sonnet — From  Constable’s  Diana,  L 84 
Sonnet — Ho{>e,  ii.  ...  346 
Sonnet — Influence  of  Poesy,  il  . 275 

Sonnet — London,  1892,  ii.  . . 325 

Sonnet — Milion  on  his  own  Blind- 
ness, i.  . . . • 333 

Sonnet— (Muses,  that  sing  Love’s 
sensual  empirie),  i.  . . 228 

Sonnet — On  the  Departure  of  the 
Niglitingale,  ii.  . . 274 

Sonnet — On  England,  ii.  . • 406 

Sonnet — On  First  Looking  into  Chap- 
man's Homer,  ii.  . . 406 

Sonnet — On  King’s  College  Chapel, 
Cambridge,  ii.  . . . 326 

Sonnet — On  Sabbath  Mom,  ii.  . 289 

Sonnet — On  SJiakspeare,  ii.  • 472 

Sonnet — The  Fir^t  Man,  ii.  . • 471 

Sonnet — The  Human  Seasons,  ii.  406 

Sonnet — The  Primrose,  ii.  . • 427 

Sonnet — The  Thrush’s  Nest,  ii.  , 427 

Sonnet — ’I’he  World  is  Too  Much 
with  Us,  ii.  ...  325 

Sonnet — To  the  Glow-Worm,  ii.  426 

Sonnet — 'fo  'I’ime,  ii.  , . 346 

Sonnet — (What  art  thou,  Mighty 
Oneliii.  . . . .302 

Sonnet— Winter  Evening  at  Home, 
ii.  ....  346 

Sonnet — Written  at  the  Close  of 

Spnn.r,  ii.  . . , . 274 

Sonnet — Written  “by  Paterson  on  the 
Buriai-Omundof  his  Ancestors,  ii.  478 
Snnn.‘t?» — [Drummond’s],  i.  . 160 

Sonnets  to  a Friend,  ii.  . . 472 

Sonnet-,  by  Lord  Thurlow,  ii.  . 362 

Sonnets  in  Praise  of  a Solitary  Life, 
i.  . . . . 157, 160 

Sonnets  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  i.  . 82 

Soreerebs  of  Vain  Deligiit,  i,  • 124 

Sorcery  and  Witchcraft,  i.  • 271 

Sothkry,  William,  ii,  • 360,  514 

Soul  and  Body,  the,  i.  . • 453 

Soul,  Immortality  of  the,  iL  . 195 

Soul’.s  Errand,  the,  i.  . . 85 

Soul’s  Immortality,  Reasons  for  the, 
i.  . . . , 109 

South  American  Scenery,  il  . 846 

South,  Dh  Uokkrt,  i.  . . 440 

Southerne.  Thomas,  i.  . . 588 

Southey,  R.  ii.  347-350,642,645  691 

South Kv,  Mrs,  ii.  , . . 460 

Southey's  Epitaph,  ii.  . , 350 

South  WELL,  Rob.^rt,  i.  . . 96 

Speaking,  Evil,  i.  . . 283 

Si'EKD,  John,  i.  . . , 263 

SpKLMAN,  Sir  Henry,  i.  , 263 

Spencer,  the  Hon.  W.  R.  il  420  422 

Spencer,  Mr,  ii.  . , . 686 

Spenser,  Ed.mund,L  . * . 85 

Spenser  and  .M  Iton,  i.  . . 4.% 

Spirit  of  the  Cape,  the,  ii.  . 72 

Spiritual  Pride,  i.  . . • 4:17 

Splendid  shilling,  the,  i.  • 375 

S.'OTiswooi),  John,  i.  . 306,  307 

Sprat.  Dr  Thomas,  i.  . • 44B  4.50 

Sprig  of  Heath,  on  a,  ii.  . . 281 

Spring,  Approach  of,  i.  , • 121 

Spring,  Birds  Pairing  in,  il  . Is 

Spring,  a Northern,  li.  , . 456 

Spring,  Ode  to,  ii.  . . . 277 

Spring,  Showers  in,  ii.  . • 15 

Spr.ng,  the  Voice  of,  ii.  . . 438 

S(|uire  and  the  Dove,  i,  . . 91 

Squire  of  Low  Degree,  i.  • .10 

St  CoLUMBANtrs,  i.  , . 1 

St  Francis,  Legend  of,  i.  . • .55 

St  Helena,  Description  of,  i.  . 261 

St  JoM.N,  James,  ii.  . .641 

St  John,  Letter  to  Sir  William,  i.  256 

St  Leon’s  Escape  from  an  Auto  de 
Fe,  ii.  . . . . 566-568 

St  Serfs  Ram,  i.  • , .28 

Staffa,  Verses  on,  ii.  , . 361 

Stag-Hunt — [Sir  Philip  Sidney],  i.  233 

Stag-Hunt — [Michael  Drayton],  i.  99 

715 

CYCLOP-ffiDIA  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Page 

Stanhopk,  Karl  op  Chestkr- 
piKLD,  ii.  ....  24b 
Ktanlicy,  Thomas,  i.  . 319-321,  C27 

StatHi.'iH— ( A«  wht-n  a lady,  walking 
Flora’n  bower),  i.  , . . 129 

Stanzas — lAway  with  the  pleasure 
tliiit  is  not  partaken  !)  ii.  . . 4G2 

Stanzas— (Oddly  called  by  Herbert 
‘ The  i^ulley,’)  i.  . . 132 

Stanzas  by  Shelley — Written  in  De- 
jection, near  Naples,  ii.  . . 402 

Stanzas — (When  midnight  o’er  the 
moonless  skies),  ii.  . . 422 

Star  of  Uethlehem,  ii.  . . 3D2 

Starling,  the — [Captivity],  ii.  . 174 

Starry  Heavens,  the,  ii.  . . 4.'5.5 

Stai;nton,  SirGkorok,  ii.  . GHO 
Stkklk,  Sir  Richard,  i.  . 602-GO9 

Stella  and  Vanessji — [Swift],!.  • 64(> 
Stkphk.vs,  J.  L.  ii.  . G79 

STKFtLi.vo,  .John,  ii.  . . 472 

Stkr.vk,  Lau'ricnce,  ii.  . 171-175 
Stkwakt,  Pkokkssor  Duoald,  ii.  G47 
Still,  John,  i.  . . . 1G4 

Stim.ingklkkt,  Edward,  i,  437,  43H 

Stirling,  Earl  OK,  i.  . . 157 

Story  of  a Betrothed  Pair  in  Humble 

Life,  ii 313 

Story  of  La  Roche,  ii.  • • 15(> 

Story,  Romantic,  ii.  . • . 087 

Story-Telling,  i.  . . . G08 

Stow,  John,  i.  . . . 24.9 

Stkypk,  John,  i.  • • G.')9 

Stuart,  Dr  Gilbert,  ii.  • . 192 

Studies,  i.  ...  243 

Studies,  Useful,  i,  . • . 294 

Study  of  God’s  Works,  i.  • 302 

Study,  Injudicious  llastein,  i.  . 513 

Study  of  Natural  Philosophy  Favour- 
able to  R.ligion,  i.  . . . 517 

Study  of  Nature  Recommended,  i.  524 
Study  should  be  Relieved  by  Amuse- 
ment, i.  . . . 7G 

Stukelky,  William,  ii.  . , 243 

Style,  Simplicity  of,  Recommended,  i.  75 
Sublimity,  on,  ii.  , . . 219 

Suckling,  Sir  John,  X.  . 134-137 

Summer  Evening,  ii.  . G,  15 

Summer  Morning,  ii.  . . 15,  427 

Sun,  on  the  Setting,  ii.  . . 378 

Sun-Dial  in  a Churchyard,  ii.  . 34G 

Sun-Flower,  the,  ii.  . • 3G2 

Sunday,  i.  . . . 132 

Sunrise  and  Sunset  in  the  Woods,  ii.  S89 
Supplication  in  Contemption  of 
Side  Tails,  i.  . . .50 

Suretyship  and  Borrowing,  i.  . 235 

Surrey,  I'jArl  ok,  i.  . 46,  47 

Sutherland,  to  the  Duchess  of,  ii.  . 459 

Swaggering  Ihilly  and  Boaster,  i.  594 
Swain,  Charles,  ii.  . . 473 

Swallow,  the,  i.  . . . 3G5 

Swedish  Society — [Laing],  ii.  . 686 

Sweet  Neglect,  the,  i,  . .113 

Sweet  William’s  Farewell  to  Black- 
Eyed  Susan?  i.  . . . 575 

SwiKT,  Jonathan,  i.  545-553,  C26-635 
Swift — Verses  on  his  own  Death,  i.  549 
Swift’s  Thoughts  on  Various  Sub- 
jects, i.  . , . . 634 

Swif-s  and  Italians  Contrasted,  ii.  60 
Su  ord  Chant  of  Thorstein  Raudi,  ii.  504 
Sylvan  Retreat,  Description  of  a,  i.  38 
Sylvester,  Joshua,  i.  . . 84 

Syren’s  Song,  the,  i.  . . 129 

Tabernacle  and  Temple  of  the  Jews,  i.  427 
Tailor,  of  a Precise,  i.  . . 104 

Tale  of  Anningaitand  Ajut,  ii.  153 

Valent  and  Genius,  ii.  . , C22 

Tales  of  Travellers,  i.  . . 260 

Talkourd,  T.  N.  ii.  . . 521 

Tamerlane — Term  of  his  Conquest, 
Death,  &c.  ii.  . . , 198 

i'annahill,  Robert,  ii.  . 490 

Tars,  King  of,  i.  . . .9,  10 

Taste,  on  the  Cultivation  of,  ii.  217 
Taste,  on  Delicacy  of,  it.  . 202 

Taste  and  Genius,  Difference  Be- 
tween, ii.  . . . . 218 

Taste — [Pleasures  of  Imagination],  ii.  4G 
Taylor,  Henry,  ii.  , . 524 

Taylor,  Isaac,  ii.  . . . ?ol  j 


Taylor,  Jeremy,  L • 

Page 

290-293 

Taylor,  Robert,  L 

. 215 

3'aylou,  W.  ii.  . • • 

630 

Tear,  to  a,  iL  . • 

. 322 

'i'ears,  i.  . . • • 

Tears  of  Scotland,  ii.  . 

381 

. 67 

Temperance,  or  tbo  Cheap  Physi- 

cian,  L . • • 

151 

Tempest,  a,  L 

. 2.T3 

'I’emule,  Sir  William,  L 

500-506 

3'en  Years  Ago,  ii.  . 

. 476 

3'ennant,  William,  ii.  , 

501-5<I3 

Tennyson,  Alkred,  ii.  , 

465,  468 

Tetrastic — From  the  Persian,  ii. 

. 118 

Thackeray,  AV.  M.  ii.  . 

625 

Thames  and  AVindsor  Forest,  i. 

. 322 

3’hanksgiving  off  Cape  Trafalgar, 

ii.  308 

Tliankbgiving  for  his  House — [Her- 

rick],  L . . . 

142 

Tlieatre,  the— By  the  Rev.  G.  C. 

[Rejected  Addresses],  ii.  . . 431 

Theatres,  Early,  i.  , . 164,  165 

Thebes,  Opening  a Tomb  at,  ii.  , GG9 
Thebes,  the  Ruins  at,  ii.  . 669 

Theodore  and  Ilonoria,  i.  . 367-370 

Theological  Controversies,  i.  • 457 

Thermopylae,  the  Battle  of,  i.  . 247 
Thief  and  the  Cordelier,  i.  • 538 

Thinking,  on,  ii.  . . . 244 

Thomson,  Dr  Andrew,  ii.  • G61 

Thomson,  James,  ii.  . 12-22 

Thomson,  from  the  Monody  on,  ii.  48 
Thomson,  Ode  on  the  Deatli  of,  ii.  34 

Thorstein  Raudi,  Sword  Chant  of,  ii.  504 

Thoughts  in  a Garden,  i.  . 344 

Thoughts  of  Heaven,  ii.  . • 505 

Thrale,  Mrs,  ii.  . . 124 

Three  Rules  to  be  Observed  for  the 
Preservation  of  a Man’s  Estate,  i.  248 
Tliunder-Storm,  ii.  . . . 390 

Thuklow,  Edward  Lord,  ii.  . 362 

Thyestes,  Extract  from,  i.  • 392 

Tickell,  Thomas,  i.  . . 56(j 

Tidings  fra  the  Session,  i.  . 43 

Tighe,  Mrs,  ii.  . . . 278 

Tillotson,  John,  i.  . . 434-4;?7 

Timber,  i.  . . . . 319 

Time  — sitt’st  thou  by  that 

ruined  hall),  ii.  . . 335 

Time,  Thoughts  on,  ii.  . . 9 

Time,  Wrecks  and  Mutations  of,  ii.  69 
Time’s  Alteration,  i.  . . 230 

Times  go  by  Turns,  i.  . .96 

Timour,  Term  of  his  Conquest, 
Death,  Arc.  ii.  . . . 198 

Tindal,  Dr  Matthew,  i.  . . 672 

Tinker,  the,  i.  . . . 278 

Tintern  Abbey,  Lines  Composed  a 
few  Miles  above,  on  Revisiting  the 
Banks  of  the  Wye,  ii.  . . 327 

To (Go— you  may  call  it  mad- 
ness, folly),  ii.  . . . 321 

To , (Music,  when  soft  voices 

die),  ii.  . , . ' 402 

To , (Too  late  I strayed— forgive 

the  crime),  ii.  . . . 422 

To  Certain  Golden  Fishes,  ii.  . 472 

To  my  Daughter,  on  her  Marriage— 

[By  Mrs  Hunter],  ii.  . . 280 

To  a Lady,  with  some  Painted 
Flowers,  ii.  . . , 277 

To  the  Memory  of  a Lady,  ii.  , 449 
To  T.  L.  H.  Six  Years  Old,  during  a 
Sickness,  ii.  . . . 424 

To  a Tuft  of  Early  Violets,  ii.  . 295 

Tobacco,  Farewell  to,  ii.  • 3.56 

Tobacco  Pipe,  Ode  to  a,  ii.  . • 135 

Tobin,  John,  ii.  . • 532 

Tod,  Li  eut.-Col.  James,  ii.  . 679 
Toilet,  the,  i.  . . • 658 

Toleration,  i.  . . ♦ 301 

Toleration,  Religious,  i.  . . 298 

Tomb,  the,  i.  . • • 319 

Tomb,  the  Solitary,  ii.  . • 440 

Tourneur,  Cyril,  i.  . . 215 

Tower  of  Babel,  Building  of  the,  i.  50 
Town  and  Country,  ii,  , • 464 

Town,  Farewell  to.  i.  , . 83 

Town  Ladies,  Satire  on,  i.  . • 155 

Townlky,  Rev.  Mr,  ii.  . 148 

Travellers,  Tales  of,  L . . 260 

Treason,  of,  L • • • 104 


Page 

Treasures  of  the  Deep,  the,  iL  . 439 
Trkreuk,  George,  ii.  , . 679 

Tree,  Full* BloH&omed,  i.  . . 275 

Triumph,  Her,  i.  . . 113 

Trollope,  Mrs,  ii.  , . ,611 

Tron-Kirk  Bell,  to  the,  ii.  . I.'IO 

'I’ruth,  i.  . . . , 4CK' 

Truth  and  Sincerity,  Advantages  of, 


434 

213 

150 

128 

036 

48 

129 


Tucker,  Abraham,  ii.  . 

Tuft-Hunting,  ii.  . . 

Tullochgorum,  ii. 

Turner,  Sharon,  ii. 

Tusskr,  Thomas,  i. 

Tweedbide,  ii. 

Twelfth  Night,  or  King  and  Queen,  i.  141 
'Lyme,  Ane  Sehort  Poeme  of,  i.  , 15? 

Tyndale,  William,  i.  . . 73 

Tvtler,  P.  F.  ii.  . 643,  646 

Tytler,  William,  iL  . . 191 

Udall,  Nicolas,  L . .164 

Udolpho,  Description  of  the  Castle 
of,  ii.  . . . . 557 

Una  with  the  Lion,  Adventure  of,  i.  89 
Una  and  the  Redcross  Knight,  i.  89 
Unbelievers,  Difficulty  of  Convincing 
Interested,  i.  . . , 427 

Under-standings,  Men’s,  Causes  of 
Weakness  in,  i.  . . . 512 

Universe,  a Sketch  of  the,  iL  . 224 

Universities,  i.  . , . 241 

Unwin,  Mrs,  Inscription  on  the  Tomb 
of,  ii.  . . . , 270 

Upas  in  Marybone  Lane,  iL  . 433 

Upholsterer,  the  Political,  L . 609 

Useful  Knowledge,  Society  for  the 
Diffusion  of,  ii.  . . 792 

Useless  Learning,  Absurdity  of,  L 648 

Usher,  James,  i.  , . . 284 

Utopian  Idea  of  Pleasure,  i.  • GO 

Valediction,  a,  i.  . . , 1,39 

Valediction— Forbidding  Mourning,  i.  110 
Valentine,  Bishop.  Address  to,  L . 110 
Valeriu.s — his  Visit  to  Athanasia  in 
Prison,  ii.  . . . 598 

Valley  Perilous,  the  Devil’s  Head  in 
the,  i.  . . . .33 

Vanbrugh,  Sir  .John,  L . 597 

Vanities  of  the  World,  a Farewell  to 

the,  i 105 

Vanity  of  TTuman  Wishes,  iL  • 28 

Vanity  of  the  World,  i.  • • 130 

Variety,  ii.  . . .118 

Vathek  and  his  Magnificent  Palaces, 
ii.  . . . • . 541 

Vaughan,  Henry,  L . . 318 

Veal,  Mrs,  a True  Relation  of  the 
Apparition  of,  &c.  i.  . 618-621 

Venables,  Rev.  Mr,  ii.  . 684 

Venice,  a Morning  in,  iL  . . 673 

Venice  Preserved,  Scenes  from,  i.  307-«'l^ 
Venus  and  the  Graces,  L . 200 

Venus,  Medicean,  Statue  of  the,  at 
Florence,  ii.  ...  673 
Vice,  Resolution  Necessary  in  For- 
saking, i.  . . . 436 

Vicious  Course,  Commencement  of,  i.  436 
Village  Scold  Surprising  her  Husband 
in  an  Alehouse,  ii.  . . 487 

Vintner,  a.  L . . , 409 

Violets,  to  a Tuft  of  Early,  iL  . 295 
Virginias,  Scene  from,  ii.  . 518-520 

Virgins,  to  the,  to  Make  Much  of 
their  Time,  L . . . 141 

Virtue,  i.  ...  132 

Virtue  and  Happiness  in  the  Coun- 
try, ii.  . . . .96 

Virtue  more  Pleasant  than  Vice,  L 532 
Virtue  and  Vice  Declared  by  the 
General  Vote  of  Mankind,  L • 43.5 
Virtuous  Woman,  a,  ii.  . • 454 

Vision  of  Mirza,  i.  . • • CIO 

Voice  of  Spring,  the,  ii.  . . 438 

A^’oRaire  and  the  Lace-worker,  ii.  262 
Vortigcm,  King,  the  Deposition  of,  i.  55 
Vortigern  and  Rowen,  i.  . .3 

Wage,  i.  . . . . 4 

Waddington  and  IIanbury,  ii.  677 

AVakekield,  Gilbert,  ii.  . 655 

AValdie,  Miss,  ii.  . . . C72 

Wallace,  Adventure  of,  i,  . 29 

AVallace,  Escape  of,  from  Perth,  i.  38 

716 


INDEX. 


Fuffe 

Wnllftoe,  the  Dcnth  of,  1.  • . i*l 

Wai.lbr,  ICdmund,  i.  . • 325-3:?S 

Walpolk,  lloRACK,  ii.  • 17<».  240 

WaI.TON,  IZAAK,  i.  , . 41^1? 

Walton,  Izank,  Invitation  to,  i.  353 
Wamlerer,  tlio,  ii.  . . .3 

Want,  Against  Repining  in  tho  Sea- 
son of,  i.  . • . 458 

Wappy,  Casa,  ii.  . • . 475 

War,  Image  of,  ii.  . • 3lT0 

War  of  the  League,  the,  ii.  . • 4/0 

War,  Picture  of,  li.  , . 45G 

^^'ar,  Picture  of  the  Miseries  of,  ii.  223 
Warburtov,  Bishop,  ii.  . 214,215 

Ward,  K.  P.  ii.  . • • 610 

Warnkr,  Dr,  ii.  . • 192 

Warnings,  the  Three,  ii.  , , 124 

Warrkx.  Samukl,  ii.  . • 629 

Warrior  King,  Death  of  the,  ii.  • 477 
Warriors,  i.  . . . 392 

Warriors — tlieir  Departed  Spirits— 
[From  Joan  of  Arc\  ii.  348 

Wartov,  Joskph,  ii.  . . 101 

Warto.v,  Thomas,  ii.  . • 99 

Washing  Day,  ii.  . • • 278 

Waterto»^,  Chari.es,  ii.  • 699 

Watson,  Dr  Richard,  ii.  . . 654 

Watts,  Al ARtc  A.  ii.  . . 473 

Watts,  Dr  Isaac,  ii,  • 5,  216 

We  are  Brethren  a’,  ii.  . . 505 

Webster,  .John,  i.  . . . 211 

Wedding,  Ballad  on  a,  i.  . 135 

VVedding,  a Scottish  Country,  ii.  . 307 
Wellington,  Ode  on  the  Duke  of,  ii.  479 
Wei.lstkd,  Lieut.  J,  R.  ii.  . 678 

Welsh  Guide,  a,  i.  . . 3.54 

Wentworth,  Amelia,  ii.  , 442-445 

Wbslky,  John,  ii.  . . 216 

Westminster  Abbey,  Sir  Roger  De 
Coverley’s  Visit  to,  i.  . .611 

Westminster,  on  the  Tombs  in,  i.  119 
Wet  Sheet  and  a Flowing  Sea,  ii.  501 

Mliat  is  Life  ? ii.  . . 427 

Whatkly,  Archbishop,  ii.  , 701 
Whbwkm.,  Rev.  William,  ii.  703 

^^^listlec^aft — [.John  H.  Frere],  In- 
tended National  Work  by,  ii.  366,  367 
Whiston,  William,  i.  . , 668 

Wliitbread's  Brewery  Visited  by 
their  Majesties,  ii.  , . 299 

White,  II knry  K. ii.  . 301-303 

White,  Rev.  Gilbert,  ii.  , 6H8 

Whitkkield,  George,  ii.  . 216 

WBiruusAO,  William,  ii  • 118 


Page 


Whitklockr,  Bui.strode,  i . 485 
Whittaker,  John,  ii,  • 192 

WicKLiFKB,  John,  i • . 35 

Widowed  Mother,  the— [From  2’Aa- 
laha  the  Destroyer'],  \\.  . . 348 

Wife,  Children,  and  Friends,  ii  421 
Wife,  Choice  of  a,  i.  . . 234 

Wife,  the  Happy— [From  the  j4meri- 
can  Notes\  ii.  « , . 633 

Wife,  the,  a Tale  of  Mantua,  Pas- 
sage from,  ii.  . . • 520 

WiLRERFORCB,  William,  ii  • 6.55 

Wild  Deer,  Address  to  a,  ii  . 435 

Wilkins,  Dr  John,  i . • 446 

Will,  the,  i . . . .111 

Will  for  the  Deed,  the,  i.  • 442 

Will,  the  Necessity  of  the,  i.  « 268 

William  III.  Character  of,  i . 491 

William  and  Margaret,  ii  . . 41 

Williams,  Caleb,  Concluding  Scene 
of,  ii.  • . . • 5G3-.56.5 

Williams,  II.  W.  ii.  , . 671 

Wilson,  Alexander,  ii  • 486 

Wilson,  Arthur,  i • . 265 

Wilson,  Professor,  ii  . 434-437,  600 
Wilson,  Thomas,  i.  • • 75 

Wilson,  William  Rae.  ii.  . 676 

^\  inchelsea,  Anne,  Countess  of,  i.  580 
Wind,  the  Blowing  of  the,  i.  . 77 

Wind,  Moral  Reflections  on  the,  i.  . 49 
AVindsor  Castle — Written  after  See- 
ing it,  ii.  ' . . . 99 

AVindsor  Forest  and  the  Thames,  i.  322 
AA’‘indsor,  Prisoner  in,  heRecounteth 
his  Pleasure  there  Passed — [Earl 
of  Surrey],  i.  . . .46 

AA’ine,  Over-indulgence  in,  ii.  . 68 

A\”inter,  Benevolent  Reflections  from, 
ii.  ....  18 

AA’^inter  Evening  in  the  Country,  ii  262 

AA^inter  Landscape,  ii  • . 17 

AVinter  AValk,  ii.  . • 266 

AA’inter's  Morn,  the,  ii.  • • 362 

I AVisdom,  on,  ii.  , • • 657 

j AVisdom,  True,  i.  . • . 437 

AA^’ise,  Distinguished  from  Cunning 
Ministers,  i.  . . . 6.50 

AVise  Man,  How  to  be  Reputed  a,  i 640 
AVise  Selection  of  Pleasures,  i.  • 431 
AVish,a,  ii  ...  322 

AAHsh,  the,  i . . . . 316 

AVit,  the  Ready  and  Nimble,  i 409 
AVit,  the  Slow  but  Sure,  i • . 410 

AVit — \NTiati8it?i  . ♦ 431 


f 

AVjtch,  Picture  of  a,  i • • 

AVitch’s  Cave,  the,  i.  . . 1.37 

AVitchcraft  and  Sorcery,  i.  . 27I 

AVitchea— How  they  Travel,  i . 27I 
AVithkr,  George,  i . 12.5-127 

AA^olcot,  Dr  John,  ii  , 297-301 

AA'^olke,  Charles,  ii.  . . 410 

AVolsey  s House,  King  Henry’s  Visits 
to,  i . . . . 70 

AA^oman  of  Fashion,  i.  • . 598 

AA^oman’s  Inconstancy,  on,  i.  . 161 

AVomen,  Ironical  Ballad  on  tho  Du- 
plicity of,  i . . . 2*1 

AA'omen,  Praise  of  Good,  i . 8 

AVood,  Anthony,  i.  . . f.27 

A\'oodman’s  Walk,  the,  i.  . 228 

AVoods,  Sunrise  and  Sunset  in  the,  ii.  689 

AA’ordsworth,  Dr  C.  ii.  . . 671 

AA'ordsworth,  AVilliam,  ii.  . 322-333 
AVorkhouse,  Parish,  and  Apothe- 
cary, ii  . . , .311 

AA^orks  of  God,  Devout  Contempla- 
tion of,  i.  . . . 453 

AA’^orld  Compared  to  a Stage,  i . 188 
AA’^orld,  Evidence  of  a Creator  in  the 
Structure  of  the,  i.  . . 436 

AA^orld,  the,  Made  with  a Benevolent 
Design,  ii.  , . . . 6.-J 

AVorldly  Blessings,  Thankfulness  for, 
i . . . . .417 

AA^ortley,  Lady  Emmeline,  ii  . 473 
AVotton,  Sir  Henrv,  i , 104,  265 

AV’^otton,  AVilliam,  i.  . . 506 

AVrioht,  Thomas,  ii  . . 642 

AVriters  that  Carp  at  other  Men’s 
Books,  i.  . . . . 104 

AA’ritten  in  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land-1812— [S.  Rogers],  ii.  , 320 

AVritten  in  a Visit  to  the  Country  in 
Autumn — [J.  Logan],  ii  . . 98 

AA'^vatt,  Sir  Thoma^  i.  . 47 

AA’ycherley,  AA’^illiam,  i . • 392 

AVyntoun,  Andrew,  i.  . 28 

A\'’yoming,  Battle  of,  Ac.  ii.  • • 3/2 

A’e  Mariners  of  England,  ii  . 373 

A'eoman  of  Henry  A’^II.’s  Time,  i.  65 

A'oung,  Edward,  ii,  . .6-12 

A’oung  Lochinvar,  ii.  . . 384 

A’oung  Men,  Gay,  upon  To\\m,  i . 5.94 
A'oiing  Thief,  the  Troubles  of  a,  i 622 
A'outh  and  Age,  ii  . . 345 

Zelucf»— Di'jpute  and  Duel  betueen 
the  Two  li^cctch  GervautL  in  Italy, 
a.  , . . 5.'l-v55? 


THE  END. 


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CYCLOPiEDIA  OP  ANECDOTES 

OF 

LITERATURE  AND  THE  FINE  ARTS; 

COWTAININO  A COPIOUS  AND  CHOICE  SELECTION  OF  ANECDOTES  OF  THE  VARIOUS  FORMS  O* 
LITERATURE,  OF  THE  ARTS,  OF  ARCHITECTURE,  ENGRAVINGS,  MUSIC,  POETRY,  PAINTING 
and  sculpture,  and  of  the  most  CELEBRATED  LITERARY  CHARACTERS  AND 
ARTISTS  OF  DIFFERENT  COUNTRIES  AND  AGES,  ETC. 

Bt  KAZLITT  ARVINE,  A.  M., 

AVTHOR  01  CYCL0P.£01A  OF  MORAL  AND  RELIGIOUS  ANECDOTES.’* 

With  numerous  lllusirati ms.  125  pp.  Octavo.  Price,  cloth,  00. 


This  is  unquestionably  the  choicest  collection  of  anecdotes  ever  published.  It  contains  three  thousand  and  forty 
tnecdotesy  many  of  tiiem  articles  of  interest,  containing  reading  matter  equal  to  half  a dozen  pages  of  a common 
12iJio.  volume  j and  sucli  is  the  wonderful  variety,  that  it  will  be  found  an  almost  ine.xhaustible  fund  of  interest  fui 
every  class  of  readers.  The  elaborate  classification  and  indexes  must  r/.inmend  it,  e.^ipecially  to  public  speakers,  to 
liie  various  classes  of  literary  and  scientific  Tncn,  to  artists^  m chunic.^j  and  otherSy  as  a Dictionary,  for  reference^  in 
relation  to  facts  on  the  numberless  subjects  and  characters  introduced.  Tliero  are  also  more  than  one  hundred  and 
fijtyfine  Jllastrations. 

NOTICES  OF  THE  PRESS. 

” Any  one,  after  possessing  this  work,  would  deem  it  an  indispensable  companion.  It  can  be  taken  up  wlien  but 
a few  moments  are  to  spare,  and  one  or  more  anecdotes  read  ; and  when  one  has  tlie  mind  well  stored  with  a choice 
collection  of  anecdotes,  he  has  an  assistant  to  successful  conversational  efiurts  which  no  consideration  would  induce 
him  to  part  with.” — Christian  Freemaiu 

“ A well-pointed  anecdote  is  often  useful  to  illustrate  an  argument,  and  a memory  well  stored  with  personal  inci- 
dents enables  the  possessor  to  entertain  lively  and  agreeable  conversation.  This  book  will  be  an  armory  from 
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every  taste  may  be  gratified  ; and  tiie  information  it  contains  in  regard  to  literary  characters,  artists,  &c.,  is  invalu- 
able.” — Boston  Ledger, 

“ A publication  which  every  body  should  possess  ; what  will  form  a magnificent  collection  of  anecdotes  touch- 
ing literature  and  the  fine  arts.”  — Albany  Spectator, 

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connected  work  in  any  department  of  literature,” — Troy  BudgcL 

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piled from  all  kinds  of  books,  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  from  all  ages  of  the  world,  and  in  relation  to  every  corpo- 
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“ This  is  not  a mere  story  teller,  a compilation  of  * long  yams  ’ and  anecdotes,  but  a really  valuable  compend  of 
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